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Chapter Text

Rhaegar

Steffon Baratheon had failed.

Not that Rhaegar had been particularly fond of the Essos plan to begin with, but it did throw yet another snag in any plans.  In truth, he felt guilty that the trip had cost the Lord and Lady of Storm's End their lives.  He had always liked Steffon when the man had been to King's Landing.  Such needless loss of life.  Now his senseless cousin was a Lord Paramount, but that was another issue altogether.

The Baratheon’s trip had garnered him an additional year of freedom – now, he had to convince his father he needed yet more time.  He wasn’t sure the best approach, as he knew his mother had been communicating with the ruling Princess of Dorne, and he expected a proposed match was to be offered soon. Convincing Aerys to rule against the match shouldn’t be too difficult a battle though. Aerys didn’t trust the Dornish. Not that he trusted much of anyone these days, but the Dornish had never been Aerys’ favorites.

He didn’t remember much about Elia Martell – she hadn’t been well during much of his visit to Dorne when he was younger. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. She wasn’t a remarkable beauty, more mutedly pretty, and it often seemed as though she was too fragile to touch, but she did hold herself regally and exhibited cutting wit while conversing. They had been corresponding for a few moons, and she seemed an adequate companion.

Her health was his primary concern. Among nobility, marriage was so often for political reasons, and he had no illusions of a marriage with love or passion. His marriage would undoubtedly be to consolidate an alliance. But he needed a woman who could bear him three children, if not more.

The dragon has three heads.

Childbirth took its toll on even the strongest of women. To take to wife a woman who was often described as frail seemed quite foolish.

The thought of going against his mother’s wishes did not please him, yet he knew his best approach would be to convince his father of the Dornish Princess’s unsuitability – Rhaella Targaryen, like most of their Targaryen ancestors, could be stubborn to a fault should she put her mind to something. Mariah Martell, Elia’s mother, had been one of the Queen’s closest companions, and Rhaegar feared it was blinding his mother to the truth about her friend’s daughter.

He would speak to Arthur first. House Dayne was sworn to House Martell - Arthur and his sister Ashara had spent some of their childhood at Sunspear. While he disliked forcing his dearest friend to divulge personal, and potentially improper, information on his liege’s daughter, Arthur understood how dire his need. Might be Rhaegar could even speak to Ashara. It was more likely the woman had the information he sought – Arthur had been an honorable man even in his youth - and it was by Rhaegar’s recommendation that his mother had invited Ashara to Court in the first place.

Hopefully, his friend could aid him. He didn’t want to think of his alternative source of information.

No, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t trust the eunuch, with all his “little birds.” Best leave that as a last resort.

Sighing, he headed towards the training yard, knowing that was the quickest way to find his best friend. As Arther loved to remind him, one didn’t simply become the legendary Sword of the Morning by sitting on one’s arse.

In the end, Arthur’s knowledge of the Princess was limited to childhood stories, and Ashara’s information was far too vague to be truly detrimental. Fortunately, she had given him enough to drive his inquiries in a specific direction. Alas, in the end he was forced to speak with Varys.

He knew his father had brought the new Master of Whisperers to court in part because of him – Aerys didn’t trust his own son. Rhaegar had no illusions that Varys spared him when it came to whispering in the King’s ear, but he also wasn’t sure Varys wanted him gone. The Prince had certainly spoken against his father’s actions, albeit with only his most trusted companions, and Aerys had burned men for lesser crimes. Considering the extent of the Spider’s web of knowledge, Rhaegar knew he was only one step from the pyre, but Varys had yet to bring out the ropes to tie him to it. This gave him a modicum of comfort, as it indicted Varys’ motives were far more complex than simply fanning the flames of his father’s madness.

He gives each of us just enough information, but never the whole story. In no time at all, he has made it so we feel helpless without him.

To be fair, the man had his uses and he had proven himself most helpful in solving Rhaegar’s Dornish problem.

She has a lover and is certainly not a maiden. The Princess had moon tea delivered to her room but a few days after her mother, the ruling Princess of Dorne, resumed her correspondence with the Queen. Even that had her on bed-rest for weeks.

His mother had been quite displeased by the news, though she hadn’t thought to question it. The Dornish reputation for sexual licentiousness was well known in the capital – Elia, at two and twenty, had been a woman grown for several years. Aware of her husband’s distrust of the Dornish, Rhaella had agreed with her son that the proposal could not possibly go forward. To avoid the wrath of Dorne, and the potential humiliation of a Princess with a public display, Rhaella wrote to her friend to explain the situation. Mariah Martell proved to indeed be a smart and savvy woman – her short response was quickly followed by the announcement of Elia’s betrothal and subsequent marriage to Ser Baelor Hightower.

Aerys, who had some knowledge of his sister-wife’s designs, seemed only modestly offended by the course of events. In one of his rare good moods, Aerys had even suggested Rhaegar travel the realm to find a bride. With no designated timeline, Rhaegar planned to use the time to travel to the Citadel in Oldtown. A bride could wait.

This plan had unfortunately unraveled completely when news of the betrothal between Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully had been announced during one of the Small Council meetings. While great houses were known to make marriage alliances, it was still rare – great houses generally married into the families of their bannermen. To have the eldest daughter of a great house married to the heir of another was reason to pause. House Stark rarely engaged in Southern politics, which made the occurrence all the more unusual. When coupled with the fact that Rickard Stark’s second son, Eddard, was fostered with the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon, in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, the news would lead even a rational man to furrow his brows.

Aerys Targaryen was not a rational man.

After spending the better part of an hour ranting about the traitorous North, Aerys had finally turned to his son.

“Boy, you’ve always been interested in the North, no? You send enough bloody letters to my great uncle at that Wall at least. Maybe a trip to that frozen hell will help you with that damn prophecy you’re always reading.”

Indeed, as far as unwanted trips went, perhaps Rhaegar could salvage such a journey.

Not exactly Oldtown, but perhaps Aemon can help. He always said there were rare books at Castle Black and Winterfell.

His father had continued, “Yes, you will go to the North and find out what treason these Northerners plan. They dare defy the dragon!” His father’s gaze landed on him again, a glint of malice shining through, “And you will do so in secret. No royal pomp and circumstance, let Rickard Stark walk right into a trap.”

Rhaegar wasn’t sure what exactly the trap was or how he would learn enough about the Warden of the North’s plans without gaining entry into his keep, but the Prince recognized a pointless argument when he saw one.

Of course, Varys couldn’t let an opportunity to create more intrigue go. All it took was a simple statement, phrased as a leading question: “Your Majesty, I do believe Lord Stark has a daughter of whom he is quite fond – she must be close to her majority?”

Seven hells, don’t give him any ideas.

Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, who had been largely silent up until this point, decided to join the conversation. “The girl is said to be wild and reckless, hardly an appropriate spouse for even a minor lord. Why else would she remain hidden and with no betrothal.”

While he was certain Tywin’s interference was purely selfish – the Hand had made it obvious he still harbored plans to have Rhaegar marry his daughter, Cersei, in spite of Aerys’ previous rejection of the suit – Rhaegar hoped the comment dissuaded his father enough to let the matter go.

While news from the North was incredibly limited, particularly around Lord Stark’s only daughter, he too had heard the few rumors that did circulate. The Wolf Maid was said to shun all lady’s arts, preferring to hunt with her equally wild brothers, and her temper was said to match that of her oldest brother, Brandon. Rhaegar had formally met Brandon Stark on a few occasions, but his clearest memory was of the man sparring at the last tourney – the man seemed almost feral, less measured in his swings than a knight of the South, yet undeniably a fearsome opponent with his wild strength and wolf-like quickness. The one time Rhaegar had spoken more than a few words of greeting with the heir of Winterfell, at a feast two years prior, Brandon had been freely telling stories about his younger brothers. When one of his companions had mentioned his sister though, the man’s anger had flared suddenly and the topic was rapidly changed.

Are they just protective? Or are they hiding something?

Rhaegar shook his head to clear the thoughts – they were inconsequential. He highly doubted the girl would be a presentable candidate for marriage, given she had never even been to court, and the lack of other potential arrangements could only mean there was something wrong with her. Likely she was plain, and with uncouth manners, she would only be a liability to her father and any future husband.

He had missed the rest of the discussion, though caught his father’s order to simply look out for the Stark girl. Aerys didn’t like secrets and Rickard Stark seemed to be hiding more than one.

Dismissed to see to his preparations, he went to find Arthur and Oswell.

Chapter Text

Lyanna

The cold air burned in her lungs as she dismounted her horse. The fresh snow had made her early morning ride treacherous and the temperature had plunged as the clouds had cleared. A fool would look at the clear sky, the sun shining, and make the mistake of thinking the day to be warmer. Growing up in the North, Lyanna knew it to be the exact opposite – without the clouds to trap any natural heat, the temperature dropped precipitously. These were the kind of days that killed the unsuspecting man.

Taking the reins back from the stable boy, she led Silverwing back into the stables, glancing back to see her black direwolf shaking off the fresh snow. She had found Nymeria and her sibling whimpering beneath a bush on one of her rides nearly four years ago, two dark spots tucked into the snow. The mother had been a short distance away, dead by some horrific gash. After much debate, her father had allowed her to keep the two pups as long as she cared for them – direwolves, after all, were the sigil of House Stark, and hadn’t been sighted south of the Wall in almost two hundred years.

Aside from Lyanna, the male pup, Torrhen, had grown fond of her younger brother, Benjen, and, surprisingly, her father – his favorite place in the keep seemed to be curled up around Rickard Stark’s feet during court sessions, the image strangely reminiscent of the Stark Kings’ statues in Winterfell’s crypt. But to the surprise of no one, Tor truly loved her oldest brother, Brandon. They were practically kindred spirits, wild, rash and restless.

Nymeria was Lyanna's, through and through.  As with Tor and Brandon, Nym and Lyanna share many of the same character traits - willful but measured when utterly necessary, playful with a love of danger.  The direwolf was at her side whenever possible.  Lyanna was certain the wolf was starting to read her mind.  Or maybe she was just more predictable than she had thought.

Both direwolves had grown to the size of ponies, their sharp fangs and lean bodies the very image of a dangerous predator, but were generally well behaved when given adequate time and space to hunt. Father had kept the news of their presence at Winterfell quiet – as he did with most information from the North – so as to not garner too much attention. He had even asked Lyanna to remain vague in her letters to her middle brother Ned, who was fostering in the South.

Nonetheless, Nym and Tor were extremely intelligent and had become comfortable with many of the members of the household, though several servants, notably the newer ones, continued to avoid the animals like the plague.

Tor, his grey coat streaked with snow, bounded in the gates after a moment to nuzzle his sibling affectionately.

Satisfied that they would make their way within without causing undue trouble, Lyanna turned her attention back to her grey courser, brushing her down and feeding her. A temperamental creature like her rider, Father had originally intended the mare for Benjen – the horse clearly had other plans and initially refused to let anyone other than Lyanna approach her. After proving herself more than capable of handling the large beast despite her smaller stature, Father had allowed her to keep the charger.

Other than her partner-in-crime Benjen, a year her junior, animals were Lyanna’s favorite companions. With both older brothers off fostering by her fifth name day, Lyanna had grown used to having few companions her age. When her mother died more than eight years past, Lyanna lost her primary female influence. Up to that time, Lyanna’s time was already spent on typically male interests, and the loss of her mother led Lyanna to shun most activities previously enjoyed with Lyarra.

Father took Mother’s death hard, and it was two years before he even broached the topic of Lyanna’s education in lady’s arts. By then, Lyanna had already taken on almost all of her mother’s household tasks, her way of honoring her mother without touching a needle and thread, alongside lessons with the Maester. With his wild child resistant to any change and pushing to train with a real sword, Rickard Stark resigned himself to compromising – he would only require a basic knowledge of lady’s arts, in exchange for lessons in archery and knife work. Lyanna was still bitter about his interdiction on carrying a sword like her brothers, but she accepted the bargain, given it was truly more than she had hoped for.

Over the next five years, her father had come to depend on her more and more, with Brandon returning to Winterfell rather infrequently after earning his knighthood and riding around with his new knight friends. Benjen had spent two years at Last Hearth; that was an excruciating period of time, when Lyanna thought she would die of loneliness, but thankfully Father had called for his return after realizing Brandon intended to stay south for longer. Ned had only been home once, four years past – they exchanged letters, but she wasn’t sure she would even recognize him now.

Silverwing nudged her face, shaking her out of her daze. Staring into the mare’s black eyes, for a second her mind accidentally slipped into the horse.

She was cold and tired of being brushed in the same spot. Could the girl just put the blanket on and feed her? Lyanna saw herself standing in front of the horse, eyes blank. Maybe the girl had those sweet squares that she sometimes brought as a treat.

Blinking to bounce back to herself, Lyanna felt Silverwing dip her head towards the pocket of her breeches. Laughing quietly and stroking her horse’s muzzle, she pulled out a sugar cube, which was promptly accepted. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen through Silver’s eyes, though it still put her a bit on edge – just as the dreams of hunting in Nymeria alongside Torrhen disconcerted her. She draped the blanket over Silverwing’s sleek body and after filling the feed bucket, exited the stables to find Benjen. Hopefully he was still in the Great Hall, breaking his fast. She was starving and something told her this would be a long day.

Lyanna found Maester Walys waiting outside Father's solar, his acolyte scurrying down the hallway with a number of scrolls, presumably to find the library.  She sighed internally, wishing Acolyte Brynden was joining the meeting with Father instead of Maester Walys.

Lyanna's relationship with Maester Walys had never been easy - Walys had come to Winterfell a few years ago, bringing his Southern ideals and politics with him to the snowy North.  By that time, Lyanna had already taken on most of her deceased mother's responsibilities as Lady of Winterfell with the assistance of the previous maester, Maester Norbert.  Despite being born in the Crownlands, Norbert had been a Northerner at heart, having spent many years with the Flints before moving to Winterfell upon Lyarra Stark's request.  He had been an intelligent man, with a sharp wit and gentle soul - he had given Lyanna a purpose following her mother's death and had never questioned her lack of interest in lady's arts.  The only thing she ever truly disliked about the man was his advice on fostering her brothers away from Winterfell, but fortunately for their relationship, she only learned it had been his suggestion after his death.

Norbert had developed a canker in his later years, which may have pushed him to encourage Rickard to give Lyanna more responsibility earlier than usual, as he was unable to provide quite as much support.  Whatever the case, duty had been thrust upon her, and she had done her best.  She had been sad when Norbert had passed away, as it was only a few years after her mother's death, the pain and grief still cutting deep.

Acolyte Brynden had been Norbert's assistant, a young bastard from Ramsgate, who was bookish and shy but quite skilled with architecture. Brynden had secretly helped Lyanna plan some of the restoration of Queensgate, Lyanna's little getaway at the Wall, but he was usually completely occupied by the plans for Moat Cailin that Lord Stark had commissioned.  Despite his quiet nature, Brynden had been a good adviser to both her and her father.

Walys, on the other hand, sought to rein her in from the beginning.  He very much disapproved of her wild ways, saying she was no true Lady (not that she was trying to be one).  From the moment he arrived four years ago, he had counseled her father that should she be allowed to roam wild, she would never find a suitable marriage match.  In fact, he had almost had an apoplectic fit when Father had allowed her to raise two direwolves – too bad he survived, Lyanna would have been rid of the man’s noxious presence then. The man viewed her as little more than a pawn in the political game great men played.

Much to Lyanna's displeasure, Walys’ ideals had gained some popularity with her father for a few turns after she began to bleed - suddenly, she was no longer just another one of his rambunctious children, but a maiden flowered.  Those moons after her first moon blood were the worst of her life, as Father sought to limit her riding and archery training, going so far as to have Walys send for some Southern widow to teach her needlework, dancing and courtly manners.

What a terrible waste of life!  Brandon had returned that year to find his sister swinging between deep depression and utter fury at being “caged.”  In one of his rare cases of rational thinking, Brandon had protested the arrangement after hearing the Southern widow yelling at Lyanna that no man would marry her if she bled so much on her embroidery.  Father had been surprised to hear of all the ridiculous threats Lyanna had endured over the months, gradually seeing the depth of his daughter's unhappiness. Even the more outspoken servants came forward when they heard he was hearing about the matter, detailing the concerns they had with their mistress's state and limited time for her real duties around Winterfell.

When Maester Walys agreed with the widow's assessment, claiming a lady should defer to men and Lyanna need not concern herself with all the duties of Winterfell, Rickard Stark had laughed.  To Lyanna's pleasure, he had then proceeded to excuse the awful widow, explaining that Lyanna was a woman of the North, not some simpering Southern damsel in distress.  Affairs had promptly returned to their prior state, to Walys' misfortune. While Walys continued to have Father's ear on political maneuvering, encouraging Lord Stark's ambitions regarding the South (the betrothal and alliance with the Tullys had his fingerprints all over it), Lyanna became more integral in the daily operations of the North.

At present, they found themselves in a sort of agreement of neutrality – they served Rickard Stark in their respective capacities, respectful of his wishes and allocations of duties. Fortunately, the Lord of Winterfell was rather involved in daily responsibilities, ensuring the two of them worked together as well as possible.

Lyanna nodded to the guard in front of Father’s solar as he allowed her entry, knowing Maester Walys would follow her within.

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stood behind his desk, leaning over a stack of papers. A typical Northman, Rickard cut an imposing figure, standing at almost six and a half feet, with broad, muscled shoulders emphasized by his simple wool and leather garments. His dark brown hair had only a few flecks of gray and his dark beard was trimmed close to his face. Her father’s eyes were Lyanna’s favorite attribute – a piercing pale gray-blue, always alive and sharp. She had been on the receiving end of her fair share of glares from those eyes that seemed to cut through her soul, but she also prided herself on those rare moments when the pale blue pools had shone with love and respect.

He smiled at her in greeting while nodding to Walys. Given Father's stance behind his desk, both her and Walys remained standing.

"There are several matters to discuss, the first being Brandon’s upcoming betrothal.  Lord Tully has tentatively agreed to the arrangement between his oldest daughter, Catelyn, and Brandon.  Terms are still to be determined, but I would appreciate both of your inputs on any necessary items.  Lyanna, you will assist me in determining the financial terms, given your familiarity with the current state of affairs in the North."  Lyanna nodded immediately, thrilled that her father was allowing her to take the lead on such an important matter.  She noticed Walys was about to protest - a few years ago, he would have been in charge of such matters for Lord Stark - but Father cut him off with a stern look, "Maester Walys will draft the formal language once we have come up with a few possibilities.  Understood?"

Maester Walys tried to mask his disapproval, but Lyanna managed to catch the grimace cross his face.

"Aye, my Lord, an acceptable arrangement."

"Good.  Lyanna, you have been corresponding with Lord Manderly regarding trade out of White Harbor, correct?" Once again, Lyanna nodded.

Father had been busy with a number of disputes among his Lords - chief among them, Roose Bolton's ill-advised attempt to blackmail Lord Karstark into accepting a marriage proposal - so he had tasked Lyanna with handling correspondence with Lord Manderly.

White Harbor was the only true city in the North, a large port that conducted trade with the rest of Westeros as well as Essos.  The long winter had put a strain on supplies in many parts of the North, particularly Winterfell with the larger than typical population of Wintertown.  In one of the only times they worked well together, Lyanna and Maester Walys had spent many moons reducing inefficiencies in supply usage in the keep and the surrounding town, as well as determining potential trade opportunities to pay for any shortages.  Father had requested she work with Lord Manderly on their findings, which had been surprisingly positive - timber from the North had been found to burn longer and without as much smoke as most wood from the South. The North had quite an abundance of trees, and with the proper management of reforestation, the North could well afford to begin trading in earnest. Not only would the trade provide surplus resources for difficult winters, as demand from the South would increase during the most critical months, but also generate excess capital during easier months. Outside of timber, Acolyte Brynden had also suggested exploring along the mountain ranges for any metal deposits – this would have to wait until spring or even summer though, given the heavy snows accompanying this winter.

She quickly briefed her father on the recent updates, though he knew much of the information already.  Instead, the update was largely for Walys, who Lyanna had slowly edged out of the recent discussions.  The man was always busy with some other arrangements with southern lords and their maesters, in any case.

The man is most certainly trying to sell me off to the highest bidder, with me turning six and ten in a few moons.  He knows the pact Father made when Mother died - he'll probably have a contract in front of Father the morning after my nameday.

The rest of the discussion proceeded as usual, with Lyanna providing updates on any household concerns and Walys detailing any news from the South. Eventually, Father arrived at the key reason for the meeting.

"I will be away for several moons handling business south of Winterfell. I will make a stop at White Harbor first, to complete the trade discussions and then Lord Tully wishes to complete negotiations in person. I intend to meet Brandon at Moat Cailin before proceeding to Riverrun, so he may meet his betrothed. Brandon will then return directly to Winterfell while I remain to complete terms. I will then hopefully meet Ned somewhere along the Trident, since it has been some years since I have seen him. Acolyte Brynden will accompany me, though he will remain at Moat Cailin to see to preparations for additional clearing at the towers. I will spend some time at Greywater Watch before stopping once more at Moat Cailin to return home. Plans are subject to change, but I imagine it will be near six moons with the state of the weather so far this winter. Clear?”

Both she and Walys nodded their ascent.

“Lyanna, you will act as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North in my stead, serving in the full capacity.” Lyanna took a quick breath in, slightly shocked at the decision – her father trusted her with a lot of responsibility for a significant period of time.

Walys was clearly displeased by the decision, “My Lord, if I may, Lady Lyanna has not yet reached her majority. Surely she is already overburdened by her duties as the Lady of the house…”

Father silenced the Maester with a raised hand, “Lyanna, do you think yourself unable to fulfill the duties as outlined?”

“No, Lord Father, I believe I will be able to fulfill them. I greatly appreciate my Lord’s trust in my abilities.”

Father turned to Walys, questioning whether the man had any further objections.

“My Lord, it is just highly unusual to require a young maiden to play such a role, especially when there are others who may easily serve in your stead.”

“Walys, do you think to tell me how to run my kingdom?”

“Nay my Lord, I am simply counseling that perhaps there are those better suited-”

“Better suited than a Stark? Maester Walys, I will remind you it is the Starks who are the Lords of Winterfell and the Wardens of the North – why would another serve in my stead when a Stark stands within the walls, more than capable and willing to rule?”

Because he thinks I can’t do it. He wants to rule in your stead.

Walys bowed his head in an act of contriteness, though Lyanna could see the annoyance in his eyes. “I did not mean to question my Lord’s authority. I will do my best to support the Lady Lyanna in your stead.”

Father nodded, “I’m glad to hear it, Maester.”

As if the man had read her earlier thoughts and in a clear attempt to regain some semblance of control, Walys just had to bring up the dreaded subject of her reaching majority, “One thing to note my Lord - as I’m certain you are aware, your upcoming travel will likely mean you will miss your daughter’s upcoming nameday.”

I’m standing right here, you idiot!

The man was not done, “As Lady Lyanna will be achieving her majority at six and ten, I thought it timely to recommend we look at potential arrangements for her future.”

Lyanna fought to resist the urge to roll her eyes – the man could not be more obvious unless he was shouting an asking price at an auction – but her father handled the matter before the situation could devolve.

“Thank you for the reminder Walys. I am well aware of my daughter’s age, but any possible discussions will wait until my return. Lyanna, I’m sorry to miss your nameday, but Brandon will be here.”

“It is quite alright Lord Father, you know I am not one for elaborate affairs in any case.”

Father chuckled, “Indeed, a true Northerner. Maester Walys, you are dismissed - I would speak to my daughter alone, if you will. I expect those letters for my signature before my departure in a few days time.”

Walys bowed and turned to leave, not bothering to acknowledge Lyanna aside from a brief glare.

When the door clicked shut, she let out a sigh, allowing some of the tension locked in her shoulders to ease.

Father beckoned her closer, taking his seat as he gestured for her to sit across from him.

“Lyanna, I know you and Walys do not always see eye to eye in certain matters,” Lyanna did roll her eyes at this, “but I must request you do your best to not antagonize the man while I am away. You are a very capable young woman, but you cannot run Winterfell alone.”

“I won’t be alone, Father, I have Ben and Sella and Jory, maybe even Bran will make himself useful-”

“Lyanna,” her Father cut her off, “you know better than most how much time and responsibility running Winterfell is for me, even with you and Walys assisting. Or do you think you are more capable as Lord of Winterfell than I am?” Lyanna had the good grace to blush, ashamed, “Hmm? Nothing to say?”

Lyanna looked at her hands, folded in her lap, “No Father, I would never presume such a thing.”

“Good. Acolyte Brynden will be with me, so Walys should have a sufficient amount of work to occupy him outside of his ordinary duties.”

Lyanna scoffed, mumbling, “Probably busy taking advanced bids for my maidenhead…”

Father glared at her, but his face softened when he saw sadness in his daughter’s eyes, as opposed to defiance.

“Lyanna, you know I promised your mother I would wait until your majority to make such arrangements. Even now, I intend to delay the discussion as long as possible – you are still far too integral in the running of this keep to ship you off. Take comfort in that, my dear. When the proposals start arriving, we will accept the one best suited for Winterfell and for you. But this is your duty. I am confident you will approach this task with the same vigor with which you approach all of your responsibilities.”

“I do not fear my duty Father, I fear the type of man Maester Walys hopes to send me to! He has made it quite clear that he views me as little more than an obstacle to his influence over you. Did you know he suggested another portrait session for my nameday? The man wants to request twelve copies – twelve copies! What, does he intend to send one to every unmarried Lord in the South? To him, I am merely a pretty object to be sold to the Lord with the largest coffer of gold, destined to be caged by some loathsome Southerner.”

Rickard Stark let out a sigh as his daughter finished her little rant.

I said too much. Dammit Lya, you never did learn to keep your mouth shut…

But Father’s words took her by surprise.

“I am aware of Maester Walys’ intentions.”

Lyanna wasn’t sure whether to be outraged or thrilled by that statement. Fortunately, Father continued.

“Walys has been a good advisor when it comes to the South. The North has been absent from Southern politics for a long time – even since the time of Aegon the Conqueror, it has been rare for the Lords of the North to partake in the drama of Court. Yet our absence has been translated into disgrace, insignificancy, dishonor. I have done my best to limit the news out of the North in an attempt to quiet any gossip, yet gossip remains.”

Lyanna was unsure of the direction the conversation had taken, but curiosity led her to feed into her Father’s words. “But Father, it does not matter what the gossip says about us. Even the Targaryen’s have limited power here. We live by our own standards.”

Father’s eyes were burning with an intensity she’d rarely seen, “Indeed we do. Lyanna, it may not matter what gossip the Court whispers – they may call us wild and violent, so long as the North is granted the respect it is due. We are not to be trifled with. We are the blood of the First Men, the former Kings of Winter. Our land and our people hold a natural power that should never be underestimated.”

Lyanna realized there was much more to this conversation than what was being said out loud, but she didn’t have enough pieces to put together the puzzle.

“What does this have to do with Maester Walys?”

Father chuckled, his eyes losing the fire they had held only briefly, “Yes, Maester Walys. Despite his useful advice over the past years, it has become apparent to me that you are indeed correct – he wishes for more power and sway. His assistance in matters directly concerning the South is appreciated, but he does not understand the North. His treatment and approach with you has been the most blatant example of that. He has become less secure in his position as you have gained more responsibility, and I fear we may see more instances of him overstepping as he feels his control decline.”

Lyanna was silent, thinking about her father’s words. She had not thought him so aware of Walys’ maneuvering, but it was clear she had underestimated him. A pang of guilt shot through her as Father continued.

“Ah, you are surprised I know. Lyanna, do not think I am unaware of the happenings in my castle – I know much more than you or Benjen or Bran give me credit for.”

Unfortunate for Bran - he is the only one at risk with that. He ought to stop those late night trips to Wintertown…

“In any case, given that we can ill-afford such oversteps, you may be pleased to know that I have written to the Citadel to discuss the possibility of a new Maester.” Lyanna’s eyes widened in shock. “I will be sending the letter tomorrow, though the response will likely arrive while I am away. I would have you review the response and then we will discuss the best way forward upon my return.”

“Father, but what if Maester Walys finds the response? He may not be pleased by the prospect of you replacing him.”

“I have stipulated that the change would only be in order to bring in a Maester with roots in the North – an opportunity to allow a Northerner to return to his home. Acolyte Brynden had a suggestion of a Maester he trained with at the Citadel, a Maester Luwin, whose father was from the North.”

“Perhaps you should have a copy of the response sent to Riverrun? Or Acolyte Brynden at Moat Cailin?”

Father shook his head, “Nay, Lyanna, you are being silly. Maester Walys is still an honorable man and a skilled maester, thus we will continue to give him the respect his order commands. Now, I recommend you start working on the terms for Lord Tully – I must see Jonnel Cassel regarding the guards to accompany me on the journey.”

Resigning herself to a few hours of work surrounded by ledgers, she rose and flashed a quick smile at her father, dipping into a quick curtsy before leaving for her workroom. Her mind kept cycling through her father’s words, trying to link the vague ideas to previous conversations she’d heard. Everything was a muddle, but every road led to one point.

Father is planning something.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Ser Gerold Hightower arrived to take his place outside of the King's chambers as the sun set.  He had offered to serve an extra watch for the Lord Commander, given he and Oswell would be free from the duty for many moons as they traveled north with the Crown Prince.

While a journey to the tundra appealed little to a Dornish man like Arthur, he couldn't help but be relieved to avoid the horrors of King's Landing and Aerys' descent into madness for a few moons.

“The Crown Prince?” he questioned Ser Gerold, hoping the man at least knew where Ser Barriston, who was guarding the Prince today, was.

“I believe he was heading to his chambers after the Small Council released.  They finished a quarter of an hour ago.”

I would have known that had the King deemed to attend his own Small Council meetings.

He nodded to his Lord Commander, striding in the direction of the Crown Prince’s apartment.

Maegor’s Holdfast was a relatively dreary place, even more so since the Defiance of Duskendale.  Paranoia and anxiety caused Aerys to forbid entry into the inner keep within the Red Keep to all but those requiring entrance.  The number of approved entrants had dwindled since then to no more than the Royal family, the Kingsguard, the Small Council and a set number of seasoned guards.  It made the large castle seem ghostly quiet.  With the dismal cold and wet weather of winter, Arthur could see why everyone in the place seemed short on patience and long on misery.

He indeed found his friend in his chambers, bent over a number of papers.  The Crown Prince had a deep frown on his face, and those indigo eyes flashed with annoyance as he glanced up when Arthur entered.

“Do you know how much my bloody cousin cost us for that pointless affair?”

“Outside of the delay to our thrilling trip north and the ungodly amount of grief we will get from your increased frustration?”

Rhaegar glared at him before looking back at the papers.

Arthur slumped into an armchair, “Your Grace knows figures have never been my specialty, I couldn’t even begin to guess a monetary value.”

His friend waved a dismissive hand, “The number doesn’t matter, it’s the fact that it exists at all.  This whole delay was an utter waste.  My father only spoke to Baratheon once, apart from the bloody ceremony he demanded.  The only benefit of the whole affair was that the entire court saw that my cousin is nothing but a dashing whoremonger.  My presence was not required in the least and I cannot understand why the Hand requested I delay further.”

"You know he has sent for Lady Cersei."

Rhaegar shook his head, dismissing that idea as well, "My father will never agree to it, Tywin is wasting his time.  It's like he wants to provoke my father into further offending him."

Arthur shrugged at that - he didn't understand Tywin Lannister's motives any more than the Prince did.  Perhaps the Lord of Casterly Rock was trying to provoke Aerys.  It certainly wouldn’t take much.

Sighing, Rhaegar changed the subject, "How has Ashara settled in? Gods, it's been almost a year now, hasn't it?  I feel bad for not having seen her more."

"Very well actually, and do not concern yourself overmuch, she understands your Grace is busy with the realm.  But she enjoys her time with the Queen and has taken well to your little brother."

"Good, it is nice of her to spend time with Viserys.  It would be good for the boy to have another kind figure in his life outside of Rhaella. My mother speaks well of Ashara, so I am glad she has settled in.  Hopefully the incident with Baratheon didn't damper her spirit."

Arthur scoffed, "My sister has heard worse.  In any case, she would never allow a man like Baratheon break her spirit."

Rhaegar nodded, "It certainly helps that she has such a renowned knight as a brother.  She must be the envy of every maiden, to have the Sword of the Morning defend her honor."

"I think they envy her friendship with the Crown Prince more than her relation to a lowly Kingsguard."

A knock at the door interrupted before Rhaegar could respond.  The door opened to reveal an acolyte carrying several pouches and a large bowl of some black substance.  Rhaegar directed the man to put it on a side table, as the young man outlined some quiet instructions regarding the usage of the black substance, detailing soak time and reapplication.

Arthur looked at his friend questioningly as the acolyte bowed and departed.

"Varys' suggestion.  Some sort of natural dye for my hair."

"You're going to dye your hair?"

Rhaegar chuckled, "Don't look so shocked, Arthur.  It's only temporary.  The acolyte says I'll have to use it once or twice while we are away to keep it dark."

"Is that truly necessary?  What if it doesn't come out?"

The Prince cocked his head to the side, "Ser Arthur, I didn't think you were such a fan of my hair."

He laughed at that, glad to see his friend jesting, "Only because I fear for the swooning hearts of all the court ladies - what would they do if their beloved prince lost his glorious silver hair."

Rhaegar snorted, "The court ladies can deal with a disappointment or two."

"Ah, but my friend, they already deal with the disappointment of not having your heart each and every day."

"Alas, they shall continue to suffer that particular disappointment."

"A pity.  Your Grace, you know that knights are to save the maidens from distress, not cause more of it."

"That is why they are lucky to have you, Ser Arthur.  The legendary Sword of the Morning, saving all the damsels of court from the mad Crown Prince."

Arthur sighed dramatically, "Your Grace asks a great task of me, I only hope I am worthy of such trust."

Rhaegar flashed him a vicious smirk, "I would trust no other man with the delicate hearts of the ladies of Westeros."

Arthur chuckled, crossing to examine the black dye the acolyte had brought before looking back at Rhaegar thoughtfully.

"So, a dark haired Targaryen, huh?"

"A dragon in disguise."

Lyanna

Lyanna found herself staring out the window of Father’s solar into the snowy expanse of Wintertown, the rolling white hills spanning leagues beyond.  The chilly wind was a stark contrast to the roiling heat of the solar, where the servants had stoked a large fire early in the morning, despite her not being within the room.

Lyanna had spent the morning in Wintertown, overseeing a few small issues that had arisen among the inhabitants due to the long winter.  While the temperature and snows had been no worse than prior winters, the season had endured over several years.  This meant that even now, small groups of people were arriving to the town to rely on Winterfell as their last stores of supplies dwindled.  Sparse supplies and close quarters had become a recipe for conflict.

Handling smaller matters in Wintertown had been one of the first large responsibilities Father had encouraged Lyanna to assist him with.  Lyanna would ride down into town with her father to meet with the townspeople, watching the way in which father gathered the facts of any issue and thought through an appropriate solution.  Lord Rickard Stark was known for his strict sense of justice, something he had passed on to his children - Lyanna, having spent all of her life at Winterfell, had heard the lectures and diatribes twice as much as any of her brothers.  After a few years of observation, Father had actively involved her in the discussions of resolution, even allowing her to lead the process recently.

But Lyanna was learning that applying justice appropriately could be much trickier than her father made it seem.

No party was ever truly satisfied, and Lyanna had been frustrated to see that some men were not keen to take the word on resolution from a girl of fifteen namedays, even if she was the daughter of Lord Stark and the acting Lady of Winterfell.

Many had made the assumption that she would be more lenient, and petty crime had swelled for a few weeks after the common people came to understand that Lord Stark had left his daughter in charge.  Some questioned why her father had not named her younger brother or even commanded the heir of Winterfell, Lord Brandon, to return to take on the duty.  

Maester Walys had of course found himself quite occupied in those weeks, unable to provide more than basic historical precedence for the cases.  It had taken the advice and encouragement of Father’s captain of the guards, Jonnel Cassel, to get her through those early issues.

“If I may say, Lady Lyanna, Lord Stark trusts your judgment in carrying out these tasks, else he would have left someone else in charge.  He sees an iron will in you, my Lady.  You must show your people that same iron.  Show them you are a Stark.”

Justice was dealt with that iron will, and all in residence soon discovered the daughter to be as unyielding as the father.  Whispers of the law and justice served by the acting Lady of Winterfell quickly put a damper on the increased crime. The atmosphere when she entered the Great Hall or Wintertown was now one of respect, as opposed to barely contained insolence.

The North admired strength.  That she was a woman in the end made little matter to Northmen.  If Lord Stark trusted his daughter and she could prove herself capable, they would honor the Warden of the North’s decision.

Of course, such actions would be considered unlady-like in the South, and Lyanna had no doubt a tale or two would filter down to Court.  The thought made her smirk - let them think her uncouth.  She had no need for the love of Southerners.

That morning, after seeing to the distribution of food and greeting some of the new arrivals, she had chosen to spend some time at a small orphanage in town.  The long winter had led to an influx of parentless children and Lyanna had found the orphanage after catching a few skinny tots running around in the muddy street a few moons ago.  The establishment was run by three gentle women, who had barely enough to feed themselves but still opened their home to the children.

Lyanna had taken to visiting when she could to play with the kids and read to them.  Today, she had brought supplies down from Winterfell, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure the recent snowstorms had put on the townspeople.  Thankfully, the shipment of food from White Harbor had made it before the most recent storm had dumped over a foot of heavy snow on the Kingsroad.

It had been just over a moon now since Father had left.  Fortunately, his business in White Harbor had been completed easily, allowing him to make for Riverrun rather quickly, stopping only briefly at Moat Cailin to survey the work being done to clear the site.  The recent snowstorms had made the Kingsroad a nightmare in addition to slowing much of the work being done on the ruins, but Acolyte Brynden had been left in good spirits.  The acolyte had written a few days ago, his raven making it through the snow by chance, detailing some of the exciting findings he had made with regards to the castle’s original foundations.

Lyanna smiled thinking about the way the excitement seeped from Brynden’s words - only he would find such joy from stones buried in the earth.

A knock sounded on the door, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Enter,” she called, closing the window and walking back to her father’s giant desk.

Maester Walys made his way into the solar, shuffling under his black robe.  He carried several letters and a ledger.

“Good afternoon, my Lady.  I pray your time in Wintertown proved productive?”

“Indeed, Maester.  We’ll have to send someone to survey a few of the structures at the outer limits of the town once the storm has passed - with the newest arrivals, only the last few buildings remain empty.  I fear we may have to use them should the winter last much longer.”

“A reasonable course of action, my Lady.”

Per her father’s wishes, Lyanna and Walys had come to a sort of agreement of neutrality.  Lyanna could tell he was not providing nearly as much counsel to her as he did to her father, but up to that point, it had yet to bother her overmuch.  He was still bitter about Lord Stark’s decision to pass over him as castellon, so naturally snarkiness pervaded almost every comment he made.  It made Lyanna’s blood boil and clearly made him uncomfortable, so keeping their interactions to a minimum was in the best interest of everyone.

“What news do you bring, Maester?  I hope the ravens have not been unduly hampered by this storm.”

“It is hard to say whether we lost any, but we have received several letters in spite of the weather,” he approached the desk to hand her a few letters, two still sealed and a third already opened. “A letter from your father, confirming his arrival at Riverrun with Lord Brandon,” indicating the opened letter, “and a letter from your brother, Ned.”

“And the third?” Lyanna asked, while examining the messy seal.

“I did not open it, my Lady, but the seal resembles that of the Night’s Watch.”

“Ah, okay, thank you Maester Walys.  Anything else of significance?”

“Nothing of grand significance, my Lady,” the Maester started, before detailing the work he had been doing with those soldiers afflicted with frostbite as well as the transcription he had been completing of a book on Northern justice and laws to be sent the Citadel.

Speaking of the Citadel, the response to Father’s inquiries should have been here by now.  I wonder how many letters never make it to my hands, dear Maester Walys.

The two of them finished by discussing the stores and finances of Winterfell, attempting to reconcile the figures following the arrival of the supplies from White Harbor.

“Very good, Maester Walys.  Now, there has been some cases of chill in the new arrivals - would you mind seeing to one or two of them on the morrow?”

“My Lady, it is unusual for Maesters to work on the common folk.  If Acolyte Brynden were here, I would send him...”

“Alas, Acolyte Brynden is not here.  It shan’t take too much of your time, Maester, I promise.  One of them is the pregnant wife of a mountain clansman leader - a Norrey, I believe.  The Starks have always considered the chiefs of the clans to be among our lords. We cannot afford to have the clansmen unhappy.”

Walys grimaced.  “Perhaps it would be best to have the woman brought to the Keep, where I can work with her.”

“Very well, I will ask Jonnel to send some men to escort her up.”

“If that will be all, my Lady?”

“For now, Maester Walys, yes.  I will bring a letter for my father by on the morrow.  Could you please ask the guard to find my brother?”

“Of course,” Walys sketched a shallow bow, “my Lady.”

Lyanna turned to the letters Walys had brought as the old man shuffled out of the room, closing the door before informing the guard to find Benjen.

Father’s missive was brief, outlining his arrival at Riverrun with Brandon in tow.  He gave a quick description of the Tully girl, Catelyn, and disclosed some details about the initial discussions with the girl’s father, Lord Hoster.  Beyond that, he inquired about news from White Harbor and Acolyte Brynden.

Ned’s letter was longer, describing his journey to King’s Landing with Robert Baratheon.  Robert’s parents had died late last year, making Robert the new Lord of Storm’s End.  Ned was not one for detailed descriptions, so Lyanna learned relatively little about the capital of Westeros, but apparently Robert had gotten himself into some trouble towards the end of the trip.

Challenging the Sword of the Morning?  Gods, the man must be an arrogant idiot.

Ned would meet up with Father in a moon or two at the Inn at the Crossroads, since it had been over four years since they had seen each other.  With Father so far south, it would be an easy opportunity for father and son.

Lyanna set the letter aside, certain Benjen would wish to read it - her youngest brother might die of jealousy over Ned meeting the legendary Sword of the Morning, even if it was due to his friend’s stupidity.

Finally, Lyanna opened the unknown scroll, curiosity and hope peaking.  Skimming to the signature gracing the end of the short letter, she felt her heart jump.

It was from Maester Aemon.

My Lady Lyanna,

My congratulations on your recent appointment as the acting Lady of Winterfell.  It is a great testament to your Lord Father’s belief in you to name a daughter to such responsibility at so young an age.  Forget not that duty can be a burden under which even the strongest falter.  Often the right choices are not the easiest ones.

As to your inquiry, I will consult with the scrolls at Castle Black, but remember that dreams are oft just our imaginations running wild.  But I will admit my curiosity, for I have but heard tales of those who were able to walk the land in the minds of a beast.

Maester Aemon

Re-rolling the scroll, Lyanna tucked it into her dress as Benjen entered.

“Ben!  You’ll never believe who Ned met in King’s Landing,” she smiled at her youngest brother, giving him Ned’s letter as she walked towards him, “Let’s train, I need to shoot something.”

The courtyard was filled with laughter in no time as the two Starks exchanged tales of legendary knights and japes over missed targets, all thoughts of dreams and business arrangements temporarily forgotten.

Richard

The journey north had taken far longer than expected, their progress hampered by sudden storms and the ever-present snow. It didn’t help that none of them knew quite what to expect of a Northern winter – winters were plenty unpleasant in the Crownlands, but this was something else. The days were shorter and the deteriorating weather made camping more difficult the further north they traveled, resulting in more time spent searching for adequate accommodations. The King's command to remain undetected also had resulted in less than stellar accommodations, particularly when storms all but stopped travel altogether, leading to overcrowded inns and sparse fare.

Rhaegar wanted a taste of the blasted North, and he's getting it. We're the unlucky bastards along for the ride. How can the Northerners possibly be a threat when they have to focus on surviving this hellhole?  And couldn’t these damn books be found in Oldtown?

They were all tired and frozen by the time they reached Wintertown, the town outside the walls of Winterfell. He remembered the time a few years ago when they had come across Brandon Stark at a tourney - he had described the town as thriving in the winter and barebones in the summer months, with only a few establishments for entertainment (the discussion had, of course, been around local whorehouses).  They’d all been deep in their cups, so he hadn’t paid much attention to Stark’s descriptions.

Alas, thriving was putting it lightly.

Winterfell rose in the distance, built into the natural slopes of the land. Even from a distance, the keep looked magnificent and daunting, the grey towers disappearing into the low clouds.  Rows of buildings lined the main road, the town bustling with movement in spite of the low temperature.  Not for the first time, Richard felt genuine respect for the Northerners – he didn’t know how they survived this bloody cold, let alone the ice and snow.  Small wonder they were fearsome warriors and harsher people; this was no place for the weak.

As with the rest of their journey, accommodations proved to be difficult to find in the town, but eventually they found the inn off one of the muddy roads closer to the castle.  The were able to rent a single room for a small fortune and finally found themselves tucked into a corner of the inn’s main room with ale and a full meal.

Unsurprisingly, the Crown Prince's patience was shot – they were already a fortnight behind their delayed itinerary and they still had a week’s journey to reach Castle Black.  Within the first few moments of conversation, it was clear Rhaegar couldn’t care less about his father’s “ridiculous” request to spy on the Starks.  The King had already delayed their trip by a moon when he required, for no apparent reason, Rhaegar’s presence when his cousin Robert Baratheon was in King’s Landing to formally receive his titles.  This had prompted the Prince to start the journey already frustrated.  Nay, Rhaegar’s interest was firmly at the Wall, so he wanted to depart on the morrow.

Richard exchanged a glance with Myles at this news - both of their horses had thrown a shoe in the last few leagues.  Unless they wished to purchase new horses, they couldn’t possibly depart in the early morning.

“Your Grace,” Richard murmured quietly to not be overheard, choosing his words carefully, “mayhaps Myles and I could better serve you here – both of our horses require new shoes to start, so we would only delay your departure for the Wall.  By leaving us here in Wintertown, we could make some inquiries regarding the Starks.  In fact, we were both acquainted previously with Lord Stark’s heir, Brandon – should he be in residence, it may prove most useful. Might be nothing of interest to His Majesty, but better to have the knowledge in the first place.”

Rhaegar looked at him, pondering his suggestion.  Richard still found the neutral mask Rhaegar wore at most times perplexing, particularly when trying to gauge his reaction to some proposal.  The Prince’s dyed hair didn’t help at all – the black strands, usually pulled into a braid, fell past his shoulders in a silky curtain around his pale skin, emphasizing his strong features.  The dark color also caused the Prince’s indigo eyes appear almost black, making the lack of emotion on his face even more disconcerting.

“A solid idea, Lonmouth, and a more efficient usage of time.  I’m sure you and Myles will be sufficiently accommodated here.  Observe the Starks and determine if there is anything to my father’s suspicions.”

Myles spurted his next question before thinking, “And what about the Stark girl?”

Rhaegar grimaced slightly before answering, “She is part of the Stark family, is she not?  Your observations will thus include her, though go no further than basic needs. My father just granted me a temporary reprieve from all this marriage nonsense – I have no intention of squandering that time by courting some Northern maiden to appease my father’s fabricated plots.”

The rest of the meal was accompanied by lighter topics of discussion, and at the end of the meal Rhaegar, Arthur and Oswell retired, as they would be leaving at first light.  Richard and Myles remained for another few flagons of ale, stumbling upstairs to crash into what were undoubtedly the most comfortable straw pallets they had slept on in two moons.

Chapter Text

Benjen

"Lya, are you certain you wish to do this?  Bran will be home in less than a fortnight, we could even send a rider to hasten his journey."

"Benjen, Father left me to rule in his stead as Lady of Winterfell.  He trusted me with all the responsibilities that entails.  The blood of the First Men flows in our veins - this is the Old Way."

"But Bran is his heir and our brother! Nobody would think it improper should you wait to pass judgment until he is home so that he may at least swing the sword.  There are those who would expect Brandon to do it, as the heir and oldest Stark in residence."

"Do you think I cannot do it?" she asked him imperiously.

"Lya..." he softened his voice. “This is not throwing a man in a cell for a few days, forcing him to pay back his debts, or even taking a finger or two for theft.  The punishment for desertion is death. It is a terrible thing to take a life."

As his words sunk in, he watched his sister fall back in Father's chair, slouching as the weight of the situation seeped into her soul.  For the first time, Benjen noticed the circles under her eyes, the tired cast of her skin.

Father had been gone almost three moons and Benjen knew it was taking its toll on Lya.  Serving as the acting Lady of Winterfell was no easy task, particularly in the middle of winter when Wintertown swelled with temporary residents.  Lya hadn't given up many of her regular duties either, though she had started allocating more of them to Sella, the head housekeeper, as she spent more time on judicial matters.

Not for the first time, Benjen cursed Maester Walys.  The man was nigh near impossible to work with and he was doing the bare minimum to help Lya, claiming increased medical cases due to the frosty chill left him little time for household matters.

And now there was a desertion from the Night's Watch.

Benjen knew the situation was difficult for Lya as acting Lady of Winterfell, but also personally, for he too felt the acute pain of dawning reality.  He and Lya had grown up reverent of the Night's Watch - for centuries, the Starks had helped man the Wall, considering it an honor to serve the North and the realm in such a capacity.  They had even dreamed of running away to take the Black before Father could find out, disguising Lya as a boy like the tales of Brave Danny Flint.  Lya was unquestionably one of the best horsemen in the North and with her archery skills, she would have made a fearsome ranger.

Benjen had once joked with her that she might find being a wildling more appealing, but Lya's face had grown fierce as she practically spit the next words, "I would never desert - desertion is for honorless cowards."

Yet here she sat, faced with the prospect of taking a man's life for that same action.  Not only that, but the man's tales of increased wildling attacks on rangers, of dwindling resources, of barely trained boys being sent to their deaths, half starved and weary from long watches, had shattered every image of the dignified Night's Watch of Benjen and Lya’s dreams.

This was a burden Benjen was loath to watch his sister take on.  He had witnessed his first execution several years ago, the bastard son of a lower lord found guilty of murder.  He remembered the terror in the man's eyes, the whistle of Ice, the Stark ancestral valyrian blade, as Father swung it down to sever the man's head from his neck, and the blood.  There was so much blood.  Father had spent an hour alone in the Godswood after, cleaning the beautiful greatsword.

He took no joy in beheading the man.

Father had explained to Benjen, as he explained to each of his children after witnessing their first executions, that the Starks followed the old way, the way of the First Men.  Their ancestors believed that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword - that to take a man's life, one owed it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words.

Benjen knew his sister was impulsive, quick to action.  Like all of them, Father's words about justice and honor had been seared into her soul.  But this was not an action she would be able to take back.

His sister's voice was flat when she finally spoke again, "I will write to Father for his counsel.  But we cannot delay for long."

Benjen nodded, a small sense of relief passing through him.  He only hoped Brandon arrived soon - surely his older brother could manage this burden for their sister.

Serve your damn house for once.  Protect our sister from this.

Cersei

As she strolled through the corridors of the Tower of the Hand, Cersei knew King’s Landing was the place for her.

A place consumed with gossip, plotting behind closed doors, jewels and elaborate dresses, where wealth and power ruled. And Cersei had plenty of the two - her father was Hand of the King and the Lannisters were the wealthiest house in the Kingdoms.

Her twin brother Jamie was quickly gaining a reputation as a fearsome sword, his skill with a blade his second most popular attribute, behind his stunning good looks.  

All that was missing from her life was her husband, the only man more handsome than her dearest twin. It had been several years since she had last spied her prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, mounted on his sleek black stallion, his silver hair blowing in the wind, framing sculpted cheekbones and incredible indigo eye s. Though she had yet to become a woman then, she knew he was the only man for her - the only one worthy of her beauty and wealth.

Everything had fallen apart on that horrid last day of the tournament.

It was all the Mad King’s fault. He had been upset and insulted by the demonstration of her father’s wealth, instead of taking it as a show of her father's fealty. She knew her father had taken a gamble, with the King’s madness growing, but he had been so confident when he told her she would be Queen.

“You are my most able servant, Tywin, but a man does not marry his heir to his servant’s daughter.”

She had cried herself to sleep that night, her dreams shattered.

But she knew it wasn't over, especially after the marriage proposal between the Targaryen’s and Dorne fell through - her father told her it was the Crown Prince himself who had ruined the betrothal. Cersei knew that with the pretty Tully girl marrying the wild Northern heir, she was the last real option for Rhaegar.  Her beautiful, courtly Rhaegar would never marry that wild Stark bitch.

Cersei was loath to admit she had sunk so low as to ask about the girl, but all she had heard had made her comfortable in her position. While few knew much of anything, one of her servants told her the girl was a tiny, feral beast. Cersei imagined a wolf girl like her little brother Tyrion, deformed and a blight on the Stark honor. No wonder Lord Stark kept her locked up in Winterfell.

Father had called her to court as soon as he could arrange it but she had still missed her Silver Prince's departure for the North.  Father hadn’t told her why the Prince was in the North or why he needed to be gone so long.  Her only comfort was that Father reassured her that Rhaegar had not been pleased by the King's suggestion of the Stark girl.

He’s mine.

That had been more than three moons ago, and since then, Cersei had settled nicely into life at Court.  She was not particularly fond of the Queen, who barely left Maegor’s Holdfast.  Frankly, Cersei found her company rather dull - Rhaella Targaryen might be beautiful, but she was a broken woman.  To make matters worse, most of the Queen’s handmaidens were from lesser Houses and perfectly content to wile away their days sewing and making idle conversation.

The only lady with an ounce of spunk was that Dornish woman - Ashara Dayne.  The sister of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Ashara had somehow managed to befriend the Crown Prince and establish herself as a Court beauty, though the latter was probably due to the fact that Court knew Prince Rhaegar had suggested the woman to his mother.  With a joyous and kind nature, she floated amongst the courtiers like a natural, but she still had a sharp mind and the dry humor of the Dornish.  The woman did cut a pretty picture, with her dark hair, tan skin and lively purple eyes.  

Of course, Cersei couldn’t stand the woman, yet she found herself determined to befriend her.  There was far too much mischief and knowledge in those eyes for Cersei to discount her completely, and her friendship with the Prince could prove most useful.  Besides, better to keep your biggest competition close - she saw the way men stared at Ashara, and Cersei could not afford to make an enemy of a woman that might compete for Rhaegar’s eye.

Not that the woman was serious competition - the Daynes, while an old and respected house, were still of lesser Dornish nobility.  Seated far in the South, they carried little political weight or wealth beyond the presence of Ser Arthur Dayne in the Kingsguard and Lady Ashara’s status as one of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting.  The woman could offer little beyond her beauty and companionship, which may be enough for a lesser Lordling, but not for Cersei’s Rhaegar.

Tywin Lannister was not happy about the Dayne woman’s presence, but had no way to dismiss the woman given her connections.

Father had encouraged her to become close with the younger Targaryen son as well - Viserys - as Ashara Dayne had done.   Alas, the child was proving entirely loathsome.  Cersei had offered to care for him on a few occasions, but the boy had been utterly horrible, running through bushes and brambles, hiding from her in corridors, and hitting her with his little wooden sword.   In truth, Cersei had no idea how the Dornish woman managed him without going mad.  After the little brat ran to his mother crying and screaming that Cersei wouldn’t let him play, Cersei had had enough - certainly, her time was better spent building her network at Court.  It was the first time she had ignored her father’s wishes.

Fortunately, Father had been much too busy to track her movements around Court.  With the Crown Prince on some secret trip to the Wall and the King largely uninterested in the daily functioning of the realm, Tywin Lannister had once again taken on many of the ruling duties that he had performed before the Crown Prince had achieved his majority.

Ah, the Crown Prince again.  Rhaegar Targaryen, the perfect knight and gentleman.  Father said he was shaping up to be an admirable future King, a rare and precious compliment from Tywin Lannister.

She didn’t know when her Prince would return from his trip but even without his physical presence, she thought of him daily. Since coming to Court, her dreams had been filled with images of her Silver Prince, their golden-haired, violet-eyed children running around the Red Keep. And the crowns... first, a simple crown of entwined silver and gold, fitting for a Princess. And of course, the Crown she’d always dreamed of - of pure gold, with the images of dragons and lions entwined, rubies sparkling from their eyes.  A Queen crowned by her glorious husband in the Great Sept.

The Golden Queen for the Silver King.

It would all be perfect.  It had to be. Here in King’s Landing, she felt closer than ever.

I will be Queen.

Now, if only she could find a way to get Jaime in Kings Landing permanently...

Maybe Rhaegar will have an idea.  He’s such a caring man, I’m sure he would understand my desire to have my twin brother close.

Smiling to herself at the thought, she returned to her chambers to prepare for her evening meal with Father.

Chapter Text

Brandon

As the shadows of Winterfell slowly approached, Brandon was picking through the crowds of Wintertown, reflecting on the seat of his House. As the heir to Winterfell, this would all be his one day.  The thought was not nearly as pleasant as most people would assume.  And this time, he returned home a betrothed man, fresh from meeting his future Lady of Winterfell.

That thought was even less appealing.

Catelyn Tully was indeed a very pretty girl - thank the gods - with fair skin, long auburn hair and clear blue eyes.  She was of an age with his sister Lyanna, though their personalities could not have been more different.  Where his sister was wild and playful, Catelyn was refined and tempered.  The only similarities seemed to be their commitment to family and honor.

