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Chapter Text

Part One- Summer

I loved a maid as fair as summer
With sunlight in her hair
If she’d love a simple singer
I’d give her cloth of gold to wear

The mud was frozen. Alyssea stared at it, it was meant to be summer. She mumbled an excuse to her mother, and slipped out of the stuffy wheelhouse.

The cold wind bit Lyss’s cheeks and blew her green skirt back as she stepped out of the warm wheelhouse and called for her horse. Hontes was a white-grey stallion, fast as the birds he was named for. She hoisted herself up sidesaddle and urged him on her black plaited hair flew in the wind.

The frozen mud cracked as they raced away from the procession. She felt free again. Lyss had been travelling north for almost a month, and had almost arrived at Winterfell. Almost, but not quite. She would have been and gone, if it was just her and Hontes.

Lyss pressed him on slightly further and they saw the edge of the Wolfswood. They kept going until they were almost in it. Lyss slid off Hontes and gazed at the tall trees. They were ancient as the snows starting to fall, she could sense. They were ancient enough to have seen the last magic, the last children of the forest, before everything disappeared behind the wall.

Lyss walked hesitantly to the forest. The colours were muted, but still beautiful, if you looked closely. She put her hand on a gnarled oak and was going to go further, but a horn startled her.

The sound of dogs howling and the thunder of many hooves replaced the quiet atmosphere. Lyss grabbed a low hanging branch of the oak tree and swung herself up. She knew the horses would be upon her before she reach her own, and she did not want to be trampled. Lyss wished she had trained Hontes to her whistle.

The hounds sprinted out the woods first, and then the horses. Lyss watched them, standing on her branch. If anyone noticed her, they showed no sign of it, until the king rode past.

“Halt!” He bellowed. His voice echoed across the fields.

“Daughter, what in seven hells are you doing up there? You should be in the wheelhouse with your mother.”

Lyss hopped down, landing like a cat.

“The wheelhouse bored me. I wanted to see more of the North. You can’t see anything from the wheelhouse.”

“You shouldn’t have been in the forest girl. You knew we were hunting. You could’ve come with us if you were so bored.”

It has taken many years of pestering and persuasion from Lyss to let her father take her on hunts.

“I won’t go hunting because I am bored. I told you this Father. I’ll only go if we need to.”

Robert snorted. “Come on lads. Let’s go.”

He wheeled his horse around but turned back to face his daughter.

“You too Lyss, I want to make it a mile further north today.”

The king’s hunting party set off again, leaving Lyss alone. She found Hontes, who had wandered off along the edge of the Wolfswood, and mounted him again. She has no desire to go back to the wheelhouse, she wanted to explore the North longer; but the king had commanded. She rode with her back to the forest.

To her dismay, when Lyss returned she met her brother Joffrey. He was allowed to stay out the wheelhouse, as he had his dog protecting him.

“You’ve got sticks in your hair, did you know that?” He asked in kind greeting.

Lyss gritted her teeth and said nothing, only gave her reins to a stable boy and marched towards the wheelhouse, pulling her plait out and raking her fingers through as she went.

Joffrey was right, she had a number of twigs stuck in her hair. When Lyss was certain they were all out, she entered the wheelhouse. Cersei looked her up and down.

“Your skirt is ripped.”

Lyss glanced down and saw a minuscule tear at the hem of her skirt.

“Yes. Sorry, Mother.”

Lyss made her way across the wheelhouse and sat next to Myrcella, helping herself to a tiny cream filled pastry.

“We expect to be at Winterfell tomorrow afternoon.” Cersei said distastefully. Lyss grinned through a mouthful of pastry.

“That’s good,” she said, swallowing. “We’ve been travelling for a month, at least.”

Lyss sat in silence for a while longer, only half listening to the uninteresting chatter.

Chapter Text

When they at last made camp for the night, Lyss found she couldn’t sleep. After an hour of trying and failing, Lyss left the pavilion she shared with Myrcella.

She slipped past the guards after a few minutes of careful watching, and set off, hiding in the tree line. When Lyss decided she was out of sight, she sat at the base of a tree, in the moonlight. She listened to the sounds of the night, the wind rustling through dry leaves, something scuttling in the undergrowth, distant noises from the camp. It was freezing cold, but still she stayed outside.

Every now and then an owl would call out, sometimes so far away Lyss could barely hear it, and once so close and unexpected it made her jump. Lyss found the Wolfswood calm, and peaceful, especially after the chaos of King’s Landing she was used to. Lyss found herself drifting slightly into sleep, when an unexpected noise startled her back to reality.

Footsteps. Lyss’s eyes darted around the trees, looking for whoever it was.

“It’s just me, princess.”

Lyss let out a breath she wasn’t conscious of, and watched Tyrion Lannister step into sight.

“Uncle,” she said, smiling.

“I must admit, I’m surprised to see you awake at this time of night. It’s usually only me.”

“Have you ever been this far north, Uncle?”

“No, but I should like to see more of it. If there is a black brother amongst us tomorrow, I might go to the Wall with him.”

“The Wall? You’re joining the crows?”

“Seven hells, no. The whores would go begging. Only to see, maybe piss off the edge of the world,” Tyrion smiled, and Lyss grinned back.

“That’s good. I would miss you.”

“I would miss you too, Alyssea. Speaking as your favourite uncle, of course.”

“As my favourite uncle, I have a favour to ask you.”

Tyrion cocked his head. “Go on.”

“I would like you to ask Uncle Jaime to persuade Mother to let me ride the rest of the way to Winterfell. The wheelhouse is stuffy and boring and enough to make someone insane and miserable.”

“I’ll see what I can do, I’m not promising though.”

Lyss smiled again. “Thank you, uncle.”

“You’d best be back, before Cersei wakes.”

Lyss obligingly stood, brushing dead leaves from her skirt.

Tyrion led the way, around the trees and back to camp. The sun had just started to rise, and people with it. Tyrion soon took his leave of her and headed in the opposite direction.

Lyss checked her dress over for mud, smoothed her skirt, and entered her pavilion. Myrcella was still asleep. Lyss tugged a brush through her tangled hair, pulling out one tiny twig that she had missed earlier.

When she was satisfied her hair was knot free, Lyss replaited her hair, threading in her favourite silver hair rings. They were old and slightly tarnished, but still shone bright.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and went to wake Myrcella. She protested sleepily at first, but soon got up.

After almost half an hour of careful consideration, Myrcella decided on a lovely lilac one with deep sleeves.

“First impressions are important,” she told Lyss seriously, “and we need to make a good first impression on the Starks. Father wants Joff to marry Sansa Stark.”

“I know. I heard Jon Arryn telling him it would be a good idea, though he died before we set off. And that’s another reason why we’re going all this way North. Father wants to make Eddard Stark his new Hand.”

“Joffrey told me,” Myrcella said, fiddling with the sleeve of her gown as Lyss brushed out her hair. Lyss frowned.

“He never told me.”

“He doesn’t like that your father’s favourite,” Myrcella said. Their conversation petered out after that.

Lyss wove her sister’s pretty gold hair into an intricate design, and when she was done, Lyss added purple flowers, selected from a vase on the chest of drawers that contained her and Myrcella’s clothes.

“Does it look nice?” Myrcella asked, after choosing an amythest necklace.

“You’re pretty enough to melt the winter snows,” Lyss smiled at her sister.

When she left their pavilion, the last traces of sunset had been wiped from the sky and had been replaced with a dismal grey colour. The camp was already being packed away, for the last time before Winterfell. Lyss caught sight of Uncle Jaime, who winked at her before waking away. She hopefully made her way to the wheelhouse.

Cersei and Myrcella were seated, Tommen nowhere in sight.

“Mother, can I ride today?”

“Funny you should ask that.” Cersei said, lifting her emerald gaze to her daughter. “Jaime thought it would be a good idea if you did.”

Lyss considered asking why, but decided to leave the wheelhouse instead.

She saddled Hontes, and rode him straight north. A tiny speck on the horizon rose, and grew into a castle. Winterfell, she assumed. Lyss breathed in the crisp air, and drew her cloak closer around her.
Veering around, she urged Hontes across barren fields. They came across a brook, near the mouth of the Wolfswood. When Lyss discarded her boots and dipped her bare feet in, she found it was cold, but bearable.

She started spinning and splashing round, and eventually found rhythm. High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Lyss thought,

“Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost
And the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most

The ones who’d been gone
For so very long
She couldn’t remember their names
They spun her around
On the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.

And she never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave

They danced through the day
And into the night
Through the snows that swept through the halls
From winter to summer, and winter again
Til the walls did crumble and fall.”

Lyss trailed off. She stopped skipping in the river. She sat herself down on a rock protruding from the water, and trailed her hand through the it. It was so nice, not nearly as cold as she thought it would be. Lyss sensed she wasn’t alone.

She looked up, and saw a white dog. It was staring at her with unsettling red eyes. Hontes stamped his hooves nervously. Lyss stood up, and reached across to calm him. A quiet rustling from the trees brought her fingers to her wrists, where her daggers were always strapped.

Lyss stepped out the water and turned around. A boy, no older than she was stood in the opposite side of the river. He had dark hair, and a pale complexion. The white dog had sat by his feet. Lyss was frozen, with one hand on Hontes’s neck, like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

“He came out to find you,” the boy said suddenly. “The wolf, I meant. He ran out the castle walls and I’ve only just caught up with him.”

“Castle walls? Who are you?”

“I’m Jon Snow.”

Lyss nodded agreeably. She was fairly certain Snow was the Northern bastard name, but she didn’t give a fuck.

“I didn’t think he was a wolf.”

“Ghost is a direwolf pup.” Jon said. He was quiet, yet proud.

“I thought direwolves only lived beyond the Wall,” Lyss said, impressed. She rubbed her bare feet dry on the bottom of her bedraggled skirt and yanked her woollen socks on.

“You have a sweet singing voice,” Jon commented awkwardly, clearly not knowing if their conversation was over or not.

“You have my thanks,” Lyss shoved her feet back into her boots.

“I never asked your name. That was not polite of me.”

“Lyss. My name is Lyss.” Lyss said.

“Yes… I need to go now.” Jon gestured back through the Wolfswood. Lyss swung herself into Hontes’s saddle.

“Goodbye, Jon.”

“Goodbye, Lyss.”

Lyss dug her heels into Hontes, and he started trotting off. She pushed him into a canter, then full on gallop across the frosted earth.

When she reached the procession again, Lyss saw they were almost at the gates of Winterfell. She slowed Hontes down to a trot, and rose towards the front, and scowled when she was penned in behind Joffrey and Sandor Clegane, who was wearing his visor.

Lyss couldn’t decide whether it was hideous or impressive. It seemed the hem of her skirt was stained with the dust and mud. Lyss noticed, and tried rubbing them away, but but her skirt remained bedraggled. She hoped no one would notice, as the colour of her dress was deep green, to match her eyes.

The Northern folk were few and far between, but there were many gathered around Winterfell. Kings were few and far between in the North. She rocked back and forth, letting Hontes trot on. They were in what Lyss guessed to be the Winter town, the town inside the motte and Bailey castle design.

She saw the Keep of Winterfell looming above, and felt a sense of excitement. They had been travelling for a month to get her, and now they were. She went through an arch, which must’ve been the gates, though she couldn’t see any, as there were too many people and horses in the way.

They spilled out into a large courtyard. Lyss saw be the Starks, lined up, in front of their household. She saw a Stark girl with flame coloured hair, who must be Sansa Stark smile at Joffrey, who gave a smarmy one in return.

Lyss almost heaved over the side of her horse, but she remembered where she was, and instead settled for a pleasant smile, to no one in particular. The Hound opened up his visor, as the wheelhouse trundled in. Lyss slid of Hontes, and hovered by him, unsure of what to do next.

She decided to watch, and wait. Robert rode past, and everyone in the courtyard bent the knee. Lyss watched Lord Eddard Stark’s carefully concealed expression as his king stepped down a half-ladder. He strode across the courtyard to Lord Stark. When he got there, he motioned for him to rise. He did, and the rest of Winterfell followed.

“Your Grace.”

Lyss’s father looked the Warden of the North up and down.

“You got fat.”

Lord Stark looked at Robert, his eyebrows raised. Lyss stifled a snort of laughter and decided she liked Lord Stark. The two men laughed and embraced each other like lost brothers.

“Cat!” Robert cried, hugging Lady Catelyn. He ruffled the hair of the youngest Stark, and turned back to Lord Eddard.

“Nine years,” he sighed. “Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

“Guarding the North for you, Your Grace,” Lord Eddard smiled. “Winterfell is yours.”

Cersei, Myrcella, and Tommen stepped down from the wheelhouse. Lyss’s siblings looked around, delighted smiles on their faces, but Cersei’s was cold and feigned.

Lyss heard a dark haired Stark girl ask,
“Where’s the Imp?”, prompting Sansa to tell her to shut up. Their brother peered curiously around at the younger girl, and she glanced back at him.

“What have we here?” Robert moved onto Lord Stark’s eldest. “You must be Robb.”

He clasped hands with the boy-man.

“My, you’re a pretty one,” her father told Sansa, the auburn daughter, who smiled, pleased, and looked at the ground. Robert walked down to her sister.

“Your name is?”

“Arya,” she replied, looking straight at the King.

“Show us your muscles,” Robert said to the boy next to Arya. He did so, grinning widely.

“You’ll be a soldier.”

The boy smiled further.

“That’s Jaime Lannister, the Queen’s twin brother,” Arya noted, having just caught sight of him.

“Will you please shut up,” Her sister hissed back.

Cersei, having descended the wheelhouse, strode over. She extended a hand, which Lord Eddard kissed.

“My Queen,” he said.

Lady Catelyn bowed her head.

“My Queen,” she echoed. Cersei smiled again, but anyone could see it didn’t reach her eyes.

Lyss walked behind Joffrey, to the Starks.
“My daughter, Alyssea,” Robert said, gesturing at Lyss, and then Joffrey. “My son Joffrey. Then there’s Tommen and Myrcella.” He waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the wheelhouse. “Take me to your crypts, I wan to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait,” Cersei objected coldly.

“Ned,” her father commanded, ignoring his wife.

After the King left with Lord Eddard, the household of Winterfell dispersed, most likely to get the feast ready.

“Allow me to escort you, Your Grace,” a young woman came forward, but Sansa Stark waved her aside.

“I’ll show you the way,” she beamed up at Lyss, who took her arm. Sansa led her through the rapidly thinning crowd. It was warm in the castle, warmer than she had expected.

“There are hot springs underneath where Winterfell is built. The hot water runs through the walls,” Sansa said, noticing her surprise.

Lyss put her hand against the wall. It was slightly warm to the touch.

“What do you like to do, Sansa?” Lyss asked.

“What do you mean?”

“For fun, a hobby of sorts.”

“I like to sew. I made the dress I’m wearing tonight. And singing. I like singing, and talking to the other Lord’s children. I like hearing their stories.”

“I like to sing too. I don’t do it that often though.”

Sansa was a perfect lady. Lyss marvelled at that. She thought she would like sewing if she was good at it, as it was also practical. She preferred being alone than with the other highborn daughters thrust upon her.

Sansa led her up a winding staircase that led onto a wide passageway. A large oaken door stood before them. Sansa opened it, and Lyss stepped in. It was a beautiful room.

A large four poster bed took pride of space, while the ornately carved fireplace was beautiful too. A soft sheepskin rug stretched across the floor, leading, inviting Lyss to the window.

“By your leave, my lady,” Sansa said softly.

“Yes, you may go, Sansa.”

Lyss walked into the centre of the room. A second smaller door led into a bathing chamber, she found. Lyss went back into the main room, to the window, where her eyes landed on the godswood.

Chapter Text

Lyss had always been fascinated by different religions, despite not following one herself. She left her room, and hurried down the hallway, down the windy stairs, and veered right. The godswood was the right, from the window, so she decided if she went far right enough she would reach it.

She passed few people, and only took the right turnings. Eventually, after getting slightly lost and having to turn left a few times, she got to a door that took her outside. Lyss spotted a gate, and tall trees rising on the horizon. She bounded towards it, stopping when she got to the gate.

It was tall, oaken, but when Lyss pushed it, it opened noiselessly. She slipped in, and shut the gate behind her. The trees were tall, ancient and beautiful. There were pools of water, and when Lyss bent down to touch them, they were warm, like Sansa said.

She spied the heart tree, white and red, standing by a large pool. Lyss sat on a rock in front of it in silence. She put her elbow on her knee, and rested her chin in her hand, and listened to the sounds of the wood. She liked doing that. It was tranquil. The time stood still.

Lyss gazed at the heart tree. And, like in the Wolfswood, a rustling disturbed her. Two dogs-no, direwolves- stood before here. Silent Ghost, who she remembered, and a grey one she hadn’t seen. Behind them stood three boys nearing manhood. One she didn’t recognise, but smiled a lot, one who she realised was the eldest Stark, Robb, and Jon Snow.

Eddard’s bastard, she realised. Her father had talked about him in passing, only to curse Lord Eddard’s reluctance to talk about his mother.

Lyss stood. The two direwolves sat quietly by her.

“Jon said he saw you in the river,” the smiley boy grinned. Jon went red.

“I wasn’t naked, if that’s what you’re saying,” Lyss said coldly.

“We didn’t believe him. We thought he was using it as an excuse to run off.”

“If I was, why would I’ve come back?” Jon asked.

“And anyway,” the smiley boy pressed on.“The rivers are cold, even in summer.”

“Theon didn’t think it was a princess-like thing to do,” Robb interjected.

Lyss always kept two daggers at her wrists, hidden beneath her sleeves. They were precious to her, so precious. She unsheathed one from her wrist, and flung it at the tree behind Theon. Not a very princess like thing to do either. It missed him by a whisker. He smiled.

“You missed.”

“If I had wanted it to go through your eye it would’ve done,” Lyss replied curtly.
“We’re sorry to disturb you,” Robb said courteously. “We didn’t think to find anyone else here.”

“I thought Southrons worshipped the Seven,” Theon said, smiling still.

“They do.” Lyss was suddenly very uncomfortable. She started walking back out of the weirwood.

“Why aren’t you in Lady Catelyn’s Sept then?” Theon raised his voice slightly, as Lyss walked away.

“I don’t worship the Seven,” Lyss turned round. “I don’t worship any of the gods. I save my time. The gods don’t hear anyone, and if they do they don’t care. You have to make your prayers work yourself.”

Theon had touched a sore subject. Lyss forgot about her knife embedded in the tree, and simply strode away.

Chapter Text

She got horribly lost on the way back. Lyss couldn’t remember where the stairs were. She began to panic, as it took a while to look presentable, and Lyss she did not have a while to spare any more.

Then she found the windy stairs, the ones Sansa had shown her, the ones she recognised. Gratefully, she sprinted up them and to her door. Lyss was relieved when it opened, as she had been afraid it was locked. She raced to her wardrobe, finding the dress she was meant to wear.

It was gold and black, the Baratheon colours. There was a black bodice, and underskirt, which could be seen through a slender slit in her yellow overskirt, which was the same colour as her sleeves, which hugged her arms tight. Lyss struggled with her hair so much she almost cried. Her maid Isa was not here to help here. Where was she?

Eventually she wrangled into a presentable half up twist, and set an intricate golden band on it. She dabbed lemon scent onto her wrists, and chose a delicate obsidian necklace.

Lyss went to the window, to see the Northern evenings. The sun had started its slow descent, casting faint colour over Winterfell. There was a knock at the door. Myrcella stood there expectantly in pink clothing, and seemed to know exactly where to go.

“I was shown round earlier.” Myrcella explained.

“Who by?”

“Kayte. She’s my friend. She showed me to my room. Her mother works on the kitchen.”

Lyss nodded absentmindedly.

“Look out the window,” she said, nodding at one as they went past.

The sun had set deeper, the colours grown richer. They were both looking so intently, only Myrcella noticed the sudden step. Lyss stumbled, and almost fell. Myrcella laughed. She laughed so hard she made a strange snorting noise that sent Lyss laughing as well.

They were still laughing when they rounded the corner to where everyone else was gathered. Lyss tried to suppress her giggles, and halfway succeeded. She was smiling widely when she took Robb’s arm.

Joffrey and Sansa were partnered, then Arya and Tommen, Myrcella and Bran.

“I’m Brandon, but everyone calls me Bran,” he had said. Little Rickon strutted along on his short legs. Cersei and her false smile went with Lord Eddard, leading Robert and Lady Catelyn. Just before the group walked into the Great Hall, Robb passed Lyss her dagger.

“It took us a while to pull it out,” he said softly. Lyss smiled as she took it.

“I was going to go back for it after, but then I got lost,” she slid it back up her wrist. The Great Hall of Winterfell was bright from hundreds of candles, and warm by hundreds of people, laughing, talking.

Robb pointed out Ghost, sat under the table with Jon Snow. The wolf pup watched the people go by with his unsettling ruby eyes. The procession swept up to a dais on a platform. Lyss was sat between Robb and Sansa. She sensed Sansa had helped with the seating plan, so she could sit between a princess, and the heir to the Iron Throne.

“I think Myrcella fancies you,” Lyss muttered, gesturing subtly down the table to where her sister was gazing. Bran had given up any attempts of conversation, it seemed, and was talking happily to Rickon. Robb smiled down at her. Myrcella went pinker than her dress and looked at her plate. Lyss was starving, but chose not to say anything. She listened to the players instead.

“Tell me about the people,” Lyss said, starting up the small talk. “The people who live here.”

“Which one specifically?”

Lyss scanned the benches.

“That one,” she pointed to a little girl.

“That’s little Beth,” Robb said. “Her father is Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master of arms here. She’s started sewing recently, and I think she likes it. But you’d have to ask Sansa.”

The bread course came out first.

“What’s the south like?”

“It gets hot, very hot, and when it does the King’s Landing reeks worse than ever. In the Stormlands though, it’s nice. Especially when the sea breeze blows in. But what about the North? What’s the best thing about the North?”

“The best thing?” Robb thought for a minute. “The best thing is watching the snows outside, especially if you’re sat by the fire.”

The courses came by fast, and Lyss soon felt full. They were allowed a goblet of wine, but Robb pointed out Jon Snow sat with the squires. He wasn’t restricted to one cup. They watched as he got steadily more drunk. The fiddlers started to play a different tune; it was time for the dancing.

“Come on Robb. I like dancing,” Lyss said, slightly tipsy off the strong, fine wine. They descended the dais, to the other couples dancing.

“A bear! A bear! There was a BEAR!
All black and brown and covered with hair.”

“This is a good song,” Lyss absentmindedly commented, as she was spun round.

“It is,” Robb agreed.

“The fair said he?
But I’m a BEAR!
All black and brown and covered with hair!
And down the road from here to there
From HERE!
To THERE!
Three boys, a goat, and a dancing BEAR!
All black and brown and covered with HAIR!
They danced and spun all the way to the FAIR!
The FAIR!
The FAIR!”

The dance led Lyss away, and to little Beth Cassel. She smiled at the child, who stared back at her. Lyss spun Beth, before her partner changed again. An old man she didn’t know, a Lannister soldier, with the golden lion sewn into his doublet, then a pretty maid with red hair, a man of no particular redeeming qualities, other than the fact he played his lute earlier.

“My bear! she sang
My bear so FAIR!
And off they went
From HERE to THERE
THE BEAR!
THE BEAR!
AND THE MAIDEN FAIR!”

The song ended. Lyss danced a while longer, before she tired. She went outside, into the sharp, cool Northern air. She saw her uncle Tyrion talking to Jon Snow, and decided to go in the opposite direction. She saw the half moon, hanging high and bright over the Wolfswood.

Her skirts rustled as she swept across the battlements, and watched a fox run down a rabbit. She had to squint, as there was only light from torches dotted around Winterfell, and the moon. She kept waking around, and then down a staircase.

Lyss decided not to rejoin the feast a the dancers. She went back the way she had come with Myrcella, remembering the route, as it was only down the stairs and round the corner. She threw open the shutters on her window.

The moon was at the other side of the castle, but the air was sweet nonetheless. Lyss kicked off her shoes and pulled her hair down. She took off all her jewellery, and carefully placed them in a box. The lacing at the back of her dress proved a struggle, but she managed to undo most of it, then wriggled out. She lay on the bed, under the thick blanket to keep the chill off, and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Lyss was awoken by her maid from King’s Landing shaking her shoulder.

“Where were you yesterday?” she asked groggily.

“I waited for a while, and when you didn’t return, I went to help your royal mother,” Isa replied, and handed her a key.

“Thanks, Isa. I got lost. And after the feast?”

Isa blushed. Lyss smiled impishly at her, but didn’t press the matter.

She waited patiently as Isa brushed out her hair. She decided a simple pale green dress, with hidden pockets, would do. Isa laced it up, and they both left the room together.

Lyss knew they were having breakfast on the Great Hall. She put her hand on the immense door, but changed her mind and went back to her room. Her room was locked, but she had the key Isa had given her. She stripped her dress off. In her smallclothes, she padded over to where her clothes were kept, and found her only pair of trousers.

They were once deep blue, but they had since faded. Her tunic was green. Lyss loved green. She found her bow, dark brown and smooth, protected under a layer of gowns Lyss had never worn. Her quiver of arrows was there, however they had been less well protected; one had snapped on the journey. Lyss slung them onto her back and walked out the room, locking the door again behind her.

She didn’t know where the stables were, but did know how to get outside. She skirted round the edge of the motte, until she smelled the smell of horses; and heard them too. She found Hontes soon enough. She strapped his saddle and bridle on, and mounted.

Lyss much preferred riding like this to sidesaddle. She held the reins in her right hand, and her bow in the left. Lyss was unsurprised to see the gates open, as there were many people going to a from the castle to the camp, where most of the King’s men slept.

Hontes trotted past the Northerners in the Winter town, carefully swerving so as not to run anyone down. They went through the main entrance, and Lyss kicked Hontes into a mad gallop. They raced across the frozen earth.

The Wolfswood rose on the horizon, to their right. Lyss spied a low branch. With Hontes still running like his life depended on it, she let go of the reins, to reach back for an arrow. She rocked back and forth in the motion of the saddle, and aimed.

The arrow hit the branch, but barely, missing the spot Lyss intended to send it to. She tugged on the reins, causing Hontes to slow. Lyss leapt from his back, over to the tree. There were no low branches, but there was a large knot in the trunk fairly low down.

Lyss put her foot on it, and then launched forwards to hug the tree. Her leg ached, but she shimmied up, until she got to a branch. She could see her arrow, sunk into the one above. Lyss stood on her tiptoes, and still couldn’t reach it. She decided she didn’t want to waste her day trying to get her arrow back.

She jumped, landing with a loud thump on her side. Lyss rubbed her arm, wincing, as she knew she would have a bruise. She climbed back Hontes. She wanted to explore the Wolfswood.

Birds sang high in the trees above her head. A stream ran down through the trees, winding its way home. Hontes splashed through it, and into the soft, piny ground or the forest. Lyss didn’t want to go too far in, because she knew she would get lost, but she wanted to see.

She stayed near enough to the edge, but deep enough in so she felt isolated. She rode through, marvelling in the wild beauty of trees around her. She stopped by a bush of sweet summer berries.

Lyss put one in her mouth, and as she but down, the sweetness spread over her tongue. She ate another, watered herself and Hontes by a small stream, and continued down a small hunting track. Lyss saw a hollow tree.

She halted her horse, and tied him to a nearby tree, drawing an arrow, and shot it straight into the hollow. She went jubilantly over to retrieve it. Lyss shot three more arrows, standing back each time. The first one missed, but she did fairly well on the other two.

Time passed quickly. Lyss lost track of it, until she rode out, and saw how low the sun was. The gates were still open, but about to close when she returned. Lyss rode into the stable, where a few stableboys were dotted around. An extremely tall one took Hontes from her.

“Hodor,” he said.

As he gently attended to her horse, Lyss left. She went straight to her room, unlocking it, then sitting on the windowsill, so she wouldn’t get her bed dirty. Isa arrived shortly, with some bread and meat, and a cup of weak ale. Lyss ate quickly, as Isa drew her a bath.

She told Isa about her day, hearing occasional noises of agreement from the other room. The bath was warm, and comforting.

Long after Isa had left, Lyss found she couldn’t sleep. She found her paper, quill, and ink and sat on the windowsill again, with the light of a candle so she could see. She idly drew a direwolf, howling at the moon. If she had her coloured inks with her, Lyss would’ve made its eyes blood red, like Ghost’s.

Lyss found she had fallen asleep at the window. She was thankful it wasn’t big enough to fall out of. She felt like she had to go to breakfast, for courtesy’s sake. Sansa came and sat with her.

“Where were you yesterday, my lady?”

“I went to the Wolfswood.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose, but didn’t say anything outright.

“We’re sewing with Septa Mordane. Myrcella said that you would be there. Will you?” Sansa’s face was hopeful.

“Yes,” Lyss begrudgingly agreed.

Sansa beamed. Lyss caught sight of Arya Stark, sat a lengths way behind her sister, looking at Lyss as if she were mad.

“Come on Lyss,” Sansa said, after breakfast. “We’ll go now. You too, Arya.”

Arya made a face behind Sansa’s back that made Lyss smile.

“Do you enjoy sewing, Arya?”

The girl scowled. “I hate it. Septa Mordane says I have blacksmith’s hands.”

Lyss smiled wider. She liked Sansa well enough, and found her sweet, but she had never met a highborn girl who complained about sewing.

Myrcella was already there, with all her ladies. Lyss had some before, but had since asked her father if she could be left alone. She only needed Isa. There was an assorted collection of Winterfell girls as well.

Lyss only recognised little Beth. She found a nice little corner, politely declining Sansa’s offer to sit with her and her friend. Arya sat nearby. Not even ten minutes in, Lyss stabbed her finger.

She cursed under her breath, and sucked her finger. She heard Sansa muttering excitedly about Joffrey to her friend. Lyss glanced down the room and saw Septa Mordane cooing over Myrcella’s wonky stitches. Neither of the sisters had a talent for needlework.

“What are you talking about?” Arya’s voice broke through the whispered conversations.

Sansa’s friend Jeyne looked at the Stark girl, startled, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed, and Beth giggled.

“Tell me,” Arya insisted.

Jeyne glanced over to Septa Mordane, who was still with Myrcella.

“We were talking about the prince,” Sansa said softly. Lyss snorted.

“Joffrey?” Lyss asked, already knowing the answer.

“He told Sansa she was very beautiful,”Jeyne said, proudly.

“He’s going to marry her,” Little Beth piped up. “Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm.”

“We’ll be sisters,” Sansa said dreamily. Then she remembered where she was.

“You shouldn’t go making up stories,” she reprimanded Beth, stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words.
“He’s so gallant though, don’t you think.”

Sansa was blind, Lyss realised.

“Jon said he looks like a girl,” Arya snapped, then looked apologetically at Lyss.

“You’re right,” Lyss agreed. “It’s past time he cut his hair.”

Sansa chose to ignore the last comment, still lost in her dreams. “Poor Jon. He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”

“He’s our brother.” Arya said, the same time as Lyss declared,
“I would rather marry a bastard than Joffrey.”

Septa Mordane glanced over, frowning.
“What are you talking about?”

“Our half brother,” Sansa said, soft and precise. “Arya and I were remarking how pleased we are to have the princesses with us today.”

Septa Mordane nodded. “Indeed, it’s a great honour for us all.”

Myrcella smiled uncertainly. The Septa went over to Arya.

“Arya, why aren’t you at work?” Her skirts rustled as she walked. “Let me see your stitches.”

She didn’t seem to care that Lyss was still sucking her finger, even though she had been for the past five minutes- because Lyss was a princess. Arya looked ready to scream.

“Here,” She unhappily handed the sampler over. Septa Mordane tutted.

“Arya, Arya, Arya. This will not do. This will not do at all.”

Lyss bit her lip. She felt bad for Arya, who had bolted to the door.

“Arya, come here! Don’t you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this! In front of royalty too! You’ll shame us all!”

Arya turned back to face her audience. Lyss saw she was crying openly now.

“By your leave, my lady.”

Lyss put up a hand, signalling her to wait. She smiled sweetly at the Septa.

“Look at my stitches. Are they any good?” In truth, they were worse than Arya’s.

“Yes,” Septa Mordane managed to say. “They’re very… exquisite.”

Lyss turned back to the door. “You do, Arya. Just wait for me, I’ll come with you.”

She knew the Septa couldn’t say anything. Lyss shut the door behind them.

“Thank fuck for that,” she said. “Any longer, and I would’ve stabbed my eyes out.”

Arya smiled. “Can I get Nymeria?”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“She scares your sister.”

“Myrcella is scared of her shadow at times.”

Lyss didn’t like talking about her sister like that, but it was true. Nymeria was waiting in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. She bounded up when she caught scent of Arya, who grinned widely.

The direwolf turned her head in Lyss’s direction as Arya untied her. Her eyes were yellow, and when a stream of sunlight broke across the hall, her they turned into golden coins. Arya hugged her wolfling tight, then stood.

“I can’t go back to my room, they’ll find me. Can I stay with you?”

Lyss grinned. “Course you can. Where do you want to go?”

Arya thought a moment. “The boys are at practice. I want to see Robb knock Joffrey into the dust.”

“Me too.”

Lyss would’ve gladly watched it all day. They both ran, Nymeria close at Arya’s heels. She took them to a window where they had the whole view of the whole yard.

They arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon already sat in the windowsill, one leg drawn up to his chin. He was watching the practice, seeming unaware of his company until silent Ghost moved to meet them. He sniffed at Nymeria, and gave her ear a careful nip, before settling back down.

“Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?” Jon noticed Lyss. “My lady.”

“We were so exquisite at it,” Arya snickered at Lyss, “that she sent us away. I wanted to see them fight.”

She sat on the windowsill next to Jon, and Lyss stood behind the pair, peering over their heads. To her disappointment, it was Bran and Tommen drilling.

It looked as if Bran was belted on a featherbed, he was so heavily padded. Poor Tommen, who was already plump to begin with, seemed positively round.

They were puffing and hitting at each other with wooden swords, under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms. A dozen spectators were calling out encouragement.

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework.” Lyss and Arya said in unison.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked, eyes fixed on the boys sparring.

Lyss sighed, as Jon gave a half smile.

“Bastards aren’t allowed to damage young princes. Any bruises they take in the practise yard must come from trueborn swords.”

“A stupid rule,” Lyss muttered.

“Oh,” Arya said, turning back to watch Bran whack at Lyss’s brother.

“I could do just as good as Bran,” she decided. “He’s only seven. I’m nine.”

“You couldn’t,” Jon disagreed. “You’re too skinny. I doubt you could even lift a longsword, let alone swing one.”

Arya glared, as Jon ruffled her hair. Lyss watched slightly longer before leaving. She heard shouts from the yard. She doubled back, and went down the steps set in the hill, into the yard.

”This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik,” She heard Joffrey say in a bored tone.

”You are a child, Joffrey,” Lyss called over, descending the stairs and walking across the yard.

”I’m a prince,” Joffrey whined slightly. ”I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”

”Swat at me then. With a real sword,” Lyss had to practise at the sword anyway.

”My lady, I must protest. This is not suitable,” Ser Rodrik protested, horrified.

”Are you scared of being beaten by a girl?” Lyss mocked, ignoring the knight. ”What have you got to fear? I’m in a fucking skirt.”

Joffrey glared at her. ”I accept the challenge. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you, sister.”

”Live steel!” Lyss cried. Poor Ser Rodrik was still trying to stop the fight, but the Hound was laughing. Theon Greyjoy was smiling. Lyss and Joffrey were both handed swords. Lyss held hers strong in her right hand, fingers gripping the pommel, finding a good spot.

”Fight!” The Hound shouted, taking over from Ser Rodrik. Joffrey made the first cut. Lyss twisted out the way, and lunged towards him. Her brother blocked it, sending a flurry of blows. Lyss parried most. One cut her forearm, but she gritted her teeth, and kept going.

She lunged again, putting all her strength in her blows. Joffrey stumbled, and that was all Lyss needed. She kicked his leg in, and he fell. Lyss stood over him, her sword point at his chest.

”Yield?” Lyss asked, tauntingly.

”Never,” Joffrey kicked his feet out, but Lyss was expecting it. She danced out of reach, but stretched her arm out, so her sword was still a threat.

Joffrey glared at Lyss, hatred and humiliation burning in his green eyes.

“I yield,” He choked out. Lyss extended a hand to help him up, but Joffrey slapped it away. She leaned back, resting in her sword.

“Whose sword is this?” She asked the small crowd.

“Mine,” a squire standing near the front said. Lyss handed him the sword back.

“It’s a good one. Take care of it.”

Feeling there was nothing left for her, Lyss departed for the castle. Her brother had given her a given her a fair fight, but she had been trained by the Kingslayer himself.

Chapter Text

They had been in Winterfell for near three weeks, and today was their last day. Lord Eddard had accepted the offer of Hand, and the preparations for the journey South almost completed. Lyss heard the hunting horns from her bed. She has chosen not to go, as Joffrey was still wrath with her.

The hallways were mostly empty. Lyss strode down, to a window where she knew she could see the hunting party. They galloped across the fields to the Wolfswood, their hounds streaking ahead. Someone blew the horn again. Lyss turned away as the last horse disappeared behind the tree line. The cut Joffrey had given her was deeper than she thought it was, and she might even have a faint scar left.

Lyss wore her faded blue trousers again, as she was going to practice her arms. Lyss knew her mother would be angry if she ruined a gown. She wanted to practice archery first. Lyss found a worn out target, and dragged it into the practise yard.

She shot at it for a while, until her hands were numb. Almost all her arrows hit the target. A small triumph.

Lyss got her daggers out after that. She liked them, she was best at them. She decided not to practise with her sword today, she would do that tomorrow, or back in King’s Landing.

Lyss went back upstairs to change. Her dress was simple woollen, dyed red with a square neckline. She wanted to wander Winterfell and its frozen lands. It was not likely for her to ever return north, as Lyss was arranged to marry Quentyn Martell. Then she would live in Dorne.

She was halfway across when she heard a scream from above. Lyss saw a small figure, falling from an old, dilapidated tower. She gasped horrified, as Bran Stark crashed to the earth.

“SOMEONE HELP!” Lyss yelled, running towards the castle. “GET THE MAESTER!”

She flung open the door, still hollering. A wolf was howling, adding to the clamour. People rushed outside. Sansa appeared, Jeyne Poole beside her.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“Bran’s fallen!” Lyss cried. “We need the Maester!”

Horror etched itself onto Sansa’s face. She dashed around a corner and up some stairs, Lyss and Jeyne close behind. Most of the castle was in uproar by the time Maester Luwin, Lyss, Sansa, and Jeyne were outside again.

Lady Catelyn was by her son’s side, wailing and screaming uncontrollably. Rickon and Arya stood nearby, clutching each other.

“We need to carry him upstairs,” Maester Luwin said briskly, the voice of reason in the chaos.

“I’ll help.” Lyss was breathless with panic for a child she had only known for a few weeks.

“Thank you, my lady, but Hodor is quite capable on his own.”

The huge stableboy came forwards, muttering, “Hodorhodorhodorhodorhooodoooooor.”

He gathered Bran up in his arms and took him into the castle, Lady Catelyn still sobbing, followed. Lyss, not knowing what to do, joined the Stark siblings.

“I am truly sorry,” she said. The words seemed empty, but Sansa nodded, tears wet on her cheeks.

“He shouldn’t have fallen. He never fell,”Arya said. Her face hardened. “Someone pushed him. He was up that tower all the time.”

Sansa turned to Lyss.

“Did you see anyone, anyone at all?”

“No. No, I was too busy getting Maester Luwin to see. I didn’t know, I didn’t realise.” Lyss’s vision blurred.

She angrily blinked her tears away. She knew some herblore, she would gather plants in the Wolfswood.
Leaving the Starks, she hurried to the kitchen, to look for a basket.

Lyss found a good one, and carried it outside. She felt like there was no time to saddle Hontes, she mounted bareback. Lyss sat sidesaddle, restricted by her skirt, and placed the basket on her lap. She kicked Hontes on, out the stable, and into the Wolfswood. She knew whereabouts the hunting party would be at, and avoided that neck of the woods.

Lyss could still hear Summer howling when they entered. She slid off Hontes’s back and foraged for the right herbs. Lyss found rosemary. She knew it probably wouldn’t help Bran, but it would help Lady Catelyn. Lyss was overjoyed when she found prickly ash and wild ginger.

Her basket was filled when she rode back into the stables. The hunting party wasn’t back yet, but Lyss knew they would be sent word. She ran down hallways and up twisting staircases to the Maester’s turret. No one was there, so she left the basket on Luwin’s crowded tabletop.

It was only her mother, Tommen, Myrcella and Jaime at breakfast the next morning. Cersei and Uncle Jaime were slightly apart from the rest of them, talking in low, hushed tones. Lyss didn’t catch what they were saying. Her Uncle Tyrion walked in.

“Is Robert still abed?” He asked, while seating himself.

“The King has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard, haven taken their sorrow deeply to heart.”

“He has a very large heart, our Robert,”Jaime smiled. Uncle Jaime was rarely serious.

“Do you have news of Bran, uncle?” Lyss said, breaking the silence.

“I stopped by the sickroom last night. There was no change. The Maester thought that a hopeful sign.”

“I don’t want Bran to die,” Tommen piped up.

“Lord Eddard had brother, a Brandon too. One of the hostages murdered by the Targaryens. It must be an unlucky name,”Jaime mused.

“Oh, not so unlucky as that, surely,” Tyrion said.

“Everyone has to die at some point. There’s a saying in High Valyrian, Valar Morghulis,” Lyss said, in agreement with her uncle.

“You’re always so smug about how you learned High Valyrian, Lyss, but it’s not very widely used in the Seven Kingdoms,”Tyrion said mildly, ripping apart a piece of bread.

“What do you mean by not unlucky?” Cersei shot her brother a look.

“Why, only that Tommen might have his wish. The Maester thinks the boy may live yet.”

Lyss dropped her cup. Water splashed everywhere, as Myrcella gasped happily, and Tommen smiled.

Bran was going to live. Through her joy, she noticed the glance between her mother and uncle Jaime; it didn’t last more than a second, but it was there.

“These are cruel Northern gods, to let the child linger in such pain,” Cersei said lightly.