The girl hadn’t been completely immune to his flirtations, but to his disappointment, she had remained rather steadfast in her propriety.  He had half hoped she would be rather like Barbrey Ryswell, a willing and overeager partner.  Then again, he had no desire to marry Barbrey, so perhaps it was better to distinguish his future wife from his conquests.  And Barbrey was getting rather needy - she had even asked him to fight his father over the betrothal with Catelyn.

As if I have any particular sway with Father.  Or any desire to use that sway for her.

Alas, his interest in Barbrey was waning.  He intended to remain at Winterfell for some time, so he fortunately would not have to deal with her demands.  Maybe Lyanna could help him - it wouldn't be the first time she had covered his tracks, though this was quite a bit more complicated than a lowborn woman...

He knew he would have to marry.  However, like the prospect of eventually taking the mantle of Lord of Winterfell, the concept seemed an poor fit.  He was not cut out for such responsibility.

Not like Ned, who wrote of duty in his letters like it was some deity to be revered.

Not like Benjen, who even at fourteen wished to devote his life to duty, dreaming of joining the legendary Kingsguard or the Night's Watch.  

Even Lyanna, who shared the wolf's blood with him and was prone to wild and willful actions, had shown herself more than capable of the responsibilities mandated of her as a noble woman.

No, only Brandon had tasted true freedom these last years, and once sampled, he found himself loath to give it up.

In truth, his little sister was proving to be a blessing from the old gods - not only had she taken on many of the duties usually granted to the heir of Winterfell over the course of the years, but Father had also named her as his proxy in Winterfell during this trip.  Father had merely requested Brandon assist her by fulfilling his duties as the heir to the North.  This, of course, granted Brandon a large degree of flexibility during his stay.

He knew that Father sometimes wished it was Lyanna who would inherit the title - Lyanna herself had certainly harbored those dreams for a time - but Rickard continued to hold out hope that Brandon would take to his duties over time.

At twenty, that hope had yet to come to fruition.

He arrived to an exasperated Lya and a thrilled Ben.  His little brother had shot up a few inches since Brandon's last visit, easily hovering above his sister's smaller figure now.  Nearing fifteen, Ben was still a lanky kid, but with time and training he would grow into his frame.  Ben had barely contained his excitement at Brandon's arrival, as it meant he would have someone to train and ride with. As his youngest sibling explained, Lya had been far too busy to do anything but work.  Lya had just rolled her eyes, muttering that Benjen was always welcome on her early morning rides, he just chose to be lazy.

Things went smoothly at the beginning, as they spent the early part of the afternoon in Father's solar.  Lya outlined the state of Winterfell and the broader North over the past ten moons since Brandon's most recent visit.  Maester Walys joined them to discuss the outcome of Father's negotiations with Hoster Tully, and he was able to review the final marriage contract that would seal his fate to a woman he barely knew.

Reviewing the contract was the first strike of the flint.

While he knew little of the background conversations that had led to the eventual outcome, he could tell the arrangement was favorable for the North.  He was surprised to see Lyanna and Walys on neutral terms - they had never gotten along in all of Walys' time at Winterfell - but he supposed they had come to an agreement of mutual indifference.

Mutual indifference as they work together to seal my fate .

The next strike was when Walys suggested Brandon take over as the Lord of Winterfell in Father’s stead, given he was the heir.

Brandon agreed with Walys that it wasn’t typical for a daughter to rule in her father’s stead when two of her brothers were home, but he honestly didn’t want the responsibility. Plus, Father had been explicit in his trust of Lyanna when they had parted, so Brandon was happy with the present situation.

But the fire in Lya’s eyes made him frown, as she heatedly explained to Walys that Father had left her as the acting Lady of Winterfell in his stead, even when Bran and Benjen were in residence.

It is my birthright; she must realize that what Father did was highly unusual.  What, does she think I’ll burn Winterfell to the ground?

The final strike came once Walys had been dismissed, when Lya told him Father knew of his late night visits to Wintertown’s brothels and that he should restrain himself.

Something cracked and the fire exploded inside him.

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” he yelled, jumping out of his seat across from her, “You may speak for Father around the keep, but you do not rule me, dearest sister.”

“Brandon, I speak to you as both your sister and the ruling Lady of Winterfell.” Lyanna’s voice was steady as she stood behind Father’s desk, but he could tell she was barely holding back her rising anger, “Do you care so little for the honor of our House?  All I ask for is some restraint!”

He was still yelling, “I don’t care what you ask, I am still the heir to Winterfell.  If I want to visit the brothels of Wintertown, it is well within my rights.”

“I have spent moons running this castle and Wintertown, earning the respect of the people and building their trust in the Stark name.  I would appreciate it if you didn’t return to Winterfell just to run around rampant, dishonoring yourself!”

He stalked towards her, “It doesn’t matter – whatever you do, Winterfell will be mine.  It’s my birthright.  In fact, Walys is right, I should be the one serving as Lord of Winterfell while Father is gone.”

Her resolve broke, as her voice rose angrily, "It's not like you ever wanted it before!"

"It doesn't matter if I wanted it or not,” he snarled, “it's mine."

Both of them were so caught up in their anger that they didn’t notice Benjen open the door.

Lyanna was furious now, spitting words at him as they stared at each other, "You act like it's just some title with no responsibility.  Being the Lord of Winterfell means more than just a fancy name for the admiration of whores.  It represents a duty to your people, to your House, to the North.  But you've never cared about any of that, you've never cared about serving your people.  You've never had to manage the stores to make sure your people don't starve, or heard the pleas of a mother of four who lost her husband and has nowhere to go.  You've never even spoken to your Lord bannermen and heard their worries about their defenses against the wildlings or the unfavorable terms of a marriage contract.  You don't know the first thing about being the heir to Winterfell, so of course Father didn't put you in charge when he has a Stark who does.  Even Benjen knows more about running Winterfell than you do!”

Brandon stalked up to his sister, “Oh sweet sister, isn’t that the irony – you may know more about ruling the North, but you will never actually rule it. No,” he sneered, “you will still be sold off to some Lordling to bear his little runts, destined to be caged in your pretty little Southern dresses.  Father only let you run Winterfell in his stead so that you could experience it before you’re sent off to waste away.”

He knew he’d gone too far when he saw how red her face was, the fury coupling with unshed tears.

“Just go,” she yelled, pushing him towards the door, “get out!  Run off to your drink and your whores!  You clearly care more about your cock than you do your precious birthright!”

“And I will still be the heir in spite of it!” he yelled over his shoulder as he pushed past Benjen through the door.

He strode down the corridor, his anger bubbling beneath the surface of his skin.  Maybe he’d go to the training yard – hitting something sounded appealing and he could use the exercise.  Or maybe he would search for another kind of exercise…

Benjen’s voice rang out as he caught up to him, "Bran-"

"What, come to join in the fun?” he growled, whipping around to face his younger brother, “Rant about how I'm a horrible brother and a blight on the Stark honor?"

"Bran, she's doing the best she can.  She barely sleeps or eats,” Benjen’s voice softened, a tinge of desperation in his still childish intonation, “She's so committed to doing a good job for Father.  I'm worried about her."

"She brought this upon herself." Brandon snarled.

"Bran, you shouldn't blame Lya-"

"Why not, Benjen?  She has humiliated me by serving as regent Lady of Winterfell in Father’s stead while I’m home.  What will the rest of the North think, that he appointed her over his heir?  Over you even?"

"But she didn't choose this.  It was Father's decision, he even announced it in the Great Hall and sent letters to all of his Lords.  He chose Lya when he could have chosen me, or even Maester Walys.  He knew Lya would do the best job.  That’s why he didn’t need you to come home until now.  He knows you don’t want the extra responsibility."

Brandon paused at the last phrase, and suddenly his fury seemed to fade.  His voice turned passive.

"She's right, isn't she?” he asked in a monotone voice, ”I don't know anything about being the heir to Winterfell.  Once she started taking things over, I let her - it was easier and she always seemed good at it."

"She is good at it, Bran.  That's why Father trusts her.  He respects her judgment.  She's taken on a lot since Mother died, and remember, in her mind we all left her."

Brandon nodded.  Lyanna had been the closest with Mother, and then he, Ned and even Benjen had gone off to foster elsewhere, leaving Lyanna alone.  

Of course she had taken on responsibilities around the castle, all alone with no siblings to play with.  She had even told him once that caring for Winterfell made her feel closer to them and Mother, since it was an extension of the Starks.  And no wonder Father trusted her - she was the one who was always on hand if he needed another Stark.

"Bran, Lya didn't tell you about the deserter, did she?"

Brandon shook his head, "No, there was a deserter?  We started fighting before she said anything about th at."

Benjen sighed, "There was a deserter from the Night's Watch.  He was caught a fortnight ago.  I convinced Lya to stay the judgment because the punishment..."

Brandon finished his sentence, "- is death."

Benjen nodded, “Father never wrote back, so he must have missed the raven.  Bran, Lya is strong but this… ”

Brandon understood what his youngest brother was implying.  Tradition mandated that Lya would have to carry out the punishment should she pass the sentence.  The punishment for desertion was death by beheading.  An image flashed through his head, the slender figure of his little sister, black cloak and dark hair blowing in the wind, standing in the snow and hefting the giant Valyrian greatsword of their House above her head, poised to strike the head off of a grown man.

No matter how strong his little sister was, Brandon shared his youngest brother’s desire to protect her from the guilt of taking a man’s life, even if the punishment was just.

Brandon sighed, clapping his brother on the shoulder, “I’ll speak to her - it should be me to swing the sword.  We’ll do it as one.  The wolf pack, working together.” He felt his brother relax under his grip and Brandon flashed him a small cheeky smile, “Gods know, she’d never be able to lift Ice anyways.”

They had gone together to speak with Lyanna, who had apologized for trying to rule him.  Brandon had taken his sister into a giant embrace, murmuring his own apologies into her hair.

They were two of a kind, the wolf’s blood running through their veins.  Quick to anger, quick to forgive.  She understood him on a level no one else ever could, as he understood her.  

The three siblings had decided to carry out the execution in the morning.  Benjen would announce the crime and the legal precedent, Lyanna would pass the sentence as the ruling Lady of Winterfell and Brandon would carry out the punishment as Lord Stark’s eldest son and heir.  The three Starks in residence, working as one to carry out justice in their Father’s stead.

And now, Brandon found himself wandering down the snowy streets of Wintertown towards a tavern off of the main road.  The streets closer to the castle were illuminated by torches provided by Winterfell, a recent addition made by Lyanna to help the townspeople through the deepest parts of winter.  It was a blustery night, so the torchlight flickered low, shadows skittering along the muddy road.

He opened the heavy wooden door of the tavern, allowing the warmth and light to flood over him.  The smell of ale, meat pies and sweat pervaded the space, a quiet ruckus at each table as Northmen japed and jostled one another.  The small tavern was quite full with every table at least partially occupied, no doubt due to the temporary booming population of Wintertown.

Brandon greeted a few men he recognized, Stark guards off-duty.  Normally he would sit with them, hearing their stories of his siblings’ recent mischief and the marital statuses of the new female servants.  Tonight though, he had come to escape his siblings and Winterfell.

Making his way to the bar in the back, he glanced at the men occupying the other tables.  One was full of mountain clansmen, gruff looking young men who seemed far too serious for Brandon’s current mood.  Another table was quiet older men around his father’s age, though they seemed to be common folk.  Most of them recognized him, or at least recognized the look of a Stark, and nodded respectfully.

My future bannermen.

The last two customers of the tavern were tucked into a smaller table close to one of the walls, out of the way but still giving them a view of the room.  They were most definitely not Northerners, lacking the typical roughness of the North.

Southrons in the North in the middle of winter.  Must be idiots.

Curious, Brandon grabbed his tankard, flashing the barmaid Alyn a smile, and made his way towards the two unknown men.  They glanced up as he approached and a laugh thundered out of him as he recognized them.

“Others take me, Myles Mooten and Richard Lonmouth in the North!”

The two younger men grinned as he slapped their shoulders and slid into an empty chair.

“Brandon Stark,” Richard chuckled, taking in the enormous Northman, “just the man we were hoping to see.”

“Last I saw you was at Lannisport, no?  Gods, has it really been almost five years?”

Myles nodded, “Aye.  Last we saw, you were yelling ‘Winter is Coming’ as you defeated other squires in the yard.”

Brandon laughed full-heartedly at the memory. “You Southrons are too focused on your courtly manners - you underestimate us Northerners! We may not all be knights, but we are real warriors.”

“You certainly look the part of the savage Northman now.”

“And now that we’ve experienced this damn winter,” Richard added, “I think we have a newfound appreciation for Northerners.” He huddled deeper into his cloak at the thought of the cold without.

Brandon chuckled, “This weather? This is mild! Wait till you see the snowstorms that last for days.”

Richard shivered at the thought, finishing his ale, “I think I’ll have to drink straight through that one.”

“The only thing to do, really,” Brandon finished his own tankard and waved over Alyn for another round.

Once drinks had been replenished, Brandon continued, “But look at you two, no longer little runts chasing after Rhaegar Targaryen.  Has your pretty prince finally knighted you?”

Myles beamed proudly. “Just before we left to come North, actually.”

“Well, Ser Richard and Ser Myles,” he intoned, emphasizing their new titles. “So what are you two idiots doing in the North in the middle of winter?”

Richard shrugged, “The Crown Prince developed an interest in the North, and frankly no one knows anything about this place other than what we hear from the rare Northerner venturing south.”

Brandon laughed again, his tone joking, “So you two were sent to explore the Prince’s interest?  Is Winterfell not good enough for a formal royal visit?”

He was temporarily distracted by yelling, which had erupted at the table with the young mountain clansmen, so he missed the look exchanged between Myles and Richard.

Instead of waiting for a response, Brandon continued, “Why didn’t you stay at Winterfell?  My sister would have taken fine care of you.”

“When we learned you and your father were not present, we thought it best to remain in town...”

“Bah, are you Southrons scared of my savage sister?” Brandon’s laugh boomed across the room. “Lyanna may be a vicious little wolf sometimes but she would never turn honorable men like yourselves away!”

“So it’s true that she is running Winterfell?” Myles questioned curiously. “We’ve seen her in Wintertown on occasion and heard stories of her presiding over judicial matters.”

“Aye, my father left her in charge.  Smart man,” his voice became morose, “she’s a better heir to Winterfell than I’ll ever be.”

Chugging the rest of his ale, Brandon slammed the tankard down on the table, his voice boisterous once more, “Where are you staying?”

“At the inn near the castle.”

“The Smoking Log! Excellent, I’ll come meet you tomorrow afternoon - you’ll stay with us in Winterfell the rest of the time.  We’ll give you a real taste of the North, so you can bring plenty of stories to your Prince.”

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

He was choking, every breath labored as the ash coated his nostrils, his throat, his lungs.  The smell of charred wood, melting stone, burnt flesh pervasive.  He was being swallowed by flames, lost in endless empty corridors as he half ran, half stumbled, searching for an exit, any exit, any reprieve from the pain shooting through body and mind.

Everything was ablaze, crashing down on him from the walls, the floor and the ceiling.  The flames were a mixture of colors beyond the typical reds and yellows, flashes of emerald, violet, and cerulean flaring across every surface. Had the circumstances been different, he might have admired the intricate dance, the way the colors shifted as if weaving some elaborate pattern.   

He felt the fire licking at his heels, the oppressive heat causing sweat to stream down his face and body.

An enormous set of doors appeared as he rounded a corner, heavy wood and iron, the only thing untouched by the flames.  Foreign ancient designs were inlaid into the wood, swirling in a strange yet familiar song that drew him closer.

A flare of heat.  For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t make it.  But then his hands were pushing on the doors.

He recoiled as a bolt of frozen energy shot up his arms. Off balance from pushing the doors opened, he stumbled, falling to his knees as the doors slammed behind him.  The cold air hit him like a wave, a cruel caress sending shivers through his damp body.  He struggled to catch his breath, inhaling icy air, a balm for his fried lungs.  After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of night.

Snow was everywhere.  Massive stone pillars rose towards the night sky, the stars sparkling so brightly that it felt as though he could reach out and grab them.  They dazzled the mind, singing a mesmerizing tune as if to say, “stay.”

In that moment, the world faded and he was lost in the nothingness of the stars.  When he looked down, he saw himself, a dark figure kneeling in the snow, face upturned to the sky.

His eyes glowed ice blue.

The sight of his face without the Targaryen indigo eyes drew him out of his stupor, bringing his attention back to his frozen body.

There was a small glow at the end of the hall, cloaked in a snowy hazy but reminiscent of a campfire.  It took all his effort to pick himself up off of the ground, shuffling forward towards the fire like a moth to a light.  There were shadows moving among the pillars, too faint to delineate precise figures. After minutes or hours or seconds, the light materialized as a candle, blood red wax dripping down the long taper to pool in a maroon puddle, stark against the pure white snow.

Fire and blood.

By some force he couldn’t name, he reached out a hand to pass through the tiny flame…

Rhaegar jerked awake, hissing in pain as he pulled his hand away from where it hovered over the candle set to his right on the reading table.  The skin in the center of his palm was a reddish pink, blistering a tinge.

He stared at the burn with mild fascination, his mind still whirreling with the images of this latest dream.

It was not the first time he had gone through intense dream sequences since arriving at the Wall.  Indeed, he had been dreaming intermittently of burning hallways and multi-color flames since childhood - he’d usually interpreted it as a connection to the Tragedy of Summerhall, the night of his birth and the death of much of the Targaryen line.

He imagined the moons they’d now spent in the North, surrounded by snow, had a large influence on the second phase of the dream.  Certainly, the image of his face staring up at him with those ice cold blue eyes had been seared into his soul, but he also recalled the lightness he had felt among the stars, floating away from his frigid body.

This had been the first time he had reached the light.

Fire and blood.

He shivered and pulled his fur cloak closer, shaking away the lingering remnants of dream, then glanced down at the ancient tome which had served as both sleeping aid and pillow for his nap.  The book was on the language of the Children of the Forest, suggested by Maester Aemon as an alternative to the old Valyrian scrolls he’d spent much of the last moon studying.  He had fallen asleep to a chapter containing rough sketches of the swirling patterns and designs the Children had often inscribed upon surfaces, whether they be trees or walls or the ground.  Something stirred in his memory as he quickly scanned the page.

Why does it feel like I’ve seen these?  

The candle began sputtering, the sign of another relatively sleepless night spent in the vaults beneath Castle Black.  Rhaegar sighed, wondering if it was worth returning to his chamber to attempt at least a few hours of sleep.  He grimaced, thinking about the letters awaiting him.

Very few people knew of his presence at Castle Black, something he hoped to maintain - the more people who knew, the higher the chance of news spreading to the Lords of the North.  Given the North’s strict commitment to honesty and honor, Rhaegar imagined the Northern lords would not take kindly to the Crown Prince crawling around their lands in disguise.

Damn my father for requiring this secrecy.  Doesn’t he know the insult this is to the North?

Rhaegar had of course informed the current castellan of Dragonstone, Ser Corlys Velaryon, of his intended trip to Castle Black - the castle and original Targaryen seat was his responsibility as the Prince of Dragonstone, and though he had a great deal of respect for Ser Corlys, he also had no intention of shirking his duties while gallivanting in the North.

However, he had hoped to limit any other correspondence to those matters of utmost importance.  This was proving an entirely naive hope.

He, Arthur and Oswell had arrived over a moon ago to a lukewarm reception - Uncle Aemon had naturally told the Lord Commander their true identities, but to the rest of the men they were merely Southrons sent to consult with Maester Aemon on several matters for the Crown. Rhaegar, under the name Jae, would spend his time with Aemon in the library, while his companions Ser Walt, Oswell, and Ser Maron, Arthur, would offer to train with the men of the Night’s Watch.

His great uncle had begun their first meeting by handing him a stack of letters.

A few were from the Small Council, detailing minor issues that did not necessitate immediate action.  The King had stopped regularly attending Small Council meetings shortly after Duskendale, so the Crown Prince had taken to handling most smaller matters relating to the daily ruling of the realm.  Most of the Council seemed to view Rhaegar as at least a more stable source of royal judgment.  While Lord Tywin, as Hand of the King, was more than capable of running the Seven Kingdoms in Aerys’ stead - he had done much of it for quite some time, after all - the Hand had supported Rhaegar in taking on more responsibility.

The Prince knew such actions were not without some ulterior motive.

Tywin’s intentions, though by no means clear, were also not completely opaque.  There was one letter from the Hand in the bundle, summarizing several points of business.  The short missive did not fail to mention the arrival of Lord Tywin’s daughter Cersei at Court.

Two were from Lord Jon Connington, one of his closest friends.  Jon had been unable to join their trip due to some business matters relating to his lands in the Stormlands.  His friend had been disappointed, but Rhaegar had told him it was good that he had a friend he could trust staying in the capital to monitor things.  Jon had interpreted that as a signal to document key events in simple but long missives - his friend had a keen eye, but generally did not discern court gossip from actual politics, so the letters read like encyclopedic documentations of the scandals they had missed.

A final letter was from his mother, kind words veiling the true meaning behind them.

“...The King has blessed the Court with informative examples of his justice… your father has been very attentive… Lord Tywin is a most reliable servant to the realm…”

Despite choosing to only respond to those missives requiring his attention, a new batch of correspondence had arrived yesterday.

His father’s deepening madness was causing cracks to appear in the foundation of the realm.  While paranoia dominated his mind, Aerys Targaryen was not a stupid man.  In Rhaegar’s absence, all of the King’s distrust had become focused squarely on Tywin Lannister.  During his periods of relative sanity, Aerys had inhibited the ability of the Hand of the King or the Small Council to act without royal consent, exacerbating the fragility of the existing power balance.

Raised understanding that his duty was to the realm and his people, Rhaegar was learning that the responsibilities of the Crown Prince were increasingly thankless.

There were no easy answers.  To anything.  Everyone wanted more, expected more.

More land. More money. More power.

He sighed, leaning to cradle his head in his hands.  He hissed as his hair slid along the forgotten burn on his palm, but remained in the position, savoring the pain as it shot through his arm.  He'd have to wrap it later, but at the moment there was something viscerally pleasing about the pain…

“Still here, my boy?”

Maester Aemon shuffled into the room, the links of his maester’s chain tinkling softly over his black robes.

“Aye,” Rhaegar answered wearily, attempting to banish his fatigue with a shake of his head.

“Fatigue slows the mind, Rhaegar.  It is not advisable to miss one’s rest.”

Standing to fetch new tapers for the table, Rhaegar responded, “I know, Uncle.  I find sleep difficult though, and even when I do…”

“Ah, dreams I suppose.” In spite of his diminishing sight, Uncle Aemon noted Rhaegar’s nod of assent as he took a seat at the other side of the table, next to the old books he had been studying yesterday, “You are not the only one plagued by dreams.”

Rhaegar went about lighting the new candles before he took his seat again, “What do you dream of, Uncle?”

“Me?  I fear I am plagued by the dreams of many Targaryens before me, the same dreams which drove my dear brother to a madness that nearly destroyed our line, an obsession it appears afflicts your father as well.”

“Dragons.”

“Aye, dragons.  I see their shadows on the snow, hear the crack of leathern wings, feel their hot breath. But it is not my dreams for which I now seek answers.”

Rhaegar frowned, confused, “Do you search for someone else’s dreams?”

“Targaryens have not kept their dreamers as secret as others have.  Though these dreamers see through different eyes and tread on different paths.  They dream not of prophetic visions but of natural life, a natural life they may learn to live outside the realm of dreams.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ah, Rhaegar, you may never understand. The North holds many more secrets than you or I could ever understand.  I have spent many years here at Castle Black, and yet I still find myself discovering new mysteries of the North with every day.”

Unclear of the connection between the dreams Aemon was exploring and the North, Rhaegar’s curiosity was piqued, “What do you think of the North, Uncle?”

Aemon paused, a pensive look across his wrinkled face.

“The North is a complicated place, misunderstood by most but deeply loved by the people who call it home.  There is a natural magic that runs beneath one’s feet in the North, an inexplicable energy drawing one in.  Hard. Cold. Enduring. The people match the land, with a truly remarkable commitment to justice, honor and loyalty.  They are honest and blunt, though rash and harsh.  Targaryen power has never held as strongly here as in the South - it’s important to remember the North was never conquered.  The Starks are the real power here, and they command immense respect and almost unfailing loyalty from their bannermen.  The ancient title of the Kings of Winter remains a whispered memory, gone but not forgotten.”

Certainly not something to tell my father about...

Aemon continued, “There is much for Southerners to learn in the North.  Duty and responsibility are held with a certain reverence, though Northmen struggle just as much as any of us with the weight of it.”

Rhaegar thought of his own duties and his shoulders seemed to tense as if the responsibility was a physical mass laid across his back, “It is a heavy burden for all of us to carry.”

“Indeed,” Aemon’s voice softened, “and you, my boy, will carry more than most.”

Images of memories and dreams flashed before his eyes as he allowed the statement to roll over him.  He felt the doubt and guilt rising within him, threatening to drown him.

“Uncle…” he started, “how can I do this?  How do I fulfill this duty?”

“A question for which no one has the answer.  You do what every man can do - you do your duty to the best of your ability.”

“What if the best of my ability isn’t good enough?”

“It must be.  You will be King, Rhaegar.  A King must maintain the balance between the Crown and the nobility, he must serve the common people, put the realm first.  Bad men have been good kings, and good men have been bad kings.  Power corrupts the soul, but one must commit to ruling with an iron will.”

Rhaegar shook his head, “No matter how much I read and learn, I still feel as though I know so little, am so poorly prepared.”

“Mhm, my boy, ruling cannot be learned from ancient scrolls or the words of maesters long dead.  Only by seeing, by doing, by trying, will one learn the true nature of power and responsibility.  It is why you serving as the Lord of Dragonstone while Crown Prince is important, though the island is perhaps not the best representation, since it has been run largely by castellans over the years.”

The last thought reminded Rhaegar of the letters from Ser Corlys awaiting him.

“Speaking of, Uncle,” he rose, closing the book in front of him and stacking the pages of notes to the side, “I should retire to my chambers briefly to respond to the latest letters from Dragonstone.”

Aemon nodded, “Very well.  I recommend you make use of the bed, Rhaegar - I will not have it be said I allowed a Targaryen to read himself into an early grave.  I’m not sure your mother would forgive me.”

Undoubtedly, my father would not know whether to be pleased or frustrated by the inconvenience.

Making his way above ground, hoping the frigid air would clear his mind, Rhaegar crossed the courtyard to the King’s Tower, where he, Arthur and Oswell had been given chambers.  Reserved for honored guests, the accomodations were far better than any they had on the road north, but were still sparser than what they would have had at any Lord’s keep.

The letters were handled quickly, with only the most recent letter from Dragonstone warranting a response - he would write a longer letter to his mother this evening.

Despite his desire to return immediately to the library, he allowed himself the leisure of laying down upon the bed, determined to nap for at least a few minutes.

Fatigue was upon him instantly, and he was drawn into the abyss of a deep sleep blissfully void of dreams.

Lyanna

They left at dawn, three solemn figures mounted on their great chargers, clad in the muted greys of House Stark.  The morning air was crisp with a frigid breeze, but the day was clear with no signs of new snow.  Their heavy black and grey cloaks fluttered behind them as they rode out the North Gate, several Stark guardsmen escorting them.  Nymeria and Torrhen lopped ahead of them, the symbol of the Starks incarnate.

Lyanna was used to early morning rides - it was her favorite time of the day, the icy air and emerging daylight blanketing the Northern landscape with an ethereal beauty.  Though Brandon would never wake so early, except to hunt, on occasion, she could convince Benjen to join her and they would race over the hills, laughing and watching the way the air seemed to shimmer around their figures.

There was no laughter this morning.  

Duty was weighing heavy on their souls.

In fact, the beauty of the setting made the reality of the situation all the more somber.  This was the way of nature, and as the Northerners had learned long ago, nature was a cruel mistress.

The man had been taken at a small holdfast in the hills just to the north of Winterfell.  There lay an old outcropping of stones left from the days of the First Men and the Children of the Forest, long used by the Kings and the Lords of Winterfell for such executions.

The man was brought forward, his hands bound.  He was of average height and build, still wearing the black dress of the Night’s Watch, though his furs were so dirty they almost looked gray.

Lord Commander Qorgyle had informed her that the man, Mathis, was a relatively new recruit, having only spent four years at the Wall.  She knew not what he had been sent there for - the Lord Commander had not told her, and she did not ask.  The result was the same.  The man had sworn the vows of the Night’s Watch and he had chosen to desert.

The siblings and two guards dismounted, while the rest remained several paces outside the outcropping.  The Starks stood together in solidarity, Lyanna between her two brothers, a direwolf on either side.  The personification of the North, perfectly reflected in the three siblings, in both looks and demeanor.  Over their heads, the standard of the Starks of Winterfell snapped in the wind, the grey direwolf racing across the ice-white field.

The wolf pack, working together to carry out the King’s justice in their father’s stead.

Lyanna glanced at her oldest brother, noting the grave expression on his face.  She had never seen Bran so serious.  He had taken off his usual boisterous demeanor and traded it for the face of the Heir of Winterfell.  She imagined the same transformation had taken place in her own expression, the joy and laughter she carried most days replaced with harsh neutrality.

Brandon nodded at her.

It was time.

She stepped forward as Benjen read out the crime and the written law regarding such an infraction.  The words were muted in her mind as she watched the face of the man that she was about to sentence to death.

When Ben’s words faded, she gave the command and the guards dragged the man to the large stone block that lay horizontal in the center of the outcropping.  They forced him to his knees, his head only a foot from the divot created years ago for this purpose.

Trusting her voice to remain steady, she looked into the man’s eyes as she spoke.

“If you have any final words, now is the time.”

“I… I… I know I’m a… a coward… I only wish… please… write my wife… tell her I died fighting the wildlings…”

When the man had finished, Benjen held the scabbard while Brandon unsheathed Ice.  The Heir of Winterfell stepped to the side of the stone, even with the divot over which the guards forced the man’s neck.

Lyanna never let her eyes stray from the man as she delivered the sentence.

“In the name of Aerys of the House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Lyanna of the House Stark, regent Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”

She refused to look away as her brother carried out the King’s Justice.  She refused to flinch.

Brandon removed the man’s head from his body in one stroke, the Valyrian steel slicing easily through skin and bone.  Warm blood spurted from the headless body, seeping into the snow surrounding the stone pillar, a crimson stain contrasting with the pure white.

The man’s head rolled to stop right before her feet, dead eyes staring straight into her soul.

For a moment, she was paralyzed.  

And then Brandon’s hand was on her shoulder, leading her to the horses.

“Lya,” his voice was gentle, “Father would be proud of you.”

Lyanna stopped, looking at her brother.

“You were the one who carried out the execution.”

“I executed him, aye.  But you passed the sentence.”

Bran held her face between his hands as he spoke the next words, deadly serious. “We both looked into his eyes and heard his last words.  We saw him as a man.  We understood the gravity of the act of taking a life.  That is the meaning behind the Old Way, respecting one’s fellow man and the sanctity of life.  That is what Father taught us.”

Lyanna nodded, and her brother pulled her into a warm embrace.

But she didn’t feel like she deserved love or warmth in that moment.  For Bran was right - while he may have swung the sword, it had been by her word.

By the word of Lyanna of House Stark… I do sentence you to die.

My word killed a man.

She shivered as she mounted Silverwing, letting her gloved hands sink into the horse’s mane, as if the familiar act would ground her.  Nymeria, as if understanding her mistress’ distress, padded over to her and nuzzled her leg.  Torrhen was with Brandon, who had already mounted and gone to speak with the guards.

Benjen approached her and together they watched as Brandon turned around to beckon them forth.

“At least he looks the part of the Heir of Winterfell,” her youngest brother said, with only a hint of his usual sarcasm.

Lyanna spared her brother a tight smile, “Father will be proud of him.  And you.  Thank you for counselling me to wait.  I don’t know if I could have…”

The image of the man’s head rolling to stop at her feet flashed through her mind, halting her speech.

Benjen reached out to grab her hand, “Lya, you would have been able to if necessary.  You would have done what you needed to do.  But this was a burden we could share.  You do not need to carry it all by yourself.  That is what family is for.”

All Lyanna could do was nod - she didn’t trust her voice at that moment.

They nudged their chargers forward, moving to meet Brandon.

And just as they had ridden out at dawn, the three Stark siblings rode back to Winterfell together, the family’s direwolves proceeding them, flashes of grey and black across the ice-white snow.

Chapter Text

Walys

These Northerners are as savage as the Court thinks.

The three Stark siblings had departed early that morning to see to the execution of a deserter from the Night’s Watch.  The fact that Lady Lyanna had attended at all would cause a man to pause.  That she had almost carried out the beheading herself had sent Walys into a near frenzy.  How would he have ever explained such a vile and violent action to a Southern man of noble birth?  It was bad enough that the girl insisted on running around in breeches, riding astride like a man, and wielding bow and arrow instead of needle and thread.

To behead a man would have been unconscionable.

A savage indeed.  Walys was half surprised the girl didn’t do it to ensure she was labeled as such - sometimes, he was convinced she wished to be a blight on her family as an unmarriable, uncouth woman-child.  Her brothers and even Lord Rickard certainly did little to discourage her wilful nature.

Fortunately, the girl was quite comely, and her name and blood ought to carry sufficient weight for a decent marriage.  Walys had to admit begrudgingly that the girl was also quite skilled at running a household.  A strong man would be able to bring her to heel.

Since finalizing the marriage with the Tullys, shipping Lady Lyanna off had become one of Walys’ primary political objectives.  The Maester had found that Northerners did not have a head for politics like most noblemen in the South - they often preferred to remain in the North, caring little for the maneuvering of the Southern houses.  In fact, the Starks had rarely seen much influence at Court at all, other than the Hour of the Wolf, when Lord Cregan Stark served as the Hand of the King for a day at the end of the Dance of the Dragons.

But Walys saw the potential.  The Starks were a Great House, and should have far more power and influence than they had historically wielded.  They ruled the largest kingdom, were fearsome warriors, and had a strict sense of justice.  Though they were often ridiculed as savage and vicious, they were still renowned and respected for their fighting capabilities and honor.

All the Starks needed to propel themselves into the game was a knowledgeable player, who knew how to position them.  Lord Rickard had been blessed with four children, allowing him to build alliances across houses, and ruled the North with a steady hand, eliciting the approval and loyalty of his bannermen.  He only needed a helping hand to guide him in the game.

Walys was that man.

Growing up a bastard in the shadows of Highgarden, Walys had been powerless and belittled as some petty Lord’s by-blow.  But he had learned to listen and to read.  Information and planning was key.  He’d spent his years at the Citadel studying law and history.

Now was his chance to play the game of greater men - this was his opportunity to wield the power and influence, even if it was from the shadows of a black robe.  The Starks could achieve great heights, and it would be because of him.

Of course, Walys had a number of reasons for wishing to arrange an agreement and marry the girl off sooner rather than later.

Since Lord Rickard had set off for his extended trip, Maester Walys had begun to understand the true extent of Lyanna’s influence.  That Lord Stark had chosen her over recalling Brandon was a statement in itself.  Maester Walys had been decidedly disappointed by the decision - he had hoped to be appointed alongside the youngest Stark boy, Benjen, who would have been much easier to advise.  Even Brandon would have been more tractable than Lyanna.

Admittedly, the decision had been a sound one from a strictly managerial standpoint - Lyanna was by and far more capable than either of her brothers, despite her gender.  She was respected by the servants and townspeople, and even the Northern bannermen.  Over the years, she had taken on the duties that would have been filled by her mother as Lord Rickard’s wife, as well as several duties that would typically have fallen to Brandon as the heir.

In fact, Lyanna was the one to whom Lord Rickard allocated some of his own business, items Walys would have typically assisted him with.

Brandon himself would be a hopeless Lord of Winterfell, stubborn and rash as he is.  Fortunately, Lord Rickard remained young and able, so it would be many years till Brandon took his seat.  Walys would have to spend some time gaining his trust for the years to come.  As it was, the eldest Stark sibling was too reliant on his sister.

Which only fed into Walys' desire to be rid of the wild girl as soon as possible.

Lyanna was narrow-minded and ornery.  She only cared for the North, misunderstanding the reasons for connecting the Starks to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.  Marriage was her duty, yet she treated it as though it were some unique part of the Seven Hells designed for her.  For someone so committed to doing her duty by her family, Lyanna was proving to be a hypocrite.

She was merely a powerful pawn to be used in the game, but she insisted on stepping beyond the bounds of her sex.

The key concern was that at that moment, Walys knew he was not only losing the battles against her, but also the war in general.

Should he ever forget, all he had to do was look at the letter from the Citadel tucked beneath his bed.  A letter indicating that the Citadel would be happy to arrange for a new Maester, with roots tying him back to the North, to move up to Winterfell.

Lord Rickard had given no indication of his disapproval.  Only Lyanna could have been behind such a request.

Alas, in spite of his best efforts, the arrangements were going slower than he would like.  He had been making subtle inquiries for moons, contacting several of his friends from the Citadel to learn of the status of affairs in the South.  From this information, Walys had begun to plan his moves, identifying key prospects.

He had set his initial target high.  Lord Tywin Lannister’s son, Jaime, represented the best option in his mind.  The boy was of age with Lyanna, soon to be knighted, and the Heir to Casterly Rock.  Not only were the Lannisters the wealthiest House in the Kingdoms, Lord Tywin wielded an enormous amount of power as the Hand of the King.  Should the gossip from the South prove true, Lord Tywin might also succeed in marrying Jaime’s twin sister to the Crown Prince.

Were the girl he was pawning off anyone else, Walys might have attempted to garner the favor of the Crown Prince as well - the marriage to Cersei Lannister was by no means settled.  Lyanna Stark, though, was no court lady.  Walys shuddered to imagine the wolf-girl running around the Red Keep.  Such a match would certainly prove more harmful than helpful for the Starks.  No, better to send the girl to a place like Casterly Rock, far enough away from King’s Landing.

He had hoped to hear back from Lord Tywin, but no response had come as of yet. A shame, for certainly the Lord Hand would have found much more of interest in the North...

But the Maester was willing to be patient.  The boy was yet young, and should the match fail to materialize, perhaps a man like Robert Baratheon would suit.  The second Stark boy, Eddard, was fostered with him in the Vale after all.

Yes, Walys had waited this long for power.  Lyanna Stark’s marriage was the key.

Lyanna

Like Brandon, Lyanna’s anger was like a firecracker, waiting to be lit.  And the sparks were flying through the early afternoon as she handled petitions in Father’s solar while Brandon dealt with some sort of business in town.  Benjen joined her for a time before running off for his weapons training.

Three people had already asked where Lord Brandon was, despite them all knowing she remained the acting Lady of Winterfell in Father’s place.

Brandon was right. Whatever I do, Winterfell and the North will always be his. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been running Winterfell and the North for three moons.  They do not care that Father named me instead of Brandon or Benjen for a reason.  

With each inquiry, Lyanna became more frustrated.  Didn’t they realize that it was her who was preventing them from starving?  That she had been the Stark child behind the trade deal with the Manderlys and the favorable terms of Brandon’s betrothal?  It was to Lyanna they had directed their concerns regarding defenses against wildling attacks and keeping order in town, not Brandon.  Why then, did they suddenly feel disappointed to see her handling matters instead of him?

Nothing I do will ever erase the fact that I’m a woman.

By the last petitioner, Lyanna was exhausted.  The petitions could be tedious and she was finding it harder and harder to tamp down her rising frustration.  She just wanted to go pray in the Godswood and then soak in the hot springs for hours, alone with Nymeria and Torrhen.  She thought the steaming waters might wash away the anger, preventing any rash actions.

Alas, such was not to be the case.

The final strike came in the form of a young common girl carrying a small bundle.  Her dowdy roughspun clothes didn’t mask the fresh and youthful glow, light brown hair and hazel eyes set into a pretty face.

The girl was alone, and as the door closed and she approached, Lyanna had a sinking feeling this was not going to be good.

Brief introductions were made and the small bundle found its way into Lyanna’s arms.

Two beautiful blue-grey eyes stared up at her under a tuft of dark curls.  The tiny babe, no older than a few weeks, cooed, and Lyanna couldn’t help the smile from spreading across her face.

But that did not stop her thoughts from roaring into a furious tumble.  Those eyes were as familiar as Father’s or Benjen’s.

The Others take you, Brandon Stark!

“I had hoped Milord Brandon would be here, to see to her care...”

Lyanna kept her face calm as the firecracker exploded within her mind.

Brandon wouldn’t give two shits about your baby!  He cares not one whit for you or your child, just like he cares not for his honor or the honor of our House.  Yet he will still inherit everything while I will be no better than you, tentatively reminding my husband of his duty to his children.  Entirely beholden to the whims of a man.

Instead of voicing the raging thoughts, she smiled tightly at the woman, “I know not Brandon’s thoughts on the matter, but I will see that you and your child are adequately cared for as befitting your station. Beyond that, I cannot guarantee anything, but you may approach me should you have any concerns.  I pray you not to mention this affair to anyone - I hope you have been discrete thus far?”

“Aye milady, I haven’t told a soul. My pa has been away at Moat Cailin for Milord Stark the last five moons, so he knows not.”

Fantastic, her father works on Father’s pet project.  Just bloody perfect.

“Good.  I will arrange for a suitable match. You are how old, my dear?”

“Seven and ten, milady.”

It felt odd to speak to a girl roughly her own age in such a manner, planning for this commoner’s future like the many men in Lyanna’s life planned hers.  She hoped she could ease the girl’s worries better than her Father or Brandon might have done.

“I am sorry this has occurred, but I will do my best to ease the situation.”

“Oh thank you milady, that is very kind. But it was an honor to bear milord’s child.”

Was it? Will it be when your bastard grows up in the shadow of Brandon’s true-born children?  Nay, I think this burden will weigh heavy with each passing year, for all involved.

Lyanna looked down again at the sweet little girl she still held in her arms. At least it was a girl. Gods only knew what additional complications a boy would cause.

“Does she have a name?” she asked, as she handed the small baby back to her mother.

The girl shook her head, “I wasn’t sure if milord would want to name her.”

Lyanna tried to soften her tone as she spoke the next words, “Lord Brandon is not one for such things. Is there a family name which you might call her?”

The girl smiled shyly, “I have always loved your name, milady. Milord spoke of you so sweetly that night...”

Lyanna was certain she should find the comment endearing, but at that moment she was struck by the utter ridiculousness of Brandon’s indiscretion, a testament of his dishonor and carelessness, sharing her name.  The fact that Brandon had spoken of her while in the process of shaming their family would have set her ire off were she not already bubbling with fury.  Frankly, she thought she could kill her eldest brother in that instant should he enter the room.

“Perhaps an iteration,” trying to keep her voice steady, despite the raging fire burning in her, “Anna, maybe?”

She had always disliked the nickname Anna after all, much preferring Lya.

The girl’s face lit up as if Lyanna had given her a wonderful gift, “Anna,” she cooed affectionately to the small bundle in her arms, “my dearest Anna. Thank you milady. Will you tell Milord Brandon?”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Lyanna.

“I will speak with him.”

And give him a piece of my mind. Others take him, I should cut his cock off myself.

“Now, Rodrick here will escort you home and I will arrange for the rest in the coming days.  Rod, please have Sella give her sufficient supplies for a few days.”

“Thank you milady,” the girl sunk into a wobbly curtsy, as she exited the room.

Lyanna followed them without, though she turned in the opposite direction to walk towards the Godswood.

“I’m not to be disturbed,” she snarled to the guard, unable to control her temper after reining it in for so long.

That idiot, I could string him up by his ears. How could he be so careless? Gods, a bastard when Father has only just formalized the betrothal with Catelyn Tully.

She entered the Godswood, hoping the Old Gods wouldn’t mind as she ranted and screamed her frustration at her idiot brother.

She paced along the banks of the warm pool which occupied the grove with the heart tree, waving a thick stick like a sword, occasionally venturing into the snowy space on the edge of the clearing to whack the lower branches of surrounding trees.

The more she paced, the more she felt her anger shift directions.  Her brother was merely a testament to the world in which she found herself living.  The dawning reality that her sex would always limit her hit like a stone wall.  While she may be a noblewoman, she would ultimately be subject to a man, no matter the circumstances.

She couldn’t escape.  She was trapped.

And a caged wolf was a dangerous thing.

Richard

Word spread quickly through Wintertown, so by mid-morning, Myles and Richard knew that the Stark siblings had ridden out at dawn to execute a man.  While not unusual for Lords to exact the King’s Justice, two facts struck them, and they knew they would need to get confirmation from Brandon when they saw him: the presence of his sister, Lyanna, at the execution, and the appearance of direwolves, in the flesh, accompanying the party.

It had been almost two moons since the Crown Prince had left them in Wintertown, and it was proving difficult to gather much information on the Lords of the North.  

While word traveled quickly, it was rather simple facts or speculation as opposed to the gossip of plots and scandals typical in the South.  In fact, it wasn’t easy to learn much of anything about the Starks outside of the general approval of the Lords of Winterfell.  In truth, Richard and Myles had largely remained inside the Inn for the first few days as the temperature had dropped and a storm had passed through, but it didn’t help that the Northerners living within Wintertown were generally closed off, considering Richard and Myles as outsiders.

The most intriguing information had been what Brandon had confirmed at the tavern the night before - that Lord Rickard had left his daughter Lyanna as the acting Lady of Winterfell in his stead while he conducted business around the North and in the Riverlands.

Moving to Winterfell, Richard was confident they would gain valuable information for the Prince, and they wanted to do a good job for the Prince, given his trust in them.  It was more than the fact that he was the Heir to the Iron Throne.  After several years serving as Rhaegar’s squires, Richard had developed an immense amount of respect and devotion for the Crown Prince.  He was certain Myles felt the same, having gone through the process together.  While they were not as close to the Prince as Ser Arthur or Jon Connington, they had certainly cemented themselves as his loyal friends, having been at his side through the turmoil of the past four years.

Richard and Myles were some of the few who were granted access to a version of Rhaegar Targaryen that few had ever seen - the bookish, idealistic Prince, the melancholy musician, the hardworking and diligent knight.  They’d seen him reading to his six-year old brother Viserys.  They had seen him attempt to temper King Aerys.  They had accompanied him down into King’s Landing when he failed, to bring a few gold pieces to the widows of men burned by the King for lesser crimes.  They heard him when he was furious about the King hurting the Queen.

He was a doting brother, a caring son, an empathetic prince.  Rhaegar had taught Richard and Myles many lessons; a demanding knight to squire for, he had trained them into the ground, but only because it was how the Prince himself lived his own life.

Richard and Myles hoped to prove themselves worthy of his trust and his friendship - the Crown Prince had after all knighted them himself directly before leaving King’s Landing.

Outside of their devotion to the Prince, Richard was content with the Prince’s agreement to leave him and Myles in Wintertown, for Richard quite appreciated Brandon Stark’s company.

Richard was a joyous man, and while Myles wasn’t nearly as boisterous, he too enjoyed a good time and a few drinks.  The Crown Prince on the other hand, was a serious sort, rarely partaking in revelry - thus, often inhibiting the ability of his squires the opportunity as well.  Brandon, on the other hand, was the type of man who seemed to celebrate life each and every day.

Richard and Myles had just become knights.  They deserved to celebrate a little.

Good to his word, Brandon arrived in the early afternoon, though his manner was noticeably more sombre than the night before.  

Over a tankard of ale, the Heir to Winterfell gave them a quick overview of the morning activities.

“You should have seen my sister,” pride laced Brandon’s voice as he spoke, “she’s a force.”

“Your sister, Lyanna?  So she was at the execution?”

Brandon nodded, “Aye, she was there.  I had it easy.  I just served as the executioner, it was my sister who sentenced him.  She’s the one Father left in charge of Winterfell, in any case.”

Myles failed to keep the shock out of his voice, “Even with you in residence?”

Brandon chuckled, “Yes, even with me in residence.  She’s good at the whole,” he waved his hand in the direction of the castle, “running Winterfell thing.  Father trusts her and the North loves her.”

Richard saw Myles stare at Brandon, his eyebrows raised as his surprise registered across his face.  Richard was certain his face was not much different.  It was incredibly rare to see a daughter left in charge of a Great House when the Heir was present.  Even more rare for a young woman of noble birth to sentence a man to death.

Though perhaps it shouldn’t surprise them - the North was proving to be quite a different place from the South.

Brandon shrugged, noting their surprise, “She almost did the whole thing herself.  No Northerner would have questioned it.  Lyanna is as Northern as we get up here,” he started laughing, clearly remembering some memory of his sister, “In fact, Father used to call her a wildling when we were younger.”

Brandon proceeded to launch into a series of tales describing the many antics of the Stark siblings growing up in Winterfell.  Most stories were from Brandon’s visits home during his years at Barrowtown, and it was clear Brandon had managed to maintain a strong connection to his family despite the time away.

Not every squire was so lucky.  Richard’s privileged spot as the Crown Prince’s squire had meant more than four years of absence from his own home in the southern Stormlands, adding to the years spent at Blackhaven as a page.  He had barely even gotten a chance to write to his family after receiving his knighthood.

Some of Brandon’s stories spanned the years before fostering though, when Lyanna and the youngest Stark, Benjen, were toddlers.

“Father used to jokingly ask Mother if she had been stolen the night of Lyanna’s conception by a wildling, for even as a little girl  she was a terror.  I swear shel must have scars all over from the mischief she used to get into.” Brandon’s laugh boomed out again, “How Father was ever surprised that she wanted to train with a sword is beyond me - she pestered me for lessons for years before she ever formally asked!”

Brandon moved on to stories about Barrowtown and other parts of the North before Richard or Myles could ask more about Lyanna, though he intermixed questions about their time squiring and the adventures they had with the Prince.  After finishing their drinks, they made their way up to Winterfell on horseback, entering the castle through the main gate.

Winterfell was a huge complex, spanning several acres and protected by massive walls.  Just from the main space the entrance opened into, Richard could sense the immensity of the place.  He and Myles took in the sight of the Stark stronghold as Brandon chatted with a guardsman, inquiring about his sister’s whereabouts.

And then Richard saw two wolves the size of small horses prowling at the other end of the yard.

No wolf is that size in real life.

He hit Myles to get his attention and they both gaped for a moment as a man, who looked to be the kennel master, approached the wolves with a massive haunch of raw meat in each hand.

“Ah, the direwolves,” Brandon’s voice sounded to Richard’s left, “the symbol of our House, in the flesh.  Lyanna found them a few years ago when all of us were off fostering, and she’s raised them herself.  Nymeria’s the black one, Torrhen the grey.”

The direwolves were in the process of tearing the raw meat apart, their sharp teeth and strong jaws making quick work.

“They are incredibly smart - they can be vicious, of course, but they’re relatively harmless if they know you are a friend.”

Both Richard and Myles turned to stare at Brandon, the implicit suggestion of what the direwolves would do if they thought one was a foe hanging in the air.  But the Northman wasn’t paying attention to them, as he yelled in the direction of the kitchens.

“Lyanna!”

A young woman standing by the entrance to the kitchens turned around as Brandon dismounted his horse.  Richard and Myles followed suit as Brandon waved her over. The Heir to Winterfell was momentarily occupied as he instructed the stableboy to tend to their horses, which gave Richard and Myles time to fully appreciate the only daughter of Lord Rickard Stark as she crossed the distance towards them.

Though he and Myles had seen the girl from a distance a few times, riding in and out of Wintertown, they’d never been close enough to get a true sense of her looks beyond the fact that she shared her brothers’ dark brown curls.

But as she walked across the courtyard, they could see clearly that Lyanna Stark was beautiful, with snow-white skin, delicate features, and lively grey eyes, framed by long dark hair curling into natural waves.  She was dressed practically in a pale grey wool dress, similar to those worn by all the women of the North, and a black fur-lined cloak.  Petite, she moved languidly with a natural grace, stalking towards them.     

Simple, pure, wild beauty.

So this is what Lord Stark has been hiding at Winterfell.  No wonder Brandon was so protective.

Lyanna was still a few yards away when Brandon spoke.

“Do we have any available rooms prepared for guests?”

“Available rooms?” Lyanna frowned, turning to examine Richard and Myles as she approached, “For whom?”

Richard stepped forward to bow, motioning for Myles to do so as well, “I am Ser Richard Lonmouth and this is Ser Myles Mooton, my Lady.”

She raised her eyebrows questioningly, “I was unaware we were to receive noble guests.”

Richard was about to apologize for the lack of notice when Brandon chuckled, “I found them staying in Wintertown, said they’re on some business for the Crown Prince.”

Lyanna frowned at Brandon’s words, but Brandon continued before she could ask for clarification.

“I told them they should have stayed at Winterfell from the beginning, but I suppose they were scared of the she-wolf running the castle. Now that I’m in residence, they feel safe enough - you can be frightening at times, Lya.”

While Brandon’s voice remained light and joking, his words seemed to have the opposite effect on his sister. Her face twisted, her voice lowered in anger, “Bran, you should have told me you had invited them up here.  You are more than capable of arranging such things, and I don’t have time to deal with last minute arrivals.”

"Lya,” Brandon’s voice grew plaintive, “you know you're better at this than I am. That's why Father leaves you as the Stark in Winterfell. It really is a shame you aren't the heir."

Apparently, this was enough to set her anger off.

"Yes, it is. It must be nice gallivanting around,” the sarcasm was practically dripping from her mouth as she spoke, “while I hear petitions from bannermen asking where dear Lord Brandon is.”

She stepped closer to Brandon, dropping her voice to a near whisper.  Richard had to strain to hear her words as she continued, her eyes blazing, “Do you know how lucky you are that I was the one taking petitions today, not Father? Or perhaps you’d like him to meet the adorable baby girl that was presented to me in his solar this morning, fine dark brown curls and blue-grey Stark eyes gazing at me? Perfect timing, ten moons after your last visit, with a pretty peasant girl wanting to name her daughter after Milord Brandon’s little wolf sister."

Brandon blanched but she pressed on, her voice low and dangerous, "Fret not, dearest brother, I’ve arranged to patch up your little indiscretion, though in the future, please do not speak to your conquests about me while you dishonor our family.  And don’t worry, I'll see to some rooms for your friends and I'll be silent about you shirking your duty, but I expect something in return."

"I didn't doubt you would for one moment, sweet sister."

Lya scoffed, her voice still low, "I'm the furthest thing from sweet, Bran. I expect you to support my wish for a fortnight at Queensgate." She paused, glancing around as if to check for any unwanted ears. "Alone. No guards. Just Nymeria and I."

At that, all the blood drained from Brandon's face.

"Father will never agree."

"Only if he finds out. We will write to him together, explaining my desire to go on a hunting trip for my nameday in a few days, leaving Winterfell in your capable hands.  As you so aptly put it yesterday,” she practically spit the next words in his face, “it’s your birthright.  Everyone already expects you to take on the role and you’re the only one Walys will allow, the bloody idiot.  In any case, I shall be there and back before Father returns, if he maintains the schedule he describes in his letters."

Brandon looked to be contemplating the situation before him.

Richard, too, tried to process what he and Myles had just witnessed.  Clearly, Brandon had managed to get a bastard on some common girl, and Lyanna had dealt with the issue.  But now it seemed she was using the incident to her advantage. While Richard didn’t know where exactly Queensgate was, a noblewoman running around the North in the middle of winter with only a direwolf seemed highly unusual.  That she would blackmail her older brother into allowing such an arrangement seemed downright preposterous.  Nonetheless, the confrontation was both unpredictable and amusing, a window into the relationship between the two spirited Stark siblings.

This girl is a fierce one, as wild as Brandon, but not in the uncouth way court gossip made it seem.

Somewhat surprisingly, the situation also sent a pang of guilt and sadness through Richard.  He barely knew his younger sister, who had been born during his time with Lord Dondarrion at Blackhaven.  Richard had gone home only three times since her birth eight years ago.  He realized in that moment that Myles was more of a sibling than his birth sister, and that he would never have the same close family relationship the Starks had.

Brandon seemed to have come to a conclusion, as he found his voice again, "Fine, but you'll obviously run the keep until you depart and once you return. It's that or guards of my choosing to Mole's Town."

All Lyanna did in response was shrug, "I always planned to – Father did leave me in charge after all.  But you're a greater fool than I thought if you believe this will get any easier for you in time."

Then she turned to Richard and Myles, who Brandon seemed to have forgotten were there to witness the scene. Dropping into a shallow curtsy, her voice adopted a sweet tone that hinted at sarcasm. "My apologies good sers for the scene. I will be sure to have rooms arranged as soon as possible and have your belongings brought up from the Smoking Log. In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable in the Great Hall - I'm sure Brandon will be more than capable in entertaining you."

With that, she turned away, her wool skirts flouncing.

Brandon flashed a cheeky smile to Myles and Richard, “And that, good sers, is my sweet little sister, Lyanna.”

Waving them in a different direction, Brandon led them to the Great Hall, depositing them at a large table.  He promptly disappeared, telling them he’d be back shortly with some ale and food.

Myles turned to him as soon as Brandon was out of earshot, “Well, she certainly is something else.”

“Aye, she is,” Richard whispered as a smile crept across his face, “I think Rhaegar will like her.”