“What was the Maester’s words?” Jaime asked. Lyss gazed at him suspiciously.

She had planned on leaving, to visit Bran, perhaps, but now she had a funny feeling, from watching her family. Uncle Jaime seemed unnatural now, like he was trying to force casualness.

“He thinks that if the boy were to die, he would’ve done so already. Four days is a long time, and there’s been no change.”

“Will Bran get better, Uncle?” Myrcella asked.

“His back is broken, little one,” Tyrion smiled at her. “The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or her would starve to death. Perhaps if he wakes, he will be able to eat real food again, but he will never walk.”

“If he wakes,” Cersei repeated. “Is that likely?”

Lyss watched her mother closely.

“The gods alone know. The Maester only hopes. I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The Maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger.”

Cersei shuddered. “There is something unnatural about those animals,” she said. “They are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us.”

“You’ll have a hard time stopping them, Mother. They follow the Stark girls everywhere,” Lyss said, mopping up her spilled water.

“Are you leaving soon, then?” Tyrion asked.

“Not near soon enough,” Cersei said, then she frowned. “Are we leaving?” She echoed. “What about you? Gods, don’t tell me you’re staying here?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Benjen Stark is returning to the Night’s Watch. He came down for the feast, and to see his kin. Ned’s bastard is going with him. I have a mind to go with them and see this Wall we have all heard so much of.”

Lyss refilled her water. She hadn’t known Jon was taking the black, but it made sense. What was there left for him here?

“I hope you’re not thinking of taking the black on us, sweet brother.”

Tyrion laughed. “What, me celibate? As I told young Lyss, the whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”

Cersei stood abruptly. “The children don’t need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come.”

Lyss stayed seated. She had nothing particular to do, and she wanted to keep watching Jaime, see if he became suspicious again.

Sansa had said he never fell, and, Lyss remembered, a cold feeling rising in her stomach, Uncle Jaime hadn’t been out hunting the day Bran fell.

“Lord Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the
shadow of death,” Lyss said.

“He will if your father commands it,” Tyrion said. “And Robert will command it. There is nothing Stark can do for the boy in any case.”

“He could end his torment,” Jaime suggested. “I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy.”

“I advise not putting that notion before Lord Stark, sweet brother. He will not take it kindly.”

“Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque.”

“I don’t think his family cares, so long as he clings to life,” Lyss pointed out.

“Speaking for the grotesques,” Tyrion began, “I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of opportunities.”

Jaime smiled. “You are a perverse little Imp, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Tyrion admitted. “I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say.”

While Lyss nodded in agreement, Jaime’s smile curdled like sour milk.

“Tyrion, my sweet brother,” he said darkly, “there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on.”

Lyss stood. “I didn’t know there was a side, uncle. We are not at war, the Starks are our allies. Our friends.”

“You’re quite right, Lyss,” Jaime said. “Sit back down, or better, come and train with me. I’d love to hit something with a sword.”

Tyrion took a swig of whatever he was drinking. Lyss was halfway out the door when he said, “Why Jaime, my sweet brother, you wound me. You know how much I love my family.”

Lyss changed quickly, back into her trousers and hurried back down the stairs. She would visit Bran later, she decided. Uncle Jaime was waiting in the yard with two swords.

They circled each other, neither wanting to make the first cut, until Lyss, tired of the waiting, lunged her sword at his knees. Jaime swiftly blocked, and drew her sword up.

“Remember, I’m not Joffrey.”

They parried, neither one winning or losing. A particularly savage blow sent Lyss’s sword spinning from her hand.

“Yield?”

“Not yet,” she replied. Lyss twisted away from Jaime’s sword, and drew her daggers, sheathed as always at her wrists.

“You still carry those?” Jaime asked in disbelief, letting his sword drop. Lyss’s hands fell to her side.

“People are still out there, uncle. I don’t feel safe without them. Not after last time.”

Chapter Text

Bran Stark hadn’t woken by the time they left Winterfell. Lyss was permitted to leave the wheelhouse, as Lord Stark’s daughters were allowed to roam the column freely. Only Arya did.

Lyss saw her coming and going, making friends with anyone and everyone. One time she came back from the bogs at the Neck with a handful of slightly crushed flowers, bright in colour. Sometimes, Arya had bruises up her arms. Lyss suspected what was happening, but didn’t say. It was Arya’s secret; Lyss was not Varys.

When they reached the Trident, Lyss spent most days riding on the riverbank. Often, if the day was warm enough, she would swim in it. The water was cool against her skin, and the sun would shine from above.

Lyss was near the spot whet her father had killed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. She wondered if his rubies were still there. She was startled out of her reverie by a clacking noise, wood on wood. Lyss pushed Hontes on, towards the noise.

She had her bow, should she run into any trouble. Lyss reined up, concealed by trees, as she watched Arya duel a red headed boy covered in freckles. They both held what must’ve been broom handles once, but were now wooden swords. They were both clumsy, making their blows too late. Arya got rapped on the knuckles. She gasped in pain, and sucked the place where she had to been hit, to try and take some of the sting out of it.

Lyss heard laughter. To her dismay, Joffrey appeared in the clearing, Sansa riding beside him. It saddened her to see Sansa like that, oblivious to Joffrey’s cruel side.

“Arya?” Sansa asked incredulously. Arya whipped her head around.

“Go away!” Arya cried. “What are you doing here? Leave us alone!”

“Your sister?” Joffrey asked Sansa, who went red from embarrassment. “And who are you?” He regarded the other boy.

“Mycah. M’lord.”

“He’s the butcher’s boy,” Sansa said.

“He’s my friend,” Arya said sharply. “You leave him alone.”

Lyss gripped her bow tightly.

“A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight?” Joffrey swung down from his horse. “Pick up your sword, butcher’s boy. Let’s see how good you are.”

As poor Mycah stood frozen with fear, Joffrey walked closer.

“Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls?”

Lyss leapt off Hontes, and drew an arrow. The sudden noise made everyone turn their heads in her direction. Lyss strode forwards, bow string draw to her cheek.

“Are you really going to fight an untrained boy, armed with a wooden sword?” she spat.

“Put your bow down, sister. I’m not going to hurt him. Much.”

No one noticed Arya, who had snuck behind Joffrey. She whacked him round the back of his head with her broom handle.

Sansa slid off her mare, as Joffrey stumbled and whirled, roaring curses.

“Run, Mycah!” Lyss shouted, amidst all the chaos.

The boy did as he was told, making a dash for the trees, and was soon lost from sight. Arya swung at Joffrey again, but this time he caught the blow, and yanked the stick from her hands. Lyss put her bow down. It was useless now, she didn’t want to shoot Joffrey’s sword out of his hand, and risk hitting him or Arya.

Sansa was shrieking something, but Arya and Joffrey were caught up in their fight, and didn’t acknowledged her. Lyss felt angered and powerless, as Arya, now frightened, ran for woodland. But Joffrey hounded her up against a tree. Lyss saw her chance, and sent an arrow thrumming at the trunk. It landed far away enough not to harm them, but close enough to send a warning.

“Stop fighting, both of you! It’s not going to end fucking well for either of you!” Lyss screamed, frustrated almost to tears, at the situation.

Why couldn’t Joffrey have just left Mycah alone? In the moment of ceasefire, Lyss saw a grey blur streaked through the trees, and then Nymeria was there, jaws closing around Joffrey’s sword arm.

“Get it off!” Joffrey screamed. “Get it off!”

“Call her off, Arya,” Lyss’s command cut through the noises of Joffrey screaming and Sansa crying.

Arya’s voice cracked like a whip. “Nymeria!”

The wolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. He lay in the grass, whimpering. His shirt was covered in blood.

“She didn’t hurt you. Much,” Arya said as she stood over Joffrey. She picked up his sword.

“Arya, let him go.” Lyss was sick to death off the quarrelling. She wanted to go back, but was worried Arya and Joffrey would kill each other if she didn’t watch them. Arya glanced at Lyss.

“No,” Joffrey cried. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll tell my mother.”

“You leave him alone!” Sansa screamed from the other aside of the clearing.

Arya turned, and hurled Joffrey’s sword into the river with all her might. The steel flashed in the sun, and disappeared with a splash. Ripples spread across the surface of the once calm water. Arya ran to her horse, Nymeria close behind. Lyss went back to Hontes.

“Then go,” she heard Joffrey snap at Sansa. “And don’t touch me.”

“Sansa,” Lyss called. The girl tearfully looked up. “Come with me. We’ll get help together.” Sansa went to her horse, and mounted, leaving Joffrey lying on the grass.

They waited four days for Arya. Lyss had been forbidden to go out, forced to watch as Stark and Lannister men led search parties.

In the end it was one of Lord Starks’s men who found her, and took her straight to the King. They were in Castle Darry; the royal party had made themselves the uninvited guests of Ser Raymun Darry while the hunt for Arya and Mycah continued.

Lyss stood on the other side of Robert’s chair to her mother and Joffrey. Thick silken bandages still covered his arm. Arya stood in the centre of the room.

Lord Eddard entered, and strode swiftly towards her, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When Arya saw him, she began to sob. Eddard took to one knee, and held Arya in his arms as she sobbed. Lyss bit her lip. She knew it wasn’t going to end well, but hoped her father would be merciful. After a few hushed words with his daughter, Lord Eddard stood.

“What is the meaning of this? Why was I not told that my daughter had been found?”

“How dare you speak to your king in that manner?” Cersei asked, a sharp bite in her voice.

“Quiet, woman,” Robert turned to Lord Eddard. “I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly.”

“And what business is this?” Eddard Stark’s voice rang through the hall.

Cersei stepped forward. “You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her and her butcher’s boy. That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off.

“That’s not true,” Arya said loudly. “She just bit him slightly.”

“Joff told us what happened. You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him,” Cersei put a protective hand on Joffrey’s shoulder.

“Did you not listen to my version of events, Mother?” Lyss asked coolly.

“That attacked me, you saw, Lyss,” Joffrey said accusingly. “They attacked me, and threw Lion’s Tooth in the river!”

“Liar!” Arya screamed.

“Shut up!” Joffrey cried back.

“ENOUGH!” The king roared, rising from his seat. He glowered at Arya.

“Now child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a King,” he looked over at Joffrey. “When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue.” Her father sat again.

As Arya spoke, Lyss saw Sansa enter. She stood quietly at the back of the hall. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey’s sword into the Trident, Uncle Renly began to laugh. Robert bristled.

“Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes”

Renly stiffened his laughter. “My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself.”

He bowed to Joffrey.

“Maybe later you’ll tell me how a nine year old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle, and throw your sword into the river.”

As Renly left the room, Lyss caught the words, “Lion’s Tooth,” and a laugh. She suppressed a smirk.

Joffrey was pale as he began a very different version of events. When he was done talking, Robert rose heavily from his seat, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Lyss couldn’t help but agree.

“What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another.”

“They were not the only ones present.” Eddard said. “Sansa, come here. Tell us what happened.”

“I don’t know,” she said tearfully. She looked as though she wanted to run. “I don’t remember, everything happened so fast, I didn’t see.”

“You’re rotten!” Arya shrieked, pummelling her sister and knocking her to the ground. “Liar, liar, liar, LIAR!”

“Arya, stop it!” Eddard shouted, pulling his daughters apart.

“The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers,” Cersei said. “Robert, I want her punished.”

Robert turned to her. “Lyss, tell us what happened.”

Lyss glanced across, into her father’s stormy blue eyes, and then to the room at large.

“I was riding down the riverbank, and then I heard noises. I went to see what it was, it was Arya training with her friend Mycah. After a while, Joffrey and Sansa rode into the clearing where they were. Joffrey wanted to fight Mycah, though he was armed with castle forged steel, and Mycah just a broom handle. That’s when I came in. I had an arrow drawn. I didn’t want to shoot anyone, I just wanted them to stop fighting.”

“Go on,” Robert said, gently.

“Arya came, and hit Joffrey with her broom handle. Mycah ran into the trees, and then Joffrey wanted to fight Arya. She was pinned against a tree. I had sent a warning shot, to get them to stop. Nymeria ran out then. She had seen Arya was in danger, and wanted to rescue her. Arya called Nymeria off, and threw the sword into the river. That’s what happened.”

“Punishment,” Cersei muttered.

“Seven hells. Cersei, what would you have me do? Whip her through the streets? Children fight. No lasting harm was done.”

Cersei was furious. “Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life.”

“Maybe it will teach him a lesson next time. Ned, see that you your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same to my son.” Robert moved to stand.

“And what of the direwolf?” Cersei called. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”

Lyss saw Arya tense.

“We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace,” a Northman spoke up.

Robert didn’t look unhappy. “No? So be it.”

The queen raised her voice. “A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me the skin!”

“A costly pelt. I want no part in this, woman. You can damn well buy those furs with Lannister gold.”

“I had not thought you so niggardly. The King I’d thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down.”

Robert’s face darkened. “That would be a fine trick, without a wolf.”

“We have a wolf.” Cersei’s voice was quiet, but triumphant.

It took a moment for Robert to comprehend what she was saying.

“As you will. Have Ser Illyn see to it.”

“Robert, you cannot mean this.” Lord Eddard protested.

“Enough, Ned. I will hear no more.” The king was in no mood for argument. “A direwolf is a savage beast. Sooner or later it would’ve turned on your girl, the way the other did on my son. Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it.”

That was when Sansa finally seemed to comprehend. She turned to Lord Eddard with frightened eyes.

“No,” she said. “No, not Lady. Lady didn’t bite anyone, she’s good.”

“Father!” Lyss cried. “Don’t do this. Don’t let her be killed.”

“What else am I to do?”

“I don’t know, send her back to Winterfell, set her free, but don’t kill her. Please.”

Robert thought a moment.

“Send the wolf back to the North, where it belongs. The South is no place for a direwolf.”

Sansa was still crying when she left. Lyss went to her room, wanting to be alone. She was glad Lady wasn’t going to be killed, but there was barely any difference for Sansa, who likely to never see Lady again.

Lyss had a sense of foreboding, a sense that nothing would get better. She went to the window, and saw The Hound with a pair of legs, and a torso. It seemed he had hacked someone to pieces. When he turned, Lyss caught a glimpse of Mycah’s red hair.

Chapter Text

Sansa spent the rest of the journey to King’s Landing weeping over Lady, while Arya glowered at everyone. Lyss was only glad that none of the wolves had been murdered.

Nothing had changed, the stench of the city could still be smelled from miles away. Lyss had been confined to the wheelhouse again, after what happened with the direwolves. Out of the small windows, she saw cityfolk lining the streets. The Red Keep stood high on Aegon’s Hill, rising up above the houses and shops, the bars and brothels of King’s Landing.

Lyss roamed the castle, feeling comfort in the familiarity of her surroundings. The day was hot, and she found solace in a shady nook. Lyss found if she stayed extremely still, no one could see her. Her dark clothes blended into the shadow. She heard some gossips and rumours as the serving folk attended to their business. Lyss learned the man who had been accused of stealing Lord Rosby’s valuables had been found innocent, a woman called Rowyn who worked in the kitchens had given birth to a daughter who wasn’t her husband’s.

She stayed, sat on the cold stone bench for a while, fingering the intricate patterns on the handle of her left dagger. Soft footfall could be heard. Someone was trying to be inconspicuous.

Lyss stayed as still as possible, after gathering her indigo skirt up, out of sight. She even stopped breathing for a moment as Lord Petyr Baelish whisked down the hall, followed closely by Lord Eddard, mouth set in a grim line. Lyss waited until they had rounded the corner at the other end of the hall.

Her lungs felt like bursting, but she dare not breathe. She wanted to know what they were doing. As the last of their almost silent footfalls faded away, Lyss took a gulp of air, before removing her shoes, leaving them in the alcove.

Quietly as she could, Lyss padded barefoot through the castle halls. She went the way she thought she had heard the pair go, but couldn’t find them.

Lyss went to the kitchens, where she borrowed a fresh bread roll. She stole around the castle, the moon rising in the sky outside. Lyss liked playing this game with herself, to see how long she could go without being noticed.

One time, she had disguised herself as a hedge knight’s bastard, when Lord Tyrell visited King’s Landing one time. She had almost gotten away with it, had even ridden on a single-eyed horse, before someone recognised her. Lyss had been severely punished when she was bought back to the Red Keep. She didn’t care. It was easier to learn how to blend into the shadows and smallfolk, than be a Usurper’s daughter at times.

Lyss didn’t need friends to play her game either. She preferred it that way, she didn’t want to make new ones.

The next morning, Lyss was walking through the gardens with Isa, when Lord Petyr came up to her.

“My lady,” He began, with a knowing smile on his face, “I believe these are yours.”
Baelish held out the purple slippers Lyss had worn yesterday.

“How did you know, my lord?” Lyss asked as she took her shoes, her tone light and playful, concealing her true feelings.

“Why, I saw you wearing them, last evening.”

Lyss laughed. “How silly of me, I can’t believe I left them in the Great Hall.”

“I didn’t see you in there yesterday, my lady.”

It was the truth. Lyss hadn’t been in the Great Hall since they left for Winterfell.

“Isa, take these back to my chamber. Good day to you, Lord Baelish.” She continued walking on, leaving Lord Petyr behind.

“You know, my lady, for a girl who has a talent for sneaking around, you really should’ve been able to follow us.”

Lyss glanced up slightly, realising, but not breaking stride. She knew where they had gone, she could’ve kicked herself. There was a hidden entrance to the dungeons, and out to the city. Lyss knew it would be a waste of her time, however.

If he had gone to show Lord Stark something, it would’ve gone, otherwise he wouldn’t be telling her. And if Lord Baelish was saying things to the Hand, well, words were wind, and wind blew away.

Chapter Text

There was to be a tourney. A great affair, in honour of the new Hand. Lord Eddard didn’t look pleased about it, whereas Sansa was practically floating out of her seat.

“A tourney,” she sighed dreamily.

“Tourneys are stupid,” Arya said.

“No, they’re gallant. All those brave knights, showing their skill at arms.”

“They’re stupid.”

“Gallant.”

“Stupid.”

“Girls!” Septa Mordane snapped. “Try to compose yourselves with more decorum. We’re not in the North anymore.”

“What do you think, Lyss?” Sansa turned to her. “Are they truly, truly gallant, like in the songs?”

Lyss considered. She didn’t want to burst Sansa’s bubble of happiness. It was the happiest Lyss had seen her since Lady was set free.

“This one will be, for it’s honouring your arrival at court.”

She drank deeply from her goblet, to avoid being asked anymore questions. Sansa and Arya had been at each other’s throats, and Lyss didn’t want to cause another argument.

The day was hot again. Lyss braved five minutes in the heat, before skulking back into the shadows. She found a book from the vast library, and settled in her alcove. It turned out to be about Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen. Lyss flicked idly through the pages as the castle residents went about their day. A pair of footsteps rang down the hall, stopping by Lyss, who looked up into the grey eyes of Lord Eddard Stark.

“My princess,” he said, bowing his head slightly as Lyss sat up straighter.

“My lord. What is it?”

“I need you to come with me, but…” the Hand hesitated. “Dress plainly. You need to be no one at all, unless I tell you otherwise.”

Lyss stood. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going somewhere Lord Arryn and Stannis Baratheon visited. I pray we’ll find something of value.”

Lyss put her woollen dress on again, the same crimson one she had worn the day Bran had fallen. She met with Lord Stark, who was straddling a splendid destrier. Where she was clothed in simple wool, he wore a pristine white cloak with the grey Stark direwolf stitched in intricate detail.

“Remember,” the great lord warned, “you are no one, no one at all, unless I say so. Is that clear, Posy?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Lyss mounted the horse that had been brought out to her. It wasn’t Hontes. It was an ordinary horse, barely past noticing. Lyss patted its neck as they set off.

They rode through the streets of the city, down from their hill on high. They were five, Lord Stark, Lyss, a Northman who introduced himself as Alyn, one called Varly, and another, Jacks.

Alyn led the way, through the crowds. There were many streets where they had to ride single file; Alyn, Lord Eddard, Jacks, Lyss, and Varly at the rear.
“The Street of Steel.” Alyn announced, as they reined up. Jacks took the horses, as Lord Eddard led Lyss inside. Alyn and Varly followed, for safety precautions.

The serving girl took quick note of Lord Eddard’s chain of golden hands, and hurried off. She arrived again, behind a smiley, bowing man.

“Wine for the King’s Hand,” he told the girl. The man gestured for Lord Eddard to sit at a table. “I am Master Tobho Mott, my lord, please, please, put yourself at ease.”

Tobho took the chair opposite Eddard. Lyss leant against the wall, beside Varly and Alyn.

The Master out his arms of the table, and leaned forwards. He wore a black coat, velvet, with hammers embroidered on the sleeves in silver thread. Around his neck was a heavy silver chain, set with a sapphire as large as a pigeon’s egg.

“If you are in need of new arms for the Hand’s tourney, you have come to the right shop. My work is costly, and I make no apologies for that, my lord.”

Tobho Mott filled two silver goblets with wine.

“You will not find craftsmanship equal to mine in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Visit every forge in Kim’s Landing if you like, and compare for yourself. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art.”

Lyss tuned out of the Master’s boasting. She wondered the reason Lord Stark had bought her here. It was clearly not for want of arms, the castle had its own smithy. Lyss knew Lord Eddard wouldn’t bring her out unless he had a good enough cause to do so.

“Posy, come.”

Lyss had almost forgotten her false name. She and Lord Eddard went with Tobho Mott. He led them across a narrow yard, to a cavernous stone barn. This was where the work was done. A blast of hot air hit Lyss suddenly as Master Tobho swung the door open. A forge blazed in every corner, and the air stank of smoke. Armorers glanced up from their work just long enough to wipe their brows, while ‘prentice boys worked the bellows.

Master Tobho called over a boy, tall, about Lyss’s age. A bolt of recognition hit Lyss. The boy looked exactly like father, before gluttony and age took him.

He looked like her.

They both had the same strong jawline, and thick black hair. The boy had bright blue eyes, whereas Lyss had eyes of dark green, but the similarities in their appearance was striking.

“This is Gendry. Strong for his age, and he works hard. Show the Hand the helmet you made.”

Almost shyly, Gendry led them to his bench, and held up a steel helm shaped like a bull’s head, with two curving horns. Lord Stark took it, and turned the helm over in his hands.

“This is fine work. I would be pleased if you would let me buy it.”

Gendry snatched it back. “It’s not for sale.”

Master Tobho was horrified. “Boy, this is the King’s Hand. If his lordship wants this helm, make him a gift of it.

“I made it for me.”

“A hundred pardons, my lord.” Master Tobho said hurriedly. “Gendry is crude as new steel, and like new steel would profit from some beating. That helm is journeyman’s work at best. Forgive him, and I will craft you a helm like none you have ever seen.”

“He has done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Gendry, when Lord Arryn came to see you, what did you talk about?”

“He asked me questions is all, m’lord.”

“What sort of questions?”

Gendry shrugged. “How was I, and how well I had been treated, and stuff about my mother.”

“And what did you tell him?” Lord Eddard persisted, gently.

Gendry shoved a lock of hair out of his eyes. “She died when I was little. She had yellow hair, and sometimes she used to sing to me, I remember. She worked in an alehouse.”

“Did Lord Stannis question you as well?”

“The bald one? No, not him. He never said no word, just glared at me like I was some raper who done for his daughter.”

“Mind your filthy tongue,” Master Tobho said sharply. “This is the King’s own Hand.”

Gendry looked at the floor in a show of shame.

“A smart boy, but stubborn. That helm… the others called him bullheaded, so he threw it in their teeth.”

Lord Stark touched Gendry’s head, fingering his thick black hair.

“Look at me, Gendry,” he commanded. Satisfied, he turned to Lyss.

“Come here. Stand next to him.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder. Lyss folded her arms across her chest, and let her eyes wander around the forge. When she had seen her fill, she noticed Gendry was of a height with her.

“Yes,” Lyss heard Lord Eddard say softly.
“Yes, I see it.” Louder, he said, “Go back to your work, lad. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

They went back across to the house with Master Tobho.

“Who paid the boy’s apprentice fee?” Lord Eddard asked lightly.

Master Tobho looked fretful. “You saw the boy. Such a strong boy. Those hands of his, those hands were made for hammers. He had such promise I took him on without a fee.”

“The truth now,” Lord Stark urged. “The streets are full of strong young boys. The day you take on an apprentice for free is the day the Wall comes down. Who paid for him?”

“A lord,” Master Tobho said reluctantly. “He gave no name, and wore no sigil on his coat. He paid in gold, twice the customary sum and said he was paying once for the boy, and once for my silence. He was stout, round of shoulder, not so tall as you. Brown beard, but there was a bit of red in it, I swear. He wore a rich cloak, that I do remember, heavy purple velvet worked with silver threads.” He hesitated a moment. “My lord, I want no trouble.”

“None of us want trouble, yet I fear these are troubled times,” Lord Eddard replied gravely. “You know who the boy is.”

Master Tobho glanced at Lyss. “Who’s she, the one who looks so much like Gendry?”

“She is no one. But you do know who the boy is.”

“The boy is my apprentice. Who he was before he came to me, that’s none of my concern.”

Lord Eddard nodded, smiling slightly. “If the day ever comes when Gendry would rather wield a sword than forge one, send him to me. He has the look of a warrior. Until then, you have my thanks, Master Mott, and my promise. Should I ever want a helm to frighten children, this will be the first place I visit.”

As they stepped outside, Lord Eddard glanced at Lyss.

“You know who he is, my lady,” he said, quietly so only she could hear.

“He is my brother, my lord.”

“Yes. I didn’t know what I came here to find, but I know what I have left with.”

“What’s that?”

“The truth, I believe. The truth Jon Arryn died for.”

Chapter Text

Lyss sat in the royal box to watch the tourney. King Robert and Myrcella were beside her. Myrcella was seated next to Tommen. Joffrey was on the far right, by Queen Cersei.

She hadn’t seen much of her sister since they returned to King’s Landing. Lyss glanced at Myrcella’s sweet face, so unlike her own. Gendry looked almost a mirror image of Lyss, but Myrcella had to be her sister. Who else could she be?

“Excited?” she asked.

“Yes.” Myrcella said. “This one will be better than any of the others this year. I can feel it.”

They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth. The seven knights of the Kingsguard were all there. Six of them were clad in scaled armour the colour of milk. Uncle Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but underneath, he was shining gold from head to foot, complete with a lion’s helm and a golden sword.

Ser Gregor thundered by, followed by Lord Yohn Royce, Lord Jason Mallister, Thoros of Myr. Countless other free riders, hedge knights. New made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Myrcella declared that one day the whole of the Seven Kingdoms would resound to their names, while Robert snorted to show his disdain. The contestants kept going. Lyss rested her head on her hand. Jalabhar Xho, the exile prince from the Summer Islands wore a cloak of moss and scarlet coloured feathers, which glowed brightly against his dark skin.

“His clothes are bright, but that will make him a better target.” Lyss said. Myrcella sniffed at that, as she liked the colours.

“What about him?” Robert pointed at Lord Beric Dondarrion.

Lord Beric’s red-gold hair was shinier than ever in the morning sun.

“Perhaps he is hoping his hair will blind his enemies.”

Robert laughed. The Hound had entered, and rode out with uncle Renly. Lyss recognised Alyn from when he went with her and Lord Eddard to see Gendry. She smiled at him as he rode by.

“He’ll do well.” Lyss decided.

He didn’t. Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann, on his first tilt.

“Good thing you didn’t bet anything on him.” Robert said. “He rode terribly.”

“I didn’t bet because I wasn’t fully certain how good he would be.”

Lyss watched the riders stay seated, or fall depending on how they rode. Every now and then she made comments, but only Robert was really listening as Myrcella was too engrossed.

Uncle Jaime rode brilliantly. He unseated many of his opponents like swatting flies. His first real challenge was Ser Barristan the Bold, but Jaime eventually won against him too.

The Clegane brothers seemed unstoppable, riding down foe after foe with ferocious determination. The worst part of the day was when The Mountain killed a young knight from the Vale, his lance riding up with such force it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. His life’s blood ebbed out onto the tourney field.

After they carried out the body, a young boy with a spade ran out and shovelled earth onto the spot where he had fallen, and the jousts moved on. Lyss felt sad, his death meant nothing, it was just an inconvenience. She thought about how he must’ve dreamed about glory the night before, not realising it was the last moon he’d ever see.

Ser Balon Swann, the man who had unhorsed Alyn, fell to Ser Gregor, and uncle Renly to the Hound. When his head hit the ground with an audible crack that made Lyss gasp out in fear, but it was just the golden antler on his helm.

When Renly rose to his feet, the commons went wild. It appeared Lyss’s uncle was a great favourite among them. He handed the broken antler with a gracious bow to The Hound, who snorted and chucked it to the commons. They scrabbled and clawed for the bit of gold, until Renly walked among them and restored the peace.

Later, a hedge knight disgraced himself by killing Beric Dondarrion’s horse. He was disqualified, and Lord Beric shifted to a different mount, only to be knocked off again by Thoros of Myr.

By the time dusk had fallen, Lyss had grown tired of tourneys, and had started leaning her head on her hand again. It had fallen to five, Sandor Clegane, Gregor Clegane, Jaime Lannister, Robar Royce, and young Loras Tyrell.
“People are calling him the knight of flowers.” Myrcella told Lyss.

Ser Loras was sixteen, a year and a bit older than Lyss, and the youngest rider on the field. Yet he had still managed to defeat three knights of the Kingsguard in his first three jousts.

Ser Loras’s last tilt of the evening was against Robar Royce, who went crashing down immediately. The Knight of Flowers rode around the tourney field, and stopped at Sansa Stark. Lyss could see her exploding with excitement at the gallantry, as Ser Loras handed her a red rose.

By then, the moon was well up, and the crowd was tired. King Robert declared that the last tilts would be held tomorrow, before the melee. While the people in the commons began their walk home, talking of the day’s jousts and the matches to come tomorrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast.

Tables and benches had been raised beside the pavilions, piled high with strawberries and fresh-baked bread. From down the table, Lyss watched Joffrey play gallant, kissing Sansa’s hand and praising her beauty.

She sipped at summerwine, and barely spoke to anyone. Instead, she listened to the conversations around her. A singer was seated near the King’s Pavilion, filling the night with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air.

The feast was close to ending when Father began to shout.
“NO!” He boomed, in a voice that drowned out all other speech. Lyss was unsurprised he was as drunk as a man could be, and still holding a goblet of wine.
“You do not tell me what to do, woman. I am king here, and if I say I will fight tomorrow, I WILL FIGHT!”

Everyone was staring. Seeing that no one else was moving to interfere, Lyss darted over. By the time she got there, Cersei had swept away.

“‘Lyssea.” Robert slurred, frowning as he tried to remember if he was angry with her as well. “Your mother doesn’t believe I’m a good fighter anymore.”

“If you called for your hammer, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could stand before you.” Lyss hoped honeyed words would calm her father down.

Jaime Lannister put a hand on Robert’s shoulder, and looked like he was going to say something, but before he did, the king shoved him away, hard. Jaime stumbled and fell.

“The great knight.” Robert chuckled. “I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer.” He slapped his chest with the jewelled goblet, splashing wine all over his tunic.

“As you say, Your Grace.” Jamie’s voice was stiff.

Renly came forward, smiling. “You’ve spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh cup.”

Satisfied, the king settled down again. Lyss slipped away, unnoticed. Robert was drinking with Renly again, and Myrcella was engaged in conversation with her friend Claryse Florent.

She found the river soon enough. Lyss lay on the bank, and let the gentle rushing of the water take over. She could sleep in a pavilion; Lyss could even go to the castle, and her bedchamber, but tonight she wanted to sleep beneath the stars.

Chapter Text

Someone had laid a cloak on her. Lyss sat up stiffly, regretting not going back to the castle. The cloak fell onto her lap. It was pale blue, almost white.

The first rays of sunrise spilled over Lyss, making the dewdrops on the grass shine like precious jewels. She folded the cloak, and walked back to camp. The morning mists faded away as squires hurried about as their masters woke, yawning and stretching. Sausages sizzled, and Lyss smelled garlic and pepper. The were shields outside each tent, silver eagles, nightingales, clusters of grapes and a brindled boar, a burning tree, here a white ram, here a purple unicorn. Dotted around were the pure white shields of the Kingsguard.

When Lyss passed the King’s pavilion, she heard the raised voices of Lord Eddard and her father. Curious, she sat on the damp grass and listened.

“You’re too fat for your armour, Robert.”

“Fat? Fat is it? Is that how you speak to your king?”

Laughter boomed, so sudden and loud that Lyss jumped and almost lost her balance. She put a hand out to steady herself.

“Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right? You. Yes, both of you. You heard the Hand. The king is too fat for his armour. Find Ser Aron Santager. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now! What are you waiting for?”

Lyss had presumed Robert had been talking to his squires, and was proven correct when Lancel and Tyrek Lannister stumbled out the pavilion, running off in the direction of wherever Ser Aron must be.

“I wish I was there to see Santager’s face. I hope he has the wit to send them to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day.”

Lyss decided she had heard enough. She stood and found Myrcella’s pavilion.

“Do you know who this belongs to?” She asked upon entering, holding the cloak up. Myrcella was sat on the bed, a maid doing her hair.

“No. It’s pretty though. Can I have it for a moment?”

Lyss threw it over. The cloak spread out in the air, and landed by Myrcella’s feet.

“It’s so soft.” She said, picking it up and stroking it. Lyss sat next to her, pulling her shoes off and swinging them into the bed.

“I can’t believe I chose sleeping on the hard ground to this.”

“You can’t see the stars from inside.”

“They were pretty.” Lyss admitted. “I never saw the moon as bright as it was last night.”

The maid finished Myrcella’s hair, bobbed a curtesy and left.

“Will you come to the jousting?

“I spent all day watching it yesterday. I might as well see it through.” Lyss put her shoes back on and accompanied Myrcella to the stands.

The Hound was the first to appear. He wore an olive green cloak over sooty grey armour.

“A hundred golden dragons on the kingslayer!” She heard Littlefinger call.

Lyss contemplated before shouting at him,
“Done! The Hound has a hungry look about him today!”

“Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.”

The hastily erected stands trembled as the horses broke into gallop. Sandor Clegane leaned forward as he rode, his lance held rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Clegane’s point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield, a lion painted on. Jaime’s own lance hit the centre of the Hound’s shield. Wood shattered, and Sandor reeled, fighting to keep his seat.

“I wonder how I should spend your money, my lady.” Littlefinger raised his voice up to Lyss.

The Hound just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his horse around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime tossed his broken lance down to his squire, trading it for a new one.

Sandor Clegane spurred forward in a manic gallop, uncle Jaime marching his pace. This time when he shifted, Sandor shifted with him.

Both lances exploded and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and muddy.

Lyss triumphantly took the bag of gold that was passed up to her.

Jaime was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies trying to stifle their laughter. While Lyss was torn between amusement and feeling sorry for her uncle, Robert’s laughter thundered across the tourney field. They had to lead Ser Jaime off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.

By then, Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was so huge the destrier he was seated on looked a pony, and his lance a broom handle. Ser Loras Tyrell, whose magnificent silver armour was polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with intertwining black vines and delicate forget-me-nots. Lyss heard the roar of approval from the commons as they realised the blue flowers were made from thousands of tiny sapphires. On his cloak, real forget-me-nots were sewn onto the heavy wool.

Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked savagely at his mount, and the horse reared and almost threw him.

Loras saluted in the direction of the royal box, to King Robert, and rode off to the other end of the field. Ser Gregor manoeuvred his horse to the line, fighting with his reins. And then it began.

The Mountain’s stallion broke out in a wild gallop, while the Knight of Flowers rode his mare smooth as silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position and lifted his lance up, struggling with the reins all the while. Then suddenly Ser Loras was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and before Lyss could blink the Mountain came crashing down.

His horse went down with him, in a great tangle of steel and flesh.
Lyss added her applause to the tumult of cheering, whistling, and the rasping laughter from the Hound.

Loras Tyrell reined up at the end of the lists, his lance not even broken. His sapphires twinkled as the commons went mad, screaming their support for him.

I’m the middle of the field, Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and drew himself up. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it in the ground, face dark with fury.

“MY SWORD!” He bellowed to his squire. The boy ran out to get it.

Ser Gregor killed his horse with a single blow, the blow so hard and ferocious it severed half the poor animal’s neck. Cheering turned to shrieks in a heartbeat.

Lyss felt a fluttering of fear as Ser Gregor strode down the field, a bloody sword clutched in his hand.

Everyone was yelling, and Myrcella had started sobbing. Ser Loras called for his own sword but the Mountain swatted Tyrell’s squire aside, and made a lunge for the mare’s reins. The horse scented blood, and reared. Loras kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two handed blow that took Loras Tyrell in the chest and knocked him from his horse. His mare galloped away as Ser Loras lay miraculously unharmed, yet stunned, in the mud. But as the Mountain lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned,
“Leave him be.”
A steel clad hand wrenched him away from Loras.

Ser Gregor pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a deadly arc with all his might, but the Hound caught the blow, and then the two brothers were stood, each driving their strength into their blades.

Ser Loras was helped to safety as the pair was locked in a deadly struggle. It took Robert’s voice to stop it; Robert’s voice and twenty swords.
“IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING, STOP THIS MADNESS!” He thundered.

The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor’s sword cut empty air, and he finally came to his senses. He dropped it, and glared at the King. Silently, the Mounatin turned and strode off, shoving past Ser Barristan.

A few moments later, Ser Loras came back into the field in a simple linen doublet.

“I owe you my life.” He said. “The day is yours, Ser.”

“I am no Ser.” Sandor Clegane replied, but took the victory, the champion’s purse, and perhaps for the first time in his life, the love of the commons.

Instead of going to watch the archery, Lyss headed back to the Red Keep, the blue cloak still folded under her arm.

The castle was near empty, most people having gone out to watch the rest of the day’s events. Lyss found her book about Visenya and Rhaenys, and took it out to the godswood. The chances of being disrupted there were low.

A few days later, Lyss was walking in no particular direction when she met with Lord Stark coming the other way, holding a large book.

“My lady.” He said.

“My lord.”

“I must tell you about this book, though I believe I wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation over the sound of the birds.”

Lyss caught on. “The godswood is often quiet.”

They stood by the heart tree. Lord Eddard held the book up. Lyss took it, scanning the contents. It was a lineage of all the great houses, the page Lord Stark was showing described the Baratheon’s looks and marriages.

Ormund Baratheon, black of hair m
Rhaelle Targaryen, blood of old Valyria
Steffan Baratheon, black of hair m Cassana Estermont, brown of hair
Robert Baratheon, black of hair m Cersei Lannister, blonde of hair
Alyssea Baratheon, black of hair
Joffrey Baratheon, blonde of hair
Myrcella Baratheon, blonde of hair
Tommen Baratheon, blonde of hair
Stannis Baratheon, black of hair, m Selyse Florent, blonde of hair
Shireen Baratheon, black of hair
Renly Baratheon, black of hair

There was a stain above Alyssea Baratheon, black of hair, hiding the words. Lyss marvelled at how Lord Eddard must’ve read this of his own free will.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“You and your cousin Shireen both have dark hair, though your mothers are both blonde.”

“I read that, my lord.” Lyss kept the impatience out of her tones, but barely.

“Why don’t Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen have the Baratheon look either?”

Cold dread rose inside of Lyss.
“What matter does it make? I have green Lannister eyes.”

“The only thing of your mother in you.” Lord Eddard waved the denial away. “Princess Alyssea, I believe we’re onto something. If my suspicions are correct, you are the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Lyss felt light headed. “I have two brothers, Lord Eddard. They come before me, and both will surely have heirs.”

“Why did Gendry look like you?” Lord Eddard pointed out. “Why doesn’t Joffrey?” He lowered his voice again. “I’m going to visit another of your father’s baseborn children.”

“Can I come?”

“No, Princess, she is a babe in arms. Her mother is a whore, I can’t have you seen going into a brothel.”

Lyss bit her lip, knowing Lord Eddard was speaking the truth.

“I will have my girls taken back to Winterfell. That way they will be safe.”

“That’s for the best.” Lyss agreed. She wasn’t convinced on what Lord Eddard was telling her. “If they aren’t my trueborn siblings,” she began, “Who is their father?”

“As to that, my lady, I’m not sure of. Meet me here at moonrise tomorrow. We’ll work it out together.”

Chapter Text

“Lady Catelyn?” Lyss asked shocked.

“Lady Catelyn.” Jaime confirmed with a curl in his lip.

Lyss was walking through the gardens in the late afternoon with uncle Jaime, who has brought her the news that uncle Tyrion had been taken captive by Lady Stark.

“But why?”

“Witnesses say that she proclaimed he had sent a catspaw for her son Brandon.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Lyss asked again, watching Jaime’s expression closely. “Unless, they want to silence him... Sansa did tell me he never fell.”

“Yes. Well.” Jaime said tightly.

“Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t’ve.”

They reached the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay. Lyss peered over the edge.
“Imagine falling all that way.” She said lightly, but it provoked Jaime all the same.

“Enough!” He cried, pulling his arm away from Lyss’s in his anger. She looked at him innocently.

“I was just remarking about the view, Uncle.”

“So you were.” Jaime smoothed his tunic down, and retook Lyss’s arm.
“The roses are particularly sweet smelling this year.” He said, slightly stiffly.

“It must be Ser Loras you’re smelling, uncle. I hear the Knight of Flowers is still in the city.”

“Don’t get too excited.” Jaime warned. “You’re betrothed to Quentyn Martell, not some Tyrell get.”

“Oh no, I think I forgot.” Lyss smirked. “You see, there was one particularly handsome hedgeknight, and-“

“Truly you are Robert’s daughter.” Jaime interjected, half smiling. They walked a little further before Tyrion came up again.

“According to Varys, Lady Catelyn said she was taking Tyrion to Winterfell, to await her son’s judgement.”

“Then so be it. They will find him innocent. Tyrion has no reason to send an assassin after a harmless boy.” Goosebumps prickled the back of her neck as she remembered the day in Baelor’s Sept.
Pushing the thoughts out of her head, she said to Jaime,
“You mustn’t harm Lord Eddard, uncle. If you do, Lady Catelyn will harm Tyrion.”
She didn’t want any of them harmed.

“I won’t. I won’t do anything to our dear, dear Hand.” A steel glint hardened Jaime’s green eyes. He took his leave by the stables.

Lyss passed Tommen on the way to her room, sat in hushed reverie on the floor, a cat upon his lap. He beamed up at Lyss as she passed, then put a finger to his lips. She knew her youngest brother was meant to be in lessons, and winked at him before turning the corner.

Isa was sewing in the corner, but Lyss sent her away. She sat on the window sill and looked down on the practise yard. She could see King’s Landing spread out across the horizon, and far, far in the distance, Blackwater Bay twinkled in the afternoon sun.

Squires were drilling, the sound of wood on wood floating up to Lyss as she read the last few pages of Visenya and Rhaenys. Not knowing what else to do, she found her whetstone and honed the edges of her daggers. The twin blades still bore the High Valyrian etched by the hilt. Lyss saw a sudden image of their last owner in her mind, standing with blood on her hands.

She had dropped the one she had been sharpening, and reached down to retrieve it again. Satisfied, Lyss slid them away again, hidden out of sight. She heard the faint stamping of hooves. It was Lord Eddard with some of his men. Going to her bastard sister in a brothel, Lyss thought. The squires has stopped their practising, so the courtyard was quiet when the last Northman had left.

Lyss brushed her hair until it shone. She left her room, and went to the library in search of something new to read. In the end, she happily settled on a fiction about a wildling prince and a summer maiden.

Lyss went back to her alcove. The shadows had grown darker as the sun steadily set, and she found she could barely read the words. Back in her room, Lyss light several candles and lay on her bed.

She had got to a good bit, when the wildling prince fought the King in the South when a there was a knock. Lyss opened it to see Myrcella standing impatiently.

“What?”

Myrcella pushed past her, and sat on the bed. Lyss stood over her expectantly.

“What is it?” She repeated.

“Daenerys Targaryen is pregnant.” Myrcella had been fiddling with her skirt, but then looked up into Lyss’s shocked eyes.

“Pregnant? Like, going-to-have-a-baby pregnant?”

“She’s going to have a baby.” Myrcella confirmed. “Father wants to have assassins sent after her. Lord Stark went against it, but he was outvoted by the council.”

“That’s good! That’s a good thing isn’t it? I mean…” Lyss raked a hand through her hair. “If the baby is a boy, and lives, he has a Dothraki army to back his claim.”

“The Dothraki mistrust the sea. There’s a small chance of them crossing it.”

“A small chance is still a chance.”

“That’s not all,” Myrcella continued. “Lord Eddard resigned. He’s too honourable to send hired knives after an unborn baby.”

“He’s longer the Hand? When did this happen?”

“This morning I think.”

“Seventh fucking hell, does Uncle Jaime know?” Lyss started panicking. He had told her he wouldn’t attack the Hand, but Lord Stark no longer was the Hand.

“I’m fairly certain he knows. Ser Barristan was there, and I saw them talking earlier by the Great Hall.”

Lyss turned and yanked open her bedroom door, sprinting down the corridor. When she got outside, it was pouring with rain, contrast to the summer sun mere hours ago. She found Ser Balon Swann first, waking outside, under the shelter of a balcony running around the edge of the courtyard.

“My lady.” He bowed his head.

“Where’s Ser Jaime?” Lyss almost shouted at him. The rain dripped steadily down, splashing in puddles.

“He left, my lady. Near an hour ago.”

Lyss took a sharp intake of breath. “Was he alone?”

“No, princess. He was with Lannister men, Red Cloaks all.”

Lyss hurtled out into the pouring rain, across to the stables. She wished she had been better prepared and bought a cloak with her, but there was no time to go back now. There wasn’t even time to saddle Hontes. Lyss threw herself on his back, and kicked him on, almost flattening a poor stableboy as she went.

“OPEN THE GATES!” She roared at the sentry posted over it. “IN THE NAME OF KING ROBERT, OPEN THE GATES!”

After what seemed like an hour, but must’ve been two minutes, the wooden gates swung open. Lyss rode faster than she ever had, gripping onto Hontes’s dark mane.

She hoped they were where she thought they would be, Chataya’s, King Robert’s favourite brothel. Lyss knew he frequented there often, surely often enough to leave a bastard daughter behind.

The rain was so hard it almost blinded her. Lyss was soaked to her skin, and her hair was plastered to her face. In the distance, she heard fighting, and steel on steel. Hontes was flat out galloping, which was highly dangerous in the narrow city streets, especially since they had become treacherously slippy from the downpour.

The alley outside Chataya’s was not only slick with rain, but with blood too. Lyss saw Jaime Lannister sat on his horse at the back. He wasn’t taking part in any fighting, but must’ve commanded his men to do so. They were attacking Lord Stark’s men. Lord Eddard himself seemed uninjured.

“UNCLE JAIME! STOP IT, CALL THEM OFF!”

Jaime turned around, and seemed surprised to see Lyss, drenched and furious.

“Don’t worry Lyss, Lord Eddard himself will not be harmed. This is just a warning to his wife. A Lannister always pays his debts, so the saying goes.”

“Tyrion had a fair chance of getting out unscathed, but now, now Lady Catelyn will surely believe that she has every incentive to hurt him!”

“Sweet Alyssea, we hold her husband and daughters. Tyrion will come back unscathed, as long as she cares for her family.”

“What about the innocents? The innocents who are always murdered in the war? No, don’t interrupt. Lady Catelyn set the logs in the fireplace, and you lit the match. You can’t put the fire out without getting burned. We will be burned, uncle. All of us. Call off your men.”

“My lady, you must choose now. Choose between your blood and kin, or some Northern Lord you haven’t even known for a year.”

“Call off your men! It does not need to come to that!”

“It’s too late now, Lyss, like you said. Come with me to Casterly Rock. You’ll be safe behind those walls, protected by the lions.”

Lyss stared at him in shock, wordless. She heard hoofbeats thundering up the road, saw a flash of gold. The city watch had arrived.

“Come, Lyss.” Jaime commanded. Lyss made no move.

“I’m loyal to the realm, uncle.” She spat. “Not just myself.”

Jaime gave her one last pleading look, before cursing and turning his horse round. He galloped off, his remaining men trailing after him, leaving Lyss in the rain with a streetfull of Lord Eddard’s slain men.

Chapter Text

Lord Stark had broken his leg. His horse had fallen on it outside Chataya’s. Grand Maester Pycelle was often seen flitting in and out of the Tower of the Hand.

Lyss had gone in to see him one day, but Lord Eddard was asleep. She spied the lineage book standing on a table near the window. Lyss picked it up, feeling the weight of all those pages. She decided to take it, study it further.

The book was as tedious as Lyss first thought, but there was something hidden in its pages, be it truth or lies. She sat in her alcove, as the sun was bright and spilled into the corridor. Lyss flicked through, half reading and half skimming the Baratheon section. She found that all marriages had resulted in the heirs looking like their Baratheon parent to most extent. Lyss even found an ancient record of an unnamed maiden from Storm’s End wed the heir to Casterly Rock. All their children were dark of hair. She went to skip a few pages of Targaryen lineage, as most of them only married their own blood, but stopped short when she remembered they did so to keep the blood of Old Valyria pure.

Their children looked the same as them, purple eyes and silver gold hair.

The book slid from her hands into her lap.

Lyss skidded to a stop in front of her door, and pushed it open. She threw the book onto her bed, where it landed with a soft thump. Isa peered round the corner where her small adjoining chamber was as Lyss searched her draws for paper, ink, and a quill. When she found all of those things, she scrawled out,
The book you recommended truly is fascinating. It mentions the Old Gods, and I would be grateful if you would tell me more of them. I await your reply eagerly.

“Here.” Lyss thrusted the paper to Isa after blowing on the ink to dry it. Isa smoothed down the lines where it had been folded. “Take this to Lord Stark.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Isa bobbed her head and left.

It was another day before Lord Eddard woke, and three days before he sent a reply. King Robert had gone hunting, taking more than half the court with him, but not before reinstating Lord Stark Hand again. Lyss had been tempted to go, but more desperate to talk to Lord Eddard.

Isa opened the door that morning to Alyn. Lyss had been reading on her bed, a pastime she took up regularly. Isa thanked the Northerner and handed Lyss a folded note.

I would be most pleased to talk to you more. I can meet with you after court in the godswood.

Lyss put the note inside the book, arching it over two sections of book, the Targaryen and the Baratheon parts.

“Are you doing anything of great importance today, Isa?”

She looked up from straightening Lyss’s pillow.

“I don’t think so, m’lady.”

“Let’s go into the city then.”

Lyss changed into plain green wool, and brought a handful of dragons out of the bag she had won from Lord Baelish.

“Can I be Arla this time, m’lady?”

“As long as I can be Rosey.”

They couldn’t pass off as sisters; Isa had pale brown hair and a slight build, where Lyss was dark as ink, with had a more hourglass figure, and hours of training at arms.

They hid in the shadows and under shawls to get out of the castle with little notice. Lyss felt a thrill when they left the Red Keep’s walls behind, and walked down, down Aegon’s hill. She had her golden dragons in a small pouch attached to her slender waist, hidden underneath a dark cloak.

They heard the market from a mile away before they saw it. Angry shouting, the screams of children at play, and loud noises of the livestock for sale rose against a backdrop of gossiping and chatter.

The sun shone bright, but often hid behind clouds. Isa found a silver bracelet ingraved with a luck talisman. Lyss got two, one for herself as well. They could all do with a bit of good luck over the coming year. They also purchased dried fruit from the Summer Islands, dusted with Quarth spices. Lyss and Isa nibbled at them as they looked around the rest of the market.

Lyss steered Isa towards the Street of Steel. She wanted to see Gendry.

“Fetch Master Tobho, I wish to have some words with him.” Lyss told the serving girl. She had drawn her shawl over her head to avoid being recognised from last time.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Lady Rosey.” she decided having a title would help in this situation. “And this is my dear cousin Lady Arla. We’re great friends of Princess Alyssea.”

The serving girl glanced down at their plain clothing, but didn’t say a word.

“We find travelling in our court clothes makes us targets.” Isa said in her naturally quiet voice.

Lyss pushed her cloak aside to pluck a golden dragon from the bag at her waist. She held it up to the light, before flicking it to the serving girl.

“I’ll fetch the Master.” She said breathlessly, staring at the gold in her hand.

“My Lady.” The Master called graciously. “My lady.” He kissed their hands. “What brings you to this fine shop? I must admit we do not get many lady buyers.”

“We’ve come to see Gendry. Waters, Gendry Waters”

Master Tobho looked part irritated, part anxious.

“Everyone wants to see the boy.” He muttered, tugging his beard. Then, “Why, my lady?”

“We are great friends of Princess Alyssea. She sent us. Do not worry, great Master, she also requires a new dirk, and is willing to pay.”

“Thank the gods for warrior princesses then!” Master Tobho beamed.

“May I borrow paper, and a quill?”

“Yes, of course.” Master Tobho gestured for the serving girl to fetch it. Lyss put quill to paper and drew a hasty Baratheon stag. Master Tobho peered curiously at it, but Lyss discreetly moved her hand.

“It’s very nice here.” She said to Isa, to distract Master Tobho. “Can we see Gendry now?”

“Yes of course, my lady. This way.” The Master led them the same way Lyss had come with Lord Eddard. Gendry was in the same far corner, hammering away at a piece of steel.

“Boy, you’ve got visitors.”

Gendry stopped, and put his hammer down.

“More?”

“Aye, friends of the princess. So they claim.”

“I would like a private word with him.” Lyss said pointedly. Master Tobho stood further back, while Isa hovered inbetween, before Lyss motioned for her to come.

“Hello, Gendry.” she pulled her shawl down.

“M’lady-oh.” Gendry stopped. “You were with the Hand.”

“I was.” Lyss handed him the paper with the stag drawn on it. “He told me to give you this.”

Gendry looked at it, then glanced up, confused.

“M’lady, what is this?”

“I can’t tell you. Who knows what spiders are listening, spinning their webs? The princess would like a dirk.” She added. “She trusts you to make her one, of highest quality.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“That’s all. We thank you for your time.”

Lyss pulled the shawl back over her head and linked arms with Isa as Master Tobho led them back across the courtyard.

“I’m sure the dirk will be most sufficient. Princess Alyssea told us to pay you now.”

Lyss counted out a handful of dragons.

“Thank you, Lady Rosey, and Lady Arla. I hope to see you again soon.”

Lyss and Isa made their way back up Aegon’s hill. The afternoon sun was still playing peek-and-seek, and shadows often fell across their backs. They slipped through the stables. Lyss tugged her shawl back down. No one could question the princess in her own castle.

When she and Isa got back to her bedroom, Lyss didn’t even change, just took the book from the small table where she had left it. Thinking twice, she picked up the wildling prince book to read should she have to wait for Lord Stark.

It turned out she didn’t. Lyss met with two Northmen coming out of the godswood. She recognised one as Varly, one of the three who had gone with her on her first visit to the street of steel. The other had a letter in his hand.

“M’lady.” They murmured, but didn’t break stride.

Lord Eddard was sat on the grass by the heart tree. His leg was in a layer of bandages, and he looked to be in considerable pain.

“My lady.” Lord Stark said when he caught sight of her.

“Don’t rise.” Lyss said hurriedly. She joined him on the ground.

“I think I know.” she said softly.

“I believe I do, too. I’ll hear your thoughts first, my lady.”

“The Kingslayer.” Lyss decided not to mince her words. “I believe Ser Jaime is their true father.”

“We have both appeared to have hit upon the same truths.” Lord Eddard didn’t look too surprised.

Lyss moved closer, holding the ancient book out. “Look, there it reminded me that the Targaryens married their heirs within the family, to keep the blood of Old Valyria pure. Their children had purple eyes and silver gold hair. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen all have the Lannister look. Gendry and I have the Baratheon one.”

“I have sent for your mother, my princess. I pray she comes. You will be there to hear what she says, though she will not know.”

Lyss looked at the trees.

“Yes. I have heard from Arya you can climb trees well enough.”

Lyss smiled, remembering the day in the Wolfswood when she and Arya had come across each other. She tucked her wildling book down her front, and started climbing. Lyss had left Lord Eddard the lineage book, and he had his hand resting lightly upon it.

Cersei came at sunset. She came alone, dressed simply in leather boots and hunting greens. Lyss noticed an angry bruise in the side of her mother’s cheek, and wondered how she had acquired it.

“Why here?”

“So the gods can see.” Lord Eddard replied simply. Cersei sat beside him on the grass, in the very spot where Lyss had been.

“I know the truth Jon Arryn died for.”

“Do you?” Cersei looked at Lord Stark, wary as a cat. “Is that why you called me here, Lord Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wife seized my brother?”

“If you truly believed that, you would never have come.” Lord Eddard touched the queen’s check gently as Lyss watched on from her leafy vantage.
“Has he done this before?”

“Once or twice.” Cersei shied away. “Never on the face before. Jaime would’ve killed him, even if it meant his own life. She gave him a defiant look. “My brother is worth a hundred of your friend.”

“Your brother?” Lord Eddard paused. “Or your lover?”

“Both. Since when we were children together. And why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester would say. When he is in me, I feel… whole.” The ghost of a smile passed over Cersei’s lips.

Lyss triumphantly curled her fingers tighter around the edge of her book. She was disgusted, however. The Targaryens were brought down low in the end. Lyss hoped her mother remembered that.

“My son Bran.” She heard Lord Eddard say. Cersei did not flinch from the truth.

“He saw us. You love your children, do you not?”

“With all my heart.”

“No less do I love any of mine.”

Lyss felt a pang of emotion. She had never felt close to her mother, and now wished she had.

“Only Alyssea is Robert’s.”

“Yes.” Cersei admitted. “I bore that oaf a trueborn daughter. It’s more than he’s ever done for me. He always preferred Lyss anyway, I think only because she had his look.”

Lyss wasn’t shocked.

“I can scarcely bear for him to touch me.” The queen continued. “I leave him to his whores, and he leaves me to Jaime, though he doesn’t realise.”

“I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king.” Lord Eddard’s voice had grown soft. Lyss had to strain to hear what was being said. “A thousand other women might’ve loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?”

“The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister’s name. He was on top of me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”

“I do not know which of you I pity most.”

Cersei seemed amused by that. “Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it.”

“You know what I must do.”

“Must?” Cersei placed a hand on his good knee. “A true man does what he will, not what he must. The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, least of all me.”

It was too late for that. Lyss knew, Lord Eddard knew, Cersei knew. It would all come to war, and soon.

“If friends can turn to enemies, then enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away, my brother has fled. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, I shall never forget it.”

“You deny Alyssea of her birthright. Did you make the same offer to Lord Arryn?

Cersei slapped him. “I do not. I am protecting my children.”

“I shall bear that as a badge of honour.” Lord Eddard said dryly.

“Honour.” The queen spat. “How dare you play the noble lord with me? You’ve a bastard of your own, I’ve seen him. Who was the mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore? Or was it the grieving sister, Lady Ashara? She threw herself into the sea, I’m told. Why was that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me, my honourable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?”

“For a start,” Lord Eddard began quietly, yet coldly, “I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady, I shall say this only once. When the king returns from the hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your youngest children, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I would take a ship for the Free Cities, or even further to the Summer Isles, or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow.”

“Exile. A bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than your father served Rhaegar Targaryen’s children,” Ned said, “and kinder than you deserve. Your father and brother would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin’s gold will buy you comfort, and hire you swords to keep you safe. You shall need them, I promise you. No matter where you flee, Robert’s wrath will follow, to the back of beyond if need be.”

Cersei stood. “And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?” The leaves hid her face, and Lyss found herself trying to see without rustling any leaves. “You should’ve taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King’s Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a sad mistake.”

“I have made more mistakes than you could possibly imagine.” Ned said. “But that was not one of them.”

“Oh, but it was, my lord.” Cersei insisted. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.” She pulled her hood back up to hide her bruised cheek, and left the godswood. The sky had turned blue-black, and stars had started emerging.

Lyss dropped down from the tree, and stood before Lord Eddard.

“What do we do now, my lord?”

“The honourable thing. You are heir to the Iron Throne, my lady, and I will see you on it if it’s the last thing I do.”

Chapter Text

Lyss heard the hunting horns from the other side of the castle. She was sat on the windowsill, watching the castlefolk going about their days as the sky darkened above them all. They blew louder before the clattering of horseshoes could be heard, and riders filled the courtyard.

They were back early. Lyss slipped off the windowsill and darted down the hallway. The horns blasted again, setting dogs barking.

She came across a group of men rushing in the opposite direction, towards the King’s bedchamber. Lyss heard groans of pain.

“What’s wrong?”

No one replied.

“Who’s that, who’s hurt? Tell me who’s hurt!” Lyss raised her voice. There was no response. She saw Renly, hurrying in the same direction.

“Uncle Renly, what’s happened. Who’s been hurt, what’s happened?”

Renly stopped, and considered her sadly.

“The king. Savaged by a boar while we were hunting.”

Lyss put a hand to her mouth. Tears stung her eyes. Renly set off again.

“He’s going to be alright. Isn’t he, isn’t he, uncle?” Lyss matched her pace to Renly’s.

“No. There is nothing we can do for him now, I’m afraid.”

Lyss roughly wiped her eyes, and noticed the blood splattered on her uncle’s cloak. They passed Ser Barristan, whose face was pale as his armour.

Servants were laying the fireplace, making the room warm, and she saw that someone had made the futile effort of wrapping bandages around the king’s wound.

Grand Maester Pycelle hovered anxiously by the foot of the bed. Cersei sat at the edge, next to her husband.

“Brother.” He called out thickly. “Daughter. Come to see the death of the king?”

Lyss went to her father.

“Savaged by a boar?” she asked weakly. Before Robert could reply, the door opened again.

“Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King.” The steward announced.

“Bring him here.”

Lyss stepped to the left as Lord Eddard limped in, supported by two of his men.

“What…”

“A boar.” Renly repeated from the window.

“A devil.” Robert dismissed. “My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust.”

Anger flared in Lyss. Her father hadn’t stopped drinking his entire life, it seemed, and now he was paying the price.

“Where was the Kingsguard?” Lord Eddard demanded.

“My brother commanded them to stand aside.” Renly said contemptuously.

“Stinks.” Robert said. “Stinks of death, don’t think I can’t smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I… I paid him back in kind. Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn’t.”

“We brought the carcass back, at the king’s command.” Renly murmured his agreement.

“For the feast.” His words were softly whispered. Lyss imagined what agony her father must be in.

“Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak to Ned.”

“Robert, my sweet lord…” Cersei began.

“I said leave.” Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. “What part of that do you not understand, woman?”

Cersei gathered up her skirts and swept out the door. Renly strode after her and Pycelle trailed behind.

She waited outside with Renly and Pycelle. The queen had disappeared. No one spoke. The corridor felt dark and cold. Lyss wrapped her arms around herself, to keep from shivering. After an eternity, they were called back in.

“I’m naming Ned Protector of the Realm.” Robert wheezed. Lyss had to lean in to hear his words. The king pressed his seal into the hot wax dripped upon the letter Lord Eddard held up to him.

“Goodbye Renly, ‘Lyssa.” The king chuckled slightly. “And you, why not, Pycelle? I hope my death teaches you a lesson.”

“Never drink while hunting?” Renly forced a smile.

“No, gods be good. Fuck that. Never be king. If I wasn’t king, wouldn’t be here. Now give something for pain and let me die.”

Grand Maester Pycelle hurriedly mixed the king another draught of milk of the poppy.  Robert drank deeply. Then with the last of his strength, he flung the cup aside.

“Will I…dream?”

“You will, my lord.” Eddard Stark answered.

“Good.” The king smiled. “Good. Will give…Lyanna your love. Take… care of my children.”

“I shall guard your children as if they were my own.”

Robert nodded, then sagged into the bed as sleep took him.

“I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace’s suffering, but only the gods can heal him now.”

“How long?” Lyss’s voice cracked slightly.

“By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life so fiercely.”

“My brother was always strong. Not wise perhaps, but strong. He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar.” Renly said, in a voice full of wonder.

“Robert was never a man to leave the battlefield so long as a foe was still standing.” Lord Eddard smiled faintly.

The others filed out of the room. Lyss knew there was nothing she could do, no herbs she could find, that would heal her father.

She met Renly outside. He seemed to have been waiting for her. Lyss was glad. They walked in silence, over the drawbridge where they saw Lord Stark straggling across.

“Lord Eddard!” Renly called. “A moment, if you would be so kind.”

He stopped. “As you wish.”

“Send your men away.”

They stood on the bridge, washed in moonlight.

“That letter.” Renly leant in. “Was it the regency? My brother named you Protector.” He paused slightly, before rushing on. “My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard, and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour, and I can put a hundred swords in your hand.”

"And what should I do with a hundred swords, my lord?" Lord Eddard asked stiffly.

"Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps. We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and Lyss as the queen. Yes, I know." Renly smiled wryly. “The truth was right there, all these years.”

“They are still my siblings,”Lyss reminded him icily.

“Alyssea, the throne is your birthright. Cersei will do anything to hide the truth, and she had all the power of Casterly Rock. But not if we persuade Lord Tywin.”

“No.” Lord Eddard said sharply. “There will be no persuading the Lord of Lannister. He will not stand for all the talk of incest. We must pray there are still honourable men in this land.”

“Once the crown has fallen, everyone starts grasping for it. There will be no honour left at court.” Renly dismissed.

“Sometimes the gods are merciful.” Lord Eddard didn’t look too hopeful.

“The Lannisters are not. Tell the Hand…Your Grace.”

“The king is not dead!” Lyss snapped.

“My lady, there is no hope of him surviving.” Lord Eddard countered.

“He is the king still. Give him that until his last breath, at least. Then, then it’s every man for himself. You over-exaggerate the people, my lord. I say we leave and start our own army. If it must come to war, let it be on our own terms.”

Chapter Text

Lyss tried to be inconspicuous as she walked up to her room. She shook Isa awake.

“We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?” Isa sat up groggily.

“I’ll tell you later, just pack something warm. The nights are still cold.”

Lyss left Isa and put her faded trousers on. She found a change of clothes, and a dark cloak. She caught sight of the pale blue one, and picked it up too. It was soft and warm, but the colour was highly visible. Lyss picked up the lineage book, and for good measure, the one about the wildling prince. She put them in an old bag, and was pleased when she found her bow left carelessly beside the door. Her quiver was almost full, too.

Lyss put her dark cloak on, and wrapped everything else in the blue one, hugging the bag under her arm. Isa had emerged, also holding a bundle wrapped in a cloak. Lyss gazed around her bedroom, wondering how long it would be until she returned, not as a princess, but as a queen. She felt sad that she had to leave her life behind. It was for the best though. She had to escape court while she could. Lyss wondered if have time to see Myrcella, but realised it was a stupid idea. They had to leave.

They stole down the stairs and into the courtyard. Renly, and his hundred swords were there, already mounted. Lyss recognised Ser Loras amongst them. She moved her bow to her shoulder, where her arrows were, and sat on her bundle of clothes. Lyss drew her hood up, again to hide her face.

She stroked Hontes’ neck as they waited for the gates to be open. The moon was bright in the sky as horseshoes clattered down the streets of King’s Landing. Lyss hoped Lord Eddard wouldn’t do anything foolish. He knew he was waiting for the boat he had hired for Sansa and Arya. If he had any sense, he would get on it too.

The city was deserted. Usually there were drunkards coming in and out of bars and brothels, but they must’ve heard the horses and stayed inside. A feral cat hissed at them, but that was all the life they encountered. The city watch challenged Renly, but eventually opened the gates.

They had done it. They had left the Red Keep behind. Lyss began to smile in relief when the bells started tolling.

The party came to a halt.

“The King is dead,” Renly cried mournfully. He turned to Lyss. “You are the rightful queen.”

Lyss bit her lip. She knew it was true.

“My Queen.” Renly dismounted.

Lyss gestured for him to get back in his horse and keep riding. They were still on the Kingsroad, and anyone could come across them. Renly ignored her.

“My Queen.” Ser Loras swung off his horse and knelt, offering his sword. No doubt Renly had spread the truth already. Lyss ran a hand through her tangled hair. They were going to be caught.

A few more people dismounted, but over half the group remained on their horses.

“She’s a bloody woman!” They heard someone call.

“What about you, Lord Renly? Why aren’t we crowning you, or Stannis?” Someone else added their opinions.

“Alyssea is the next in line for the throne.” Renly replied patiently. “It’s the law.”

“She’s a woman!” The first voice repeated. Lyss had been irritated, by the whole situation they were in, but then her irritation turned to fury. Suddenly she didn’t care they were in the middle of the Kingsroad.

“Yes, I’m a woman! Well done for noticing! What gave it away, I wonder? You were loyal to King Robert. If I was a son, you wouldn’t hesitate to place a bloody crown on my head. But no. I’m a girl. Let’s lock her up in a tower, with some needlework! Well, here I am. Most of you wouldn’t choose me, that much is true. I will have to prove myself, more than any man would do. But if you don’t want a queen like that, go crying back to Joffrey. He isn’t fit to rule either, but I’m sure he’ll give you a place at his court. For a time.” Lyss slid off her horse.

Those who had knelt had risen again, and were listening intently to her words.

“Can I take this for a second?” She asked Loras quietly, and he handed her his sword. She brandished it with each word.

“It may take months, even years, I will take the Iron Throne! Those who join me will have lands and riches. Those who don’t will be shortened by a head, and that is if you please Joffrey enough you still have a head.” Lyss raised Loras’s sword.
“Lords and nobles may rule a kingdom, but swords make them! Those who cannot wield a sword are not fit rule! And I CAN wield a sword. So there are your options. A bastard born of incest, or a woman. Your King’s daughter. Lannister or Baratheon!”

“Baratheon!” A hundred voices shouted their support. “Baratheon! Queen Alyssea, Baratheon!”

It was the sweetest sound Lyss had heard. She handed Ser Loras’s sword back, as the sound of steel on leather resounded through the night. A hundred blades glinted in the moonlight.

“We ride for Storm’s End!” Lyss shouted over the noise of her small army. There, she would grow her numbers, and take her birthright.

Lyss’s blood was singing as she turned Hontes around and rode towards Storm’s End. A hundred horses followed. Ser Loras caught up with her.

“You have the support of Highgarden, Your Grace,” he called over. “You wield words as a weapon.”

“They are a weapon,” Lyss shouted back. “The right words can make a kingdom. Support is what binds armies together, and support begins with words.”

Chapter Text

They rode for three days, down the Kingsroad to Storm’s End. Ser Loras had left almost immediately, off to Highgarden with a few of his men.

“These are treacherous times.” He had told Lyss when he asked leave to go.

Storm’s had largely accepted Lyss as Queen. She was glad. Lyss had always loved visiting her father’s ancestral seat, to hear the storms howl outside while she slept. She had been given a bigger, fancier place in the castle, but Lyss found herself missing the old, snug one. The first thing she had done was write a letter of Joffrey’s parentage. Lyss had the maester copy out hundreds more, then sent to all of Westeros. Cersei had kept the truth hidden for thirteen years, but now it had spilled over the Seven Kingdoms.

News of the Baratheon Queen travelled fast, and soon Lords of the Stormlands had come to swear their allegiance and bend their knee to Queen Alyssea. It had been a week since Ser Loras had left for Highgarden, and Lyss’s hundred men had grown in their thousands. She still awaited some of the minor lordlings sworn to House Baratheon. Lyss suspected they had qualms about a female ruler, but the Lord of Evenfall clearly had no such concerns, as he had sent his daughter, Brienne. Lyss had accepted her gladly, and Brienne of Tarth joined her ranks.

Lyss felt a glow of satisfaction as she watched the army outside Storm’s End stir in the early morning sun. The banners hung limply, as there was no wind. She was breaking her fast with Isa when the steward brought word of Lord Swann’s arrival.

“Clear this away.” Lyss the serving girl at her elbow. She walked around the table and stood in front of it, Isa slightly behind her.

“Your Grace.” Lord Gulian Swann cried out as he entered the Hall, Renly beside him. A large host of knights followed.
“It is wonderful to see you again.”

Her uncle joined her at the bottom of the steps.

“Lord Swann.” Lyss replied, with a courteous smile. “It’s been too long.” She let him kiss her hand. The serving girl came back, with bread and salt. Lyss, Renly, and Lord Gulian took some.
“Have you come to bend the knee?”

“I have, Your Grace. You have my allegiance.” He chuckled softly. “Aye, and the eight hundred swords that comes with me.” Lord Swann knelt.
“I give my allegiance to you, Queen Alyssea of House Baratheon. You have my word I will be your loyal servant until the end of my days.”

“Hopefully that won’t be for many years to come.” Lyss japed, accepting his pledge.

“Your Grace, may we speak privately?” Renly asked.

“Yes. Find a room for Lord Swann, I’m sure there’s still one left somewhere.” Lyss told the serving girl before turning back to Lord Gulian.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Your Grace, I’m happy enough in my pavilion.”

Lyss strode up the stairs to her solar, after dismissing Isa. She could already sense it was bad news.

“What is it?” She asked, closing the door.

“Lord Stark is dead.”

“Dead? How so?” Lyss said, horrified.

“Dear Joffrey cut his head off.”

“He was meant to take the black.” She remembered when they first heard the news the Lannisters had taken him captive. It was the day she had arrived at Storm’s End.

“He was a fool. Honourable, yes, but still a fool all the same.”

“It was always in Ned Stark.”

“His daughters? Sansa and Arya, are they unharmed?”

“That I do not know.” Renly sighed. “Robb Stark’s army is moving South.”

“I’m not bloody surprised. The Northerners can see if someone’s short a head just as well as any of us could.”

“They’re naming him the Young Wolf. The King in the North.”

Lyss ran a hand through her hair. “Fuck’s sake. I’ll write him a letter. I don’t need the North. It’s a bleak, grey place. Robb Stark can bloody well keep it.”

“With both our armies combined, we can crack King’s Landing like a nut. The Young Wolf will be a powerful ally.”

“Speaking of allies, is there any news of Stannis?”

“As it happens, there was a bird this morning. He’s coming this way.” Renly smirked. “Be on your guard, Lyss. In his letter, Stannis said nothing of his claim to Storm’s End, but I could tell he was glaring at me from Dragonstone. I’m sure my sweet brother will try to convince you to give it to him.”

Lyss sighed. “You can keep Storm’s End, but I’ll name Stannis my Hand.”

“Done, and done again. What of your betrothal to Quentyn Martell?”

“I’ve written to Sunspear, asking for their support. If they proclaim me the true queen, I will marry him within the year. If they don’t, I consider the betrothal broken.”

“Those are fair enough terms. I spoke to the smiths yesterday, and they told me your crown was almost ready.”

Lyss was saved a response from a knocking at the door.

“Your Grace, my lord, the Tyrells have arrived.” The steward announced.

“Seven hells, everyone wants to arrive today.” Lyss muttered. She was glad her dress was acceptable for a queen. It was black and gold, the Baratheon colours.
“All the lords sworn to Highgarden? Tell them I’ll see them later, but bring the Tyrells up. We must keep them ingratiated.”

There was Lord Mace Tyrell, a pompous, portly man, his mother Olenna Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell, his second son, Margaery Tyrell, his only daughter, and Ser Loras.

“Your Grace.” Lord Tyrell greeted. “I believe my son had already sworn Highgarden’s allegiance.”

“Honestly Mace, if he hadn’t we wouldn’t be standing here, would we?” Olenna snapped at him.

“Grandmother!” Margaery admonished.

“I’m truly sorry Your Grace, I’m afraid you’ve a halfwit joining your strength.”

Lyss was amused. “Have you been offered guest right?” She asked.

“Yes, with the other Lords of the Reach.” Olenna Tyrell had elected herself lead speaker. “We’ve come to get the measure of you. You’ve become quite famous, some people call you a rebel, others the rightful queen.”

“Your Grace, we are honoured to join you.” Garlan Tyrell smiled, interrupting Olenna. “I remember you once posed as a hedgeknight’s bastard, and now you’re queen of the realm.”

“Young!” Olenna announced suddenly. “You’re very young, to be a queen.”

“That’s a shame. I’ll just have to tell the army outside to leave, and come back in a few years.”

Olenna turned to her son. “I told you she would have some wit about her. Yes, you’ll do well enough.” She sounded pleased. “What did your maester teach you?”

“He taught me a lot my lady, but the subjects we studied most was the Houses and History of Westeros, High Valyrian, and herblore.”

“Yes, that’ll do. House Tyrell shall be proud to support you, Your Grace.”

“I thank you. You are my honoured guests. I believe there’s room enough for all of you.”

Olenna Tyrell led the procession out.

“Ser Loras,” Lyss called, having spotted the pile of cloaks on a table by the door. “Wait here a moment.”

“Your Grace?” Loras Tyrell asked curiously.

“I need a Queensguard. I would be honoured if you would be Lord Commander.”

“The honour would be mine.” Loras got to his knee. Lyss drew a cloak from the pile and swept it over his shoulders. It was black, with a stag embroidered in golden stitches. “Arise Ser Loras, Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”

She dismissed Renly and Ser Loras soon after; she had to write a letter to Robb Stark.

To the King in the North,

We both share a common enemy. It need not come to war between us. Joffrey ‘Baratheon’ holds the Iron Throne. I believe if we become allies, we will have the power to smash King’s Landing. I will keep the Six Kingdoms, while you rule over the North.

Alyssea of House Baratheon, Rightful Queen of the Six Kingdoms.

Chapter Text

Alyssea Baratheon, Queen of the Six Kingdoms

I accept your terms. We must meet, and join our armies. My lady mother insists upon you coming to Riverrun. If you do, don’t bring your whole army, only an honour guard. Lions still roam these parts, and your best hope would be a swift journey. We await your raven.

Robb Stark, King in the North

Queen Alyssea of House Baratheon

I am leaving Dragonstone, and bringing my naval fleet. I hope to be at Storm’s End within a few days.

Lord Stannis of House Baratheon

Lyss decided to wait until her uncle arrived before leaving for Riverrun. She had sent her letter on, and watched with Isa and Margaery Tyrell as the ships sailed past Storm’s End, and landed on the nearby docks.

Lyss and Margaery were becoming close. Margaery had inherited some of her grandmother’s fierceness, but possessed more courtesy than the Queen of Thorns.

Lyss picked her crown up as the last ship was docked. It was an elegant circlet, flashing silver in the red glow of the setting sun. It looked simple, but closer up, the crown was clearly made from rippling Valyrian steel, engraved with symbols and talismans. Lyss had asked for something simple, yet distinguished. She had noticed the silver bracelet from the market at her wrist, and described symbols she had learnt from an ancient book in King’s Landing.

“Stannis of House Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone.” The steward announced. Many of the lords and ladies sworn to Lyss had come to witness Stannis bend the knee.

“Selyse of House Florent, Lady of Dragonstone. Shireen of House Baratheon. Lord Alester of House Florent. Ser Axell of House Florent. Lord Monterys Velaryon. Lady Melisandre of Asshai…”

Lyss waited patiently as her steward listed Stannis’s nobles and knights.

“I welcome you to my halls.” She said graciously. Guest right was offered all around.

“Lord Stannis, I would name you my Hand.”

“My lady, I accept, with great honour. I hope I serve you well and bring wise counsel.”

Everyone’s honoured, Lyss thought, slightly bitterly. But who is truly? At least her uncle wasn’t grinding his teeth and glaring.

“You remember my old friend Ser Davos?”

“I do.” She remembered the tales he would tell her and Edric Storm, by the fires of Storm’s End. “I am not familiar with Lady Melisandre, however.”

“I am a priestess of the Lord of Light, Red R’hllor.” The woman said. Her ruby eyes gleamed in the sunlight. Lyss felt slightly unsettled. She kept her composure, and welcomed Lady Melisandre.

“My lord, I am riding to Riverrun to treat with Robb Stark.” Lyss addressed Stannis again. “We both share the same enemies. Choose your men this evening. I hope to leave tomorrow, though I am sorry you didn’t have time to settle in first.”

“This is war, Your Grace.” Stannis said, acceptingly. “More important things are at stake.”

She met with Isa in the hall, after leaving the lords and ladies of her makeshift court.

“M’lady, there’s someone come to see you in the solar.”

“Thank you, Isa.” Lyss said, through gritted teeth. She had been looking forward to a moment of quiet to herself, before they left for Riverrun.

Lyss swung the solar door open and cast her gaze around the room. Edric Storm stood by the fireplace, eyes fixed on the door. When he saw Lyss, he smiled.

“Queen Lyssi.”

Lyss placed her crown on a table before racing across. They hugged tightly. She had missed her half-brother. They would play together when Lyss came to visit Storm’s End. Sometimes Renly would join in monsters-and-maidens, and come-into-my-castle with them, before he decided he was too old.

“Where have you been?”

“I went to see the whole of the stormlands,” he replied, smiling. “There was unfortunate timing.”

“Unfortunate indeed,” Lyss said. “It’s only been a year, and so much has happened.” She paused before adding, “Would you like to come to Riverrun?”

“You’re allying with the Young Wolf?” Edric’s smile widened. “I’ve always wanted to see a direwolf. People are saying he can turn into one, that’s how he defeated the Kingslayer.”

“Robb Stark cannot turn into a direwolf.” Lyss said irritatedly. “He was just better than Ser Jaime.”

“Whatever you say, Your Grace.” Edric’s blue eyes were smiling.

“Don’t call me Your Grace. Not in private. It’s like everyone’s forgotten my name.” Lyss ran a hand through her hair. “I must leave, choose who else to take with me.” She would’ve loved to stay, but Lyss had heard that a king belonged to his realm, not himself.

It was late morning when they set off. Stannis had eight men with him. Lord Alester, Lord Lester Morrigen of Crow’s Nest, Lord Lucos Chyttering who was a year older than Lyss at six-and-ten, Ser Andrew Estermont, Ser Axell, Ser Davos, Ser Parmen Crane, and Ser Rollam Storm.

Lyss had fifteen, the most important of them being Mace, Garlan, and Loras Tyrell. She rode with someone different each day, to learn more about the people she ruled. Lyss learned that Brienne was strong willed, yet guarded, Robar Royce had joined her cause to make a name for himself, and had the utmost faith in the ancient runes of House Royce.

The day she rode with Edric was her favourite. They reminisced on memories of happier days, before the war. Lyss laughed when Edric brought up the time they had hidden to jump out at people. They had scared Joffrey, so much so that Lyss was banned from seeing Edric the rest of the stay.

Lord Mace liked to talk loudly and fondly of his lands in the Reach. Lyss nodded and smiled politely. She was tired, they had barely stopped for long, since Lannister armies roamed these parts. It was another reason why she was not happy with Lord Mace’s long rants about Oberyn Martell. He was so loud .

They had been taking the smaller roads to avoid as much attention as possible. Brienne proved skilled at map reading, and was placed in charge of navigation.

On the eighth day, Lyss heard the rush of the Trident. The last time she was here was when the court had travelled South, from Winterfell.

On the ninth day, they were attacked.

Chapter Text

Lyss saw the lions sewn on their chests through the haze of the rising sun. There were near fifty, she estimated, drawing the daggers from her wrists. Her bow would be no use, as they were too close.

Lyss knew there was only a small chance of victory, especially when The Mountain appeared.

There was no one else it could be. No one else was that tall.

Lyss’s men fought valiantly, but in the end the Lannisters overcame them. Lyss’s daggers and bow were taken from her. She saw Ser Robar Royce lying on the ground, his life’s blood ebbing from a wound on his neck. Ser Parmen Crane, Lord Bryce Caron, and Ser Emmon Cuy lay scattered near him. Only three Lannister men had been slain. Lyss had picked half her party out for skill, but they had been outnumbered, two to one.

In the dim light, Ser Gregor didn’t realise he had caught Queen Alyssea. She wasn’t sure, but he could’ve assumed they were King Robb’s men, as the Young Wolf was nearby and all of them had fine destriers and clothing.

They had been bound by the wrists to each other. Lady Brienne was tied in front of Lyss, Ser Loras behind. Brienne moved her head slightly.

“The mud.” She whispered, so softly Lyss barely heard it.

“What of it?”

“Use it to hide your face.”

Lyss caught on. Using all her body weight, she dragged herself down, disguising it to look like she tripped. Lyss landed in the mud, and discreetly wiped it over her face, before someone pulled her back to her feet, cursing.