The Prince does love a challenge.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

The sun was setting to the West, a golden glow shining off of the Wall.  After moons of gradients of grey and white, surrounded by men in all black, this was a revelation. The North already buzzed with a natural energy – one could even go so far as to say an organic magic thrummed through the vast landscapes. With sunlight bathing the endless swells of snow to the south and the magnificent ice of the Wall to the north, everything seemed ethereal.  The sight of the ruins of Queensgate only added to the mystique, as the long dark shadows contrasted sharply with the final rays of gleaming light feathering the edges of the ruins.

Pulling on the reins, Rhaegar paused.  He felt as though he were on the edge of a dream, about to wake up and find it wasn’t real.  Light and heavy, he was standing on the precipice. It reminded him of the first time, roughly two moons ago, when he’d first stood at the edge of the Wall looking out into the Land Beyond the Wall - an awe-inspiring experience, powerful and beautiful, but laden with something akin to fate.  His thoughts started wandering back to the reason for this excursion, tales of a long-forgotten enemy and images of a war for humanity swirling around his head.

This journey to Queensgate had been suggested by Maester Aemon after a particularly grueling week of study, during which they had found several incomplete texts pertaining to a tale from Asshai with a shocking number of parallels to the prophecy that had haunted him since childhood.  Queensgate was the closest abandoned castle along the Wall to the west of Castle Black; it carried Targaryen history as the castle named in honor of Queen Alysanne's visit years ago.  Aemon had thought a few days of quiet, removed from the temptation of books and scrolls, would do Rhaegar some good.

The sun finally dipped below a mountain peak and light began to fade, shadows chasing away the golden beams.  Taking a deep breath to refocus his clouded mind, Rhaegar gently nudged his horse, knowing Arthur and Oswell would follow.

They fell into silence following the brief pause, navigating the heavier snowdrifts in peace.  It had been a quick but tiring ride from Castle Black, without a road to follow between the outposts. As they approached the ruins of the once occupied keep, he took in the state of disrepair with a touch of sadness.  Not only because the keep renamed in honor his Targaryen ancestor had been abandoned and neglected, but also for the uncomfortable fact it revealed – the Wall was severely undermanned.  They couldn’t possibly be prepared to repel wildlings for much longer in this state.

So lost in thought was he that the touch of Arthur’s gloved hand to his shoulder startled him.  Before he could voice his question, he saw Arthur’s concerned face, following his outstretched hand that pointed to one of the remaining towers.  From the window of the third floor, one could just barely make out steady puff of smoke, the light of the fire almost too dim in the fading daylight.

Uncle Aemon said the castle has been abandoned for years.  How could there be anyone there?

Signs of life in what was supposed to be an abandoned fortress warranted care.

Dusk had fallen as they cautiously moved through the ruins. Entering the snow-covered courtyard silently while keeping to the shadows, Rhaegar signaled to Oswell to stay with the horses in the remains of what must have been the stables. He quickly noted the grey charger nestled into one corner, a smaller dark palfrey tucked behind her.  Though covered in shadows and heavy blankets, the horses were well-bred and well taken care of.

He felt rather than saw Arthur draw a small dagger as they approached the small tower – they had known each other for years, training side-by-side till the point of exhaustion. Trusting the man came naturally.

The gods must have been feeling merciful, as the outer door to the tower opened with nary a creak. Rhaegar glanced at Arthur, unsheathing his own dagger as his friend nodded to the stairs across the small entry. The lower chamber was empty but for a large pile of wood to one side and a few straw bed pallets.

Making their way across the room, they began ascending the stairs blanketed in darkness, with only slivers of emerging moonlight illuminating the tight space. They had just passed the first floor, leaving another empty chamber bathed in flickering moonlight, when he saw the familiar golden glow of a fire lighting the steps ahead.

So caught up in the silence, he flinched and almost missed a step when a growl followed by an exasperated sigh sounded out from the room above. He felt Arthur tense at his back as he gripped the knife tighter in his hand.

He took another step only to pause again as a husky, but decidedly female, voice rang clear through the silence.

"Nymeria, will you stop fidgeting, I'm trying to clean it!"

There was a yelp followed by a deep growl, akin to a hound’s but with an edge like iron. Something in the sound sent a small shiver through him. Then the girl's voice spoke again.

"That should do. You should have waited for me to reach the clearing before attacking." The voice chuckled again, a simple but relaxed sound as there was another growl. "I suppose I understand Father's lectures on patience a tad better now.  You can stop growling now, I’m all done."

Rhaegar shot a quick glance back at Arthur - another two steps would put them in the room with its mystery inhabitants. He turned back, tensing as he took another step. He could see into half of the room now, noting saddlebags and a straw pallet piled with furs. Slabs of meat sat to the side, blood staining the straw and floor. He could just barely see the small fire in the middle of the room, with shadows skirting the edge of his vision. Taking a deep breath in, he took another silent step into the room.

The floorboard creaked.

A flurry of movement followed, as his body took over. A loud growl, the scrape of claws on stone, the sound of a bowstring pulling taut. Arthur's comfortable presence sliding just slightly in front of him as they both tensed, ready.

Just as suddenly, everything stilled, allowing his mind to catch up and take in the situation.

Danger emanated from the pair on the other side of the room: an enormous black wolf still seated but baring its sharp teeth, body ready for attack, next to a woman-child with an arrow drawn on her raised bow.  Two sets of dark eyes greeted them, the light of the fire reflecting off their steely gaze. And while the gaze of the giant wolf spoke of aggression and hunger, it was the harsh calm he saw in the girl that was disconcerting. Despite the surprise of their entrance, he saw no fear.

Shockingly, or perhaps not, the woman-child was the one to break the silence.

"Who are you?" She ground out, the icy words slicing through the air.

Rhaegar paused, thinking about the best approach to the simple question.  Under normal circumstances, he would simply tell the truth, knowing that his title and Arthur's reputation would bring the average person to heel. Given the present situation, he found himself doubting the efficacy of such an approach.

Choosing to remain silent and test the waters, he glanced at Arthur briefly before turning back to the woman-child, lowering his weapon slightly while bringing his empty hand up in a peaceful gesture. He felt Arthur relax a touch, though he knew his friend was still poised for an attack.

Clearly the girl wanted a real answer, as she pulled the arrow back another inch, aiming straight for his unarmored chest. Her face remained emotionless, her body relaxed.

That arrow could punch straight through my chest. And she knows it.

As if reading his mind, the girl's mouth twisted into a smirk.

"You really shouldn't test me. It'd be a shame to ruin such a fine body over such a simple question."

Arthur tensed at the threat, prompting Rhaegar to reach out a hand to encourage the knight to stand down. He hoped the shadows aided him in the lies he was about to tell.

"We are landless knights from the South. We heard rumors of increased wildling attacks along the Wall and figured we'd take it upon ourselves to help protect the greatest part of the Seven Kingdoms. What knight doesn't wish for wild adventures in the snow?"

The girl scoffed, but lowered her bow.

"If you're landless knights, then I'm the Maiden herself.  That flowery court speech will get you nothing but trouble here."

For a second, Rhaegar thought she knew who they were as she stared at him, as if measuring whether to press him further on what was clearly a lie. And then in one graceful movement, she sat down and removed the arrow from her bow, replacing it in a quiver to her left. The bow she rested next to her.  She then turned to the giant wolf at her side, and spoke in a soothing whisper that still carried across the room. "Nym, settle down. We have more than enough to share with these poor Southrons who seem to have lost their way."

Watching the girl talk to her companion, it quickly dawned on Rhaegar that no wolf could possibly be that large – but this was the North, and suddenly Uncle Aemon’s musings about the rumored return of direwolves came roaring back.

A direwolf, in the flesh.  If only I could bring dragons back too...

The direwolf seemed to accept its companion’s explanation, curling up next to the girl with its head resting on its paws. However, its eyes never left them.

"Since you clearly deem it necessary to remain vague, I’m sure you will be amenable to the same on my part. You're lucky that Nymeria took down an elk on our way here, we don't normally entertain such proper guests."

As the girl paused, closing her eyes as her face scrunched up in concentration, Rhaegar chanced another glance at Arthur, reading confusion at the rapid change in demeanor, and almost charming language, exhibited by their host.  He was certain his own face reflected a similar sentiment.

After a brief moment, the girl’s face relaxed completely, prompting a low growl from the wolf.  She looked as if she’d gone to sleep in an instant.

But then the girl's eyes snapped open and she looked back at them, her eyes roaming over their figures. She gazed at Arthur as she spoke again.

"You can inform your friend below that the feed is in the second barrel behind him. Though he should be careful around Silver, she can be a tad temperamental." Rhaegar heard Arthur’s quick inhale, the only sign of his shock at her knowledge of Oswell. "The palfrey is mine as well, so you don’t have to worry about anybody else - I had quite hoped to be rid of men, but I suppose dreams are designed to be dashed.” She smiled cheekily at that, before continuing, “As I'm sure you saw, there are pallets downstairs that you can bring up, though you shall have to use your own furs.  There should be more than enough space around the fire."

She then turned to Rhaegar, and he could have sworn that he saw a flash of that smirk cross her face again.  "I'm sure you're all hungry from your tremendously long journey from the South. Bring one of those big pieces over, might as well make some tonight."

At that, she turned away from them, moving to stroke the fine fur of her companion as she grabbed supplies from a pack, murmuring a few unintelligible words.

Though not familiar with the feeling, Rhaegar understood an order when he heard one. Shrugging to Arthur, he moved towards the pile of straw where the slabs of elk were stacked, grabbing one of the larger pieces.  It was already dark, so they didn’t really have the option of not trusting the girl.  He didn’t think she had recognized them, so the only real threat was her killing them as they slept, and one of them would surely be on watch.

When he straightened, he saw that Arthur had left, presumably to speak with Oswell. Pausing to listen, he heard his fading footsteps down the stairs.

He approached the fire, noticing the direwolf watching him warily. The girl seemed indifferent, her face a mask. He paused for a second, trying to determine where he should leave the slab of raw meat. The wolf growled and his eyes shifted back to the animal.

"Here, I'll take it," offered the girl as she raised a small hand.  She took the meat from him, gesturing for him to sit as she pulled out a small knife and began examining the meat.  He couldn't help but watch in fascination as she efficiently carved pieces of elk, placing them in a shallow tin pan that was balanced over top of the fire. Her efficient movements with a knife brought to mind the image of her standing with her bow in hand, arrow poised for release.

Who is this girl?  And what is she doing in an abandoned castle on the Wall?

With light limited to the glow of the fire, it was hard to tell much by looking at her. Dark hair falling out of a long braid, a heavy cloak covering much of her figure, only revealing dark breeches and sturdy black boots. Dirt dusted her face and hands, a testimony to her own recent arrival. Despite her smaller frame suggesting a child, she looked older when sitting, perhaps just past her majority.

Her mention of the Maiden betrayed knowledge of the Seven, which weren’t even the Gods worshiped in the North, indicating she had at the least a basic formal education – maybe a lesser noble house?  Yet no Lord, even of a lower rank, would permit his daughter to venture alone to the Wall in the middle of winter, no matter how proficient she was with a bow.  Her actions and blunt manner of speech certainly didn’t match with any noblewoman he’d ever met.

Nay, this girl seemed more than half wild.

Suddenly, she looked up and he was staring into her eyes, getting lost in pools of grey. For a second, he forgot to breathe.

Then the moment was over, as she raised her arm and threw the small knife she had been using across the room, where it landed in the wooden frame of the doorway, less than a hand from Oswell's head. A crash sounded as Oswell dropped the wood he had been carrying, going to pull his own knife before a wave of unrestrained joyful laughter burst into the air. Rhaegar whipped his head back to the girl as she continued in her mirth, her head tilted back as she laughed.

Rising quickly to help Oswell, he noticed the man letting out a strained chuckle as he stooped to pick up the wood. The girl had quieted by the time they moved the wood to the small pile in one of the corners, and Arthur had returned with their saddlebags. He bore a neutral mask on his face though his eyes betrayed his curiosity.

"Don't worry Ser," the girl began, addressing Oswell. "If I had wanted to hit you, the knife wouldn't have lodged in the doorway.  It's good to see your reflexes are quick." At that, she flashed Oswell a pretty grin, her eyes crinkling with amusement. If his heart hadn’t still been residing in his throat, Rhaegar was sure he would find the smile endearing.

Oswell, bless the man's dark humor, found the situation amusing, as he chuckled again and dropped to sit down an arms length from the direwolf.

"Should have known it would be a wild Northern girl to fall in love with me at first sight."

Arthur scoffed, speaking for the first time. "If only every girl showed their affection so overtly."

The tension eased, as the girl returned to adjusting the tin pan over the flames of the fire, the smell of fresh elk filling the room.

Rhaegar raised a questioning eyebrow as the three men exchanged a look. Arthur shrugged and set about pulling out some of the provisions they had brought from Castle Black, while Oswell gave a devilish grin before turning to watch the direwolf and the cooking girl. Rhaegar sighed, wondering how he managed to befriend men with such strange senses of humor.  He rolled back his shoulders before stalking to the window to look over the remains of the Queensgate castle.  Dark clouds were rolling in across an already dark sky, signifying more snow was on its way.

He could hear Oswell questioning the girl on the direwolf, her answers short but sufficient.  The conversation only peaked Arthur’s interest when she mentioned the pet’s name was Nymeria, after the warrior queen of Dorne, Arthur’s home country.

His mind followed bits and pieces of the conversation as he watched the clouds move towards them, his mood darkening with the sky.  Somehow, the girl managed to get both men telling stories of Dorne.  While he trusted Oswell and Arthur not to not provide too many hints as to their identities, he was modestly impressed that the girl had guided them to topics outside of herself.

Clever. She doesn’t want us to know much about her either.

Lightning flashed in the distance as the girl muttered something about brooding being poor for one’s health, causing both of his friends to laugh.

Thunder sounded in the distance and the direwolf let out a howl.

So much for seeking peace and quiet.

Lyanna

Bran would die if he knew about this.

The thought made her smile.

I ought to tell him. Nothing like the sleep of the dead to stop the bloody fool from dishonoring the family. No more bastard children would show up if he were dead.

Alas, Bran was the one who understood her best. Yes, Benjen was her partner in crime - only a year apart, with both older brothers sent away to foster for so many years, how could they not be.  But it was Bran who knew her on a fundamental level.

He was also the one who had introduced her to Queensgate, back on her ninth nameday when they had snuck out of Castle Black during one of Father’s visits.  They’d been found after three days and Father had been furious, ranting about how they would get themselves killed and punishing them with no riding for a fortnight.  Nevertheless, still giddy from their adventure and quite pleased with their ability to survive for three days alone, the two of them had whispered and giggled the whole ride back to Winterfell.  They vowed to come back, though only Lyanna was ever able to fulfill this vow.  The place always reminded her of Bran, especially the first few times she returned – it helped ease the edge of his absence and took her mind off of her ever-expanding responsibilities at home.

It had taken much cajoling, but Father had finally allowed it, as long as she brought a sufficient number of guards.  Since the Night’s Watch had long abandoned the castle, Father had cleared her ability to make small restorations with the Lord Commander, and in this regard, the guards were incredibly useful.   

During the last summer, Lyanna had made the journey thrice, spending more than two moons restoring the main tower and other parts of the broken down keep.

Since winter had returned, she had managed to convince the guards, all four of whom were comfortable with the harsh riding pace she set, to remain in Mole’s Town for the duration of her stays.  They were far easier to convince than Father – what man wouldn’t prefer an inn bed with a whore to a straw pallet in a half-destroyed castle.

Seven years later, this was the first time she’d escaped with no guards at all.  It felt fitting to celebrate reaching her majority here, alone.  A little rebellion, a taste of freedom before the life of duty she was about to live, dominated by men.

So, of course, this also happened to be the first time she had ever encountered anyone else in the keep besides herself or her guards.  

The Gods must be getting a laugh out of this – I finally escape alone as if there is no danger, and strange and dangerous men just happen to arrive my first night.

These men weren’t too bad, to be fair.  Obviously they had given fake names, though she had expected nothing less.  The big one with the plain face, going by Walt, seemed like a good fellow and Nymeria liked him – he had a dark sense of humor and was much quicker to laugh than his companions.

The other two were more difficult to read.  Both were objectively attractive with serious faces, though the one with the short blonde hair was easier to engage. Maron, as he’d named himself, was clearly trying to hide the beautiful greatsword Lyanna had noticed strapped across his back.  Lyanna would take a well-crafted weapon over a thousand pieces of jewelry any day, and since she’d snuck into the blacksmith’s more times than she could count – she knew a rare weapon when she saw one.

The third man was the most difficult.  Unlike Maron, who was traditionally handsome, Jay could be called beautiful, with his striking features and black hair. In the light of the fire, she could see thin strands of grey in his hair and his eyes were almost black – if they had any color to them, she couldn’t see in the darkness.  His demeanor added to his mystique, a sadness shining in his eyes, his stiff posture weighed down by a heaviness she couldn’t understand.

He seemed to be the leader of their little group, and largely remained removed from their conversation.  Lyanna didn’t mind, the other two were amusing enough.  If he wanted to be aloof, it was no concern of hers.

Overall, she wasn’t displeased the men had shown up.  Lyanna had always preferred the company of men, though she had never really had many female companions to begin with.  Other than her two handmaidens, her old nurse Old Nan and Sella, Lyanna spent most of her time with men.  After the disastrous experience with that awful Southron widow, Father had given up on the idea of crafting her into the perfect Court Lady.  Lyanna knew dancing and ladies’ arts well enough - her high energy was just much better suited to riding and weapons training.  Moreover, there was something simpler about male companionship, their minds generally focused singularly on weapons and war, and the occasional woman.

Her new companions were veritable proof of this, at least Walt and Maron - Jay had barely spoken since their initial interaction.  The evening passed easily as she pressed the two knights for stories of the South, particularly about Dorne.  Lyanna had always enjoyed hearing about the Dornish, where women were considered equals to men.  She had even named Nymeria after the great Dornish queen who had conquered Dorne and founded the Martell line. There had been times Lyanna had even dreamed of running off to Dorne.

She thought Maron, with his slightly tanned skin, might be part Dornish, but since she’d never seen a Dornish man, she had no point of reference.

Eventually, fatigue began pulling her towards her furs.  Brandon had only given her a fortnight away; she couldn’t afford to spend a full week on the road, so she’d ridden hard for four days to get to Queensgate from Winterfell, sleeping only a few hours each night with periodic breaks during the day.  She had even brought her palfrey along in addition to Silverwing, in order to alternate horses, both giving Silverwing longer rests and making better time.

The ride today had taken longer than expected after Nymeria had killed the elk. While Lyanna was grateful for the fresh meat, it had meant taking the time to at least partially break down the beast, to salvage as much as she could carry.  Nymeria had also sustained a long but shallow cut on her front leg, likely from the elk’s antler, slowing their progress.

It had also been the first time she’d purposefully moved into Silverwing’s mind, an impulsive attempt in the frenzy of the men’s surprise appearance to determine if there were more of them. Slipping into her animals’ minds had been happening for some time without her control, primarily with Nymeria in her dreams, but Lyanna hadn’t heard anything else from Maester Aemon on the dreams.  She refused to be scared of the ability anymore, though despite lasting no more than a second, the action had sucked away any remaining energy she had.

At the soonest break in conversation, she stoked the fire before sliding back to her furs, removing her boots and pulling out an extra pair of socks.

Understanding the implicit suggestion that she was planning to retire, Walt moved to set up their pallets while Maron looked to be preparing for a watch.  Jay remained at the window, where he had spent much of the evening, watching the snow as it started to fall.  He was so still, had his eyes not been open, Lyanna would have thought he was asleep.

How can he just stand there for so long?  Doesn’t he get tired or bored?

Shrugging, she turned back to Maron, “You don’t have to stand watch, you know.”

At this, all three men turned to her curiously, though it was Maron who responded.

“What do you mean?”

She chuckled, “You do know there is an ice wall about seven hundred feet tall right next to us?  Or are you worried about attacks from south?”

Walt was the one to follow up this time, “What about wildlings?”

She scoffed, “They’d be idiots to scale the Wall in the middle of this storm.  It’s dangerous enough as it is without the howling wind and horrible visibility.  In any case, they’re unlikely to scale it this close to Castle Black - there are plenty of other abandoned keeps between here and the Shadow Tower.”

The men looked at her curiously and she realized she’d revealed quite a bit of knowledge of the Wall’s defenses.  More than the average person might know.

To throw them off, she smirked, “The free folk aren’t stupid, despite what kneelers say.”

Lyanna had once spent a few afternoons with a wildling woman who was being held at Winterfell after being captured south of the Wall, so she knew enough about their figures of speech and beliefs to fool the average man.  These Southrons would likely not know what to think.  The idea of being confused with a wildling was oddly pleasing.

Before they could question her further, she decided to put any ideas of standing watch to rest.

“Besides, Nymeria will stand watch.  Her senses are not only better than yours, but she doesn’t have all those,” she waved at the heavy cloaks the men were wearing, “extra layers of fur to bog her down.  You could be the best knights in the blood Seven Kingdoms and she’d beat you in a heartbeat.”

She smiled cheekily at Maron, who seemed to be about to about to protest, “Even with that pretty greatsword you’re trying to hide.”

The room was silent for a moment, though Lyanna didn’t understand the tension.  She was giving them the chance to sleep.  Were they that worried she would kill them in their sleep?

Maron decided to agree, either hoping to avoid a confrontation or accepting what she said.  The tension eased somewhat as she smiled.

“Look at it this way, you have a few days of rest before you go to find, what was it, “wild adventures in the snow”?”

Walt chuckled at her reference while Maron just glanced at Jay.  The silent man just looked at her with a neutral mask, his eyes boring into her.  She shot him an innocent smile before she nestled into her furs, allowing Nymeria to curl up around her back, the direwolf’s eyes focused on the door.

She heard the men speaking in low voices as they shifted around, but she trusted Nymeria.  And for some reason, she felt at ease with the men - something else Bran would obviously find appalling.

Sleeping in an abandoned castle with three unknown Southron men.  My, what a scandal that would create.

Smiling, with images of riding through the fresh snow at dawn flashing through her mind, Lyanna settled into sleep, her dreams mercifully harmless.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Arthur woke up to grey post-dawn light streaming into the room, illuminating the smouldering fire and the two sleeping figures to his left.

The pallet on his right was empty, the girl’s furs piled haphazardly.

She was gone.

He sat up, glancing around the room for signs of their mysterious host or her large direwolf.

The girl’s packs remained, the only indication that she was, in fact, real and hadn’t left completely.

The fact that she had left that morning without waking any of them was disconcerting.  Arthur was not used to having potential threats slide past him unnoticed, and he wasn’t sure whether the girl wasn’t in fact a threat.

She’d certainly seemed dangerous enough the night before, with an arrow aimed straight at the Crown Prince’s chest.

Wouldn’t that be ironic - if, despite the presence of two Kingsguard, Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, died by an arrow to the chest from some unknown Northern girl, in an abandoned castle on the Wall.

That thought ensured he wouldn’t find sleep again, so he stood to grab a few more pieces of wood for the fire, slowly stoking it back to life.  As he was working, he glanced over at his best friend.

Arthur had known Rhaegar for more than ten years, since they were boys, and the Prince had never been a good sleeper.  Initially it was books that kept him up, reading late into the night.  Then it had been his responsibilities as Crown Prince.

Since Duskendale, those duties had multiplied as Rhaegar took on those issues Aerys deemed beneath the King.  Rhaegar was one of the only people capable of walking Aerys back from his moments of madness, though even he failed more often than not.

Arthur saw the way those moments of failure weighed upon Rhaegar’s soul, with every ‘criminal’ that burned on King Aerys’ pyre of wildfire.

All of that meant that Rhaegar hardly slept more than a few hours each night.  Even the trip north hadn’t provided the Prince with an escape.

Finally seeing Rhaegar sleeping peacefully on the floor of the abandoned Queensgate tower, Arthur was silently thankful to Maester Aemon for forcing Rhaegar to take a break from the scrolls which lay in the crypts of Castle Black.  The Prince needed the rest.

All of them knew this sojourn in the North wouldn’t last much longer, and while no one was looking forward to returning to the hellhole that was King’s Landing, Rhaegar carried the greatest burden.

Aerys’ whispers about his treasonous son planning to unseat him were no longer far from the truth.

We’ve only delayed the inevitable with this trip.  The guilt will consume Rhaegar if we don’t make a move soon.

The fire quietly burning once more, Arthur moved to the window, not wishing to disturb either of his friends.

It had snowed during the night and the ruins of the inner castle were cloaked in a fresh layer of pristine white powder.  He could faintly make out the tracks the girl must have left when she rode out.

If Arthur made only the slightest adjustment in his imagination, the snow could very well be the endless sand of Dorne, dunes spanning the distance to the Red Mountains.  Instead of the cold shimmer of icy moisture, Arthur could see the roiling heat glimmer off of the earth.  It had been a long time since he’d seen the sloping deserts of Dorne, even longer since he’d visited Starfall, the ancestral home of the Dayne family.  

As he stared out into the snowy expanse, dreaming of his childhood home at the mouth of the Torentine, his mind drifted to his sister Ashara, who he had left in King’s Landing.  

Having his sister in King’s Landing had been a mixed blessing - he loved Ashara and enjoyed having her close, but Court was not a safe place for a young maiden.  Not that Ashara was some innocent.  Quite the opposite, to Arthur’s chagrin.  In fact, Ashara had taken to Court like a fish to water, swimming easily through the various courtiers and quickly establishing herself as a quick learner and perceptive player in the game that was Court life.

In spite of his assurance that Ashara could take care of herself, it still made Arthur uncomfortable to see the way men stared at her, lusted after her body and sought to use her for their pleasure.  And she was wilful, laughing at his stress and worry.  

Between her and Rhaegar, he swore those closest to him were determined to send him to an early grave.

Perhaps they were in on it together.  After all, both of them could be devious - Ashara more overtly so, but it was one of Rhaegar’s hidden talents, a wily mind which could play politics with a calm cruelty.  Though an infrequent occurrence, it was one of the more unsettling sides of Rhaegar, a trait developed due to a life at Court with a man like Aerys Targaryen as a father.

The declining mental stability of the King had an effect on all around him, none more than his closest family.  Though Arthur knew Rhaella was stronger than she let on, she nonetheless withered in Aerys’ presence, and Rhaegar was either wracked by guilt and responsibility or descending into his own personal madness.  The damn prophecy was as much an escape from reality for the Prince as anything else.

Aerys Targaryen even made Arthur question his morals and duty.

Aerys’ sanity had an impact on many of the Kingsguard.  They were sworn to protect him, to stand by his decisions and to do as he bid without question.  But how does one reconcile one’s commitment as a knight to honor and protection of the weak when one’s duty requires passive, or even active, participation in atrocities?

Arthur had never questioned his commitment to the Kingsguard.  As the second son of House Dayne who had taken to the sword as soon as he could walk, Arthur had found purpose serving the royal family.  With his best friend set to be King one day, accepting a spot in the revered Kingsguard had been a natural fit.  That he was virtually regarded as Rhaegar’s personal Kingsguard granted him the gift of spending his days guarding the man he considered his brother.

He had been granted the legendary title carried by exceptional swordsmen of House Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, with whispers saying he was the greatest swordsman of the time.  They spoke of his purity, of his integrity, of his greatness.

Yet he could not protect the Queen from her husband, nor save the innocents from the pyre.

He could train everyday and still fail to protect Rhaegar one day.  He was only a man.

A grand title.  An achievement.  A burden.

The floorboard outside of the door creaked, just as it had last night upon their arrival, fracturing his thoughts.  He tensed, aware of the fact that it would take a few steps to move to protect the Prince.  He glanced over, expecting the Northern girl to waltz in.

Instead, it was her black direwolf that made its way within.

Nymeria, he recalled, for the Dornish warrior queen.

Not surprising for a wild girl who wields bow and arrow like she knows how to kill.  The girl clearly drew inspiration from the legendary Dornish woman.

The direwolf padded into the room to settle onto the girl’s pallet, her eye’s never leaving Arthur’s figure.

Something in the direwolf’s eyes seemed human, too knowledgeable for his comfort.

They reminded him of the girl’s sharp eyes which seemed to notice far too much.  She’d noticed Dawn, the Dayne ancestral sword granted to those deemed worth of the Sword of the Morning title, though she had thankfully yet to recognize it by name.  She’d also clearly realized he and Oswell served Rhaegar in some capacity.

She catches quite a lot, that damn girl.

She had asked for their "fake names," knowing they wouldn’t give their real ones.  And she had been delighted by the prospect of simply going by “girl,” though she didn’t explain why.  It was easy enough, ambiguous, so they had accepted it.

Oswell seemed to have warmed up to her quickly, sharing veiled japes with dueling morbid senses of humor.  Rhaegar had been neutral, sinking into melancholy shortly upon arrival and barely speaking at all after their initial interaction with the girl.

Arthur was torn. He didn't trust her - her eyes shone with too much mischief for him to trust her - but her quick wit did make for entertaining company. One couldn't deny that she was rather intelligent and knew an awful lot about the North, the Wall, and what lay beyond.

Her education spoke of noble birth, but her actions and appearance spoke to the contrary - Dorne had plenty of strong-willed women, but he couldn’t imagine them running off completely alone, particularly not true-born nobility.   In any case, the only noble house less than a week’s easy ride away was Last Hearth, and last Arthur heard, the only daughter of House Umber had been stolen away by wildlings ten years prior.  Of course the girl’s horses were far too well-bred for a commoner, but if wildlings could steal the daughter of a noble house, they could steal horses.  Her being a wildling would explain her presence in an abandoned castle along the Wall, taking shelter in an area rarely patrolled by the Night’s Watch in the middle of winter.  But something told him that wasn’t the case.

She was a study of contradictions, which ultimately, made her impossible to read.  

Rhaegar stirred awake behind him, stretching before sitting up. Arthur briefly wondered when his friend had last gotten a full night sleep.

The Prince frowned when he noticed that only the direwolf occupied the furs opposite him.

“Where is she?”

Arthur shrugged, turning to glance outside before making his way back to sit next to his friend, “She’s gone - must have ridden out at dawn.”

Rhaegar frowned deeper, “I didn't hear her at all.”

“None of us did.”  

The thought clearly didn’t sit well with the Prince either.  Both Rhaegar and Arthur were remarkably light sleepers when on the road - one by nature and one by trade.  That the girl had left without either of them noticing was highly unusual.

Oswell slept like a rock, though he rarely showed his fatigue when awake.  Perhaps it was a gift, to be able to commit so fully to each activity.

“Well, she must be returning if the direwolf is still here.”

“Aye, and her other horse is still in the stables.”

Rhaegar glanced at the direwolf, which continued to watch them lazily.  She seemed docile enough at the moment.  Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what she might do should she decide they were not friends.

“Do you think she is here to protect us or to keep an eye on us?” asked Arthur curiously.

The Prince shrugged, “It could be both.  We know next to nothing about the girl.  The wolf does seem quite perceptive.  Likely the girl commanded her to remain behind.”  

Arthur nodded, having noted the same thing earlier.  The bond between direwolf and girl seemed remarkably strong. At times last night, it had almost seemed like they moved in sync, a continuation of one another.

As they watched, the direwolf got up gracefully and then moved to lick Oswell’s forehead, waking the man with a start.  Shocked out of sleep, Oswell flailed and grabbed a knife from under his furs, moving into a low crouch, ready for an attack.

But the direwolf was already well out of range.  Arthur could tell he wasn’t the only one to note the impossibly quick movement of the direwolf, despite her size.

Arthur smirked at Oswell, as the direwolf watched them, “Apparently, Nymeria has decided it is time for you to wake up, lazy bones.”

Oswell just laughed as he returned the knife into its sheath.  With the knife away, Nymeria approached him again, sitting next to Oswell and allowing him to pet her.

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows, as he watched, “Looks like you’ve made a friend.”

Oswell smiled while looking at the wolf, “Better to befriend her than make an enemy of her.  Beautiful but dangerous creature…”

“Do you speak of the direwolf or the mistress?” Arthur asked dryly.

Oswell chuckled, “Both frankly.  You both have eyes, I’m sure you could see the girl isn’t plain.  In truth, it’s almost like they are the same person, just in human and wolf form.”

Rhaegar and Arthur both stared at their companion.  Of their friends, Oswell tended to be the least perceptive.  Not for lack of intelligence, he just usually found such things boring.  He was a man of action, not of subtlety.

That he had noted the subtle similarities between girl and direwolf was surprising.

Oswell continued, having pulled on his boots, “You don’t think she knows who we are, do you?”

“No, though I’m not sure how she knew you were with us last night,” Arthur shook his head, turning to Rhaegar, “do you think she knows?”

“No, but sometimes I wish your blasted sword wasn’t so recognizable.”

Oswell chuckled as Arthur smirked, “My apologies, it’s sometimes difficult being so legendary.”

As they broke their fast on oatcakes brought from Castle Black, Arthur decided to broach the key question of the morning, “So, what should we do?  Stay?”

Oswell laughed, “Are you scared of a little girl and her pet wolf?”

“Not at all, I just know the point of this was to find peace and quiet.”

“The girl seems perfectly peaceful to me.”

“My my, Os, have you taken a liking to the little wildling?” Arthur teased back dryly.

“Enough,” came the Prince’s voice, prompting both Kingsguard to turn to him, “seeing as we’ve made it through the night, I see no harm in staying for a few more days.  The keep is in better condition than expected, and the girl will clearly not be a burden seeing as she’s already providing more for us than we are for her.”

“As she said last night,” Oswell recalled, “if she wanted us dead, I think we would be.”

“Apologies,” Arthur drawled, “but I’m not sure that fact comforts me in the slightest.”

“You worry too much, Dayne.  In any case, we’ve spent almost three moons exclusively in the company of men, it could be good to differentiate.”

“Not that this girl acts one bit like a lady…”

Rhaegar sighed at their bickering and moved to stand,  grabbing his sword, “Come on you two, I’ve spent two moons in a library and was almost killed last night by a wild girl who can’t be older than sixteen.  Let’s see if you picked up anything from the Night’s Watch while I drowned in scrolls.”

It took them some time to clear enough snow from the courtyard to spar, and they were all sweating slightly under their furs by the time they were ready.  Arthur realized why Northerners were such fierce warriors - working out made the conditions much more bearable.

Nymeria must have initially mistaken their movements to be playing in the snow, as she jumped through the snow banks around the courtyard.  It was amusing watching the direwolf, which could look so fearsome, prance around playfully.

Eventually, she understood they meant business when Arthur and Rhaegar drew their swords, and the direwolf promptly padded over to the side of the courtyard where she lay down, intelligent eyes watching them.

They took turns alternating, each used to the moves and defenses of the other two.  Arthur and Oswell had spent the last moons training in the snowy courtyard of Castle Black, so they were used to the varying conditions.  Rhaegar, on the other hand, was having to adapt his movement to the unfamiliar surface, accumulating a few more bruises than usual.

Oswell and Rhaegar were in the middle of a spar when Nymeria suddenly stood and bounded towards the entrance of the courtyard to let out a ferocious growl, hackles raised, staring out towards the snowy banks.

Recognizing a defensive stance when he saw one, Arthur moved effortlessly into the space between the entrance and the Prince, unsheathing Dawn in a single motion.  Instinct told him Oswell would cover Rhaegar from any attacks from behind.

In an instant, a flash of gray shot out of the mound of snow at the entrance to the courtyard, flying at the black direwolf. All three men tensed watching the ensuing battle, slightly taken aback by the appearance of yet another direwolf.

So much for the girl’s promise of safety last night…

Growls and yelps filtered into the air as the two beasts rolled in the snow, nipping at each other with paws lashing out.

Temporarily distracted by the seemingly vicious fight between the two huge mythical creatures, Arthur almost missed as another gray shape materialized at full speed.

The girl started laughing as she swung down gracefully, the horse yet to come to a complete halt, her wild hair framing a pale face and steel gray eyes flashing with joy.  She cast a quick nod at the three knights, barely acknowledging their battle-ready stances before striding towards the two direwolves, who continued to roll in the snow - though with significantly less passion than before.

Her laughter died down to a mere chuckle and the girl addressed the combative creatures, "Tor, stop that at once." Her grin grew, as she questioned the gray direwolf sarcastically, "What kind of gentleman are you, to take a lady by surprise?"

In response, the newcomer presumably named Tor, disengaged from Nymeria, letting out a huff of breath that almost seemed a snort.

Seemingly satisfied, the girl walked to pet both animals, proceeding to tell them to rest during the day. When the two wolves turned to pad away towards the tower, the girl walked back to her horse, taking in the defensive stance Arthur and his companions continued to exhibit as she efficiently removed the horse’s saddle.

Arthur felt Oswell relax at his side, though one glance at his friends revealed only one was wearing a smile.  Rhaegar had adopted that unreadable mask he used when he didn’t know how exactly to respond to a situation.

Laughing again, the girl explained loudly as she switched the horse’s saddle with a large blanket, “Tor is Nymeria’s brother – I found them as pups not far from here and have raised them since.  He must not have enjoyed being left behind.  They’re both harmless as long as they don’t feel threatened.”

Arthur didn’t like the implication of that last sentence.

Two bloody direwolves, which haven’t been seen this far south in centuries.  There’s no way this woman could be nobility - the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, they certainly would be the ones to have them, and there hasn’t been a single word about them even being aware of live direwolves.  Brandon Stark certainly would have been bragging about it...

The girl smiled having shooed the beautiful grey horse towards the stables, and then moved to plop down on an old crate and gesturing towards their weapons, “Please, don’t stop on my account – I’m quite curious to see the prowess of Southron knights on display.”

Quickly, Arthur sheathed Dawn, conscious of her eyes watching him.  Though he had settled somewhat on the idea of her being a wildling who chose to stay on this side of the Wall, he didn’t want to risk her recognizing the rare sword.  He’d have to switch over to the plain sword he’d taken to using at Castle Black.

As Oswell and Rhaegar took their places to resume their earlier match, Arthur went back into the tower to grab the other sword.  Upon returning to the courtyard, he took a seat on another overturned crate next to the girl.  She seemed completely enraptured by the movements of his friends, caught in the intricate dance of swordplay.

Now in the grey light of day, with her attention drawn elsewhere, Arthur was able to get a real look at her.

Oswell was right when he said she wasn’t plain.  Her beauty wasn't like that of the Southern court, where women wore gowns of embroidered silk, with plunging necklines and tiny corseted waists. There, women like Rhaella Targaryen reigned supreme through subtle courtly manners, their traditional beauty paraded and lauded with gems and jewels.

No, that was not this girl. With her long face and high cheekbones framed by strands of wavy dark hair that had escaped her long braid, she was quite beautiful, in an icy and wild way.  Harsher lines, starker contrasts.  Like the rest of the North.  

He’d never met a wildling, but this girl certainly seemed close enough to his mind’s image of one, with her dirty furs and well-worn winter clothes.  Arthur wasn’t sure he could even imagine her wearing a dress - she seemed exceptionally beholden to practicality.

Then again, they had yet to meet many Northern women at all.  Perhaps they were all this savage.

The sound of steel on steel paused as Rhaegar finally found an opening, forcing Oswell to yield.  As the spar ended, the girl turned to Arthur, and spoke loud enough for all of them to hear.

“Are you up next, or do you intend to stare at me for a bit longer?”

Oswell full on laughed at the comment, which even brought a smile to Rhaegar’s face.

Having more than a little bit of experience with verbal sparring courtesy of Ashara, Arthur knew his only advantage was to advance the subject - retreating would only spur her on.

“Perhaps I saw something I liked, and couldn’t help myself,” he responded, keeping his voice flat.

She raised her eyebrow mockingly, but he saw the blush color her cheeks, so he knew he had taken her by surprise.  Pressing his advantage, he stood and grabbed his sword, glancing at her as he continued.

“Or do you just wish for me to spar next, so that you have a reason to stare yourself?”

Now the girl definitely blushed; to her credit, though, her recovery was swift.

“Oh, please, do, I have been waiting my whole lonely life for the opportunity to blatantly stare at men such as you.  Though if you were true Northerners, this would be much more entertaining.”

“And why is that?” he asked, as he moved to trade places with Oswell - the man had gone three rounds in a row and was due for a break.

The girl shrugged before leaning back, her arms braced on the back edge of the crate.  Her voice had returned to nonchalance as she responded, “In this weather, most Northerners would already be shirtless after such exertion.”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle at that.  Rhaegar rolled his eyes at the comment as they took their places to begin.

“Sorry to disappoint you, my Lady,” he teased, though the comment was partially to see her response to the title.

As expected, she scoffed and rolled her eyes, “I’m no Lady.”

Content with that, Arthur flashed his best friend a grin, just as Oswell called out for them to begin.

Chapter Text

Brandon

Brandon already missed Lya.

Or more precisely, he was silently cursing Lya for leaving him in charge.

It had only been a few days and Brandon desperately wanted to escape, to run off into town where ale and whores awaited.  But everytime he had tried to run off, Benjen had been there informing him of matters they needed to handle.

Eventually Brandon had asked why he needed to do all of this, or more specifically, weren’t there other people who could do it.

“Aren’t some of these things managed by Walys?”

Benjen scoffed, “The Maester is a Southron fool, you should see the way he tries to belittle Lya.  Not even Father trusts him with most things.”

“But Father knows how to do all of this.”

“You should know how to do it too.  And you will.  I’ll help you until Lya gets back, but after that, you really should have her teach you.”

Brandon rolled his eyes, despite his recognition that the idea was a sound one.  If he had gained anything in the last few days, it was a profound new appreciation for his sister - Lya clearly knew what she was doing, given Winterfell hadn’t fallen into disarray over the past moons.

Just five days with Brandon, and things already seemed to be bumpy.

“You can’t run away forever, Bran,” his youngest brother continued, “Lya’s been saying it for years but you never listen.  Don’t ruin everything Father and Lya have spent years accomplishing.”

“When did you get so wise little brother?”

“When I realized one of us brothers needed to understand Winterfell for when Lya leaves.  Honestly, I would not begrudge Father if he decided to skip us all and give it to her so that she doesn’t have to marry.”

Brandon rolled his eyes, knowing that scenario would never actually happen, “She’ll certainly drive a Southron man to an early grave if Father sends her South.  But even if she got Winterfell, she’d have to marry, and then some non-Stark man would be running Winterfell.  She’d hate that even more.”

“Aye,” Benjen shrugged, “I suppose you are the lesser of two evils.”

Brandon glowered at his younger brother, who had walked out to go speak with the housekeeper.  Thankfully, Ben had offered to work with Sella directly - Brandon couldn’t handle all of Lya’s normal duties around the keep as the Lady of Winterfell on top of acting as Lord of Winterfell for Father.

In truth, he understood his siblings dislike of Maester Walys.  The man had a dishonest quality to him, though it was quite possible that Brandon automatically viewed him as untrustworthy given his Southron origin.  Despite spending time down in the South, Brandon remained a Northerner in his views on the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, seeing Southrons as power-hungry fools who prefered lies and plots to honor and honesty.

Frankly, the only things Brandon enjoyed about Southrons were their wine and whores - most Northerners were too stuck on duty and honor to look fondly on bastardy, so whoring was not nearly as prevalent.  That was what made Lya’s actions regarding Brandon’s supposed bastard fortunate.  Not only would Father be furious - Brandon wasn’t stupid enough to think his father would never find out, it was merely a matter of managing that ire once it appeared -  it would also certainly lead to several Northern lords questioning Brandon’s honor.

In any case, Walys had attempted to speak with Brandon the moment Lya was outside of Winterfell’s walls. The siblings had not informed Walys of Lya’s true plan to go to Queensgate, but Walys seemed aware that she was not simply going on an extended hunt.  Not that the Maester would be any happier had it truly been a hunt - the man had made his views on Lya’s more male-dominated interests quite clear over the years. The Maester made his displeasure at her willful journey blatant, going so far as to say that she was taking advantage of Father’s trust in her and that Lord Rickard would be incredibly disappointed in her for shirking her duty when he had granted her so much.

It was clear Walys thought Brandon should be serving in Father’s stead instead of Lya, even going so far as to suggest he remain the acting Lord of Winterfell upon her return.  Of course, Walys was also keenly aware of Brandon’s deficiencies; the unspoken message was that Brandon would run Winterfell with Walys’ guidance.  

If the first few days of Lya’s absence were any indication, that guidance would have to be significant.

Frankly, Brandon had zero interest in involving himself in Maester Walys’ power struggle with his sister - Lya was clearly winning, having gained Father’s respect and trust.  It was making Walys sloppy in his maneuvering.  Brandon had little interest in running Winterfell when he needn’t, and even less interest in taking the Maester’s side against his little sister.  Brandon couldn’t imagine why Walys would even try to use him, as they had barely interacted in the years since the Maester arrived at Winterfell.

Walys is an idiot to try to beat Lya.  The girl is as stubborn as an ox and equally ruthless.  I'm surprised she hasn't kicked him out of Winterfell by now.

Benjen was a great help though, and kept reminding Brandon it was only a fortnight.

Aye, who would have thought a fortnight would seem so painfully long.

Fortunately, the issues arising the first few days had been relatively minor.

It wasn’t until the fifth day after Lya’s departure that the cracks in Brandon’s capabilities started to show, when Beron Glover, the old Lord of Deepwood Motte, arrived with a small contingency of men, all exhausted from the journey through the Wolfswood in a storm that’d hit Winterfell’s surroundings over the last few days.

Benjen had greeted them at the gate since Brandon was taking petitions in the Great Hall. Apparently in no mood to delay, Lord Glover had immediately come to the hall and had demanded precedence be given to his case due to his nobility. The man then stood there demanding supplies from Winterfell, requiring them with haste, mentioning something about getting his due after providing so much timber for Lord Stark’s trading request, though Brandon had no idea to which trading request he referred.  Brandon had asked a few probing questions, trying to determine exactly why the lord thought he could be so demanding, eventually asking outright.

“And why should we provide such a quantity of supplies on such short notice?”

Lord Glover’s face had slowly grown redder and redder with each question, and it was clear the man was pissed off with this final question.

“Because, my Lord, it is the Warden of the North’s duty to care for his bannermen.”

“Aye, but it is your responsibility as a Lord to ensure you have sufficient resources for the winter, is it not Lord Glover?”

“As I explained earlier, Lord Brandon,” the drop into familiarity by using Brandon’s first name was not lost on anyone in the room, “the extended nature of this winter has led to the depleted stores.”

“And as I just asked, is this not your responsibility to handle?” Brandon was getting impatient with this request - what exactly did Glover expect?  That Winterfell would hand out supplies in the middle of winter?  The man had probably miscalculated how much to store for the winter.  This was not Brandon’s fault.

“Where is your sister?  I’d speak with her.”

“Lyanna is not available, Lord Glover,” he ground out, feeling his fury start to surge. “If you would like to speak to the Stark serving in my father’s stead, you will speak with me.”

“You know nothing about running the North, boy.  I told Rickard sending you boys off to foster was a bad idea.  You’ve been spending too much time in the South -”

Brandon interrupted the man before he could continue, anger dripping from his words, “I fostered in Barrowtown, my Lord, which I can assure you is still in the North.  If you’d like, my Lord,” he sneered, “I can show you on the map?  Or perhaps Lord Dustin can provide you with his thoughts on the matter.”

Brandon could feel Benjen cringe next to him before finally interceding, “Lord Glover, perhaps I could make some suggestions?  I believe Lyanna had set aside some reserves for such concerns, and she documented the various figures from the trade deal with the Manderlys.  If you would be so kind, we can repair to Lord Stark’s solar to inspect the figures and any instructions she set aside in order to determine an appropriate amount.”

“Aye, that’ll suffice,” Lord Glover conceded while glaring at Brandon.

Benjen turned to Brandon, speaking quietly, “I believe that will be enough petitions for today, Bran.  We can handle the others on the morrow.”

“Fine, you tell them,” he growled and then he stormed out of the chamber, hearing the muted announcement Benjen made to the waiting petitioners.

He stalked back to his chambers, seething.

How could Lord Glover say such things?  He was the true Stark heir.  Brandon would be his liege lord.  And how could Lya set him up for this?  It was all her fault, if she hadn’t demanded being allowed to go to Queensgate, it would be her dealing with this mess.

Once in his room, he fumed several minutes more, pacing and swearing as his anger’s target fluctuated between the insolent Lord Glover and his selfish sister.

Finally, a knock came on the door, breaking through the silence.

“Who is it?” he snarled.

The door opened to reveal his youngest brother, whose face showed a mix of disappointment and frustration.

“Lord Glover has been dealt with.  He will stay a few nights to rest his men and wait out the storm, before returning to Deepwood Motte with the supplies he requested.  I ensured he received bread and salt in granting them guest right.”

“The ungrateful bastard, he had no right to speak to me that way,” he yelled.

“Brandon,” Benjen spoke to him as if he was a child, soft and quiet, “Lord Glover’s request was fairly standard.”  

“Standard? How was I supposed to know that a request of this nature was standard?”

Brandon realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth the ridiculousness of the statement.  His fourteen year old brother knew Lord Glover’s request was standard, and he wasn’t even going to inherit Winterfell.

Benjen must have seen the realization dawn on Brandon’s face, because he just sighed.

“He is a bannerman of House Stark.  It is our responsibility to ensure he is able to feed his people through the harshest of winters.  He wasn’t happy about the welcome he received, given he provided a good deal of the timber that was part of the first shipment to Essos through the trade deal Father and Lya arranged with the Manderlys. We will undoubtedly have to discuss ways of patching things up when either Father or Lya gets home.  Perhaps you can offer to take his son as a squire - I think Lya said his name is Ethan and he’s around the right age, of course she would know better since she’s very knowledgeable about all the Northern “risks” within ten years of her...”

Brandon just looked at Benjen incredulously, “How do you know all of that?”

Benjen sighed again, “Brandon, do you know anything about the way Winterfell operates?”

“Of course I do!”

But Brandon knew the statement was false.  Benjen certainly didn’t look like he believed it.

“So how do we manage stores of food?” questioned Benjen, “How do we determine the supplies that are distributed to Wintertown?  When does a crime warrant your counsel and when can you outsource justice to the constable of town?  How do you know when -”

“Okay, okay, I get it Benjen!” Brandon yelled, throwing his hands up exasperatedly and resuming his pacing, “I don’t know any of those things.”

“No,” Benjen’s voice was flat as he spoke, “you don’t.  Because you’ve been content to let Lya take over everything while you run off playing at being some great knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Brandon turned to his brother and growled, “If I do recall, Benjen, you too wish to be a great knight one day.”

Benjen furrowed his brows and shook his head, “Aye, but I’ll never forget my duty to my House.  I hope to never put my personal pleasure over my responsibility to House Stark.”

“You’re young yet, Ben.  Just give it a year or two.  Or a woman or two.”

Benjen looked at him for a moment as if he were about to say something more, but chose instead to just sigh again.

“I’m tired Bran, I think it’s best we retire.  I’ll have something brought up to you for dinner, as I imagine you’ll want to avoid the Glover party in the main hall this evening.”

“Fine, yes, that works.  You may go.  Anything else can be handled in the morning.”

Though Benjen merely shook his head at the dismissal, Brandon could see the disappointment in the little Stark’s eyes.

Brandon knew he wasn’t living up to his brother’s expectations.  Benjen and Lya had practically hero worshipped him for years when they were children.  Of course, Lya had learned all about Brandon’s true nature over the last few years as he let her take on the responsibilities that should have been his.  It had all come to a head two years ago when she caught him sneaking back from Wintertown, reeking of alcohol and sex.

But his little brother hadn’t seen that side of Brandon - Benjen had seen Brandon as the warrior brother who would take him hunting and beat him up with a sword.

As he sat in front of the fire of his chambers, Brandon considered what it would take to live up to the expectations his family had for him.  The prodigal son for his father, the dedicated brother for his sister, the honorable knight for his brother. Maybe there was still hope for him - his family still seemed to have some.

Well, probably not Lya, who just thought he was a whoring fool.

In any case, he was definitely escaping Winterfell tomorrow, Benjen and duty be damned.  He could get back on track as the Heir of Winterfell the following day.  One day of drinking with friends wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Reassured that tomorrow would be better, Brandon collapsed into his bed, not even bothering to change his clothes.

He slept soundly, dreaming he was a wolf running through the snowy woods.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

He felt as if he were choking as he pushed open the door to the tower, unsure whether the flames at the edge of his vision were real or nightmare.

Summerhall burning.

Cold air slammed into his lungs as he stepped out of the tower into the dark night, numbing his mind.

The icy air put out the fires that burned behind his eyelids, the lingering images of his nightmare squashed by the chill.  The taste of ash in his mouth was slowly replaced by the biting frost, the howl of the wind drowning the screams of men.

As he paused outside the door, feeling the frigid air flood his raw lungs, he glanced around the abandoned castle, blanketed in shadows.  Grey clouds hid the glimmering stars, though the light of the moon was not completely extinguished.

His breathing calm once more, Rhaegar’s eyes fell on the wooden staircase winding its way up the Wall.

Unlike Castle Black, Queensgate had no winch elevator to carry one up to the top of the Wall.  Instead, a smaller version of Castle Black’s switchback staircase was built into the ice, twining up the 700 foot monstrosity.  

Deciding the exercise could help him return to sleep, his feet led him to begin the long climb up the Wall.

His hand reached out to touch the ice as his long strides made quick work of the stairs. Even through the thick leather of his glove, he could feel the cold, a cold that seeped into his bones and caused a shiver to run down his spine.

His other hand reflexively tightened on the small satchel he’d grabbed in his exit from the tower.  The bag contained a small traveling harp that he’d barely used during their time in the North, due to both lack of time and lack of inspiration.  But tonight, his fingers itched to pluck the strings, to hear the sweet notes that brought him more joy than a sword ever would, even if the instrument might suffer due to the cold.

Oddly enough, the stairs seemed better maintained than the rest of the castle, though he supposed patrols along the Wall might restore these even if the castle was abandoned.  The dulled moonlight provided enough illumination to see the steps clearly.

Yet, it was slow work, Rhaegar remaining cautious as he knew Arthur and Oswell would never forgive him for dying from a slip during an ill-advised climb up icy stairs in the middle of the night.  Fortunately, the concentration required for the task kept his mind from wandering to the dark images that had haunted him on and off since that fateful day, ten years ago, when he’d first read the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised.

Instead, he allowed his thoughts to drift to lighter memories.

He thought of the first time he heard about the Wall and the North, sitting on his mother’s lap while his father weaved a tale of a far off land of ice and snow, where giants used to roam.  He couldn’t have been much older than his little brother Viserys was now, five maybe.  He had been enraptured by the idea of a world so different from the Red Keep and King’s Landing.

It sounded so… free.

At that time, his father had been no more than an overambitious, prideful young King.  Rhaegar would sit, wide-eyed, as Aerys described the wondrous plans he had for the realm: a new city to replace the stinky King’s Landing, an underwater canal to allow the deserts to bloom in Dorne, and even a new Wall, hundreds of miles north of the one Rhaegar was ascending now.

It wasn’t until Rhaegar was older that he realized the real driving force behind any realistic improvements around the realm was Tywin Lannister.  But that was a different line of thinking all together.

Those moments of familial affection remained seared into his memory, a reminder of a time long gone when he had only wanted his father’s love.  Rhaegar was not as instantly charismatic or gregarious as Aerys, a fact his father deeply resented during Rhaegar’s childhood.  The King claimed Rhaegar was too bookish, and that he ought to focus on making friends and becoming a knight.  The rare moments when Aerys had spent time with him were precious, something to hold onto when the King’s present madness became too much.

And while his parents’ marriage had never been a love match, they’d still held some degree of respect and affection back then.  This was Rhaegar’s hope when it came to his marriage - a partnership of respect and maybe eventually some degree of affection.

Even the Crown Prince deserved some measure of hope.

So absorbed in his thoughts, watching his step and retaining his balance, he stumbled a little when the last step turned to give way to the wide walkway atop the Wall.

There were no torches here to light the walkway.  He saw that there was still a warming shed a few paces down, built into the Wall years ago to protect the men of the Night’s Watch from the chill.  The space was lost in shadows, the benches likely frozen with the braziers unlit.

He crossed the width of the walkway to the far side, gazing out into the grey expanse that was the Land Beyond the Wall.  He wondered briefly about life there, among the freefolk, as the wildlings called themselves.  His thoughts floated to the image of their mysterious hostess, who at times seemed like she herself could be one of the freefolk.

What did Arthur say again?  That the girl could be a wildling, who just chose to not climb back over?

The image of her this morning filled his mind, brown hair curling around her delicate features as she fluidly dismounted from her gray charger, her bow hung casually over her shoulder.  Arthur, who took his Kingsguard vows to an extreme, hardly noticing the many pretty faces of fair maidens of Court who glanced his way, had even remarked upon the wild beauty of the girl.

It was her eyes - a clear gray that lit up with life, a perfect reflection of the dynamic region she embodied.  They were eyes a man could lose himself in, the stormy gray rolling to engulf one’s soul.

Maybe that’s why wildling men steal Northern maidens.  Those eyes...

Rhaegar flinched at the sound of something, or someone, moving behind him.  All he had on him was a dagger tucked into his boot, his sword left in the tower.  Tales of wildlings climbing the Wall and surprising unaware Night’s Watchmen came roaring back as he crouched to grab the knife.