The sun broke above the tree line, spilling light down on them. Lyss caught a glimpse of Riverrun in the distance. They had been so close. She felt like crying. There was no use in trying to escape, she would be cut down before she could go anywhere.

There were other people. Lyss could hear them, but she couldn’t see them. She could only see the back of Brienne’s head, and the ropes restricted her from moving out of line.

They had been walking for almost the whole day when they were finally taken to a small, unkept castle. Lyss didn’t know who it had belonged to before, but the Lannisters had taken it for their own. The Mountain rode off, perhaps to another castle.

She was glad Lord Tyrell had finally stopped telling everyone within a twenty-mile radius about Highgarden. Lyss hoped he had the good sense to keep quiet.

Horses whinnied from somewhere nearby as Lyss was herded through the narrow gates. Inside was as dank as it appeared. A woman screamed. Lyss whipped her head around, hating her restrictions even more.

“Where is the Brotherhood?” A male voice demanded. “Where is the Brotherhood?”

As they were led past a doorway, Lyss saw a large crowd of dirty people, too many for that room. In the centre, a woman was sobbing on the ground. There was a man standing over, with his back to Lyss.

“Where is the Brotherhood?”

She felt a sense of relief as they left the room behind. Lyss was forced to awkwardly climb up the stairs. When she finally made it, she was thrust unceremoniously into a cell obviously meant for one with Brienne and Ser Loras. The Lannister men had simply cut the rope when splitting them into groups. There was barely any room to move.

Lyss was well aware of the dried mud stuck to her face. It was uncomfortable, and she wanted nothing more than to rub it off, but she didn’t dare. Instead, Lyss began to think. If she had a horse, it would be less than half a days ride from here to Riverrun.

There didn’t seem to be many more lions than the ones who had taken Lyss, none that she had seen anyway. If she still prayed to the gods, she would’ve done. Lyss’s fingers strayed to her bare wrists.

There was a tiny slit in the window which Lyss estimated the time by. The sun had started its descent by now. No one came until the nighttime.

A vaguely comely man with sandy hair entered. He seemed pleasant enough, smiling and saying courtesies, but there was an array of cruel looking knives at his waist, half hidden beneath a cloak.

“I’m Raff the Sweetling.” Raff said. A plan started forming in Lyss’s mind.
“If you answer the questions, it’ll go well for you.”

If we give the answers you want, Lyss thought.

“Are you with the Young Wolf?” Raff smiled sweetly.

Silence.

“Are you with the Young Wolf?” Raff’s voice hardened.

“No.” Loras said hesitantly. “No.” He said again, his voice sounding stronger.

“Who is your leader?” Raff’s voice has grown sweet again, dangerously so.

“King Joffrey, gods bless him. We were envoys for the king, headed to Riverrun.”

“Is that so?” Raff turned to Brienne. “Who’s this?”

“My friend, Brienne. And that’s…”

“I’m his whore.” Lyss smiled flirtatiously at Raff the Sweetling. Her charm would’ve worked better if mud wasn’t clinging to her face. “Alys Waters.”

Raff leered at her. “Hoping for a bit of gold?”

Lyss shyly ducked her head.

“I did have some, maybe I would spend it on your pretty teats.”

“Just a copper coin would do, m’lord.” Lyss drew closer. She hoped Brienne and Loras had faith in her and didn’t do anything.

Raff the Sweetling reached a hand her face. Goosebumps rose on Lyss’s arms at his touch, but she didn’t flinch away.

“Why are you all muddy?”

“Slipped. I heard your horses and got scared.” She looked up into his eyes.

“I don’t need your face.” Raff dismissed, smirking at her. He drew Lyss in. She felt the tension in his manhood as her legs brushed against it. Raff nuzzled into her shoulder….and then gasped in surprise. A crimson coated blade was poking from his chest.

Lyss watched him choke on his own blood, her face expressionless beneath the mud. She bent and pulled the knife out of Raff’s back. It felt ugly in her hand as she wiped it on his tunic. It had been easy to slide it out of the pommel at Raff’s waist.

Lyss motioned for Loras and Brienne to follow, after looting the knives. They crept, quietly as possible down the corridor. She felt a pang of regret. Lyss knew they couldn’t go back for the others, not yet. She had to ride to Riverrun, and bring support from Robb Stark.

She cut the rope chaffing her wrists, then did the same to Loras and Brienne. Lyss heard raucous laughter coming from a room to the left. She hurried past it, heart in her mouth.

There seemed to be no more than a few men than the fifty that had attacked Lyss’s. She remembered Stannis, and hoped they didn’t recognise him, or Edric. If the Mountain didn’t return, and recognise Stannis, they’d be safe. She hoped. Lord Mace was a different problem. He was not kin to Lyss, and could say he swapped his allegiance. Maybe that would be enough. They had to get to Riverrun. They had to.

There was a plough horse and a destrier already in the yard. Lyss was grateful, as she hadn’t been looking forward to risking the stables. She could hear footsteps and faint chatter from the stables.

Lyss and Loras shared the destrier, while Brienne took the plough horse.

There was no reason why the sentry would open the gates for them. Lyss, sensing that it would end badly if they asked nicely, scaled the wall. It was tough going, but the wall was badly built, and offered many handholds. Her new, black trousers helped her blend into the night.

She crept behind the guard, but not quietly enough, as he turned and saw her. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Lyss drove Raff’s knife into his heart. She managed to catch him as he fell, and placed him silently on the ground to bleed out.

Lyss wound the gates open. They creaked loudly. She winced, knowing someone would have heard that. Lyss descended the wall as quickly as she could, but it felt like an eternity passed before her feet touched grass.

Brienne had already set off, as she had a slower horse. Loras waited for Lyss to mount, before kicking the destrier on.

Shouts echoed through the night. Lyss turned back to see two men with bows, aiming at them.

Brienne was safe, already in the tree line, but Lyss and Loras still had a stretch of field to ride through.

“Go faster!” Lyss cried frantically. “There’s two archers on the castle walls!”

Loras didn’t look behind, but kicked their horse on. She went slightly faster as arrows flew past.

They were almost at the tree line, almost safe when pain exploded from Lyss’s left shoulder. She screamed, turning to see an arrow sticking out of it.

“Keep going.” Lyss managed to tell Loras. They would sort out her shoulder later.

Brienne was waiting for them, having heard the screams from Lyss.

“Your Grace, you have to pull it out.” She said. “I’ll do it, if you like.”

“No, thank you Brienne. I can do it.” Lyss reached around to the arrow. Her back was slick with blood. She wrapped a hand around the arrow. It hurt to even touch it. Gritting her teeth, Lyss pulled on it with all her strength. It moved, a little bit. The arrow was deeper in her shoulder than she realised. Lyss bit back a scream, and tried again. This time she succeeded.

Nothing had ever hurt that bad in her life. Lyss sucked in a sharp breath, suppressing her screams.

“We have to keep going. There’s people after us now.” She hoped it was a wise decision. Lyss knew there was some plants that could numb the agony in her shoulder, but there was no time.
“Do you still have the map?”

“No, they took it off me.” Brienne answered.

“We’ll have to go back the way we came.” Lyss was starting to go lightheaded, but tried to put that feeling aside. “We have to get to Riverrun.”

They started off again. After an hour they passed the spot where they were taken captive. By then, Lyss’s shoulder had gone numb.

“It’s North now.” Brienne called over. “I remember. Straight North, and then we arrive.”

Lyss wished for it to be true. Loras turned their horse left, North. She hoped the destrier would hold out for a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer. Her shoulder throbbed through the numbness. Lyss rested her head on Loras’s back. She was too tired. Maybe they should wait for the Lannisters to take them back, they were never going to-

The Trident had always been rushing quietly from afar, but now it was roaring.

“My lady, look.”

Lyss raised her head, and saw a castle in the river. Day was beginning to break, rising from the East. She almost wept in relief.

“We did it. We got there.”

Brienne caught up to them as they stood on the riverbank. She shouted something Lyss didn’t catch, as she slumped back onto Ser Loras. She heard voices, and then they were moving. The Trident drowned out any other noises as they rode across the drawbridge.

Lyss woke up in a featherbed, with Edric looking down at her.

Chapter Text

“Two days.” Edric answered her unspoken question. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. None of our own died, but Ser Rollam was wounded when the Starks took Pinkmaiden.”

“Pinkmaiden. That’s where we were.” Lyss thought back, a hundred years ago when she was still learning history with her maester. “That’s House Piper’s castle.”

“Lord Piper left it barely protected when they joined the Young Wolf with his best men, and then the Mountain overcame it.”

“We’re in Riverrun?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” Lyss made to sit up, but gasped instead as her shoulder throbbed. Persevering, she sat, wincing. Someone had put her in a Tully dress of red and blue.

“Maester Vyman said you’re lucky. You arrived in Riverrun before the infection set in.” Edric helped Lyss to her unsteady feet. She could feel the bandages wrapped around her upper arm and shoulder.

“I need to see Robb Stark.”

“Lyss, th-“

“I need to see Robb Stark.” Lyss repeated stubbornly. She made her slow way across the room. Lyss caught a glimpse of herself in a hanging mirror. Her face was pale, but her hair had been washed and brushed out neatly.

Her legs limbered out and made walking easier, but Lyss kept her shoulders rigid. Her wound hurt, even keeping it still.

“The godswood. He’ll be in the godswood.” She could not say how she knew. Lord Eddard had liked to be in the godswood, but Lyss could not speak for Robb Stark.

The godswood in Riverrun was airy, filled with wildflowers and mint. Songbirds chirped from their nests in the treetops. Three men were praying by the weirwood tree. A direwolf was lying amongst its roots, but raised his head when he saw Lyss and Edric. Grey Wind, she thought. He had grown, tripled in size since Lyss visited Winterfell.

She didn’t want to disturb their prayer and waited patiently with Edric, but then one of them turned. He looked at them, before leaning over to the man in the middle.

The three of them rose. Lyss recognised the middle one as Robb Stark, King in the North. He had changed, grown older. It had been a little under a year since Winterfell, but everything was different now. They weren’t the same children who had danced at the feast. She didn’t know who the men either side of him were.

“Queen Alyssea.“ Robb said courteously. “It is good to see you on your feet.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lyss replied politely. “May I have a word?”

“Of course.”

Lyss turned to Edric.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” He said loyally, before leaving the godswood with Robb’s men.

“I wanted to thank you for saving them.” Lyss said.

“We were all grieved when you arrived with your men taken prisoner. But that’s not all you came to say, is it?”

“No.” She drew closer. “No one expected us to be kings and queens. But we are. We’re doing better than Joffrey, I think. Together, no one could stop us. I can try to get Arya and Sansa away from King’s Landing.”

“How?” Robb’s voice was quiet, but Lyss could hear the hope in it.

“Tyrion Lannister. I will offer him Casterly Rock, in exchange for your sisters.”

“Yes. Do it, put our minds at ease.“ Robb paused. “What about the Kingslayer? We hold him captive.”

“I don’t want to see him.” Lyss said tersely. “Keep him in his cell. We can’t risk having him out again.”

“I agree. I would not like to face him in the field again.” Robb said, then added thoughtfully, “How much would Tywin Lannister give to have his first son back?”

“Much and more.” Lyss gazed into the heart tree’s weeping face. “Are there any envoys from King’s Landing?”

“Not yet, but there will be. We sent Ser Cleos Frey a week ago.”

“When he returns, keep a close watch on him, and any escorts he brings. They will try to rescue Jaime.” Lyss turned back to Robb. “It is good to see you again.”

“I was sorry your time in Winterfell took place when Bran fell. The castle is usually a happy place.”

“I don’t think Bran fell.”

Robb gave her a questioning look. “He fell. You saw him fall from the Old Tower yourself.”

Lyss shook her head. “No, not like that. I mean he was pushed. By the Kingslayer.”

“What makes you think that?” Robb’s voice was calm, but Lyss could tell anger was building up inside him.

“The way he acted when Tyrion said Bran would live. It wasn’t normal, he forced himself to look like he didn’t care. But he did. And in King’s Landing, I talked of falling and he lashed out.”

“Thank you, Alyssea. For telling me.”

“Don’t do anything to him. If Cersei hears you have killed or harmed her brother, her lover, she will do the same to Arya and Sansa. Call me Lyss.” She added. “It’s easier to say.”

Robb nodded. “I won’t harm him…yet. If my sisters are returned safely, perhaps we will give him a trial.”

It was a fair offer. “Cersei cannot object. Sansa and Arya are innocent children.” Lyss stroked Grey Wind’s head. “The Young Wolf, people call you. What will it be in fifty years?”

“The Old Wolf.” Robb replied, smiling. “You’re the Baratheon queen. Will you still be once you’ve married?”

“I’ll have to never marry. The Spinster queen, that’s what I’ll be.” Lyss’s shoulder throbbed again.
“Did you kill Gregor Clegane?”

“No. He was not there when we took the castle back. The Lannisters are getting bolder and bolder, that was the first time they’ve struck the riverlands since Ser Jaime was defeated.” An odd look crossed Robb’s face as he looked at the heart tree. “Do your men know you’re godless?”

Lyss had forgotten Robb knew. “No.”

“You never said why, just ran off.”

“I…I don’t like remembering.”

Robb nodded agreeably. “Is it why you always carry daggers?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Lyss flexed her shoulder, and instantly regretted it, as pain shot through her body. She nodded her head at Robb, and left the clearing where the heart tree stood, before stopping and turning.

“I will tell you one day, I think. But… not today.”

Edric was still waiting patiently by the entrance to the godswood. Lyss gratefully leaned into him as they walked back through Riverrun’s passages.

Chapter Text

That night, Lyss could not sleep. She lay rigidly on her right shoulder, her eyes wandering around her room. The chamber Lyss had been provided with was almost as good as her one in Storm’s End, with a balcony overlooking the Trident, facing South. Lyss had forgotten to close the doors, and bright moonlight spilled across the floor.

Just as she was about to drift off, Lyss shifted slightly, and her shoulder started smarting again. Irritated, she got up, all hopes of sleep gone. She pulled the closest thing on over her nightdress and padded outside.

It happened to be the soft blue cloak. Lyss snuggled into its warmth as she gazed down at the riverlands.

She saw one fire in the distance, small yet bright against the dark of the night.

But then the moon emerged again from pearlescent clouds. The queen closed her eyes and turned her face towards it.

As she bathed in the moonlight, Lyss wondered who else was looking up at the sky tonight. The same moon shone across the whole of Westeros, and even beyond. She heard Grey Wind howling.

Beyond the Wall, Jon Snow lay on the cold ground. He was staring at the moon. It was rare to see a moon like that twice a year, Jon knew. Ghost had sat, silently gazing at it. He had never known Ghost to howl.

The howling woke Bran up. Out of his window, he could see the brightest light shining from the dark night. He felt Rickon stir beside him, and he put an arm around his brother, as they both watched the moon.

Gendry was on watch that night. He had put his torch out, the moonlight was so strong he didn’t need fire. Again, he wondered why Master Tobho had sent him away, and why he had been handed a piece of paper with a stage scribbled on. He had lost the drawing long ago, but Gendry still mused over it. Beside him, Arya dreamt she was running wild, free, with her sister. They howled at the moon, together. They were the noise of the wild; the noise of the night.

Sansa woke, gasping and happy. In the other side of the castle, Cersei pulled a drape over the window. She usually left that kind of job for the servants to do, but tonight she felt like she had to care for her children. Myrcella slept smiling faintly, while Tommen next door had curled around his pillow. When she got to Joffrey’s room, Cersei stopped by the window. The moon, so large and so bright, hovered above the trees. Cersei remembered she once had a daughter who loved watching the sun set and the moon rise.

Renly watched Melisandre do her nightly prayers.

“For the night is dark, and full of terrors.” The Red Woman chanted around the fire, robes swirling as she raised her arms.

He looked up at the moon, glowing brighter than life behind the Tall Tower.
She could not be more wrong, Renly thought. Tonight, it was bright, and full of wonder.

Lyss remembered the Hand’s Tourney, the only other time the moon had shone this bright. Her father had still been alive then, so full of life. Lyss realised tears had started flowing down her cheeks. She missed her old life, the one where she played at hoops with Myrcella, and went into the city with Isa. It had been so simple, so full of happiness. Her biggest fights back then had been spats with Joffrey, over things that didn’t even matter. Lyss hadn’t appreciated it enough, and wished she could go back.

Lyss wiped the blue cloak roughly over her eyes. She was a fifteen year old girl, but also a queen, and queens could not cry.

Lyss turned around. The cold stone was freezing her bare feet. Out of the corner of her eye, Lyss noticed a necklace, discarded in the corner of the balcony. It was hidden amongst the shadows. Lyss was surprised she had noticed it, despite the brightness of the moon.

She picked it up, examining it. The necklace was silver, swirling in the ancient triskelion patterns of the First Men. A blue stone was set in the centre. It couldn’t be a sapphire. Lyss had never seen one like it; when she held the necklace up to the moonlight, she felt colder than she did before, but it must have been coincidence.

Lyss could tolerate the cold, often better than most Southerners, but she could not bear this.

She decided to keep the necklace. Lyss noticed three more stones, tiny, yet still visible. One was pink as the springtime flowers Myrcella liked to wear. Another was green as summer. The last was the red of autumn leaves.

Lyss sighed. She knew summer was drawing to a close, then soon winter would be upon them. Lyss had never truly experienced winter; she barely remembered the last one.

Summer had spanned eleven years. She wondered how long the winter would last, how long until the next spring. Then, by summer, she would be ruling over the South.

Winter may be coming, but it wasn’t here yet.

Chapter Text

Part Two - Autumn

I loved a maid as red as autumn
With sunset in hair
We’ll see all the Seven Kingdoms
I’ll give her rubies bright to wear

“Queen Alyssea of House Baratheon

Arya Stark has not been seen since the imprisonment of Lord Stark. I pray she is returned to her mother safely. However, Joffrey has been using Sansa Stark as his new plaything to torment. I know she prays of escape. We can devise a plan to give it to her. While I may be half a man, some say I have the wits of two. Varys is sending your sister Myrcella to Dorne, for the Martell’s alliance. They are a threat to you now. I will stay in King’s Landing to watch Joffrey’s court, but know I bend the knee to you, Your Grace.

Tyrion Lannister, Future Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Lyss read the letter out to the war council, Robb Stark’s Northern and River lords. The Baratheon lords were pitiful in number; most were still in the Stormlands.

She rolled the letter back up and clasped it in her hands.

“I do not see why Tyrion Lannister would hold the truth from me.” Lyss told the assembled lords. “Lord Tywin has denied him Casterly Rock his whole life.”

“He could be lying.” Greatjon Umber spoke up. “He’s a Lannister, and Lannisters do not lack for cunning. I say he’s working it to his own advantage.”

“It was always working to his advantage.” Roose Bolton said, so quietly the whole table automatically leaned in to hear his words. “He gains Casterly Rock for removing two children from King’s Landing.”

“One child.” Robb said distantly, from the other end of the table to Lyss. “The Lannisters only have Sansa in their power.”

“That is not a bad thing, Your Grace.” Stannis raised his head. “Arya Stark may be travelling to Riverrun as we speak.”

Or she could be dead in an unmarked grave, Lyss thought, but kept quiet. The notion was running through everyone’s minds, but it would not do to speak it into existence.

“The Dornish are a threat now.” She offered instead, repeating from Tyrion’s letter. “Before, we had King’s Landing and Casterly Rock trapped like a caged bird, but it now there comes an enemy from further South.” She fingered the silver necklace.

“Send your army to Dorne, Your Grace.” Ser Edmure Tully urged. “Conquer them, and we can march on King’s Landing.”

“What if the Stormlanders should lose, or we fall on Lannister swords?” Brynden Tully countered sharply. “The Baratheon army would be surrounded by enemies, and should they fail, Joffrey has the strength of Sunspear behind him.”

“He may have the Martells, but they would be weakened.” Stannis said sagely. “I say keep our army where it is.”

Ser Edmure seemed pleased his idea was being supported by Lyss’s Hand.

“Bring your men up to Riverrun, and they can smash the Lannisters as they march. That would leave only Dorne left.” Robb was still distracted, but more alert.

“The armies, all those men would eat the land bare.” The Blackfish said. He was one of Robb’s strongest warriors, and did not lack for wits either.

“We hold the Roseroad.” Lord Mace said. “The price of food in King’s Landing will grow costlier each day. The smallfolk may start their own uprising.”

“Sit and wait?” Young Lord Chyttering asked incredulously. “We have a huge army back at Storm’s End. We should not sit and wait for smallfolk to rise over some apples. The Dornish are a threat, and we must take them out now.”

Murmurs echoed round the room.

“I believe attacking Dorne would be the best course of action.” Lyss said considerately. “My men grow idle sitting around. Even if we do not win the battle, the Dornish would be weakened, as Lord Stannis said. If I tell them to march North, Storm’s End would certainly fall, Highgarden alongside it. I do not wish for this to happen.”

Lucos Chyttering nodded his approval.

“That would be best.” Lord Bolton’s voice was soft as promise, but everyone heard it.

“Do that then.” Robb said in agreement. “Attack Dorne, then we’ll march on King’s Landing. I think it best we start raiding Lannister camps, make a foothold in the West.”

“Trap the Lannisters into a corner.” Ser Edmure noted.

“Not quite,” Stannis said, “though creating a barrier between Casterly Rock and King’s Landing, while we hold Dorne.”

“What of the fleet moored by Storm’s End?” Lord Alester Florent spoke for the first time that morning.

Lyss considered her options before answering, “Leave them there. Or better, send them scouting along the Dornish coast. I do not want to use them in anything major yet.”
She gritted her teeth as her shoulder ached with dull pain.

The council ended shortly after. Lyss waited with Stannis as the other high lords filed out.

“Uncle, I want you to command the battle in Dorne.” She said. “I do not think anyone else better suited to this task.”

Stannis bowed his head. “I will not fail you, Your Grace.”

Lyss smiled. “I don’t think you will. Leave soon, take your pick of the men we brought up. I will write a letter to the Stormlords, telling them of what shall happen. You will take this when you travel South again.”

They left together. Lyss wanted to loose some arrows in the training yard more than anything, but she knew it would cause her shoulder further pain. Instead, Lyss sat herself down at the table in her room and wrote the letter declaring war on Dorne.

When she finished, Lyss sat back, and read through it. Satisfied, she set the letter aside and picked out a fresh piece of paper. Dipping her quill back into the ink, she drew Storm’s End. Lyss hummed to herself, and then broke into song.

“Brothers, oh brothers
My days here are done
The Dornishman’s taken my life
But what does it matter?
For all men must die
And I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!”

She hadn’t sang in a while and was in a merry mood, even when she surveyed her drawing, and found it barely even looked like a castle. Lyss folded it into a paper crow, and stepped onto the balcony. She threw it into the wind and watched as it glided, before plummeting down into the Trident, rushing around Riverrun.

Lyss spied a real raven, flapping its way to the maester’s turret. She saw Maester Vyman at the window, waiting for the message.

Lyss went back in, intending to go to Riverrun’s library, but before she could leave, there was a frantic knocking. She swung the door open to reveal Maester Vyman, clutching an opened letter. He handed it to her.

“Is it bad?” Lyss asked, expecting the answer yet dreading it all the same.

“Your Grace, someone has betrayed you.”

Chapter Text

Lyss stood impatiently by the fireplace in Riverrun’s solar, waiting for her small flock of lords and knights to arrive.

“In the letter, Tyrion wrote someone had been spying on me for Joffrey.” She said when they were all gathered. “He only learned this morning, and sent word immediately. He’s good, we can trust him.” Lyss didn’t know which was worse, Tyrion lying to her, or an actual traitor, hidden in her midst.
“They stopped hearing from the informer when we left for Riverrun. Someone at Storm’s End has been betraying me, all this time. It cannot have been a person in this room. Tyrion made no mention of Ser Gregor’s attack, which means he cannot have known the Lannisters had us.

“The question though, is who did it? Who sold information on us to Joffrey? Renly, in the hopes of a royal pardon? No. He got me out of the King’s Landing, he was the first to call me queen. Lord Swann? His son Ser Balon serves in Joffrey’s Kingsguard.”

“He would never, Your Grace.” Edric interrupted. “Lord Gulian is a good man, he would never sell you to the Lannisters.”

“I hope not.” Lyss replied grimly. Voices broke into quiet conversation.

“Lord Selmy was always shifty to me!” A voice Lyss did not place called out. “His brother served four different kings, why can’t he?”

“Aye, that is truth he’s speaking!” Lord Morrigen agreed. “It’s Lord Selmy, he isn’t with us now. Lord Arstan, now I always said he was a shifty bastard.”

“Don’t start with that bullshit.” Ser Andrew Estermont said irritatedly. “We would never know if you were the traitor or most loyal, the way you take your sides.”

Arguing broke out among the Stormlanders. Lyss felt all the anger and stress since her crown was first placed on her head rise. Her shoulder ached, making her all the more angrier.

“ENOUGH!” She cried furiously. “I did not bring you here to argue over old rivalries. We have plenty of our own, and someone sharing information to them! Soon, they will hear that we’re attacking Dorne, giving the Dornish more time to prepare for our attack.”

“It might not be someone highborn.” Brienne flushed red as everyone turned to her. The Stormlords had not considered that option, during their petty squabbles.

“A servant?” Lyss asked thoughtfully. “Where would they get that information from?”

“It was just an idea.” Brienne mumbled to the floor.

“Yes, and a good one. Those of you travelling South in two days, be on guard and watch everyone. Whosoever finds this traitor will be greatly rewarded.”

Lyss left with Edric and Ser Loras. Loras had been distant with Lyss since they arrived at Riverrun, and they had scarcely talked. Edric put his arm around her and she rested her head on his.

“I never asked for this.” Lyss said, so quietly she barely heard it herself.

“Not many people do.” Edric replied. “I’d rather have you as leader than Joffrey. I haven’t heard nice things about him. Maybe that’s why. The gods made you good, better than him. Uncle Stannis once told me Father made friends in his enemies. You could certainly do that.”

“I don’t have many friends. Seventh hell, I don’t want many friends. Only allies, ones with armies.”

The first rays of sunset spilled across the hallway as they passed a window.

“Stop holding people at an arms length.” Edric told her. “Only bad things will come of it.”

Lyss snorted derisively, shaking her disdain. “I do not. I talk to people daily. I get to know my lords and ladies, the knights fighting for me.”

“You don’t let them get to know you.”

“I don’t have to.”

Edric let the matter rest, but Lyss could tell he would bring it up again. She yawned. The night before she had gotten no sleep, what with the light from the moon and the pain in her shoulder keeping her awake. Edric bid her goodbye at the top of the stairs, and then it was just Lyss and Loras.

They walked in silence. Lyss usually did not mind the quiet, but this bothered her.

“Fetch Maester Vyman. I require milk of the poppy.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Loras muttered, before turning and striding away. Lyss continued the walk back to her bedroom alone. It had been a long day, and she just wanted to take milk of the poppy for her shoulder and sleep.

Maester Vyman came and went, leaving a small flask. Lyss drank it all, and felt the pain from her wound lessen. She drifted off into a light sleep.

That night, Lyss dreamt the world was on fire. She dreamt she was riding with Renly and Edric. Stannis and Tyrion were there too. Cersei and Jaime stood far in the distance, Joffrey far behind them. Myrcella and Tommen were playing with Shireen.

Then the fire came. It burned the trees first, then the fields. Lyss could see Storm’s End on fire, the cold stones being no hindrance to the flames. There was a Baratheon banner flying proudly from the Tall Tower, but then the flames got to it. The crowned stag was reduced to ashes.

She turned back to see Shireen, Myrcella, and Tommen on fire. They kept playing, and that was more horrific than if they had been screaming. Myrcella smiled her sweet smile at Lyss, as the fire consumed her golden hair.

Lyss woke up gasping for breath. Sun streamed through the small windows. Foreboding curled its dark fist around her mind. Stannis would be riding back to Storm’s End later that morning, taking most of the Stormlords with him.

Lyss dressed quickly, in a plain black and yellow dress. It was light, and more practical than most of the dresses she had. A maid she did not know wove the laces up. Lyss missed Isa, the only proper friend she had. Her thick raven hair flowed freely down her back, while her silver crown shone in morning light.

Lyss descended down to the courtyard with her letter in hand. Half the castle was gathered, watching Stannis leave. She noticed Lady Catelyn watching from above.

Over half the lords and knights Lyss had brought North were travelling back to Storm’s End. It made her feel slightly uneasy, yet Lyss trusted Robb Stark had his father’s honour. She was surprised to see Garlan Tyrell mounting.

“I thought you were staying.” Lyss looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun shining by his head.

“I changed my mind.” Garlan said simply. “I know my father has longed to go at the Dornish since Willas was crippled, and I have to make a legacy for myself somehow. Willas has Highgarden, and Loras his formidable jousting, and he is part of your Queensguard. What’s there for me, except glory on the battlefield?”

“You will have all the glory anyone could wish for.” Lyss wished she felt as confident as she sounded. She left, searching for her uncle.

Lyss found Stannis holding the reins of a white stallion.

“Uncle.” She handed the letter to him. “Here. Guard this with your life.”

“I will, Your Grace.” He wrapped his arms round her. Lyss was taken aback by the show of emotion from him, but gratefully embraced Stannis back. After a long moment, he drew away.

“Take care. I’ll be back soon, with a conquered Dorne behind me.” Stannis swung himself onto the white stallion. He shouted a command, and suddenly the drawbridge was lowered and he was gone, leaving only the clattering of half a hundred horseshoes.

Lyss stood, alone in the courtyard. She had folded her arms across her chest, and watched the gates close back up.

“Don’t worry.” Edric said. Lyss jumped. She hadn’t realised her brother was there.

“Why not? I don’t know if I will ever see Uncle Stannis again.”

“The Starks can keep their direwolves, the Greyjoys their kraken. The Targaryens had dragons, and they died. But we,” Edric butted his shoulder against hers. “Have godsblood. All the stories agree.”

“I don’t want to trust stories. Stories are half lie, grown over time.”

“Yes.” Edric said seriously. “But our realm is built on the stories of our ancestors. One day, that is all we’ll be. Stories, passed down from generation to generation. The only memory of us will be in the stones of Storm’s End. Our reflections will be lost in the rivers, swirled away from times long gone and lives long lost.”

Chapter Text

There was no more time to romanticise about rivers. They were late to a war council.

Lyss’s small group of knights hurried through the hallways, following her up to the solar.

Edric had stayed with Lyss, but stopped by the door.

“It is not my place to go in.” He said.

“Don’t be stupid. You are my brother.” Lyss replied impatiently.

“I’m a bastard.” Edric reminded her.

“I don’t care. Come in, your queen commands it.”

Edric remained stubbornly in his spot. So did Lyss.

“Brienne,” she turned to Brienne who was the last person behind her, “may I have your sword?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”Lyss gripped the fine leather handle.

“Kneel, Edric.

Edric knelt. Lyss rested the sword on his shoulder.

“In the name of House Baratheon, I knight you Ser Edric. Rise, Ser Edric Storm, a knight of the Queensguard.” She smiled. “Now you can come in.”

Lyss smiled wider as she saw Edric mouth Queensguard in wonder. She paused before handing the sword back to Brienne.

“Kneel.” Lyss decided, resting the sword on Brienne’s shoulder this time. “You long to be a knight, I can see. Because you are a woman, you could never be one. But I am the queen, and my word is law. In the name of House Baratheon, I knight you Ser Brienne… a knight of the Queensguard.”

When Brienne rose, Lyss saw tears shining in her eyes.

“There are no cloaks, for now.” Lyss admitted. “They are all in Storm’s End, but I can have some made here.” She gave Brienne her sword, and pushed the solar door open.

Robb’s men had been in quiet discussion, but it stopped abruptly when Lyss entered.

“Welcome, Your Grace.” Robb said. Grey Wind was sat beside him. Lyss and Robb were both monarchs, but the King in the North bore his crown better than Lyss ever could. “Let us begin. Last time, we agreed on attacking the Westerlands. I believe we should start as soon as possible. Queen Alyssea’s Stormlords have already left, and will wage war on the Dornish.”

“Your Grace.” Lord Bolton’s whispery voice echoed around the silence of the room. “I propose we split into three. An army to defend Riverrun, an army to lure Lord Tywin into the field, and an army to take Harrenhal from him. At first, the last two would be one large army, but if all goes well, they would split.”

It was not a bad notion.

“Lord Bolton’s idea is a good one.” Lyss said. “Attack the smaller Lannister camps and castles. Lord Tywin is a proud man, and will not hesitate to spill the blood of his enemies to get them off his land.”

No one came forward with any more plans, and Lord Roose’s was unanimously agreed on.

“I shall lead one of the armies.” Robb told them. “I say Queen Alyssea should stay here, however. I do not think it is for her lack of skill at arms,” he raised his voice over the muttered conversation. “It is because one of the most vital things in war is knowing what our enemies our doing.”

Lyss thought bitterly of the spy in Storm’s End.

“You are keeping in touch with Tyrion Lannister, who provides us with crucial information on King’s Landing. And besides, you are still wounded. That is death in battle.”

Her shoulder throbbed in agreement. Lyss knew he was right, and could not think of any argument that didn’t make her sound young and green. It did not please her, however. Lyss clasped her hands tightly underneath the table. She had sent her men off to war, while staying safe behind the walls of Riverrun.

“Scouting parties.” Lord Karstark said. “Scouting parties will be essential. Send them out before we leave.”

“No more than five to each group.” Ser Brynden spoke up. “That way stealth would be on our side.”

The arrangements were made. The Blackfish would lead one band of scouts, Medger Cerwyn and a knight who had proved himself in the Whispering Wood two others. Lord Bolton and King Robb himself would lead the armies.

Lyss kept her composure, ignoring the occasional pangs from her shoulder. Her gaze met Robb’s from across the table. He held it for a second, before looking away. Lyss clasped her hands tighter. What was he hiding?

Robb called for an end to the council.
“We shall ride out in a week. Your Grace, may I have a word?”

The lords and knights left, leaving only Lyss and Robb.

“Renly Baratheon is dead.” He said, when the last knight closed the door. Lyss smiled. Robb had it all wrong.

“No he’s not. He’s not dead, he-he’s in Storm’s End-“

“There was a raven early this morning, before Lord Stannis left. Lord Renly is dead, murdered by the Dornish.”

Lyss shook her head, willing herself not to cry.

“Why?” She whispered, putting a hand to her throat, where the silver necklace still hung.

“The Martells had the same idea as us.” Robb said simply. “Your men won, but many died. It was not a huge battle, by all accounts, merely a host of Dornish scouts happened to come upon Lord Renly.”

Lyss shook her head again, unbelieving.
“No. No, he can’t be, they can’t have…” Anger replaced her shock. Swiftly, she drew the dagger from her left wrist and slammed it into the table. It stood still.

“I was meant to marry Prince Quentyn.” Her lip curled in disgust. “I was meant to have Dornish children to make up for the murder of Elia’s.”

She pulled her dagger back out from the oak table.
Ŷn daor vale iksan, the inscription by its hilt read. Lyss looked at it, concentrated on it, forcing her tears back. She raised her head, cold and proud.

“Stannis will defeat them. He will, he’ll kill them all.”

“He will.” Robb agreed.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“Thank you for telling me now.” Lyss wanted to find Edric. She left, scouring the hallways for him. She found him in the training yard, practicing against Ser Loras.

Lyss waited for them to finish. She had never preferred swords, finding them cumbersome, but the way Loras handled his was different.

Edric and Lyss were strong, possessing brute force like Robert, whereas Loras was like summer silk, flowing smoothly away from Edric’s lunges.

It didn’t take long for the Knight of Flowers to disarm Edric, who bent to retrieve his sword and saw Lyss watching.

“Your Grace.”

“Edric, I would like to speak with you.” Lyss bit her lip. It would not do to cry amongst people.

Edric sheathed his sword, and wiped his hair out of his eyes.

“The godswood.” Lyss decided. “It is quieter in the godswood.” There was always someone in the Sept, singing for the Mother’s mercy.

Lyss remembered when she was a young child her own mother would take her to the Sept to pray. Lyss would sit on her knee and gaze in awe at the beautiful statues and bright colours.

The godswood was empty when they arrived. Lyss led Edric deep into the trees, where no one would come across them. She stopped, and turned to face him.

“Uncle Renly is dead, struck down by Dornish scouts according to King Robb’s letter.”

Finally her tears came, and she let them roll down her cheeks. Edric did not say anything. Lyss saw he was crying too. They stood, holding onto each other for comfort.

“The Dornish killed him.” Lyss said quietly. “They killed him, and we’re going to kill them, the ones Stannis won’t. When I take the Iron Throne, I will show them no mercy.”

Chapter Text

Lord Tywin of House Lannister

It need not come to war. If you renounce Joffrey, and accept me as your rightful queen, I will pardon you. Many lives will be saved, if you would only bend your knee.

Queen Alyssea of House Baratheon, rightful queen of the Southern Kingdoms.

Lyss had sent a similar letter from Storm’s End, but received no reply. She wanted to try again, this time for Lady Catelyn’s sake.

“Please.” She had said. “Save my son from war.” Catelyn Stark had not been the same since the news of Arya’s disappearance reached her. She had spent most of her time by Lord Hoster Tully’s sickbed.

Lyss watched the raven fly away, an uneasy feeling swirling around her mind. Unconsciously, she fiddled with the silver necklace. She was sat on a rock in front of the heart tree, waiting for Robb.

Ten minutes passed before Grey Wind padded up to her. Robb appeared a second later. Lyss stood.

Robb spoke first. “Better?” He asked.

“No. But I will be. Tyrion wrote earlier.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks he can find a way of getting Sansa away from King’s Landing. It’s risky, as Joffrey has closed all the ports, and the gates. He wants a naval battle. I have ships aplenty. If I can win, Sansa will be safe.”

“Yes, do that. I want her back.”

Lyss smiled sadly. “I did not know her very long, but I could see she had a head full of dreams. I do not think she does anymore.”

“War took her innocence. She’s too young to see the things that she did. In a way, I am glad Arya escaped. The Cersei Lannister would find her wild and untamed.” The ghost of a smile flickered across Robb’s face.

“She has a Bravosi style smallsword.”

“Jon told me about it, the night before he left for the Wall. Hadn’t seen it yet, but he knew it would be special, perfect for Arya.”

“I saw her practising with it.” Lyss said. “She was getting proficient at water dancing, the swordplay she was learning. I saw her balancing on the stairs once. She told me it was important. She kept getting scratches, from catching cats.”

“Catching cats.” Robb chuckled softly. “I assume that was important too.”

“It must’ve been, she was always running free around the castle. Tommen loved cats. He would wait for them to come to him.” Lyss fell silent. She missed Tommen. He was so different to Edric, yet they were still both her brothers.

“What happened to Theon Greyjoy?” She asked, changing the subject.

“We sent him back to the Iron Islands as an envoy. It was time for him to go back home anyway.”

“The Iron Islands won’t bother us then?”

“No.” Robb sighed. “If only the rest of Westeros were the same.”

“I sent Lord Tywin the letter this morning.” Lyss told him. “If he doesn’t reply within the week, by all means attack. It would be good to avoid more blood spilled upon our crowns. My uncle Tyrion once said the real reason the Targaryens were mad was because of the blood they saw on Aegon’s thousand blades.”

Grey Wind raised his head at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Your Graces.” Maester Vyman dipped his head briefly, before turning to Lyss. “My lady, there has been a bird.”

“From Tywin Lannister?” Lyss asked eagerly.

“No. Storm’s End. They found the traitor.”

:^O

The flames crackled. Stannis watched expressionless as they led the girl out.
She made no fuss, only prayed to the seven. Mother have mercy, she cried, Mother have mercy.

They led her up the stacked firewood and tied her to the stake. She did not cry, did not scream, did not kick. She had stopped praying for mercy. Perhaps she realised there was none left for her, except the sweet release of death.

All the notable lords, ladies, and knights had gathered around the courtyard of Storm’s End. The only sound was their muttered conversations.

Melisandre stepped forwards, holding a crackling torch. The crowd fell silent as she approached the traitor. The priestess spoke softly to the girl, who was silently defiant. Stannis could not hear what they were talking about.

Melisandre stepped back, putting the torch down onto wood. Flames spread quickly, devouring the dry wood. Stannis could feel the heat fanning his face already.

If the girl felt any pain, she did not show it. She looked around the courtyard, at the people who had come to watch her die. Her eyes locked onto Stannis’s as her plain woollen skirt caught fire. The fire climbed upward. The rope on her wrists were set ablaze.

Then she began to scream.

(:^D)_’/’

Lyss scanned through the letter as Maester Vyman left.

“No.” She whispered. She tore the letter in half, then half again, and again, until all that was left was tiny pieces.

“It was Isa.” She said, hunched over the scattered paper on the ground. “Isa betrayed me. She was my maid, my friend. They burned her.”

Lyss had trusted Isa. Lyss had loved Isa almost like a sister, Isa had been there almost every day after Baelor’s Sept. Lyss shouldn’t be so surprised. It wasn’t first time someone close to her had betrayed her.

“I taught her to read and write. I taught her, I did…”

Twice in two days bad news had come from Storm’s End.

“I am sorry for you, Lyss.” Robb said, gently placing hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t understand why.” Lyss said thickly, through suppressed sobs. “Why did she become an informer?”

Robb had no answer for her. They sat in silence, faint rustling from the treetops the only noise.

Chapter Text

Lyss had been sad about Renly. She had been sad about her father. Now anger rose, twisting and spreading like fire. She stood.

“I’m going to see Jaime.”

“I will come too.” Robb said immediately. Lyss smiled slightly. He did not have to, but she was glad he was.

Robb led the way, as Lyss had never been to the dungeons before. Grey Wind padded softly beside them.

Two guards stood outside Jaime’s cell, but opened the door when they saw who was visiting.

It was fairly pleasant inside, as benefitted a captive of such high birth. Jaime Lannister himself was sat on the hard bed. Lyss saw that he was chained to the wall.

“Lyss.” He called out hoarsely. “My dear niece. I was wondering when you would come knocking. Oh and look, you’ve brought along your new friend, the Young Wolf.”

“I have had enough of friends.” Lyss said bitterly, stepping further in. “Did you know?”

“Come now, I can’t be expected to know everything.”

“Was Isa spying for my mother, or Varys?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Jaime scratched his cheek absentmindedly. “Not one.”

Lyss glanced at Robb, then back to her uncle.

“Really, Lyss, why would I lie to you?”

“I can give many reasons.” Lyss said coldly. “Do you want me to list them?”

“I would love you to, but there’s just so much I have to do. But no.” Jaime’s tone grew serious. “I know nothing of any spy.” He laughed mirthlessly. “How could I?”

Lyss believed him. She hoped it wasn’t a mistake.

She walked with Robb, up to her room.

“What will you do with him?”

“I don’t know.” Robb sighed bitterly. “If we return Ser Jaime to Casterly Rock as long as Lord Tywin calls off his army, who’s to say they will not attack again?”

“Tyrion could try to convince him.” Lyss said, but without much conviction. She thought of something else. “When winter comes, the warring will stop. Everyone will be trying to protect their own, shedding enemy blood will not be a great concern to them. There will be a battle,” she decided, “a big one, the final push before winter settles. I want to be there for that one.”

“Lyss, you’re forgetting that Northerners thrive best in the winter.”

“I don’t.” Lyss laughed. “I prefer autumn. That’s when all the Stormlands get battered by the wind and rain coming in from the sea.”

“I got caught in a storm once, a bad one, with Jon. The rain was so hard, we could barely see. We were scared we would get hit by lighting. We saw flashes of it.”

“The autumn storms hurl the sea against cliffs and the walls at Storm’s End. They say it’s the sea god, unleashing his rage upon Durran Godsgrief and all his descendants.” Lyss shrugged. “It’s only made us hardier when they come.”

They parted ways. Lyss turned the corner and pushed her bedroom doors open.

Maester Vyman had given her a pot of ointment. She sat on her bed and rubbed it over her shoulder wound, wincing. Stinging was good though. It meant healing, and she was. Soon Lyss would throw herself into training again, to drive the darkness of the world out of her mind, if only for a few hours.

When she was finished, Lyss took her daggers out, and began to sharpen them with slow, methodical upward strokes. Running round the top of one was the message, Valar Morghulis. She flipped it over. On the other side it read, se Valar Dohaeris.

“All men must die,” Lyss translated softly, “and all men must serve.” She held the other blade up in the streaming sunlight. “But I am not a man.”

She was tolerably good at sword fighting, better at archery, but no one could rival her knife skills. Lyss knew how to slit someone’s purse without them noticing. Lyss knew how to cut someone where it barely hurt, and where to cut them where it was agony. She had never had to use that skill, and wished she never had to. Lyss could throw a dagger from afar, and bury it hilt-deep exactly where she sent it.

On and on she went, listening to the sound the Valyrian steel made on her whetstone. She liked that sound.

Something glinting in the sun caught her eye. Lyss put her dagger down and padded over. It was the silver necklace, lying on the table where she had left it. The sun had shifted, and shone down on the piece of jewellery. Lyss picked it up, dangling it in sunlight.

“Where did you come from?” She asked it. It didn’t reply, which was probably just as well, as it was a necklace.

Someone knocked on the door. Lyss put the necklace down again.

It was Edric, letter in hand. His new cloaked rippled as he strode in.

“It suits you.” Lyss said.

Edric grinned, trying not to look too pleased with himself. He passed the letter over. It was from Lord Tywin, and only one sentence long.

It is not I who should bend the knee.

“I tried.” Lyss said. She put the letter carefully on the table, beside the necklace. “I thought he would be more reasonable.” She sighed. “I sent two letters, and that’s the only response I got.”

“You are accusing his perfect golden children of incest.” Edric said drily. “I’m not surprised he’s being so curt.”

Lyss sighed, knowing she had to do something. Her mind would not let her rest until she did.

“I need to speak to Jaime Lannister again. I want to hear the truth from his lips.” She could’ve kicked herself for not asking earlier, but Isa’s betrayal weighed her mind down- it still was.

“You’re back.” Jaime looked up as he heard the door swing open. “That was quite unexpected. If I had known, I would’ve tidied myself up a bit”

“I didn’t think I would return.” Lyss said shortly. “Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. They are all yours, aren’t they.”

“Why are you asking me, if you already the answer?”

“I want to hear the truth from you.”

“Yes then. Yes. None of them have Baratheon blood. I cannot say there was not a marriage from years past, but…” Jaime trailed off. “Will you release me?”

“You are not my prisoner.” Lyss felt uncomfortable. “I know not of Robb Stark’s plans for you.”

“Put in a good word, won’t you?” Jaime chuckled. “A man gets bored down here. Being on your own, day after day, not knowing if it’s sunrise or sunset. You don’t know what it’s like, speaking only to fill the emptiness of the room. Talking to yourself, just to hear another human voice, to stop you from going mad. And,” Jaime paused, “I pray you never will.”

Lyss made her way through Riverrun’s winding passages alone. She didn’t know where she was going, just wandered aimlessly. Her shoulder throbbed, and her temper rose. Lyss ground her teeth in frustration. Ever since she had been crowned, not a wholly good day had passed.

Tyrion spoke of the ports being closed. Lyss had passed word to Stannis, telling him of the news. She didn’t think war against King’s Landing was avoidable, especially after Tywin’s declaration; and she did not want to be seen as a weak woman.

Lyss found herself in a tiny garden. Roses bloomed from the fertile soil, clambering over the stone walls. She inhaled deeply. The sweet scent filled her nostrils. Lyss already liked it here. The only noise was the Trident, gushing past.

She saw an archway on the other side of the garden, with a gate in the middle. It overlooked the river. Lyss leaned on the gate and peered down. The water was so close, if she tried hard enough Lyss was almost certain she could touch it.

Lyss sat on the grass. A gust of wind blew red petals from heavy-hanging flower heads. They tangled in her hair, and gathered in her lap.

She had found a place where no one told her bad things, or what to do; where people left her alone. It was a place where Lyss could cast off her crown and sit in the mud, where she could pretend to be no different from the other girls in the castle.

Chapter Text

Fifteen men had been sent from Riverrun, scouting ahead.

Lyss watched them leave from the walkway above the courtyard. The clouds had darkened, promising rain. Sure enough, it had begun to drizzle when they set off.

She sat in the solar to read Stannis’s letter. It had arrived last night, and Lyss had been given it only this morning. She filled goblet of wine from the flagon waiting on the table and scanned through the message.

Yes, they would send their fleet to King’s Landing. Half their strength on ship, and half to Dorne. There were thousands, he wrote. Almost certainly the largest army, he reassured her.

She wasn’t reassured. Lyss cast the letter aside, and rested her chin in her fingers. She had grown up travelling between King’s Landing and Storm’s End. If she lost against the Dornish, they would take her ancestral home. If she won against Joffrey, she knew her men would ransack the city.

Myrcella would be in Dorne now, and soon enough she would be married to a Martell in Lyss’s place. The world had turned upside down. Her enemy was her family, her allies people she had barely met, if at all.

She stared into the empty fireplace. The door creaked open. Lyss stood as Robb entered.

“What did Lord Tywin say?” He asked, closing the door behind him walked over, Grey Wind at his heels.

“He told me I should bend the knee.”

Rain drummed against the windows. A shiver went up Lyss’s spine as she remembered the song written about her grandfather.

“ And now the rains
Weep o’er his halls
With no one there to hear.” She sang in a faltering voice. “We should not have sent Stannis to Dorne. The Dornish lie low, they haven’t taken part in the war yet, not truly.” Lyss pushed Renly’s murder away. “We’ve fucked it up. We’ve fucked it all up, we’re fucked.”

“I don’t think we are.” Robb shook his head. “My men will sort out Casterly Rock, and yours Dorne and King’s Landing. We’re not fucked. Not at all.” He poured out a measure of wine. “But if we were, we’ve lived good lives. We’d be remembered as monarchs who spoke out against…” He paused, searching for the right word.

“Injustice.” Lyss took another sip of wine.

“Injustice.” Robb agreed.

She downed the rest, and set her cup carefully on the table.

“If we are fucked, there’s a story I want to tell you. About me. And my twin, Steffon.”

\ _(:{o)_/

Nine years ago, hot summer sun fell upon King’s Landing.

Back then, Lyss had spent her days in lesson with Steffon, and their best friend Tania Dondarrion. She had a crowd of maids and ladies-in-waiting.

They would often pray in Baelor’s Sept. Lyss loved the sweet smell of incense. She would link hands with Steffon and Tania and gaze at the vibrant colours as they sang to the Mother.

She liked the statues of the Seven best. They watched over them protectively. Steffon would open his eyes wide next to the emeralds of the Maiden’s, and Lyss would giggle and compare the colour.

One of her ladies, Jenna, was particularly nice. She would brush Lyss’s hair out, and sing to her. Jenna taught Lyss songs. Jenna would clean her cuts when Lyss fell over running around the Red Keep with Steffon and Tania.

Lyss remembered praying for happiness. She looked into the Mother’s face. A strange thump echoed around the room. Lyss chose not to turn, she concentrated on her prayer. Then the screaming started.

Jenna had risen. Her pale gown had something dark and red on it. In her hands were two daggers, one dripping blood. She stood over the body of one of Lyss’s maids, Salye.

Lyss clutched Steffon’s arm and watched in horror as Jenna peeled her face away. Jenna had pretty auburn hair that flowed down her back, but not anymore. This woman’s hair was close cropped, and brown. Her once blue eyes were now black. She was not the same any more. Lyss stared in silent horror.

All her maids and ladies had formed a protective wall in front of the twins. All her maids and ladies were slaughtered, in the eyes of the gods.

Tania was crouched, sobbing, next to Lyss. The woman who was not Jenna threw a glance at her, and with an overly casual flick of her wrist, she sent a knife into Tania’s heart. She stopped sobbing, and her blood flowed onto Lyss’s hands.

Lyss screamed loud. Everyone had left them, Jenna had murdered every-

The doors crashed open, and her father came charging through the doors with his sword, just in time to see not-Jenna throw her second dagger into Steffon’s chest.

:(

“I was the only one to survive.” Lyss said. “The only one. No one talked about Stef after that. No one at all. It was like he never existed. My mother closed me off, because I reminded her of him. My father made certain I knew how to fight, so something like that could never happen again. I prayed for happiness, and I got death. The gods should have stopped it, should have saved them. But they didn’t. That’s why I don’t pray.”

She realised she was crying. Robb drew her in. Lyss was grateful for the support.

“Nine years,” she whispered. “Nine years and nobody talked about what happened. Mother pretended I was never a twin. She told your father once, she had borne one trueborn child. She said nothing, nothing, about Stef.” Lyss sighed. “We found out later the woman was a Faceless Man, hired by a Targaryen loyalist. Maybe it was Viserys Targaryen himself.” She drew her daggers. “This one, killed my friend.” Ŷn daor vale iksan. “This one killed my brother.” Valar Morghulis, se Valar Dohaeris.

She sheathed them again. “I kept them because when I hold them, I… I suppose it’s strange, but I hold them feel like they’re with me. Stef and Tania, and all the women who died so that I could live a little longer.”

“That’s not all that strange.” Robb said softly. “Tell me something,” Lyss couldn’t bring herself to think about it any more. “A secret.” “I’m scared of having to pick my wife.”

“A Frey one?”

“Yes. What if we hate each other? What if I’m not good enough for her? I’ve never even kissed a girl before-“

“Never?”

Robb went slightly pink. “Never.”

Lyss leaned in and kissed him, on the lips. After a moment, Robb kissed her back. Right then, they were all that mattered. She was glad she didn’t have to think about Baelor’s Sept, even just for that one minute.

Lyss broke apart. “There. You have nothing to worry about, your wife will love you. She’ll appreciate being queen, for sure. Kiss her like that, and she’ll love you.”

“We shouldn’t have.” Robb looked ashamed.

“Why not?” Lyss smiled. “What’s a kiss between friends?”

He said nothing, but smiled. “That’s pretty,” he said, noticing her necklace. “Can I see it?”

She took it off and passed it over.

“I recognise this pattern. It’s a Geahsnaidhm*, Winter’s Knot in the Old Tongue. The wildlings carve them into the ground and into trees, every moon’s turn during winter. It’s a tradition they have, when they come back to it they’ll know how many winters they survived. When we ride deep into the Wolfswood, we see a fair few. My father taught us never to damage, or drip blood onto one. It’s bad, bad luck if you do. Old Nan had a story about it once, about a girl who was killed. She leant against a tree, and got blood over a Winter’s Knot. She was cursed. If you listen, you can hear her angry screams from Winterfell…” Robb trailed off.

“I’ll be careful then.” Lyss hooked the necklace back on.

Chapter Text

Lyss was woken by knocking. Her shoulder twinged as she sat up. It had been near three weeks, and still it wasn’t healed. Maester Vyman said it would be fully mended soon enough. But that wasn’t now.

She opened the door to see Brienne.

“Your Grace, Ser Cleos Frey has returned from King’s Landing,” she said promptly.

“Good.” Lyss said. “I will see him presently.”

“He has brought a host of near a hundred men.”

Lyss peered over the edge of her balcony and sure enough, the Lannister red cloaks were scattered around the riverbanks. She swiftly traded her nightgown for a shortened green tunic, and her black trousers.

The highborn residents of Riverrun filled the Great Hall, waiting to hear what Ser Cleos had to say. Lyss joined Ser Edmure and Lady Catelyn on the dais. It had been five days since Robb rode into Lannister territory, and the last they had heard was that they were headed for Oxcross.

Cleos Frey was shepherded in by three Tully soldiers. He knelt, and stared at the stone floor.

“Remind me of the terms King Robb sent to Joffrey’s court.” Lyss commanded. Her voice rang off the walls. “I was not here when they were made.”

Ser Cleos licked his lips nervously. “He asked for the Lannister court to accept him as the only sovereign over the North, the release of his sisters, the remains of Lord Eddard and all his men who perished, and Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark.”

“And what did my sweet brother say to that?”

“His Gra… Joffrey and his council give their terms. They decree Robb Stark can have his sisters, and Ice, but he must lay down his sword, swear fealty to King Joffrey, and return to Winterfell. He must also free Jaime Lannister, have him returned unharmed, and set the armies of Winterfell and Riverrun under Ser Jaime's command, to march against… well, you, Your Grace.”

“I do not see how that would work,” Lyss said drily, “seeing as I am in his castle- as a guest and an ally.”

“These terms were made before your alliance.” Ser Cleos licked his lips again before continuing. “Each of Robb Stark's bannermen must send a son as hostage. A daughter will suffice where there is no son. They shall be treated gently and given high places court, so long as their fathers commit no new treasons. The bones of Lord Eddard Stark shall be sent soon enough. When we left, the silent sisters were preparing them.”

Far to Lyss’s right, she saw Lady Catelyn bow her head.

“Give the Lannisters outside a day or two of respite before the ride back,” Ser Edmure said to Lyss in hushed tones. She nodded.

“Escort Ser Cleos back to his cell. The men who rode here with him will return to King’s Landing upon the morrow.”

The crowd dispersed. Lyss went back upstairs. She knew the solar would be empty, but her room was more private. She wanted to write to Myrcella.

Lyss sat at her table a while, her quill hovering over the paper. After what seemed like an eternity she scrawled enough words to make a letter, and set it aside to take to the maester’s tower.

Outside, the sun was warm, but a bitter wind blew at Lyss’s hair as she stepped back onto her balcony. She had strung in hair rings and woven her dark tresses into a plait. These rings were different to her old ones, gathering dust in a draw at King’s Landing.

Retreating back into her room, Lyss drew her gold-and-black cloak around her shoulders. She picked up her letter, and went to Maester Vyman.

Lyss watched silently as he tied her message to a carrier raven. It flew off, cawing, the blusters not interfering its steady path.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. No birds from Robb, Tyrion, or Stannis came.

A sickle moon hid behind clouds that night. Lyss was brushing her hair, more than ready for bed.

Shouting, and the whinnies of horses drifted up to her. Lyss was going to see what was wrong when again knocking disturbed her. She was glad she hadn’t dressed in her nightclothes yet. Ser Loras was waiting outside, somewhat impatiently.

“My queen, apologies for bothering you at this hour. The Kingslayer has escaped.” He said bluntly.

“What?” Lyss paused to regather her thoughts. “How?”

“Lannister men, a mummer, a murder and a thief. The murder killed Ser Jaime’s guards, the thief picked the lock, and the mummer impersonated Ser Edmure’s voice.”

Lyss dashed to her balcony for the third time that day. The Lannister honour guard had moved quickly. The riverbanks were deserted, the only sign that people had been there was muddied ground.

She only stopped to put shoes on. They hurried through the winding corridors, back to the Great Hall. Lyss spied Edmure Tully, and made a beeline for him.

“Your Grace.” He said. “We are going to send out a party on horseback and a party by boat. The boatmen will be leaving any minute now.”

Lyss nodded. She circled her left shoulder, and felt immense satisfaction when there was less pain than before.

“Ser Loras will lead the horsemen,” she said. “I have not seen a finer rider. I shall also send Brienne, as I know she grows restless. Regrettably, I can spare only a few more men; most of them rode back to Storm’s End with Lord Stannis.”

“That is quite alright, Your Grace. We have enough swords to spare.”

For now, Lyss thought ominously.

She found Edric standing in the courtyard with Brienne, and two other Stormlanders. The cold air brushed against Lyss, but she did not shiver.

“Ser Brienne, I am trusting you with second-in-command in the hunt for Ser Jaime.”

“Your Grace, I am honoured.”

It was not the first time Lyss had heard those words, and she suspected it would not be the last, either. Loras had trailed behind her, and she turned to him too now.

“Leave your Queensguard cloaks here. Ser Loras, you did that a few weeks ago, and it saved your life. If the Mountain had seen it, you would have been killed instantly. I don’t wish for any of you to be endangered for wearing my colours.”

They both nodded.

“Ser Edmure is putting together a band of riders as we speak. You shall ride out within the hour, under the command of you, Ser Loras.”

He nodded again, and this time smiled faintly. That was the first time Lyss had seen him smile since they arrived at Riverrun.

“I will be waiting for you.”
Left behind as always,she added silent and sullenly. The moon broke free of the clouds, and for a second they were illuminated in the silvery light.

And then it hid away again, shy as the Maiden.

Chapter Text

Lyss was breaking her fast with Lady Catelyn when they received word from Robb. He had won a victory at Oxcross.

“Lord Tywin moves across to Riverrun,” Catelyn recited from the letter in her hand. “Lord Roose has marched on Harrenhal.”

“He’ll take the castle.” Lyss said dismissively. “My grandfather does not believe in half measures. His whole force will fall on Riverrun. Besides, if Tywin plans on returning to King’s Landing, he won’t have any further use of Harrenhal.”

“If that’s so, we will have to brace against attack.” Lady Catelyn said grimly.

The news spread like wildfire. Lyss passed by the well with Edric, and heard nothing of the usual gossips between the women gathered; only the imminent presence of Tywin Lannister. Edric rested his hand on his sword.

“Do you think the river will protect us?” He asked lightly.

Lyss shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know that much about rivers.”

“Maybe a particularly strong current will save our lives.”

Lyss shrugged again. After a moment she said, “If I fight House Lannister’s men, but don’t kill any of my family, would still I be a kinslayer?”

“Not technically.” Edric considered. “It’s a fine line I suppose.”

Lyss could tell he didn’t have a clue.
“I don’t want to kill those men. Most of them just want to live out their lives. It’s not their fault they were born near Casterly Rock. If they were from, say, Highgarden they would be fighting for me. I mean,” Lyss tucked a stray lock of her behind her ear, “give me the people like the Mountain and his men, who slew four of our number for no good reason, and I would not hesitate to put an arrow between their eyes. But the innocents? A whole different matter.”

Edric contemplated her case before answering. “You swore to take the Iron Throne. Their blood isn’t on your hands, it’s on Joffrey’s, and Cersei’s, and Tywin Lannister’s for holding onto a lie.”

Lyss wasn’t convinced, but nodded all the same. A gust of wind blew fire-coloured leaves into the courtyard. They crunched underfoot as the people went about their day.

They were almost at the other end of the courtyard when they portcullis was raised with a clanging. Ser Edmure, and two other knights rode through. A huge horde of people followed. They had dirty, ragged clothing and a hungry look in their eyes.

“Ser Edmure!” Lyss called out. He turned, and rode in her direction. “Who are these people?”

“They are my smallfolk.” Edmure replied. “Tywin Lannister marches this way. Their villages aren’t protected, and they would be killed if not for the protection we can provide.”

“Yes.” Lyss said. “I understand.”

She and Edric watched for a time as they set up camp in the now bustling courtyard before moving on. They reached the battlements. She saw Edric say something, but could not hear over the savage wind. It whipped Lyss’s plait from her shoulder, and sent her stray hairs flying.

“Look past the treeline!”

Lyss heard that time, and looked. Far, far, far on the horizon she could just make out a speck of sunlight flashing, on metal.

The Lannister force was near.

🍃🍃🍃

A letter had come for Myrcella.

She had been playing a game of cyvasse against Princess Arianne, and losing badly.

“You are getting better.” Arianne said encouragingly as Myrcella broke the seal. Golden it shone, with a stag imprinted proudly into the wax. She guessed who it was from.

Dear Myrcella

My sweet sister. The days seem darker in your absence. I miss you. I love you. I would never hurt you. I would sooner die. I left without saying goodbye, without saying that I love you. I wish we could be together. How is Dorne treating you? Is it still hot, even through the autumn months? I can picture you, sat with the silk veils to keep the sun off your face, besting Prince Trystane in lesson. I love you. Know that. Never forget it.

Lyss

“She doesn’t love me.” Myrcella said quietly. “She doesn’t love me at all. She hates me. She calls me a bastard. She’s fighting against Grandfather, and Mother, and your father. Robb Stark has Uncle Jaime in his dungeon. If she loves me, she would let him be free and stop the war.”

Myrcella crumpled the letter. “She’s run off to start her new life and left me behind.”

“If she had, then why has she written you a letter?” Arianne asked consolingly, smoothing the paper out and reading through it. “Quentyn has never sent me a message from Yronwood.”

“You’re not at war with him.” Myrcella stood. “Please excuse me.”

She left, her skirts swishing down the corridor. It was cool in the shade, where the sun had not yet touched stone. Lyss did not miss her. She had other things to think about. Myrcella crossed her arms and clutched at her elbows as she drifted down the hall.

She didn’t know whose side she was on. Her brother’s or her sister’s. Joffrey had never been nice to her, or even to Tommen. He hadn’t left her though. He hadn’t sent her here, that was Uncle Tyrion.

Myrcella had hated it in Sunspear at first. The heat and the dissimilarity of it all wore her down. She had been told to throw a veil over her face if the sun was shining bright. She had never had to do that before. Myrcella had finally settled in, grown accustomed to the Dornish way of life, but it wasn’t her home. It would never be, not like King’s Landing was.

What confused her the most was how the Dornish did not support Lyss’s claim. Prince Doran had told her it was because she had dared assume Dorne would still be on her side after naming her Lannister kin traitor. Myrcella did not have the courage to argue that his daughter would one day rule Dorne. In their eyes, Lyss was the first in line anyway, even without saying that…that…

She found herself blinking twice as fast. It still stung, what Lyss had said about Myrcella’s parentage. Her feelings for her sister ebbed, sometimes love, more days hatred.

Myrcella would pay attention, observe everything that happened in the castle. She would wait, wait until she was wiser and people stopped answering her with more questions.

🍂🍂🍂

Ser Edmure’s host had left two hours ago. Lyss, sick of waiting, had found a sword and taken it to the tiny rose garden, and began to sharpen it.

Soon, she would be able to properly wield one again. Despite it being her least favoured weapon, Lyss knew it was also the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

Keeping her left shoulder stiff, Lyss stood. She cut at the air. Her blows were clumsy, and her shoulder put her off balance.

Lyss sat back down, and continued sharpening it. She heard the faint catches of a song being played.

“And there he stood with sword in hand
The last of Darry’s ten
And red the grass beneath his feet
And red his banners bright
And red the glow of the setting sun
That bathed him in its light
‘Come one, come on,’ the great lord called,
‘My sword is hungry still.’
And with a cry of savage rage
They swarmed across the rill.”

Lyss recognised it, the Bloody Meadow. She wondered if the singer had waited until now, as the sun had started to set, flooding the sky with red.

“Red dawn before war, only crows will caw.” She said, reciting a rhyme she had learned as a child. Maybe the river would protect them. And if it didn’t, Lyss had sharpened her knives.

Chapter Text

The singing had been replaced by shouting. Lyss sprang up again. She hastily made her way up into the castle, leaving her sword under the roses.

Lyss came across a pair of women, who bobbed curtsies as she approached.

“What is happening?”

“Lannisters, Your Grace.” One of them said. “They sent someone out to find you.”

“They didn’t do a good job.” Lyss said. She marched towards the courtyard, making her way through the families who had settled there for protection.

A group of children swatted at each other with sticks. A small dark haired boy struck another on the shoulder, who promptly started howling.

“Death to the Lannisters!” She heard the child cry out.

Up the winding stairs, across the hall, up some more stairs, and Lyss was on the battlements. Like always, Edric was waiting for her.

“We sent someone out to find you,” he said. “But you didn’t come.”

“I heard.” Lyss replied. She went to the edge, and leaned over the stone wall. There were two banners, the golden Lannister lion, and beneath that the purple unicorn of House Brax fluttered in the wind.

She saw Lady Catelyn striding towards them. Her skirts twisted in the wind, and strands of auburn hair were flicked away from her face.

“Your Grace.” She smiled courteously, then peered over the edge.
“The unicorn of House Brax.” Lady Catelyn’s smile turned wistful. “The lord came here once, hoping to wed one of his sons to my sister or I. If things had gone differently, I might be wedded to the man at our gates.”

Riverrun’s master-at-arms, Ser Desmond Grell approached.

“They are a few outriders, nothing more.” He said reassuringly. Lyss wasn’t quite sure who to. “The main strength of Lord Tywin’s host is well to the south. We are in no danger here.”

Their attackers spread themselves out along the riverbank. They made a gallant sight, with the sunset flashing off their armour and banners streaming in the chilly air. A horn blasted a long note. It spread across the land, and the horses charged into the water.

Lyss watched, expressionless, as they drew nearer and nearer. Then a banner vanished, as its bearer was swept away. He reappeared not a minute past, floating past the castle, dead as the Targaryen dragons.

The Lannister line slowed in confusion. They reformed, conferred briefly, and then galloped away from Riverrun.

Lyss smiled and Edric cheered along with the other men lining the walls.

“Would that Lord Hoster could have seen that.” Ser Desmond addressed Lady Catelyn cheerfully. “It would have made him dance.”

“My father’s dancing days are over.” She sounded sad, then she drew herself up again. “This fight has just begun. They will come again, and Lord Tywin has twice Edmure’s number.”

Lyss walked around the battlements, with Edric in tow. She could not see anymore hosts on the horizon.

“I don’t think they’re gone,” she told Edric as they descended the winding steps. “They’ll come back.”

That did not stop the smallfolk from celebrating the small victory. Music started as they reached the courtyard. Lyss recognised the tune, The Seasons of My Love. People had started dancing.

“I loved a maid as fair as summer!” A young woman sang into the night. “With sunlight in her hair! If she’d love a simple singer, I’d give her cloth of gold to wear!”

“Come on,” she tugged Edric with her. “Let’s have one moment where we don’t have to worry about the war.”

They danced together. Lyss saw the tension fall away from her brother as they spun, and clapped and leaped the dances alongside strangers.

The dancing moved her away from Edric, to the smallfolk of the riverlands. The tune changed. The woman cried new words.

“A bear, a bear, there was a BEAR!
All black and brown and covered with HAIR!”

Lyss was spun by an old man, lifted in the air by a Tully knight, and then spun again by a girl with golden hair who was only a few years older than her.

She was too caught up in the dance to think about anything. For one minute, Lyss did not care about the Iron Throne.

Breathlessly, she left before she could get caught up in another song. Someone handed her a skin of wine, and Lyss sipped from it as she watched the people revel.

Edric emerged from the crowd. Lyss passed him the skin, and they leant against the wall together.

”That was nice,” he said, handing the skin back.

“Look.” Lyss gestured her head up to where Lady Catelyn was standing on the wall running around the courtyard. “She doesn’t dance.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.” Edric said thoughtfully. “A proper smile, one that reaches her eyes.”

Lyss hadn’t either. People started lighting torches as the darkness spread, and the flickering fire cast a glow over the dancers.

She hoped Loras and Brienne were doing well. They had no ravens, and could not send a message by bird. Hopefully they would found Jaime before he reached King’s Landing, or even Tywin’s army.

A shout went up, over the music.

“Lannisters! Lannisters, across the water!”

Lyss followed Edric up the stairs, back to the battlements. Sure enough, she could make out horses in the faint moonlight. Perhaps they had thought the darkness to be a cloak of invisibility, but they were wrong.

This time they were not mounted and instead waded across. In the dark, the Lannister soldiers could not see the slippy rocks and hidden pools.

Lyss heard a command, and a stream of fire arrows swept across the sky. They were fallen stars flying across the river. She was irritated that she hadn’t got a bow, though Lyss did not know how well she would be able to use it. Soon she would be able to; Maester Vyman swore Lyss was almost healed.

She saw one man pierced a dozen times. His clothes were flaming, yet he danced and whirled through the water until he finally fell, and was swept downstream. Lyss spotted him bobbing past, the fires extinguished.

Not long after, the fighting ended. The surviving foemen disappeared back into the night. Lyss heard the music starting again. She was tired, and went to bed instead of resuming the merriment.

Chapter Text

The arrow flew straight, hitting its mark. Lyss smiled triumphantly. Her archery skills hadn’t faded. She shot two more before handing the bow to Edric.

“Seventh hell, it feels good to do this again.” Lyss rolled her shoulder and felt a glow of satisfaction when there was barely any pain.

She touched Edric’s elbow slightly to the left. He released the string, and his arrow sailed, landing neatly beside the bullseye.

“I can’t seem to get better than that.” Edric leant the bow and empty quiver against the wall. They were in a small enclosure adjoining the main courtyard, which was still packed full of people.

He picked up a sword and looked at Lyss. She glanced longingly at the arrows embedded into the target, before picking up her sword. When Lyss had gone back to the garden to retrieve it, a cluster of rose petals had blown onto the blade. It had looked eerily like blood.

Edric was better than Lyss, but then he had practised. She swung at him, remembering all Jaime had taught her, yet she could not best him.

Lyss managed to disarm Edric once. She grinned, wildly pleased with herself, until he paid her back in kind by rapping her knuckles. Lyss almost dropped her sword, but kept a grip on it.

“Again.”

“Again?”

“I need to get better.” Lyss said stubbornly.

Edric rested back into stance, waiting for her to attack first. She did, whirling her blade through the air. This time she twisted and turned away from her brother’s blows, remembering how Ser Loras fought.

Lyss hadn’t lasted as long as she did now. Filled anew with adrenaline, she parried Edric’s blows with more enthusiasm. It was not to be, as he made a complicated turn with his wrist, that sent her sword spinning away. Lyss was irritated, as she had been doing well. She didn’t want to lose this one, after all the matches she had lost before.

Edric had lowered his sword, thinking their fight to be over. Lyss hooked her ankle round his leg and sent him to the floor. The look of surprise on his face made her cackle; she didn’t notice Edric inching his foot towards her until she joined him on the ground.

Lyss rolled over and pinned Edric’s arm to the ground. He twisted it so that she was jerked onto her back. Lyss swung her blue-trousered leg up and lifted herself up, wrenching her arm free. She perched on Edric’s chest. He started rolling, and Lyss was displaced back onto the dusty ground.

“It’s almost like we’re back in Storm’s End again, long before the war started.” She lay on the floor, Edric beside her.

Almost. There had been three of them before, four if Renly joined in their play.

Over the hubbub from the main courtyard, Lyss heard footsteps approaching. She sat up as the steward entered.

“Your Grace.” He inclined his head. “Lady Catelyn tells me she has a letter from Ser Edmure, and thought you should like to read it.”

“I would.” Lyss stood, pulling Edric up alongside her. In a futile attempt to get rid of the dust and dirt coating her, she combed through her hair and brushed down her clothes. “Thank you, Jackse.”

“You’ve missed a bit.” Edric pointed at her hair as they walked through the courtyard.

“Yes, thank you Edric.” Lyss shook her plait out, then smoothed it down again. “There. It’s gone now.”

“Actually-“

“Your hair isn’t spotless either.”

“I’m not the queen.” Edric grinned, as Lyss ran a hand through her hair again.

Lady Catelyn was waiting in the solar. She inclined her head when she saw them. She must have noticed their untidy appearance, but chose to say nothing about it, and passed the letter over.

Edric peered over her shoulder as she scanned through the words.

Lord Tywin had tried to force a crossing at a dozen different fords, but at every thrust he had been thrown back. Lord Lefford had drowned, a Crakehall knight called Strongboar taken captive, Ser Addam Marbrand thrice forced to retreat...but the fiercest battle had been fought at Stone Mill, where Ser Gregor Clegane had led the assault. So many of his men had fallen that their dead horses threatened to dam the river. In the end the Mountain and a handful of his best had gained the west bank, but Edmure had thrown his reserve at them, and they had shattered, reeling away bloody and beaten. Ser Gregor himself had lost his horse and staggered back across the Red Fork bleeding from a dozen wounds while a rain of arrows and stones fell all around him.

“They shall not cross,” Lyss read out jubilantly. “Lord Tywin is marching to the southeast. A feint perhaps, or a full retreat, it does not matter. They shall not cross.” She rolled the paper up. “The victory at Stone Mill. I am sure someone will make a fine song of it.”

The word spread like the emerald wildfire Targaryens of old used. Three nights ago the castle had danced, and now it sang to the sounds of celebration.

“Tully!” The smallfolk cried. “Tully, Tully, Riverrun, Tully!”

The sounds of their elation floated through the castle. The resident singer, Rymund the Rhymer, played his harp. He was accompanied by a pair of drummers, and a youth with a set of pipes.

Laughter echoed through the hallways, accompanied by excited chatter. Their joy latched onto Lyss, and she found she could not stop smiling.

She washed and brushed her hair. Lyss wore her clean black trousers, and a black-and-gold bodice. She hung her Baratheon cloak around her shoulders. Lyss had been to the armoury a few days past, and had a belt of knives. She strapped it round her waist, and left her room.

Instead of joining the throng of people, Lyss went to the peace of the godswood. She went far in, someplace where hopefully no one would bother her.

Lyss found a smallish tree and stood with one hand on it. For a moment, there was only birdsong and distant noises from the castle. Then she began to sing the tune of the Knife’s Edge Dance.

She had been taught this dance many moons ago, along with the stealth and knife skills she now possessed, through years of practise. She had been told it was an ancient battle technique.

It started quick, and only increased in pace. Lyss circled the tree. She went faster and faster round it and further away, until she left it, spinning off. Lyss deftly flicked a knife at the tree.

She fluidly filled her hands with the next two, and cartwheeled across the damp earth, kicking at non-existent opponents. As she rose, Lyss circled her arms gracefully and threw her knives at the tree.

The rest of the dance was much the same, spinning and somersaulting. Lyss ended where she had started, with her hand on the tree. All her knives were buried deep in its trunk.

Lyss pulled them all out, and carefully slid them back into the belt at her waist.

The birds and far-off cheering had seemed to stop making their noises, but now they came back, filling the calm air. Lyss swirled her cloak back on, and went to join in the merriment.

Chapter Text

Lyss’s spirits had not been so high for months. Ser Edmure had won a fine victory, while Stannis was sailing to King’s Landing, and Lord Mace was leading the march into Dorne. Word had come that morning of another victory, one from the Crag. Robb had stormed the castle and taken it in the night. He added on the end of his letter that he would return soon.

Lyss had been to the Crag once. It was a small castle on the edge of the Westerlands. She only remembered there had been two daughters placed in her company. They had stayed for less than a week.

The sun was well in the sky by the time Lyss made her way through the courtyard to the space where she trained with Edric, who wasn’t there yet.

She propped her sword against the wall, and dragged the target out from the corner. Lyss stood in the middle ground and made a line in the dusty ground with her heel. She took out her daggers, and threw one at the target. It hit the bullseye. Lyss smiled faintly before going over to retrieve it.

She went to her line, took a step backwards, and sent her other knife into the target. Lyss repeated this process until Edric arrived. She put her daggers away, and fetched her sword.

“I’m lasting longer than I was when I started.” Lyss noted. She rolled her shoulder.

“You are.” Edric agreed. “We have similar techniques as well.”

Lyss scoffed. “No we don’t. Your movements are far more superior.”

“Not like that, you lackwit. I mean we both tend to charge into the enemy with all our strength.”

“Maybe we should find a war hammer, and fight like Father did.” Lyss shrugged. “I suppose it’s pretty simple, you just swung it round. I actually think it would suit you.”

“I’d rather keep my sword, if it’s all the same with you.” Edric picked his up again. Lyss followed suite. She found she moved her sword more swiftly and smoothly than before.

Lyss felt triumph rise through her, tingling her fingers. She went faster, executing the complex tactics she hadn’t been able to. Edric’s face hardened into pure concentration. He almost threw the sword from her hand, but Lyss managed to keep a hold of it. She pressed her attack relentlessly, parrying all Edric’s blows.

Once, she caught him off balance. Lyss recognised her opportunity, and pushed the flat of her blade across his chest. Edric stumbled, and almost fell.

That only happened once. The rest of the time it was Lyss fighting to regain her balance.

An hour later she lay in the bath. Lyss kept herself completely submerged, and stayed as still as possible. Her hair rose in a midnight cloud around her head, floating over her face. Lyss kept her eyes closed. It was peaceful underwater. Her lungs burned, but the quiet was soothing. Lyss waited a moment longer, what for she could not say.

She rose above the surface. A crow cawed outside.

Lyss dried herself off. She squeezed her hair and a small torrent of water flowed back into the bathtub. She found a woollen dress in her drawer. It resembled one she wore a thousand years ago.

The sun was hanging low as Lyss stepped barefoot onto the balcony. She could see the forest, surrounded by open fields. The Trident flowed past. Lyss would never have guessed the river was filled with death. It was beautiful, its clear waters never stopping.

She went back inside, slipping dainty red shoes on. It was strangely comforting to wear a highborn lady’s clothes. Lyss wanted to look nice for Lady Catelyn. She was going to visit, as she had not seen her since supper two days ago.

Her slippers whisked silently over the bare stone. Lyss was reminded bitterly of Varys, and in turn Isa’s betrayal.

She knocked on the door of Lord Hoster’s sickroom. Lady Catelyn opened it after a moment of pause. She was in a bad way. Her auburn hair hung loose and unkempt around her wan face. She stepped back to allow Lyss in.

“My lady, are you alright?”

“My sons are dead.” Catelyn whispered shakily. “Dead. It was Theon Greyjoy. He took Winterfell and now my sons are dead. I will never again be happy, knowing my sons are dead, murdered by my husband’s own ward.”

Lyss had no words. She vaguely remembered Theon Greyjoy from visiting Winterfell, all those moons ago. He had smiled a lot. Lyss wondered if he smiled over the corpses of Bran and Rickon Stark. Lady Catelyn brought her palms forwards, into the light, showing her scars. Lyss had noticed them, yet had never asked how she got them.

“They sent a man to cut my Bran’s throat, as he lay helpless and sleeping.” Her voice grew stronger as she talked. “He would have died then, and me with him, but Bran’s direwolf, Summer, tore out the man’s throat. I suppose Theon killed them. He must have done, I was certain my sons would be safe as long as they had their wolves. Like Robb and Grey Wind. But my daughters…my daughters have no wolves now.”

“They will be safe,” Lyss said reassuringly. “Sansa is with my uncle Tyrion. Lord Stannis is sailing to King’s Landing as we speak, ready to wage war upon my usurper brother. If my men take the city, Sansa will be liberated. If they fail, Joffrey will see it fit to reopen the ports and gates, and Tyrion will devise a way to send her to you. And Arya…I did not spend much time with Arya, but I know she is a survivor. I know she is strong enough. She is fierce, and wild, and that is a good thing.”

“Arya was always a trial.” Lady Catelyn admitted. Fondness crept into her voice. “Ned’s visitors would often mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the castle unannounced. Forbid her anything, and it became her heart’s desire. But Sansa, was so different, she was the perfect daughter. She acted the lady at three years, and listened raptly to tales of gallant knights and fair maidens.”

“Myrcella was always like that,” Lyss said sadly. “I miss her. I wish things weren’t the way they are. That is all I want, to cast aside my crown, and let a trueborn brother take it up. For everyone to live. I want my family back.”

Lyss knew she sounded childish. She knew wishing wouldn’t bring her father back, or Renly. Stef would never again wake her early so they could watch the sunrise together. It would not make Cersei a better, loving mother.

“People will think you weak because you are a woman.” Catelyn took Lyss’s hands. “But do not let that stop you. Never let it stop you.”

Lyss raised her eyes, and looked straight into Catelyn’s.

“Never,” she promised.

Chapter Text

Lyss fought against the blows. They rained down on her, but she pushed them away. Metal scraped against metal as Lyss put all her strength into her sword.

They were stood, locked together until Edric overcame her. Her blade was forced from her hand. Lyss was tired. They had been drilling all morning.

“We can stop,” Edric said. She could tell he was weary too.

“No.” Lyss said. She picked up her sword.

⚔️ ⚔️⚔️

“My lord! King’s Landing has been sighted!”

Stannis strode down the deck. Salt air whipped his cloak back and bit his cheeks.

“The scouting boats saw King’s Landing.” Ser Davos informed him, matching his pace. “Not a day’s sail away.”

“Good.” Stannis said brusquely, then softened his tone. “I believe we will win this one, old friend, but will be my last battle. Lady Melisandre saw it in the flames.”

He saw Davos stiffen. “My lord, you should not put your faith in magic tricks.”

“She has been correct before,” Stannis glanced across the empty water. Far on the horizon he could see land, crawling ever closer. “Melisandre foretold two crowns, sat in blood. One was black and gold, the other red and gold.”

“What did the lady say this time?” Davos masked his scepticism well.