A chuckle shattered the silence of the night, only just preceding the husky voice of the girl.

“And here I thought we were finally starting to become friends.”

He relaxed slightly at the tone in her voice, though he remained crouched, the dagger partially unsheathed.

The girl approached from the warming shed, where she must have been hidden by the shadows. Though much of her figure remained shadowed beneath her cloak, she had her empty hands raised in a peacemaking sign, an imitation of his gesture from the night before.

Frankly, he hadn’t even noticed she’d been gone from the tower - it seemed she was remarkably good at sneaking away without notice.  Then again, he had been all but blinded by the remnants of his nightmare as he left the room they all shared.

She stopped an arm’s length away when he spoke.

“Are you alone?”

The girl raised an eyebrow, “Who would I be with?”

He sheathed the dagger, but tucked it into his breeches instead of back in his boot, standing to his full height.  This close, he had to look down to see into her eyes; her head came to just under his chin.

He shrugged slightly, though his voice continued to be serious, “Other wildlings, perhaps.”

She smirked before turning to look out at the expanse he had been previously watching.

“No, I’m a lone wolf on this one.”

He knew there was more meaning behind that answer, but after a few seconds of thinking, he realized the words were too vague given his limited information on the girl.  Silence descended as they both turned to look out over the Haunted Forest, the edge of the Frost Fang Mountains just barely visible in the low light.

Rhaegar felt her shift to look at him.

“What insane reason brought you up to the top of the Wall in the middle of the night? And with no light?”

He continued to look out, noting the subtle way the clouds rolled over the distant mountain peaks.

“I could ask you the same questions.”

“Only the first.  I actually brought a light.”

He turned to her then, “You did?”

The girl just rolled her eyes, gesturing back towards the warming hut, “Obviously.  I brought a torch up, just in case.  What would happen if the moonlight disappeared and I was stuck up here?”

He hadn’t even thought about that.

“Did you not even think about that?”

Rhaegar shook his head sheepishly, “I was a bit distracted when I woke up and left the tower…”

She raised an eyebrow questioningly, “Bad dreams?”

Surprised again by her ability to read him, he nodded, “Not much of a sleeper, to be honest.”

The girl turned back to the expanse beyond the Wall, “That’s not good, sleep is important.”

He looked at her inquisitively.  No one had ever responded to him that bluntly.  Usually they wanted to soothe him, to relieve him of his worries, to scold him for not sleeping more.  This girl simply told him it was unfortunate.

“Yes, it is...” he ventured, not really sure how to respond to such straightforward statements.

“I have crazy dreams too,” she continued nonchalantly, “though mine don’t really prevent me from sleeping.  What did you dream about?”

Suddenly, he found himself telling her about his dreams while staring out into the darkness.  Not only the one from tonight, but also those from the rest of their time in the North.  With the images, he described his frustrations at feeling like there was something he was supposed to understand.

The girl just listened, nodding every once in a while to indicate she was still listening.

When he paused, having come to the end of his rant about vague interpretations, she began to speak.

She spoke of the North, not just the area south of the Wall but the whole region north of the Neck, including the Land Beyond the Wall, and how it was alive.  She described the sense of mystical energy that pervaded everything.  She told him of stories that were long thought to be old wives’ tales and how in the North, it was believed they still held a measure of truth.  She explained how no one had seen a direwolf in centuries, yet she had found two pups in the snow not far from this spot.  She said that not everything is what it seems.

He realized she spoke sometimes of the land as if there was no Wall, just the North, and then sometimes of the Wall, as if it was a wonderful land itself.

“In the North, we pray to the Old Gods, who are one with the land and nature.  We cannot see what the Gods intend, and things often seem out of our control, but we have to trust ourselves to make the best decisions we can.  We have to trust that the Gods will guide us and give us the tools to do what we must,” she shrugged, “Perhaps dreams are one way in which they choose to guide us.”

Rhaegar watched her as she spoke, transfixed by her passion and attachment to the land.  He admittedly had not paid as close attention to her conversations with Arthur and Oswell, being so lost in his own head.  But listening to her now, the thought dawned on him that this girl was much more than expected.

That she herself was not necessarily what she had seemed.

She turned to him then, her smile reflecting a sense of understanding, as she murmured quietly, "Like I said, I also have wild dreams. It's why I love this place,” she gestured towards Queensgate behind them, “I can't explain it, but it always feels like it all makes sense here. Like I've found a piece of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving."

That's how Summerhall is for me. This place holds a mystical energy like Summerhall...

Uncle Aemon’s words about the mysterious dreams he was researching and the connection to the North suddenly came into his mind.

Are these the dreams of the North that Uncle Aemon spoke about?  Does Aemon know about this girl?

He wanted to ask her about her dreams, about the tales that haunted her, about the things she didn't understand and the things she was running from, but something had suddenly changed in her stance, like she was closing him out.

It told him she had shared as much as she would.  At least for tonight.

Lyanna

She took a deep breath, the bite of the air filling her lungs as she gazed out over the icy land north of the Wall, her mind thundering ahead at full speed.

She'd never told anyone other than Benjen about the strange dreams she had. Well, she’d written to Maester Aemon at Castle Black a few moons ago, but she had yet to receive any word beyond a basic acknowledgement.  Granted, her description to the Maester had been incredibly vague, not wanting to sound like she was going crazy.

The dreams had started right around the time she had found Nymeria and Torrhen, and personally, she wondered if most of them might be linked to the ability to move into the minds of her animals.  She had only ever run with Nymeria until earlier this year when she had bounced into Silverwing’s mind.  The ability seemed to be associated with a strong bond between her and an animal, but it still was immensely confusing.

But then, the dreams had gotten stronger recently, which had been the reasoning behind reaching out to Maester Aemon - obviously, she would have never asked Maester Walys.  And while she was being honest when she told Jay the dreams didn’t prevent her from sleeping, they bothered her in other ways.

The morning she had written to Maester Aemon, she had woken up with her heart racing, the taste of fresh blood on her tongue.

The part she hadn’t told anyone was that even back in her human body, some part of her mind had craved the hunt, the kill, the blood.

She didn't know what led her to speak in such an honest way to a complete stranger, particularly one who was clearly hiding a lot more than just his identity.  Not to mention the fact that, of the three men, she’d spoken to him the least.

Frankly, Jay had seemed largely disinterested in her.

Lyanna had watched them today, as she knew they were watching her.  The interactions around the fire at night were much like the night before, wry jokes and exaggerated tales of adventure.  The three men were clearly very close, sharing looks that indicated unspoken understanding.  To some extent they reminded her of her three brothers, three contrasting personalities that still managed to complement each other.

Brothers by choice instead of by blood.

Maron and Walt certainly bantered like siblings, with Jay acting like the resigned older brother, shaking his head at them.  In her family, it was usually her and Brandon bickering, with Benjen just rolling his eyes at their foolishness.  Since Ned was never home, Benjen had taken on the role of calming force between her and Bran, a thankless job.

But the most insightful part of the day had been upon her return from her morning ride, when she found them sparring in the courtyard.

She had learned a long time ago from her father that you can learn a lot about a man in the way he carries himself with a weapon.  In the North, as a rule, men were warriors, gruff and hard, wild and strong.  Even so, Lyanna had seen the way in which a man’s personality was reflected in the way he moved when sparring.  One could read a man’s focus and patience by the way he held his defense, whereas his skill and confidence shone through in his attacks.  Even the way a man gripped his sword, lazy or forceful, timid or casual, spoke to unconscious characteristics.

Lyanna had been impressed by this morning’s display from a technical perspective, though she had assumed they were highly skilled, for them to be wandering the North with no guards.  She hadn’t met many Southron knights, but she begrudgingly admitted that if these men were any indication of the average skill, the South clearly generated talented swordsmen.

Maron embodied calm confidence, amusement shining through his eyes.  His grip was firm but casual, the sword moving as if an extension of his body.  Though he seemed to lack Brandon’s childish arrogance, he had the same look she had seen in Brandon’s eyes, that spoke of a deep love for something, a smirk never far from his face.  In truth, Maron was brilliant to watch.

He certainly gave her a reason to stare.

Walt, on the other hand, was competent, steady, effective. He was in battle as he seemed to be in conversations around the fire — open and blunt.  He was a perfect balance to his two friends.

But for this man standing next to her, Jay, swordplay looked like a dance.  A calm, cold, dangerous dance.  He was leaner than either Maron or Walt, graceful in an inexplicable way.  His movements were fluid, yet solemn, with none of the raw enthusiasm of Maron.  His attacks were cunning and calculated.  Thoughtful, in a sense.  Somehow, the melancholy that chased him like a storm cloud managed to seep into every parry and cut, adding an edge to the mirthless maneuvers.

Where Maron was brilliant, Jay was bewitching.  When the two fought, it was captivating.  Even Walt seemed impressed, and he’d clearly seen them both fight many times.

Now standing on the Wall, Lyanna glanced at Jay in the silence that had descended, observing the structured lines of his jaw, his dark eyes staring into the distance.

She had never been one of those girls to swoon at the sight of a man - growing up in an all-male household had generally made her immune to those flights of fancy. She wasn't oblivious to the timid admiring glances young women sent Brandon's way or her handmaidens giggling while watching the men sparring, especially when shirts were discarded and sweat shone on bare chests.  To her, such situations had usually warranted an eye roll, not a swoon.

Lyanna could imagine Maron drew a fair amount of swooning maidens, with those flashing violet eyes and that golden blonde hair.  Her mind flashed back to that morning, when Maron had teased her about staring at him, making her blush.  It wasn’t often that such a handsome man flirted with her, and she had been a bit taken off guard - usually she was the one with the biting comebacks.  He was engaging and witty, not nearly as open as Walt, but with less mystery and darkness than Jay.

Yet, she had to admit to herself, as much as she enjoyed Maron and Walt, something was drawing her to Jay.  Perhaps it was the mystery and the darkness.

Or maybe his initial disinterest in her was increasing her interest in him.

Another challenge to overcome.

A sudden gust of wind buffeted them, causing the hood of his cloak to slip off.  She watched as he unconsciously ran his fingers through his long black hair, smoothing it back from his face.  Something about the way the black strands caught the moonlight, the thin grey streaks shimmering in contrast, made her wonder if his hair would feel silky running through her fingers.

Stunned by the direction of her thoughts, she flinched and shook her head, feeling the gaze of the strange man move to her before returning to look out at the view.  It unsettled her more than she liked to admit.

Trying to focus on anything else, she remembered noticing the bag he was carrying.  Pushing away any distracting thoughts, she turned to face him fully, taking in the way he gently held the small bag with a large gloved hand.

She imagined he had come up here seeking refuge - not that he hadn't kept a distance from the rest of them most of the afternoon.  Perhaps she should leave him alone.

Then again, she had come up here first.  She needn’t run away like a scared girl.

Curiosity won, as she couldn’t help but inquire as to the contents of the small bag.

“It’s a small traveling harp,” he explained as he held up the bag and pulled back the top cover, revealing the small instrument, “I play sometimes when I can’t sleep.  It helps clear my head.”

“Oh,” she nodded thoughtfully, “Isn’t it a little cold to play?”

Jay shrugged, “Probably.  The cold isn’t good for the strings or the wood, I suppose.”

“Or your fingers...” she mumbled under her breath.

He still caught the words and chuckled, a melodious sound that carried an edge, as if he wasn’t used to producing the noise.

Jay had yet to laugh once since arriving, so she couldn’t help but smile brightly at achieving the feat.

As she sometimes did, she allowed her mouth to move before her mind caught up, “You should laugh more often.”

As soon as she said the words, he looked at her strangely and she felt herself blush.

“You have a nice laugh,” she tried to clarify, before turning away to look back north, hoping the hood of her cloak hid her embarrassment.

Pull yourself together! What, one chuckle and you’re reduced to a blushing idiot?

Determined to regain her composure, she returned the train of her thoughts to the instrument the man had brought along with him.

She didn’t know many men who fancied themselves musicians, certainly not among the Northern nobles.  Northerners enjoyed upbeat and boisterous songs and dances, often with limited or simple musical accompaniment.  On occasion, musicians had come through Winterfell, but again, the music tended to fit the Northern audience.

Though she remembered that Roose enjoyed the harp.  He said he could appreciate the fine skill required in such small movements.

Roose Bolton.  If she hadn’t been concerned about the rumors of flaying still taking place in the dungeons of the Dreadfort, she’d consider him a semi-decent match.

Though she refused to admit he might be a better rider than her.

It had been one race, and he had most certainly cheated.

Shaking her head again to clear her mind - gods, what was wrong with her tonight - Lyanna yawned as she looked back up at the man next to her.

She did not want to think about losing to Roose at the moment, or at any moment for that matter.

Perhaps I just need some sleep.

Deciding she should leave Jay to his thoughts and harp, she went to grab the torch from the shadowed darkness of the warming shed.  The moon was still bright enough for her to descend without the additional light, so she would leave it with him.

She felt his eyes on her as she walked across the walkway and back.

Leaning the torch up against the inner part of the northern wall, she glanced back up at him, “You may need this later - I should be fine with my wildling senses.”  She shot him a smirk before moving to pass behind him.

As she often did with her brothers or father, she reached out her hand to touch his shoulder, a silent farewell.  It was a comfortable gesture, and perhaps unusual given she and this man were barely acquainted.

Pins and needles shot through her gloved hand and the man flinched, eyes flashing to hers. Fearing a rebuke for taking such liberties, she withdrew her hand and nodded before quickly moving to descend the steps.

Too occupied by the unfamiliar emotions rushing through her, Lyanna kept her eyes trained on the icy steps.  Had she chanced a glance back, she might have noticed the confused look on the man's face as he watched her leave, staring after her figure as she made her descent, not moving until she disappeared into the tower below.

And as she lay down under her furs, with Tor curled around her feet and Nymeria lying against her back, she thought she could just hear the faint notes of a sad song wafting through the cold night air.

Chapter Text

Walys

Maester Walys looked out over Winterfell from his spot in the Rookery, allowing the importance of this moment to sink in and banish the cold that he couldn’t quite escape since moving to the North.  He held the scroll in his hand gently, as if a sudden movement might rip it from his hands.

This was a gift from the Seven, transported by raven.

Dark wings, dark words, they say, but certainly not in this case.

No, today a raven had arrived with two scrolls, warning of the return of Rickard Stark’s second son, Eddard.

A spur of the moment, last minute trip it appeared, given even Lord Stark had not been forewarned of their impending arrival, but that made no matter to the Maester.

Because Eddard wasn’t coming alone.  Nor was this a simple visit.

Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, was coming to request the hand of Lyanna Stark.  

And frankly, Walys couldn’t have planned it better. While Jaime Lannister may present a stronger case at face value, it was clear to Maester Walys that Tywin Lannister was not particularly intrigued by the prospect of Lyanna Stark.

Walys, knowing the she-wolf better, could not blame the Hand of the King one bit.

Nay, though the Lannisters may seem a better option due to their wealth and current power, what Robert Baratheon lacked in those areas, he made up for in vigor and motivation.  He was said to be a strong young man, handsome and virile, and he was already a Lord Paramount at the young age of 18.

He wanted Lyanna.  He was willing to trek up to Winterfell in the middle of winter to push his suit.

But most importantly, he was willing to pay.

The fact that the man had already indicated not only his interest in drafting a contract during his stay at Winterfell, but also his willingness to pay a hefty bride price in a three line scroll sent by raven only pleased Walys more.  Clearly, young Lord Baratheon was rash and reckless, very much lacking in sense and tact.  But that would make it all the easier for Maester Walys and Lord Stark to draft a most favorable contract for Winterfell and the North.

Maester Walys was certain Lord Stark would see the advantages of the match for Winterfell, particularly with Eddard willing to testify to Robert’s character. Promises of wealth and power would surely smooth over any concerns about the man’s less savory characteristics.

Even Lyanna would see the merit of a marriage that would be so beneficial politically and financially. If there was one endearing quality about her, it was that Lyanna Stark cared only about the North. She would do her duty.

To Walys, it was all the better to send her off to a strong, young warrior Lord - he would put a stop to her wildness.  And if he was truly as horrible of a Lord as rumors said, Lyanna Stark would be a godsend to him.  At least running a castle like Storm’s End would keep her occupied and out of the way of politics.

Plus, Lord Baratheon seemed to make a fool of himself at Court, so it was unlikely Lyanna would be there to make a mess of the Stark name.  The South did not appreciate ill-bred women who fought convention.

Ned had mentioned they were about to depart from the Twins, and thus were likely to arrive within the next moon.

But with Lady Lyanna absent, Walys envisioned little would be done to prepare for the visit in advance.  In fact, perhaps, he thought, these letters would also find themselves lost in the storms, a punishment to Lyanna for running off and shirking her duty.

After all, that was to be his excuse for not having seen a response from the Citadel, should the question be raised.  While he dared not outright lie to Lord Rickard, surely with the winter they had had, this one small detail would pass by unnoticed.

He knew the siblings had lied as to Lyanna’s current whereabouts - she was likely at that bloody abandoned castle Lord Rickard had allowed her to partially restore.  Think of the scandal, a girl of sixteen namedays, sleeping on the floor of a castle on the Wall with six guards.  Like many of Lyanna’s actions, the Maester wasn’t sure how they would explain away her willful behavior. Walys was ever grateful for Lord Rickard’s insistence on restricting all news from the North.

It would be far better to withhold this information for himself.

Likely, the she-wolf would put up a fuss and excoriate me for plotting to sell her off.

She was right, of course, but Walys looked forward to seeing her struggle with the arrival of last minute guests.  After all, she had wanted responsibility.

Ah, what a nice surprise that will be for Lady Lyanna...

Benjen

Benjen should have known Brandon would run off in an attempt to escape responsibility.

He had hoped that Brandon would at least take responsibility today of all days - the only matter that had to be handled directly by a Stark was the final closure of Brandon’s incident with the peasant girl that resulted in a bastard daughter.

Yet his hopes were to be dashed when, in the early afternoon, after searching the better part of Winterfell, Brandon’s valet informed Benjen that Brandon had gone into town.

It didn’t take much to figure out where he’d run off to. Benjen found his brother drinking in one of the Wintertown taverns.  He could hear Bran’s laughter even before he tugged open the heavy wooden door, the boisterous noise mingling with the sound of the developing storm.

Benjen had brought only a few guards and Jory Cassel, the son of Father’s captain of the guards.  Jory was a few years older than Bran, and was already a Stark loyalist.  Only Jory accompanied him as they slipped inside, the heat instantly seeping beneath their furs.  Benjen shook off the light dusting of snow that had accumulated on his cloak from the ride into town, adjusting his hold on the awkward sack of food and odd supplies he was carrying.  He imagined he may have to guilt Brandon into doing his duty by his bastard and the poor mother, but the bag was not that easy to carry.

Benjen shouldered the bag, remembering Lya’s advice that the only way to get Brandon’s attention was to shock or threaten him into action.

The tavern was surprisingly full for the early afternoon hour. Then again, given the impending storm, Benjen supposed it was only natural for men to flock to the warmth and promise of drink.  While these long winters were hard on most, the taverns of Wintertown were primary beneficiaries - at no other time did they turn such strong profits as they did in the midst of a long winter.

All of the tables were occupied, but it was easy to spot the errant Heir of Winterfell and his gaggle of friends at the largest table in the tavern.

There was Benjen’s older brother, sitting with the two visiting Southron knights and a few of the younger men serving House Stark, wild gestures with a half full tankard of ale suggesting he was knee deep into the retelling of one of his elaborate tales of adventure.

It didn’t take long for one of the Stark men to notice Benjen’s entrance and slow approach, Jory in his shadow.  Once alerted to his presence, Brandon paused his story and beckoned Benjen closer, chuckling all the while.

“Ah Ben! Have you come to join us, brother?”

Benjen approached the table cautiously, hoping to convince Brandon that they should speak in a more private location.  Benjen had no intention of leaving without his oldest brother - it was time he take responsibility for his actions.  Benjen wanted to make Lya proud, he and Brandon owed her to at least complete the task after she spent such care cleaning up the mess.

“Bran, perhaps we can speak somewhere more privately.  We have affairs to see to-” Benjen began, but was promptly interrupted by Brandon’s laugh.

“I thought you said this morning that there was not much to deal with!  What, wasn’t it only one item in town you said that I was required to help with?”

“Yes, and I thought you would be willing to at least take on that responsibility.”

Brandon just shrugged, “Ah, but Maester Walys said he was happy to handle whatever it was with you.”

Benjen was fairly certain that having Maester Walys handle the bastard was the last thing Brandon would actually wish, but Brandon had proved himself relatively blind to Walys’ attempts at gathering power in Lya’s absence.  Deciding that threatening Walys’ knowledge of the matter - they both knew at this point that Father would inevitably find out about the affair in any case - Benjen adjusted tactics, hoping to play off of Brandon’s anger at Lord Glover the day before.

“Fine.  Allow all of your bannermen to see you shirk your duties.”

Brandon waved off the criticism, “It’s Lya who is shirking her duty.  She’s the one who ran off to the Wall when she’s supposed to be running Winterfell.”

Benjen wasn’t like Lya or Brandon to become angry at any slight.  But like all of the Stark men, any insult to his sister was grounds for a fight, regardless of whether that comment came from another member of their family.

While Lya’s trip was willful and rash, it was somewhat reasonable.  She had run Winterfell for months with little assistance and no break.  It was only fair that she be granted some peace and quiet, especially given it had been her nameday.  She wasn’t one to celebrate, but Benjen imagined riding all day before collapsing with Nymeria and Tor at her side in the ruins of Queensgate was as close to a picture perfect nameday she could manage.

In any case, Brandon had lasted all of a few days attempting to run Winterfell before he had run away from his responsibilities.  If anyone was shirking his duty, it was Brandon.  Not just today, but everyday for the last several years when it should have been him taking on the affairs and responsibilities associated with Winterfell.  Lya had stepped up when Brandon had failed.  She should be praised, not rebuked.

“No.  Lya’s running Winterfell because you’re incompetent and can’t do it.  Father would have never trusted you to do it.  And he was clearly right to not.  You see one hard decision, that wasn’t even that hard, and you run away to drink.  Are you planning on dishonoring our family again tonight with a whore?  Should I warn Lya that she should watch out for another bastard in nine moons?”

Brandon stood, stepping close to his brother, snarling “Watch yourself, little pup.”

“At least deal with the one you already have,” Benjen threw down the sack of supplies at his feet and pulled out the rolled parchment from the pocket of his cloak, throwing it on the table next to Brandon’s now empty tankard, “Lya already did everything for you, arranged a good marriage for your conquest and granted the couple enough to make a living.  At least do Lya the favor of facing your indiscretion yourself.”

Brandon paused, clearly surprised Lya had already arranged everything - it had only been a little over a week since she’d found out herself, and she had been gone for much of that time.  But Benjen knew that Lya had little desire for the affair to remain unresolved - she made sure to deal with it before she left for Queensgate, knowing that neither Benjen nor Brandon would know how to manage the situation.  It was also the only way to keep the affair away from Maester Walys’ eyes, though given this little outburst, Benjen imagined most of Wintertown would know of Brandon’s indiscretion by the end of the day.

Benjen continued, disappointment shining in his eyes, “I don’t know why Lya insists on keeping it a secret.  Everyone in the North should know what type of man you are.  And while she may not tell Father, I certainly will.  He deserves to know who he’s passing Winterfell to.”

Brandon snapped, grabbing Benjen’s collar and pulling him up so that his toes barely skimmed the ground.  Benjen had gotten taller in the last few years, shooting up past Lya, but he was still fourteen and no match for Brandon’s hulking warrior’s body.

“You will do no such thing, Benjen.”

“What, plan on striking your baby brother?” Benjen taunted, “You can add hitting your kin in public to your list of accomplishments.”

Fortunately for Benjen’s face, Ser Richard interceded before Brandon could respond with either words or fists, “Brandon, maybe you should let your brother down.  We don’t want to make a scene...”

Brandon took a deep breath, anger simmering off of his skin while staring into those Stark eyes that mirrored his father’s, before finally letting his brother down.  Benjen saw him glance around the room to see every eye trained on them.

It appeared they’d already made a scene.

“Fine,” Brandon ground out gruffly, “let’s deal with it.”

Then his brother stalked past him, shoulder ramming into Benjen’s.  Benjen nearly lost his balance, only to be steadied by the hand of Ser Richard.

Mumbling a thank you to the Southron knight, Benjen grabbed the parchment from the table - Lya would kill them if they lost the contract she drafted after hours of drafts - and hustled to catch up with Brandon’s long strides.  Blessedly, Jory had grabbed the bag of supplies off of the floor, relieving Benjen’s arm from further strain.

He caught Brandon just outside the entrance of the tavern, the cold instantly chilling the sweat that had started to form under his wool clothes.

“My lords,” Jory spoke up for the first time as Brandon went to walk towards the stables, “it may be better to just walk as there may be no place at the house to keep the horses in the impending chill.”

Brandon grimaced but nodded, mockingly gesturing for Benjen to lead the way.  Fortunately, Jory took it upon himself to lead them, and both Stark boys fell in step behind him.  Jory had likely spoken to the guards in advance, expecting some similar outcome, as only two followed behind them while the rest remained with the horses.

The snow continued to fall in light flurries, the sky a pale grey still, but darker clouds skimmed the hills in the distance, foretelling of a stronger storm to come.  Benjen hoped they would complete this business with haste - he had no desire to be caught in a blizzard, even just in Wintertown.  Winter in the North was unpredictable, and it was better to avoid the weather’s temperamental changes if possible.

Benjen briefly thought of Lya, hoping the Queensgate ruins provided sufficient cover should the storm turn for the worst.  She was all alone, with only a few weeks worth of provisions.  Should the storm trap her in the ruins…

No, he thought, Lya would be fine.  She was more than capable of taking care of herself, and she was crafty - if anyone could get themselves out of a tricky situation, it was his sister.

Their walk to whatever small abode Lya had arranged for the young couple was eerily quiet, the occasional howl of the wind and the quiet chatter of the guards the only sounds.  The Stark brothers both remained quiet.

But after a few moments, Benjen broke the silence, unable to stop the reproach from passing his lips.

“You know what the northern Lords say about bastards.  You know how important honor is to our family, to father.”

Brandon didn’t even look at him as he responded, his eyes firmly focused on securing his steps on the snowy dirt of the road, but Benjen could still hear the anger lacing Brandon’s words.

“I know, Benjen, Father drilled it into my head too.”

Benjen shook his head, his own eyes falling to watch his feet as they followed Jory, “Lya won’t always be here to save you.”

“It’s one bastard, Benjen, Lords make mistakes.”

“Aye, Lords do, but you aren’t a Lord yet.  You have a bastard already, Brandon.  Do you want a reputation like Robert Baratheon?” Brandon bristled at his side, his steps lengthening, but Benjen continued, “Even up here in the North we’ve heard about him - he’s gotten a bastard on some woman in the Vale.  Apparently, he made a fool of himself at Court as well by drunkenly challenging Ser Arthur Dayne to a sword fight.  You know Walys is trying to marry Lya off to some Southron, what if it’s him or someone like him?”

“I would never let father marry her off to an oaf like him!”

While that was reassuring, it wasn’t enough.

Benjen stopped, yanking on Brandon’s arm so that he was facing him, “Yet here you are, acting just like Robert!  I used to look up to you, Brandon, I used to want to be like you.  But you just run away from responsibility and let Lya protect you.”

Brandon had no response to that - he seemed to content himself with a scowl and then trudged on ahead through the snow in silence.  That was perfectly fine with Benjen - he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more of Brandon’s excuses.

In truth, Benjen felt betrayed.  Brandon was his older brother, the Wild Wolf, and Benjen had grown up looking up to him as a hero.  Brandon was naturally skilled with a blade, but his true strength fell in his ability to get people to like him.  A smooth talker and a boisterous presence, Brandon made friends with anyone, his narcissistic stories delivered with such passion and wildness that raucous laughter and slapping congratulations grossly outweighed any disapproving looks.  Brandon was the handsome Stark brother, his lively light grey eyes and quick smirk garnering stares whenever he was home.  That was something Brandon and Lya shared - a charm that earned them the admiration of others.  Benjen thought it might be the Wolf’s Blood, for no matter how rash and willful it made his siblings, everyone still seemed to love those who were full of life and quick to action.

Benjen had always been the Wolf Pup, the youngest of the siblings.  He was never as charming as Brandon or Lya, though he’d never been as quiet and dour as Ned.  Then again, anyone was quiet and calm compared to his wild siblings.  Father had been smart to grant Lya so much responsibility, for it gave her an outlet for her energy - while she still rode more than any of them combined and trained with her bow daily, she was too busy to look out for trouble or demand sword lessons.

Sometimes Benjen missed those days when he and Lya would sneak into the Godswood to play at swords, using sticks instead of blades.  Benjen thought that now he might finally be able to beat her - though he had the obvious advantage of a few years of training.

Only recently had Benjen realized Brandon was not the man he had always thought he was, particularly once Benjen had returned from fostering.  That was when Benjen saw how many of Brandon’s responsibilities Lya had taken over.  He saw how hard she worked to gain the respect of Father and his bannermen, having to work even harder purely because of her sex.  That respect was granted to Brandon due to his birthright.  Certainly, Brandon earned some of his respect in the training yard, but he did little for Winterfell.

In spite of it all, Benjen had been so excited to know Brandon was coming home this year - he had missed his brother’s visit last year - so that he could show his brother how much he had learned.  He had pictured days spent sparring, knowing he’d end up bruised and battered, but still looking forward to the joyful, laughing face of Brandon as he beat Benjen into the floor of the courtyard.  He had hoped for long rides with both of his siblings, an escape for all of them from the duties they shared at home.

Then he realized that Brandon was squandering the respect granted to him as Heir of Winterfell.  Benjen saw the boisterous tales and late night wanderings for what they were now - signs of how Brandon’s real interests lay with wine and women.  His older brother was happy to let Lya do the work, though he gave her no credit for it.

As stressful as it had been given Benjen himself knew little about all of the various tasks Father and Lya completed daily, Lya’s trip to Queensgate was also a blessing in disguise - it was forcing them all to realize how utterly incompetent Lord Stark’s real heir was.  It was proving Father’s point that Lya had become indispensable to Winterfell.  Benjen thought it also demonstrated an even more important but unrecognized fact: that Lya was the de facto second in command of the North.  A woman, who had just achieved her majority, not Lord Stark’s eldest son, a man grown and knighted.

When Jory halted in front of a nondescript door, Benjen roused himself from his thoughts.  He chanced a glance at Brandon, but was dismayed by the grimace plain as day on his older brother’s face.

“Don’t look at me, pup.  Like you said, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Shaking his head and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Benjen approached the door of the house.  For a brief moment, a flash of panic passed through him, but then he thought of Father’s Lord of Winterfell voice and Lya’s developing Lady of Winterfell voice, the mix of compassion and sternness, and tried to envision how they would deal with the situation.  The image of the two of them firm in his mind, he knocked on the door.

After a moment, a young man’s visage appeared behind the opened door.

The greeting went surprisingly well - even Brandon pulled himself together to be presentable.  Though if the girl was hoping for some affection, or even a glimpse of recognition from Lord Stark’s son, she was quickly disappointed.  Fortunately, the girl, Tasy, seemed genuinely happy with the young man Lya had found for her - going by the name of Erac, he was some second son of an old guard at Winterfell, and his family had been in service of the Starks for generations.  The man was only a few years older than the girl, and completely taken by her.  Even during their short interaction, it was clear to Benjen that Erac was doting on his new wife.

Perhaps due to Brandon’s lack of noticeable affection or purely due to her experience at Winterfell, Tasy quickly started gushing about Lya.  The sentiment was shared by Erac, particularly after Benjen handed over the supplies and job contract, granting Erac a position within the lower ranks of Stark guards.  It was not a notable position, far too low to allow for any potential threat in the future, but still enough to provide a steady income.

“Milady saved me.  My pa wrote that he’s comin’ home and I don't know what I’d ‘ave done, I woulda been ruined…”

“We are glad we could help, and Lyanna sends her regards.  We appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

“Of course, Milord, we are grateful for your generosity.  ‘Tis more than most coulda expected.” responded the young man.

A small cry from the bedroom prompted the departure of Tasy, a bundle tucked into her arms upon her quick return.  The girl turned to Brandon, who was looking exceedingly uncomfortable.  While Benjen grimaced externally, he derived a modest amount of pleasure in his brother’s discomfort.

Good.  He deserves to feel discomfort when faced with his dishonor.  At least he recognizes it for dishonor.

Tasy held out the baby to Brandon at that moment, her face earnest as she silently encouraged him to hold his daughter.

At first, Benjen thought his brother would refuse.

But then Brandon hesitantly held out his arms.  As he accepted the small human, Tasy’s face was lit with hope as she spoke, “Her name’s Anna, after milady.  Milord, will you visit her? I know ‘tis a lot to ask, but it would mean so much to have your support...”

Brandon looked ready to flee.

Another responsibility he wants to run from .

But as Brandon looked down on the bundle resting awkwardly in his arms, his face softened.  All eyes were on the future Lord of Winterfell as a little hand reached up towards his face, causing a bright smile to appear on Brandon’s face.

And then Brandon started speaking in a soft voice to the little girl, his voice rising an octave.  Benjen felt himself flinch from the shock of the sound.  Who would have imagined Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf, murmuring in a baby voice?

“Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?  Little Anna… how could anyone call you a mistake?  Don’t worry though, your aunt took care of you - she’s your namesake, and the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

Little Anna cooed, and Brandon chuckled before turning to hand the baby back to her mother who stood beaming next to him.

Brandon straightened, looking between the girl and her new husband.  The next words out of his mouth shocked Benjen even more than the scene that had just unfolded.

“I will do what I can.  I am grateful for you both.  She is a beautiful baby, and does not deserve to be punished for the mistakes of her birth father or the circumstances in which she was born.  As I told her, she’s named for the strongest woman I know, and I will do my best to do right by her in honor of my sister.”

Goodbyes quickly followed, seeing as not much else could be offered and the Starks wished to return to Winterfell before the storm worsened.

The walk back to the tavern was still silent, though this silence was different, less angry and more balanced.  Both brothers remained deep in thought, Benjen replaying the scene in his head and trying to figure out what it meant.  Lya had told him she had long given up on expecting Brandon to change - that each time she had hoped that some action was a sign of a new maturity, she only set herself up to be disappointed again.  Benjen didn’t know if this was just another one of those moments.

Eventually, as they neared the tavern where their horses and the rest of the Stark guard remained, Brandon heaved a deep sigh before breaking the silence, “You’re right, it should be Lya to inherit Winterfell, if the only thing that mattered was capability.  But you know as well as I do that that will never happen.”

Benjen examined his brother - it was the first time Brandon had admitted something like that without it being a sneered taunt directed at Lya.  His older brother’s voice sounded resigned.

“Even she realizes that, Bran.”

His older brother nodded, his eyes continuing to stare straight ahead, “I know I’m no good at this Benjen.  In fact, I’m downright horrible.  And no matter what I do, I won’t ever be as good at it as Father or Lya, or probably even you.  Seven hells, Ned would probably be a better Lord of Winterfell and he hasn’t been home in almost five years.  But I’ll try.”

Benjen felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“What changed?  Just yesterday you were yelling about how it was all going to be yours anyways…”

Brandon shrugged as they paused in the street.  Light grey eyes met light blue.

“I don’t know, I guess I never really thought about the consequences.  This isn’t natural to me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how that little girl is named after Lya, and she’ll be looked down on as a low-born bastard in the North.”

Benjen nodded, silently thanking Lya for allowing the woman to name the baby Anna - he knew it bothered her immensely, as Lya held tight to her pride - for it had clearly broken through Brandon’s thick skull.  Gods, Lya was helping Winterfell even when she didn’t want to be.

“It will be a lot of work, Bran,” Benjen told him evenly, “you have a lot to learn.  Even I don’t know half of what is required.”

Brandon shot him a snarky smile then, “Oh but brother, that’s what I have you and Lya for.”

Benjen snorted as his brother went on, waving his hands as the tension eased, “I make no promises that I’ll be able to avoid drink and women, especially at first, but I will try.”

Of course he won’t, how could he avoid the basic pleasures of life….

“Speaking of, dearest brother, I think this has been quite a lot for one day, no?  Why don’t we have a drink to celebrate?  A week without Lya and Winterfell still stands!”

Benjen rolled his eyes but realized this was likely as much as he would get from Brandon today.  Perhaps it was naive of him, perhaps Lya was right to no longer hold out hope, but the promise of Brandon attempting to be better was enough of a success for Benjen.

He waved Brandon off to the tavern where they had left Ser Richard and Ser Myles.  Benjen had a few more things to arrange and he had missed training with the Master-at-Arms, so he proceeded back up to the looming castle walls of Winterfell.

Gods, he couldn’t wait for Lya to come home.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Days at the abandoned keep seemed to take on an easy sort of routine.

The girl would rise before the sun, returning from her morning ride midway through their sparring practice, the two direwolves in tow.  Then, she would watch them, joking with him and Oswell while they rested.

Rhaegar spent the majority of the first day in deep melancholic silence - he was even silent during their training, lost in passive concentration.   Arthur and Oswell were used to his moods by now; they knew to leave him be until he chose to re-emerge from the darkness.

But on the second full day, something cracked the barrier of Rhaegar’s mind, as the girl managed to get a few sarcastic comments from him.

It was the first time since they arrived at the Wall that Rhaegar seemed to be sleeping through the night, a fact that surprised them all - Arthur had gotten used to his friend's late night wandering. Perhaps they had all reached a breaking point; living at Court had been exhausting for all of them.  Clearly Oswell was enjoying the chance at sleeping through the night with the direwolves keeping watch, and Arthur couldn't lie that it wasn't a welcome relief.

In fact, their hostess seemed to sleep the least, given her early morning routine.  For someone who seemed to always be on the edge of laughing, she was remarkably quiet when she chose to be.  In the morning, it was as if she just slipped off into the snow without a trace, a tiny dark figure on a sleek gray horse that blended into the surroundings naturally.

By the third day, they had settled into a comfortable rapport and Arthur started to relax.  Beyond the cold exterior, the girl was joyous and playful, with a certain dose of youthful innocence that was endearing.

And while he still didn’t trust her, he had to admit she was having a positive impact on them all.  In fact, Arthur’s view of her softened when he saw how she could make Rhaegar smile - not his nice, altogether fake Court smile, but his genuine smile, an expression usually reserved for only a select number of close confidants. No matter how distrusting Arthur was, he could not dismiss the significance of this accomplishment.

Indeed, Arthur couldn’t help but notice that it seemed Rhaegar had taken a liking to the wildling.  Nothing serious, but the Prince’s indigo eyes, surrounded by his identity-hiding dyed hair, followed the girl more than necessary.  Arthur had even caught him staring at her once while she was chatting with Oswell, her laughter echoing around the courtyard.

The Prince’s only response to Arthur’s raised eyebrow had been a shrug, but he thought he could see the barest hint of a sly smirk on Rhaegar’s face.

Nevertheless, while the girl did not seem interested in harming them, she was by no means harmless.  

That had become clear that afternoon, when Oswell challenged the girl to an archery contest.

“Shall we see you use that bow, or do you carry it around just for show?”

The girl scoffed, responding imperiously, “Please, only you Southrons would think to parade around with a weapon you can’t use.”

After some lively debate that Arthur and Rhaegar watched with muted amusement, the girl and Oswell agreed to break down some of the extra unused floorboards that were in the stables to use as targets.  

Oswell’s primary concern had seemed to be the wood’s practicality as a target after sitting in the cold, worried that the arrows might bounce off.

Hearing this, the girl had only chuckled, “The wood is practically rotting, it’s so soft. I’d be more worried about the arrows going straight through.”

They had moved about setting up the targets a variety of distances at one end of the courtyard, with the girl forcing both Arthur and Rhaegar to help or as she affectionately put it, “make themselves useful.”

Arthur knew that of the three of them, Oswell was the worst with a bow, having always preferred the crossbow since it played better to his brute strength. Admittedly, none of them trained much in archery. Rhaegar had learned for the sole purpose of maintaining some level of competence on the hunt so he was passable, though Arthur couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d seen the Crown Prince practice with the weapon.

Certainly none of them held a bow with the same calm confidence the girl displayed. Arthur had no doubt they were unlikely to match her skill, but he had to praise Oswell for his strategy with the girl. While she had watched them for two days at sparring, allowing her a decent glimpse of each of their skill with a blade, they had yet to see her use her weapon. This competition, while bound to be entertaining, would also allow them to gauge just how dangerous this girl really was.

With everything in place, Arthur and Rhaegar sat together on a crate a few paces from Oswell and the girl, the grey direwolf Tor lay nearby.  Arthur wasn’t sure where Nymeria was, though it was possible she was sleeping in the tower.  Though the direwolves were on a completely different sleeping schedule from the men, they appeared to coordinate with their mistress’ needs.

The girl picked up her bow, holding it out to offer it to Oswell.  Her face was a neutral mask; however, as they had all learned over the three days, amusement was never far from those bright eyes.

“Well, would you like to begin?”

Oswell’s eyes twinkled and he smiled as he sketched a purposefully sloppy bow, “After you, milady.”

The girl rolled her eyes, but accepted as she brought her free hand up, catching a finger of her glove in her teeth to pull it off.  She carelessly let the glove drop into the snow at her feet.  With her gloveless hand, she plucked one of the arrows from the quiver she had rested against the crate next to them, holding it between her thumb and middle finger. Fitting the arrow to the string of the bow, still held casually in front of her, she turned and glanced at the targets they’d set up.  Her expression remained playful, as it had been the whole day, but Arthur noticed her grey eyes sharpen.  Like the steel of a blade, those eyes were a flashback to the dangerous gaze of the unknown girl they’d met three nights ago.

“Shall I choose or would you like to do the honors?”

Oswell chuckled, “Your choice.”

She nodded as if expecting that response. Her eyes shot quickly between the few targets and then she paused, as if debating the best strategy, the bow still held lightly with the nocked arrow.

In one fluid motion, she moved the bow up in front of her, pulling back and releasing the arrow right as the bow came into position. A muted thump resounded through the courtyard and Arthur didn’t have to look to know the arrow had struck true.

She had chosen a closer target, the arrow burrowed into the center of the piece of wood. A good shot, but by no means impossible to match.  Might be they had a chance.

The smile on her face was the picture of innocence, but her eyes seemed a little too gleeful given the shot.  As the bow changed hands and Oswell prepared to shoot, Rhaegar leaned over to whisper in Arthur’s ear.

“She’s playing with us.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows at his friend, but only got a shake of the head in response.  They watched as Oswell managed to hit the same target, though his shot was far from centered.

“Respectable,” was the only comment the girl made, as she took the bow back.

She shot a glance at Arthur and Rhaegar as she moved to pluck another arrow from the quiver.  Arthur could see the smirk plain as day on her face and he realized that Rhaegar was right.

It appeared the girl was not patient enough to tease them with any more simple shots, as the next arrow was drawn and released before they even looked, the arrow deep in the center of the furthest target.  She must have caught the look that passed between the three men for she instantly began laughing.  It was an unusual sight, the image of this petite girl giggling like a child, having just proven herself quite the dangerous archer.

Once she had quieted, she smiled and shrugged in explanation, “Patience is not one of my great virtues.”

After that first round, the girl's smile transformed steadily into a smirk as it became apparent Oswe was better off sticking with his sword, and it only took a few rounds for her to force both Arthur and Rhaegar to partake in the fun.

“Oh come now, I’ve spent three days watching you best each other with swords.  I’ll not allow you to sit and mope over there on a crate.”

“So that’s what you are doing while we practice, moping?” Rhaegar questioned casually as he gracefully stood, stalking towards her to take the proffered bow.

The girl scoffed, “Please, only one of us is known for brooding, and it is certainly not me.”

Oswell, who had moved to take Rhaegar’s spot next to Arthur on the crate, laughed as he stretched out his shoulder.

“She’s got a point.”

Rhaegar sent Oswell a glare, but Arthur could see the amusement behind the glower.  The Prince’s mood was noticeably lighter today, but it continued to bother Arthur to see his best friend with dark hair, his indigo eyes almost black. The darkness matched Rhaegar’s melancholic moods too much for Arthur’s liking.

In the end, the girl trounced them.  While the three men rotated every shot or two, she claimed she was “feeling indulgent,” and then proceeded to show off by creating artificial challenges for herself in an attempt to "even the playing field."

The girl had them all smiling by the time the daylight began to fade with her witty critiques masquerading as helpful tips.  As Arthur had expected, none of them were even close to competent with the weapon, particularly compared to the girl. Even Rhaegar, with his more practiced shot, was no match for her and did not escape her teasing.  Arthur certainly realized his “legendary” status did not transfer to skill with a bow - despite constant training with a heavy sword, his shoulders were aching something fierce by the end of the day.

The girl's skill was undeniable, shooting with an ease and confidence that spoke to years of practice. But while her skill, particularly when coupled with her efficient survival skills, suggested knowledge borne out of necessity, her weapon contradicted the story. Simple and well-used, the craftsmanship was still remarkable, and the fact that the bow seemed to match the girl's strength and stature perfectly meant it was unlikely she'd stolen it.

Perhaps more disconcerting than the deepening mystery of the girl’s background was how Arthur caught Rhaegar's eyes on the girl, his expression a mix of interest and wariness.  Something about his friend’s gaze made Arthur uncomfortable - Rhaegar rarely paid any mind to anyone outside of his immediate circle.

That night, a light dusting of snow started to fall, the sign of a coming storm.

Rhaegar and he chatted around the fire of mindless things such as the need to exercise the horses and care for the gear.  The girl had mentioned that the storm brewing looked like it could be a bad one - she had brought some hares back from her morning ride just in case, explaining that storms could bring several feet of snow in the middle of winter.  They had cleared much of the courtyard as a precaution, so that they would be able to reach the horses and bring them into the lower level of the tower, should conditions worsen.  Arthur dearly hoped that was not the case, but was reminded again of their good fortune in finding the wild girl during their stay.

Across the fire, the girl taught Oswell some Northern game that she claimed she learned from a wildling. When she had explained the root of her knowledge, Arthur had been surprised and perplexed - he had still been of the belief that she was a wildling, but it was unlikely she would distinguish herself from a wildling had she been one.

His best friend had also been noticeably intrigued, as Rhaegar had dryly commented that he was surprised the girl wasn't a wildling herself.  This had elicited a bright smile from the girl as though it were a compliment.

"You and my father both."

The first mention of her father and her background, Oswell took the opportunity to prod for more during their game to no avail.  She must have sensed danger in allowing the opening, as she promptly withdrew, shutting down almost completely. The only piece of additional information she revealed was that she had brothers, though even that was vague, with no mention of how many.  Recognizing her withdrawal, the subject was changed but the girl remained quieter than usual for the rest of the night, even retiring early.

Later, he woke to her quiet footsteps and was immediately wary until he heard her descend the steps of the tower.

Glancing around, he noticed he was not the only one woken by her departure.

Rhaegar rose from his pallet and approached the window that looked into the courtyard.  While his friend stood at the window, Arthur checked the rest of the room - the direwolves too were gone, though that was not unusual as Arthur understood they did not lay in the room the whole night while the humans slept.  All of the girl’s belongings were still there.

After a few moments, the Prince turned and picked up his cloak before languidly moving towards the stairs. Catching Arthur's move to rise and follow, Rhaegar paused then shrugged as if there was nothing unusual about following a strange and potentially dangerous girl in the middle of the night.  With a simple word, Rhaegar made Arthur's decision as to whether to follow.

"Stay."

An order was an order.

With a whisper of cloth and silent boots, the Prince was gone.

Lyanna

Stupid girl, you should have never mentioned Father.  Gods, speaking of Father, if he ever finds out about this, he will kill me.  Or sell me to the first Lord who would still be willing to take me as a wife.  We don’t know who these men are, they’re clearly Southern knights of noble birth.  They must be here for a reason, no one comes to the North, let alone the Wall, in the middle of winter unless there is a reason.  Why do they have no guards?  What if they are spies?  Or some Lords looking for glory?  What if they find out who I am?  Maybe they were exiled from Court and sent to the Wall – Father said that the Wall is often used as a punishment for nobles who commit serious crimes. They could be criminals, rapists and murderers...

The image of the last Night’s Watchman she’d encountered flashed behind her closed eyes.  Those dead eyes on a body-less head had found their way into her dreams on several occasions, the resigned and haunted look searing into her soul.  Gods, she had taken a man’s life.  Did every man dream of the foes he had felled, the fear or anger forever sketched into the victim’s visage as the lifeblood drained from his body?  She couldn’t imagine how a man could ever sleep with such a burden on his soul.  

Now plagued by the unpleasant image of a dead man and the vague uncertainties associated with her guests, Lyanna tossed and turned on her pallet before giving up.  Sleep was all but impossible in her present state.

Maybe spending time with Silverwing will help.

She hadn’t rode the charger that morning as her palfrey had needed the exercise.  Silver always seemed to understand her mood.  Tor and Nymeria would be around as well, though she thought they might be out on a hunt.  Somehow she knew that with her mind already unstable, allowing herself to run in Nymeria’s mind on a hunt was probably not the best idea.

Pushing back her furs silently, she slid her boots on and wrapped herself in her cloak before padding downstairs, leaving the three slumbering men in the tower.

Gods, she had wanted so badly for this trip to be an escape.  She knew it was stupid of her to be here, that this was another action added to the long list of wilful things she had done.  But with the responsibility of serving in Father’s stead, with Brandon’s bastard, with her inevitable betrothal on the horizon, and then with the guilt of killing a man, the burden had become too heavy.

She had simply cracked.

All she had ever wanted was freedom.  The chance to be who she wanted to be.  To not be judged for her hatred of embroidery or her choice to ride astride.  She liked people well enough, but if she could live alone with her animals she would - if it meant she was free.

More than once she’d dreamed of running off to the Land Beyond the Wall or to Essos.  Those dreams, particularly the farfetched one of joining the Golden Company in Essos, had died when Father had forbidden her from carrying a sword and she had unofficially taken on the position of Lady of Winterfell.

In truth, serving in her mother’s stead was a way to be close to her, to the woman Lyanna had barely known.  When she was younger, she had often found herself daydreaming when Sella or the Maester was teaching her something new, imagining it was her mother’s soft but husky voice repeating the instructions.  Now, she wasn’t even sure the voice in her head was actually the right tone.  Besides the jewels and embroidered dresses, the duty of Lady of Winterfell was all she had left of Mother, and soon enough that would be taken from her.

For a few days, Lyanna had enjoyed the company of these Southron men and things had been good.  They didn’t treat her like a Lady or pile expectations upon her.  They laughed at her jokes and went along with calling her “the girl.”  Even today, during their farce of an archery competition, it had been admiration and amusement reflected in their faces at her skill instead of disappointment or disapproval.  For a brief moment, she was just a girl, with no titles or responsibilities, just her.  The real her.  It was empowering.

And then she had gone and ruined it by mentioning her father.

She had been so careful the first two days not to make any statements regarding who she was, but she had let her guard down tonight.  It had felt so comfortable, like being with her brothers, that the comment just slipped out.

She was lost in her thoughts as she brushed Silver down at the edge of the open stable, murmuring meaningless compliments, when she heard the soft crunch of boots in the snow.  The sound was jarring in the silence of the freezing night.  It took all of her energy to remain calm, continuing to stroke Silverwing's muzzle.

Somehow she knew it was Jay, his steps graceful where Maron’s were sure and Walt’s were heavy.

Though she had noticed him engaging more today, his melancholy lifted and his mood brighter, sorrow still seemed to emanate from his person.  And while Lyanna had managed to draw a few smiles and laughs from him, this accomplishment seemed to pale into insignificance in the present situation.

It bothered her how much his presence put her in a tizzy, and the flashing images of noble criminals sent to the Wall for rape and murder wasn’t calming her down much.

Her mind was so muddled that her brain chose to fixate on the impropriety and danger of the situation: an unknown man approaching her from behind, trapping her alone in a nearly enclosed space in the middle of a stormy night with only his two guards near enough to hear her scream.

No honorable man would put a lady in this position.  Nay, he couldn't be honorable, he must want something, all men wanted something, she was so stupid to trust them.

But she wouldn't go down so easily.

You’re a direwolf.

Breathe.  Think.  He's bigger and stronger than you, but you're quick, you have to take him by surprise. When he's close.  Give him a false sense of security, so he thinks he has you.

She dropped the brush she was holding, bending over as if to pick up, but instead sliding the small knife she kept in her boot into her right hand.  It was sharp but small, and while it couldn't do much damage, it would hopefully give her time to move fully into the courtyard and mount her horse.  She’d have to leave her belongings and return later.  She tensed as he entered the space, partially blocking the entry.

Just a another step...

As quick as she could, she sidestepped, lashing out with her right hand with the knife, aiming for a quick slash to the thigh - it was a move she had practiced with Bran, one that injured and would slow a man down.

But Jay was faster than Bran, even when taken by surprise.

Grabbing her elbow, he pulled her across his chest, locking her arm in place before forcing the knife from her hand.  She found her back pressed firmly to his front, her arm twisted behind her and the knife against her throat.

She felt the sting of cold metal as the blade touched the base of her throat. His scent assaulted her, a mix of sweat, leather, straw and something exotic that she couldn't place, and she felt his breath, warm on the back of her neck in the night air. Pins and needles spread through her body wherever it was flush against his and her heart was beating so loud she was certain he could hear it in the dead silence.

Time stopped....

... until he let out a quiet chuckle, his whole frame shaking gently.  Something in the sound was genuine, like he found the situation legitimately amusing.  While the sound was pleasant as it floated past her ear, she did not share in his amusement - particularly not when the knife, still held at the base of her throat, nicked the skin, eliciting a gasp from her.  She instantly cursed herself for keeping the blade so sharp, but then again, she had never expected it to be her own skin bearing the attack.  The wound wasn't deep, barely drawing blood, but for some reason, despite the situation, she hadn't thought he would actually harm her.

Sensing her flinch, Jay carefully removed the knife from her neck, tossing it away. For a second, she thought she might be able to wiggle free but then his free hand wrapped across her body to grip her left wrist.  The move pinned her even closer to him, and something in the pressure of his fingers told her she wouldn't be escaping easily.  He was still much taller and stronger than her, and very much in the advantageous position.

Dipping his head, his warm breath fanning her ear, he finally broke the silence with a whisper.

"And here I thought we were finally starting to become friends."

Had it been one of her brother throwing her words from the other night back at her with that amount of insolence, she was certain she would have been incited to fight even harder.

As it was, the lilt of his deep voice, the words rolling off of his tongue, sent a shiver down her spine and left her breathless.  As if understanding her discomfort, she felt him smile as his lips moved to brush the shell of her ear.  For an instant, something foreign burned through her body, her eyes fluttering as her head fell back against his chest, inhaling sharply.

His grip tightened on her wrists, sending a bolt of pain through each arm, but she hardly noticed - her senses were suddenly so overwhelmed by him .  Her brain was foggy, bereft of coherent thought.

And then his lips ghosted down her neck as he breathed in, leaving a trail of burning skin.  For a moment, she thought she might collapse from the sensation when he paused at the juncture of her shoulder, wisps of his dark hair brushing her skin.  The feather touches of his hair and the warmth of his lips on her cold skin was leaving her in a state of confusion, scared of her physical reaction but longing for more.

So caught up with the feelings roiling through her body, she failed to notice him release her left arm, allowing it to fall limply to her side.  His hand slid up her body, making her breath catch, his fingers moving to trace the line of her jaw.

She felt him nibbling the skin of her neck and her body seemed to betray her as a low moan escaped her lips. These were all new sensations, and she felt like she was drowning as he gently turned her face towards him.

Rhaegar

He didn't know what had led him to follow her. He certainly didn't know what drove him as he disarmed her, pinning her small frame to him. In that instant, he was overcome by a need to be close to her, to trail his hands down her body. He attempted to make light of the situation, taunting her as they had all done over the past days. He had meant to say more, to challenge her as he moved his lips to the shell of her ear.

But then she had leaned into him, either consciously or unconsciously, her head tilting back and leaving her pretty, pale neck on display.

Rhaegar was not a man of passion. It was near impossible to find him in the company of whores and he had never been interested in maintaining a mistress. In truth, he had rarely been driven by sexual desires like so many men.  He was no maid, but no woman had aroused within him such lust or desire that might warrant conducting himself in the manner of most men.

None of that mattered in this moment as something snapped - his mind went blank and his body took over.

Rhaegar couldn't help himself, and his lips started to trail slowly down the girl's neck. Something about her made his blood boil, made him bolder, perhaps even reckless as his lips stopped their path down her neck at the juncture of her shoulder. He felt her shiver as he skimmed his hand up her body, his fingers moving to caress her jawline.

He wanted to kiss her - no, it was more than that.  He wanted to consume her.

As if driven by the thoughts crossing his mind, he gently nibbled her neck and was rewarded with a whisper of a moan.  His fingers coaxed her face to turn to the side, moving to place a feather of a kiss to her jaw.  She was relaxed in his arms and her eyes were fluttering as he went to kiss her lips.

There was no warning of an impending attack other than a flash of black fur when suddenly a massive weight crashed into them, toppling them into a snowbank off to the side of the stable’s entry.  The girl fell partially on top of him, her arm flaring out in an attempt to soften her landing but catching in her dark cloak, keeping her secured against him as they landed on the ground.