“The night before we left for Riverrun, she warned me of a blood soaked cloak floating on the water. She saw me, alone with my ghosts, indistinguishable figures in the Baratheon colours. Melisandre saw the vision again, in the traitor’s fire.”

“My lord, ghosts don’t exist.” Davos put his hand on the ship’s railing. “But aye, a fearsome ghost you would make.”

The shadow of a smile played at Stannis’s lips. “I would not hesitate to die for my queen.”

“Alyssea is a strong ruler, even more so when her throne is secured. People look up to her. Some don’t show it, but they do.”

“Aye.” Stannis nodded in agreement. “Some of our number have openly complained about a woman leading them, yet last night I overheard them say she will be her father come again.”

The cliffs stretched further upwards.

“The fight is almost upon us.” Davos said solemnly.

“Let it come.” Stannis said. “We are ready.” He put a hand to the sword strapped at his hip.

🚣🏻🚣🏿🚣🏾

Garlan Tyrell cursed the heat. He was boiling under the weight of his armour. His horse plodded slowly through the desert.

Yes, they had won, but it had been a bloody battle. Over half of their army had been slaughtered. They had left them unburied, their blood mingling with the sand.

He saw his father, at the head of their ragged group. Mace Tyrell had survived, but barely spoke a word since combat. Garlan had never seen him so silent and miserable.

They were going back to Highgarden to recover, and send word to Queen Alyssea. They would ask for more men, Garlan knew. Some able fighters had stayed to guard the Reach, but the rest were green boys and old men.

The only half-cheerful person was the singer, Marq Flowers, who styled himself as Marq the Music Bringer. He plucked at his lute as he concocted a song of their battle.

“And then sun shone bright and golden!
Bright colours from the rose was stolen
The Dornish had the spear and lance
The Dornish did not stand a chance.”

Garlan prayed for him to stop. The song was horrendous, and along with the heat had started to drive him mad.

“The Crimson Sand, I’m going to call it,” Marq announced to no one in particular. “I shall sing it to the queen, and when she hears it, she will leap to her feet and start dancing.”

Garlan was fairly certain she would not.
A wind started up, blowing sand into his eyes. Garlan blinked rapidly, longing for the scarves and veils Dornish people used. The gods had heard his prayer, and Marq fell silent, most likely to avoid sand getting into his mouth.

They struggled on in dead silence. The wind stopped, and the sand settled.

Garlan saw a rocky outcrop in the distance. His father had seen it too, as he called in a cracked voice,

“We make camp there.”

The hot sand slowly turned to ice as the sun set and the day cooled. Garlan shivered under his cloak. They were vulnerable, so very vulnerable. Even Marq sensed this, and sat subdued against a shelf of rock.

Highgarden was two, perhaps three, days away. Garlan was on edge. If the Dornish came across them now, it would mean almost certain death. He picked up his sword and began to sharpen it.

🌞🌞🌞

Loras spurred his horse on. They were headed for Harrenhal, the closest castle. It had been taken recently by Lord Bolton.

Brienne was at his side, silent as ever. Loras steered his horse round the trees, following the freshly made hoof prints in the soft earth.

It had started to grow dark. Already the shadows played tricks with Loras’s eyes, yet he did not call for a torch. There was near a hundred Lannister swords somewhere in this forest, and to risk fire would be akin to risking their lives.

He picked his way carefully through the uneven ground. Before long the woods had grown dark as death.

“My lord, do we make camp for the night?”

Loras turned to see who had called out, but it was futile. He could barely make out Brienne beside him, and saw the sense in stopping.

“Yes,” he replied, raising his voice. Not too loud though. Never too loud. Loras led them to a small clearing.

“It would be safe to have a fire.” Brienne spoke softly, for the second time that day. “If we can’t see any Lannister fires, they won’t be able to see ours.”

He had to admit she was right. Ser Ethyn, a knight sworn to Storm’s End, had a bundle of kindling strapped to his saddle. Loras was relieved, as it saved them the task of finding firewood in the dark.

They lit the fire first, and in the dim light set their camp. Loras sat on first watch while everyone filtered into the small tents.

Not that he could watch anything. It was a cloudy night, and would have been dark even if there wasn’t a thick canopy leaves. They would start to fall soon. Loras had to find the Kingslayer before that, otherwise the autumn leaves would cover his tracks.

An owl hooted softly on the distance. Loras tapped his foot impatiently on the ground. He was frozen half to death; the fire was too small and too far away to provide much warmth.

And then he heard something too large to be a mouse or hedgehog. Loras stopped jiggling his foot and stayed still as water.

Footfall, he was certain of it. They were almost silent. Someone knew they were here. Loras drew his sword.

🦔 🦔🦔

Tyrion waited for war. It was to be a battle he did not wish to fight, yet fight he must. He was Lyss’s eyes after all. She needed Tyrion to watch his sweet sister and her noble son. He had always loved his family.

He strolled down the hallway, humming a tune. For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm.

Lord Stannis’s warships had been spotted advancing towards King’s Landing. Tyrion smiled mirthlessly at his position. Here he was, days away from attacking the men loyal to the cause he believed to be the right one.

Podrick Payne was waiting anxiously in his chamber. Pod seemed always to be nervous about something, but Tyrion sensed this time something was different.

“Well?”

Podrick jumped slightly and stared directly at the floor.

“There’s been a bird, a raven, a message, from Dorne, from Sunspear-“

“What did it say?” The words came out harsher than he meant them to. Podrick flinched.

“The roses, the Tyrells I mean, the Tyrells have defeated the Dornish in battle.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Thank you, Podrick. You may go now.”

Podrick stumbled out of the room. Tyrion sat down, and poured himself glass of wine. He raised it in a silent toast to Queen Alyssea.

Chapter Text

Lyss had received a letter from Highgarden. It told a tale of a victory in Dorne.

They were defeated, Lord Mace had written, but not yet broken. If Lyss sent a few hundred men (or preferably more) they could overcome the Martells, and be rid of the threat they posed.

She found all the four Storm’s End knights -Petyr, Alfrid, Willem, and Kaden- that had been left to her in the Small Hall, breaking their fast. Edric was there too. Riverrun had grown quiet, as all the smallfolk had returned to their homes. Lyss missed them, just a little bit. Since Robb had taken most of the northern lords to war in the west, they had filled the castle and made it feel less melancholy. Ser Edmure had returned with his men, yet Riverrun was large and still fairly empty.

Lyss strode into the hall to join them. They made to stand, until she gestured for them to sit. “Your Grace,” was echoed round the room.

“There has been good news,” she said, passing the letter over. “Lord Tyrell has won us a victory.”

“Where the fuck are we going to find a few hundred men from?” Willem asked, scanning through. Kaden peered over his shoulder.

“Says he wants even more, if possible.”

“A few hundred good swords would be a welcome sight,” Lyss said. “The war is far from over, and we have all suffered heavy losses.”

Willem gave the letter back, and she tucked it into her belt. Lyss sat, and tore at a piece of bread. She had just finished it when the door was flung open. The steward, Jackse, came in.

“Your Grace, King Robb has returned from war. He requests your presence in the solar.”

The Small Hall was the other side of Riverrun from the courtyard, but Lyss was still surprised they had not heard Robb’s arrival. She left, brushing herself down.

Lyss had assumed today to be a regular one, and had worn her old blue trousers and a green tunic. She did not think it would matter; no one had cared when Lyss did not don finery, like other southern ladies.

She met with Lady Catelyn on the way up. Catelyn still had a hollow look in her eyes, though she smiled faintly.

“Your Grace.”

“Please, use Lyss. There is no need for proprieties between us.”

Lyss grasped the handle and turned it, pushing the solar door open. Robb stood with two men, two women, and two children she did not recognise. Six strangers watched in silence as she approached, alongside Lady Catelyn.

“My lord.” Lyss bent her head in the conventional way to Robb, who mirrored her actions. If there were not other people in the room, they would not be as formal.
“Please, do the honour of introductions. I do not believe we met before.”

“We have, Your Grace,” the older of the women said. She had pale brown skin, and dark hair. Her look was one from Essos. “Though I do not believe you would remember me.”

“This is Lady Sybell Westerling, the wife to Lord Gawen Westerling of the Crag.”

Lyss painted on a smile as Lady Sybell curtsied.

“Ser Rolph Spicer, Lady Sybell’s brother. He was castellan of the Crag when we took it.”

Ser Rolph bowed stiffly, and Robb moved onto the next person.

“These are Lady Sybell’s children. Ser Reynald Westerling, firstborn and heir to the Crag.” Ser Raynald smiled as he bowed. Something about him reminded Lyss of Ser Loras. He had been a good man, and almost unbeatable at swordplay. She hoped he and Brienne succeeded in bringing back Jaime Lannister.

“This is Eleyna Westerling, Lady Sybell’s second daughter.”

Eleyna bobbed a curtesy.

“Her youngest, Rollam Westerling. I have made him my squire.”

Rollam started to kneel, and saw no one else was kneeling. He straightened, slightly red-faced and bowed instead.

Lyss wondered how Robb had won House Westerling’s allegiance. Her grandfather did not suffer betrayals gently. Just one look at the ruins of Castamere would teach that lesson. She glanced at the last person left, a pretty girl with curly chestnut hair. Lyss bit her lip as she thought of something. She looked over at Robb, but he would not meet her eyes.

The girl stepped forward. Lyss did not think she had seen anyone more shy. Robb took her hand.

“Mother, Alyssea, I have the great honour to present to you the Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s eldest daughter and my…my lady wife.”

Lyss hid her confusion, and took Jeyne Westerling’s hand.

“The honour is all mine,” she said. “You will be a fairer queen than me, and no doubt wiser too.”

Jeyne smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Lady Sybell looked to Catelyn.
“We are honoured to be joined to House Stark, my lady, but we are also very weary. Perhaps we might retire to our chambers, and I am sure you would like a word with the king.”

“The steward will find you suitable accommodations.” Catelyn said, smiling stiffly.

“You are most kind.” Lady Sybell’s smile was warm but poisoned. She put her hand on Eleyna’s back and herded her out the door. Jeyne hovered uncertainly before leaving behind Ser Rolph.

“Must I go too?” Rollam piped up. Lyss felt slightly bad when she realised she had forgotten about him. “I’m your squire.”

Robb smiled. “But I’m not in need of squiring just now.”

“Oh.” Rollam went quiet as he contemplated that fact.

“His Grace has gotten along for sixteen years without you, Rollam,” Ser Raynald said. “He will survive a few hours more, I think.” He took his brother’s shoulder and walked him out.

Catelyn turned to Robb. “Your wife seems lovely, and the Westerlings worthy. Lord Gawen is Tywin Lannister’s sworn man, is he not?”

“Yes,” Robb replied. “Jason Mallister captured him in the Whispering Wood and has been holding him at Seagard for ransom. Of course I'll free him now, though he may not wish to join me. We wed without his consent, I fear, and this marriage puts him in dire peril. The Crag is not strong. For love of me, Jeyne may lose all.”

“And you,” Lyss said softly, “have lost the Freys. I have heard from Highgarden, they need more men. Dare I ask how many swords came with sweet Jeyne Westerling?”

“Fifty. A dozen knights.” Robb was glum, and for good reason. From what Lyss could tell, there had been near a thousand mounted knights from Lord Walder, and another three thousand on foot. “The Crag was weakly garrisoned, so we took it by storm one night. Black Walder and the Smalljon led scaling parties over the walls, while I broke the main gate with ram. A passing arrow hit my arm. It was not as bad as your wound was,” Robb glanced at Lyss before continuing, “but it festered. Jeyne took me to her own bed, and nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with me when the Greatjon brought me the news of...of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon." He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers' names. "That night, she...she comforted me."

Lyss scrunched her nose but said nothing. She pulled out a chair and sat in it.

“And you wed her the next day?” Catelyn did not ask, rather stated. Robb looked into his mother’s eyes. Lyss was glad he was not trying to make excuses, and simply bearing the truth.

“It was the only honourable thing to do. She’s gentle and sweet, Mother, she will make a good wife.”

“Perhaps she will. That will not appease Lord Frey.”

“I know. I know.” Robb grimaced. “I’ve made a botch of everything but the battles, haven’t I? I thought they would be the hard bit but… if I had listened to you, Mother, and kept Theon as my hostage I’d still rule the north, and Bran and Rickon would be alive and safe in Winterfell.”

Lyss watched them in silence, and longed for a bond with her mother as Robb had with his.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Catelyn sounded comforting now. “Lord Balon might still have chanced at war. The last time he reached for war, it cost him two sons. He might have thought it a bargain to lose only one this time.” She touched his arm. “What happened with the Freys, after you wed?”

Robb sighed. "With Ser Stevron, I might have been able to make amends, but Ser Ryman is dull-witted as a stone, and Black Walder...that one was not named for the colour of his beard, I promise you. He went so far as to say that his sisters would not be loath to wed a widower. I would have killed him for that if Jeyne had not begged me to be merciful."

"You have done House Frey a grievous insult, Robb.” Lyss spoke up again.

“I never meant to, I never did. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me, but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The Greation urged me to attack them...”

"Fighting your own in the midst of your enemies?" Catelyn said sharply. “It would have been the end of you.”

“Yes. I thought perhaps we could arrange other matches for Lord Walder’s daughters. Ser Wendel Manderly has offered to take one, and the Greatjon tells me his uncles wish to wed again. If Lord Walder will be reasonable-“

“He is not reasonable.” Catelyn interrupted forcefully. “He is proud, and prickly to a fault. You know that. He wanted to be grandfather to a king. You will not appease him with the offer of two hoary old brigands and the second son of the fattest man in the Seven Kingdoms. Not only have you broken your oath, but you've slighted the honour of the Twins by choosing a bride from a lesser house."

Robb bristled at that. "The Westerlings are better blood than the Freys. They're an ancient line, descended from the First Men. The Kings of the Rock sometimes wed Westerlings before the Conquest, and there was another Jeyne Westerling who was queen to King Maegor three hundred years ago."

"All of which will only salt Lord Walder's wounds. It has always rankled him that older houses look down on the Freys as upstarts. This insult is not the first he's borne, to hear him tell it. Jon Arryn was disinclined to foster his grandsons, and my father refused the offer of one of his daughters for Edmure.”

Lyss realised something.
“Where is Grey Wind?” she asked.

“In the yard with a haunch of mutton. I told the kennelmaster to see that he was fed.”

“You always kept him with you before.”

“A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless, you've seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken him into battle with me. He's killed too many men to fear them now. Jeyne's anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother.”

"He is part of you, Robb.” Catelyn said. “To fear him is to fear you.”

"I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me.” Robb sounded cross. "Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen-“

"I saw Bran's wolf tear out a man's throat at Winterfell" she said tartly, "and loved him for it."

"That's different. The man at the Crag was a knight Jeyne had known all her life. You can't blame her for being afraid. Grey Wind doesn't like her uncle either. He bares his teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him."

"Send Ser Rolph away then. At once."

"Where? Back to the Crag, so the Lannisters can mount his head on a spike? Jeyne loves him. He's her uncle, and a fair knight besides. I need more men like Rolph Spicer, not fewer. I am not going to banish him just because my wolf doesn’t like the way that he smells.”

“We all need more men like Rolph Spicer.” Lyss said. She was suddenly very tired. “Send him scouting, or whatever it is that requires courage and skill. Put Lady Catelyn’s mind at ease. She’s suffered enough, we’ve all suffered enough.”

Robb nodded, his mouth a tight line. “I hope you do get peace of mind.” He said to his mother. “I will send him away tomorrow morning.”

Catelyn smiled, relieved, and kissed him on the cheek before sweeping away. Lyss stood.

“Four thousand men,” she said reproachfully. “Four thousand men, Robb.”

“I know.” He sounded dejected.

“Four thousand men we could have sent to Winterfell, or to strengthen the borders at Highgarden. Stannis is sailing on King’s Landing, right this second, and I hope to the seventh hell he takes it. I do not see a bright future otherwise.”

She went the same way as Catelyn, and closed the door behind her.

Chapter Text

Lyss marched down the hallway, the sound of her boots ringing off the cold stone echoing after her. She had heard that her mother’s cousins, Willem and Martyn Lannister were being held captive, and she wanted to talk to them. Lyss wished for Edric to be with her, but she didn’t have time to search Riverrun to find him.

There were three guards. One paced the length of the corridor, the other two stood by the door. Lyss noticed they had been given Jaime’s old room.

“Let me in,” she commanded. “I wish to see my cousins.”

They hesitated before one of them unhooked a key from his belt and unlocked the door.

Willem and Martyn had been bathed and given plain, but clean clothing.

“Good afternoon,” Lyss said pleasantly.

“I thought it was still morning,” Martyn replied after a moment’s hesitation. It was hard to judge the sun from such a tiny window.

“It is a true shame to see my own kin clapped in irons, and a true shame to be fighting against the Lannister force. We share blood. Blood is thicker than water, so I was told, but not any more it seems.”

“You accused Queen Cersei of incest, claiming your brother bastard-born so a crown would be set on your head,” Willem rose from where he had been sat on the bed. “You stand there, talking to us of blood and water, yet you haven’t looked at yourself. You haven’t, have you, Lyss? I’m sorry, I meant Your Grace. We are guests in your castle after all.”

“They have been feeding you lies like bread.” Lyss stepped further into the room. “Look not to me, but to the deceit Cersei Lannister and my noble brother Joffrey spin like a web. What has become of our once honourable House?”

“You’ve estranged yourself from House Lannister,” Willem spat. “At least we still have pride in our family. Why are you in Riverrun, Alyssea Baratheon? You are neither fish nor wolf. You’re not even stag. Stags are the males, are they not?”

“I’m not a fucking animal,” Lyss fixed Willem with an icy stare. He did not flinch away, but held eye contact. “Sew a lion on your tunic, and then you’re brave as one. A direwolf, and you’re fierce as winter. But we’re not animals. We’re people. It seems many of us have forgotten that fact. They only see wolves, flowers and falcons. How can they be so blind? You may have pride in your House, Willem, but pride goes before destruction. I have no quarrel with all Lannisters, and it saddens me to see my family’s blood in the river, so I will make to you the same offer I made to Lord Tywin. Renounce Joffrey, and join me. I have knights you could finish your squiring with. One even shares your name, Willem.”

“Why should we do that, when our father will pay handsomely to have us back?”

“I have enough gold. The Tyrells are loyal to my cause, are they not?” Lyss shook her hair out of her face. “Join me. Join me because of Sansa Stark. She is a hostage at King’s Landing, whatever they might say of wards. I know she has been mistreated and abused. But you? You have been washed and clothed. You have spilled the blood of brave men fighting for this side, while Sansa has done nothing wrong. And if that is how Joffrey thinks justice is delivered, I do not want to know what will happen to Westeros under his rule. Join me, and I will pardon you, grant you honours.”

Willem did not answer, only glanced at his twin, who was stood quietly against the far wall.

“I’ll leave you to make your decision,” Lyss said softly. “It is a hard choice. It’s a bridge I had to cross, and I hope you join me.”

She left. Lyss had declared war on House Lannister, but it did not mean she wanted to, or was enjoying it.

Chapter Text

Lyss sat in the solar with trembling hands, waiting for Edric and Robb.

The letter bore the Baratheon stag, stamped in black wax. She bit her lip. Catelyn put a hand on hers, and Lyss was grateful. She became less anxious.

Ser Brynden, Ser Edmure and the lords Umber, Bolton, and Karstark were also present, along with Lyss’s highest ranking knight, Ser Alfrid.

After what seemed like an eternity, Robb and Edric arrived together. Lyss stood. She had taken care to dress in a more queenly fashion, now the castle was full again. She had become self-aware whenever she saw Jeyne Westerling in her pretty skirts. Lyss had worn her smarter black trousers, instead of her bedraggled blue ones, and a deep yellow tunic. From her past experiences, if she dressed as a man she would be given more respect than if she donned long swishing skirts.

“My lords, lady, and knights,” she said, her voice ringing off the walls. “There has been a raven from Lord Stannis. What is inside this letter will be the turning point in our war, for better or for worse.”

Lyss broke the seal. Pieces of wax caught underneath her fingernail. She unrolled the paper.

“Queen Alyssea of House Baratheon,

It saddens me to write this, but write it I must. Your fleet has been smashed by the usurper Joffrey “Baratheon”. Many of your men have fallen beneath the waves, and will never rise again. Your uncle, Lord Stannis may be one of them. He has not been seen since the battle.”

Lyss paused as her throat tightened. After a brief moment, she continued reading the letter aloud.

“We are still waiting, for him and many others. Please, I am begging you, send help. We are weakly garrisoned at Dragonstone, and shall have to move all our people and reserves to Storm’s End. The island will be lost to Lannister forces, for a certainty.

I regret the hard news this brings.

Maester Pylos of Dragonstone.”

Lyss placed the latter carefully on the solar table. She cast her eyes around the room, looking at each person in turn.

“Too many losses made us dependant on Lord Stannis overcoming King’s Landing. There will be dark times ahead, my lords. Worse than the ones we have already faced. We will need time to weigh our options, choose the best path. That will be all.”

She waited, with her hands on the table and eyes facing forwards as a stream of people made their way to the door. Lyss looked up to see Robb, still standing on the other end of the table. She could not order him, no more than he could command her.

“What are we going to do now, Robb?” Lyss’s voice cracked slightly. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“We will think of something,” Robb said unconvincingly. “We’ve done it before.”

“But we can’t magic another ten thousand soldiers out of nowhere. And even if we could, where would we send them? North to Winterfell, or south to Dorne?”

“There is… it’s not the same as the thousand, but… there is something we can do to win the Frey’s back in favour,” he sounded hesitant now as he moved closer. “A letter arrived, from the Twins an hour ago. Lord Frey has offered a marriage pact between my uncle, Ser Edmure, and one of his daughters. If I sit still and smile, their four thousand men will be returned. Jeyne is to be a bridesmaid, which should surely please Lord Walder.”

Lyss thought for a moment, considering her options. “I had thought of travelling back to Storm’s End, but now I know how truly bad our situation is, I’ll go in place of Jeyne.”

“Lyss, you need not attend. Go home, see your men. It will give them courage for the coming months.”

“No,” she shook her head. “We need those men. Even half their number would be a welcome sight, and I am prepared to do anything to have them swell our ranks again. Lord Walder would be more appeased if I attended to his daughter. My birth is higher than Jeyne’s, and Lady Catelyn told me once that man grasps for titles.”

“I cannot stop you,” Robb said submissively. “Very well. I suppose bringing Jeyne may only salt his wound.”

“I do not like him,” Lyss admitted. “He holds himself higher than the rest of the riverlords, yet he is no better. Perhaps he is worse. I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it, though.”

“I am sorry, Lyss.”

“I know.” She did. “Truly, I do.”

“You shall be going south to Storm’s End after the wedding, yes?”

“Yes.” Lyss smiled faintly. “I have missed it. Riverrun is beautiful, but it is not home. Home is Storm’s End, and King’s Landing.“

“Winterfell,” Robb sounded sad. “But it has been taken by Theon, who was like a brother. I’m glad he wasn’t truly though, because there is no man as cursed as the kinslayer.” He paused. “How do you do it, Lyss? How do you suffer loss after loss, betrayal after betrayal, and still stand here?”

“I try not to think about them,” she said quietly. “I fill my mind with other things. And when there is nothing, I practice. Anything, from singing to swords, just to take my thoughts away.”

They left the solar together. Lyss tucked the letter carefully under her belt as they walked in silence. It was strange seeing Robb without Grey Wind at his heels, and she told him as much.

“He still frightens Jeyne,” he confessed. “I miss him, though.”

“Remember what Lady Catelyn said,” Lyss replied seriously. “He is a part of you.”

“Perhaps that’s more true than my mother knows,” Robb sounded distant. Lyss looked over and saw he was lost in thought.

“What is it?”

“Sometimes…sometimes it feels like…”

“Like what?” Lyss was beginning to feel exasperated.

“Never mind,” Robb said. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

They walked on. The sun had started to set. Lyss turned her face to the light, and her fingers brushed against the knives at her wrists. They stepped out onto the battlements. The chilly autumn air froze Lyss’s cheeks.

“I want to see Willem and Martyn,” she told him. “I have given them a week to make up their mind.”

“Then I bid you good evening.” Robb turned, and strode back the way they had came. Lyss circled around the battlements to the steps leading into the courtyard. She leapt down them, and marched across the courtyard. It was quiet, almost deserted. Strands of Lyss’s dark hair blew in a sudden gust of wind. She ducked under the sheltered walkway and they lay still again.

Her shoulder twinged with slight pain. Lyss ignored it. Maester Vyman said that would be bound to happen occasionally, as the arrow has gone deep, almost coming out the other side. She was only glad it hadn’t pierced her bone.

It was the same three guards as before outside the door to Willem and Martyn’s cell. The door was unlocked and Lyss slipped inside.

Martyn was stretched across the bed, but Lyss could see he was awake. Willem was sat leaning against the floor. They both stood, almost as one, as she entered.

“You know why I have come,” Lyss said plainly. “I would like to hear your answer.”

It was Willem who spoke.

“We have decided to join you,” he said, glancing from Martyn to Lyss. She smiled. Their allegiance was a beam of light in the darkness of the news she had received.

“That is good to hear,” she said. “But why?”

“We are the second sons of a second son,” Martyn joined them. “The most we could ask for was a knighthood and a keep. You promised us honours.”

“Yes,” Lyss agreed. “And you shall have them. I will have Jackse find you more suitable apartments. After all, you are no longer prisoners, but-“

She never got to finish her sentence. The door burst open. A man she did not recognise stood, illuminated by the light of the candles behind him. His sword was red.

“Who are you?”
Lyss knew she sounded foolish.

The man gave no answer. If Lyss’s presence had taken him aback, he did not show it. He pushed her aside, and swung his sword at Willem. Lyss flicked her wrist, and sent a dagger spinning across into the back of his head. Willem had managed to dodge, and Lyss was relieved. She bent to retrieve her knife, and on second thought took the man’s sword.

Another man had joined them by then, and Lyss recognised him. It was Rickard Karstark. He had his sword drawn. Lyss raised hers slightly.

“My lord. I command you to drop your weapon and leave.”

He turned his steely eyes to her, surprise flicking over his face.

“Stay out of this, Your Grace. This does not concern you.”

“Oh, but it does concern me,” Lyss said through gritted teeth. “These are my men.”

“They are Lannisters. My sons are dead because of Jaime Lannister, but he fucking escaped before I could get my hands on him.”

“Why now? Why wait a week to take your revenge?”

“I was waiting for the right time,” Lord Rickard fingered the hilt of his sword. “And now is the right time. We must send the Lannisters a message. They may have beaten your navy, yet we still hold their kin in our chains.”

“You are forgetting I am half a Lannister,” Lyss said icily. “I see you have blood on your sword. Where did you get it? Perhaps the guards outside. You’ve killed your own, Lord Karstark. That is treason.”

“This is justice.” Lord Rickard made to move past Lyss, but she put the point of her sword against his arm. He turned, half amused.

“What are you trying to do with that?”

“What does one usually do with a sword?”

“I do not wish to fight you, my lady. Leave now.”

“I have no desire to leave. None at all. In fact, I’d rather stay.”

Lord Rickard cursed. “Get out of the way, woman.”

Lyss raised her sword higher, away from his arm to his chest. Lord Rickard called something in the Old Tongue. He made to swat her sword away, but Lyss spun it round, and lunged at him again, forcing Lord Rickard to take a step backwards, nearer the door.

She had no wish to kill him yet, only draw him away from her unarmed cousins. Lord Rickard was stronger than her, for a certainty, so Lyss had to be quicker. She was locked in combat with him, and almost didn’t notice the other man rushing in.

Lyss did see the white sunburst of House Karstark sewn onto his tunic. She ducked under a blow sent from Lord Rickard, slid a knife from her sleeve, and sent it right into the man’s neck, but not before he slid his sword into Martyn’s heart. They fell together.

She heard Willem scream in anger. Before anyone else could get to it, Lord Rickard took the man’s sword. Lyss suddenly felt very vulnerable, faced against this revenge-crazed man.

Where was everyone? Surely someone would have heard the noise.

“Just let me have the boy,” Lord Rickard grunted between lunges. “Let me have him.”

Lyss pressed on. She knew Lord Rickard would not dare kill her, and she would not let him murder Willem.

She felt fingers wrap around her own, then something hard hit her right shoulder. Lyss stumbled sideways and fell, losing her sword as she went. Her head scraped against the floor. Willem stood in her place, holding a sword. He kept his eyes on Lord Rickard.

Willem was truly skilled at swordplay. Lyss knew that, just by seeing him fight. Lord Rickard had two swords, a height advantage, and he was fighting to kill. But Willem was not dead yet.

Something dark and sticky dripped down her face. Lyss put a hand to her forehead, and it came away red. She did not know how she had come by the cut, but it was bleeding into her eyes, making visibility difficult. Blindly, she groped for something to wipe the blood away.

Her hand landed on cloth. Gratefully, Lyss tore at it and wiped at her eyes. She saw Willem was still on his feet, but barely.

Lyss drew her final knife. Her other one was buried in a corpse. Perhaps it was the one she was crouched next to. She held it in her fingers, and threw it at Lord Rickard.

He let out an angry oath, and dropped one of his swords. Lyss heard it clatter on the cold stone floor. She had been planning to send it into his heart, but her aim was off and it had landed in his arm.

Willem glanced over to Lyss, and faltered for just half a second. That was all Lord Rickard needed. Lyss should have screamed at him to pay attention, but words did not stop the sword in Willem’s heart.

Lyss caught a glimpse of Lord Rickard. For one moment, his face changed to one of a woman with cropped brown hair and ink black eyes.

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

Her breath stuck in her throat and the terror rose. Lyss drew her knees to her chest and hugged them tight. Her hands were shaking. The flashbacks to Baelor’s Sept was the worst bit. They were so vivid, it was as if she was back there. She heard the noise of bodies hitting the floor and the smell of blood filled her nose. It could have been the blood from the dead lying with her, but Lyss could not tell.

Someone touched her arm. Lyss looked up and saw the woman who was not Jenna staring down at her. She started screaming for Stef or her father, but they were both dead and gone.

Lyss rested her forehead against her knees and tried to breathe.

Maybe half an hour had passed. Maybe an hour, two hours, a day. Lyss raised her head and saw she was in the same room. The corpses had been cleared away. She looked over to see Edric sat quietly next to her. He reached his hand over and Lyss grasped at it. They stayed there for another while. She noticed the black wax still stuck beneath her fingernails.

Chapter Text

“Send their bones to to Ser Kevan,” Lyss had said. “Wherever he may be.”

She stood in the pouring rain to watch it leave. Lyss had worn all black to show her respect. She had caught a glimpse of herself earlier, and was startled by the dark contrast of her clothes and hair to her pale face.

Edric was beside her. His face was expressionless, but his bright blue eyes followed the horses as they went by.

The portcullis slid shut again, and the courtyard was empty. No one drilled in the heavy rain.

They left for the Great Hall. A crowd of high and lowborn alike gathered around the edge of the room. Lyss unclasped her cloak and handed it to a waiting serving girl. Subconsciously, she drew her hair over her shoulder. Catelyn had plaited it that morning. Lyss could not remember Cersei ever doing such a thing.

Her crown glinted in the candlelight as she walked the length of the hall. Her knights joined behind her, forming a flank.

Lyss ascended the steps up to where Robb and Catelyn were already waiting. Ser Edmure was to Robb’s right.

She stood with her men. There was a slight gap between Lyss and Robb. She looked over to him.

“You will kill Lord Karstark,” she said softly.

“Yes,” he replied in equally hushed tones.

Lyss nodded and stared at the door, waiting for the prisoners to come forth. When the Great Hall fell silent, Robb too lifted his gaze to the door.

“Smalljon,” he called, “tell your father to bring them in.”

Wordlessly, Smalljon Umber turned to obey. A moment later, he reappeared, leading a small procession.

The Greatjon marched the prisoners through the hall. Lyss noticed how others stepped back to give them room, as if treason could be passed by a touch, a glance, a cough. Two of the Greatjon’s men, and three of the prisoners were wounded.

“Five,” Robb said when the prisoners stood before them, wet and silent. “Is that all of them?”

“There were eight,” rumbled the Greatjon. "We killed two taking them, and a third is dying now."

Robb studied the faces of the captives. "It required eight of you to kill two unarmed squires."

“It would not have done,” Lord Rickard said strongly, “if Alyssea Baratheon was not there. She killed my men.”

“And you killed mine,” Lyss replied coldly.

Edmure Tully spoke up. "They murdered two of my men as well, to get into the tower. Delp and Elwood."

"It was no murder, ser," said Lord Rickard Karstark, no more discomfited by the ropes about his wrists than by the blood that trickled down his face. "Any man who steps between a father and his vengeance asks for death.”

“They were not yours to kill,” Lyss said angrily.

"I saw your sons die, that night in the Whispering Wood," Robb told Lord Karstark. "Martyn Lannister did not kill Torrhen. Willem Lannister did not slay Eddard. How then can you call this vengeance? This was folly, and bloody murder. Your sons died honorably on a battlefield, with swords in their hands.”

“They died,” said Rickard Karstark, yielding no inch of ground. "The Kingslayer cut them down. These two were of his ilk. Only blood can pay for blood.”

“But that is what happens in battle.” Lyss fixed her gaze Lord Rickard. “Men die. They are prepared to die, and they die fighting. You murdered Willem and Martyn because they survived while your sons perished.”

“In battle, you have to kill your enemies,” Lord Rickard met her eyes, and did not flinch. “That is how your father won his throne, and it is why you are crowned now.”

“My father killed his enemies, but he also made allies of them,” Lyss said, recalling the stories she had been told. “The lords Cafferen and Grandison were prisoners in Storm’s End, and yet they became loyal to him after he visited. Even after my father killed Lord Fell in battle, his son Silveraxe joined his army.”

Lord Rickard made to rise, but Lord Umber shoved him heavily to the floor.

“Leave him!” Robb's voice rang with command. The Greatjon stepped back away from the captive.

“Yes, Lord Umber, leave me to the king. He means to give me a scolding before he forgives me. That's how he deals with treason, our King in the North.” He smiled a poisonous smile. “Or should I call you the King Who Lost the North, Your Grace?”

The Greatjon snatched a spear from the man beside him and jerked it to his shoulder.

"Let me spit him, sire. Let me open his belly so we can see the colour of his guts."

Before Robb could intervene, the doors of the hall crashed open, and the Blackfish entered with water running from his cloak and helm. Tully men-at-arms followed him in, while outside lightning cracked across the sky and a hard black rain pounded against the stones of Riverrun.

Ser Brynden removed his helm and went to one knee. “Your Grace,” was all he said, but the grimness of his tone spoke volumes.

“I will hear Ser Brynden privily, in the audience chamber.” Robb rose to his feet. "Greatjon, keep Lord Karstark here until I return, and hang the other seven."

The Greation lowered the spear. “Even the dead ones?”

“Yes. I will not have such fouling my lord uncle's rivers. Let them feed the crows.”

One of the captives dropped to his knees. “Mercy, sire. I killed no one, I only stood at the door to watch for guards.”

Robb considered that a moment.
“Did you know what Lord Rickard intended? Did you see the knives drawn? Did you hear the shouts, the screams, the cries for mercy?”

"Aye, I did, but I took no part. I was only the watcher, I swear it…”

“Lord Umber,” Robb said clearly. “This one was only watcher. Hang him last, so he may watch the others die.” He turned back to those stood with him on the dais. “My lady Alyssea, Mother, Uncle, with me, if you please.”

Lyss dismissed all her knights save Edric, and followed Ser Edmure to the audience chamber. She heard thunder begin, so loud it was as if the castle was crashing down upon them all.

It was dark in the audience chamber. The thick walls muffled the sound of thunder. Lyss felt slightly unsettled. The storm reminded her of home. She should be revelling in it.

A servant hurriedly lit the candles before leaving again. Robb took off his heavy crown, and set it upon the table before him.

The Blackfish shut the door. “The Karstarks are gone.”

“All?” Robb’s voice was thick, but Lyss could not tell if it was with anger or despair.

"All the fighting men," Ser Brynden replied. "A few camp followers and serving men were left with their wounded. We questioned as many as we needed, to be certain of the truth. They started leaving at nightfall, stealing off in ones and twos at first, and then in larger groups. The wounded men and servants were told to keep the campfires lit so no one would know they had gone, but once the rains began it didn't matter.”

“Will they reform, away from Riverrun?” Robb asked.

“No. They've scattered, hunting. Lord Karstark has sworn to give the hand of his maiden daughter to any man highborn or low who brings him the head of the Kingslayer.”

“No,” Lyss said. “We need him alive.”

“Perhaps your men will get to him first, Your Grace,” Edmure suggested.

“They have been gone too long. We have had no word at all since they left. I do not know if they are alive or dead.”

“Near three hundred riders and twice as many mounts, melted away in the night.” Robb rubbed his temples, where the crown had left its mark in the soft skin above his ears. Lyss was glad her own crown was so light. “All the mounted strength of Karhold, lost.”

They were sat in a trap, Lyss knew. For the moment, Robb held the riverlands, but his kingdom was surrounded by enemies to every side but east, where Lysa Arryn sat aloof on her mountaintop. Even the Trident was scarce secure so long as the Lord of the Crossing withheld his allegiance. And now they had lost the Karstarks.

Robb gazed at his crown as he spoke. “Lord Rickard defied me. Betrayed me. I have no choice but to condemn him. Gods know what the Karstark foot with Roose Bolton will do when they hear I've executed their liege for a traitor. Bolton must be warned.”

“Lord Karstark's heir was at Harrenhal as well," Ser Brynden reminded him. "The eldest son, the one the Lannisters took captive on the Green Fork.”

“Harrion. His name is Harrion.” Robb laughed bitterly. “A king had best know the names of his enemies, don't you think?”

The Blackfish looked at him shrewdly. “You know that for a certainty? That this will make young Karstark your enemy?”

“What else would he be? I am about to kill his father, he's not like to thank me.”

Lyss clenched her fists. She would happily watch Lord Rickard’s execution a hundred times over.

“He might. There are sons who hate their fathers, and in a stroke you will make him Lord of Karhold.”

Robb shook his head. "Even if Harrion were that sort, he could never openly forgive his father's killer. His own men would turn on him. These are northmen, Uncle. The north remembers."

"Pardon him, then," urged Ser Edmure.

Lyss stared at him in open disbelief.

“Spare his life, I mean. I do not like the taste of it any more than you. He slew my men as well. Poor Delp had only just recovered from the wound Ser Jame gave him. Karstark must be punished, certainly. Keep him in chains, I say.”

“A hostage?” Edric said hesitantly.

“Yes, a hostage!” Edmure said eagerly. “Tell the son that so long as he remains loyal, his father will not be harmed. Otherwise.. well, we may have no hope of the Freys, even if I offered to marry all Lord Walder's daughters and carry his litter besides. If we should lose the Karstarks as well, what hope is there for the north?"

“What hope...” Robb let out a breath, pushed his hair back from his eyes, and said, “We've heard nothing from Ser Rodrik in the north, no response from Walder Frey to our new offer, and only silence from the Eyrie." He appealed to his mother. “Will your sister never answer us?
How many times must I write her? I will not believe that none of the birds have reached her.”

“The birds have reached her. Though she may tell you they did not, if it ever comes to that. Expect no help from that quarter, Robb. Lysa was never brave. When we were girls together, she would run and hide whenever she'd done something wrong. Perhaps she thought our lord father would forget to be wroth with her if he could not find her. It is no different now. She ran from King's Landing for fear, to the safest place she knows, and she sits on her mountain hoping everyone will forget her.”

Lyss nodded. “The time she was in King’s Landing, she spoke little and spent most of her days in the Hand’s Tower.” She sighed. “The knights of the Vale could make all the difference in this war, but if she will not fight, so be it.”

“I've asked only that she open the Bloody Gate for us, and provide ships at Gulltown to take us north. The high road would be hard, but not so hard as fighting our way up the Neck,” Robb said. “If we could land at White Harbor, we could flank Moat Cailin and drive the ironmen from the north in half a year.”

“It will not happen, sire,” said the Blackfish. “Cat is right. Lady Lysa is too fearful to admit any army into the Vale. The Bloody Gate will remain closed.”

“The Others can take her, then,” Robb cursed. “Bloody Rickard Karstark as well. And Theon Greyjoy, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, and all the rest of them. Why would any man ever want to be king When everyone was shouting King in the North, I told myself... swore to myself... that I would be a good king, as honorable as Father, strong, just, loyal to my friends and brave when I faced my enemies... now I cannot even tell one from the other. How did it all get so confused? Lord Rickard's fought at my side in half a dozen battles. His sons died for me in the Whispering Wood. Will the Lannisters thank me for Lord Rickard’s head?”

“No,” Lyss said bluntly. “They would be glad to see yours, however.”

“All the more reason to spare Lord Rickard’s life and hold him hostage,” Edmure urged.

Robb picked up his crown with both hands, and set it back on his head. “Lord Rickard dies.”

“But why?” Edmure shook his head. “You said yourself-“

“Lord Rickard slaughtered my men, Ser Edmure,” Lyss said stonily. “If Robb was not executing him, I would be.”

“I know what I said, uncle. It does not change what I must do.” Robb glanced at Lyss briefly. “Rickard Karstark killed more than two Lannisters, whoever they were loyal to. He killed my honour. I shall deal with him at sunset.”

Lyss left the audience chamber alone, and took her cloak back from the serving girl. She lifted her hood and walked across the courtyard. The rain splashed around her boots. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sunless sky for just a second. Lyss counted the seconds.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Thunder boomed across the riverlands. She went up the treacherously slippy steps to the battlements. A few guards were scattered around the walls. They looked woebegone, soaked to the skin and watching for nothing.

Lyss strode along the ramparts. The fierce wind billowed her cloak back. Lightning spiralled closer. This time she counted to eight before the thunder sounded.

She kept walking until she found a part where no one stood guard. Then it was just her and the storm.

But were they two different entities? At that moment, Lyss couldn’t be sure. When the wind howled and the thunder crashed at Storm’s End, her father would tell her tales of Duran Godsgrief. He would always finish by telling Lyss that the storm was in her blood. One time she cut her hand, to see if it were true.

It wasn’t. She bled ordinary blood. Lyss turned her palm over, and saw the faint pink line running along the heel of her hand. It had almost faded entirely.

Lyss dropped her arm, and raised her eyes up again. The wind blew her hood down. She didn’t put it back on, but let the storm kiss her head.

The riverbanks had already flooded. The roar of the water had doubled in strength, reverberating around her skull.

Then the lightning appeared again. It was close, so close Lyss could feel its fire warm her face. The thunder boomed at almost the exact same time.

She began to laugh as the tears streamed her face.

Chapter Text

The storm had slowed to a mere rain, though consistent and drenching. The thunder and lightning had disappeared, and the wind died out.

River lords, northmen, and six stormlanders gathered in the godswood. There were highborn and low alike. Knights stood with sellswords and stableboys to watch.

A headman’s block had been set up before the heart tree. A man stood, holding a poleaxe. Lyss waited with Lady Catelyn. The blood coloured leaves of the wierwood fell, scattering in every direction. The trees gave slight shelter from the rain, which dripped down steadily as they waited in hushed silence.

The Greatjon’s men led Lord Rickard through the crowd. His hands were bound. He looked straight ahead, to the heart tree. Lyss heard him muttering something, a prayer or a curse, in the Old Tongue.

Then came the king in the north, Grey Wind by his side where he belonged. Robb walked up to the block. He took the poleaxe from the man, and ordered him to step aside.

“This was my order,” he said. “Lord Karstark dies at my word. He must die by my command.”

Lord Rickard dipped his head stiffly.
“For that much, I thank you. But for nothing else.”

Lyss remembered the Stark custom. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

“The blood of the First Men flows in my veins as much as yours, boy,” Lord Rickard looked at Robb. “You would do well to remember that. I was named for your grandfather. I raised my banners against King Aerys for your father, and against King Joffrey for you. At Oxcross and the Whispering Wood and in the Battle of the Camps, I rode beside you, and I stood with Lord Eddard on the Trident. We are kin, Stark and Karstark.”

“This kinship did not stop you from betrayal,” Robb said. “And it will not save you now. Kneel, my lord.”

“Old gods or new, it makes no matter,”Lord Rickard told him, “no man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”

“Kneel, traitor,” Robb said again. “Or must I have them force your head onto the block?”

Lord Rickard knelt. “The gods shall judge you, as you have judged me.”

He laid his head upon the block.

“Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold." Robb lifted the heavy axe with both hands. "Here in sight of gods and men, I judge you guilty of murder and high treason. In mine own name I condemn you. With mine own hand I take your life. Would you speak a final word?”

“Kill me, and be cursed. You are no king of mine.”

Lyss watched through eyes of hatred as the axe crashed down onto Lord Rickard’s neck. It was heavy, and well honed, killing at a single blow. It took three swings to completely sever his head. Lyss wished he was conscious for all the pain. But that was not honourable of her.

By the time it was done, Robb was covered in blood. He flung the poleaxe away in disgust, and turned away, towards the heart tree.

The silence was fragile and precious. Nobody dared break it, until Grey Wind started howling. It was a cold and chilling cry, the song of the north.

The people melted away. She caught a glimpse of Jeyne Westerling, ashen faced, standing with her mother and elder brother.

Lyss sat in the corner of Lady Catelyn’s chambers, flipping the Geamhradh necklace over in the candlelight. Catelyn sat on the bed, doing needlework. They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to.

There was a soft knock.

“Yes?” Catelyn looked up.

Lyss raised her head to see who it was as Jeyne entered timidly.

“Lady Catelyn, I do not mean to disturb you…”

“You are most welcome here, Your Grace.”

“Please. Call me Jeyne. I don’t feel like a Grace.”

“You are one nonetheless. Please, come and sit, Your Grace.”

“Jeyne.” She sat by the fire, and smoothed her yellow skirt out anxiously. She noticed Lyss for the first time, sat in her shadowy corner. “Queen Alyssea.”

Lyss smiled tightly. Jeyne made to stand.

“Do not leave on my account,” Lyss said, her voice barely above a whisper. She sat again, albeit doubtfully.

Lyss turned back to her pendant. She wondered who had owned it before. The tiny stones were vibrant, the green, pink, and orange-red colours flashing in the dim light, but the larger blue one was pale and frosty.

The rain hammered relentlessly against the window beside her head. The day had been dark, and the night was darker still. Lyss leaned back against the wall. She clutched the necklace in her palm. The edges dug into her hand, but Lyss did not relinquish her grip.

The fire was warming, and the rain sang a soothing lullaby. Her eyes began to close, and Lyss drifted to sleep.

She dreamed she was praying beneath a heart tree. Robb and her brother Steffon talked amongst the trees. Stef was different to the last time she had seen him. He was older. He had grown up. Willem and Martyn sparred nearby, whilst Catelyn sat on a rock, one hand resting on Tania Dondarrion’s shoulder.

Lyss looked up briefly and smiled, before continuing her prayer to the Old Gods.

Behind her closed eyelids, the world grew dark and silent. She stood, and looked around.

Willem and Martyn were no longer training. They lay on the soft earth, bloody swords sticking out both their chests.

She saw Robb fall, bleeding profusely from terrible wounds. Stef was nowhere in sight. Lyss spun round. Catelyn had toppled off her rock, and lay sprawled across the ground, a red smile slashed across her throat. Tania had slumped against the rock with a knife sticking out her stomach, but she wasn’t dead yet.

“You did this,” she said accusingly. “You killed me, Lyss. Killed me…”

Lyss studied the knife stuck in Tania. It was made of Valyrian steel. It looked just like her knife. She looked down at her hands. She held only one of her daggers. Lyss began to scream.

She saw Stef again. He smiled as he saw her.

“Lyssie, I-“

Lyss felt her arm raise, through no will of her own. She tried to force it down, but it wouldn’t move, except up. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her knife.

“No!” she cried, interrupting him. “No, Stef, run! RUN, STEF!”

He didn’t. He kept walking towards her, still smiling.

Lyss kept screaming at him to run, to get out of the way, but he wouldn’t. The knife left her fingers, and sailed into her brother’s heart.

And then she felt fingers around her wrists. Lyss shot upright. The room was blurry. Her daggers were on the floor, along with the necklace.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” Catelyn’s face glowed in the candlelight. “No one can hurt you. You’re safe. Safe,” she repeated.

Lyss nodded, breathing heavily. She blinked, and the room came back into focus. Jeyne hovered uncertainly a little way behind Catelyn.

“You were calling out for someone.”

Lyss looked back up to Catelyn, and nodded again.

“Your brother.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“It’s over now,” Catelyn said sensibly. “Whatever happened then cannot happen now.”

“I..I hadn’t dreamed about it…years,” she took a shaky breath. “Why now?”

Catelyn had no answer.

“The nightmares…they were terrible, the first few months. I don’t want them to come back.”

“I know.” She sighed. “We do not hear much in the north, but the letters your father would send to my Ned were consistent and lighthearted. After your brother died, he barely wrote at all with each passing year.”

Lyss bent to retrieve all she had dropped. She tucked her knives away, and laced the necklace chain around her fingers. She wished Catelyn and Jeyne a good night before fleeing out the door and along the hall. She wanted to be alone.

It was cold. Goosebumps prickled Lyss’s arms. When she reached her bedroom, she was glad to see someone had thought to light the fire.

She opened the wooden balcony door slightly, and saw it was still raining. Lyss shut it again, and turned to face the fire. She sat by it until the small hours. By the sunrise, there were only a few embers left.

It had grown cold again. Lyss rose from her chair, to find her warmest cloak, the pale blue one. She noticed the colour was almost the exact same shade as the stone in her necklace.

Lyss pulled the cloak out and swirled it round onto her shoulders. She heard something fall out.

Roses lay scattered across the floor. There were not very many, perhaps four or five. They were all blue winter roses. Except for a single red one.

And for a reason she could not explain, it terrified Lyss.

Chapter Text

The dawn broke through the fading clouds, sending golden light streaming through the windows.

Lyss woke to the sound of a bell tolling mournfully. She hadn’t heard it all throughout her stay in Riverrun. The last time she had heard a bell was when Robert had died.

She changed her clothes. The ringing bell must mean something important. Lyss slipped into a heavy, fitted black dress. It had Baratheon gold embellishments and a cloth-of-gold belt. It was one of the ones that had been made in Riverrun for her.

Lyss took a liking to it. There was a similar one with gold colouring, but that one felt flashy. This one was quietly powerful.

She swung on her cloak, which was mostly yellow in colour, and carefully closed her door as she went to see what was going on.

The castle had grown quiet and somber. There were no shrieks of children at play, nor the clanging of squires drilling. No one gossiped by the well, only hurried silently past.

Lyss rounded the corner, and saw Ser Brynden walking Catelyn down the corridor. The Blackfish had carefully made his face an emotionless mask. Catelyn had done the same, yet her cheeks were still wet and her breathing unsteady.

“My brother is dead,” Ser Brynden told Lyss. “Lord Hoster is gone.”

She followed them up to the battlements. She could see that someone had carefully arranged Lord Hoster’s corpse in a boat. He was dressed for death in shining silver armour. His cloak, the red and blue of House Tully, lay beneath him. On Lord Hoster’s chest, a painted wooden sword had been placed. His fingers had been curled around the hilt.

The castle was gradually emptied of occupants as everyone came to show their respects. Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honour of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, as Lord Hoster's liege lord and grandson. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Malister, Ser Marq Piper…and Lame Lothar Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had awaited.

Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walders bastard brood, a stern, grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior.

Lyss had watched silently as Robb welcomed the Freys with every courtesy, half a day ago. She had looked on as the now Lord Edmure had flown into a private rage.

“Walder Frey should be flayed and quartered!” he'd stormed. “He sends a cripple and a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by that.”

“I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with care,” Catelyn had been calmer than her brother. “It was a peevish thing to do, a petty revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered, envious, and above all prideful.”

The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way.

Lyss turned her head as the boat went by. A morning mist hung across the riverlands, adding a mysterious beauty.

The boat sped up as it sailed into a current. Lord Hoster’s armour flashed early sunlight. It had stopped raining a few hours before the Freys had arrived, and the sun had started to show its face again.

“Now,” the Blackfish urged. Lord Edmure nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a brand to its point. Lord Edmure waited until the flame caught, then drew the bowstring to his ear and let it fly. The arrow arched upwards. Lyss watched it sail into the water, a slight way from Lord Hoster’s boat.

“The wind,” Lord Edmure cursed, drawing another arrow. “Again.”

This time the arrow flew too far forwards to hit its mark.

“Once more,” he commanded, taking a third arrow. Lyss watched him carefully. He was too tight, like his bowstring. She could almost certainly hit the boat, but it was not her place. Lyss did not want to intrude on their ancient mourning customs.

Ser Brynden stepped forwards slightly. “Let me, my lord.”

“I can do it,” Edmure insisted. He let them light the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept up the shaft, crackling. Finally, he released. The arrow flashed up and up, and finally curved down again, falling, falling…and hissing past the slim boat.

A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss.

“The Others take it!” Lord Edmure swore. The boat was almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists. Wordless, Edmure thrust the bow at Ser Brynden.

The Blackfish nocked an arrow, held it steady for the brand. He drew and released before Lyss was sure that the fire had caught…but as the shot rose, she saw the flames trailing through the air.

The boat had vanished into the mists. Falling, the flaming arrow was swallowed up as well, but only for a heartbeat. Then, sudden as hope, they saw the red bloom flower. The sails took fire, and the fog glowed pink and orange. For a moment Lyss could see the outline of the boat clearly, wreathed in leaping flames.

Lord Edmure had moved away, to the highest point of the battlements to watch the small fire grow into a speck on the horizon.

“It is no disgrace to miss your shot,” she heard Ser Brynden say softly.

“Edmure should hear that.,” Catelyn replied.

“The day my own lord father went down-river, Hoster missed as well."

“With his first shaft. His second found the sail.”

They descended the steps, and Lyss followed silently. She found Edric stood with two of her remaining knights, Ser Willem and Ser Kaden.

In their small group, they went to the Great Hall with Robb and his bannermen. Jeyne Westerling was there too. She may not fell like a queen but she certainly looked the part. Her skirts were made of fine looking gold and cream layers.

She saw Robb mutter something to Catelyn, who smiled sadly as Lyss approached. She was suddenly very grateful she had worn her sunny yellow-gold cloak. Lyss felt dark and gloomy, and did not want to add her own miseries to Riverrun’s.

Others were waiting to offer Robb their consolations, so Lyss waited patiently on the dais while Lord Jason Mallister, the Greatjon, and Ser Rolph Spicer spoke to him each in turn.

When the small crowd cleared, Lame Lothar Frey limped over. "Your Grace." A plump man in his middle thirties, Lothar Frey had close-set eyes, a pointed beard, and dark hair that fell to his shoulders in ringlets.
“We are loath to intrude upon your grief, but perhaps you might grant us audience tonight?”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Robb. “It was never my wish to sow enmity between us.”

“Nor mine to be the cause of it,” Queen Jeyne added.

Lothar Frey smiled.
“I understand, as does my lord father. He instructed me to say that he was young once, and well remembers what it is like to lose one's heart to beauty?”

Lyss wondered if that were true. She didn’t think Robb did either.

“Your father is most gracious,” he said anyway. “I shall look forward to our talk.”

Lothar bowed, and withdrew.

Seeing as there was no reason for Lyss to be present any longer, she left. Turning to her knights she said,

“You do not have to stay with me. Go and drink in Lord Hoster’s memory.”

Then it was only her and Edric. Lyss didn’t know what she would do whilst waiting to talk to Lame Luthar Frey.

Hurried footsteps echoed quietly down the hallway.

“Your Grace, may I speak to you?”

Lyss and Edric both turned to see Jeyne Westerling catching up to them.

“Of course, my lady. I will see you later, brother.” Lyss wrapped her arms briefly around Edric in goodbye.

“Your Grace, what do you wish to ask me?”

Jeyne took Edric’s place beside her.

“Please call me Jeyne. I do not like ‘Your Grace’. Not at all.”
Jeyne tucked wispy strands of brown hair behind her ears before continuing.

“I don’t know how to be a good queen. I watch you and Lady Catelyn, and I try my best but I am not good enough. I don’t know how to do better. I hoped you could tell me.”

“It took me a while to find my feet,” Lyss admitted. “I was raised to be a princess, lady wife to Quentyn Martell. But I became a queen instead.

“And it was hard. There were people against me because I am a woman. I tried not to take it personally, but it was difficult. Uncle Renly helped. So did Loras and Margaery Tyrell, and Edric. They would give me advice when I looked for it, and kept me company when I needed it. I did not spend much time with the Tyrells, but I wish I had.”

Lyss had her suspicions that Loras Tyrell was dead, but did not want to make it true by speaking her thoughts.

“To be a good queen is to know your people. Do not be a distant stranger to them. Laugh with them, eat with them, and show them your compassion. Earn their respect. Make them love you enough they would lay down their lives fighting under your banners. Nobody loved Mad King Aerys, and he died, overthrown by his own people. Do not make the mistakes that he did.”

“Thank you, Alyssea.” Jeyne had listened in rapt silence. “Thank you.”

Lyss could feel the weight of her simple words, and knew she meant it.

“To friends,” she said, “my name is Lyss.”

Chapter Text

Not knowing what else to do, Lyss walked around Riverrun. She went to the pretty rose garden. Most of the flowers had lost their petals in the storm.

She could see no sign of blue winter roses growing here, though there were red roses in their hundreds.

Disheartened, Lyss left the roses. She just wanted to know where the ones hidden in her cloak had come from. They had been swept away with the dust, but Lyss was still unsettled.

Robb seemed distant at the dinner table, and Lord Edmure surly, but Lame Lothar Frey made up for them both. He was the model of courtesy, reminiscing warmly about Lord Hoster, offering Catelyn gentle condolences on the loss of Bran and Rickon. He told Lyss how sorry he was when news of Stannis’s disappearance had reached the Twins. He praised Edmure for the victory at Stone Mill, and thanked Robb for the "swift justice" upon Rickard Karstark.

Lothar's bastard brother Walder Rivers was another matter; a harsh sour man with old Lord Walder's suspicious face, he spoke but seldom and devoted most of his attention to the meat and mead that was set before him.

And then the empty conversations were over, and the Westerling excused themselves. The remains of the meal were cleared away, and Lothar Frey cleared his throat.

“Before we turn to the business that brings us here, there is another matter,” he said solemnly. “A grave matter, I fear. I had hoped it would not fall to me to bring you these tidings, but it seems I must. My lord father has had a letter from his grandsons.”

The fosterlings, Lyss remembered. The fosterlings in Winterfell. She looked over and saw Catelyn’s face. It was a mixture of horror and dismay.

“The grandsons at Winterfell?” She asked eventually. “My wards?”

"Walder and Walder, yes,” Lothar nodded. “But they are presently at the Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a battle. Winterfell is burned.”

“Burned.” Lyss whispered. The word tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Burned?” Robb's voice was incredulous.

“Your northern lords tried to retake it from the ironmen. When Theon Greyjoy saw that his prize was lost, he put the castle to the torch.”

“We have heard naught of any battle,” the Blackfish said, leaning forward, closer to Lame Lothar.

“My nephews are young, I grant you, but they were there. Big Walder wrote the letter, though his cousin signed as well. It was a bloody bit of business, by their account. Your castellan was slain; Ser Rodrik, that was his name?”

Lyss pictured Storm’s End burning on its windswept cliff, the Red Keep littered with the bodies of people she had once known.

“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” Robb said numbly. “What of our other people?”

“The ironmen put many of them to the sword, I fear.”

Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.
But Lyss saw. She would do no less if Storm’s End ever fell. And if it did, she vowed she would fall alongside it, protecting her the castle of her father’s father’s father. She wanted nothing more than to leave Riverrun for home.

“Please, not all,” Catelyn said. “Not all.”

No,” said Lame Lothar. "The women and children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton's.”

“Bolton's son?” Robb's voice was strained.

Walder Rivers spoke up. “A bastard son, I believe.”

“Not Ramsay Snow? Does Lord Roose have another bastard?” Robb scowled. “This Ramsay was a monster and a murderer, and he died a coward. Or so I was told.”

Lyss had never heard of Ramsay Snow, but it seemed he had returned to life, and redeemed himself as well.

“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton's who saved the women of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain.”

“Theon," Robb said suddenly. “What happened to Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?”

Lame Lothar spread his hands. "That I cannot say, Your Grace. Walder and Walder made no mention of his fate. Perhaps Lord Bolton might know, if he has had word from this son of his.”

“We will be certain to ask him,” Ser Brynden said.

“You are all distraught, I see. I am sorry to have brought you such fresh grief,” Lothar Frey made a sympathetic face. “Perhaps we should adjourn until the morrow. Our business can wait until you have composed yourselves.”

“No.” Robb said firmly. “I want the matter settled.”

Lord Edmure nodded. “As do I. Do you have an answer to our offer, my lord?”

“That is the reason I came,” Lothar smiled. “My lord father bids me tell Your Grace that he will agree to this new marriage alliance between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North, upon the condition that you apologise for the insult done to House Frey.”

An apology was a small enough price to pay, but Lyss misliked this petty condition of Lord Walder Frey's at once.

“I am pleased,” Robb said cautiously. “It was never my wish to cause this rift between us, Lothar. The Freys have fought valiantly for my cause. I would have them at my side once more.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace. As you accept these terms, I am instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years. Roslin is my lord father's youngest daughter by Lady Bethany of House Rosby, his sixth wife. She has a gentle nature and a gift for music.”

Edmure shifted in his seat. “Might not it be better if I first met—“

“You'll meet when you're wed,” Walder Rivers said curtly. “Unless Lord Tully feels a need to count her teeth first?”

Edmure kept his temper, but Lyss saw his angry eyes. “I will take your word so far as her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze upon her face first.”

“You must accept her now, my lord,” Walder Rivers spoke again. “Else my
father's offer is withdrawn.”

Lame Lothar clasped his hands on the table. “My brother has a soldier's bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord father's wish that this marriage take place at once.”

“At once?” Edmure sounded so unhappy that Lyss had the unworthy thought he had perhaps been entertaining notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.

“Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a war?” Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.

“Scarcely,” said Lothar. “That is why he insists that the marriage take place now, ser. Men die in war, even men who are young and strong. What would become of our alliance if Lord Tully should die before he took Rosin to bride? And there is my father’s age to consider as well. He is past ninety, and it would put his noble heart at peace if he could see his dear Roslin safely wed before the gods take him, so he might die with the knowledge that the girl has a strong husband to cherish and protect her.

“Accept the deal, Lord Edmure,” Lyss spoke for the first time since supper. “After all, we all want Lord Walder to die happy.” She kept her face carefully expressionless.

“Aye, and my grandfather has come to mislike lengthy betrothals,” bastard Walder agreed, adding, “I cannot imagine why.”

Robb shot him a chilling look. “I take your meaning, Rivers. Please excuse us.”

Lyss stood, but before she could leave the table Lame Lothar Frey called out to her.

“My queen, would you spare a moment?”

“Of course.” Lyss did not sit back down, only rested her pale hands on the back of her chair.

Lothar waited until Ser Brynden had closed the door to the audience chamber.

“At the Twins, we all admire how you offered to be bridesmaid to my sister Lady Roslin.”

Lyss watched him carefully. His smile was too relaxed, his movements too rigid.

“Is that all?”

“No,” Lothar said hurriedly.

She had thought not.

“No,” he said again. “I am telling you, it is not necessary for you to attend. Your Grace, you do not have to serve upon sweet Roslin. You have done us no slight.”

“Ah,” Lyss said delicately, looking at between Lothar and Walder both. “I had thought it would please my lord of the crossing.”

“It has, and greatly,” Lothar nodded agreeably. “Only we do not wish for you to have to wait on my sister.”

“I will go, Lothar Frey. I am going to support Robb Stark. I know he would do the same for me.”

Lothar stood abruptly. “Your Grace, th-“

“Enough,” Lyss said coldly. She had not raised her voice, yet Lothar fell silent. “I am going, and you cannot change my mind on this.”

She stalked away to the audience chamber, and pulled the door open.

A heated discussion had just taken place. Lyss wouldn’t be able tell by the way they acted courteous to each other, but Lord Edmure’s eyes were angry once more.

“What did Lame Lothar want?” Ser Brynden asked in a voice of forced calm.

“He tried to stop me from going to the wedding,” Lyss said measuredly.

“And what did you say?” Catelyn was quieter than her uncle.

“I told him I was going. I want to know why he asked me to stop.”

🐦‍⬛
⬇️
🎩

Two days later, Cersei made her way to the council meeting. She wore her usual opulent clothing. As a queen should do.

Cersei waited for her twisted little dwarf brother to arrive.

Most certainly he had been drinking last night, she thought spitefully.

Finally, he arrived, clutching a rolled up piece of paper.

“Here you go Father,” he said, handing the letter to Lord Tywin. “I resisted the urge to open it, and read all your secrets. Not that you have any,” he added as an afterthought.

Cersei wanted nothing more than to rip off his overblown head.

Her father broke the seal and scanned through the letter. Cersei saw something flash through his pale eyes as he put the letter on the table.

“My granddaughter is attending the Red Wedding. Nothing Lothar Frey can do will change her mind.”

“She was always like that,” Cersei said bitterly. “Once Alyssea had an idea, it would take much persuasion to let her leave it. Robert was much the same.”

“You can’t let her go,” Maester Pycelle said.

Stupid old fool, Cersei thought. “How do you propose we stop my daughter?” She asked scathingly. Maester Pycelle did not reply.

“Perhaps this is a good thing,” Lord Tywin spoke clearly.

“You cannot mean that!” Cersei told him angrily, at the same time Tyrion echoed, “A good thing?”

“We will give the Freys direct orders not to harm a hair on her head. They will return Alyssea back to us, and she will have learned a hard lesson about life. In our hands again, she will not resist, and her men will become ours.”

“Those men are loyal to her, Father.” Tyrion dismissed his idea. “They will never join our ranks.”

“They will,” Tywin cast his icy gaze down on Cersei’s stunted little brother. “They will be leaderless. That will create confusion. In war, a confused enemy is as good as a dead one.”

Chapter Text

“When do we leave?” Lyss asked, walking from the audience chamber arm-in-arm with Robb.

“Tomorrow,” he replied. “I want to get this over and done with.”

“I do too,” she agreed. “I want to watch the waves at Storm’s End again.”

“And so you shall.”

They turned into the courtyard. Grey Wind had been waiting patiently by their corridor, and immediately followed at Robb’s side.

“An apology,” Lyss said, changing the topic back to what was on both their minds. “He demands an apology.”

“I did not believe he will take my apology and my uncle for his daughter,” Robb shook his head. “But I don’t know why. If Lord Walder had other requests, he would have let Lame Lothar know them.”

They rounded the corner into a deserted corridor.

“Requests,” Lyss said with disgust. “You are his liege lord and king. You should be the one who requests.”

“I have wronged him, Lyss.”

“He should accept that gracefully,” she replied, repeating, “you are his liege lord.”

“I know,” Robb said in a cracked voice. “But I need him.”

Lyss fell silent, remembering what she had told Jeyne, not be a distant stranger. She had been a distant stranger to her own faithful stormlords. And she was scared.

“Me too,” Robb confessed, when she told him her fears. “Me too.”

That morning, Jeyne came ashen faces and trembling to Lyss’s chamber. Lyss sat her down in one of the chairs beside the unlit fireplace.

“What’s wrong?”

“I had a dream,” Jeyne stared at her fingers, which were clenched in her lap. “A horrible dream. There was blood, blood everywhere. I could see it rushing past in a river. There was a white dress, spattered with red.”

“It was a dream,” Lyss said comfortingly. “Nothing more.”

“No,” Jeyne raised her eyes. “No, it wasn’t. My mother’s grandmother was a witch in Lannisport. She dealt in herbs and potions, but she had the gift of second sight.”

Uneasiness rippled through the quiet room.

“I have had dreams such as this before.”

Lyss stood, taking Jeyne’s hands and drawing the young queen up.

“It was a dream,” Lyss said again, but with a sharp edge to her voice. “Nothing more.”

“I pray that you are right.” Jeyne’s pale fingers clutched Lyss’s fingers like a lifeline, and a tears started falling down her cheeks.

“It was a dream. You’re alright now,” Lyss said, drawing Jeyne in. She stroked her hair soothingly, as she once did to Myrcella. Jeyne left shortly after, leaving Lyss on her own.

It was a grey and drizzly afternoon. Lyss swung herself into her saddle. Edric was quietly beside her, and she could see her other knights dotted around the courtyard.

Robb finished bidding Jeyne goodbye, and mounted. The portcullis was raised, and they set off.

Riverrun had barely left Lyss’s sight when Jeyne came galloping back out. Robb wheeled his horse round and spoke softly to his queen. Grey Wind prowled around his mount’s hooves, shaking the water from his coat and baring his teeth at the rain. Finally, Robb sent Jeyne back to Riverrun, with a dozen men as a guard.

“Queen Jeyne has a loving heart, I see,” Lame Lothar Frey said. He was not far from Lyss and she could hear all of what he said to Catelyn. “Not unlike my own sisters. Why, I would wager a guess that even now Roslin is dancing round the Twins chanting 'Lady Tully, Lady Tully, Lady Roslin Tully.’ By the morrow she'll be holding swatches of Riverrun red-and blue her cheek to picture how she'll look in her bride's cloak.” He turned in the saddle to smile at Edmure. “But you are strangely quiet Lord Tully. How do you feel, I wonder?”

“Much as I did at the Stone Mill just before the warhorns sounded,” Edmure said, only half in jest.

Lothar gave a good-natured laugh. “Let us pray your marriage ends as happily, my lord.”

It did not have to end in happiness, not truly. As long as Walder Frey had his marriage, all would be well. Lyss suspected he did not care of his daughter was happy or not.

The column set off again. Lyss pressed her heels to her horse and drew her yellow hood over her head as the rain grew heavier. There were near thirty five hundred people, and there was always noise. Muffled conversations, the dull clamour of hooves on stone.

The rain continued through the afternoon, and well into the night. Lyss and Catelyn shared a spacey pavilion.

She tried to relax, but sleep would not come. Lyss pulled her cloak back on and went outside. The night was cloudy as the day. The rain had lessened to a misty drizzle. It caught in Lyss’s hair like morning dew to spiderwebs. She saw few people, which suited her fine.

“Who’s there?” A voice called to her. Lyss turned, and saw a watchman hidden amidst the shadows. She pulled her hood down.

“It is I,” she said.

The watchman bowed his head. “It is not safe out there, m’lady. Outlaws are close at hand.”

“Good,” Lyss stated blithely. “I have always wanted to meet one.”

She left the camp, and drifted between the trees as the forest woke around her. She saw the orange flash of a wild fox, not two feet in front of her.

When Lyss returned, it was a different guard patrolling the area. She flitted through the camp and reached the shared pavilion.

Catelyn was sleeping silently. Not wishing to disturb her, Lyss took her boots off and padded to her makeshift bed.

The night had been dry enough and the morning bore no rain, but by midday the rain had become faster and heavier. Lyss was cold and wet.

The roads turned to mud and the rivers rose for the second time that month. Conversations slowly died out, until people only spoke if they had to. There was the constant patter of rain dripping down from leaves to the puddles below.

Lyss sat by the small brazier in her pavilion, warming herself. She hung her clothes up over it, and sat huddled in nothing but her blue cloak. Lyss was glad she had packed it.

Catelyn was with her brother Edmure. Lyss did not know when she would return. She snapped a stick from the small pile by her side and poked at the fire. When the fire had been properly stoked, Lyss pushed it into the flames and watched as it set alight.

The next few days were as wet as the sea. Not even the Whispering Wood sheltered them fully from the downpour. Lyss longed for Storm’s End more with each passing hour.

Five days later, their scouts rode back to warn them that the rising waters had washed out the wooden bridge at Fairmarket.

Galbart Glover and two of his bolder men had tried swimming their mounts across the turbulent Blue Fork at Ramsford. Two of the horses had been swept under and drowned, and one of the riders; Glover himself managed to cling to a rock until they could pull him in.

“The river hasn't run this high since spring,” Catelyn said. “And if this rain keeps falling, it will go higher yet. There is a bridge further upstream, near Oldstones.”

“It’s gone, my lady,” Galbart Glover said. “Washed away, even before the one at Fairmarket.”

Robb looked to Catelyn. “Is there another bridge?”

“No. And the fords will be impassable.”

Lyss felt a sense of relief, though she could not say why.

“If we cannot cross the Blue Fork, we’ll have to go around it, through Sevenstreams and Hag's Mire,” Catelyn continued.

“Bogs and bad roads, or none at all,”warned Lord Edmure. “The going will be slow, but we'll get there, I suppose.”

“Lord Walder will wait, I'm sure,” Robb said.“Lothar sent him a bird from Riverrun, he knows we are coming.”

Lyss had seen him climb the stairs to the maester’s turret, where all the ravens waited to fly to each corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Yes, but the man is prickly, and suspicious by nature.” Catelyn sighed softly. “He may take this delay as a deliberate insult.”

“Very well, I'll beg his pardon for our tardiness as well. A sorry king I'll be, apologizing with every second breath.”Robb made a wry face. “I hope Bolton got across the Trident before the rains began.
The kingsroad runs straight north, he'll have an easy march. Even afoot, he should reach the Twins before us.”

Lord Roose was attending Edmure Tully’s wedding as well, coming from the Harrenhal way.

“And when you've joined his men to yours and seen my brother married, what then”Catelyn asked him.

“North.” Robb said, scratching Grey Wind behind an ear as Lyss thought, south.

“By the causeway? Against Moat Cailin?”

Lyss had heard great tales of the impassable bogs and lands of House Reed.

Robb smiled enigmatically. “That's one way to go,” he said, and Lyss knew from his tone that he would say no more.

After a slow, miserable week of constant rain, they reached Oldstones.

They made camp upon the hill overlooking the Blue Fork, within a ruined stronghold of the ancient river kings.

Its foundations remained amongst the weeds to show where the walls and keeps had stood, but the local smallfolk had long ago made off with most of the stones to raise their barns and septs and holdfasts.

Yet in the center of what once would have been the castle's yard, a great carved sepulcher still rested, half hidden in waist-high brown grass amongst a stand of ash.
The lid of the sepulcher had been carved into a likeness of the man whose bones lay beneath, but the harrowing rain and bitter wind had done their work.

The king had worn a beard, Lyss could see, but otherwise his face was smooth and featureless, with only vague suggestions of a mouth, a nose, eyes, and the crown about the temples.

His hands folded over the shaft of a stone warhammer that lay upon his chest. Lyss was reminded painfully of her father, and the mighty hammer he favoured.

Once the it would have been carved with runes that told its name and history, but the centuries had worn them away.

The stone itself was cracked and crumbling at the corners, discolored here and there by spreading white splotches of lichen, while wild roses crept up over the king's feet almost to his chest. Lyss looked at it, drinking in every detail.

“This castle,” she asked quietly to Catelyn, who had joined her, “is it Oldstones?”

“It is,” Catelyn replied. “Though doubtless it had some other name when it was still a hall of kings.”

Goosebumps ran up her arms. Lyss had sung Jenny’s song many times, but she had never been to the castle.

Later, she sat on an old ruined wall at the very back of Oldstones. Everyone else was camped round the front of the hill.

If the sky wasn’t so cloudy, she would’ve seen the sunset colours. Lyss heard soft footsteps, and turned to see Robb approaching her wall.

“Hello,” Lyss said.

Grey Wind waited patiently below as his master climbed the crumbly steps to where Lyss sat cross-legged. When Robb got to the top, he swung his legs around to face the distant river. They sat in companionable silence. Lyss was glad he had came. She had barely seen Robb the whole journey.

Lyss began to sing.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most.”

Her clear voice cut across the rippling wildflowers and light mizzle. Robb joined in.

“The ones who’d been gone for so very long
She couldn’t remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.”

The sad song twisted through the air, making the ancient stones come alive again.

“And she never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave.”

Robb put his hand out, and Lyss took it. He spun her around on the crumbling, damp, old stones, like Jenny from the song.

“They danced through the day, and into the night
Through the snow that swept through the hall
Through winter, to summer, and winter again
Til the walls did crumble and fall.”

Their feet moved effortlessly in time to the flowing dance along the wall top.

“And she never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave.”

The song drew to an end, and they sat again. It had started to grow truly dark.

Chapter Text

Day after day of endless rain chased them down the roads. Lyss had grown irritated, and started snapping at people, even Edric.

She did not recognise the landscape from when her father’s court travelled north. Lyss drove her horse down twisting lanes, and was careful for it not to slip. The last thing she wanted was for herself and her mount to be injured, or worse. Two days back reports came of a northman whose horse had fallen in the mud. The rider was thrown, and landed with a broken neck.

The night before they arrived at the Twins, Lyss was awoken by Grey Wind’s howling. She looked around and saw Catelyn was gone. Lyss felt a cold shiver as she left the comforting warmth of her furs. She found her pale blue cloak and ducked outside.

Catelyn was stood outside, her face tipped up to the heavens. The rain had stopped and the clouds had disappeared, showing a fiery sky of stars. The moon was just shy of being full. It was glowing with a strange and wonderful colour. Blue, it was, a cold and wintry pale blue. Another piercing cry from Robb’s direwolf split the silence.

Other people were up, basking in the midnight phenomenon. The only sound was Grey Wind, singing his melancholy lament.

“It is a rare sight,” Catelyn said hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ned told me about these moons. Winter Moons, he called them. Seeing one would foretell a cold winter.”

She turned to Lyss. “A single one is few and far between, but three in a year…that is unheard of.”

A wind started, chilling Lyss to the bone. She drew her cloak tighter and lifted the flap to their pavilion.

A child sized figure sat on her bed. Lyss faltered in the middle of the pavilion, and turned back to see if Catelyn was behind her. She wasn’t, she was still outside in the cold.

The child raised her eyes and stared at Lyss, and she saw she was not a child, but a small adult.

The thing on her bed stared through golden eyes. Her hair was dark, and bound with talismans of stone, dragonglass and feather. Lyss stood stock-still as the figure reached long fingers around back, and drew a pendant from her tunic. It was the same loop-and-twist pattern as the one Lyss was wearing, but the colour was different. Instead of silver, it was light blue and held no coloured stones.

Almost mechanically, Lyss unclasped the chain around her neck, and held it to out. The person shook her head.

“No,” she said. “You must keep it close.”

“What are you doing here?” Lyss asked, finding her voice again.

“Your hand,” the person extended her own.

She stretched her arm out hesitantly. The woman ran her finger along Lyss’s palm. Her touch was icy. Lyss flinched away, but the woman grasped her hand tight.

“I will see you again,” she withdrew her hand. “I am sorry.”

The small woman turned and left. Not a second later, Lyss heard the familiar patter of rain landing on the roof of her pavilion, and suddenly Catelyn was beside her.

“It is late,” she said. “Try to sleep again, before we leave again on the morrow.”

They heard the Green Fork before they saw it. The rain pummelled her hood as she watched the murky green waters swirl past.

As they neared the Twins, Robb donned his crown. Lyss rode with him, Catelyn, and Lord Edmure at the head of the column. Ser Raynald Westerling bore the banner, the direwolf of Stark on its ice-white field.

The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy grey apparitions that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the center of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The persistent rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.

Across the turbulent waters, Lyss saw several thousand men encamped around the eastern castle, their banners hanging limply from the downpour.

The rain made it impossible to distinguish colours and symbols. Most were grey. it seemed to her, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey.

“Tread lightly here, Robb,” Catelyn warned her son. “Lord Walder has a thin skin and a sharp tongue, and some of these sons of his will doubtless take after their father. You must not let yourself be provoked.”

Lyss half listened as she wrung her hair. The rain had started to soak through her hood, lowering her spirits even further.

”I know the Freys, Mother. I know how much I wronged them, and how much I need them. I shall be as sweet as a septon.”

“If we are offered refreshment when we arrive, on no account refuse. Take what is offered, and eat and drink where all can see. If nothing is offered, ask for bread and cheese and a cup of wine.”

“I'm more wet than hungry.”

Guest right, Lyss thought, and she was proven correct.

“Robb, listen to me. Once you have eaten of his bread and salt, you have the guest right, and the laws of hospitality protect you beneath his roof.”

She would feel less unease if they were under protection, but Robb was not convinced.

“I have an army to protect me, Mother. I don't need to trust in bread and salt. But if it pleases Lord Walder to serve me stewed crow smothered in maggots, I'll eat it and ask for a second bowl.”

As they drew nearer, Lyss saw smoke curling up, joining the dreariness of the sky.

Four Freys rode out from the western gatehouse, wrapped in heavy cloaks of thick grey wool. Lyss recognized Ser Ryman, son of the late Ser Stevron, Lord Walder's firstborn. The other three were likely his own sons, Lord Walder's great grandsons. Lord Edmure named them, and Lyss was grateful.

“Edwyn is eldest, the pale slender man with the constipated look. The wiry one with the beard is Black Walder, a nasty bit of business. Petyr is on the bay, the lad with the unfortunate face. Petyr Pimple, his brothers call him. Only a year or two older than Robb, but Lord Walder married him off at ten to a woman thrice his age.” He sighed miserably. “Gods, I hope Roslin doesn't take after him.”

They halted to let their hosts come to them. Robb's banner drooped on its staff, and the steady sound of rainfall mingled with the rush of the swollen Green Fork on their right.

Grey Wind edged forward, tail stiff, watching through slitted eyes of dark gold. When the Freys were a half-dozen yards away Catelyn heard him growl, a deep rumble that seemed almost at one with the river. Robb looked startled by his direwolf’s behaviour.

“Grey Wind, to me. To me!”

Instead, he leapt forwards, snarling. Ryman's palfrey shied off with a whinny of fear, and Petyr Pimple's reared and threw him. Only Black Walder kept his mount in hand. He reached for the hilt of his sword.

“No!” Robb was shouting now. “Grey Wind, here. Here.” Lyss spurred between the direwolf and the horses. Mud spattered from the hooves of her horse as she cut in front of Grey Wind. The wolf veered away, and only then seemed to hear Robb calling.

“Is this how a Stark makes amends?” Black Walder cried, his sword still in his hand. “A poor greeting I call it, to set your wolf upon us. Is this why you've come?”

Ser Ryman had dismounted to help Petyr Pimple back to his feet. He was muddy, but unhurt.

“I've come to make my apology for the wrong I did your House, and to see my uncle wed.” Robb swung down from the saddle. “Petyr, take my horse. Yours is almost back to the stable already.”

Petyr looked to his father and said, “I can ride behind one of my brothers.”

Lyss turned her horse, so she was shoulder-to-shoulder with Robb.

“You come late,” Ser Ryman declared accusingly.

“The rains delayed us," said Robb. "I sent a bird.”

“I do not see the woman.”

He meant Jeyne Westerling, and everyone knew.

“Queen Jeyne was weary after so much travel, sers,” Robb said unfalteringly. “No doubt she will be pleased to visit when times are more settled.”

“My grandfather will be displeased.” Though Black Walder had sheathed his sword, his tone was no friendlier. “I’ve told him much of the lady, and he wished to behold her with his own eyes.”

Edwyn cleared his throat. “We have chambers prepared for you in the Water Tower, Your Grace,” he told his king with careful courtesy, “as well as for your highest companions. Your lords bannermen are also welcome to shelter under our roof and partake of the wedding feast.”

“And our men?” Robb asked.

“My lord grandfather regrets that he cannot feed nor house so large a host. Nonetheless, your men shall not be neglected. If they will cross and set up their camp beside our own, we will bring out enough casks of wine and ale for all to drink the health of Lord Edmure and his bride. We have thrown up three great feast tents on the far bank, to provide them with some shelter from the rains.”

Lyss would sent her six to the tents, but would make certain her brother had quarters in the castle.

“Your lord father is most kind. My men will thank him. They have had a long wet ride.”
Edmure Tully edged his horse forward. “When shall I meet my betrothed?”

“She waits for you within,” promised Edwyn Frey. “You will forgive her if she seems shy, I know. She has been awaiting this day most anxiously, poor maid. But perhaps we might continue this out of the rain?”

“Certainly.” Ser Ryman mounted up again, pulling Petyr Pimple up behind him. “If you would follow me, my lord father awaits.”