A cloud of white engulfed them, the snow cushioning the fall as the girl’s slight figure pressed into his left side, her head resting against his shoulder. As the girl struggled to release her arm from the bind of her cloak, the massive weight returned to clamber on top of them. He couldn’t help but grunt when a large paw landed on his thigh, bruised from one of Arthur’s practice strikes. When his mind finally caught up to the unfolding situation, he found himself face to face with the girl’s enormous black direwolf, who stood with a paw on each of them.  

“Nymeria! What are you-“ the girl’s cry was quickly transformed into giggles as the wolf dipped its large snout to lick the girl’s face. He could feel her giggles through his chest, the sweet sound piercing the cold air.  He felt his face shift from confused grimace to amused smile as the girl pressed further into him as Nymeria thoroughly cleaned her mistress’s face.

He felt the direwolf shift, the paws digging into him again, and then he was staring into intense blue eyes. The direwolf’s muzzle hovered above him, fangs bared and he held his breath. The girl’s giggles faded as she recovered from her laughing fit, tilting her face to observe the interaction.

The direwolf held his gaze for an unbelievably long moment, refusing to move.

“Nymeria, be gentle. You’re scaring the poor boy.”

He could hear the laughter lingering in her voice, and he would have quipped back with a witty remark in response to being called a “poor boy” had he not been in such a precarious situation.

This is it.  The Silver Prince, slain by the pet direwolf of some girl with whom he had become infatuated.

The direwolf shifted again and Rhaegar flinched, but instead of fangs tearing at his skin, he felt the wet caress of Nymeria’s rough tongue.

The girl let out another peel of laughter as he allowed the tension to ease from his body, grateful the direwolf was slobbering all over him instead of tearing his limbs off.  He had no doubt that the beast could dismember him before Arthur and Oswell reached them.

“I don’t think she likes being excluded,” the girl said between giggles, “she’s only ever had to share me with Silver and Tor.”

Nymeria had decided she was satisfied with the cleanliness of Rhaegar’s face, and jumped off of him into the courtyard.

As soon as Nymeria’s weight was gone, the girl slid off of him to sit cross-legged in the snow, her legs lightly pressed against his side.

For the second time in a span of minutes, Rhaegar’s breath was taken away - though this occurrence was not due to the impending danger of a snarling direwolf.

No, this was a different type of danger altogether.

The girl’s pale face was flushed from laughter and the cold, her cheeks rosy and her gray eyes flashing with unrestrained joy. She had flecks of snow caught in her long braid laying across her shoulder, curls of dark hair flying loose around her face. Her pink lips were pulled up into a smile that sent happiness through his soul.

Seven hells, she is stunning.

They were completely silent as he slowly followed her to sit up, his eyes never leaving her - he thought that perhaps he could look at her like this for the rest of his life, stuck in this moment forever.

Once he was sitting up, he reached his hand out to brush the snow from the crown of her head, allowing his hand to follow the fall of her braid.  She blushed prettily as his fingers grazed her jaw and he couldn’t help himself from speaking.

“Gods, you are beautiful,” he murmured, as he dragged the tips of his fingers over her cheek.

Her smile faded slightly as her mouth dropped open in a surprised “oh.”

He continued to stare at her, oblivious to anything else around them as he tried to memorize every detail about her.  Part of him appreciated the futility of falling for this wild girl, but it was quickly becoming hard to be rational around her.

“Are you going to kiss me?” She asked quietly, and he noticed that her smile was gone, her face shifting from amusement to innocent curiosity.

For an instant, he was struck by how young she was. It was easy to forget that she barely looked fifteen when she was here staying at a deserted castle on the Wall alone, more than capable of surviving the brutal climate and defending herself.

He paused the movement of his hand, his fingertips resting at the edge of her jaw.

“Only if you’d like me to.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, staring at him with those wide, stormy eyes, before she smiled shyly, gazing up at him through her long lashes, “I think I’d like that.”

He felt his lips tug up into a smile as he leaned forward.  Tilting her chin with the pads of his fingers, he gently pressed his lips to hers.  Merely a brush of a kiss, he still felt a bolt of wonder shoot down his spine at the feeling of her soft lips beneath his.

It took all of his control to remember that she didn’t seem very experienced in this area.  Not wanting to spook her, he withdrew just enough to be able to gaze at her.  Her eyes opened slowly, her lips parting with her exhale.

“Oh,” The thoughtful expression returned to her face, as she touched her lips with her fingers, a blush still coloring her cheeks, “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

He allowed his fingers to trail down her jaw one more time before pulling back.  He wanted to kiss her again, to feel her giggling in his arms once more, to show her what else it could be like. But he didn’t want to push his luck.

He’d never felt like this before.  It was as if he had stumbled upon a hidden pool in a clearing, not wanting his presence to disturb the perfection of nature yet yearning to explore the depths. He didn’t want to spoil it.

Deep in his mind, the voice of the Crown Prince was yelling at him to get a hold of himself - now was not the time to be falling for some unknown Northerner of questionable origin.

But she was here, whoever she was, wild and beautiful, sitting with him in the snowy courtyard of a deserted castle on the Wall.

And duty was far off in the distant South.

Chapter Text

Cersei

The old woman’s eyes were yellow, and crusted all about with something vile. In Lannisport it was said that she had been young and beautiful when her husband had brought her back from the east with a load of spices, but age and evil had left their marks on her.

She was short, squat, and warty, with pebbly greenish jowls. Her teeth were gone and her dugs hung down to her knees. You could smell sickness on her if you stood too close, and when she spoke her breath was strange and strong and foul.

“Begone,” she told the girls, in a croaking whisper.

“We came for a foretelling,” Cersei told her.

“Begone,” croaked the old woman, a second time.

“We heard that you can see into the morrow,” said Melara. “We just want to know what men we’re going to marry.”

“Begone,” croaked Maggy, a third time.

The girl with the golden curls put her hands upon her hips.

“Give us our foretelling, or I’ll go to my lord father and have you whipped for insolence.”

“Please,” begged Melara. “Just tell us our futures, then we’ll go.”

“Some are here who have no futures,” Maggy muttered in her terrible deep voice.

She pulled her robe about her shoulders and beckoned the girls closer.

“Come, if you will not go. Fools. Come, yes. I must taste your blood.”

Melara paled, but not Cersei. A lioness does not fear a frog, no matter how old and ugly she might be. She took the dagger Maggy offered her, and ran the twisted iron blade across the ball of her thumb. Then she did Melara too.

In the dim green tent, the blood seemed more black than red. Maggy’s toothless mouth trembled at the sight of it.

“Here,” she whispered, “give it here.” When Cersei offered her hand, she sucked away the blood with gums as soft as a newborn babe’s. Her mouth was cold.

“Three questions may you ask,” the crone said, once she’d had her drink. “You will not like my answers. Ask, or begone with you.”

“When will I wed the prince?” Cersei asked.

“Never. You will wed the king.”

“I will be queen, though?”

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”

Anger flashed through the child.

“If she tries I will have my brother kill her.” Even then she would not stop. She still had one more question due her, one more glimpse into her life to come.

“Will the king and I have children?” she asked.

“Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you.”

That made no sense to Cersei. Her thumb was throbbing where she’d cut it, and her blood was dripping on the carpet. How could that be? she wanted to ask, but she was done with her questions.

The old woman was not done with her, however.

“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,” she said. “And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”

Cersei jerked awake, gasping for air.  Her hand came up immediately to her neck, feeling her rushing pulse and the straining of her throat as she pulled air into her lungs.

It had been months since she had a nightmare revisiting that fateful day, before the tournament when her future had seemed to disappear in a cloud of dragonfire.

Father claimed that that future was still a reality.  But she was weary of waiting, and Father refused to discuss his plans with her.  Her Prince remained in the North and she remained in the dark.

It was only natural that Cersei’s mind floated to that foretelling.  It gave her hope. It gave her assurance.  Maggy the Frog had said she would be Queen.

Cersei rose from bed, changing into a new slip and a robe.  After calling for her handmaidens to help her prepare for the day, she sat at her vanity to brush her golden locks.  A classic Lannister trait, her blonde hair was one of her greatest sources of pride - she could sit and brush her hair in the looking glass for hours.  The view was certainly far superior to staring at some of the ladies of Court.

Cersei remembered that day, when she and her childhood companion Melara Hetherspoon had gone to find Maggy the Frog.  Tales in Lannisport spoke of the old woman’s ability to foretell the future.  Cersei had known that her father intended to propose the marriage between her and the Crown Prince at the upcoming Tournament at Lannisport, but in spite of Aunt Genna’s guarantees that she should trust her father, Cersei had been determined to learn the specifics of her future herself, dragging Melara along.

A harmless trip, they thought, for the witch would surely give them what they wanted.  Cersei was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, she always got what she wanted.

The trip had not been harmless.

Poor Melara, they said, to fall down a well to her death.  Such a sweet girl, they said, a good match for the heir of Casterly Rock.

But Melara had wanted to take Jaime away from Cersei.  The scheming girl had reached too high and had simply fallen from grace as punishment.  That the fall happened to occur in reality, and down a well no less, was only a matter of bad luck.  The Seven never rewarded those that attempted to raise above their level.  And in the end, Melara had been weak.

Cersei hated weakness.

A knock on her chamber door stirred her from her thoughts.  She bid the visitor enter, pausing the strokes of her brush long enough to take in the appearance of the Lannister guard bowing in the doorway.

“Lady Cersei, your Lord Father demands your presence.”

“Thank you, Ser.  Please tell my father I will be along shortly.”

“Pardon me, my Lady, but the Lord Hand commanded I escort you directly.”

Cersei sighed exasperatedly - she was nowhere near presentable - but a summons from her father was not something to trifle with.  She had largely escaped his notice over the last weeks, allowing her to hold court with her growing group of young noblewomen.  The Queen was poor company for the younger generation, particularly compared to someone of Cersei’s beauty and wealth.  Cersei was more than happy to fill the space - the girls were tittering fools for the most part, but they stroked Cersei’s vanity and proved quite useful in both the accumulation and dissemination of gossip.  Naturally, such skills were valuable at a place like Court, where reputation and rumors were far stronger forces than honesty.

Cersei began dressing, fuming silently at the delay of her handmaidens. When they finally arrived, Cersei came close to slapping one of them when the stupid girl almost dropped her emerald necklace.  As it was, she had a mind to dismiss the girl for her tardiness and lack of attention.

Alas, she could not tarry.  Even she knew how tense things had become between the King and his Hand in the absence of the Crown Prince.  Cersei didn’t understand the King’s dislike of her family, given all of the time and dedication her father had spent on the realm.  Since Aerys seemed to have little interest in most of the responsibilities, Father practically ruled Westeros for him - he should be rewarding the Lannisters, not punishing them.

In any case, the King refused to be in the same room with any Lannister without at least three Kingsguard present.   This in itself didn’t bother Cersei, for she found no joy in spending time with Aerys Targaryen.  In fact, Cersei had found that she could hardly stand any of the Targaryens currently in residence. The only Targaryen she wished to spend time with remained far away in the savage North.

She prayed to the Seven everyday that her Prince would be returning to her soon.

Despite her haste, Cersei took a final glance in the looking glass, smiling at her reflection.

Even when hurried, Cersei knew she was still one of the most beautiful women at Court.  The bodice of her gown cut low across her ample bosom, her small waist emphasized by the tight laces of the boned corset.  A deep emerald with swirling golden embroidery covering the overskirt, Cersei’s gown complemented her bright green eyes and flowing golden mane. Cut in the current style of Court given the lingering winter, the long dagged sleeves draped generously, while the thick layers of silk filled out the full skirt to skim the floor.  A flawless emerald necklace hung across her collarbone, the finishing touch to an immaculate image.

The image of the perfect Queen.

Head held high with a smile shining on her beautiful face, Cersei allowed the Lannister guard to escort her to her father’s solar.  On the way in, she passed some petty Lord who, while looking quite frustrated, still managed to take in her appearance appreciatively.

Men just couldn’t help themselves.

Once alone, Cersei dipped into a quick curtsy in front of her father’s desk before taking a seat.  She set about arranging her skirts, addressing her father, “You summoned me, my Lord Father?”

Tywin Lannister stood behind his desk, his hands folded behind his back.  He was a tall man, over six feet, with the wide shoulders of a knight and the poise of a king.  He was dressed in dark gold and crimson, deeper shades of their house colors. He was still a relatively young man with, his golden hair cropped close and his beard well maintained. He was also a formidable man - his face hardly ever showed emotion and his eyes were a cold and calculating green flecked with gold.  Cersei was quite certain he hadn’t smiled since her mother Joanna passed away birthing her monster of a brother, Tyrion.

If Tywin Lannister’s hard gaze did not instill fear, then his powerful voice was certain to do so.

“I have spoken to the Small Council, and we have agreed that it is time for the Crown Prince to return - the King has been convinced of the merit of having his heir back at Court.”

Cersei’s heart skipped a beat at the news.  “When will he return?”

“The King has just dispatched the summons this morning.  King Aerys demanded that Prince Rhaegar return by the King’s nameday celebrations.”

The King’s nameday celebrations were in less than three moons.  Cersei could barely contain her glee - her Prince was returning to her!

“It will be your job to entertain the Prince.  It is time for him to marry, and we must ensure that House Lannister is best poised to be the only option.”

Cersei waved away the concern, smiling genuinely at her dear father, “Worry not, Father.  I am certain that Prince Rhaegar will be happy to have the only daughter of House Lannister at his side.”

But Father was not so easily swayed, as he glared at her attempt at dismissing the matter.  “Nothing is ever certain, Cersei.  I need you to ensure he chooses you.”

Cersei scoffed, “Who could possibly present a better case?”

“The King has already declined the match in the past.  You will need to draw the Prince’s eye in order to make him choose you in spite of the King’s previous disapproval.”

She frowned - Rhaegar was a good man, everyone said so.  Even Father had commented on the Prince’s commitment to responsibility and duty.  Would he willingly go against his father?  “But what if King Aerys still says no?”

“Then perhaps it would be best for it to no longer be Aerys’ decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“That is not of your concern.  You are to focus on garnering the Prince’s attention, by any means necessary.  You will not let me down in this.”

“Of course not, Father.”

Finally, I will be a princess.  And then, Queen.

Cersei smiled at the thought of her dreams finally coming true.

“Good.  Your brother will be visiting King’s Landing in a few moons.  I expect you to behave yourself while he is here.”

Jaime! I knew the Seven would compensate for all my heartbreak!

“We are not children, Father.”

“On the contrary, you are very much still children.”

Cersei bristled at her father’s tone, but it was Father’s next words which truly sparked her displeasure.

“We will be arranging your brother’s marriage as soon as possible.  It is my intention to minimize the competition for the Prince’s affections.”

Cersei did not like any part of that statement.  Did Father think her incapable of attracting the Prince’s interest?  Who else could rival her?  He need not sacrifice Jaime for an unworthy woman!

“Father, there is no cause for worrying, no other woman represents an attractive option.  We need not force Jaime into something.”

“That is not for you to decide, Cersei.  Your brother will do his duty as you will do yours.  One can never be certain of anything, particularly not with Targaryens.  I will not risk Aerys finding a suitable alternative for the Prince.  Lysa Tully will tie the Riverlands to the West, and she is said to be a meek creature - sufficiently docile for even Jaime to tame.”

“Lysa Tully? The girl is said to be dull and plain, and she’s a second daughter!”

“And who, Cersei, would you propose, if you are so knowledgeable. The Stark girl?”

She gasped before responding. “Never! Jaime deserves more than a savage Northern girl or the second daughter of a mediocre Great House.”

Melara had wanted Jaime.  No woman would take Jaime away from her.

“I do not hear an alternative option in that statement.”

Because there was no alternative option!  She could not envision Jaime marrying anyone else.  Jamie was the other half of her soul.

Her father took her silence as submission, but Cersei vowed that this was not over.  She would find a way to keep Jaime as hers and only hers.

Father had continued following her lack of response.  “That is what I thought.  Your attention will be set exclusively upon the Crown Prince.  The King is growing more impatient with his son’s bachelor status - the time to act is now, while the Prince still has a choice.  Prince Rhaegar may be known more for his love of books and music, but he is a man nonetheless.  Some maiden is bound to catch his eye at some point.  You must make certain it is you.  He is not like his father, he will see the advantages of having a Lannister Princess by his side.”

A Lannister Princess.  A Lannister Queen.

Cersei may have fallen back on the witch’s foretelling in the early days of her sorrow over the failed betrothal with Rhaegar Targaryen.  It had carried her through the deepest days of doubting - doubting her father, her aunt Genna, even her own mother, who had spoken to her daughter of her destiny to become a princess.

But Cersei knew that no prophecy was more reliable than Tywin Lannister.

Tywin Lannister wanted a Lannister on the throne, so Tywin Lannister would put a Lannister on the throne.

Father had a plan and Cersei would be Queen, just as the witch had said.

And once she was Queen, she would ensure no one took her children from her.

No valonqar would dare kill a Lannister Queen.

Rickard

The ruins of Moat Cailin remained blanketed in the thick early morning fog, not even the outlines of the towers visible in the distance.

The weather had been mercifully good the past few days, though it was clear they were chasing the tail end of a large storm if the layer of half melted, refrozen snow covering the ground was any indication.  They were still at the very edge of the North, having finally emerged from the bogs of the Neck and, after a week living among the crannogmen of Greywater Watch, Rickard Stark was keen to see the rising ruins that signified their true entrance to his lands.

With every step north, he felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders.

There was something strangely disconcerting about the South to the Warden of the North.  Perhaps it was the Stark tendency towards isolation, or the ugly, dead green-browns that characterized the South in the winter. The power games played in the South could not be good for one’s health. The scenery resembled what Rickard imagined was the interior of most Southerners souls - something once beautiful, but slowly rotting due to external forces of nature.  

Rickard, like most Northerners, held a certain disdain for the ways of the Southerners.  ‘Twas only natural, being of the blood of the First Men, to view those of Andal descendance with some degree of hostility.  The history of the North’s isolation from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was a long one, even spanning before the Targaryen conquest.  But it had been the moment that Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror that remained seared into the minds of the Starks.

The North remembers.

Rickard understood King Torrhen’s decision - the Targaryens had arrived with fire and blood, their dragons an unmatchable power.  Rather than subject his people to the flames of dragonfire, Torrhen had knelt and willingly become the Warden of the North.

But no Northern swords made up the Iron Throne.  No Targaryen had conquered the North by force.  And now, the dragons were gone, nothing but the frail bones of a majestic animal caged for too long.

Rickard Stark knew better than to cage something so stunningly wild.

Such knowledge was why when his young daughter had returned from her little retreat at Queensgate carrying two direwolf pups in her arms, Rickard had easily made the decision to allow her to raise them.  Of course, he had forced her to defend her arguments for keeping the pups - as the only daughter in a doting family, Lyanna was at high risk of becoming spoiled - but the exercise was more for her education.  Rickard Stark would have never allowed the physical representation of House Stark to be left to die.

Had Rickard Stark been a superstitious man, he might have viewed the direwolves arrival at Winterfell as a sign of approval, sent by the Old Gods.  Signs of the re-emergence of a more powerful, more independent North. That an extended winter followed the reappearance only fed the flames.

Alas, he was not such a man, yet all the same he heard the gossip spreading around the North.  On more than one occasion, he had heard the common folk mutter of the appearance of the direwolves riding alongside Rickard and Lyanna as a harbinger of things to come, with whispers of the Kings of Winter not far behind.  Like all such tales, the Lord of Winterfell put a halt to the rumors.  For now, it was better the direwolves remain as the North was, tamed in isolation.

Rickard had heard the news from King’s Landing, so he knew of the King’s declining mental state.  Unlike Rickard’s careful curation of tales permitted outside the North - Northern bannermen were incredibly loyal, and proved most useful in such endeavors - the people of the capital passed along their stories readily.

The King’s madness warranted caution, but his lack of focus on smaller business matters around Westeros permitted some measure of opportunity, should one conduct matters with care; though this trip had further cemented Rickard’s beliefs, he was not certain of all of his decisions thus far met this standard of care.

His decision to send his second son, Eddard, to foster with Lord Arryn in the Vale, was one of those decisions.

After completing his business in Riverrun with Lord Tully, Rickard had made his way to the Inn at the Crossroads, where he was to meet Ned.  The Inn was close to the entrance to the Vale, and thus presented an appropriate meeting place for the two Stark men without seriously inconveniencing either.

His son had arrived a few days late with a boisterous Robert Baratheon in tow.  Despite the Stormlord’s presence, the stay had been pleasant, an opportunity to learn about the man Rickard’s son was becoming.

Ned had done well under Lord Arryn’s tutelage.  While Ned had perhaps taken on some of Jon Arryn’s characteristics, his temperament nonetheless resembled Rickard’s own far more than his other children.  Lacking the easy charm of his siblings, Ned remained quiet and thoughtful, with a firm grasp on the concept of honor.

Jon Arryn was one of the few good men that Rickard had found in the South, a man committed to honor and duty. Rickard and Jon had met during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when they were still young men, eager to prove themselves.  The two of them, along with Steffon Baratheon, had arranged for their sons to foster together, eventually deciding on the Vale as a good intermediate location. Maester Norbert had facilitated the arrangement, as he had done with Brandon’s fostering in Barrowtown. Rickard had three other children and Steffon two, while Jon had not been blessed with any.

It had been five years since Ned had returned to the North.  Rickard had not expected such a thing to be significant, but now he thought that perhaps that period of time was too long. For, while Rickard could see his son had grown into a thoughtful young man, he worried about whether Ned had lost sight of his Northern roots.  Ned would one day be one of Brandon’s bannermen in the North - it would not do for him to forget the Northern strength and blunt way of living.

In any case, Ned was a testament to the Stark name, and Rickard was happy to see Jon Arryn’s positive influence.

Apparently, neither Jon Arryn nor Ned had rubbed off on Ned’s foster brother.

Robert Baratheon resembled his father Steffon in looks alone, with the typical black hair and piercing blue eyes of the Lords of Storm’s End.  But Steffon’s intelligent gaze and burly kindness seemed to be lacking in his oldest son.  While Robert had a way with other men, his gregarious stories attracting their attention and approval, Rickard did not see the respect for others that had been present in both Steffon and his wife, Cassana.  Ned claimed that most of the Stormlands were happy with Robert, seeing as he was a warrior and a generous Lord, but it seemed, from their stories, that Robert was hardly ever in residence at Storm’s End.

Given that the Stormlord had requested the hand of his daughter in marriage, Rickard’s concerns were more focused upon the type of man Robert was and the value he placed on those he viewed as something less than equal, primarily his treatment of women.

In truth, the young man’s conduct towards the ladies at the inn was disgraceful.  The fact that mere hours after pushing a suit for Lyanna, Robert deemed such actions appropriate in the presence of his potential future good-father made the situation even more troubling.

One night, Ned had tried to argue in favor of his friend’s whoring, mentioning that it was just a phase that all young men went through.

“Son,” Rickard had said, “ it has not been so long since I too was a young man.  While I am aware such actions occur, it is more the public and outrageous manner in which your friend conducts such relationships that is the disgrace.  And I do not see you acting in such a manner?  Are you not a young man like all young men?”

Ned had become noticeably uncomfortable, blushing at such language.  Ned’s rebuttal, taking a few minutes to arrive during which Robert left the common room with a blushing barmaid on each arm, was apt though.

“There are rumors that Brandon is no better. ”

As he did that night, Rickard sighed.  It was true, news of Brandon’s behavior had become widespread.  And perhaps it was the similarities between his own son and the Baratheon lord that were the key source of Rickard’s discomfort at the idea of giving his daughter’s hand to the man.

Rickard loved his son, and had largely turned a blind eye to his more unsavory habits, but seeing another Lord exhibiting such attributes had been a figurative slap to the face.  If this was the type of man who might marry his precious daughter, what type of man was he agreeing to give Catelyn Tully to?

And while Lyanna and Brandon loved each other—the wolf’s-blood bonding them even more than the Stark blood that ran through their veins—they were also like flint and stone, fire always waiting to spark and burn out of control.  In Rickard’s experience, such personalities had a high probability of leading to disaster.

Thus, Rickard was concerned about sending Lyanna to a man such as Robert. How would Robert treat a wife if this was the manner in which he treated women?  Lyanna respected men based on their actions, and she had a strong commitment to duty and responsibility.  His daughter might love Brandon, but she hated his disregard for his duty - Rickard had seen the disappointment in her eyes whenever he conducted himself in a disgraceful manner.  In her eyes, as the heir to Winterfell, Brandon was a representative of House Stark and the North.  His conduct reflected on them, on Winterfell, on the North as a whole.

Rickard could only imagine how she would react to a husband behaving in a similar manner.  Yes, she would do her duty, but she was too strong-willed to do anything but loathe a husband for dishonoring himself.

In addition, the fact that Robert claimed to love Lyanna when he had never met her was preposterous - Rickard was not prone to fits of laughter like his wolf-blooded children, but even he had to contain his chuckle at the idea.

Robert did not know Lyanna in the slightest, and she, like Rickard, would see straight through such sentimental falsities.  That Robert thought such a statement would convince Rickard of the merits of his suit made the Lord of Winterfell take him all the less seriously. Robert may think he desired Ned’s sister, but he knew not what he was taking on.

The Stormlord had found something he wanted and had simply thought that to get it, he need just ask.  His fury when Rickard had denied him until returning to Winterfell revealed Robert’s somewhat rash view of conducting business.  Marriage arrangements were political agreements, often developed over many years before consolidating into a formal contract.

Even if the alliance were the thing Rickard Stark most desired, he would never accept the offer so quickly or thoughtlessly.

Yet, his concern was not exclusively about Lord Baratheon.

This trip had also revealed to Rickard something he had quite forgotten - the growing discrepancy between his daughter and the typical Westerosi high-born lady.

Catelyn Tully was roughly of age with Lyanna. The similarities between the women ended there. Catelyn was the picture of poise and grace, courteous and demure but well-spoken when questioned.  She was, as Hoster described, the ideal Southern noblewoman; she would be a testament to any Lord as a wife.

Rickard had no reason to doubt Hoster’s word, though he worried that such a docile woman would do little to rein in Brandon’s behavior.  Rickard himself had always viewed his wife Lyarra as a partner - he loved her for both her softness and her harsh edges, for she challenged him when necessary.  His wife had made him a better man.

Nonetheless, Lyarra had still been a lady, even within Southern parameters.  She may have ridden astride, but she still viewed her role as a mother and wife as her foremost duty.  Lyarra had been caring and kind-hearted, with the Stark iron will emerging only if prompted.

Lyanna was nothing like what most Southerners considered a proper lady.

When watching the courteous manners of Catelyn Tully, Rickard had pondered whether he should have searched for another woman to help Lyanna along.  He had no doubt a septa would have been dispatched promptly by his ruthless daughter, who held firm to the worship of the Old Gods.  And after the disastrous incident with the Southern widow Maester Walys had sent for, Rickard had never thought to approach the topic again.

Though she may not act the proper lady, Lyanna was brave, smart, and caring - she had a kind heart like her mother and a deep love for life and laughter. The truth was, Lyanna was his little girl, his pride and joy.  While there had been attempts to mould her into a woman acceptable to southern society, Rickard had usually found he had no desire to curb her wildness.   Over the years, he had decided he was better off not coddling her.  Not that she would have allowed it, willful child that she was, but her strength came in her independence.  

Even before his wife had died, Lyanna had always been more inclined to chase after her older brothers, running around with a toy sword and muddying her dresses.  He remembered the look on his daughter’s face at five when he tried to explain how she would not be learning how to become a knight like her brothers.  His little girl was so confused, so angry at the world and at society for not granting her the life she wished for.

Things had gotten worse after his wife’s death.  Lyanna had spurned all the women’s arts after her mother’s death, explaining to him that she couldn’t do it - it was too strong a reminder of Lyarra.

Grateful that his sons were fostering so that he needn’t worry about their education, Rickard had left his daughter largely in the care of Maester Norbert, a caring older man who had been at Winterfell for ages.

Both of them blinded by grief, Rickard had allowed Lyanna her freedom and had encouraged her when she sought to take over some of her mother’s duties.  In the beginning, he had given Lyanna responsibility because he didn’t know how else to temper her - he didn't know how to raise a daughter, let alone one so wild.  He had hoped she would learn to appreciate a wife’s position within the keep, for it was to be her duty and burden in life.

And she certainly did; in fact, Rickard couldn’t believe how well his young daughter took to the tasks.

Lyanna had boundless energy and enjoyed being in motion - in the early days of her taking over as the Lady of Winterfell, he would often find her in the kitchens, hands and face covered in flour, learning how the cooks made the basic fare of the day.  She refused to stand by and watch people do jobs without her understanding what went into the process.  Not only did she seek to understand, she sought to help, which earned her the admiration of all of the staff within a brief time.

It was these characteristics that made her the perfect choice to serve in Rickard’s stead - she threw herself into any task with such vigor that it was impossible to not respect it.  When she made a mistake, it was quickly catalogued and never made again, a trait that also made her such a skilled archer and knives woman.  Rickard had no doubt that had he permitted her to train with a sword, she would have been a fearsome swordswoman as well.  

Now though, Rickard was growing concerned about how the South would take his daughter’s unconventional nature.

On one of her last days alive, Rickard had promised his sweet wife, Lyarra, he would wait to commit to any betrothal for Lyanna until she was sixteen.  Now that Lyanna had achieved her majority, Rickard found it hard to discuss letting her go.

His reasons went well beyond the personal – he loved his daughter, but had always known she would be married off.  Instead, he found himself loath to lose such a capable Lady of Winterfell.  In many ways, Lyanna had compensated for Brandon’s poor grasp of his responsibilities, whether from incompetence or pure lack of will, and she’d made herself virtually irreplaceable.  She had a hand in the running of every aspect of Winterfell, had assisted in handling matters with his bannermen, both nobility and common folk, and had earned the respect of much of the North with her wit and quick intelligence.  While Southerners may not appreciate her more impulsive whims, all Northerners admired her wildness and deep love for the North.

To Rickard Stark, she was a true Northerner, a born leader, a daring and kind lady.

She would make an incredible lady wife to any man, if he were smart enough to grant her responsibility.  Lyanna had learned her studies from the Maester, but more importantly, she had real tangible experience running a castle.  In fact, after six moons of his absence, she even had experience ruling the largest region of Westeros.  A wise man would use that experience, would take advantage of her expertise to improve his own castle and land.

Yet, most men were not so wise.  Most men viewed women as no more than pretty trophies to bear their heirs.  Unconventional women were not appreciated in the South.  Even in the North, such women were viewed as exceptions - noble lords still sought a subservient wife, not an equal.

Robert Baratheon, in the end, was not unique.

Ultimately, Lyanna’s marriage was a political arrangement, a piece in the puzzle that she herself had already helped build.  Even she understood the role she was to play - after all, she had been integral in sealing the fate of her own brother when she drafted the contract for the Tully-Stark marriage.  It was Rickard’s only hope that he would be able to find a decent man for her to accompany a favorable agreement.

Perhaps to Robert’s surprise, Rickard did not necessarily need the Stormlands.  An alliance was already loosely in place between the Stormlands and the North given Ned’s close friendship with the Lord of Storm’s End - the benefit of the fostering plan.  And while Maester Walys was seeking to develop the North’s influence at Court, Rickard was more focused on the consolidation of power in the North.

A more independent North.

To some extent, Rickard considered Roose Bolton a better strategic choice.  It would allow Lyanna to remain in the North, while appeasing the second most powerful northern Lord.  Roose seemed a decent man, a few years Lyanna’s senior, quiet intelligence though there was sometimes a gleam of cruelty in the young Lord’s gaze.  

Rickard’s only fear was that a marriage would not be enough to appease Lord Bolton’s ambitions.  It was no secret that the Bolton’s had long harbored an interest in Stark blood - they wanted to rule the North in truth.  Allowing the Boltons to have a Stark daughter would embed Stark blood in the Bolton line, would grant the Bolton’s some degree of claim over Winterfell, should tragedy strike the main line of House Stark.  That was something that did not sit well with Rickard.

Alas, he had spent the last few years pushing off any thoughts of Lyanna's marriage, and he found himself disliking the idea more with every passing moment.  Surely a few more months of delay would not hurt.  It would certainly please Lyanna and relieve Rickard of an endless headache.

A freezing wind blew across their party, clearing away both his thoughts and the heavy mist.  Suddenly, the large ruins of Moat Cailin appeared in front of them, only a few minutes ride away.  Had the fog not cleared, men unfamiliar with the terrain might have found themselves stumbling into the remains.

With soaring dark grey stones covered in moss and snow, Moat Cailin rose from the earth like a quiet sentinel, guarding the entrance to the North.  While it might be a shadow of the mighty fortress it once was, the castle was a relic of the First Men, speaking to the ancient history of the North.  It was a legacy the Starks held firm to as descendants of the First Men, the legacy of the Kings of the North.

History said that the old Kings of the North could stand at Moat Cailin and repel hosts ten times the size of their own.  Every Southron army had been broken by the fortress for thousands of years.

Moat Cailin would once again become a symbol of the North.

A light dusting of snow remained upon the packed earth of the ruins.  The workers had set up camp in one portion of the castle, building temporary workshops to aid them in the reconstruction efforts.  It was a large scale project, but Rickard was being careful, keeping the number of workers at a minimum.  He could not risk news of his reconstruction plans spreading too widely.  The rebuilding of an ancient fortress of the Kings of the North might not send the right message.

As they rode into the small camp of workers, his party was met by Acolyte Brynden and the Master Builder that Rickard had recruited for the reconstruction of the castle. A brusque man who had left one of the Mountain tribes to pursue construction work, Harrin had assisted on a few other projects around the North.  He was enormous, standing tall despite his advanced age, with a strong Northern accent that even Rickard struggled to understand on occasion.  Nonetheless, the man was an effective taskmaster, driving his men efficiently and effectively, without veering towards cruelty.

Nature was cruel enough in the North.

“My Lord, it is good to see you.”

“You as well, Acolyte.  Harrin,” Rickard clasped the burly man’s hand in greeting, “I am glad to see you both enduring the elements.”

It was Harrin who responded, his gruff voice and heavy Northern accent almost swallowing the words, “As you well know, we are made of sterner stuff in the North, milord.”

“And don’t I thank the Old Gods everyday for it, Harrin.  So long in the South has made me appreciate my Northern brethren all the more.”

“That is good to hear, milord.”

“So tell me, how goes our project?”

Acolyte Bryden gestured for Harrin to begin, so the older man turned to a rudimentary table, where a large map of the layout of Moat Cailin lay in the center, surrounded by more detailed drawings.  Rickard had seen the plans over the many months Brynden had spent sketching them, but several looked far more developed than the initial sketches he had seen.

“As largely expected, work has been hampered by weather.  We ‘ave been careful to avoid significant injury, and cleared a large part of the original foundation in the inner keep.  Restoration of the leanin’ tower will be more difficult, so we started on tha’ tower,” Harrin pointed to the Gatehouse tower, “and shoulda been further along if the last storm hadn’t hit.”

Acolyte Brynden spoke up to provide additional context, “The ice can be dangerous for the men, and the chill has caused some frostbite, so we have been cautious given the small work crew.”

Rickard nodded, understanding - the cold could be more deadly than a sword in the North.  Harrin continued when Brynden added no more.

“We need mo’ men to work on tha’ tower and keep at same time.  Milady said we shoulda gotten more supplies.”

“Lyanna?” Rickard confirmed with the men, who both nodded though it was Brynden who elaborated.

“Lady Lyanna has been monitoring the progress steadily.  She approved shifting focus to the Gatehouse tower.  She mentioned in her last letter that more supplies should be arriving soon, but she recommended we work on additional clearing around the front entrance in the meantime.”

“I agree with the latter.  The supplies has likely been delayed if the storm hit you as badly as you say - such a storm would only become a larger problem as it moved north.  If the timber shipment did not make it to White Harbor, the supplies would not have been sent either.”

The men nodded their understanding, though Harrin seemed much more hesitant.  The man was known for his efficiency and had never appreciated delays he deemed unnecessary.  Unfortunately, there was nothing Rickard or Lyanna could do about the weather.

In any case, Harrin continued his progress report, “As milady ordered, we begun clearing around the front entrance.  With clear weather, will be done in a fortnight.  Cannot use more men there if we to finish the tower.”

It was a fine course of action - with supplies delayed, work would have halted on the inner keep.  By working on the additional clearing, the men would still be fully occupied until the supplies arrived.  It was a smart move by his daughter, and Rickard smiled to himself at the thought of Lyanna directing such a project.  Perhaps he’d give her an even larger role in the project for a time.

Harrin finished his brief update and then excused himself to see to his men.  Brynden remained to provide a more detailed commentary on the shifting plans, before discussing any other news Rickard might have missed while on the road.  

Eventually, the conversation took an unexpected turn.

“To be honest, my Lord, we were surprised to not see you with your son’s party.”

Rickard frowned, “I told you I would remain in the South far beyond Brandon’s return.”

“Not Brandon, my Lord.  Lord Eddard.  He passed through Moat Cailin not but a few days past.”

“Eddard?  Why is he this far north?  He was to return to the Eyrie.”

“I know not the details, my Lord, but he was traveling with Lord Baratheon.  The Stormlord spoke of his desire to marry Lady Lyanna.”  Rickard caught a hint of disapproval in the lilt of Acolyte Brynden’s voice in those final words, and he found he could not disagree.

“I was not aware they had turned North.”

“You did not meet them on the road, my Lord?”

“Nay.  I left them at the Inn at the Crossroads and proceeded directly to Greywater Watch.  I had no desire to tarry in the Riverlands.  We remained with the young Lord Reed for a fortnight.”

“Ah,” observed Acolyte Brynden, likely calculating the timing in his head as Rickard was doing, “they must have passed your party during that time.  They are moving substantially slower, given they were not prepared for such a journey.”

Such a conclusion made sense to Rickard, though it was no more reassuring.  Rickard had not expected his rebuke of Robert to lead the young man to impulsively embark on a long and dangerous journey north.  The fact that Ned had not discouraged such behavior was also concerning, for it either indicated Ned’s inefficacy in tempering such impulsivity, or Robert’s complete disregard for reason.

Unfortunately, Rickard imagined it was likely a mix of both.

The Stormlord was committed, though Rickard thought it might be more due to the challenge.  He doubted Robert Baratheon had been told no in his lifetime - he certainly acted like it.  It was a similar concern Rickard had with his own heir, Brandon.

In any case, he was not looking forward to returning home to Robert’s suit.

And return he must.  Upon hearing the news of the unexpected guests about to arrive at Winterfell’s gates - Lyanna had not mentioned the arrival in her last letter, so it seemed she was unaware of the impending storm to arrive - Rickard informed his men they would stay only a few days, instead of the planned two weeks. Acolyte Brynden would return with them, but Rickard would leave half of the men behind at Moat Cailin in any case, shrinking their party more in order to travel even quicker.

Rickard knew his two wolf-blooded children.  When faced with a man like Robert Baratheon, Winterfell might not last more than a few days.

And in truth, Rickard was also concerned about how Lyanna and Brandon would take to the changes in their brother - Ned was not the boy that had left Winterfell all those years ago.  And if he took the side of Robert in the marriage suit…

No, such thoughts were not worth pondering.

His children could be a pack of feral wolves if they so chose, but they were a pack nonetheless.  Lyanna’s account of the execution of the Night’s Watch deserter was a perfect example of that.  They would never turn their backs on one of their own, even if he had become a Southron wolf.

As Rickard lay down upon his pallet, he felt the bones of his hips creak and pop.  He was getting far too old for such extended trips in the middle of winter.  Perhaps returning to Winterfell early wasn’t such a bad idea.

Nothing like hot springs and hot tempers to relight the fire in one’s bones.

Chapter Text

Arthur

Unfortunately, the girl’s premonitions regarding snowfall from the storm proved accurate, a fact quickly verified at dawn when Arthur awoke to the loud sounds of a crash and a curse echoing across the stones of the tower.

Rapid movements and a jostle down the stairs revealed a very frustrated wildling girl pacing in front of the door opened to the outside world.

The problem was instantly visible, a pile of white spilling into the interior of the room, revealing several feet of snow built up in the entryway, blocking the exit to the courtyard.  Arthur recoiled slightly at the sight, reminiscent of the dregs of a horrible sand storm in Dorne. Such occurrences could trap the unsuspecting man for days in the desert.

He shivered, both from the thought and from the freezing wind blowing through the open door.

“The wind must have swept more snow in front of the bloody door!” the girl cried, clearly upset.  Arthur could see flecks of snow dusting her clothes in spite of her frantic movements. “We should have moved the horses last night…”  The girl’s words turned to phrases mumbled under her breath, too quiet to be discernable, allowing Arthur a second to fully take in the rather precarious situation.

Within a few moments, Arthur felt Rhaegar and Oswell descend the stairs to join them in the room.  Both of his friends were visibly perplexed by the image that met them, sleep still lingering at the edges of their consciousness, but Rhaegar turned thoughtful as they watched the girl pace.

Arthur’s mind moved to potential solutions - like any Dornish man, he had learned how to handle such traps in the sand, but he had been a young boy when learning such techniques.  Usually structures were better prepared than the abandoned ruins were. As his thoughts churned through scenarios, his best friend pushed past him, approaching the girl.

The Crown Prince surprised Arthur out of his thoughts when Rhaegar reached out to place a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, pausing her steps.  Her expression morphed into something Arthur had yet to see on her face, an unfamiliar emotion akin to hesitantancy, though it was hard to see detail in the marginal grey light that filtered into the room.  Rhaegar’s face was only half visible, but Arthur could see from body language that his friend was relaxed.

One thing was clear as the Prince and the wildling stared at each other, both leaning slightly towards the other - the action was remarkably more intimate than any other interaction up to that point.  The thought was shockingly troublesome to Arthur.

“I’m sure we will find a way out.  Or are you so desperate to leave us?” Rhaegar’s voice rang clear in the small space, gentle teasing accompanying the usual iron tones.

The girl sighed, relaxing noticeably, “I know.  But Silver will be unhappy being cooped up - there’s no way to ride in this weather.”

“Gods, you ride every morning.  I’m certain Silver will survive a few days of rest?”

“She’s not the only one who gets restless,” the girl grumbled, though it was clear she agreed with Rhaegar’s words.

Rhaegar chuckled, “Surely you can endure as well.”

The girl shrugged, then flashed a smile up at Rhaegar, “I suppose there are worse circumstances than being stuck with friends.”

Rhaegar chuckled again, releasing her shoulder but instead of simply returning his hand to his side, he brushed his knuckles briefly along her jawline.  Even with the limited grey light in the space, Arthur could make out the deep blush across the girl’s face.

Arthur frowned, turning to Oswell, who’d approached him sometime during the interaction.   Unlike his own, Oswell’s expression was amused, as if such actions were typical from their Crown Prince.

Rhaegar had turned towards the open door, pushing aside some of the snow that had fallen into the tower.  Arthur gathered the girl had attempted to open the door and the snow had collapsed down upon her, the wind causing the door to crash against the wall of the tower.

“It doesn’t seem to be nearly as bad as it looks,” observed Rhaegar from the entrance, where he was testing the weight of the accumulated snow blocking any exit.  “The snow is still light, we may be able to clear most of the entrance”

The girl sighed, exasperated, clearly not calmed by Rhaegar’s pronouncement.

“Aye, most likely the courtyard itself is not as deep, but the snow is too high for me.  I need to see to my horses still, and Tor and Nymeria are both still out there.”

Oswell chuckled next to him, clearly entertained by the girl’s frustration as well as the fact that she was upset by.  It was indeed a comical picture – the snow blocking the door itself rose to at least the girl’s waist.

“Well,” Rhaegar’s face twisted into a smirk, “‘tis a good thing you have gallant knights to save you from distress, fair lady.” Each of them was roughly a foot taller than her.

The girl rolled her eyes to this, though Arthur thought he could still spot a blush on her cheeks as she shook her head, mumbling under her breath as Rhaegar moved back to her side.

“You Southrons and your gallantry…”

The girl was interrupted as a howl pierced the air, only just preceding the leaping entrance of Tor, who flew through the door in a cloud of snow.

“Tor!” The girl yelped, though she hadn’t flinched like the rest of them.  Likely she was used to these quick arrivals of the direwolves – as for Arthur, he had to admit the animals were prone to causing him brief but painful heart attacks.  

Normally, in such a situation, Arthur would have felt a twinge of panic or guilt in noting that he and Oswell were positioned  poorly to protect Rhaegar, should the direwolf’s arrival been a real threat. At present, however, Arthur was temporarily distracted by the Prince’s hand lingering protectively at the girl’s lower back, how the Prince had moved to protect her more than himself...

“Well,” Oswell observed, “clearly there is a way through.”

The girl laughed in response, having moved from Rhaegar’s side to Tor, whom she was petting affectionately while trying to brush off some of the snow covering his matted fur, “If you are a rash wolf, there’s always a way.”

Arthur sensed she was referencing to more than just the grey direwolf, but it seemed they were not privy to quite enough information to understand the underlying meaning.

On the positive side, Tor’s entrance had removed some of the snow from the doorway - admittedly, much of it was now within the tower, but that was easily dealt with.

It took some time to coordinate efforts to clear at least a path to the courtyard, where Nymeria was prancing around in the fresh snowbanks; at least one warm-blooded animal was appreciating the gift from the gods.

Truth be told, Arthur had to admit— standing in the middle of the courtyard, snow up past his knees and falling around him continuously— was a truly remarkable sight.  The ruins of Queensgate were blanketed in a pristine layer of white, the gleaming blue and white ice of the enormous Wall a dominating presence. Falling snow obscured much of the scenery, but it was so quiet and calm, the only noises those produced by the four of them and their animals.  At times it was so silent one could hear the gentle sound of the snowflakes landing on top of one another.

It was oddly soothing and deeply moving.  It was moments like these when Arthur appreciated what was sometimes said about the North - that there was an innate magic in the land, that despite the cold and sometimes dreary landscapes, the land was thrumming with life.

Once free to make it to the courtyard without drowning in snow, the girl’s mood rapidly improved as she joined her direwolf in playing in the snow.  It was a charming sight; the woman more closely resembled a child at times like these.

The storm had yet to clear completely and darker clouds looked to be rolling in from the South.  It was decided they might move the horses into the lower level of the tower after lunch, should the snow start falling heavier.

Back in the tower, the girl directed them to help cook a meal, using some of the remaining elk.  Arthur had to admit she was keeping them better fed than even the Night’s Watch had most of the time.  Though her cooking was simple, her ability to hunt improved matters immensely - the elk had lasted since they arrived— they would likely eat the last of it that night—but the hares she’d caught the day before would sustain them the next day.

It became clear that afternoon things had changed the night before, when Rhaegar had followed the girl into the courtyard. Something had happened, Arthur could see it as plain as day and he knew Oswell noticed it as well.

It was little things.  The shy gazes, the casual touches, the teasing that seemed to hold just a bit more weight than before.

It was like they were drawn to each other.  Arthur was certain they didn't even notice they were doing it - Rhaegar's hand flitting to the small of her back before he turned to walk back upstairs, her hand on his arm when she asked him to grab something while she was cooking, his eyes lingering on her figure as she prepared to trudge out to the horses….

Thankfully, the storm hadn’t worsened, so the girl elected to check on the horses after eating, ensuring they too were fed and warm enough.  She shooed Rhaegar off when he offered assistance, wrapped herself in her fur cloak, and left to descend into the chilly ruins, Nymeria at her side.

Once the girl had slammed the door shut downstairs, Arthur turned to look at his best friend sitting by the fire.  Arthur wanted his friend to be happy - and he certainly seemed to be smiling more - but this did not feel like a good idea at all.

“Something changed between you two.”  He had planned on formulating a question, but the phrase came out as a statement of fact.  After all, it was clearly obvious to Oswell too.

“With the girl?” Rhaegar asked, then shrugged, “I suppose.”

Oswell chuckled, “What, did you somehow meet in your dreams?”

“It certainly felt like a dream, but nay, it was real.”

Oswell looked confused, so Arthur offered him an explanation.

“In your deep sleep, you missed our Prince’s departure for a late-night adventure.” Arthur turned back to Rhaegar, “Please tell me you haven’t suddenly developed a man’s passions…”

“No, nothing serious. We just… kissed. Once.”

“You kissed once?”

Rhaegar nodded, looking both surprisingly embarrassed and pleased with himself.  For a moment, Arthur felt as if he were speaking to a boy of twelve namedays, not a grown man of twenty-one.

“You kissed the girl once and it’s already got you like this?”

Oswell chuckled, “Must have been quite the kiss.”

“I don’t think she has a lot of experience, I didn’t want to scare her.”

“Seven bloody hells,” Arthur looked at his best friend incredulously, “you’re falling for her.”

Rhaegar shrugged, his voice neutral, though his gaze seemed distant, “She’s captivating.”

“You don’t know who she is! We’ve known her mere days.  She’s most likely some commoner, though she could still very well be a wildling.”

After years of being offered nearly every maiden of reasonable birth, of course the man would choose such a woman.  Where had the rational Crown Prince’s sense gone?

“Wildlings don’t have horses like that.  And she doesn’t speak like a commoner,” Oswell interjected.

“Wildlings raid, she could have easily stolen the horses. And she may not speak like a commoner but she doesn’t speak or act like a highborn either.”

“She speaks of duty and responsibility as if she’s known it, and she’s far too knowledgeable to be a commoner,” countered Oswell.

“We are at the furthest edge of the kingdom, in the middle of winter.  No self-respecting woman with a drop of noble blood would be found in such a circumstance, let alone act in the manner she has acted with three unknown men.”

“Oh, come now, my friend. You’re Dornish, you should know women like this.  She’s harmless.”

“She is most certainly not harmless.”

“Honestly, if she wanted to harm us, I imagine we would already be dead.”

“Physical harm is not my primary concern at this moment.”

“You are worrying too much.”

“And you worry too little.  Don’t you wonder who she is, why she is here?”

“Honestly, I don’t think it matters.  We will likely never see her again,” Oswell gestured towards Rhaegar who continued to lounge next to the fire, silently watching his friends debate the situation, “He will never see her again.  Why not allow him these days of being whoever he wishes to be, a man without the heavy thoughts of duty, prophecies and doom?”

Apparently, that was enough to prompt a dry response from the Prince, “I’m sitting right here, you know.”

Oswell flashed Rhaegar a cheeky smile before turning back to Arthur.  “In any case, what would be the solution? Leave? I am quite enjoying all of this sleep.  Frankly, this has been the only decent part of this godsforsaken trip to the blasted North.”

Arthur shook his head, realizing that rational thinking was beyond both of his friends.  “You are being blind fools.”

Oswell ignored the jab, seating himself across from Rhaegar and watching the grey direwolf, who seemed to nap through their little discussion.  “Do you think she will be receptive to the idea of me stealing one of the direwolves?”

As if understanding Oswell’s question, Tor let out a loud growl, baring his vicious fangs though his eyes remained closed.

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, chuckling while giving a response, “I think that’s a no.”

Arthur glanced between his friends again, who seemed not at all concerned about the situation.  Of course, the girl herself was largely harmless, provided she did not choose to aim an arrow at one’s chest.  But Arthur knew that irrational thinking ran in the Targaryen family when it came to choosing partners. Not so long ago, Rhaegar’s great-uncle had even given up his crown for a common woman.  Rhaegar was in enough of a precarious position with the King as it was - the girl may disappear, but Arthur was worried that should things escalate, her memory might drive his friend to distraction.

And Rhaegar couldn't afford to be distracted.

The door crashed downstairs, harkening the arrival of the girl who waltzed into the room with Nymeria moments later.  Snow was plastered to her small frame, her face bright as it always was when she returned from any activity. She shook off like a dog, a motion immediately imitated by her direwolf, snow and ice falling to pool at the entrance of the chamber.

“The snow is heaviest around the other buildings, but it’s passable if you move around the banks.  It should harden in a day or two.” Discarding her heavy fur cloak without a care, she plopped down by the fire among them, her hands moving to remove her soaked boots. “I fed your horses as well.  As long as the wind does not get worse, I think they should be fine without. It would be a tight squeeze with five horses downstairs.”

The girl’s knowledge of the keep was something they were learning went far beyond simply stumbling upon the spot.  She had become more forthcoming as the days went on, as all of them settled into a sense of comfortable companionship, and it was clear that she had been here before.  Her awareness of buildings and supplies was too vast.

Arthur sensed that such a topic might be a good way to garner more information on her, quietly mentioning such to Rhaegar as the girl and Oswell returned to a lively discussion they’d been having earlier about the advantages of a dirk versus a dagger.  Arthur was not nearly as skilled as Rhaegar at subtly fishing for information - another skill his friend had learned long ago from a life spent in King’s Landing.

At the nearest break in conversation, Rhaegar casually brought up the subject with the girl.

“So you’ve been here before, aye?”

The girl nodded, leaning back to rest against Nymeria’s body, “A few times.”

“That’s why you are so familiar with the buildings.”

Another nod and a small smile.  It seemed clear Rhaegar would get more from her given whatever budding relations they had...

“Do other people use this place?”  There were traces of other human movement after all, pallets and horse feed that was far too recent to be from the last time the castle was fully manned.  Then again, it was likely the castle was still used as an outpost in between Castle Black and the Shadow Tower.

She shrugged, “I’ve never seen anyone else.  In the summer, I stay upstairs, ‘tis easier to see things from a distance.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t know there was a room upstairs.”  Then again, they hadn’t explored nearly as much as they might have, had they been without the girl.  Arthur cursed himself silently for the oversight - he and Oswell had scoped out the surrounding ruins, but hadn’t truly explored the tower itself.

She looked at Rhaegar and her smile widened slightly, “Do you want to see it?”

Perhaps he was imagining it, but while the invitation appeared to be for all of them, Arthur understood that there was some silent implication that the words were meant primarily for Rhaegar.

As such, the intended invitee was the one who responded.  He, at least, took it as an exclusive invitation.

“I would indeed.”

The girl nodded, pulling on her boots before scrambling to her feet, her hand grasping a fur.

“You should bring a fur, it will be chilly and I’m too lazy to build another fire.”

And just like that, she skipped out of the room, moving to climb up the remaining the stairs.  They heard the creak of a door open and the fire flickered momentarily at the slight breeze that moved through the room, before the resounding thud of wood prompted further movement.

Rhaegar rose from his position while Oswell remained as he was, his hand petting one of the direwolves.  Clearly he had also understood the invitation was primarily for the Crown Prince.

Arthur stood quickly, his mind briefly picturing the Prince walking straight into a trap.  Such a method was certainly effective in getting him away from his guards.

Arthur grabbed Rhaegar’s shoulder as he moved to pass him, murmuring softly, “Rhaegar-”

His friend shot him a glare at the use of his given name, but Arthur continued.

“Just... be careful.”

Oswell snorted behind them, but Arthur chose to ignore him.  Not only was Rhaegar his best friend, but he was also Arthur's responsibility as a Kingsguard.

Rhaegar’s face was shrouded in shadows, the red light of the fire flickering across those sharp Valyrian features making the Prince look otherworldly.  Yet his friend’s face softened once he saw the concern written across Arthur’s face and the words had sunk in.

Arthur sighed, realizing his friend would do as he wished; a guard and friend could only do so much in the face of true motivation.

Resigned, he gave a final warning, “I cannot protect you in this.”

Rhaegar offered a goofy smile, one he reserved for only those closest to him, as he clapped Arthur’s shoulder.

“I understand, my friend. I promise to heed your counsel and keep your words in mind.”

But as Rhaegar disappeared into the darkness up the stairs and another thud of wood echoed through the tower, Arthur had a sinking feeling they were well past the moment of heeding counsel.

Rhaegar

That night and the next, after long days of being stuck in the tower as the snow blanketing the keep continued to linger, Rhaegar and the girl escaped to the top of the tower. The room was small, and had likely been used as a lookout, given the many openings in the walls. A few missing slats in the roof had been hastily covered by pieces of wood that were cracked from ice melts and overnight freezes.

The two of them sat and watched the storm clouds rolling across the hills and mountains of the North, conversing into the night before fatigue pulled them back to their furs downstairs.

They spoke mostly of the North. Her husky voice strangely melodic, she told him the stories she’d grown up hearing.  Sometimes they spoke of dreams, sometimes duty, though conversations about the latter remained vague.

Though she made a few mentions of her family, she remained vague about this topic as well: she'd grown up not far from the fortress, and had first visited with her oldest brother. She had always dreamed of being a warrior, had even thought of running away once. But her father taught her the bow and gave her a knife. She helped around the house. She spoke of days riding and mock battles staged in the snow with her brothers.

In spite of all the rumors of Northerners being savages and living terribly harsh lives, this girl’s childhood sounded far more enjoyable than his own.  Her face lit up when she spoke of her family and her home, the good and the bad all approached with an unrelenting vigor for life. He found himself ruefully jealous, hoping that he might pick up some of her joy by merely being in her presence.

Rhaegar knew she wasn’t a wildling at his point as Arthur suspected for her words gave away an underlying sense of duty that only came from having forced responsibility.  The more she spoke, the more convinced he was that she had to be from a decent family - mayhaps not higher nobility, but at least some upper merchant class or landless nobility.  However,Rhaegar still could not ascertain why she would be here, at the Wall, alone. As far as he knew, nobody really lived in the area between the Wall and Last Hearth.

It seemed the more he learned, the more questions arose.

At the beginning, he’d asked more probing questions, which she effectively evaded for the most part.  The more time they spent together, the more perplexed he became - while he enjoyed the mystery, he also wished to know who she was, to have her tell him she was at least the daughter of some lesser noble house.  His rational mind refused to give up, and now that he’d started down this path, the dutiful Prince in him began hoping for some small reason which might excuse his actions.

And to some extent he wanted to prove Arthur wrong..

But it seemed she believed in Oswell’s line of thinking, of maintaining anonymity for the freedom it allowed.  And she called him out for his questions on that first night.

"If you want to know something, ask it outright.  We don’t like vague prying in the North, who likes feeling like they are about to walk into a trap?”

Rhaegar shrugged, "I'm just curious as to who you are..."

She huffed, "No one you would know, and no one you'll likely see again if we are being honest.  I accepted to not know who you three truly are because it serves no purpose. Am I curious? Perhaps, but there's so much more freedom in not knowing, in not being known.”  Her face was bright, as it always was when she spoke of freedom, that he felt himself succumbing to the reasoning without needing to hear the words themselves. “Right now, we can be who we really are, who we want to be, and that's so rare that I hope you don't mind me trying to hold onto it.  After all, you did crash my peaceful sojourn here."

"I have a hard time believing anything is peaceful around you."

She chuckled, "Perhaps not, I'm sure anyone who knows me would say you're right. But nonetheless, it is quite nice to not have names or preconceived notions distorting our reality.  We are here, we are alive, this is our reality.”

He found himself smiling – a genuine smile, not like the one he wore in King’s Landing, but the one he found himself unable to hold back around this girl.

The idea of freedom was somewhat revelatory.  Being who he wanted to be, who he really was. But who was he without all his duties and titles?  He found that he didn’t really know. It was a perplexing thought, to not know who one was without the layers of responsibility.  Suddenly, the temptation of freedom was enough to push away any rational thoughts of discovering her identity.

He liked being Jae to her, he liked the way the girl looked at him as a person not a position.   The way her eyes shimmered with passion.

The fact that she was just "the girl," no titles, no courtesies.

Simple.

“No one you would know, and no one you’ll likely see again…”

An echo of Oswell’s earlier statement.  Maybe they were right. It didn’t matter who she was because as soon as they left this place, they would be propelled back into their lives.  Trapped by the responsibilities those lives mandated of them.

He sighed, sitting up next to her, “I suppose you’re right. I promise to stop prying.”

The girl rolled her eyes at this, “Oh please, don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” Then she winked, adding, “I know you can’t help yourself.”

“Well,” he tipped her face towards him, watching as her lips parted softly, “I promise to try at least.”

He crossed the remaining distance to allow his lips to meet hers, reveling in the feeling of soft skin, supple but slightly roughened from the brunt of the winter wind.

He felt like he saw a different side to her in these moments, tucked away.  During the day, she was blunt and wild, a mix of sly laughter and smirks, though they’d seen her devolve into childish playfulness on more than one occasion.

But here sitting next to him under furs, with her fingers playing hesitantly in his, she was innocent and curious, all that effusiveness she carried normally translating into passionate exploration of something more intimate.  The traits she displayed which made her so reckless and witty during the day manifested themselves in a completely different, breathtaking way when he kissed her.

And kissed her he did.  As often as could be deemed appropriate.

She was a quick learner, pushing the boundaries and then pulling back.  It seemed as though she was continually surprised by herself, every new sensation a shock to be absorbed, experienced fully.  Her eyes would widen in contemplative wonder, her finger tips tracing the spot he last kissed.

He found a strange enjoyment in watching her, the emotions playing across her face vividly.  He found particular amusement in her fascination with his hair, given the long strands were so starkly different from his natural color.  Normally, it was the silver blonde that enthralled, though he supposed he should not be surprised that she enjoyed something the ladies of Court would not.  Then again, her comments were often on the feel, as opposed to the color.

He made an effort to never push her to move too fast, in spite of every fiber in his body yearning for more.  It made him appreciate how men could get caught up in the embrace of a woman, as he found that no matter what, he couldn’t get enough of her.

She confounded him, and he found himself utterly thoughtless with her lips on his, her hands carding through his hair.

What is this girl doing to me?

Lyanna

She knew she shouldn’t be doing this.

Whatever this was.

Lust?  Desire?  Physical affection?  All of it was foreign to her.  Brandon was the one who did this, not her.

But they both had the wolf’s blood, didn’t they?  Alas, perhaps she wasn’t so different from her older brother.  Mayhaps whatever had lain dormant before was snarling to life, the feral beast within her driving her to listen to her body’s impulses.

Somehow, her mind just seemed to flee around Jay, all rational thought disappearing.

She’d never really viewed herself as beautiful.  In fact, she had long felt a tinge of pity on whatever Lord ended up saddled with her for the rest of his life.  After all, it was the innocent, sweet girls or the women with generous curves and spicy smiles that drove men crazy. And Lyanna would never be either of those things – in fact, she was quite certain she would rather die than become some pretty girl who was considered “pleasing.”  Gods, to be reduced to no more than one’s looks, that was the fate of most women.

Lyanna had long preferred breeches to dresses, primarily because of the additional mobility and comfort but also because she always seemed to ruin dresses – they were an inconvenience, and an unnecessary expense.  She passed more time in the company of men, enjoyed pursuits generally limited to men, and usually ran roughshod over any intimation of developing female sensibilities. She had never truly believed there was a need to be desired by men.  Instead, she had merely wished for their respect.

But in Jay’s eyes, she felt like a woman who could be desired.  The way he looked at her was different than the lust she saw in other men as they watched the pretty service girls; no, his eyes were respectful, but appreciative.

What made it all the better was that he liked the real her, the version of her that could be alone at a deserted castle in the middle of winter, stripped of titles and expectation.  He didn’t like Lady Lyanna or Lady Stark. He liked Lyanna. Just Lyanna.

Though she knew this was temporary, and she could never give up who she was, the fact that Jay wanted her, in spite of her less-ladylike qualities…. Well, that only made her like him more.

Other than a quick peck stolen by Roose Bolton in an effort to distract her and win a race on horseback - which had merely caused her fierce annoyance - she had little to no experience kissing.  But with Jay, everything was tentative and sweet, and he was a good teacher. Each touch, each kiss made her body crave more. Though she would never dishonor herself or her family - certainly not after chastising Bran so harshly - she was quickly learning how easy it might be to succumb to such… affections. And the freedom granted by their false identities was a potent thing, permitting her to push the boundaries.

Her favorite thing about Jay was his eyes - somber, serious, a deep purple that was almost black at night, though they gleamed brighter in the sunlight.  Maron’s eyes were lighter, though no less striking. Lyanna had no idea such a color was so common in the South, but she supposed that ancient Valyria had made more of an imprint on the Seven Kingdoms than the books might say.

Sometimes, Jay reminded her of Ned, not because of the color, for her middle brother’s eyes were a deep, dark gray – no, it was more the sentiments held within their eyes, a deeper level of seriousness, everything thoughtful, rational.  While it had been years since she’d seen Ned, his letters carried much of the same tone as Jay’s words. Perhaps with a tinge less doom and gloom; Jay could be awfully melancholy if left to his own thoughts for too long.

‘Twas unusual to her, such brooding. All of her serious thoughts were taken up by duties around Winterfell; when she had free time, she was quite out of rationality.  

Then again, Jay was several years her senior.  Likely his age granted him more maturity, and experience.

To some extent, Jay’s experience when it came to physical intimacy made her nervous.  On more than one occasion, she found herself blushing or looking down at the floor, embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts while angry that she should feel thus.

But she couldn’t help it, and on the second night they escaped upstairs, after a poignant pause as he held her hand, his thumb drawing circles on her skin, she found herself worrying that she might disappoint him.

To her chagrin, her voice came out quiet as she stuttered out, “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t really done this much before.”

His gaze drifted from their entwined hands to meet her eyes, a small smile gracing his face.

“Nor have I, to be honest.”

She chuckled and shook her head, “Even handsome when he lies.  It’s quite tragic.”

He smirked at her, “Did you just call me handsome?”

She barked out another laugh, smacking him playfully with her free hand, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

His only response was to grab her hand as she hit him and pull her into his lap, her knees falling on either side of his hips.  She laughed as she settled there, adjusting to get comfortable until his hands shot out to freeze her movements. His eyes were blazing when she looked up, his muscles tense.  She allowed her gaze to drift from his eyes to his lips, a shiver shooting down her spine.

Time slowed as she watched his lips part so subtly.  They were so close that she could feel the hitch in his breathing as his warm exhales shuddered across her cheek.  Their breath mingled, sharing the same air.

Grey eyes met indigo and she noticed how dilated his pupils were in the shadows of the moonlight, almost all trace of color overwhelmed by darkness.

She couldn’t tell who moved first, but in a heartbeat their mouths were pressed together, melding to one another.  His hand slid to her lower back, pressing her closer to him - her hips tilted forward, her back arching slightly in response.  Their tongues fought a battle for control, a constant struggle of attack and retreat, taunting and dominating. Her hands were tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she luxuriated in the feel of his silken hair running through her fingers.

Breath was insignificant as clothes began to feel like an obstacle, preventing her from seeing more of him, consuming more of him.  She was so warm, her body alight as if his touch was the very essence of fire. Jay, his heated lips and reverent hands, was all that was tethering her to land.

She was burning and freezing all at once, her body dictating its own actions.  Jay released a low moan that seemed to only incite Lyanna’s urge for more. Bereft of thought, she caught his lower lip between her teeth, biting down a tad harder than appropriate, the wolf in her snarling in appreciation.  Jay’s hands moved to grip her hard enough to bruise, one hand on her hip while the other had moved to her neck, his body rippling with tension.

Despite his hands pulling her impossibly close, he separated from her lips.  She felt a growl at the tip of her tongue, keenly aware of the absence of his mouth on hers.  As he stared straight into her eyes, he traced his lower lip with his tongue, a motion that seemed to captivate her attention.  She had drawn blood - not much, but enough to cause a feral hunger in her.

They were both gasping , faces inches apart, as he traced her lips with his fingers.  She was utterly lost in his eyes, the intensity of them driving all thought from her mind, no rational thought capable of overcoming the wash of dark indigo.

She was tumbling down into the darkness, warmth welcoming her to her doom.

She leaned in slightly as his fingers slid just beneath her shirt, the touch feather-light on the bare skin of her lower back.  She would give everything to fall deeper into the flames that seemed to consume her when he touched her.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, fear struck her - not of death, nor of physical pain, but of falling for something, or someone, she could never have.  A trap she could not escape. A cage of her very own making.

In an instant, she broke eye contact, removing her hands from his hair to play with the hem of her shirt.  He noticed her withdrawal and allowed her retreat. She refused to meet his eye as she slid from her position straddling him, though she remained close enough that her knee just barely grazed his upper thigh.  Lyanna stared at the spot, bewildered by the pleasant feeling of that simple touch.

Jay was silent the whole time, watching her, his eyes following her moves.  She could sense it, but it was not insistent or disappointed. At least one of them was comfortable, patient.  She couldn’t tell if she was proud or frustrated with herself. Restraint was not normally a strong suit of hers, though it seemed to be one of Jay’s.

He wanted more, she could see it in the lines of his body and the expression on his face, but he would not force her.  Lyanna was not so innocent as to not recognize the hunger in a man’s eyes when he was looking at a woman he desired. She’d seen it in men for years, even in her own brother when he lusted after a pretty servant.  Most men pursued like a hunter out to catch prey - but Jay was giving her the control, he was allowing her to set the pace. It made her feel powerful.

This man who she barely knew was giving her a choice.  It made her want him more.

And wanting was a dangerous thing.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

The girl would be leaving tomorrow.

She hadn’t given a reason and by this point he hadn’t expected one.  He had decided it was time he and his men departed as well. They themselves had tarried too long at the Wall, particularly at Castle Black, though he was not displeased about the fact that they wouldn’t have to linger long outside Winterfell—spying was not his preferred mode of operation, and the dye in his hair was starting to fade more rapidly than he’d expected.

Each additional day only increased the risk of being discovered, and given the Northerners’ preference for brutal honesty, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the Warden of the North’s reaction to the heir to the Iron Throne sneaking around his lands unannounced.

However, the thought of leaving left a painful twinge in his chest.  It had been just shy of a week here, yet he found himself strangely at ease with the developing routine of their days.  If it hadn’t been so bloody cold all of the time, he was certain they would have endeavored to stay longer.

Rhaegar had never been a carefree soul.  Born in destruction, among the raging fires of Summerhall, he had grown up in a viper’s nest, surrounded by greedy men, false courtiers, and a powerful father who sank further into madness with every passing hour.  Rhaegar was serious and thoughtful— slow to trust and even slower to laugh.

Yet here at Queensgate, with his two best friends and this wild girl and her enormous direwolves, he found himself smiling with more ease than he was truly comfortable with – here there were no titles, no real names, no duties to the realm nor pointless pleasantries.  Life in the North was simple, harsh but fulfilling. Despite sleeping on a straw pallet in a dilapidated tower, he had slept better than he had in years on a featherbed in a sumptuous castle.

He knew the girl played a key role in his state of…. contentment.  Initially his attraction to her confused him. She was nothing like the women at Court—full of poise and grace, with sumptuous curves emphasized to make men’s eyes fill with lust.  Nay, the girl was not a great beauty of the South. She was her own creature, wild and unique, a beauty built not solely on pretty features, but also on the expressions worn upon them.  She was incredibly alive, her grey eyes a storm of emotions.

Rhaegar was drawn to her in a way he did not comprehend.  When Arthur had asked him about it the day before, he found himself quite at a loss of words.  It was physical attraction, yes, but also something more, something indefinable. She was his opposite in so many ways, but as they spoke in the deep of the freezing nights, he also saw so many similarities: restlessness; a commitment to duty, yet displeasure at the weight of it; a belief in the mystical and fantastic.  She valued her freedom and her free will above most things. Rhaegar had never really had much freedom growing up as Crown Prince, so he couldn’t fully appreciate the importance she placed on it, but after a few days with little to no responsibilities beyond basic survival, he thought he might understand the appeal.

He found her saddling her charger as the sun was dropping toward the horizon, one of her saddlebags balanced in the snow behind her as the black direwolf watched.

“Can’t even bear us another night?”

She looked up, startled, before a small smile appeared on her face.  “I’d never be foolish enough to leave when you could come riding after me.”

“You assume we would wish to ride after you.  I do believe you’ve threatened each of us more times than we can count.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, “You all deserved it.”

Dropping back to the real question, Rhaegar asked, “So if you aren’t departing, where are you riding to?”

Her eyes met his, mischief painted plain in the steely gray, “Oh, just to one of my favorite places in the North.”

She was baiting him, and he couldn’t stop himself from playing into her game, “Your favorite place in the North, eh?”

She nodded, moving to secure the saddlebag to the horse. He approached her to stand just behind her, smiling at the little gasp she let out as he grabbed her waist, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear.

“Would you care to share with a curious Southerner?” he whispered.

The shiver he felt shoot through her, her control slipping a little, was quite pleasing.  Finished with her task, she turned to face him, her face composed. She was so close, and he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to glance at her mouth, to take note of the small distance between his lips and hers.

She stared into his eyes for a long moment, her face neutral, as she seemed to debate the question.  He waited, hoping, like a green boy asking to be granted his darling’s favor.

Finally, she smiled again, answering, “I suppose.”  She then placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning on it as she turned to hoist herself into the saddle.

“You’ll have to saddle your horse quickly though, I’m not very patient.”

He gave her a cheeky grin at that before removing her booted foot from the stirrup and lengthening it, leaving her foot dangling out of reach.  She raised her eyebrows, silently questioning his action. He moved around the front of the horse, stroking the courser’s fine coat to calm the beast as it huffed at a stranger.  It was a magnificent horse in truth, young and powerful, the type of horse boys dreamt of. Up so close, Rhaegar could also see the fine detailing on the horse’s tack as he lengthened the stirrup on the other side.

The girl fidgeted in the saddle like the courser beneath her. As she opened her mouth to pose a question, he held up a hand and, looking into her stormy eyes, stated, “I thought perhaps we could ride together.”

Her blush was a small victory; she seemed temporarily shocked by the suggestion.  Rhaegar took advantage of her momentary lapse in attention by fitting his own boot in the longer stirrup and pulling himself up behind her.  His hands went to wrap around her waist, fitting her back against his chest. A small protest left her lips as she pulled her cloak closer around her, moving his hands to rest on her hips outside the circle of her cloak.  Nonetheless, it was a tight fit, her body pressed close.

Seemingly recovered, the girl huffed but still leaned back into him, “Fine, but I lead.  And behave. Silver doesn’t like squirming.”

As they rode out of the ruins, Rhaegar saw Arthur moving as if to follow them.  With a confident gesture, Rhaeger waved the knight off before turning away, missing his best friend’s hardened grimace.

Lyanna

Riding had always been her one source of pride – on a horse, Lyanna was unstoppable, completely in control.  It was the only time she felt truly free, untethered to duty, responsibility, or family. She was one of the best riders in the North, easily outriding most men;  as a woman in a world dominated by men, this gave her a sense of power.

She had not ridden with someone since she was a very young child still learning, and she had certainly not shared a saddle with an attractive man with whom she had shared flirtations.  Nonetheless, while the present situation was not an entirely comfortable one, she did not find it displeasing.

Though they both wore thick cloaks against the chill, Lyanna could feel the heat of him pressed against her back, his hands resting lightly on her hips.  The wind had picked up as they rode out, so they’d both pulled their hoods up. Nymeria ran beside them, her loping movements relaxed despite the weather.  After an hour of riding in relative silence, they reached the edge of a copse of trees which shielded against the wintery gusts.

Silver slowed a bit, no doubt tired from the additional weight, picking her way through the familiar trees. Lyanna made this ride on every sojourn at Queensgate, often times more than once.  However, having adjusted her plans modestly given the thick snow and the additional company, she had not yet made the ride this time.

With the wind fading as they moved deeper into the trees, she and Jay began speaking in hushed tones. He asked questions about the area and Lyanna told him of tales about the Northerners who had first tried living in the Gift and of wildlings camping in the woods.  He jokingly asked whether he should be concerned, since this would be a very secretive place to kill him.

Lyanna shrugged, “Perhaps.  You’re not making it very difficult.”

Before Jay could rebuff her statement - he was, in fact, making it very easy should she wish him harm - the clearing came into view.

Jay’s slight intake of breath brought a grin to her face.

Silly Southrons, always underestimating the North.

The clearing was not very large, an indent in the earth between two rocky hills, the trees soaring high into the night sky.  Ice and snow covered everything in shades of white until a few feet from the pool, leaving untouched the landing and the expanse of steaming water.

The water itself was a pale blue color, opaque from the minerals released from the underground springs.  The steam rising off of the surface blanketed the surface with a thick mist, trapped between the rocky cliffs.

“What is this place?” he asked as she indicated that he should get down - she couldn’t climb down with him still grasping her from behind.

He followed her silent instructions, dismounting and reaching up to grip her waist.  She thought to fight him - she was not some simpering Southron lady who could not get down off of her horse - but his face looked so eager that she allowed him to lift her down from the saddle.

Jay kept her close once she was back on the ground, his hands lingering as he gazed at her.  She smiled before moving to tie Silverwing to a tree at the edge of the landing, allowing Jay to take in the clearing for a few more moments.  She hadn’t shared this place with anyone other than the guards who had accompanied her to the Wall over the years. Of course, everyone knew of the hot springs at Winterfell, which ran under the keep and heated many of the walls.  Lyanna had spent many hours in the warm water with her brothers over the years; however, nothing compared to this place.

After securing Silver with enough lead to move and graze on some of the shrubs that remained alive due to the warmth of the pool, Lyanna moved to remove her saddlebag.  She’d brought an extra shirt to change into after bathing and a small square of fabric with which to dry herself before returning to the frigid cold that pervaded the North.  The little clearing was a warm haven, but wandering around after swimming while still dripping wet was a recipe for disaster and sickness.

Nymeria growled softly before fading into the trees.  Lyanna imagined the direwolf would keep watch while scrounging for a meal nearby.

She noticed Jay’s eyes watching her, puzzlement still clear on his handsome face.  Only then did she realize she hadn’t answered his question.

Lyanna shrugged, “Does it need to serve some purpose?  ‘Tis simply a gift from the Old Gods, a sanctuary from the cold.”

She caught herself before she added a comment about the hot springs which lay beneath the walls of Winterfell.  Such a statement would have surely caused too many questions - she was so close to leaving, and she had already decided that whatever this experience was with Jay, it would remain behind when she left.

Jay still stood to the side of the landing, his curious eyes soaking up the scenery.  She, on the other hand, was eager to soak in the burning waters. Northerners might love the cold snowy realm they called home, but they too enjoyed the soothing warmth of a hot bath.

There was a set of boulders to one side of the landing, near a shallow part of the large pool.  It was there that she leaned the saddlebag and began to unlace her boots.

She kept her back to Jay, her cloak hanging from her shoulders as she peeled off the many layers of clothing.  Her thick overshirt and the wool breeches came first, allowing her to easily remove the two sheathed knives she kept beneath her clothes.  She’d keep her undershirt on along with her thin small clothes, given she had brought clean ones in her bag.

She glanced over her shoulder as she heard Jay tentatively approach.  All she had left to remove was her cloak.

“Turn around and don’t peak.”

To his surprise, the girl had walked over to a small set of boulders at the foot of the pool’s entry, and now she stood, her cloaked back to him and her overshirt folded on top of a small pile of clothes. She was in the process of removing a number of sheathed knives from an assortment of hiding places.  She glanced over her shoulder as he approached, a cheeky smile plastered on her face.

“Turn around and don’t peak.”

Still confused about the present situation but hoping to maintain some semblance of propriety, he did as she bade him, staring into the surrounding trees as he heard the whisper of cloth falling and of water displaced.  He tried to control the direction of his thoughts, but then the girl let out a low moan and his brain was a jumble, the suspense only feeding his muddled mind.

“It’s okay now, I’m already in the water.”

As he turned around, he drank in the image of her.

She was submerged to her waist, wearing nothing but a loose white undershirt which he imagined she had stolen from a brother.  The material clung to her slender form where it had gotten wet, revealing the gentle curve of her figure. The opacity of the water prevented him from seeing more than what remained at the surface, but Ray couldn’t help but stare, desire bubbling to the surface.

She was undoing her braid, allowing the wild dark strands to cover her back in dark waves, a stark contrast to the pale white-blue of the water.  He was frozen for a moment watching her nimble fingers attempt to untangle the unruly curls, remembering the feel of those same fingers sliding across his scalp.

**

She was aware that he had yet to enter to pool, but chose to give him a moment - maybe she had misjudged him.  Was he uncomfortable being in the water with her like this? Her brothers had never cared, though it had been a few years since they'd swum like this, and she hadn't yet been a woman. And the guards had always stayed a short distance from the landing, allowing her privacy when they had accompanied her.

It was no concern of hers, though.  If he was uncomfortable, he could very well wait with Silver until she had enjoyed the springs for a while.

Must be those Southron sensibilities Bran is always joking about.

Finally finished with undoing her braid, she dove under the water, allowing the hot sulfuric water to engulf her fully, her worries sluicing off of her with the dirt and grime.

**

He watched her dive under, releasing him from the trance he'd fallen into. He realized he was sweating on the landing, his winter apparel far too heavy for the hot mist of the spring.

Slowly he removed the layers of heavy clothing he had taken to wearing in the North.

The girl had swum further into the pool, almost completely hidden by the white cloud of hot mist which hung over the hot springs, with only her dark hair floating in the pale blue water as a sign of her location.

Realizing his undershirt would undoubtedly not dry in time for them to return, and not wishing to freeze to death in wet clothing, he stripped shirtless. When he glanced up, the girl had disappeared into the mist, granting him a moment to finish undressing.  His breeches were the last to be removed and folded hastily. He finally stepped into the pool, feeling the steaming water seep into his muscles and bones.

It was glorious and as he ducked down to submerge up to his neck he couldn't stop the sigh that left his lips as the water surrounded him.

As the water soaked into his skin and warmth seeped into his bones, he felt something within him come roaring back to life.  After months in the North, he had begun to think he might never be warm again, and dragons were creatures who thrived on heat.

He paused for a moment, the water up to his chin, allowing his mind to shut down as he relaxed fully into the water.

His hair was floating like a dark cloud around him and he could see the strands of silver that were becoming more and more numerous with each day, the dye fading slowly.  It was odd, this feeling of paranoia that accompanied the slow return of his natural hair color. ‘Twas such a part of his heritage, the silver blonde of Valyria.

The sounds of splashing water brought him back to his present situation, or more importantly, his present company.

**

She had swum into the hazy mist, reveling in the heat of the water and the perfection of the location.  Everyone said the North was a cold and dreary place, devoid of beauty. But they had never swum in these hotsprings, with the pale blue water and the clouds of mineral mist, surrounded by peaceful forest blanketed in snowy white.  She reached the little alcove that she had found on her last visit, the rock creating a smaller pool, large enough to allow extensive movement but protected from the wind that sometimes still managed to howl through the space, with a ledge suitable for lounging.

She dunked her head once more, her hair caressing the skin of her shoulders and back as hit floated about her.

When she emerged from the water, she tipped her head back to stare into the sky.

It was stunningly clear at the moment, the storm clouds threatening at a distance.  But for now, they were granted a reprieve, the brightly glimmering stars and sliver of moon complementing the glorious feel of nature.  The tall trees and the cliffs framed the sky, creating a world away from everything. She felt so close to it all, as if she were one with the sky, drowning in starlight and the heady warmth of the springs.

Breathless giddy laughter bubbled from her as she savored the perfection of the moment.

**

He found her thus, her head tipped back, eyes staring into the heavens with a look of awe and happiness softening her face.  The moon granted only a little light, supplemented by the radiant stars, but even that only enhanced the ethereal nature of her features.  Somehow she seemed a natural fit with the colors of the clearing, the pale blue of the water, the light grey of the mist, the dark greys of the rock cliffs, the white of the snow, the deep brown of the towering trees, and the midnight blue of the sky.

Not for the first time, he saw the North embodied in this one girl, her features the natural lines of the land, her moods the ever changing weather patterns.

**

She noticed him watching her out of the corner of her eye, his figure partially obscured by the heavy mist.  Part of his chest was out of the water, and she couldn’t help but appreciate his body. He was much leaner than most Northern men - certainly more so than her brothers - which was even more obvious without the layers of heavy cloth covering him.  His muscles were long and graceful, instead of bulky. It suited him, a body matched to this thoughtful and fluid knight.

She might have felt bashful in her blatant staring, except he seemed to be doing very much the same.

**

She was outright staring at him, but he found he did not mind, not when he saw the flash of appreciation across her face as she took in his bare chest.  Plus it gave him leave to stare right back.

Not that he hadn’t been already before she had noticed his approach.  Now that she was looking at him though, he could appreciate the curve of her small breasts and the line of her collar bone above the damp shirt.  In truth, the shirt did little to hide her, the fabric completely see-through when wet and clinging to her body like a second skin. Then again, there was something mildly amusing about the look of the fabric covering her figure, as though it were some sore attempt at propriety.

He slowly approached her, watching her eyes widen as he got closer.

Perhaps it was the heat of the water or the minerals in the mist that made him lose his senses, but the Crown Prince in him was no longer yelling at him to be rational.

No, tonight it was just him and this wild girl who had stolen his heart.

**

He looked like he wanted to consume her as he slowly stalked towards her.

And she wanted him to.

He stopped a mere pace away, his hand reaching out to trail along her jaw.  She closed her eyes, embracing the feeling. Even that small gesture made her hum with pleasure.

Her eyes were still closed when she felt his lips on hers, softly guiding before becoming more firm.  She leaned into him, her hand coming to rest on that chest she had just admired. His skin was soft and smooth beneath her fingers as she explored his body.  His hands began their own adventure, sliding down her back and pulling her into him.

Her blood was boiling, as heat was everywhere. He was everywhere, his touch burning through her more than the scalding water they were in.

Suddenly he was lifting her up slightly, as he cradled her in his arms, his one hand grasping her ass to hold her up while his other slid up her back, tracing the bones of her spine.  She arched her back in response, her breasts skimming his bare skin, the friction of the shirt against her sensitive nipples making her gasp.

**

He couldn't get enough of her smooth skin, and the feeling of her gasping in his arms was almost enough to break his control.  He tried to remember that she was young and that he shouldn't push her, but when she bit his lower lip and held it in her teeth and she stared into his eyes, it nearly drove him insane.

She didn't realize what she was doing to him.

In a second, he had moved to sit along the shallow ledge and grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling back so he could silently request permission to remove one of the last pieces of cloth separating them.  Her eyes were dazed, her lips slightly swollen from his ministrations, but she smiled, nodding her acceptance.

He slowly eased the soaked fabric over her head and arms, the warm mist protecting her from any chilly effects of being bare.  He pulled her back into him, his groan at the feel of her bare chest against his lost in her mouth.

**

More.

She wanted more.

It was both exciting and terrifying what this man was doing to her.  He was setting her on fire from the inside.

Something was building in the pit if her stomach, something deep and unknown.

The warmth of the water and the mist only seemed to add to the heat of the moment, leaving both of them gasping for air.

She found herself grinding her hips into him, the friction glorious despite her not understanding the nature of the feeling.  The moment was far beyond the need for explanations and she couldn’t help the strangled moan that she released as a bolt of pleasure flashed through her.

His face pulled away to look at her, his pupils blown wide and some unknown emotion flashing across his face.

A blush colored her cheeks, as she suddenly felt nervous.

“I’ve… I’m… I’ve never done… this…”

“That’s okay,” he breathed in her ear, relaxing as his hands softened on her skin, “we don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“But that’s the problem,” she sighed exasperatedly, pulling back so that she was staring straight into his eyes, “I do want this.  I… I want to do everything. With you. But… I can’t… my… my maidenhead…”

He silenced her babbling with a quick kiss, his free hand rubbing small patterns on her lower back.  “I know. I understand. I would never dishonor you.”

**

Her face fell, disappointment plain on her features as she half swam, half walked back from him, eyes turned to the side and chin tilted down.  She bit her bottom lip before responding.

“Oh.  So, should we stop?”

He chuckled, causing her to glare, that fiery temper of hers never far from the surface.

“My little wildling, there’s quite a lot we can still do if you want.”

He pulled her against him once more, this time her back against his front.

“We don’t have to stop ever,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, as one hand trailed lightly across her clavicle, fingers tracing the fine bones, as his other hand held her around her waist beneath the water.  The motion caused a strained breath to pass through her lips.

His fingers on her jaw turned her face towards him, his lips covering hers once more.

**

“Do you trust me?” he murmured against her lips.

Her answering giggle eased some of the tension, “I don’t even know who you truly are.”

“Nor do I know who you truly are.”  His lips moved back to her ear as he nibbled her earlobe, “That didn’t answer my question.”

His finger gently traced her bottom lip, causing her to arch her back and press into him harder, a breathless moan escaping her lips.

“Yes…” she whispered.

And she did trust him, as strange as that seemed.  For he knew and accepted the real her, and for one moment, she wanted to just bask in that feeling.  Of being wanted because of who she was, not what she represented.

He nuzzled into her neck, placing featherlight kisses across her shoulder. One of his hands rested on her hip, swirling small circles into the skin just above the line of her small clothes.  His other hand he dropped to her leg, tracing a slow trail up her inner thigh starting at her knee.

"Relax, I've got you."

**

He felt her relax in his arms, the tension slowly leaving her body as she let his hands glide over her, sending shivers down her spine with every touch.

She was hot and flushed, his ministrations generating a different kind of heat in her body.

His one hand reached the apex of her thighs and she felt her body react on its own, her legs parting to grant him access to that part of her no one had ever touched. His touch was light and she may not have even noticed it had her body not been completely attuned to his every move.  As is, his fingers sliding gently over her small clothes provoked a quiet whimper.

The sound brought a smile to his face, knowing he wasn't the only one completely aroused.  He imagined she was well aware of his arousal, that she could feel it pressed along her back.

"Jay-" she breathed.

"Hmm?" He questioned, nibbling the sensitive skin beneath her ear as he maintained the slow gliding of his one hand while the fingers of his other slipped just under the band of her small clothes.

"Please -" she murmured, though she didn't know exactly what she was begging for.  She just wanted more, more of him.

Encouraged by the request, he briefly halted his hands in order to pull off the last piece of clothing between them.  Before he could even complete the movement though, her hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"I didn't want you to stop." She rasped, her voice laced with anger and desire.

He chuckled at her eagerness and stroked her side languidly with his free hand, turning her face to his.

"Eager are we?" She glared at him, so he reassured her, "don't worry, I'm not even close to done with you.  I was merely about to remove this," he grabbed the hand that had just grasped his wrist, bringing it down so that their entwined fingers slid to the edge of her small clothes, "piece of clothing.  Is that okay?" He asked, as her eyes widened in comprehension. Her eyes once again shifted to curious innocence as she nodded.

Keeping their fingers intertwined, he eased the fabric down her thighs, though once to her knees, the girl took over, bending over to take them off the rest of the way.  The wet garment was tossed to the side of the pool, giving him a moment to control himself. He had to inhale deeply through his nose to calm himself as her bare ass rubbed along the base of his cock.

The warm water enveloped her bare skin, and she realized she was now completely naked, sitting in a stranger’s lap.  

But she didn't feel scared.  Maybe she should, but all thoughts fled as Jay’s hand started moving up her inner thigh again.  She eased herself back into his chest, relishing the feeling of his heart beating and his hand on her body.

Reaching the apex of her thigh once again, he slid a single finger across her, barely touching her sensitive skin, but the contact was enough to make her body jerk in surprise.

He had stilled his other hand, just resting it on her waist to support her against him.  His lips remained near her ear, occasionally dipping to kiss her neck.

His finger rested on the little nub at the peak of her, pressing gently on the bundle of nerves.  Slowly, he began to rub there in small circular motions, easing her into the pleasure of the moment. He added the pressure of another two fingers, though the motion remained soft and gentle.

The girl sighed into him, her body relaxing fully into him, her legs parting just a bit further to grant him more access.  Urged on by her reactions, he allowed his other hand to roam up from her stomach to trace the outlines of her small breasts.

She was temporarily distracted from the unbelievable tingling between her legs when the fingers of his other hand tickled the underside of her breast, the feeling unexpected but not unwanted.  Her breath caught when his fingers found her nipple, tugging on it lightly.

And then her body arched when his finger slipped inside of her.  It felt foreign but enjoyable in a way she’d never felt before.

One of her hands found his thigh and gripped it for purchase as his fingers brought on such unusual feelings in her body.

He kept his movements shallow at first, allowing her to get used to the feel, but after a bit of time her hips were grinding into his finger, pushing him deeper.

Her other hand reached back to tangle in his hair as she pulled his lips to meet hers. It was a slow heady kiss, only interrupted periodically by her breathless moans.

His long fingers played her like a fine tuned instrument, eliciting the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.  He was losing himself in her heat, in the way her ass ground unconsciously into his cock, how she arched her back and mewled when he curled his finger and hit that spot... just... there...

Her legs were quivering like a bowstring pulled too taut, and with every touch she felt like she was about to break. She wasn't sure how long she could take this before it overwhelmed her completely.

And then, as he moved his finger within her, his thumb just barely brushed a sensitive spot and her body exploded, sweet relief and burning pleasure shooting through her limbs.  She faintly heard the sound of her own moan, the noise barely registering above the beating of her heart. Her mind was a blank space, her thoughts jumbled as the tremors of her pleasure rolled through her, her fingers clenching his thigh under the water.  She relaxed back into him, his body the only thing still grounding her to reality.

His hands continued stroking her gently.  Seeing this woman come undone beneath his fingers was the single most erotic experience he'd ever had.  While he may not be as innocent as she was, none of his previous sexual encounters had been half as pleasurable as this one, and he wasn't even on the receiving end of the physical act.

“What... was that?” she breathed, barely grasping at the thoughts in her brain.

She heard the smile in his voice, though she could not manage to do anything but remain curled up in his lap at that moment.

“That… was pleasure.”

“Mmm…” was all she could muster in response.  Her rational mind had many other questions about such a powerful feeling but she was struggling to formulate the words in her mouth.

She lifted her head from where it lay on his chest, her breathing finally returning.  Her head still felt foggy, the remnants of her high mingling with the mineral mist of the spring and making her dizzy.

His breathing remained even behind her, his arms cradling her protectively while not limiting her.  The girl wondered if she could stay like this forever, in a perpetual state of bliss.

Neither of them spoke for several moments, but never one to be still for long, the girl soon shifted in his lap, her legs swinging around to the side so that she was half turned to him.

The movement of her smooth skin in the water against his hardened cock drew a groan from him.  His hopes of her not noticing his continued arousal were doused as her eyebrow rose, curiosity flooding her face.  She shifted away a bit, allowing him some relief but before he could think of a manner in which to deflect, he felt her timid fingers graze his stomach.  He only barely caught her wrist before further damage might be done.

Her expression was confused as his hand held her wrist, and she glanced at the space between them, even though the opacity of the water made it all but impossible to see the body parts in question.

“I need to help you now, right?”

“You don’t need to do anything. I’ll be okay...”

She frowned, “That’s certainly not what I’ve heard. Isn’t it uncomfortable?  If you don’t...”

He raised an eyebrow in response, “And how would you know that?”

She blushed at the look he gave her, before shrugging, “I have brothers.”

“Ah, yes...”

“I suppose they can be selfish pricks, though. But it only seems fair that I’d do something for you in return.”

She looked at him thoughtfully and he realized she was completely serious.

“Hey,” he cupped her jaw lightly, “I’m being honest when I say you do not owe me anything.”

She scoffed, “Of course I don’t owe you anything. It’s a question of equality. Your...” her voice rose slightly as she spoke the next words, “pleasure is just as important as mine.  If I expect a man to treat me as an equal, it’s only fair I do the same.”

He realized at that moment that she viewed this as some adherence to her moral framework - that in her mind, equality meant in all aspects of life.  That one person's pleasure was no more important than another’s. It was naive, but adorably refreshing.

He was briefly lost in his ruminations over her philosophical justification for pleasuring him, so she took his silence as affirmation that she was on the right track.

Removing her hand from his loosened grip and sliding almost completely off of his lap, she smiled at him shyly as she traced her fingers down his chest. The movement jolted him out of his mind, and he grabbed her wrist once more before it passed below his waist.

She looked up at him and spoke before he could say anything, “You’ll have to teach me what to do, for I’m afraid I’ve never done this.” Her voice turned sly then, as she flashed him a small, if a little tentative, smirk, “But I’ve always been a quick learner.”

She reached out tentatively to glide her fingers along the underside of his cock and he felt himself twitch.  She was hesitant, but with the extent of his arousal, he expected it wouldn't take much - he felt like a green boy, eager for her touch and ready to burst at the slightest brush of her fingers. Knowing he couldn't handle anymore teasing, even if she did it unknowingly, he guided her small hand up him, feeling the callouses on her fingers from her bow. As she gripped him softly but firmly, sliding down to the base of his cock, the water easing the process, he realized he was doomed.

His groan was both a sound of approval and of resignation.

She didn't know quite what she was doing, but his breathless moans and growls incited a strange feeling of satisfaction within her.  There was a sense of power in the act, her hand stroking him, her actions making this warrior in front of her lose his strength. She became more confident, exploring the way his body reacted to variations in her movements.  Not all of them were right, but he guided her lightly.

He felt himself at the brink when she glided a thumb over the head of his cock, a low noise emitting from his mouth, a mix between a moan and a plea.

His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her face, his hands cupping her jaw roughly as he smashed their lips together as her hands continued to move.  His mouth was wild, and she responded greedily, high on the pleasure she herself was deriving from making him thus. They were a mess of lips, tongues and teeth until one of her hands slid down to explore the sensitive skin at the base of his cock. The combination of the sensation while she stroked him fully, her hand firm as the wet skin slid over the ridge of his cock, was mind blowing.

In an instant he was doused in fire, pleasure zipping through his skin as he released into the warm water.  He didn't know when he had closed his eyes, but he kept them closed until the blast of colors faded behind his eyelids, his hand shooting out to pause her now lazy movements.

He opened his eyes to see a self satisfied, though slightly dazed, smirk plastered on her face.

He couldn’t help but smile back, resting his head back and pulling her fully into his arms.

He thought he might never want to leave.

Rhaegar

He whispered silly japes and stories into her ear as they meandered back to the keep, her light chuckle the only sound for leagues.  It was like they were the only two humans in the whole universe, a universe of mystical beauty. He couldn’t help himself from placing small kisses on her neck and nibbling on her ear, smiling every time she shivered.  Somehow he knew it wasn’t from the cold.

They were both slightly delusional from fatigue by the time they arrived as the moon was descending from its peak, keeping quiet to not disturb the two knights sleeping in the tower.  He dismounted before reaching up to pull her down to him, placing a finger to her mouth to stop the protests from bursting through her pale lips.

His tiredness was temporarily forgotten as he held her in his arms, quickly closing the gap between them as he covered her mouth with his.  Her hands found the nape of his neck, pulling him in and deepening the kiss. She nibbled his lip, prompting him to grip her waist harder, pulling her impossibly close.

Gods, this girl drove him to the brink of insanity.

His tongue traced her bottom lip, eliciting a low moan from her, before tangling with hers in a languid battle for dominance – it was slow but powerful, with just a little hint of desperation.

He was lost.

When they separated, he kept her close, his forehead resting upon hers as he gazed into those stormy grey eyes, trying to memorize the shade and intensity - eyes of the North.

Rhaegar helped her take care of Silver, keeping her as close as possible.  She told him that Nymeria was out hunting, but that she would return eventually.  It was starting to snow lightly, but she didn’t think it would cause any delays.

Their tasks completed, he took her hand in his as they walked to the tower.

Tor took note of their silent arrival before returning to his slumber, while Arthur and Oswell remained asleep.  He pulled her to him just before laying down in his furs, kissing her slowly and carefully. A silent farewell.

His pallet had been moved closer to hers sometime during the day’s activities, so he was able to see her as they tucked under the furs.

She smiled sleepily and he reached out to grab her small hand, interlacing their fingers.  He fell asleep watching her breathe.

He slept peacefully, with not a single nightmare to plague his mind.

In the morning, his hand was cold and empty.

She had left without a trace, leaving no tracks in freshly fallen snow.

They couldn’t even tell what direction she had taken.  For all they knew, she’d magically gone through the Wall.

He tried to hide his disappointment, but both of his friends’ understanding eyes spoke of his failure.

It was a long, silent ride back to Castle Black.

Chapter Text

Lyanna

She ran away.

She had never thought that she would run away from freedom. She had always expected to be running to freedom.  But the taste of freedom was dangerous, and sitting in Jay’s arms had made running away to never ending freedom feel all the more attractive.

The guilt had drowned her that night watching him sleep on the floor of Queensgate, as she felt his fingers within hers.  After spending years chastising Brandon for acting on his desires, here she was doing the same. She felt like a hypocrite, a disgrace.  How could something that felt so amazing in the moment make her feel so wretched after the fact?

Her actions would shame her, her father, her family, House Stark.

For the first time in her life, she found herself cursing the damn wolf’s blood flowing through her veins.

So, she had run away.  Away from freedom, away from desire, and back into the warm, heavy embrace of duty.  Her father would decide on the best marriage for their House and she would do it. Responsibility provided a shield to the emotions crashing down on her.

She had to forget Jay and the feelings that his touch had elicited.  She’d never felt such desire or such wanting, and part of her wished she never had, for it was all the more painful to will herself to pursue a life without it now that she’d experienced it.

Her only hope was that her father would choose a man at least worthy of her respect.  Love and passion were not commonly found in noble marriages, but she could live a long and fulfilling life with a man whom she respected.  Love and desire were better left in the songs.

The comforting outlines of Winterfell rising in the distance had never been a more welcome sight than on the morning she crested one of the rolling hills north of the keep.  She’d barely slept for five days, stopping only for brief periods to rest the horses but pushing all of them to the brink of exhaustion – even Tor and Nymeria, with their seemingly endless stores of energy, seemed to be drooping on the final leg of the journey.

But any lingering doubts about leaving the precious bubble of Queensgate evaporated as her weary mind focused on her home, the beautiful grey walls of a castle she knew by heart.

A Stark patrol met her on the road, escorting her back into the life she’d known for sixteen years, her brothers with their Northern looks standing there with open arms and big smiles.

House Stark, Winterfell, the North.  This is what was important.

Passion was fleeting.  Duty was forever.

Rhaegar

One can only run from duty for so long.

After a few days back at Castle Black, Rhaegar had begun to think that maybe he had only dreamt of Queensgate and the mysterious girl who had bewitched him there.  The memories played through his mind constantly, almost too sweet to be true. Perhaps he wished for them to be dreams, for living such moments only to have them torn away seemed to be more painful.

Torn away they would be, as upon their return to the seat of the Night’s Watch, Maester Aemon had handed him a letter from the King.

King Aerys Targaryen had summoned his heir to return with haste - Rhaegar was expected to be in attendance for the King’s nameday celebrations in just under two moons.  It would take them roughly that amount of time to return to the capital, so their Northern excursion was officially coming to an end. The news had sent him even deeper into his melancholic state - he had not even realized the relief of being away from his father until the threat of returning had appeared.

The only positive to be found was that such a summons left him little time to linger in the North.  The risk of being caught was ever increasing, and he hoped Richard and Myles had found out enough about the Starks to satisfy his father’s curiosity.  Rhaegar himself had seen little to suggest the Lord of Winterfell planned much of anything; even the information Aemon had shared with him—that the Starks were revered far more than the Targaryens in the North—was not altogether surprising.  The North hardly mingled with the other kingdoms, and the Targaryens had done little to ingratiate themselves with their Northern subjects.

Nay, there was only one Northerner that was giving Rhaegar grief.

The night before they were to leave Castle Black, Rhaegar found himself playing the lilting tune of Jenny of Oldstones in the library, surrounded by scrolls and tomes older than Aegon the Conqueror himself. Somehow the tune matched his mood, his thoughts lingering on his mystery girl.  Arthur had been relieved when the girl left no tracks to follow - would he have forsaken reason and actually chased her? Rhaegar wasn’t certain, which, he supposed, was the reason for Arthur’s relief.

He had just finished the final notes of the song when he realized he was no longer the only occupant of the room.

"Ah, Jenny of Oldstones.  It has been many years since I heard those bittersweet notes, 'Tis not sung in the North much.  I daresay I have never heard it arranged in such a way."

Rhaegar smiled at his great-great-uncle, "I hope it pleased you, Uncle.  The arrangement came to me at Summerhall during my last visit. I haven't played it since though."

Maester Aemon shuffled forward, seating himself in a chair next to Rhaegar, "And yet you find yourself playing it now. Perhaps you found something at Queensgate to inspire such sentiments?"

Rhaegar looked up. Aemon might be old and almost completely blind, but he was remarkably perceptive. Rhaegar hadn't said much about the trip to Queensgate upon their return a few days ago, and he knew Arthur and Oswell would likely take the story to their graves.  Yet, for a moment, Rhaegar wondered if perhaps his uncle knew of the girl - it had been his suggestion to go to Queensgate in the first place - but, as quickly as the idea came to him, he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Aemon had said the outpost would be empty, void of life.

Rhaegar found himself wanting to ask if his ancestor possessed the sight, for it seemed as though he knew things he couldn't possibly have known otherwise.

"Did you know my great Uncle Duncan well?" Rhaegar asked instead.

Aemon sighed before responding, "Does anyone ever know someone well? Targaryens have always been a volatile bunch. One could say that even the sane ones have an ounce of madness in them. My brother often wrote to me of his children - Duncan was a good boy, his first son, born when Aegon was still Egg, before he ever imagined he would be King. Like his father, Duncan enjoyed roaming and got along well with the lower classes. Egg himself married for love, and he once wrote to me that he should have known his children would struggle to do as they were told. Of his children, only Rhaelle followed through on the betrothals set up by the King and Queen. Egg and his council did everything in their power to discourage Duncan, to convince him to give his sweet Jenny up. Alas, Duncan loved his Lady Jenny, and willingly traded his title as Prince of Dragonstone. He could not be persuaded."

"Do you think he ever regretted his decision?" Rhaegar pondered.

"That I cannot say. He certainly never seemed to show any outward signs - he brought Lady Jenny to court, and he seemed satisfied to support your grandfather Jaehaerys as heir. He was satisfied in his decision, as far as Egg knew, until the day he died at his father's side."

Silence reigned for several minutes, as both men became lost in thought, memories of a burning palace and dragons lying among the ashes.

Aemon broke the silence, his voice quiet but thoughtful, "My boy, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children? It is the same reason Queen Visenya encouraged the practice followed today by your friends in the Kingsguard."

"Because they are to be married to their duty."

"Aye. It is so they will not love, for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

Rhaegar felt the words sink in. Considering where his mind had run off to over the last several days, he could well see the truth behind them - the girl that plagued him had only been a complete stranger.  The feelings she had elicited in him...

Suddenly he found the thought of returning to his dispassionate existence with more fondness. He could ill afford to forget his duty - not while his father still sat the Iron Throne and certainly not when he became King himself.

"My boy, I will leave you with this last thought - life is not like the songs, but duty is a cold and unfeeling mistress. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."

With those words, Aemon shuffled out of the library, presumably to his bed.  Rhaegar understood he ought to do the same - he had sent Oswell and Arthur to bed hours ago in advance of the journey - so he stood and replaced the tomes he had been studying earlier. Gathering his papers in one hand and his harp in the other, he too left to find his bed, unsure of whether he would be able to sleep at all as Aemon’s words spun around his head.

The death of duty… our great glory, our great tragedy…

Lyanna

Lyanna knelt by the heart tree in the godswood, staring at the red sap weeping from the face carved into the tree’s trunk.  She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, staring at the face, her prayers for her family and Winterfell’s well-being having already parted from her lips.

She had been back a few days and the memories of deserted castles and Southron knights had already begun to fade, taking on the dazed quality of half-remembered dreams.  Of course, there were certain memories that were harder to run from, which had wiggled their way into her actual dreams and caused her to wake several times, flushed and uncomfortable.  She couldn’t help but send a silent plea to the Old Gods that those memories too would fade.

Fortunately, Lyanna had been kept incredibly busy upon her return.  While Winterfell had not fallen into disrepair in her absence, Brandon’s time ruling for their father had not exactly gone smoothly.  Poor Benjen had never seemed more relieved to have her return to tackling duties, and Brandon himself had been much more helpful.

Lyanna could tell that something had occured between her two brothers in the fortnight she was away - she had yet to find the time to ask either for the story, but whatever it was, it seemed to have been enough to motivate Brandon.  He still drank far too much, but he had remained within Winterfell since her return, and often spent a portion of the day working with her on the business of the North. It had not been easy, the gaps in his knowledge all the more apparent, but tempers had yet to flair and Lyanna had to admit that she appreciated the effort.  He was also making time to train with Ben, which Lyanna was immensely grateful for. Benjen had worshipped Brandon for a long time and even though he no longer saw Brandon as a flawless hero, Lyanna knew that such moments were precious to her little brother.

As if thinking of him summoned him to her, she heard the heavy crunch of boots on icy ground making their way towards her in the godswood.  She could tell it was Brandon, recognizing the familiar pattern of his footfalls.

In a moment, he was kneeling next to her, staring up at the face of the weirwood as well.  The Starks held to the faith of the Old Gods, the ancient religion of the First Men and the Children of the Forest before them, but Brandon had told her of his brief foray into the Seven.

Knighthood in Westeros was associated with the Faith of the Seven, the Southron gods that the Targaryens had accepted after Aegon’s Conquest.  Most of the North had never adopted the Faith, like many other cultural aspects of the South, but Northern men who wished to become knights in the Southern fashion still had to swear their vows within the Faith.  Brandon said they were just words, that the vows to protect were no more or less important just because they were sworn in the eyes of the Faith. The Old Gods saw all. Lyanna thought her brother might have actually come to appreciate the Old Gods and their solemn faces carved into weirwoods all the more after taking his vows.

They were silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.  The Stark children had all developed a deep appreciation for these silent moments in the godswood from their father - it was here that Rickard Stark would come to be alone after exacting the King’s Justice, cleaning the blood from Ice, or after a particularly brutal wildling attack, when he would spend hours cleaning each of his weapons.  But the godswood was not just for contemplating death, as each Stark used the clearing to seek guidance or ponder difficult situations.

Yet it was death that prompted Lyanna to speak, her eyes still staring at the face in the wood.

“I dream of the deserter sometimes.  I see his dead eyes staring back at me as his blood seeps into the snow at my feet.  Sometimes his eyes turn pale blue, like ice, like Nan’s tales of the Others with their dead eyes – those nights scare me more than the others, something like dread sinking into my bones.” She paused, feeling Brandon’s eyes on her even though she kept staring at the weirwood before them.  “How do men live with this burden? The burden of death?”

She finally turned to him, taking in the serious expression plain in his grey.

“It was our duty.  Taking a life is never easy, nor should it be.  The man knew he walked to his death when he walked away from his vow at the Wall.  But I do not know how men who kill more live with it. Drink, women, gambling, the sins of life take away the sting of death.  But I think you eventually harden to it, falling back on the reliable nature of duty and justice. That is what Father told me once; that he comes here to pray, clean his sword and when he walks out, he returns to the comfortable weight of his duty.”

Lyanna nodded, understanding that sentiment very well.  It was the same feeling she had experienced upon her return from Queensgate - the relief of returning back to her duty, driven by rational thought and justice.

“I think I understand why it is hard for you to resist the draw of freedom.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow, urging her on.

“At Queensgate, I tasted freedom.  ‘Twas intoxicating, even more so than ever in the past.  I could do as I wished, be who I wished. Having felt it makes struggling to resist the draw all the more difficult.”

Her brother frowned but she was not done yet.  She sighed, turning to look at the weirwood tree.

“But you know, as I lay in my furs on the last night there, I realized that it would never be enough - that type of freedom isn’t meant to last.  ‘Tis like the snow we love - no matter how much falls, it will eventually fade and hard ground will still be there. Duty, honor, family, those are the only constants in life.  They will never let one down. Duty may be harsh but it is stability. It is comfort, particularly for us. The wolf’s blood makes us reckless; duty grounds us.”

Brandon was staring at her when she turned back to him.

“When did you grow so wise, Lya?”

She smiled tightly at him, ignoring the pang in her chest despite knowing her words were true.

“Serving for Father certainly helped.”

“I’m truly glad you are back.  The gods only know we would have never managed for longer.”

“Alas, Winterfell still stands - you must have done a better job than I expected.”

Brandon scowled at her, but she only offered him a sweet smile.  They passed back into companionable silence for a moment before Brandon continued.

“I hope you know that I really do wish you could inherit Winterfell.  A fortnight you were gone and I realized I did not know what I was doing.  You and Father always make it look so easy. He’s groomed you for it. I know it hurts him that you aren’t the heir.”

“The latter isn’t true - Father believes in you, even if you do not believe in yourself.  But it makes no matter,” she tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, knowing she was failing, “My duty will take me far from Winterfell, perhaps even far from the North.  Walys is simply looking for the highest bidder - such a match will likely be Southron in nature.”

“I will fight for you, Lya.”

She turned to look at her brother, a fresh round of emotions crashing upon her at the thought of leaving home, of leaving her family and all she held dear.  Living away from her father and her brothers who loved her and protected her…

Brandon grasped her hand to comfort her as he continued.

“Even if I didn’t get a choice in my marriage, I’ll make sure Father doesn’t send you to some Southron fool.  And if your husband should prove ungallant, I shall ride my horse through night and day to geld the man myself.”

She giggled at the image of Brandon, a madman on a horse, riding up to some castle in the South, demanding her future husband come out and pay for hurting his precious sister.  Frankly, she hoped even he would have better sense than to do such a thing.

“I pray you do not do such a foolish thing, for surely it could cost your life.  But I will certainly be glad for your voice with Father. No doubt we will need to counterbalance whatever nonsense Maester Walys has decided to spew on the topic.”

“The man is awfully tiresome, isn’t he?  He was suspicious of the marriage you arranged for that woman, Tasy.”

“He is quite certainly the worst Southron I have ever encountered.  He did not even bother to hide his disdain from his face when I returned.”

“I was not aware you were familiar with many Southrons.”

Lyanna blushed, mumbling something about the visiting knights from the South, but fortunately Brandon was no longer paying attention.

“I went to see her, you know?”

Lyanna looked at him questioningly, so he explained, “Anna, the little girl.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage.  She was surprised he had even bothered.

“It wasn’t my idea, obviously.  Ben made me go with him, but I’m glad he did.  She’s a sweet little girl.”

She arched an eyebrow skeptically, “She is indeed.  One cannot lay any blame on the child. She’ll be well taken care of, I spoke with the husband before the couple married - he’s a good man.”

“He seemed like it when we met him.  A better man than me.”

“Do not punish yourself overmuch, Bran.  The girl may be a Snow, but she still carries the Stark blood in her veins.  The pack will never turn against one of its own. But is that why you’ve been more helpful around Winterfell?”

Brandon sighed, his face serious, “Yes.  I guess I just never really thought about the consequences.  I know Father will be furious when he finds out.”

Lyanna patted his arm, “Undoubtedly.  I would not recommend continuing your conquering of maidens’ hearts with such fervor, especially now that the betrothal with the Tullys is finalized.  Though in truth, Father may be too absorbed in his fury over my little jaunt to the Wall…”

“Gods, I don’t know how Walys found out the truth about that.”

Lyanna sighed, not wishing to speak again about Maester Walys and her father’s inevitable anger at her running away for a fortnight, “Brandon, you just have to be more careful.  Imagine if it was a high-born lady? Hoster Tully is an ambitious man, he would never allow his daughter to be shamed. “Family, Duty, Honor” are their words after all. Dealing with another bastard might put us in a horrible position - frankly, I can’t even imagine if you were to get a child on some bannerman’s daughter.”

Brandon flinched, and Lyanna raised an eyebrow.

Gods, please tell me he hasn’t dishonored some bannerman’s daughter.

“Lya, I’m not made for this.”

“That’s nonsense, Brandon.  You are a Northerner, who has simply spent far too long enjoying the pleasures of the South.  Or do you wish to be known as the whoring oaf of the North?”

“And rival Lord Robert Baratheon?”  Lyanna scrunched up her face in displeasure.  Robert Baratheon was one of Ned’s closest friends, if Ned’s letters were any indication, but that didn’t dampen any of the rumors that reached Winterfell about the man.  He too already had a bastard in the Vale. Apparently, he’d also embarrassed himself at Court by challenging Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

“Ben compared me to him when we fought in the tavern.  Others take you both.”

“Gods, I should think you are not nearly as bad as him yet.  And fortunately for you,” her lips tugged into a smirk, “you have your caring siblings to keep you in line.”

Brandon barked a laugh as he rose to his feet, offering her a hand up, “More like beat me into submission.”

“You know you should give Catelyn a chance, didn’t you say she’s quite lovely?  Father wrote that she was the perfect example of the Southern lady, gracious and demure.”

“Nothing like you, huh?”

Lyanna sighed as they began moving back towards the main keep, “Nay, nothing like me.  Though thank the gods, can you imagine a marriage between two wolf blooded Starks?”

“Winterfell might very well have been at risk for burning then.”

“I should think so.  But Catelyn will be good for you.  Her father says she is an accomplished young lady, who has helped with many of her deceased mother’s duties around Riverrun.”

“She’s still a stuck up Southron,” Brandon growled.

“But she, like me, is being forced from her home to a place she’s never been, surrounded by people who don’t know her.”

He softened, “And she’ll be replacing such a beloved Lady Stark. It will be a tough role to fill.”

Lyanna giggled, “You know I’ve always hated when people called me Lady Stark, because that’ll always be Mother to me.”

“Is that why all the servants call you Lady Lyanna?”

She nodded, “I only accept the title when I’m taking petitions for Father.  It will be strange having another woman take on the name.”

Brandon sighed, “Maybe we should run away.”

“Run away?  Brandon!”

“What?  You used to dream about it when you were younger!”

Lyanna tried not to think about the fact that she had been but a few days younger when she had last considered the idea.  Nay, it did no good to think of such impossibilities.

“Yes, back when I thought Father would allow me to wield a sword and we could run off and join the Golden Company, fighting side by side.”

“And what, now, you are content to be a little lady?”

She scowled and hit him in the chest as they entered the main courtyard, “I may be little, but I’ll never be a real lady.”

“Certainly not if you hit your superiors in such a manner.”

Lyanna just scoffed, “My superiors, now that is a jest if I’ve ever heard one...”

Chapter Text

Jaime

Jaime hated King’s Landing.

He couldn’t imagine why Cersei loved the place, though surely his haughty sister hardly ventured outside the confines of the Red Keep.

Jaime was certain that his sister was the only redeeming thing about the whole despicable place.

And she certainly looked it as she stood next to their father in the courtyard of the Red Keep, her golden hair shining under the chilly winter sun.  Her red and gold dress hugged her shapely figure beneath a cloak that was certainly nowhere near warm enough for the winter weather. King’s Landing was warmer than much of the rest of the Kingdoms, but it was by no means warm.  Nonetheless, Jaime thought he had never seen a sweeter sight than that of his twin smiling up at him. She almost offset the displeasure of seeing his father standing next to her, a scowl firmly in place on his face.

Jaime wished he could ignore the man. Alas, it was his duty to greet his Lord Father first and foremost - and even the heir to Casterly Rock knew better than to slight the most powerful man in Westeros.  Yet, Jaime smiled to himself at the thought of such a blatant show of insolence. It appeared Lord Crakehall had been correct when he said that Jaime’s aptitude with a sword had gone to his head.

Not that Jaime needed any more reason to boost his ego.  Being a Lannister and the son of the Hand of the King had already ingrained far too much arrogance in a boy of five and ten.  To be distinguishing oneself as an accomplished swordsman at so young an age had only made matters worse.

Jaime dismounted his horse to kneel before his father and sister, bowing his head to hide his smirk.  Father would no doubt be wroth if he did not behave himself.

“My Lord Father.”

“Rise, son of mine.  Welcome to King’s Landing.  You may greet your sister.”

Jaime stood and nodded at his father before turning fully to the other half of his soul.

Cersei was poised and calm, her face a mask of neutrality much like Tywin’s, but her emerald eyes sparkled with love and happiness.  Knowing how much Cersei loved the pomp and circumstance of Court, Jaime opted to take his sister’s delicate hand, raising it to his lips.  He kissed her knuckles, very much wishing the digits were her lips. Or better yet, her….

“Darling sister, ‘tis a joy to be reunited after so long.”

“Brother, I am quite happy to see you arrived safely.”

Father interrupted then, clearly wishing to proceed with matters.

“Let us return within.  Cersei, you will show your brother to his chambers.  Jaime, I will expect you in my solar in an hour. For now, I must handle affairs of the realm.”

Both siblings nodded at their father’s crisp instructions as they turned towards the Tower of the Hand.  Jaime offered his arm to Cersei, who promptly placed her hand in the crook of his elbow as they followed Tywin Lannister inside.

Father walked briskly away from them to his solar without so much as a glance at his children.  Jaime and Cersei on the other hand slowly meandered through the halls of the tower, Cersei guiding him easily to whichever chambers had been prepared for him.

Once inside, Jaime took in the space, unbuckling his sword and resting it near the door.  While the accommodations were better than what he had in Lord Crakehall’s service, they still paled in comparison to his rooms at Casterly Rock.  

Cersei entered with him and quickly dismissed the servants who had been tidying the room.  The two girls scurried out in a hurry, eyes cast down like frightened animals beneath the glare of his beautiful sister.  He had no doubt that the servants of the Red Keep had learned of Cersei’s fierce temper when faced with incompetence.

He smiled when he heard the heavy thud of the door being barred and barely turned in time to catch his sister flying into his arms.

Clothes were a barrier.  Shirts shed, laces loosened, and then he was home, where he belonged.

The twins had shared the same womb, had entered the world together, each body a mere extension of the other.  Only with her did he feel complete.

His sister, his friend, his lover.

As they lay tangled on top of the crimson silk sheets, sweat shining on their skin, Jaime basked in the feeling of contentment.  He watched her chest rise and fall beside him, her hair slightly disheveled and her green eyes bright with pleasure.

Certain societies might say what he shared with Cersei was wrong, but Jaime would never believe them.  How could something that felt so right be wrong?

In any case, the Targaryens had long practiced incest.  In fact, they married brother to sister even when love was not a factor - the King and the Queen themselves were siblings, born of parents who were siblings.  The Crown Prince that Father had promised Cersei was the product of incest twice over. Why should the Targaryens alone be above the rules of society? Were not the Lannisters as rich and as powerful?  Why should Jaime and Cersei be kept apart? The Lannisters did not need to be bothered by the opinions of sheep, of lesser people.

Cersei turned onto her stomach, her long lithe leg fitted perfectly between his legs, her torso balancing partially on his chest.  Her blonde curls fell in a curtain around her face, tickling him where they grazed across his skin.

“Father says I am going to be Queen.”

Jaime chuckled, his free hand skimming along the skin of her bare back.  He smirked wider when he saw her shiver at the action.

“Father has been telling you such for years, Cersei.  What makes you so sure now?”

“I happen to know that Prince Rhaegar is returning to King’s Landing shortly.  It is high time he marries, and I am the only viable option.”

“How do you know you are the only viable option?  Didn’t the King reject the betrothal before?”

“That was years ago.  And the King has since granted Rhaegar the right to choose, provided he makes a decision in a timely manner.”

“And what makes you think he will choose you?”

Cersei scowled at him, attempting to pull away, but he held her to him.

“I am the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, daughter to the wealthiest and most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.  It is only right that I marry the most beautiful and gracious man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jaime frowned but Cersei continued, her eyes gazing towards the window.

“Just imagine, the Silver Dragon King and the Golden Lion Queen.  Father says he is King Jaehaerys come again, that he will be the best King that Westeros has seen in a century.  And I will be there, by his side, a crown of gold and rubies. We will rule together, all powerful and courtly. But at night, it will be passion - he will be all mine, and I shall give him silver and golden haired babes, dragon lions to sit the Iron Throne.”

“How do you know he won’t tire of you and take a mistress?”

She scoffed, “Do you ever tire of me, brother?”

“Nay, but I am not your husband, nor the future King.”

“If only we were Targaryens, brother, then you could be both.”

“I find I much prefer to be a Lannister.”

“Princess Cersei Targaryen.  It has a nice ring to it I suppose.”

“You will give up the Lannister name?”

“Nay, never, but I shall of course use my husband’s name when he so desires.”

Jaime found the idea to not be comforting at all.  He had nothing against Rhaegar Targaryen himself - nay, it was the fact that his twin and lover was so wrapped up in her desire for a man she barely knew.  She pined over the Crown Prince while still flushed from sex with the man she claimed to love above all others.

Jaime grimaced, his hands tightening reflexively on her hips, pulling her closer to him.

“What, brother, are you jealous?”

“How can I not be, when the woman I love will belong to another man.”

“Nonsense.  I will always be yours, just as you will always be mine.”

He turned to rise out of bed, grabbing and pulling his discarded breeches back on.

“You know Father will require that I marry.  I imagine it is the reason for his summons. I am not to be in King’s Landing long.”

Cersei pouted, her beautiful plump bottom lip jutting out just so.  He leaned forward to catch it between his teeth but she pulled away just before he could.

“You will not ask to stay longer?  To spend more time with me?”

“Cers, you know I would if I could,” he responded, donning his shirt once more, “This is Father’s orders we are talking about though.”

“He will listen if you ask him for longer in the city!  Perhaps you could train here for some time with one of the knights in the Red Keep.  Mayhaps a Kingsguard even.”

“I do not think he would agree to such a scheme.”

That got his beautiful sister out of the bed, as she ran up to grasp his shirt, “Oh please, won’t you ask though?  Jaime, I need you, I need you here by my side. I miss you so much when you are away.”

He stepped away from her, glaring at her.  “Only because your precious Silver Prince isn’t here.”

She pulled him back to her, a finger tracing the lines of his neck as she gazed up at him from under her lashes.

“Nay, brother, no one fills me like you do.  Even Rhaegar Targaryen will not replace you in my life or in my heart.  Stay with me, Jaime. I need my lover here by my side, in my bed.”

Jaime could never truly walk away from her, especially not when she rose on her tiptoes and captured his lips so sweetly.  She was his weakness, but gods, there never was a more delicious weakness.

A knock on the door broke them apart just as her hands had moved to remove his shirt again.  Cersei quickly moved to grab her discarded dress, stepping back into the blessedly simple dress and lacing it back up - now that he saw it, Jaime frowned.  Cersei hardly ever wore simple dresses. She must have known she would need to redress quickly.

“My Lord Jaime,” yelled the guard from the other side of the door, “I apologize to bother you, but ‘tis the hour appointed by your Lord Father for your meeting.”

“Very well,” he replied, eying Cersei as she finished lacing the dress, her hands straightening her hair.

“You will ask him, won’t you, brother?”

His sister gave him the devastating smile that had broken hearts and he could not resist her.  He would do anything to keep that smile directed at him.

“Of course, sister.”

He winked at her before entering the hall, following the guard to the Hand of the King’s solar.  Within, he found his father writing a letter, his concentration undisturbed by the arrival of his son.

The door thumped close as Jaime moved to stand before his father, who seemed to remain unaware of, or perhaps was deliberately ignoring, his presence.

“Father, you wished to see me?”

His father glanced up before returning to his letter. “It is time we speak of your future.”  

Jaime took a seat in the chair in front of his father’s desk, just as his father’s eyes flashed up to him.

“Do not get comfortable.  You will not be long in the city as I am sending you to Riverrun.  If all goes according to plan, you will wed the second Tully sister.  I would have preferred the eldest, but it seems Lord Stark has secured her already.”

“What happened to Princess Elia?”  Jaime remembered the pretty Dornish girl.  Though she and her brother Oberyn had not been as kind to Tyrion as he had hoped, Elia had been kind to Jaime himself, and witty, and his mother had always wished for him to marry her.

“Princess Elia married Baelor Hightower over a year ago.  It is said she was found to no longer be a maiden. In any case, we will not ally ourselves with the Dornish.  Mariah Martell is smart, but her health is failing and her eldest is said to be cautious and slow to action. The Tyrell girls are both married, and Lord Arryn has no daughters or nieces.”

“What about the North?  I recall Tyrion telling me that Lord Stark has a daughter.”

Tywin grimaced, “Aye, Lyanna.  She is a half a year older than you.  The Stark maester even suggested her, for a ridiculous price.  But she is of no concern.”

“What do you mean?”

“It matters not.  You will leave for Riverrun in three days to deliver missives related to some taxation concerns in the Riverlands.  I expect you to remain several weeks, learning of the castle and the lands, as well as getting to know the girl.”

Jaime understood that the trip was not solely for the purpose of his introduction to a potential wife, but to determine the nature and lands of the Lord Paramount that would be tied to the Lannisters by marriage.

“Father, I was actually hoping to remain for a bit longer in King’s Landing.”

“Were you?” His father was clearly irritated. “For what purpose? I do not need you here.”

“I thought perhaps I could continue my training here in the Red Keep.”

Tywin stared at him for a moment before speaking again.

“Is Lord Crakehall’s instruction somehow insufficient?”

“On the contrary, Lord Crakehall has been an excellent instructor.  Perhaps too good of one.”

“Too good of an instructor you say.”

It was not a question but Jaime continued - it was rare to get such an opening with Tywin Lannister.

“Indeed.  But many of the greatest knights in the realm are stationed in the Red Keep, some without squires to train.  As the son of the Hand of the King, I would be remiss to ignore such an opportunity to better my skills.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow at him, the only movement on his father’s neutral face.

“I thought perhaps to ask one of the Kingsguard to train with them for some time.  Not for long, and it would not impede any trips to Riverrun.”

Not that I have any desire to spend time at Riverrun.

His father stared at him for a moment as if considering the notion.  Then he surprised Jaime by responding.

“Perhaps it is not a bad idea.  You would gain exposure to the greatest knights in the Kingdoms and it would allow you time to learn some of the responsibilities of the realm at my side.  Very well, you may ask if they will take you on and I will inform Lord Tully that you shall visit at a later time. But be smart, I will not have you begging.  Lannisters do not beg.”

“Of course not, Father.”

“Good, Jaime.  I had not thought such strategic thinking was within you, but it seems your time with Lord Crakehall has been beneficial.”

Jaime blustered at the back-handed compliment, particularly knowing that the idea was not his own.  But the thought that he had succeeded far surpassed any insult his father could hand him.

Jaime bowed, taking leave of his father a quickly as he could without notice; he couldn’t wait to see the smile on Cersei’s face.

Arthur

He’s thinking about the girl again .

It had been a long, cold few days of riding from Castle Black towards Winterfell, and the Crown Prince had once more been alternating between his usual deep melancholy, a modest anxiety over their return to King’s Landing and King Aerys, and some unknown emotion akin to longing.

When it came to the latter emotion, Arthur had never seen his friend this way.  Rhaegar was not the type of man driven by sins of the flesh. He was not fond of gambling (despite a particular talent for counting cards), did not enjoy the company of courtesans or frequent brothels, and rarely drank to excess.  He was an intellect with a firm sense of justice, and a diligent knight, though he derived no joy from the song of swords like Arthur. He took his duty to the realm as Crown Prince seriously, recently serving as King often in all but name.  If it wasn't for his irrational obsession with this prophecy, the man could be said to be quite perfect - there were certainly many who called him thus, though they didn't know him like Arthur. They weren't there late at night, when Rhaegar was plagued by self-doubt and fear of the destruction bearing down on his people— a war he didn't understand but was convinced was coming.

After years with Rhaegar, growing up together, becoming knights and men together, and then guarding the Prince, he had heard enough of the cursed prophecy to last him a thousand years.  The promised prince, whose song will be the song of ice and fire, come to save the world from the great war to come. He knew Rhaegar had found more information at the Wall, stories and tales of the Long Night, the Others and a savior wielding a flaming sword.  Arthur hadn't paid much attention to understand it all, but there did seem to be some connection between the stories and the North.

Maybe Rhaegar should adopt part of the Starks' family saying – “Winter is coming.”

The thought struck Arthur as odd, causing him to furrow his brow, purging all thoughts of the beautiful girl from Queensgate.  He remembered something he had overheard Brandon Stark say, the one time he had encountered the heir to Winterfell, at a tourney in Lannisport.

"Lya is as Northern as they come.  The girl practically has ice running through her veins."

If any place is as likely to have some mystical villains appearing from nowhere, it would undoubtedly be this hell hole with all its blasted snow and freezing winds.

"What if Lyanna Stark is the "ice"?"

Arthur didn't even realize he had spoken until Rhaegar's eyes were boring into him.

"What?"

Arthur had never been bookish like Rhaegar, preferring his sword to a scroll any day.  Explaining the tangled thoughts in his mind was not something he did often, but he had already begun, so he knew he owed his friend some semblance of an explanation.

He shrugged, "The song for your prophecy is of both ice and fire, is it not?  I was just thinking on the words you used a few nights ago - "fighting the great war to come" - and how you could adopt some of the Stark words as your new House saying.  They are awfully similar, ominous."

"Winter is Coming," breathed Rhaegar.

"Aye.  Brandon Stark yelled it whenever he won a sparring match at Lannisport."

Rhaegar chuckled, probably remembering a young Brandon, reckless and wild with a sword, taking on knights in the yard.

Arthur continued, figuring it better to close the loop of his thoughts, "Brandon said something else at Lannisport too - though he was certainly a few deep in his cups..." His friend nodded for him to continue, "He said his sister Lyanna was as Northern as they come, that she practically has ice running through her veins."

He watched as his friend weighed the words, the wheels turning within his mind.  Arthur knew next to nothing about the Northern girl, as much as anyone else at court for that matter.  He knew Aerys had considered demanding the girl's hand for Rhaegar, the King’s idea of a punishment for both his heir and the illusive Starks.  The King saw treachery in every shadow, and he was not well pleased that the Starks had “hidden” the girl. The feat was impressive, in fact, as there were more than enough stories about her father and brothers, even the youngest. It was like the old gods of the North conspired to protect the girl's image.

In any case, she was a maiden of six and ten from a great house, and if she could fulfill but a sliver of Rhaegar's damn prophecy while solving the problem of his inevitable requirement to marry, the girl would already prove a good enough match.  It was certainly preferable to Cersei Lannister.

"I had never considered the "ice and fire" from that perspective, though I suppose it's possible. The Targaryen blood as the fire, the Stark blood the ice.  It would seem to fit, a fulfillment of the Pact of Ice and Fire." Rhaegar remained pensive, seemingly neutral to the idea.

The Prince had never expressed much emotion regarding his eventual marriage, except modest annoyance at both of his parents for their politicizing of the whole matter.  As far as Arthur could tell, if it weren't for the need for children to continue his line and complete the damnable prophecy, Rhaegar would gladly remain unmarried, surrounded by his books.

This wasn’t due to lack of options.  Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms had tried parading a daughter or two in front of the Crown Prince in an attempt at capturing his eye - or at least six of the seven, given the North had withheld their precious Wolf Maid.  Beautiful and plain, smart and dull, young and old, maiden and widow, Rhaegar had seen the full spectrum of women without finding a single one worth pursuing.

For a while, his friend had indeed tried, dancing with the women at feasts and speaking to them in court.  Rhaegar would inevitably return from these events, talking about the frivolous nature of women and stating he couldn't imagine marrying a woman who saw only his crown.   To be sure, Rhaegar had grown more indifferent in the last few years, but Arthur knew these things still bothered his friend beneath the princely exterior.

For this, Arthur was glad Rhaegar had had the foresight to decline the Martell's offer - Elia was a lovely woman, graceful and witty, but Arthur knew that Elia had grown up believing herself a Princess.  The Martells wanted Rhaegar precisely for the crown he would wear - he was a means to an end, a way to make Elia a real Queen. Ashara had also pointed out that, while Elia could manage passably in Court, she was the exact opposite of what Rhaegar really needed.  Elia was sharp of mind but weak in body; her poor health would likely make bearing multiple children difficult. She was not a challenging or imposing figure to craft the court to fit her needs, nor was she docile or sweet enough to play the conciliator. Rhaegar was thoughtful enough for two - he needed a wife to balance and complement him.  If there was such a woman of decent enough birth, Arthur wondered where she was hiding.

More than one lady of the court had even offered herself outside of marriage - not that Rhaegar would ever avail himself of this type of mistress; he was far too proper to dishonor a lady, much to the chagrin of many noblewomen.  His friend had taken a couple of lovers early in his teenage years, but all of these liaisons had been brief and all had ended years ago.

This is what made the Prince's little fling at Queensgate so perplexing - to both Arthur and Rhaegar himself.  The girl had affected Rhaegar in a way Arthur had never seen. Her identity still irked them - well, not Oswell, who said it didn't matter.  She had been wild and dangerous enough to be a wildling, educated enough to be noble, but too unguarded to be from the main branch of a noble house.  Ultimately, Oswell was right in the end - they would never see the girl again.

Arthur saw how that fact pained Rhaegar – he felt bad for his friend, who had been tempted with the taste of infatuation, only to have it taken away to remain forever out of reach.  But that didn’t stop Arthur from secretly thanking the Seven that the girl had left in the dead of night, leaving no trail in the snow. While the Crown Prince knew he would never be able to pursue a woman outside of the nobility, he had proven to be rather impulsive when it came to the girl.

No, if Rhaegar wanted a Northerner, he would have to settle for Lyanna Stark.  The Stark girl's brothers seemed to manage well enough in proper company, particularly the second one who had been at Court the year before with that idiot Robert Baratheon.  Arthur had never believed in Court rumors, but he prayed the Stark girl wasn't as uncouth as the whispers said.

Ned

As the surroundings became more familiar, a peculiar mix of excitement and anxiety settled in Ned’s gut.  It had been more than four years since he last rode through these woods and it felt as though time had frozen.  The woods had not changed, though he supposed he shouldn’t have expected them to; they had remained thus since the time of the Kings of Winter.  He was just another Stark, a second son at that, who would one day be forgotten in the annals of history.

This would all be Brandon’s after all.

A gust of frigid air blew past their party and he heard a string of mumbled curses from the bulking mass of furs riding beside him.

“Seven hells, how do people live in this blasted wasteland?  This is a new level of torture. You Northerners are bloody crazy if you think there is anything beautiful here.”

Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, was by no means a soft man.  Ned’s best friend was a mass of muscle, standing at six and half feet, with piercing blue eyes and shaggy black hair – his laugh was as powerful as a swing of his warhammer.  Bold and boisterous, rash really, the man was committed to pushing his suit for the hand of Ned’s sweet sister Lyanna – so committed that he had impulsively convinced Ned to accompany him on his journey to meet Lord Stark at the Inn at the Crossroads.

Yet, Robert failed to understand that winter was a very different beast in the North.  While fostering at they Eyrie, Robert had never enjoyed the snow and ice that arrived in the depths of winter.  In fact, he’d once proclaimed the only good thing about winter was that women were more desperate for warmth, which he was more than willing to provide, ‘if granted access to their personal pools of heat.’

It came as no surprise that Robert was less than pleased about the weather in the North, where snow was not infrequent even in summer.  While Ned was busy inhaling the familiar scents and embracing the cool grays and whites of his childhood, his friend’s mood was steadily souring with each gust of wind.  It helped matters none that the Lord of Storm’s End had started the journey in a foul mood.

Robert Baratheon was many things, patient was not one of them.

He had spent the entire ride to the Inn at the Crossroads, where Ned had agreed to meet his father, japing about how soon enough they would be brothers for real.  Robert had talked about the jewels and dresses he would buy for “his Lya,” how he would train their boys in swords and Lya would teach their daughters to be perfect ladies.  His friend’s joy seemed so genuine that Ned didn’t have the heart to tell Rob that he wasn’t sure Lyanna would really like any of that – except maybe the training with a sword, and then only if she could partake.

Robert’s mirth quickly twisted into displeasure when, upon their arrival at the Inn, Rickard Stark refused to even broach the subject – he never conducted such business on the road, and certainly didn’t intend to when the trip was purely to see his son.  Ned had expected nothing less, considering Father was so protective of his only daughter, but Robert had been irate, storming out of the inn.

The man was moody the rest of their stay, bedding several of the tavern wenches, much to Ned’s chagrin.  Ned tried to explain to Robert that he didn’t think Rickard Stark would take kindly to such actions, but Rob’s biting response was that he needed the stress relief.  On the last day, Robert tried again to bring his suit, only to be rebuffed once more. The Lord of Winterfell would address matters concerning his family only when in Winterfell.

That proclamation led to Robert demanding Ned accompany him to Winterfell – he would bring the suit in person to the North and he wouldn’t wait a minute longer.  Ned saw no need to rush, since Father himself was stopping elsewhere before returning North. He tried to explain that his father doubtlessly wanted to get Lyanna’s opinion on the matter.  This explanation seemed to only incite Robert further as he ranted about how she could have no possible objections and that she seemed a dutiful daughter in all of her letters.

In the end, it had been Rob’s innocent enough question that convinced Ned to accept his friend’s impulsive decision.   “Don’t you want to see your home and your siblings again anyways?”

The journey had been a relatively unpleasant one, as they had not intended to travel past the Riverlands.  Robert remained aloof and moody, demanding stories about Lyanna during the day and bedding a new whore every night.

It reminded Ned of the first time Robert had seen Lyanna’s portrait – it had been over a year ago, when she had sent it with one of her letters.  Apparently Maester Walys had convinced father to commission several small portraits upon her fourteenth name day – horrified by the idea of them being sent to undesirable suitors, Lyanna had managed to get her hands on all three copies, sending one to Ned, another to Bran, while hiding the third.

Part of Ned wished she hadn’t sent him one at all, for as soon as it fell into Robert’s hands, the man had convinced himself he was in love.

For more than six moons, Rob had taken to finding pale, dark-haired whores on their trips away from the Vale.  At first Ned thought it merely a coincidence – that is, until one night, deep in his cups, Robert had explained that he did it so that he could imagine being between sweet Lya’s legs.  Uncomfortable with this revelation, considering it was his little sister, Ned expressed his dismay. It seemed a slight on his sister’s honor that Rob was so focused on having her for his sexual gratification.  Rob had merely laughed, saying Ned needn’t worry because it wouldn’t be long till he wouldn’t need such entertainment.

“No need for proxies when you have the real thing, eh?” he’d explained, clanking his glass into Ned’s before downing the contents.

The words certainly hadn’t comforted Ned then – in fact, thinking about them now made him scowl.

When Robert had first started drinking and whoring, Ned had excused it as a coping mechanism.  They were away from their families in the relatively isolated Eyrie. Ned certainly missed the care and support of his siblings and parents, and while he didn’t particularly enjoy sleeping with whores, he could appreciate the temporary relief it might bring a young man separated from affection.

The drinking and the whoring had gotten worse when Robert’s parents had died, and again, Ned could but only excuse such behavior - Robert was not a sentimental man, but Ned saw the way depression had hung to him since he became the Lord of Storm’s End.  The title did not sit well with him, as he claimed that Lord Baratheon was his father, should still be his father. Only once had Robert broken down and revealed how powerless he’d felt, watching his parents’ ship sink into the bay in view of the castle.  Clearly, alcohol and sex were Robert’s way of escaping the pain. Ned could not fault him for that - he was Robert’s best friend, wasn’t it his duty to be there and support his friend?

Robert had been there for him after all, when his own mother had died.  Ned had returned to the Vale feeling both shattered and guilty - he’d barely seen his mother in all the years leading up to her death.  But he’d also felt resentful. It had been his father’s idea to send him away from Winterfell, from his home and his family. Did they not want him?  Robert had taken him out and they had gotten drunk - they had been young then, 14 and 15 maybe. And instead of leaving with a woman, Robert had sat with Ned and told him all of the things he admired about Ned - his kindness, his listening skills, his commitment to duty, his ability to whip Robert into a pulp with a sword.  Robert had helped him weather the storm of his grief.

In spite of all of that, Ned could not help but feel uncomfortable with his friend’s continued habits, particularly given Robert’s proclaimed love of Lyanna.  Lyanna might be dutiful, but she was quick-witted and willful. And while she was beautiful, she was also far more than a pretty object for some Lord to purchase for his pleasure.

Ned shivered to think what his father would think if he heard Robert say such a thing in his presence.  Already Ned had a feeling that Rickard Stark would not appreciate this unexpected visit.

Fortunately, they were approaching the edge of Wintertown and the dark shadows of Winterfell could just be seen in the distance.  Hopefully Lya and Bran had received their raven from the Twins and knew to expect additional guests.

Taking a deep breath to clear his mind, he focused on all the things he planned to do upon his arrival: meeting the mysterious new pets Lya had brought home a few years ago, praying in a real Godswood, and hunting with his brothers. For the first time, Benjen would be joining them.

The woods may not have changed, but he imagined many other things about being home would be different.

Chapter Text

Lyanna

Another day as Lady Stark.

Lyanna smoothed down the fabric of the new dress once more as she gazed in the mirror.  She didn’t usually wear dresses unnecessarily, but this one felt special. Not because it was some elaborate confection like those worn down South.  In fact, the dress was simpler than what she tended to wear when House Stark entertained noble guests. Instead, the new wool gown had been a nameday gift from the two ladies who ran the orphanage in Wintertown - they had said it was a small thank you for the support she had given, but she still found herself overwhelmed by the kindness.

It was a simple long-sleeved kirtle, full skirts of wool in a dark grey reminiscent of her brother Ned’s eyes.  The bodice was fitted without being tight, not requiring a ridiculous corset like her formal dresses, but still accentuating her small frame.  The skirts themselves left plenty of room to allow her to ride astride - certainly a feature the ladies had considered, knowing Lyanna’s distaste for riding side-saddle.  The neckline swooped across her chest, revealing a modest amount of her pale skin, the dark fabric contrasting with her slender neck.

It was basic and perfect, the ideal dress for a girl who hated frippery.

A knock on the door roused her from her thoughts before a guard peeked in to inform her that they were ready for her.

She allowed a sigh to pass from her lips as she nodded, grabbing her cloak as she followed him out to the courtyard.

Soon enough, Lyanna was riding down the main street of Wintertown, watching the local people bustling about their tasks before the coming storm.

A message had come from one of the constables who handled disputes among the local peasants - the disputes rarely made it to the court at Winterfell except when significant, but it was not uncommon for the constable to elevate a concern to the Lord should he deem it necessary. Lyanna had long since taken care of these matters for her father, forging a bond with the lower levels of society. Part of her longed for a simpler existence, and handling matters with the local people always gave her a sense of purpose.  While she couldn't live the simple life she yearned for, she could work to ensure her people lived fulfilling lives.

It was one of the only responsibilities as Lady of Winterfell that she genuinely enjoyed, as well as one of the only times she willingly dressed the part: the long folds of the Stark gray dress, one of her finer fur lined cloaks on her shoulders, her hair cascading down her back in curls, with only a few strands pinned back in the Northern fashion.

They had made a brief stop at the orphanage, so that Lyanna could thank the women once more and show off their beautiful work, which meant they were a little behind schedule as they moved through town.

Guiding Silver around a large cart of supplies headed for the castle, she noticed Nymeria growl and bound off towards the doors of one of the inns, stalking up to a few figures who had just exited the building.  A few shrieks filtered through the air - likely newcomers who had not yet seen the direwolves roaming the area.

Lyanna felt her brow furrow at the sight of Nymeria so familiar with strangers; she urged Silver in the direction as one of the large men reached out to scratch behind the direwolf's ears. Recognition flared when the man looked up, just as another figure emerged from the inn and Lyanna found herself lost in familiar indigo eyes.

She hadn’t expected to see them again, let alone so soon.  So much of their interaction had been based on the idea of anonymity, of never seeing each other again.

Yet here they were, witnessing her in all her Stark glory.

Here he was, those pools of indigo staring into her soul.

For a moment she hoped he wouldn’t recognize her.  Frankly, she looked nothing like the half-wild girl she’d seen in the mirror when she returned from Queensgate.  A pang of fear shot through her at the dishonor the stories could cause, should he choose to disclose—

“Is something amiss, Lady Stark?” called one of the guards, noticing her attention being drawn to the three Southerners.

Well, if they didn’t realize before...

She saw the subtle flash of shock at the title, Jay’s eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. Without looking away, she responded shakily, "No, nothing is amiss." Her eyes flickered to her direwolf now circling Maron, before returning to Jay's curious gaze, her heart beating loudly in her chest, "It seems Nymeria has made friends with some travelers."

Nudging her horse further in the direction of the inn, Lyanna paused as she heard the thunder of charging hoofs and her name being yelled with urgency.  She frowned seeing Jory Cassel approaching their party at full-speed.

“Lady Lyanna!  Lady Lyanna-” he continued to yell while still several lengths away.

She sighed, knowing that whatever news he bore was unexpected and likely unwanted - Brandon was still in the keep and she’d only left a quarter of an hour ago, so he would only send a rider if it was something he couldn't, or didn't want, to handle.

“Jory? What is it?”

The man bowed in his saddle before rushing out a stream of words, "Lady Stark, I apologize for interrupting but your brother demanded your immediate return to the castle."

Lyanna scowled, "What could possibly warrant such an order? I'm here on Winterfell’s behalf." The fact that Brandon would seek to order her to do anything of the sort, particularly knowing that she was handling duties in town that should be his responsibility, made her blood boil.

Jory noticeably paled at the icy tone, still breathing heavily, "I'm sorry, Lady Stark, Lord Brandon does indeed understand. Banners have been sighted on the Kingsroad, my Lady.”

Lyanna felt her frown deepen; Father was still at least a few days away, and she hadn’t heard of any other parties due to arrive.  Yet only noble guests would be flying banners...

“It can’t be Father, he’s at least a few days from Winterfell.  Could they tell any sigils?”

Knowing that Brandon had the right of it - he was completely useless when it came to preparing accommodations and Benjen would only be helpful with foodstuffs - Lyanna chanced a glance at the three men with whom she had spent a week, who had undoubtedly put together the pieces of her true identity.  Walt and Maron both nodded, though in farewell or in understanding, she wasn't sure. It was Jay's thoughtful mask that perplexed her - only his eyes spoke of any emotion, and even that she couldn't read with his hood drawn over his brow.

I should have never left the Wall.

By then Jory had composed himself enough to speak again, “Lord Brandon believes it may be Lord Eddard-”

That response was not at all what she expected and she whipped around to stare at Jory.

“Ned?  Why would Ned be here?  He was due to return to the Eyrie after meeting with Father.”

“I know not the details my Lady, but the banner of House Stark flies alongside the stag of House Baratheon.” Jory huffed, still trying to catch his breath.

Lyanna blanched, “Others take him…”

Of course, she was thrilled to see her brother, but the circumstances of his arrival were perplexing.  Why in the name of the Old Gods would Ned show up to Winterfell unexpected? And if the Baratheon banner was any indication, he’d brought his infamous foster brother along with him.  It would have taken them near a moon to reach the North from the Inn at the Crossroads. Surely they could have written!

“My lady, I’m sorry for the haste, but Lord Brandon bids you to return to the castle at once to see to preparations.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing exasperatedly, “Of course, because he can’t possibly arrange for rooms to be prepared.”

Lyanna glanced back at the three Southerners, who were watching the scene unfold.  They seemed to still be processing the news, though Walt was quick to offer a smile as he pet Nymeria.

She wished she could stay with them, to return to the easy camaraderie of Queensgate.  To laugh and joke with Walt and Maron, to lose herself in Jay’s eyes, to feel free.

But that freedom was gone and only duty remained.  She sighed, recognizing that her position required her to go against her heart’s wishes.  She had run away the other day, and she would have to turn away now. Such freedom was not meant to last.

Turning to the Stark guards, she resigned herself to the task at hand, “Very well, it seems we must return to the keep at once.  Donnel, please continue on and give my apologies to the constable? Hopefully one of us will be able to attend to him this afternoon.”

“As you wish, milady.”

She turned Silverwing back towards Winterfell, her gaze once more lingering on the faces of the Southerners.  Words of welcome, an invitation, were on the tip of her tongue, but she fought them back as she realized she had no explanation for knowing them.  The circumstances under which they had passed a week’s time were certain cause for trouble - she knew not how she would ever explain the friendships to her father.

Before she did something foolish, she called to Nymeria, sparing a weak smile for each of the men as the black direwolf loped to her side.

Lyanna paused for a moment when her eyes caught Jay’s, hoping to communicate her desire for different circumstances.  Those indigo eyes still haunted her dreams. But all she got in return was a distant but thoughtful gaze.

She straightened her back, fighting her disappointment as she nudged Silverwing back to Winterfell, the guards forming up around her.

Rhaegar

Rhaegar stood frozen, watching as the girl disappeared down the busy street leading to Winterfell, his mind a muddle of emotions as the pieces fell into place.

Lyanna Stark, the wild Wolf Maid. It was her all along.

Memories of smooth skin pressed against him, soft lips, bite marks and stormy grey eyes burning with desire flashed through his mind, his heart racing.  Elation, at not only seeing her again, but at all the possibilities.

She wasn't a wildling at all, nor a peasant, nor the daughter of some lesser noble house. The girl who had haunted his dreams for the fortnight since they'd parted was the daughter of the Warden of the North, the man whose political movements had prompted his father to mandate this trip.

The woman his father had almost commanded him to marry out of spite.

The irony was not lost on him.

While somewhat perplexing, the situation kindled something he had not felt much in his life - a fresh breath of hope.  The daughter of a Great House was certainly a viable option as the wife of the Crown Prince. In fact, she was one of the most attractive candidates now that the Dornish arrangement had fallen through.

Above all that, Arthur’s words about Lyanna Stark potentially fulfilling the prophecy came roaring back.  All at once, Rhaegar was certain she was the missing piece in both his life and his destiny. How had he been missing it all along?

The ice to my fire… it is as though the gods have fitted her for me.

The thought of having her for himself shot a shiver down his spine.  The idea of holding her again, of seeing the joy in her eyes after a long ride, of waking up to her beautiful face every morning, of sharing a life, a burden, a bed...

Realizing Arthur had been speaking, he emerged from his thoughts, which were about to turn progressively more scandalous, asking his friend to repeat what he said.

Arthur gave him a knowing look before repeating his prior statements.

"Well, she's certainly the highest bred wildling I've ever seen." Oswell chucked behind him as Arthur continued, his voice dry, "Who would have guessed the girl was a Stark. I suppose we should have recognized the signs - wild, reckless, beautiful enough to warrant overprotective brothers..."

“The direwolves,” Oswell added.

"Enough you two," Rhaegar needed to stop thinking about her. The image of the girl had already been driving him to distraction - the truth of her identity made far too many dreams he’d considered impossible now tangible. But this was not the time to think of such things.  Marriage proposals took time, and several individuals would undoubtedly need to be involved in the decision.

Concentrating on the reason for their stop in Wintertown, he redirected the conversation, "Let's find Richard and Myles. The fools ought to have some information on these Lords of the North by now."

"If they haven't drowned in their cups," Oswell supplied.

Nodding, he ran through the new information the Winterfell guard had shared - Robert Baratheon was his cousin, and while the man might be drunk more often than not, he would still recognize Rhaegar, even with his hair dyed dark.

Aside from Rhaegar though, Robert would most certainly recognize Arthur - not only was that dratted sword hard to hide, but there was no love lost between the two men.

Robert had drunkenly challenged the famed Sword of the Morning the last time he had been in King's Landing, and not one to back down, Robert had shown up to the training yard the next day in all his pride, bellowing japes at the Dornish man.  Arthur had quickly dismantled Robert's defense, toying with the man for a time as the new Lord of Storm's End put together sore attempts at attack. The idiot continued to spew jokes questioning Dornish men's prowess, but it wasn't until he mentioned Arthur's sister Ashara - something to the effect of "Ah but your sister is a beautiful thing - I wonder if her cunt is as pretty as those violet eyes of hers" - that Arthur allowed himself to end the farce.

In three motions, Arthur had disarmed the man, sending him to lay flat on his back, clutching his groin.  As Robert moaned on the courtyard floor, Arthur flicked the edge of Dawn across the man's cheek, leaving a long, shallow cut, before holding the blade against his neck.  Robert's "yield" had been barely more than a whisper but it echoed around the full courtyard, which had fallen utterly silent. Arthur's anger was quickly extinguished as he walked back to the White Sword Tower, where the Kingsguard quarters were housed.

The courtyard had cleared quickly once Arthur was gone, whispers spreading the tale, but Rhaegar had lingered, watching the newest Lord Paramount struggle to his feet with the help of his companion - Eddard Stark, now that he thought about it.

But what Rhaegar remembered best was the anger and hatred in Robert's eyes.

Ours is the Fury.  The oaf takes his house's words too literally .

In any case, they would have to be careful.  It wouldn't serve to initiate conflict in the Stark household, particularly not if he wanted any chance at securing Lyanna Stark for himself.

His mouth lifted in a small smile at this thought as he turned down the road towards the tavern where they'd last left his old squires.  In spite of the hood hiding most of his face, he still caught Arthur's smirk, insolence written all over his face as he noticed Rhaegar's smile.

There was far too much mirth shining in those violet eyes.

One day, I'm going to slap the insolence off that man’s face.

As it turned out, it was his former squires he wished to kill.  Or congratulate. He wasn’t sure yet, his mind still a muddle when they learned Myles and Richard had managed to secure an invitation to stay in Winterfell for the last few months.

Rhaegar couldn’t help but scowl as Oswell reported the news he had gathered from the bartender - they were not to draw attention to themselves while in the North, particularly when it came to the Warden of the North.  And while his former squires having spent months staying in the household of the Starks was likely to have garnered more information on Winterfell’s inhabitants, it also increased the danger that knowledge of his presence in the North might spread.

With his cousin about to arrive at the keep, they decided Oswell would go to Winterfell to retrieve the new knights while Arthur and Rhaegar remained at the inn.

Not long after Oswell departed, they had the good fortune of watching Robert Baratheon ride through the streets of Wintertown next to Eddard Stark.  At least Rhaegar thought it must be his cousin, given the sigil on the horse and the hulking body frame - any recognizable feature beyond that was buried deep in layers of furs.

He and Robert had never been close, despite almost being of age.  Rhaegar’s great-aunt had been Robert’s grandmother, leaving the current Baratheons as one of the closest relations to the Targaryen family.  Despite that, Steffon and Cassana had decided to foster Robert with Jon Arryn in the Vale instead of in King’s Landing. Steffon and Aerys had been close as young men, but while Tywin served as the Hand of the King, the prior Lord Baratheon had chosen to remain in the Stormlands with his wife and younger children.

As they had grown into young men, Rhaegar had discovered that he shared very little with his cousin - Robert was boisterous and rash even as a boy, loving the great pleasures of life - hunting and war, and as he got older, alcohol and women.  Robert had enjoyed making fun of Rhaegar’s bookish nature, and in the few times Robert had spent time at Court in their childhood, Rhaegar found he did not enjoy his cousin's company. He had never gotten the impression that Robert cared for his company either.

Though he knew his cousin was close to the second Stark son, Ned, who had apparently come home unexpectedly, Rhaegar wasn’t sure what brought his cousin to Winterfell.   Regardless, the Baratheon lord’s presence was not comforting. Robert was known to be a lady’s man, with a bastard in the Vale and likely others scattered wherever the man went.  Tales across Westeros spoke of how Robert liked beautiful women.

And Lyanna Stark was a beautiful woman.

"My friend,” Arthur interrupted his thoughts, “I know this isn't what you want to hear, but..."

"Go on and say it Arthur. You’ve never been shy before."

"You know we can only spare two days. Three at best. We'll have to ride hard as is to make it back by your father's nameday, and that's only if we are lucky with the weather."

Rhaegar's shoulders slumped, and for a moment he felt nothing like the regal Prince, only a dejected boy who knew his arguments would fail.

"I know and I was fine with that until... now with everything, with her being..."

Rhaegar had never been interested in marriage, viewing it as a burden.  Who would have guessed that a single moment outside of an inn in Wintertown would change everything?  The image of his eventual wedding suddenly shifted to one of joy and contentment - he could already see her hand in his as the High Septon wrapped a ribbon around them, feel her dancing in his arms in the Great Hall with a slender crown of silver on her brow, imagine her beneath him as they reveled in the intimacy they had only begun to share at Queensgate...

He let out a sigh, tucking such images away in his brain, and then squared his shoulders, "It makes no matter, we will do what we can in three days and hope it is enough of a foundation.  My father's order is not a matter to be trifled with."

Of course, he wasn’t sure the best way to approach the situation.  Rhaegar had learned enough about the real Lyanna Stark at Queensgate to know that she wasn’t an easy woman.  Suddenly, he worried about how she might take the news of who he was - the North believed in honesty, and Rhaegar hadn’t been forthcoming about his presence in the North.  Not only that, but she had mentioned on more than one occasion how men were always stifling and how disdainful the South was.

"You Southerners call us savages, but what is so civilized about lying and manipulating your fellow men?  What honor is there in obscene shows of wealth and passing days in meaningless gossip? Frankly, the more I hear of the South, the less I desire to travel anywhere south of the Neck."

She craved adventure, escape - he knew that they shared the same sentiments, but would she see it that way if he tried to cage her?  He had no illusions that King’s Landing would be exactly that, a cage, particularly with his father in his current state. Wouldn't marriage, even to him, still be a way of society taking away her freedom?

I'll try to give her a choice.  Some measure of freedom.

But what if she didn't choose him?  What if she still ran off like she had only half-joked about?  He had no doubt she could survive with the Free Folk, but would he survive her choice?  To finally have found someone he wanted to spend his life with, who somehow managed to be everything he needed in a consort, who could be the missing piece of the prophecy, the ice to his fire…

“We will speak with Myles and Richard.  Surely they have learned something that could help us when dealing with the Starks.  I’m afraid we may not be able to be as forthcoming.”

“I have heard Lord Stark is a reasonable man.”

Rhaegar grimaced, “He is not the only Stark I am worried about.”

Ned

Lyanna was clearly furious.

"Excuse me? What right do you possibly have to command me?  Must I remind you that you are in my home, granted food and shelter by me as Lady Stark and the acting Warden of the North?"

"Aye, but you shan't be a Stark much longer, if I'm to have any say in the matter."

"Who's to say you'll have any say in the matter whatsoever?"

"Why, your father of course, if he's as smart a man as Ned claims him to be."

Looking at his sister, Ned imagined that Lyanna was only barely restraining herself from slapping a red-faced Robert Baratheon.

Stepping in before his sister could respond, either with words or actions, Ned grabbed her arm and gently steered her towards the doors of the hall, murmuring, "Perhaps it would be best for us to speak privately."

Realizing that they had caused a scene, Lyanna agreed.  Had he not been so concerned about the rapid deterioration of the situation, he would have been impressed by the way she quickly schooled her face into a mask of neutrality, nodding to men seated further back in the hall and pausing for a few moments to speak with a servant about some household matter.

As it was, his mind was still processing how things had escalated so quickly.

They’d only just arrived a few hours ago – granted, it turned out the raven had never arrived so they were unexpected, but his siblings had been more than pleased at his return.  His sister had all but launched herself into his arms.

Sure, Lyanna hadn’t seemed fond of Robert’s lingering gaze.  Brandon even less so, though Ned thought it hypocritical given Brandon's own tendencies towards philandering.  But Robert’s words had been the pinnacle of propriety, every bit the image of the handsome Southern knight that had earned hearts across Westeros.

After settling them into seats before the fire of the Great Hall, Lyanna had scurried off to see to all the accommodations.  To Ned’s surprise, Brandon had followed her to cover duties for Father in town. Benjen had stayed with them to hear stories from their days as squires.  Neither he nor Robert had yet been knighted, but they both hoped it would be soon – Robert had even taken to petitioning Jon Arryn, saying as Lord of Storm’s End, it made sense for him to be a knight already.

But things had started to deteriorate when Lyanna had returned from her tasks.  Robert had by this point finished a number of tankards of ale, and while his best friend was many things, subtle was not one of them.  A few off-kilter jokes about ladies’ arts and a poorly worded order later, Ned found himself caught in the stormy ire of two of the people dearest to his heart.

Now, he and Lyanna made their way across the courtyard and up the stairs to the small room she used as a solar in silence.

As soon as the door closed, she rounded on him.

"What is the meaning of this? You bring your friend with barely any warning, and then when he thinks it well within his right to order me around, you defend him?"

While he had learned that in the South, bluntness was considered improper and rude, he hadn't completely forgotten the plain speech of the North. Thus, he decided to be out with it as quickly as possible - surely it would be easier to deal with the consequences head on?

"Lya, he didn’t mean to offend you, he just misjudged the situation.”  She scowled, but he continued, “Rob means to ask for your hand in marriage. Maester Walys indicated Father would be amenable and when he tried to broach the subject with father, he was told to bring the suit to Winterfell for consideration."

"Father might be amenable to the discussion, Ned! Not to the marriage! And what of my opinion on the matter?  Surely you know Father wouldn’t make such a decision without asking me. Your friend speaks as if the deal is done, the contract written and the ink dry!"  She crossed the room, throwing open the window to allow the cool winter air in.

Ned hoped it might cool her fiery temper.

"It is a good match, Lya. Robert is my closest friend and a Lord Paramount now that he has taken his seat at Storm's End.  While he may have his faults, he is a good man - he will care for you.” He paused before adding, "I intend to speak in favor of the match and I believe Father will accept."

At this last sentence, his sister whipped around to face him once more.

"How could you? I do not wish to marry the man and you shan't make me! He is a bumbling fool with a penchant for wine and theatrics! Do you not hear the stories they tell about him?  We may not hear much of your Southron affairs, but his whoring has even reached our ears. I do not care for the man one iota and I care even less for your implication that I shall have absolutely no say in the matter."

As she continued to mumble insults at him, at Rob, at men in general, it was Ned’s turn to become angry, though his anger manifested in a low icy calm.

"How could I? I come home to propose an incredibly strong alliance for our house, with a man I trust with my life, who is like a brother to me, and you see fit to throw insults into my face? Father will see the reasoning behind the match, as Maester Walys has already expressed his approval.  Robert believes himself in love with you already, so I can't imagine he'll want to delay - you will do your duty as the only daughter of House Stark and marry into one of the other Great Houses. It’s a fate most ladies would only dream of and you will not bring dishonor to our house, all because of your trivial beliefs in songs and tales."

She stalked towards him, danger plain in her eyes, "Do my duty, you say? Uphold the honor of our house? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few years while you played the Southron fool in the Eyrie?  Or does running Winterfell for Father not count towards your lofty definition of honor?”

He was temporarily rendered speechless by the fury in her voice, so she continued, “So I’m to be sold to the highest bidder?  What, you couldn’t manage to get a bid from the royal family in all of your time in the South? Nothing from the Lannisters of Casterly Rock?  What honor is there in selling me to a man who clearly couldn't care less for his own honor, let alone that of his House? Or do you think it's honorable to be known across the Seven Kingdoms as a drunk whoremonger? He has a bastard, Ned!  Do you deny it?”

Realizing lying would get him nowhere, he shook his head in the negative.

“Exactly, and that’s just the one we know about.  You say he loves me – what a ridiculous notion,” She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated, “He just met me. He thinks I like embroidery and dancing.  He doesn’t know me at all! And if you agree with him, then you don’t know me either!”

"Lya, if you only..."

She interrupted him, holding up her hand, "No, Ser.  I believe it is now Lyanna to you."

The formal address stunned him into silence. He knew what she was doing - she only allowed people who she trusted to use her nickname - the name she preferred to her full name. Lyanna was what her Father called her when he was wroth, the name Maester Walys used in their lessons.

His baby sister was revoking his right to call her Lya.  She was signaling that he had lost her trust.

His mouth went dry and his tongue felt heavy.

Taking advantage of his shock, Lyanna lifted her chin in defiance, a mask of neutrality taking the place of her fury, as the next words echoed around the small chamber.

"If you'll excuse me, Ser, I must see to the storerooms. I didn't account for your brother’s alcohol needs when calculating provisions for the next moons."

She turned on her heel, thick skirts flouncing as she exited the room.  He stared at the spot she had occupied moments ago.

Oh gods, what have I done.

He hadn't known she would react so strongly. He knew she was willful, but she had always been sweet with him.

But it had been more than four years since he had been home, and even then he had only had a moon at home, most of which was spent with the whole family.  Suddenly, he realized it had been years since he had spent more than a few moments alone with his sister. Her letters had seemed candid, her words kind and playful, but they were clearly no substitute for being with her in person.

She was right – he didn’t really know her.

Exiting the solar, he approached the balcony overlooking the courtyard to see her walking hastily towards the storerooms. Brandon separated from the men he was with, catching her arm.  Ned watched, heart dropping, as Brandon took her head in between his hands as he spoke softly but passionately, their foreheads touching. Brandon hadn’t been in the Great Hall to witness the argument, but he must have heard about the situation from someone.

After a few moments, Lyanna visibly relaxed, allowing Brandon to take her into his arms. Ned felt a heavy sadness seep into his soul - he hadn't comforted her at all. Instead he'd yelled at her about doing her duty and upholding the honor of their house.

Brandon's eyes lifted to meet his and he could see the disappointment and betrayal in them.

And then Benjen called to his siblings from across the way, and Brandon took Lyanna under one of his arms, guiding her to their youngest brother.  The Young Pup barreled into her arms, prompting a loud laugh from Brandon before the three of them turned to walk towards the Keep’s doors.

His three siblings, his blood, walking away from him.  The wolf pack, leaving behind a member who didn’t belong.

His mind revolted, pleading silently for his siblings to remember him.

Turn around. Don't block me out. Remember me. I’m your brother too. I'm right here. Turn around. Please.

But as they neared the doorway, indignation surged through him. How could they fault him for doing his duty? He had only made the best of his situation in the Eyrie.  Did they think he wanted to be sent away? All he did was listen to Father. He was sent all alone to the South while they got to be together, at home in the North. Robert may not be his brother by blood, but he understood Ned, he knew how important duty and honor were to him. Rob wouldn't shut him out for doing what he thought was best, like his blood was right now.

Despair threatened to overwhelm him as his brothers separated from Lyanna, Benjen laughing while Brandon chased the youngest Stark in apparent exasperation.

But then his sister glanced back at him. For no more than a second, their eyes connected, so quick he could have missed it had he blinked. It was enough to see the hurt and frustration... and something else. Something familiar. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but beneath the pain, he thought he saw a sliver of love and forgiveness.

Hope chased away his despair. Not all was lost.

By the time his thoughts caught up, Lyanna had disappeared inside, undoubtedly to see to the storerooms and kitchens.

To be honest, he had no illusions as to which Stark family member actually ran Winterfell – it was fairly obvious as soon as one entered the keep. His father had more than once lamented the fact that Brandon showed a decided lack of interest when it came to his responsibilities.

His sister, on the other hand, had quite effectively managed to establish a firm presence in the castle, respected by both the servants and the Northern bannermen.  Over the past years, she had taken over not only those chores seen to by the lady of the house, which had been somewhat sloppily handled by various staff in the immediate years following mother’s death, but also many of Father's tasks, including those typically handled by the heir.

Ned recalled one of father's letters, in which he explained the reasons for denying Ned's request for Lyanna to visit the Eyrie:

Your sister has proven herself a most efficient Lady of Winterfell. In truth, I'm uncertain as to whether the keep would not fall completely into disrepair should she be away for longer than a fortnight. I had quite forgotten the ease with which one can handle affairs when one's home and people are thoroughly content.

Lyanna's letter in response to the occasion had itself mentioned Father describing her as "indispensable."

Given this, he highly doubted Father would allow her to leave the care of Winterfell for at least a few more years – not only did his father dote on his only daughter, the man understood the value of a well-run household. No marriage alliance was critical enough at this point in time to warrant disrupting that.

Perhaps he could speak to his father about delaying a full contract. Father certainly hadn’t wanted to talk about it during their stay at the Crossroads, much to Robert’s displeasure.  While Maester Walys seemed keen to wrap up affairs - the man could barely hide his ambitions and he certainly viewed Lyanna as no more than a bargaining chip - there was no need to sign anything formal when the wedding could still be years away.

He’d have to talk to Robert about delaying; surely his friend would listen to him on this.  This was his family, Robert would understand that he knew them best.

A delayed betrothal would give Lyanna time to get to know Robert - without the immediate pressure of a formal contract - and give Robert time to grow out of some of his... unsavory habits.

Father is still a few days away.  Hopefully this plan will appease Lya while still making Robert happy.

Those two could raze whole cities with their fiery tempers. He couldn't imagine what would happen should they fall into an argument. It wouldn't do to have Winterfell burn to the ground due to Robert's poor delivery and Ned's ill-timed explanation.

Finding himself in need of silence, Ned began his walk towards the godswood.

May the Gods have mercy on us all.

Arthur

Apparently, it was a day of surprises.  

It was early evening when Oswell returned, Myles and Richard in tow.  The knights were jovial, no doubt having spent the last moons in relative luxury in Winterfell.

“These Northerners are crazy, your Grace.  They thrive on the snow and laugh in the face of storms.”

“It seems you have been living comfortably enough in the safety of Winterfell,” Arthur drawled.

“I thought we’d discussed how we were to not reveal our presence to the Warden of the North.” Rhaegar said sternly, irritated the Prince’s former squires showed little regret.

“Lord Stark has been absent since we arrived.  We only moved up to the castle when Brandon Stark found us in one of the taverns.  He had just returned from the Riverlands, and has been staying with his two younger siblings.”

“I see.  I hope you have been discrete at least?” The two young men nodded, and Rhaegar gave a curt nod before continuing, “Any news of the daughter of Lord Stark?”

Arthur almost rolled his eyes at the non-too-subtle eagerness in Rhaegar’s voice, but Myles and Richard seemed more than happy for the shift in his tone, and to be given an opportunity to share the information they’d learned.

“Ah yes, Lady Lyanna, though she loathes the title Lady.  She’s as wild as some say – rides almost every morning and spends more time in the training yard than at any ladies’ tasks. It’s rare to see her in a dress in fact.  She spends much time with her brothers, when not at her duties around the castle, her temper quick to rise.”

“And she has direwolves! Remarkable creatures—Living, breathing beasts the size of ponies.  It’s a bit amazing that no news of them ever reached the South, for they are very much an obvious presence around Winterfell.” Myles added.

Amazing indeed.  Lord Stark has done quite the job restricting news from the North, it would seem.

“Oh, and she mercilessly blackmailed Brandon into letting her ride out and stay alone at some destroyed outpost on the Wall for almost a fortnight.”

“Did she, now?” Arthur remarked, shooting Oswell and Rhaegar a glance.

Rhaegar glared at him - they had all determined it was best to keep quiet about their brief sojourn at Queensgate, but Arthur couldn’t help himself with Rhaegar in such a state.  It was so very rare that the Crown Prince was this easy to taunt.

Perhaps sensing the tension, Richard continued, “But she runs Winterfell in Lord Rickard’s place – has been since we arrived, what with Lord Stark traveling to White Harbor and Riverrun. Not even Brandon seems to have as much responsibility around the castle.”

That was surprising to them all - Brandon Stark wasn’t much younger than Arthur or Rhaegar, and as the heir of Winterfell, he would have been the natural choice to serve in his father’s stead.  It was highly unusual to have a daughter function as Lord when there were true-born sons in attendance.

“And you can tell, the servants all respect her, seem to genuinely care for her.  For all her wildness, she takes her duty to Winterfell quite seriously, even rides into the village to hear petitions from the lower classes.”

“Brandon said Lord Stark has drilled a sense of justice and honor into all of them from an early age,” Myles added.  “He also said he thinks his sister may have taken more of it on than her brothers since they all fostered, while she remained at her father’s side.”  

Richard continued the thought, “Aye, she passed the sentence on a Night’s Watch deserter a few moons ago in the name of the King and the Warden of the North - Brandon swung the sword, but Lyanna was there.  Brandon jokes she’d be a finer knight than him, and certainly a better Lord of Winterfell, saying it’s a shame she was born a woman.”

Myles scoffed at this, “Not a shame for the rest of us hot blooded men, though.”

Rhaegar interjected at this, “What do you mean by that, Myles?”

Myles exchanged a glance with Richard, before stumbling over his answer, “Um, just that, Your Grace, well, Lady Lyanna may be wild, but she is also quite…”

“Spit it out.” Arthur pressured, though Myles’ silence prompted him to turn to Richard, “Lonmouth?”

Richard’s cheeks heated a tinge, “She’s quite pretty.”

“Nothing we see in the South, but one can’t deny she is very pleasing on the eyes,” Myles put in, with a nervous smile.

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow as Oswell chuckled in the corner, “Pretty, you say?  Pretty enough to be the Crown Prince’s wife, do you think?”

In spite of the joking tone, this seemed to make Myles and Richard more nervous.  They were silent for a poignant moment, before Richard spoke again.

“Of course, your Grace, but only if she is not already the Lady of Storm’s End.”

Arthur watched the surprise crossing Rhaegar’s face, “I was not aware of any arrangement with my cousin.”

Richard clarified, “It’s the reason for Robert’s visit to Winterfell.  Apparently, he spoke to Lord Stark on the road, and was directed to bring the suit directly to Winterfell for consideration.”

Damn that idiot stag, of course he has to go for the girl Rhaegar has fallen for.

Myles jumped in again, “It was quite the scene though.  The suit seems to have split the siblings just this afternoon, as the middle brother, Eddard, is speaking in favor of the match.  Brandon was not at all pleased, even less so after seeing Lady Lyanna distraught over the news.”

This last bit of information seemed to satisfy Rhaegar, “The Lady was not happy about the idea?”

“From what we’ve heard, not at all.  We were out with Brandon when this encounter occurred between Lord Baratheon and the Lady, but the servants were gossiping about Lyanna yelling at your cousin after he attempted to command her within her own keep.  Apparently he informed her she’d soon be obeying his orders, so she should get accustomed to it. Her brother Eddard escorted her out of the hall then, and from what we gathered, they argued about the suit before she stormed out.  Brandon said he was able to calm her, but the situation remains tense.”

Arthur contemplated this newest development.  While it was a good thing that Lyanna, and presumably her oldest brother, were not happy about Robert’s marriage suit, it said nothing of Lord Stark’s opinion on the matter. The fact that Robert had ridden all the way to Winterfell after speaking to the Warden of the North did not bode particularly well, should Rhaegar wish to pursue Lyanna. It was ultimately Lord Stark’s decision to whom he married his only daughter.  They would have to act much more quickly than Rhaegar had planned, and that was not comforting considering what they had already learned of Lyanna. Arthur did not think she would be fond of pressured decisions.

His head began to pound.

“What of Lord Stark?” Rhaegar questioned, “He is clearly not in residence if his daughter and son are serving in his stead.”

“Nay, your Grace.  As we mentioned, Lord Stark has been absent since we arrived – it appears he has been visiting various bannermen, as well as passing some time in Riverrun.”

“No doubt clearing terms with Lord Tully for Brandon’s marriage.” Arthur remarked.

Rhaegar nodded to him, before returning to his questions, “So he’s been gone, what, three moons?”

The knights shook their heads at this, “Longer, your Grace.  Lady Lyanna was in command for near three moons before we arrived – we only moved up to the castle shortly after Lord Brandon arrived a few moons ago.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows.  If Lord Stark had left her solely in charge, Lyanna would have been running Winterfell for over six moons, outside of the time she spent at Queensgate.  For the Warden of the North to have such confidence in his daughter, who had barely reached her majority, was surprising indeed. News of the North might be sparse, but Lord Stark was well regarded as an intelligent, just and impressive ruler of the largest Westerosi kingdom.  Such a decision would not be made lightly, particularly with others on hand who might be a more natural choice.

“No wonder she spoke so vigorously about the heavy weight of responsibilities…” Rhaegar muttered to Arthur, who just nodded.

Turning back to his former squires, Rhaegar asked, “So Lord Stark must be returning soon, if Baratheon should deem a visit timely?”

Both men nodded, as Richard explained, “Lord Brandon believes his father to be only a few days behind the Baratheon party.  Lady Lyanna predicted they would hasten their pace, given the lack of snow the last few days. She is hoping they arrive in two days time, and seems to be planning accordingly.”

Two days.  That wasn’t allowing much overlap – a day maybe, at most.  Arthur knew that Rhaegar had hoped to approach Lyanna herself, but with unexpected guests already in the keep and her father returning, she would most likely be occupied.  Alas, they would have to settle for the next best option. Maybe they would get lucky and find a way to have her join...

“Myles, Richard, it seems the Stark siblings are fond of riding.  Do you think you could arrange a little outing with Lord Stark’s heir?”

Chapter Text

Ned

Thankfully, Father arrived two days later.

Ned wasn’t surprised by how close behind them Father's party turned out to be - he knew Father had made at least two other stops on his trip, whereas Ned and Robert had headed straight to Winterfell from the Crossroads - but this was the North, and Father rode with a small party of Northerners who were accustomed to the weather and demands of snowy travel conditions.  He also highly doubted Father's party had stopped at every inn for wine and tavern wenches, like Robert's party had. It seemed only natural they would catch up.

Ned had hoped things would settle down after the initial incident, but it seemed his siblings were just as stubborn as he remembered.  Fortunately, most of the castle’s occupants remembered him fondly so despite his siblings keeping their distance, the days were not unpleasant .

Brandon had spent all of his time hunting with friends when he wasn't hearing petitions.  He had struck up an acquaintance with two Southern knights here on business, apparently for the Crown Prince, though Ned didn’t know the specifics.  He couldn’t fathom what business the Crown Prince would have in the North that couldn’t be accomplished with a raven. The Targaryens were usually treated with a sense of indifference in the North, many neither loved nor hated the royal family – as long as they left the North alone, the North would reciprocate.

Only once venturing into town briefly on business, Lyanna was usually in Father's solar when she wasn’t riding with her direwolves.  She took most of her meals in her own rooms, only appearing at the Great Hall for dinner. Even then, she barely ate and spoke only to Benjen, who often joined her in her tasks, if he wasn’t with Brandon or training with the master-at-arms in the yard.

On the afternoon before Father’s arrival, Ned did catch his sister as she was speaking with Brandon and the two knights from King's Landing - Myles and Richard.  She had returned from her early morning ride hours ago, her cheeks still flush, and now she looked composed as she stroked the head of her black direwolf. In the last few days, Ned hadn’t had the chance to really look at his sister, yet here she stood, playing the part of Lady Stark with just a bit of her usual wildness.  Her hair had been pinned and she wore a simple gray dress, which hugged her slender body – she was without a doubt a woman now.  And while he knew she had just celebrated her sixteenth name day, it still shocked him. Somehow his baby sister had grown up and he hadn’t been there to see it.

She laughed then, a full-body laugh that filled the courtyard, and he was reminded of little Lyanna, who would chase after Brandon when they were young.  Unlike most children who cried when they fell, Lyanna would laugh, even if tears were bursting from her eyes. She was joyous and relentless, sweet and stubborn.  She lived and loved fiercely, her love for her family and her house imprinted into her soul.

Ned had never felt the crushing loss of all those years away until now as he contemplated the time he’d lost.  He found she was right the other night – the Lyanna he knew was still the five-year-old girl with a stick in her hand, running after her older brothers. He didn’t know this Lyanna, who ran Winterfell with an ease beyond her sixteen name days, who spent hours on ledgers and serving as Lord in Father’s stead, who ran off to the Wall to be alone for a fortnight with her pet direwolves but could still pull on a dress to greet guests, smile and laugh.

He wondered what they spoke of that could make her so happy.  He tried to remember the things he knew she loved, but he realized he wasn’t sure – she was fond of the winter roses that grew in the glass garden, of her horse Silverwing with whom she spent more time than any human.

She certainly seemed to love the two direwolves she had raised as pets, considering the amount of time she spent with them. The beasts weren’t particularly friendly with Ned, likely a reflection of the cool distance that existed between him and Lyanna, and they seemed to share their mistress’ instant irrational loathing for Robert, snarling whenever the man got close.  Of course, Robert laughed it off, explaining that a hound would make a better pet, but Ned could see the anger flash once or twice in his eyes – Robert seemed offended that Lyanna’s beloved “pets” didn’t care for him.

Ned found that he was not at all surprised that this woman who his wild sister had become kept the mystical beasts that defined House Stark.  On the contrary, it made a lot of sense. It did not spare him the pain of watching the symbol of his House trailing after all his siblings except him.

Down below, the lead servant of the household, Sella, arrived to speak with his sister.  Lyanna sighed exasperatedly as Bran made some joke, swatting at him and shooting a remorseful look at Myles and Richard.  The group dispersed as his sister left with Sella, Bran slapping the two knights on the shoulder in a quick farewell before heading to the armory, the two Southerners turning to grab their horses from a stablehand.

The evening passed as the night before – tense but without incident.

Lord Stark arrived early the next morning to find his four children waiting in the courtyard, with a very eager Robert Baratheon standing to the side with Maester Walys.  After Lyanna formally received him and returned Winterfell to his command, Rickard seemed to sense the tension between them all, bubbling beneath the surface.

Sighing wearily, Father waved his children towards the keep, “Let us return within, my old bones grow weary in this wind.”

He added another thought as he passed Robert, a slight grimace crossing his face.

“All business will be addressed in due order.”

Lyanna

Lyanna grimaced as she walked down the corridor to her father’s solar.

After so many moons walking the familiar path, it felt unusual to know that her Lord Father was back in residence.  Though she had not always used his solar, usually preferring her own workroom, she’d still spent a fair number of days behind the heavy oak desk conducting Winterfell’s business.

To her displeasure, she had not been Father’s first call; she knew that Ned and Robert, with Maester Walys at his side, had already been granted an audience.  The audacity of these men made her furious, but she attempted to temper her anger - speaking to Father in such a state would likely only make matters worse.

Nodding to Jonnel Cassel, who stood outside of Rickard Stark’s solar, she entered the warm room.

“Ah, there you are Lyanna.”

“My Lord Father,” she murmured, sinking into a curtsy before seating herself in front of her father.

Rickard Stark stared at his daughter for a moment, before proceeding.

“Shall we discuss the business of Winterfell?  I should like to hear the state of my lands from the acting Lady of Winterfell.”

Lyanna straightened her back and took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before falling into a comfortable state of duty and responsibility.  And then she began, moving through figures, missives and issues resolved in the more than six moons she had controlled the North. She summarized the dealings in Wintertown, the requests from bannermen and the many comings and goings from the castle.  Next, they covered the continued trading from White Harbor before moving to the plans for Moat Cailin. On these issues, her father added information to her own, detailing his time in each location.

Father told her of his time in the Riverlands and of his dealings with Lord Tully.  At this he paused, looking at her pointedly as he asked about Brandon and his behavior.

Lyanna sighed, knowing that her father likely knew of the result of Brandon’s shenanigans.

“There was a little girl, Anna, born of a common woman named Tasy.  She has been married to a Stark guardsman and settled in Wintertown.  I saw to the woman myself, and Ben took Bran to see them as well. He has not been as wild since.  I believe he has come to understand that his actions have consequences.”

Rickard nodded, his mouth a tight line of neutral displeasure.  “I do not think this will be the last of his indiscretions, but I hope you are right.  I am content with the way in which you handled the matter. It has been kept quiet?”

She nodded and her father eased back in his seat, his hands templed in front of him as he gazed at her thoughtfully.

“You have done very well, Lyanna, as I knew you would.  You’ve long been more capable than your years. And I see Brandon has finally begun to assist?”

“Aye, Father, he has been assisting me, particularly with petitions from bannermen, while Ben has been aiding me with stores and the ledgers.”

“Excellent.  And the execution went without issue?”

Lyanna nodded, those dead eyes flashing across her vision.  Her father must have noticed the guilt cross her face as his mouth drew into a tight line.

“The King’s Justice is not always easy, Lyanna, but it is the law.  A man’s honor is only as powerful as his word. A man who goes against his vows has forfeited not only his life but also his soul in the eyes of the gods.  Only death can redeem him. Did he die well?”

“He accepted the punishment in line with the crime.  But he was scared.”

Father sighed, “As he should be.  Death is nothing to trifle with.”

Lyanna swallowed hard as Father changed the subject.

“Any other news?  Maester Walys said you managed much of the correspondence in my absence.”

“Nothing outside of the updates on the trading and a few minor issues with supplies.  There was no response from the Citadel, which I find unusual given how much time there was for them to respond…”

“Yes, Walys said he believes we lost several ravens to storms, including the one Ned claims he sent from the Twins.  I will send the Citadel another letter, to check on the response.”

“Of course Walys said it was lost - how would he even know about it?  Father, he must have hidden it-”

“That’s enough, Lyanna.  The Maester would not lie to me, on this I am sure.  It would be foolish of him, as he could very well be dismissed for such an action.  I do not appreciate you creating chaos under my roof simply because you do not agree with Maester Walys in all things.”

“Father-”

Rickard Stark stood, his Lord’s voice in full effect.  “Enough. There are far more pressing concerns than Maester Walys and the letter from the Citadel at this time.”

Lyanna felt a lump form in her throat, knowing what was to come.

“Lyanna, I have given you many freedoms that most noblewomen are not granted.  You have long been an asset to Winterfell, so I have turned a blind eye to some of your recklessness.  But you are now a woman grown, thus such behavior can no longer be tolerated.”

She fought the sad, angry tears she could feel forming.  Wasn’t Father just complimenting her for her diligence and care in the upkeep of Winterfell for over six moons?  What did it matter how she spent the little free time she had?

Father’s eyes softened slightly, clearly noticing her distress, but his voice remained firm and Lyanna knew there would be no swaying him from this discussion.

“I made your mother a promise to hold off all betrothal discussions until your sixteenth nameday.  That day has come and gone. ‘Tis high time for us to examine the options we have, and I will need to you behave a proper Lady if we are to ensure the best match for Winterfell and House Stark.”

Lyanna was silent, not trusting her voice to speak.  Father could not have agreed to Robert’s suit, not without consulting her….

Her father sighed before continuing, his voice icy.

“Robert Baratheon has presented himself as a suitor and has made a compelling case for such a match, even offering to pay a bride price instead of demanding a dowry - the funds would be drawn over time to cover required improvements in the North.  While my decision has not been made, I believe it only right to inform you that it will be difficult to find another betrothal that will bring as many financial and political benefits.”

“Have I no say in the matter at all?” she asked, and she cringed at the dejected tone of her voice.

Rickard Stark stared at her for a moment before he raised an eyebrow.

“I am aware of your preference to never marry.  I have every intention of granting you leave to express your opinion, but I expect you to view such arrangements from the perspective of House Stark, as opposed to a sentimental standpoint.”

Lyanna paused before phrasing her opinion in a manner that might be acceptable.  “Then I would like to make it known that I do not wish to marry Robert Baratheon.  I do not believe the political benefits will be what you think them to be, for Robert is a rash and vile man who cares little for his reputation or his House.”

"Lyanna, your brother Ned has spoken in favor of the agreement - he believes you and Robert will prove to be a good match if you are given time to get to know one another."

"Father, you've heard the stories -"

He held up a hand, sighing, "Aye, and I've seen the man myself. But Ned is convinced he will grow out of this phase - your brother says Robert is so enamored with you that he'll not stray.  You are a strong young lady, and you will run your own household as you've run Winterfell - House Baratheon can provide a good life for you. And I have no doubt you'll bring any man to heel."

"But Father, -" she tried to interrupt again, but was silenced by his glare.

"Lyanna, you will listen to me.  I have every intention of delaying any marriage a few years, and Ned suggested a courting period with Robert before signing any formal contract, much to Maester Walys' disapproval.  But I must remind you, you are a daughter of House Stark - it is your duty to marry well and further the interests of our house, just as it is Brandon's duty."

"Bran's duty will keep him here in Winterfell at least!  I don't want to go to the South, I certainly don’t love Robert, I don’t even like him, please Father..."

"Love?  Oh my darling girl, love is hardly ever a given. Respect is a better goal to strive for. But this discussion is over for now.  I am tired from my journey and we both have responsibilities to see to. We will speak of this more at another time. We will also speak of your little journey to Queensgate.”

Lyanna had the decency to look down remorsefully at that.  She should have known Walys would throw her to the wolves – damn that bloody fool, he was just jealous Father left Winterfell to her for over six moons.

Stupid man, Brandon didn’t even care and it would have been him before Walys in any case.

Her father waved a hand in dismissal, “You may go. And should you see him, remind your eldest brother to respond to the latest letter of his betrothed."

Brandon

“Lya!”

His sister looked like a veritable winter storm as she prowled back from Father’s solar. A smarter man might have allowed her time to cool down, but Brandon was never one to shy away from a wild temper.

"Maester Walys is a conniving fool, Bran!" she said, exasperated as he caught up to her. "It's a small mercy that Father is willing to delay any formal plans until you wed."

"Then thank the old gods that I intend to delay that for as long as possible.”

“I do not understand how Father can possibly consider marrying me to that idiot.  Am I worth so little that he thinks such a match is fitting?”

“Of course not, Lya, you know that Father thinks the sun and stars of you.  It’s just Walys whispering in his ear, but I’ll protect you from it.”

Brandon couldn’t imagine his brave and duty-bound sister being stuck with a man like Robert Baratheon, who made for better drinking company than for partnership.

A man like me…

“You know he is not thrilled with you either, though I think his ire over my trip to Queensgate may surely mask any other concerns.”

“I will speak to him about Queensgate as well.  Lya, you deserved the time away, it was only fair.  He is likely tired from the road, I’m certain he will come to see the truth of that.”

Lyanna nodded as they entered the courtyard, joining the bustle of people moving about tasks.  Brandon was headed towards the stables, having promised Myles and Richard a ride before they departed to return south, and Lyanna seemed to be more than happy to join him in crossing to one of the places she had always seen as a safe haven.

Myles and Richard stood at the entrance to the stables, their horses tied loosely behind them as they chatted with a few of the Stark guards who had taken to drinking with them.

“Lord Brandon, Lady Lyanna, good afternoon.  Still interested in a ride, Brandon?”

“Aye, I need a good ride to clear my head,” he affirmed, chuckling as he turned to Lyanna, “sister, care to join?”

“I wish I could, but alas I promised Father I would handle some of the tasks that I didn’t have time for while he was away.”

“Surely if they’ve gone six moons without, you could put them off for a quick ride?”

“I dare not risk his further ire, Bran.  Who knows, he could decide to sell me to the bloody stag early as punishment for poor behavior,” she shook her head and Brandon could see the anger surging back to life before she turned to Myles and Richard, “but enjoy gentlemen, the riding was lovely this morning, so I’m certain it will be decent this afternoon.”

They parted ways with his sister storming off - Brandon hoped she did not interact with anyone for some time, for there was no telling how she would behave in her present state.

“Is your sister okay?” questioned Myles as they left the castle into the Wolfswood.

Brandon snorted, “How would you feel if your father was even considering selling you to a man like Robert Baratheon?”

“He’s truly considering it?”

He sighed, “Apparently Baratheon isn’t demanding a dowry.  My father loves Lyanna, perhaps more than he loves any of the rest of us, and he wants her to be happy, but he also is the Lord of Winterfell above all.  He has plans for the North, and even I can see the financial benefit to our House.”

Myles and Richard exchanged an odd look before Richard spoke again, “What if someone else is willing to forgo a dowry and aid in funding?”

Brandon frowned, “And how many Lords would be willing to forgo a dowry on top of dealing with my wild sister?  She’ll make the money up for them likely, but no one knows that.”

“You might be surprised,” responded Myles, “as you’ve said before, the South is different from the North.”

Brandon shrugged, trying to imagine his sister marrying the Stag Lord.  No doubt the man would make her miserable.

“Honestly, anything is better than Robert.  I don’t know what Ned sees in the man that makes him think he’d be a good husband to our sister.  I can imagine drinking and whoring with the man, but marrying him to Lya?” Brandon shook his head.

They were silent as they picked up the pace, the winter wind howling through the trees as they followed a familiar path through the woods.  Tor had joined them for the ride, the grey direwolf prancing through the snow as if it were as light as a cloud. Watching the direwolf, which seemed to grow larger with each day, reminded Brandon of his wild sister, her unrestrained joy in the little things, her fierce loyalty, and her dangerous fangs should she feel threatened.  Tor was rasher than his sister Nymeria though, and Brandon supposed the wolf took after himself in that measure - the two wolf-blooded Starks with two direwolves at their sides.

They had just entered a clearing, Brandon calling for them to rest their horses, when another party of riders approached.  The men all wore hooded cloaks, masking their figures, but Brandon could tell by their horses and weapons that they were not peasants.  Nay, those were Southern bred horses, fit for knights.

Brandon was immediately on guard, his hand sliding to the hilt of the sword on his hip, but Myles and Richard seemed relaxed.  Even Tor seemed at ease, and the direwolf was especially attuned to threats.

“My Lord Brandon,” greeted one of the men, as they approached, causing Brandon to flinch at the familiarity.  The man pushed back his hood as they came to stop a few steps from one another, revealing a young man with striking features and black hair streaked with white.  Something niggled in the back of Brandon’s mind, some degree of recognition…

“Ser, I’m afraid I do not know how to address you.  We were unaware that other Southern knights were in the area.”

“Unfortunately I was unable to disclose my presence in the North, my Lord.”

Brandon frowned, noting how the man had not only failed to give his name but also implied that he had willingly chosen to not disclose his presence in the Warden of the North’s territory.

Movement behind the man leading the other group drew Brandon’s gaze, as the other two men pushed back their own hoods.  These faces were more familiar, and if the faces hadn’t been enough, the hilt of the greatsword slung across the one man’s back would have been the deciding factor.

“What in the-”

Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, who wielded the legendary greatsword Dawn, and his fellow brother Ser Oswell Whent.  Brandon had seen the men on a few occasions when he had ventured south. Two Kingsguard would only accompany a member of the royal family…

He looked back at the man with black hair, recognizing that the streaks of white were not white at all but silver.  The eyes that had previously looked dark blue suddenly seemed to shine a deep purple instead.

Before he could think about it, his sword was drawn, a snarl passing his lips.  Tor, recognizing his sudden mood change shifted from relaxed to on guard and growling in a second.

The sound of steel loosening echoed around the clearing as both Kingsguards drew their blades with Myles and Richard seeming to back away from the now feral direwolf.

In all the movement, Rhaegar Targaryen had not moved, his eyes never straying from Brandon.

Brandon realized he was outnumbered, even with Tor - not that he would actually attack the Crown Prince of Westeros, but his anger only flared more knowing that he didn’t have a choice.  Clearly Myles and Richard had known their Prince was here - they’d led him straight into a trap.

Nonetheless, he refused to sheath his weapon so quickly, as he snarled again, his words dripping with insolence.

“Are you sneaking around, your Grace?  I can assure you none of us knew the Crown Prince was in the North.”

The Crown Prince gestured with a hand for his knights to stand down, which they did, though both eyed Brandon’s blade warily.  Brandon refused to yield quite yet.

“If you must know, I have been at the Wall with my great uncle.  ‘Twas a trip spent on scholastic purposes, so I did not wish to burden the North with pleasantries that I know you do not enjoy.”

Brandon frowned, not pleased with that answer.  The Prince seemed to realize the answer was insufficient, as he frowned, his eyes glancing briefly to Brandon’s bare steel.

Recognizing that nothing would be accomplished while openly threatening a member of the royal family, Brandon sheathed his sword.

“Out with it, Dragon Prince, I know there’s more than that.”

Chapter Text

Rhaegar

Rhaegar sighed, watching the Wild Wolf, who looked and acted just as willfully as his sister.

“I would be honest with you Lord Brandon, for I have found I very much enjoy the blunt honesty of the North.”

“Aye, we aren't simpering pricks afraid of the truth.”

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed but he chose to ignore the insult.

"My time at the Wall was not the sole purpose of this journey. You see, my father is a complicated man." Brandon snorted, but Rhaegar pressed on. "And he was frankly not well pleased with the recent news of your impending nuptials. The marriage of two Great Houses is not a frequent occurrence, though not unheard of. What is more unusual is that it involves the North, a house that has historically remained removed from the politics of the... simpering pricks.”

“Is the King against the match?”

Rhaegar almost thought he heard a hint of hope in Brandon Stark’s voice, yet when he looked, all he saw was the man’s grimace.

“No. Not for the time being. However, he is... shall we say, curious. It has been many years since your father attended Court, and you and your brother have each only been once. Your two youngest siblings have never been past the Neck as far as stories go. It seems the Starks have been quite content to be absent. But people talk, and rumors abound, and suddenly absent has become decidedly less harmless. My father does not like mysteries.”

“Is that a threat, your Grace?”

“No, Lord Brandon. I am simply stating facts. If my father had his way, he might have sent for your Father's immediate attendance at Court. Or worse, sent Targaryen men to drag your elusive sister to Court.  She has garnered the most mystery after all, and it is not always easy to understand the decisions of his Majesty.”

“Forgive me if I don't fall to my knees in gratitude.”

The man was certainly stubborn as an ox, yet Rhaegar continued, knowing he was close, so close to his true goal for this outing.  Time was short unfortunately, and he saw anxiety creeping into Arthur's eyes. He decided to out with it and hope for the best.

“Lady Lyanna is the reason I’d like to speak, actually.”

Brandon flinched, “Why do you want to talk about my sister?”  

The Prince tried to keep his voice steady, “I would like to ask about her receptivity to a marriage proposal.”

“Come to claim her as some prize like Robert Baratheon?  To purchase her like a horse at auction?”

"Not at all, I’d like to give your sister a choice -”

At that, Brandon Stark suddenly started laughing. Rhaegar was surprised; even after a week with Lyanna, the rapid mood shifts that seemed a characteristic of Stark children were still abrupt.

When the Northman finally found his voice again, mirth laced his words, "Gods, you’re serious, aren’t you? Better to not give her a choice, more than likely she'd choose to marry no one and serve as Lord of Winterfell for me in all but name. Nay, better to give her an alternative. She hates that buffoon Robert after only two days - can't say I blame her - and I'm fairly certain she'd marry a peasant to escape marrying him."

"I would like to think I present a slightly better prospect than a peasant, Lord Brandon," Rhaegar drawled.

Brandon shrugged off the reproach, "Lya has never been one for titles - she gives her respect to men who earn it, irrespective of class. It's the Northern way and it's why she would have no qualms unseating me as heir if she thought she could manage it. To be frank, her marrying will be a loss to Winterfell."

"It sounds like your sister is quite accomplished in the running of the North."

Brandon chuckled, "Despite what I'm sure you've heard down south, she is not a feral beast. A wild one perhaps, but she is more Father's right hand than I will ever be.”

“That bodes well for any man who wishes to marry her.”

Brandon frowned, “I only do this because I won’t let her go to that oaf. I know he’s your kin but-”

“He has some unsavory habits. Though I must admit that I have heard you share some of the same tendencies, my Lord?”

Brandon glowered, “You can be certain I get my fair share of tongue lashings from Lya on that.”

“So I was told.”

Brandon grimaced at Myles and Richard, who looked down sheepishly.

“Lord Brandon, I don’t wish to be antagonistic-” Rhaegar began but Brandon cut him off.

“If you would tell me this, what exactly makes you so intrigued by my sister?  Of course, I know that she’s far too good for any man in the Seven Kingdoms, but I dare say most in the South know nothing of her.”

Insolence certainly runs in the family...

“Aye in the South I believe there are rumors she’s a half-girl half-wolf who eats men alive.”

“Not too far from the truth, figuratively speaking...” Brandon muttered, which prompted a chuckle from Oswell.

“But to answer your question,” Rhaegar paused, thinking of all the things that had attracted him to the wild girl at the Wall - her joy for life, her confidence, her witty mind and sharp tongue.  Combined with her commitment to duty and her apparent skill at ruling, not to mention her beauty and of course, the prophecy…

He sighed, “The truth is I seek a partner as much as a wife, a woman to complement my strengths and to compensate for my faults.  I may not know your sister well, but from what I’ve seen and heard from Myles and Richard speaks to a woman who will challenge me to become a better man and a better ruler.”

“She will not make a quiet docile wife, but she will be a strong partner if you earn her respect. If that is your wish, then you are an admirable man, for I warn you it shan't be easy."

Rhaegar nodded, considering his next words.

"Had I wished for a docile wife, I am certain I would have wed by now. I surely wouldn't have looked for one in the North."

Brandon chuckled again - Rhaegar was starting to believe the Starks only had two modes of operation, laughing in mirth or growling in anger.

"No docile women in sight for leagues, your Grace. The North is harsh and it's people harsher."

Rhaegar allowed his mouth to twist up into a small smile, "And what man doesn't appreciate a good challenge?"

"Your Grace has the right of it. I won't warn you anymore than I have already, but will only say that Lya is nothing like your typical lady. And if you dishonor her, you will have more than four angry Stark men to deal with - the full force of the North stands with her."

Now that is a thinly veiled threat if I’ve ever heard one.

"I would expect nothing less, my Lord."

Oswell cut in at that moment, "Your Grace, my apologies but we should return to the inn before nightfall."

Rhaegar nodded, signing internally. He wished he had more time, but this would have to do. Hopefully he had convinced Brandon Stark enough.

"Lord Brandon, unfortunately business demands I make for King’s Landing at first light tomorrow - we have lingered too long in the North as is. I would ask of you a favor - I believe Lord Stark has returned to Winterfell?" Brandon nodded his assent, "Good. Would you be so kind as to see these letters delivered to your father this evening?"

Brandon seemed to find his manners for a moment, as he bowed in his saddle after accepting the letters, "Of course, your Grace. I'll hand them to him myself."

"I would prefer you not disclose my physical presence here, as it would surely only inflame tensions. You may say that Myles and Richard were the bearers."

Stark nodded solemnly.  At least the man understood the political ramifications of the Crown Prince’s presence being discovered.

Satisfied, Rhaegar closed the conversation, "Thank you. I imagine our paths will cross again soon, and I appreciate your honest words."

"Safe travels, your Grace." And then with little more than a nod of his head, Brandon Stark turned his horse and galloped off into the trees towards his home.

Shaking his head at the slight impertinence, Rhaegar turned to his friends.

"We should return to the inn. Our journey tomorrow will not be a pleasant one, unfortunately. Hopefully the weather holds and we can make haste. King’s Landing and our King awaits."

Rhaegar grimaced, neither thought particularly appealing, and leaving Lyanna in such a situation didn’t help. Alas, he imagined that at least the books he had commissioned from the Citadel to King’s Landing had arrived.

At least I won't feel like my hands are going to freeze off at all times.

Ned

Lyanna refused to come down for dinner that night, much to Rickard Stark's ire.  She claimed to be feeling ill but all the Starks present, with the exception of Benjen perhaps, understood this was her lashing out after her conversation with Father about Robert's suit.

Brandon seemed to be offended for Lyanna's sake and took himself to the lower tables as soon as possible in polite company, bringing Benjen to the youngest Stark’s pleasure.

Robert took Lyanna's absence as a personal slight and proceeded to get drunk, though fortunately he remained in his seat, silently fuming.  Rickard himself did not linger long in the hall, speaking with a few visiting bannermen before retiring.

Ned was left trying to convince his best friend to retire without the nearest serving woman to warm his bed, insisting that he would feel better in the morning if he got some sleep.

As they departed, with Ned partially supporting Rob, Brandon let out a whooping laugh with the knights who squired for the Crown Prince.  He recognized them now from the last time they had been to King’s Landing, when Robert had taken his seat as Lord of Storm’s End.

Once in the corridor, Robert burst, convinced that the men had been mocking him.  

“They mock me! Why won’t she even give me a chance?”

“I don’t think they were mocking you, Rob.  And Lya can be stubborn when she feels she doesn’t have a say in a matter.  Hopefully our time here will allow you to get to know her.”

Pulling away from Ned, Robert looked him dead in the eye to make a bold proclamation.

"I will have her, Ned.  I’ve never wanted something this much - she is everything I want.  They laugh now, but she will be mine."

At that, Robert turned to stalk off to his guest quarters.  Ned stared after his friend’s retreating figure, wondering if his own words were truthful.  Lyanna seemed to have no desire to get to know Robert, and Robert’s approach would only push her further away.  They were so similar in some ways, but it seemed they had gotten off to a terrible start. Couldn’t they just go out and hunt for days, joking at Ned’s expense and talking about weapons?

This seemed like the perfect match, but I've never seen him like this....

Brandon's angry words from their hunt yesterday, some of the only words they had spoken since Ned's arrival, echoed in his head.

"He treats her like some possession.  She is our little sister, Ned, and a Stark, not some prize to win and do with whatever he pleases. So yes, I'll fight for her with Father, against Robert and even you, because I respect her as a person and I want what's best for her."

The situation was tearing his family apart.

Yet again, he found himself wondering if he was making a dire mistake.

Rhaella

Rhaella carefully smoothed down the long sleeves of her dress, fighting the urge to flinch as the motion prompted pain to flare up her arms.

As challenging as the long winter had been for most, Queen Rhaella had been secretly grateful for the Court’s adoption of long-sleeves and high necklines - it was far easier to hide the bruises and scratches.  It did House Targaryen no favors to display Aerys’ cruelty on her body.

The Court saw enough of it in person.

She’d been spared Aerys’ presence in her bed for four moons - two filled with joy as she prayed the babe would remain healthy within her womb, two more to mourn yet another devastating loss.

Yesterday, the Grand Maester had finally told her husband that she had miscarried but was well enough to attempt the feat again.

Aerys had burned two men on pyres of wildfire in his fury before making his way to her chambers.

Rhaella still remembered the day she learned that true happiness was not to be her lot in life.  Many thought that the King’s madness was simply a result of whatever terrible acts Lord Darklyn and his foreign wife had done to Aerys during the Defiance of Duskendale, but Rhaella knew better.  Nay, the day she learned happiness was not hers to have was a day much earlier, before Aerys had even become Crown Prince.

The gods had seemed to laugh at her that day, the first day of spring many years ago.  The sun was out, the temperature warm and the flowers in full bloom. Yet none of the bright colors or fragrant smells could wash away the sadness she’d felt when her father told her she was to marry her older brother.

Aerys had always walked a fine line between arrogant narcissism and irrational madness.  For as long as Rhaella could remember, he had been a dreamer overly fond of praise, no matter how artificial.  He was convinced he was destined for greatness, and surrounded himself by men who would tell him of his successes.

She had always seen past his handsome Targaryen features; she had seen the festering illness hiding beneath the boisterous personality.  As his sister, Rhaella witnessed the early episodes, when the madness could be explained as youthful negligence, a testament to growing up in the royal family without limitations.  But Rhaella knew that Aerys’ cruelty went so much deeper - no one treated a sibling the way he’d treated her growing up without some degree of insanity.

Pinching her when she was but a young girl when she slouched, yelling at her for her incompetence when she tripped over his feet as they moved through dance rehearsals, slapping her when she supposedly embarrassed him in front of his friends – his treatment of her was a running game of abuse.  Their father had turned a blind eye to the behavior, rationalizing that Aerys was only doing what he thought best for his sister. And their mother had agreed, her love for her brother-husband shielding her from seeing the truth of her son’s character.

Rhaella’s only relief had come from her belief that he would never wish to marry her – he had made his views of her insufficiencies more than clear.  That she might escape the horrors that haunted her day and night in King’s Landing was a small consolation that aided her through her darkest days.

She had even begun to hope for some measure of happiness.

It had appeared in the form of a young landed knight from the Stormlands.  Ser Bonifer Hasty. They’d met by chance at a feast when she was not yet a maiden flowered, but he had been kind and witty.  He told her horribly silly japes, making her giggle uncontrollably before her septa had found them wandering the gardens.

But Rhaella was a Princess, and while her family life might not have been worthy of joy, she was still in possession of some degree of freedom.

She and Bonifer began exploring the gardens with more frequency and the man grew to know Rhaella’s friends and ladies-in-waiting. And while many men spent hours praising her looks and seeking her favor, only Bonifer ever sought to know her person.  To hear her thoughts and praise her mind.

His features may not have been as comely as others’, but by her thirteenth nameday, Rhaella had fallen in love with the man.

Their relationship had culminated on a grey day at the end of a long winter when by some miraculous occurrence, the young knight from the Stormlands won the Tournament of Bitterbridge.  She still remembered the hushed whispers of the audience, watching as she accepted the beautiful crown of red and white roses, hearing Bonifer name her his Queen of Love and Beauty.

She had summoned the courage to ask her father for permission to marry the man that evening, the crown of roses still gracing her head hardening her resolve.  She would seek the life she wished. After all, her parents had once gone against duty and married for love.

The next day, spring had dawned sunny and warm, but there was to be no warmth in Rhaella’s life.  Nay, that day had ruined everything.

Her father claimed the betrothal was to fulfil the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, the wandering words of a woods witch brought to Court by Jenny of Oldstones.  Perhaps in part it was - Rhaella would come to curse the prophecy for more than just her damned marriage. But she would always remember her father explaining how the man she loved was not worthy of her affection - how Ser Bonifer would never be enough for a royal princess.

If she had thought being Aerys’ sister had been difficult, becoming his sister-wife had only been worse.

She was granted a reprieve from his cruelty early in their marriage for two reasons.  The first being that, at that time, Aerys had reasoned that at least their marriage would yield true dragons, for they would keep the Targaryen bloodline pure.  That reason alone prompted some small degree of appreciation – perhaps not of her person, but at least of the blood that pumped through her veins. This reasoning was only strengthened when she fell pregnant within their first year of marriage – by giving him a healthy son, in spite of the tragedy surrounding the birth, Rhaella had proved her worth.

For a little while.

The three years Aerys was Crown Prince as their father ruled were some of Rhaella’s best – she had a beautiful son to dote upon when she was not learning her duties at her mother’s side, and her brother-husband was kept busy by his friends and mistresses.  She became close with her two ladies-in-waiting, Mariah Martell and Joanna Lannister, women she turned to as confidants. Her father, though sickly, was a capable ruler, and the death of Maelys the Monstrous during the War of the Ninepenny King’s ended the Blackfyre risk.  Rhaella was happy enough to blissfully ignore the looks her brother had sent Joanna, particularly when it was announced that Joanna was to marry her cousin, Tywin, who also happened to be Aerys’ best friend.

Her happiness was not to last.  It did not take long for things to fall apart.

First, her father had become ill, passing just three weeks into the fourth year of his rule.  Rhaella had been on Dragonstone with Rhaegar, avoiding the potential risk when the news arrived that the King had died.

At the age of seventeen, Rhaella found herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her brother-husband had appointed his friend Tywin as Hand, which seemed a gift as it allowed Joanna to remain at Rhaella’s side.  But reality turned out to be much harsher – now King, Aerys had no qualms about displaying his interest in his friend’s wife.

Rhaella could see the way her brother’s leers and outrageous flirtations angered Tywin.  At their wedding, Aerys had even joked that it was a pity that the First Night had been outlawed, which would have granted Aerys access to his servant’s wife on the night of her marriage.

When finally the King’s overtures became too much, Rhaella made the decision to dismiss Joanna from her service.  It pained Rhaella, as she had had to say goodbye to her other confidant Mariah Martell only a few months prior when Mariah returned to take her seat as the ruling Princess of Dorne.

Court gossip quickly spread that the women’s friendship ended the day of the dismissal, given the harsh manner in which Rhaella delivered the news, when she demanded Tywin send his wife back to Casterly Rock where she belonged.

What the gossips didn’t know was that Rhaella had spoken to Joanna in secret the night before the dismissal and subsequent departure for Casterly Rock.  She would never forget the look of gratefulness in her friend’s eyes as the new Queen kissed each of her friend’s cheeks in blessing. Though it was the last Rhaella ever saw of Joanna Lannister, they had written in secret during the Lannister woman’s years at the Rock.

The final straw had come when news arrived from Casterly Rock that Joanna was pregnant.

Five years had passed since Rhaegar’s birth. Aerys had re-commenced his husbandly duty once he became King and Rhaella had herself been pregnant three times in two years.  However, each of the pregnancies had ended in miscarriage, the third not even two weeks after she knew she was with child.

With the news of Joanna’s pregnancy, Aerys’ fury had erupted, stronger than ever.

He raged about how he had never wanted to marry her, how Joanna should have been his wife, how the Lannister woman would have birthed him the dragons he deserved.  He ranted about Rhaella’s weakness and her broken womb, accusing her of sabotaging her pregnancies out of spite for him.

That was the first night he truly took her by force.  Henceforth, there had been no more respect for her Targaryen blood, nor praise for her ability to birth Rhaegar.

In fact, Aerys had decided their son was far too quiet, his preference for books and solitude over swords and companions driving the King to yell about Rhaella passing on her weakness to his son.

Whatever remained of their marriage was over that evening.

The violence had increased over the years, Aerys inflicting more pain with every miscarriage or stillbirth.  Then her precious Jaehaerys had managed to take his first breath only to die within a year. Aerys had accused his mistress at the time of murdering the boy, and after that he had pledged himself to her bed only.

A curse and blessing, for now he could only take his pleasure in her body, but the result had been her second son Viserys, born seventeen years after Rhaegar.

There were few good things in her life – with Rhaegar a grown man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Viserys remained a daily source of joy.  The King could batter her eldest with his mistrust and vile words of treason, and he could yell at Viserys for being a stupid boy, but Rhaella would love them all the more to compensate. Aerys could not destroy her love for her children.

There was one other thing Aerys could not take away from her.

Her duty.

Rhaella had been born a Princess, destined to be Queen.  She’d spent almost all of her life at Court, had watched her grandparents conduct themselves as rulers, followed by her own parents.  She had seen the full spectrum of Hands of the King and Small Council members, strong men and simpering courtiers.

She had watched and she had learned. Men were ever prone to speak of things they shouldn’t when they thought a woman was weak and docile.

She had watched and she had learned, and in time, she had acted.

Her reign was not overt.  Nay, Rhaella had long ago learned that courtiers saw what they wished to see - to most, she was a beaten and defeated dragon.  But frankly, most at Court were idiots.

To them, they saw a King who wished to be praised while his son and Hand ran the Kingdom.  Court saw a melancholy Crown Prince and a dour Lord Lannister. They might even notice the powdered eunuch whispering into the King’s ear.

No one saw the silent dragon pulling the strings.

For it was Rhaella who had the ear of the lesser crowd.  The servants, the cooks, the septas. It was Rhaella’s subtle suggestions to the Citadel that led to the appointment of the the Grand Maester’s new acolytes - the Maester might be in Tywin Lannister’s pocket, but the information being fed to him passed through the quiet Queen.

While the King appointed men who gave him elaborate praise and bent to his wishes, it was the Queen who called them to Court, who spoke with their wives and manipulated them into factions of Court.  Rhaella knew the men who had coin at their disposal, who could summon armies and maintain loyalties. She knew the composition of Court, controlled the comings and goings of men and women alike. She worked with Rhaegar to ensure he had the support he would need, ensuring that nothing overt might upset the careful balance.

When it came to ladies, Rhaella knew the women with the true power - she knew which controlled their husbands or lovers, and which were flighty things.

And the gods blessed her when her son had requested her to take Ashara Dayne as a lady-in-waiting as a boon to his best friend Arthur.  In Ashara, Rhaella had gained a wonderful ally - the women showed a particular skill in secrets, a wonderful and much better looking counterbalance to her husband’s reliance on Lord Varys.

Not that Varys was an enemy.  Aerys’ madness was a fickle monster - Rhaella knew better than anyone, there was no taming of his insanity - but Varys, the Master of Whisperers, had managed to develop a method to direct the madness.  Rhaella did not trust the man, but he was one of the few who knew of her maneuvering. She and Varys had come to a reasonable truce, based on mutual respect.

Over time, Rhaella held onto the strong and strategic women, sending the passive flirts to Cersei Lannister.  The girl was the spitting image of Joanna, yet Cersei retained none of her mother’s finer qualities. However, Cersei served a purpose while she lingered at Court with her father, and most of the time, Rhaella let her be; Rhaella did not mind Cersei as long as she did not overstep herself.

Today, it was the beautiful Lannister girl that she saw first upon entering the Great Hall, surrounded by her tittering ladies, her gold and maroon dress showing off far more of her bosom than the weather might warrant.  

Formal Court had ended, but it was the informal interactions that drove much of politics in King’s Landing. Rhaella quickly spotted the reason for her own outing today, a blonde wisp of a thing, cream skin and blue eyes brought out by the pale blue of her dress.  The girl was no older than eleven namedays, not yet a maiden flowered, but certainly displaying the early signs of a Court beauty, a fact which had clearly been spotted by others.

The Queen watched as Cersei Lannister also spied the girl, standing off to the side staring wide-eyed at the Iron Throne and the dragon skulls lining the walls of the Great Hall.  Rhaella saw the thought cross Cersei’s face as she made her way towards the young girl.

Threat.

Cersei reached the poor girl soon enough, not noticing the Queen approaching from behind, and Rhaella walked up to the group just as the Cersei’s voice cut through the air. “Who are you and what are you doing at Court?”

“I-” stumbled the girl, clearly taken aback by the question, her doe eyes wide.  She stumbled across her words as her eyes noted Rhaella’s presence.

“Lady Cersei, I don’t believe that is of any concern to you,” Rhaella announced, her voice smooth and light despite the hint of reproach.

Cersei and her friends turned around in a swoosh of silk skirts, dipping into curtsies as soon as they saw her, though the Queen noticed the Lannister girl’s curtsy remained far shallower than the others’.

“I was simply inquiring, your Majesty,” clarified Cersei, false sweetness infused into her voice, “It is important to know who is in attendance at Court and why.”

“‘Tis well and good to know those in your presence, Lady Cersei, yet often their reasons for being at Court are none of your concern.  Perhaps mine or the King’s concern, or even the Small Council. But certainly your father would inform you, should you have need to know.”

A shot of anger flashed across the younger woman’s face, her neutral mien failing momentarily.  Though she could not lie that she enjoyed watching the Lannister girl squirm beneath her gaze, Rhaella kept a straight face.  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Rhaella turned to the young girl, softening her eyes.

“Darling,” Rhaella addressed the girl, who looked very much like her great uncle in his younger days, “I believe you are here to see your Great Uncle?”

The young girl nodded and Rhaella smiled, feeling Cersei’s stare.  Rhaella turned to address the other girl’s assembled, introducing the girl that Cersei had so cruelly descended upon.

“Ladies, might I introduce Lady Lynesse Hightower, great niece of Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?  She’ll be passing some time at Court with us before making her way to Highgarden, where her older sister is Lady Tyrell.”

The ladies assembled dipped into curtsies again, no doubt realizing their fault in harassing a young noblewoman with such strong connections.  After all, most of Lady Cersei’s followers were from lesser houses, ladies attempting to garner more attention. That they thought the Lannister girl would grant them such was a youthful mistake - it was unlikely Cersei would assist them in any way beyond that which benefited her.

“Lady Lynesse, perhaps you would be so good as to take tea with me?  Your great uncle was hoping I might be able to speak with you until he has finished his duties with the King.”

Lynesse curtsied again, “I would be honored, your Highness.”

“Excellent.  I am certain Prince Viserys will enjoy meeting a new Lady, and the Crown Prince has already ensured your great uncle has time to spend with you away from his duties.”

Lynesse blushed at the mention of Rhaella’s eldest, and the Queen noted Cersei’s flinch.  The Hightower girl was certainly far too young for Rhaegar, considering Aerys wished for a marriage by the end of next year, but it was amusing to see the Lannister girl fidget at the mention of Rhaegar caring for any other young maiden.

Not that Cersei had much of a chance of securing Rhaegar herself - Rhaella would hardly support such a choice, and Aerys would no doubt hate such an idea, but Rhaegar had never been a fan of the Lannister girl in any case.  Cersei’s belief that she would be the next Crown Princess was woefully misplaced, but Rhaella had no intention of informing the girl. Why infuriate the Lannisters for no reason? The girl would learn her place in time.

Nay, the Quiet Dragon’s weapons were never overt.

“Come along, Lady Lynesse,” Rhaella indicated the young girl should follow her as she inclined her head at the other girls assembled, “Ladies, I wish you a pleasant day.”

Aerys might prefer pyres of wildfire, but Rhaella struck with grace and courtesy.

Kill them with kindness.

Chapter Text

Brandon

The morning dawned brisk, the cold air clearing his head of any lingering hangover.

For once, he was glad he had chosen to forgo those last two pints when Myles and Richard had left to sleep in town.  Brandon could even appreciate the calm of the early morning, such a pleasant contrast to what had plagued the Stark family during the later parts of the day.

He had spoken to his father last night right before the feast, delivering the Crown Prince’s letters, but not before Rickard Stark had shared some choice words about his wolf-blooded children.

“I see Lyanna handled your bastard daughter and her mother while I was away?” his father asked from behind the heavy oak desk.

Brandon blanched as he made his way to the seat in front of his father as Rickard Stark continued, his eyes boring into Brandon.

“Your sister did well.  The affair has remained quiet, and the girl will be taken care of, as befits a child of Stark blood.”

“She was furious with me.  As was Ben.”

Father sighed, “Your siblings are young, Brandon.  Lyanna prides herself on the idea of honor, though it is a naive and pure form of it.  One could say she is a paragon. But I believe her true feelings are similar to mine - it is not the bastard itself that angers her, but the implication that a man would care so little for the consequences of his actions, for the respect he is granted by his name and title.  She views the Stark name as sacred. It is what she clings to. I imagine she also sees herself in Catelyn Tully’s eventual position, for she too will be married to the heir of some Lord. Benjen will take up any sentiment your sister has for now - the two of them are thick as thieves still.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Angry? No.  Disappointed? Perhaps.  It is the natural expectation when one enjoys the company of women as much as you do.  But do not mistake that as approval. Do I wish you to continue this behavior? Absolutely not.  But I shall not blame a babe for the actions of a willful child.”

Brandon bristled at the implication, but Father was not done.

“She was a commoner, thankfully.  Managing another Lord,” Father gave him a knowing look, “would not be as easy.”

Brandon looked down at the floor.  He didn’t know how Father knew of his little affair with Barbrey Ryswell, but Lyanna had warned him that Father knew far more than he let on.

Another reason to end the affair with the Ryswell girl.

Seeking to change the topic, Brandon had remembered his promise to speak in favor of Lyanna’s trip to Queensgate.

“I know you are angry at Lya for running off to Queensgate, but it seemed only fair to give her a break.  She handled a lot while you were away, and the execution was hard on her.”

Father sighed, “I bless the day the Gods decided not to bestow the wolf’s blood on Ned or Benjen.  You and Lyanna will certainly drive me to an early grave. Brandon, your sister may have a better handle on her responsibilities, but that does not make her any less willful.  She knows how to manipulate others to get her wish, and I have allowed her many freedoms she will not be granted. I do not do this to hurt her, but she must learn that not everyone will appreciate such dangerous actions.  She must also think about the implications upon our House, particularly if she is to go south to marry.”

Brandon had taken that opportunity to hand over the letters, watching his father’s face closely.

Rickard Stark was a man who was usually impervious to surprises, so it brought Brandon some measure of delight to see the brief look of shock flash across his father’s face.  But the shock was quickly replaced with the thoughtful face of a man weighing his options.

Brandon had always respected his father and the way in which he ruled the North.  It was one of the reasons Brandon hated taking on the responsibilities as heir – deep down, he knew he would never fill his father’s shoes as Lord of Winterfell.  Ned could, and Lyanna too, had she been born male – her wildness, a testament to her wolf’s blood, only seemed so pronounced due to her sex.

He wondered what Lyanna would think of the Crown Prince’s letters.  The man had indeed written her a short missive as well, informing her of his request.  Brandon hoped Lyanna would appreciate that; most noblemen couldn’t care less about the wishes of their respective spouses.  Brandon certainly hadn’t asked Catelyn Tully’s opinion on their impending betrothal.

But the Crown Prince hadn’t actually proposed an arrangement – he’d requested the opportunity to discuss the possibility, suggesting a courting period.  He wanted to give them both the chance to get to know one another, since they had yet to be formally acquainted.

Yet, Brandon understood from his father’s perspective that this posed a modest issue.

In the end, the Prince could very well not choose to pursue Lyanna.  After all, he was the Crown Prince and undoubtedly had most of the maidens in Westeros at his disposal.  Lyanna, while certainly not in a poor position given her noble blood, did not have quite the luxury as the Prince enjoyed.  And in spite of her charm and her sense of duty, she had little enough desire to marry when forced – above all, she was proud, and Brandon couldn’t imagine her making any significant effort after a failed courtship with the Crown Prince.  What could possibly come after the heir to the Iron Throne?

Ultimately, his father’s decision came down to accepting a known offer that would finalize an alliance with another Lord Paramount, or holding out in hopes that Lyanna charmed the Crown Prince.  While the Crown Prince had seemed set on Lyanna himself, the odds were not exactly against Robert Baratheon, much to Brandon’s displeasure.

Lyanna’s absence at the feast hadn’t allowed either Father or Brandon to speak with her about the Prince’s offer, but Father had told him he would allow discussions to proceed discreetly.  He was already planning on pushing back the timeline with Robert, and did not wish to have Lord Baratheon forcing his hand should it come out that there was such steep competition.

Rising early, Brandon had hoped to catch Lyanna before she left for her morning ride – he thought perhaps meeting the Prince in Wintertown, where she was comfortable, would ease some of the tension – alas, she had already taken off by the time he reached the stables.  Knowing the Prince was likely to be departing early, he gave up the idea of trying to catch her in favor of ensuring he spoke to the Prince before he left.