He turned the palfrey's head back toward the Twins.

Lyss gazed around, eagerly taking in her surroundings as they passed into the Twin Towers. Grey Wind, however, balked in the middle of the drawbridge, shook the rain off, and howled at the portcullis.

Robb whistled impatiently. “Grey Wind. What is it? Grey Wind, with me.”

But the direwolf only bared his teeth.

He does not like this place, Lyss thought.

Robb had to crouch and speak softy to the wolf before he would pass beneath the portcullis.

By then Lame Lothar and Walder Rivers had come up. "It’s the sound of the water he fears,” Walder Rivers said. “Beasts know to avoid the river in a flood.”

“A dry kennel and a leg of mutton will see him right again,” Lothar said cheerfully. “Shall I summon our master of hounds?”

“He's a direwolf, not a dog,” Robb said carefully, “and dangerous to men he does not trust. Ser Raynald, stay with him. I won't take him into Lord Walder's hall like this.”

Gout and brittle bones had clearly taken their toll of old Walder Frey. They found him propped up in his high seat with a cushion beneath him and an ermine robe across his lap.

His chair was black oak, its back carved into the semblance of two stout towers joined by an arched bridge, so massive that its embrace turned the old man into a grotesque child.

His bald head, spotted with age, thrust out from his scrawny shoulders on a long pink neck. Loose skin dangled beneath his receding chin, his eyes were runny and clouded, and his toothless mouth moved constantly, sucking at the empty air.

Lyss was cold, wet, and tired. She wanted nothing more than to climb the twisting staircase and sleep.

The eighth Lady Frey stood beside Lord Walder's high seat. At his feet sat a somewhat younger version of himself, a stooped thin man of fifty whose costly garb of blue wool and grey satin was strangely accented by a crown and collar ornamented with tiny brass bells. The likeness between him and his lord was striking, save for their eyes; Lord Frey's small, dim, and suspicious, the other's large, amiable, and vacant.

Lyss wondered if the fool’s crown was meant as mockery for Robb. It was something she would not dare ask, particularly under their circumstances.

Frey sons, daughters, children, grandchildren, husbands, wives, and servants crowded the rest of the hall. But it was the old man who spoke.

“You will forgive me if I do not kneel, I know. My legs no longer work as they did.” He eyed Robb’s crown.

“Some would say it's a poor king who crowns himself with bronze, Your Grace.”

“Bronze and iron are stronger than gold and silver,” Robb answered. “The old Kings of Winter wore such a sword-crown.”

“Small good it did them when the dragons came.”

That seemed to please the lackwit, who bobbed his head from side to side, jingling crown and collar.

“Sire,” Lord Walder said, "forgive my Aegon the noise. He has less wits than a crannogman, and he's never met a king before. One of Stevron's boys. We call him Jinglebell.”

“Ser Stevron mentioned him,” Robb said, smiling tightly.

Lord Walder turned to Catelyn. “Well, Lady Catelyn, I see you have returned to us. And young Ser Edmure, the victor of the Stone Mill. Lord Tully now, I'll need to remember that. You're the fifth Lord Tully I've known. I outlived the other four. Your bride's about here somewhere.”

He directed his gaze to Lyss. “My lady queen,” he said. “I did not expect to see you under my roof.”

“Do you have a problem with my presence?” Lyss asked, keeping her voice light.

“Why should I?” Lord Walder drew his cracked lips in a grotesque smile.

“Your son Lothar asked me to stay at Riverrun. I thought perhaps there was a reason.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Not at all. I am pleased you troubled yourself to journey in the rain.” Lord Walder addressed Lord Edmure again. “I suppose you want to look at Roslin?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Then you'll have it. But clothed. She's a modest girl, and a maid. You won't see her naked till the bedding." Lord Walder cackled. “Soon enough, soon enough."

He craned his head about. “Benfrey, go and fetch your sister. Be quick about it, Lord Tully's come all the way from Riverrun.”

A young knight in a quartered surcoat bowed and took his leave, and the old man turned back to Robb.

“And where's your bride, sire? The fair Queen Jeyne. A Westerling of the Crag, I'm told.”

“I left her at Riverrun, my lord. She was too weary for more travel, as we told Ser Ryman.”

“That makes me grievous sad. I wanted to behold her with mine own weak eyes. We all did. Isn't that so, my lady?”

Pale wispy Lady Frey seemed startled that she would be called upon to speak.

“Y-yes, my lord. We all so wanted to pay homage to Queen Jeyne. She must be fair to look on.”

“She is most fair, my lady.” There was an icy stillness in Robb's voice.

The old man either did not hear it or refused to acknowledge it.

“Fairer than my own get? Elsewise how could her face and form have made the King's Grace forget his solemn promise.”

Robb suffered the rebuke with dignity.

“No words can set that right, I know, but I have come to make my apologies for the wrong I did your House, and to beg for your forgiveness, my lord.”

Lyss waited patiently, as voices spoke around her. Her opinion was not needed; this was not her kingdom, and these were not her people. It was not her place. She fell into happy thought of her own lands, until Catelyn’s voice cut her reverie.

“My lord,” she called. “Some food would be most welcome. We have ridden many leagues in the rain.”

“Food,” Lord Walder said. “A loaf of bread, a bite of cheese, mayhaps a sausage.”

“Some wine to wash it down," Robb said. “And salt.”

“Bread and salt. Of course, of course.”

The old man clapped his hands together, and servants came into the hall, bearing flagons of wine and trays of bread, cheese, and butter.

Lord Walder took a cup of red himself, and raised it high with a withered hand.

“My guests,” he said. “My honored guests. Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” Robb replied. Lyss echoed him, along with Lord Edmure, Catelyn, Greation, Ser Marq Piper, and all the rest.

Lyss tasted the wine and nibbled at some bread, and felt much the better for it. Now we should be safe, she thought.

A young Frey girl led Lyss to her chambers. She was reminded of Sansa Stark guiding her along the halls of Winterfell.

Her room was lavish, and similar to her ones in Riverrun. Before the girl left, Lyss stopped her.

“Be certain my brother Edric Storm has a room in the castle,” she said, “and get someone to bring my men up.”

The Frey curtsied and left. Lyss was under guest right, but she would feel safer guarded by her own people.

Chapter Text

Lyss was woken by a serving girl.
“Your Grace, you must rise,” she said. “Roslin will need you.”

“What is your name?”

“Lia, my lady. You have to be up before the others come.”

The others turned out to be two more serving girls. One bore an intricate box, and the other a basket of flowers.

Lia washed Lyss’s hair in lukewarm water before lacing her into the undergown. It was pristine white silk, the colour of fresh fallen snow. Her bodice was stiff, and tightly fitted. It matched Lyss’s green eyes.

One of the girls made to remove her Winter’s Knot pendant, but Lyss stopped her. She felt a cold chill as she remembered the small woman, and all that had been said.

The other serving girl handed Lia the box, and she set it on a table. Lia drew out a string of emeralds and pearls, and wove it through Lyss’s hair. She twisted it up and fastened it with hair pins.

Lia put flowers in her hair. Their scent was lovely. It reminded Lyss of the rose garden in Riverrun.

Lia passed her a bouquet of white roses. Their stalks were long and vibrant green. Lyss thumbed through them, and saw a flash of red. A single red rose sat innocently in the middle of the white ones.

Lyss blinked, and the crimson disappeared. The only colour of her flowers was white.

As she did not know the way, Lia led her to Roslin’s chambers. When Lyss entered, she saw a Frey sister sat with Roslin. She recognised her as one of the girls beside Lord Walder’s chair yesterday, but did not recall her name. She later found out it was Arwyn.

Lady Roslin was crying. She cried as Arwyn gently scrubbed her with lavender soap. She cried as Lyss laced her bridal gown and brushed her hair.

Lyss had never dressed another person before, but she managed well enough. Roslin was a gorgeous bride. The green of Lyss and Arwyn’s bodices set off the unfiltered white of her bridal gown. It flowed from her waist in pearly waves, sweeping the stone floor. Her maiden cloak was long enough to cover the back of her skirt. It was grey and blue, and embroidered with the Frey double towers.

Arwyn draped a veil of her sister’s face. Lyss sat on the edge of the bed, subconsciously tapping her foot. Amidst the glowing white of Roslin’s attire, she saw a red light.

It was just a ruby. Roslin straightened her necklace. It had rainbow coloured stones for each of the seven gods.

Lyss took Arwyn’s hand and rose from the bed. She noticed the other girl’s hand was shaking slightly, and her face was pale. The wedding bells started to ring.

There was a knock, and Ser Perwyn Frey entered. As Lord Walder could barely walk, Roslin’s eldest full brother would escort her to Edmure Tully.

They made their way down to the Sept, Roslin always in front and Lyss and Arwyn always behind. Someone opened the double doors for them.

Only the highborn attended the wedding. Lord Walder sat whilst everyone else around him stood for the entrance of the bride. Lyss saw Robb and Catelyn, just along from Lord Walder.

Faces Lyss recognised and faces she did not watched Roslin pass by them. Her tears were obscured by the gauzy veil.

Lord Edmure stood by the Septon. Ser Perwyn kissed his sister’s veiled cheek before retreating to the wooden benches to sit next to his father.

Lyss sat with Arwyn while they waited for the ceremony to be over. There was singing and prayers. The Septon called for the Seven’s blessing upon Lord Edmure and Lady Roslin.

She remembered the northern wedding customs. Sansa had told her about them on the journey south, when she was still lost in her dreams. There was no singing or praying to the old gods in their ancient marital rituals.

Southern weddings were much longer, but Lyss sat straight and smiled the whole way through.

Then Ser Perwyn rose again, and unhooked Roslin’s maiden cloak, and stepped aside to let Lord Edmure fasten his House cloak on.

“With this kiss I pledge you to be my lady wife,” Edmure said tenderly.

“With this kiss I pledge you to be my lord husband,” Roslin echoed.

They kissed, while the Septon cast rainbow light through his crystal.

It was past midday by the time Lyss followed Lady Tully out of the Sept. Arwyn was again on her left as they made their way to the Great Hall. Any wedding, north or south, was preceded by a feast.

Lyss was sat between Fair Walda and Wendel Frey, who was the closest Frey son to her age. Robb sat beside Fair Walda and Alyx Frey.

Lyss suspected Lord Walder was hoping for his son Wendel to marry her, but he would be disappointed. Lyss would start thinking about betrothal only when the war was won.

There were musicians playing, but it hurt her head to listen to them. Lord Walder must be deaf as stone to call this music, she thought. Lyss curled her fingers tightly around her goblet.

Outside the rain still fell but inside the air was thick and hot. A fire roared in the hearth and rows of torches burned from iron sconces on the walls. Lyss looked along the benches until she spotted Edric sat with her six knights. She caught his eye, and he smiled to her.

Lyss barely spoke to Wendel Frey, and only picked at her food.

When the courses were served, she did the traditional dance with Arwyn. Lyss wished she could leave immediately for Storm’s End, but she knew it was not an option. For want of something to do, she danced a while longer.

To her surprise, Lyss found herself relaxing. The marriage was over and done, Lord Walder’s wounds had been healed, and there was no reason for them to reopen bleed again.

Greatjon Umber was already drunken. He had outdrank two of Lord Walder’s sons -Ser Whalen and Merrett Frey- under the table, and by the looks of it, Petyr Pimple was about to join his brothers. Lyss went back to the dais and sat beside Catelyn. She watched with mild interest as Petyr slumped onto the table.

The Greatjon stood and began belting out ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’ The fiddlers, drummers, and flutists had taken up what sounded like ‘Flowers of Spring,’ which went with Lord Umber’s song like fire and ice. Lord Bolton, who had been on Catelyn’s other side muttered something Lyss did not hear over the cacophony and left.

A few minutes later, Robb took his empty seat, and leant over to talk to Ser Ryman.

“I will miss you when you leave for the south,” Catelyn said unexpectedly.

Lyss smiled. “I will miss you too.”

She meant it; Catelyn had been more a mother to her than Cersei, who had shut her away since her brother’s murder.

Ser Ryman left, and Robb turned to Catelyn.

“Would you care for a dance, Mother?”

“Thank you, but no,” Catelyn replied. “No doubt one of Lord Walder’s daughters would be pleased to partner you.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Robb’s smile lessened slightly.

“I’ll have a dance,” Lyss said, getting to her feet. She would rather dance with Robb than with Freys again, and no doubt he agreed by the look on his face. By the time they reached the dancing, the Greatjon was singing ‘The Lusty Lad,’ as the musicians played ‘The Iron Lances.’

“Someone should acquaint them with each other,” Lyss said. “It might improve the music.”

“Maybe.” Robb did not sound convinced.

They did not notice the doors being locked.

Chapter Text

The song filtered into silence, and Lord Walder spoke.

“Your Grace,” he called across to Robb. “The septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been said, Lord Edmure's wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak, but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath, and a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say? Is it time that we should bed them?”

A score or more of Walder Frey's sons and grandsons began to bang their cups again, shouting, “To bed! To bed! To bed with them!”

Roslin had gone white. Lyss felt a stirring of pity for her.

Robb raised a hand.

“If you think the time is right, Lord Walder, by all means let us bed them.”

A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery, the musicians took up their pipes, horns, and fiddles again, and began to play “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown.”

“I hear Tully men have trout between their legs instead of cocks,” Alyx Frey called out boldly. "Does it take a worm to make them rise?”

Ser Marq Piper threw back, “I hear that Frey women have two gates in place of one!”

“Aye, but both are closed and barred to little things like you,” Alyx retorted. A gust of laughter followed. A small smile tugged at Lyss’s mouth as the general cry of “Bed them! Bed them!” went up again. The room was full to bursting with merriment. As a wedding should be, Lyss thought.

The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest at the front of the crowd.

The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Edmure to his feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing and shouting bawdy jokes back at them, though the music was too loud for Lyss to hear. She heard the Greation, though.

“Give this little bride to me,” he bellowed as he shoved through the other men and threw Roslin over one shoulder. “Look at this little thing! No meat on her at all!”

At the weddings Lyss had attended, the brides had tried to return the banter or at least pretend to enjoy it, but Roslin Tully was stiff with terror. She clutched at Lord Umber as if she feared he might drop her. She was still crying.

Lyss stayed in the Great Hall, as did Robb. She looked around for Edric, and found him in a quiet corner talking to Fair Walda. Edric raised his head as she approached. Walda bid Edric good evening and floated back to the benches. The Great Hall was quieter, but not by any means empty. People still danced to the ear-splitting music.

“What do you think of the Twins?”

“It’s been more pleasant than I imagined,” Edric said.

Lyss nodded in agreement.

“What will happen when we arrive in the Stormlands?” He asked in a low tone.

She sighed. “I do not know. But it is time we should leave.”

Edric was about to reply when he stopped abruptly. “The Rains of Castamere. An odd tune for a wedding.”

He was right. It was too slow and mournful.

Lyss watched Catelyn stride across the hall after Edwyn Frey. She grasped his arm, and he shoved her roughly aside. Robb had made his way over, and Lyss had noticed something terrifying. Half of the players held crossbows.

She knew what would happen before it did. Lyss flew across to where Robb stood with Catelyn and Ser Edwyn. She pushed through the knots of people, and leapt over the two dogs fighting over a bone. Her long dark hair unravelled and flowed down her back.

Lyss collided heavily with Robb, sending him stumbling into the wall. A pain spread through her body like fire, and for the second time that year Lyss saw that she had been shot.

There was a quarrel sticking out from the bottom of her ribs, piercing through her stiff green bodice. Her mind had gone numb. Lyss pulled the arrow out and watched with fascination as her corselet grew steadily darker.

Someone pulled her arm, bringing her back to the brutal reality. She looked up to see Robb, pulling a sword from one of the belts hanging at the wall.

“We need to get you treated,” he was saying.

Lyss heard the words, but didn’t register them. Robb dragged her behind one of her pillars supporting the gallery.

“Stay there,” he said, before leaving with his sword drawn. Lyss did not want to stay hidden behind a pillar. She had her daggers, as always. Lia had tried to take them away from her earlier that morning, but when she turned away Lyss had strapped them back to her wrists. And she was glad she had.

Lyss scanned the hall for someone holding a crossbow. When she found a likely man, she took one of her knives to hand, and sent it spinning into his neck. Ignoring the blood dripping down her skirt, Lyss ran out to retrieve his dropped weapon.

The Freys weren’t loyal to her, and they certainly weren’t loyal to Robb. Lyss highly doubted they were attacking under some Greyjoy’s command. No, the order for this massacre would have been given from King’s Landing. Most likely Lord Tywin himself had devised it, but Lyss was willing to bet her life he wouldn’t see her dead. She had no other choice than to place her life in her grandfather’s hands. Lyss aimed the crossbow at the enemy and fired.

This was why Lame Lothar had not wanted her to come, she realised as she reloaded the crossbow.

Glancing around the Great Hall, Lyss saw Smalljon Umber had wrestled a table off it trestles. She darted over, and was grateful for the meagre shelter it provided as she fired her arrows into the masses.

Lyss watched the horrors play out in front of her. She could not see Edric. Half of her wanted to make sure he was safe, and the other half dreaded what she would see.

Instead, Lyss turned her eyes to Lord Walder, who sat upon his high table watching the bloodshed.

She had somehow lost an emerald-green slipper in the chaos, and kicked the other one off. Lyss would do better with no shoes than with only one.

She was halfway across the room when strong hands gripped her upper arms, causing the crossbow to clatter to the floor.

Lyss writhed in the man’s gasp. She could not see who it was. Remembering her last dagger, Lyss drew it and stabbed into the man’s left arm.

The man cried out in pain.

“Stupid cunt,” he hissed, drawing his left arm away, but not relinquishing his hold with his right arm. Seeing the opportunity, Lyss twisted her arm back and sank her knife into his chest. This time he let her go.

Lyss scrambled up, and back towards Lord Walder. She felt dizzy, and wondered how much blood she had lost already. Too much, that was a certainty. Another arrow slammed into her side, and Lyss was knocked to the floor.

A very bad aim indeed, she thought. My grandfather won’t be happy.

Lyss gritted her teeth and yanked the second quarrel out. A minute ago, she was so sure of herself. And now…now the cold stone floor was strangely comforting.

Lyss breathed in and out as the people fought above her. She realised how cowardly she was being, lying on the floor when she could make a difference. Lyss clenched her fists together and stood.

The agony was unbearable. Lyss staggered towards Walder Frey’s table. Arms surrounded her, but instead of holding her still, they were supporting her. Edric was alive. Her brother was still alive, and he was here, helping her.

They had almost made it when they came. Lyss could not see who it was attacking them, as the world had spun everything out of focus. Edric swung up his sword to face the attack, but he was outnumbered three to one.

“No!” Lyss screamed. But all that came out was a whisper. Nobody even heard her. But she heard the dull thwack of Edric’s head on the floor. She heard that clear as day.

Without hesitation, Lyss bent to pick up her brother’s sword. The storm of anger and despair lent her strength, and she found herself head-to-head with Wendel Frey, the same man she had sat to dinner with.

He still looked half-child. His sword was too long, and his face too ashen. Wendel’s blows were hesitant, but Lyss attacked with relentless fury.

And then it happened.

Animal reflex made Wendel drive his sword into Lyss’s stomach. She looked at him in surprise. As soon as he realised what he had done, Wendel Frey started screaming.

“I’m sorry!” He cried. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t meant to, I didn’t mean to!”

As she sank to her knees, Lyss wrenched her necklace free. She gripped it in her bloody palm.

Lord Tywin will be angry, she thought one final time.

Kyra was able to go places without being undetected. The men who called her kind children of the forest didn’t see her as she slunk up the stairs.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” A male voice asked.

His companion gave no answer. Kyra drew into the shadows as they passed. She entered the room they had left.

A young woman lay on the table. She wore a bloodstained gown, and her black hair dripped over the edge. Kyra noticed a few white roses still entangled in her tresses.

Kyra reached up to the girl’s hands, which had been draped over her chest. She avoided looking at the mortal wounds, but grasped around, searching for a necklace.

She found it. Kyra touched the girl’s forehead.

“It will not be long,” she whispered.

Kyra left the Twin Towers, weaving through the mass of people. She held the necklace tightly. She would not lose it.

The trek back north would take no time at all.

Chapter Text

The necklace hung from the ancient branches. Kyra had placed it with care, scaling the tree and back down again.

By that point her brothers and sisters had gathered. The silence was unsettling for so many people. Kyra broke it. She began speaking in the Old Tongue, the language of winter.

Blood began to drip from the necklace. Kyra closed her eyes and sank her hands into the cold earth. Her voice grew louder and louder.

She felt hands upon her shoulders. Her brothers and sister began chanting alongside her. Kyra knew without looking that they had joined hands to strengthen the ritual.

The blood dripped faster, almost flowing down towards the ground.

It took a moon’s turn. Kyra waited, while her brothers and sisters dispersed. When the moon was bright and cold and blue, she climbed back up and took the silver chain. It was frost-lined, and the icy bite almost stung Kyra’s palm.

Nevertheless, she cradled it in her small hands. Down the twisting passageways she went, and then carried it to the old man.

“Lord Bloodraven,” she said. “The moon shone true.”

He raised his head slowly, and slowly extended his arm. Kyra obeyed, climbing the steps to his weirwood throne. Brynden Bloodraven spoke softly in the Old Tongue.

Whispers of the past bounced off the walls. A baby’s cry, hunting horns, laughter and conversations shouted over the storm. Echoes of bygone conversations swirled like wind round the hall.

A heart-wrenching scream shattered the memories. For the swiftest moment, Kyra thought she saw a girl, barely into womanhood, stood in bloodstained clothes by Lord Bloodraven’s chair.

Then the hall fell silent. Kyra took the necklace back. She pressed it into her hand, feeling the icy chill more strongly than before.

There was a place, a small room, empty save for a plinth. White roses climbed upwards, reaching for the light.

Kyra wanted to cut them away.

On the plinth, a white-blue cloak was folded neatly. On top of it lay two Valyrian daggers, and inbetween them, a circlet crown. It was small, for those who dwelt south of the Wall had flashier crowns, to show their wealth and power. She would be certain to ask why it was that way.

She laid the necklace in the middle of the crown, and left.

Lyss didn’t know where she was, and she didn’t know how she got there. She was alone in a strange place. She looked for escape. Lyss had to run, back to Robb and Catelyn and the people she had come to know over the past year. She went to the door, but it wouldn’t open. Lyss tried to touch it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel it.

She paced around the room, searching for something. All she found was a plinth with her cloak on it. Lyss ran her fingers over the cold metal of her crown, and then one of her knives. She could touch these. She took one and hurled it at the door, and it became imbedded in the wood.

Lyss went back over, and tried to open the door, but once again she couldn’t feel it. Fury overcame her. She clawed at the walls, hoping for a hidden exit. They yielded no secrets. Lyss flitted around the room in desperation. She turned her head back to the door. She needed it to open.

And then it did. It banged open, slamming the wall. Lyss went over to it, but before she could leave the doorway was blocked by a woman the size of a child. Lyss vaguely recognised her.

“Let me go!” She shrieked. “Let me go, let me go, let me go!”

The woman did not seem to hear her.

The room was cold. Kyra was no stranger to the cold- her people thrived best in it. This cold was different. She saw a knife in the door, and snow on the floor that hadn’t been there when she left.

Kyra pulled the knife out, and held it loosely in her hand. With her other hand, she picked the necklace up, and spoke in the Old Tongue.

Then she was not alone.

Lyss felt different than a moment before. The woman looked at her and sad something she couldn’t understand. Lyss didn’t want to understand. She wanted to leave.

She was ready to run for the twisting corridors, when the woman spoke again, this time in the Common Tongue.

“Running away will do nothing.”

“I wasn’t running away,” Lyss objected. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go b-“

She remembered the crack Edric’s head had made on the floor. Lyss clenched her fists together. She would not show weakness in this unfamiliar place.

“I’m meant to be dead. Why am I here? I’m meant to be dead, I died, Wendel Frey killed me.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “He didn’t mean to.”

“I could have let you be,” the woman said. Her voice was low and husky. “But I needed you.”

Lyss did not ask what for.

“What about Catelyn?” She chose instead. “What about Robb? What happened to them?”

“They died.”

There was not an ounce of pity in her voice. Her compassion had frozen during the long, cold winters.

“I will ask you some questions, and I need you to answer me truly.”

The fight had gone out of Lyss. She did not feel the need to leave anymore.

“What is your full name?”

“Alyssea Baratheon.”

The words felt strange in her mouth.

“Why Alyssea?”

“After Alyssa’s tears,” Lyss replied. “My father named me after the waterfall in the Vale, where he spent his days. He named my brother after his father. They’re all dead now.” She did not mean to say that out loud. The indifference she felt was frightening.

“How old are you?”

“Six-and-ten. Or five-and-ten.” Lyss couldn’t remember anymore.

“Who was your father?”

“Robert Baratheon.”

“He was king.”

“Yes.”

“How did he become king?” The woman watched Lyss through her eyes of gold.

“He killed the Mad King’s son,” Lyss said warily.

“And Joffrey Lannister killed Robert Baratheon’s daughter. Does that make him the king?”

“No.”

“Why not?” The woman’s gaze was unfaltering. “He won the throne the way Robert Baratheon did.”

“I’m not dead.”

“No, you’re not,” the woman said. “But you’re not alive either.”

Lyss did not respond. The woman pointed to the crown.

“Pick it up.”

She hesitated before walking over to the plinth. For the first time, Lyss noticed the layer of snow spread over the floor. Her footprints left no marks.

Her crown was innocent enough. Lyss picked it up, running her fingers along the incisions, ancient runes carved into the Valyrian steel.

The woman held out a necklace by the chain. It was her necklace, Lyss realised. The same necklace she had gripped as her blood ran over Lord Walder’s stones.

She set her crown down, and took the pendant.

“What is your name?” She asked.

The woman paused before answering.
“Kyra.”

Lyss swept her mass of hair to the side and hooked the necklace on.

“Pick the crown up,” Kyra said. Her voice betrayed no emotion, but Lyss could feel her anticipation building.

She reached her hands out, and picked the crown up. It had been cold before, but now it burned her. Lyss hissed in pain, and dropped it. Her fingertips stung.

Her crown lay in half on the snow, beside the plinth. A rose leant towards the pieces. It was uncanny, the whiteness of the flower matched the snow almost perfectly.

Lyss reached around to unclasp the necklace. She ran her burned fingers along the chain, feeling for the hook. Lyss did not want to wear it again.

“It’s not there anymore,” Kyra said, her golden gaze unmoving. “You can never take it off.”

Lyss desperately twisted the chain around. It bit at her neck, and she found no clasp.

She reached for the knife resting on her cloak. Tentatively, she touched the handle. It was twisting silver. It did not burn. Lyss delicately ran her finger across the intertwines and along to the blade. She sharply pulled it away as pain shot through her hand.

“Why is it like this?” She asked quietly. “Why does it have to be me?”

“Fate is cruel. It could have chosen anyone, yet it is you standing here before me.” Consolation crept into Kyra’s voice for the first time. “Our greenseers foresaw a brother and a sister, one born in the hottest day of summer, and the other under a winter moon.“

“My brother was born first,” Lyss said numbly. “We were told he was born before I was.”

“He was born in the day.”

“Yes.”

“And you were born in the night.”

“Yes,” Lyss repeated. “There was only an hour left before the early morning.”

She had forgotten about that. Lyss tugged helplessly at the necklace.

Kyra spoke in the Old Tongue. Lyss watched in silence as her broken crown faded into nothing.

“Why a crown like that?”

Lyss was surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Those who live south wear crowns of gold and jewels. They are larger and heavier than this one.”

Lyss looked at the space in the snow where her crown had lain.

“My grandfather had a saying, ‘Any man who must say, I am the king, is no true king.’ A flashy crown is showing off wealth, but it means everyone sees it clearly, knowing the wearer to be king. I wanted to be noticed as queen because of my words and actions, not because of a trinket. I didn’t want to have to tell everyone I was queen. I wanted them to already know.”

“You can no longer be the queen you once were,” Kyra said. “You can no longer rule the people you once did. You must stay here, until the time comes.”

“What will happen to them?”

“Your people will find a new ruler. Some will choose Joffrey Lannister. Some will try to avenge you. Either way it does not matter anymore.”

“It does matter.”

“Maybe so,” Kyra still held Lyss’s knife. She walked to the plinth and took hold of a rose. “But there is nothing you can do. You must stay here.”

“Why?” Lyss felt some of her anger returning. “This place means nothing to me. The stormlands do, and it needs me.”

“Once.” Kyra gently placed her hand under a rose. “Now the north needs you.”

“The north is Robb’s land.”

“Was.” Kyra severed the rose, leaving part of the stem. “Not that part. The true north, the north beyond the Wall.”

“Beyond the Wall,” Lyss repeated, a sick, panicky feeling crashing through her chest. “That’s where we are. Beyond the Wall. It’s cold there, very cold. Why don’t I feel cold?”

“We are in the cave of the Three Eyed Raven.” Kyra cut another rose. It fell to the ground. “You have questions, and I will answer them, but not today.”

“When?”

“Soon enough.”

Kyra picked up the dead roses. She held them, and the ends moved, twisting together to create a flowing circlet. Kyra moved the cloak, and placed the crown of roses in its place.

“I found it strange how things could grow in winter,” she said musingly, as if to herself.

“It’s not winter yet,” Lyss said. “Autumn still reigns.”

Kyra stepped back from the plinth. She held the cloak up to her.

“Not for much longer.”

Chapter Text

Lyss followed Kyra down the twisting halls. Tree roots lined the stone-and-earth walls.

She wondered how she could ever have worn the necklace of her own free will. Out of habit, her fingers strayed to her wrists, only to find they were bare. Lyss felt unsafe and exposed without her daggers.

It wasn’t just her inability to touch Valyrian steel that made her hate it. There was something else, something she couldn’t explain, something that made her skin crawl.

Flashes of sunlight appeared every now and then, breaking through the dank interior. Kyra led her up a short flight of steps. Occasionally, Lyss would see golden eyes peering out at her. Instinctively, she drew the hood of her cloak over her head.

Their passageway opened into a large space. It somewhat resembled the Great Hall in King’s Landing, if someone took the benches and tables out. Weirwood roots wrapped themselves around the walls, snaking their way to the ground.

At the end of the room, an old man sat unmoving amongst the roots. They had woven together to form a throne. The man slowly raised his stiff head.

“Thug e beagan ùine (it took some time),” he said to Kyra. “B’ha mi a 'smaoineachàdh gm faódadh mi bàsachadh mús tigéadh i (I thought I might’ve died before she came).”

“Chà nach gab’hadh cuidácadh (that could not be helped),” Kyra replied sharply. “Bu chòir d’hut a b’hith nās tainéil. Bu tu af’eàr a b’ha ga h-iarrāidh (you should not be complaining. You were the one who wanted her).”

“S’e rud’mah à b’hios am balaćh an seò a d’h'aith’gheárr (it’s a good thing the boy will be here soon).” The old man changed to the Common Tongue and spoke to Lyss.

“You will learn our language soon enough,” he said. “There are more important matters first. Come here.”

Lyss stepped hesitantly towards the old man on his weirwood throne. She picked her way over the thick white roots. In some places, the sap showed through. It was eery how the colour resembled blood, particularly after what had happened at the Twins.

With surprising strength, the old man grasped Lyss’s wrist. He ran his finger along her palm, and then up to her forehead. His touch was rough, yet gentle.

“Nig’hean stoírm, leánb’h a’ g’heamhràidh.” The old man’s words filled the near-empty room. His voice grew richer. “Bídh an snéachd a’ laighe nad fhuil.”

A savage pain engulfed Lyss. Her body burned from the cold. She fell to her knees, and her hands gripped at the white roots, almost as if she was strangling them. Lyss wanted to scream, but she could not find her voice. Her eyes flashed a fierce green. Then it was over.

Instead of screaming, Lyss started to laugh. It was a hysterical noise, close to sobbing, bouncing manically off the walls.

“Hold out your hands,” the old man instructed. “Hold out your hands, and think of the winter.”

Lyss had only seen winter once, when she was a young child in King’s Landing. When the blizzard had ceased, Lyss had gone outside with her brother. Under the flower bushes, she had found spiderwebs. They had been sheltered from the worst of the wind, but the cold had left frost particles clinging to the silky threads.

She carefully tore the cobwebs away, and placed them in her hair, playing the maiden bride. The ice had melted, making her hair wet, and the cobwebs became tangled.

Not knowing what else to do in this unfamiliar place, Lyss stared at her hands, and thought of the cobwebs she had found. She knew how strange she must look, kneeling at the foot of an old man’s throne, her arms outstretched like the weirwood branches above their heads.

If she had blinked, Lyss was certain she would have missed it. A gossamer thin cobweb lay in her hands. Ribbons of ice danced along the intricate design. Lyss knew without asking that she had made this, dragged it out of her mind and soul.

She looked into the old man’s face, and realised she didn’t even know who he was.

“I am the Three Eyed Raven,” he said. “There are some who still call me the Three Eyed Crow. I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, once. The children call me Lord Bloodraven.” He nodded to Kyra, who stood half-concealed in the shadows. Lyss had forgotten about her.

“What did your mother call you?”

“Brynden.”

Lyss looked down at her hands. She still held the cobweb.

“I knew a Brynden,” she recalled, as if from a distant memory. “He’s probably dead too, with everyone else.”

“He might have been named for me. Some still are.” Brynden Bloodraven said. “Tell me now child, did your mother tell you about wargs?”

“My mother did not tell me much.”

“I will tell you more,” he replied. “I am a warg myself. You are not a warg, Alyssea Baratheon, but something else.”

Lyss watched him, still kneeling on the floor. The people beyond the Wall told her answers in the form of questions she did not wish to ask.

“Amongst the living, who do you wish to see the most?”

“My sister Myrcella,” Lyss said immediately.

“Then you must picture her in your mind,” the Three Eyed Raven told her. “Like you did before, will her into existence.”

In the eye of her mind, Lyss saw Myrcella’s golden hair flashing in the Dornish sun. She closed her eyes, and thought of her sat amongst the Martells.

It was as if someone had plunged her face-first into an icy lake. Lyss opened her eyes, and saw that she was not beyond the Wall any longer. No, she was in a place where the sun shone with a ferocious heat.

Dorne.

Lyss stood in the middle of a bustling street. She felt a hand touch her shoulder, and whipped her head around to see Brynden bedside her.

“How are we here? How?”

The Bloodraven’s face was impassive.

“Now is not the time.”

Frustrated, Lyss turned away. The people walking around her gave no sign of acknowledgment, as if they were ignoring her.

“They’re not ignoring you,” Brynden said quietly, to another unasked question. “They cannot, and will not see you. It would take a great force for them to notice us.”

Lyss started walking up the street. “My sister is here, isn’t she?”

“If she wasn’t then we wouldn’t be here. Tell me where here is.”

“Sunspear,” Lyss said after a moment’s thought.

“Where are we going in Sunspear?”

“The Old Palace. That is where Myrcella will be.”

She did not know why she was so confident in an opinion little more than a guess.

“She will be there,” Lyss said again, this time only to herself. She looked to the sky, and basked in the evening sunlight as she walked down the crowded street.

Lyss had not seen much of the sun. The sky has been dark and grey when they rode to the Twin Towers. In their cave beyond the Wall, only snatches of light shone through gaps in the walls.

She did not feel hot under the uncomfortably warm sun, like she had not felt cold in the frozen north. Lyss had only felt cold when she was doing…unnatural things, and that hadn’t been a normal sort of cold. Lyss wanted to know why.

Instead of asking the old man behind her, Lyss pressed through the crowds. The people melted away before her.

She caught sight of the yellow castle walls, looming above her as they rounded a corner. Lyss hesitated by the gates.

“Open them,” Brynden Bloodraven said. “Open them. No one will notice.”

She pushed them open.

“Are we in the past?” Lyss did not know where that thought had come from.

“This is Dorne a moon’s turn ago.”

“A moon’s turn ago,” she echoed. Lyss ascended the stairs, and went through another set of doors.

A serving girl in faded blue clothing held a bundle of clothing in her arms, and on top of them was a letter. By some hidden instinct, Lyss knew to follow her.

They went up stairs and along corridors. The girl did not seem to be aware of her two companions. The sun hung even lower as the girl knocked on a door.

“Enter,” a sweet voice sang out. Lyss’s heart stirred as she recognised Myrcella’s voice. The serving girl opened the door, and Lyss rushed through.

Myrcella sat at a Dornish-wood table, wearing Dornish clothes. Her golden hair was bound with Dornish scarves and adorned with Dornish jewels. A young woman, perhaps a few years older than Lyss sat opposite. They appeared to be playing a sort of game.

“Hello Elyna,” Myrcella said, moving a piece across the board.

“My lady,” Elyna said, somewhat shyly. She went to an ornate wardrobe, and unfolded the dresses in her arms. Elyna set the letter aside as she did her job.

Lyss went closer to her sister, standing beside her. Myrcella’s skin had developed a healthy orange glow. The woman across from her moved a miniature dragon across the board.

“You lose,” she said in a thick Dornish accent. “Another game?”

“You’ll only beat me again,” Myrcella said, smiling.

Elyna finished putting the clothes away, and went back to the table with the letter. She put it in front of Myrcella.

“A letter came from King’s Landing for you, princess.”

“Thank you Elyna. That will be all.”

Elyna bowed her head to both of them, before retreating to the hallways. Lyss uneasily watched Myrcella tear open the paper.

“What will it say?”

Brynden gave her no answer.

“What will it say?” Lyss asked again, more forcefully this time.

Brynden Bloodraven regarded her.

“It brings the news of your death,” he said eventually.

“She can’t read that. She can’t know, I’m here, I’m not dead, I’m here for her, right here, right beside her.”

“She does not know that.”

“You can’t let her read that! You can’t let her believe I left her forever without saying goodbye!”

Lyss dimly remembered a letter, but that did not count as the same.

“You wanted to see your sister.”

“Not in this way! Myrcella is happy, she’s my happy little sister! You can’t let her lose her joy- please Lord Bloodraven, let her be.”

“We are in the past,” he said simply. “I cannot undo what has already been done.”

A scream of despair echoed round the room. Myrcella and the woman took no notice. Brynden Bloodraven stayed silent.

“Take me back then,” Lyss said dejectedly. “If there is nothing you can do to change the past, take me back. Please, take me back.”

The three eyed raven placed his hand on her shoulder. Before they left, Myrcella let out a piercing wail, not dissimilar to the one Lyss had emitted seconds ago. And then she saw the dark earth surrounding her, contrasted by the bone-white weirwood roots.

Lyss stumbled to her feet and bolted down a passageway. She didn’t know where she was going, but she didn’t care. Lyss still wore her cloak, and it fluttered behind her like wings.

It was if she had been running forever. The corridor yielded no exit. Lyss pressed on. Her legs did not ache, and her breaths weren’t snatched. It was a a funny thing, but she couldn’t remember what breathing felt like.

On and on she went. A speck of light no bigger than the stones at her neck shone in the distance. It grew closer and closer, bigger and bigger. Lyss skidded into snow, brighter and more dazzling than the dull weirwood roots.

She walked out into it.

This is what it’s like beyond the Wall, Lyss thought.

She walked further. Once again, her bare feet left no mark. They didn’t feel the biting cold.

She walked further, and an icy-cold feeling hit her. Lyss saw a figure of a man, but he wasn’t like any man she had ever seen. His face was made of sharp white lines. His eyes disturbed her the most. They were blue, and sharper than frostbite. Lyss stared back.

“Come with me,” a voice spoke inside her head. It seemed to be coming from the man, but his mouth never moved.

“Come with me,” the voice said again. “A queen who lost her crown can find a new one.”

Lyss watched him hungrily.

“Come with me. You will be the Night Queen, and I it’s King.”

Snow started falling heavily. Instead of melting, it stayed in Lyss’s hair like precious gemstones.

“Come with me. I promise revenge on those who wronged you.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Lyss was sprawled in the thick snow. Her fingers were buried, grasping at the frozen water.

She lay in the snow for a while.

Eventually, Lyss made up her mind. She got back up, and through the corridors. The pathways she walked down were chosen unsystematically, but Lyss somehow knew they would lead her to where she wanted to go.

She found Kyra in the same room they had started in, appearing to be waiting for her.

“Teach me,” Lyss said. “Teach me everything.”

Chapter Text

Part Three- Winter

I loved a maid as white as winter

With moonglow in her hair

Beneath the moon we’ll dance together

She’ll have a net of pearls to wear

Lyss spent half her days with Kyra, and the other half with Brynden Bloodraven. Kyra taught her the Old Tongue, and Brynden taught her the secrets hidden beyond the Wall.

The Three Eyed Raven showed her how to calm and rouse winter storms. Lyss painted the walls with delicate frost patterns, and built soldiers of snow, held together by magic. She still didn’t truly know why she was here, but Lyss took advantage of the opportunity. All the while a plan brewed in the back of her mind.

She sat in the snow, at the edge of a short drop. Lyss rested chin on her knees, which were drawn up to her collarbones. Snowflakes drifted idly to the ground. Lyss watched it dust the surface of the ice covered lake.

A cold chill began in Lyss’s heart, and spread over her body. She felt powerful. She was cold and uncaring.

The chill diminished, and Lyss was left sitting hollow in the snow.

She stood, wanting to go back to the heart tree standing tall against the horizon. The sky was grey, promising more snow.

Dark pinpricks against the blinding big white caught her eye. Lyss saw them grow closer, and realised the dots were people.

She watched the people from her high viewpoint. Lyss had not seen other humans for a while. She did not count Brynden as one any more. No person could live for as long as he had.

Lyss could see the figures in more detail now. Three were walking, and one was lying on a makeshift sled. She noticed a fifth shadow, perhaps a dog, running alongside them. She turned her heel, and strode towards the cave, stopping short when the screaming started.

Lyss sensed the other undead entities.

She ran back, peering over the edge. The people were closer than ever. One of them, a man, was twice as tall as his companions. A dark haired boy lay in the sled.

There was only one woman there. She was shouting, desperately trying to pull another boy back to his feet. Lyss saw the skeletal hands clutching at his ankles.

The corpses rose from the snow, overwhelming the small group. Lyss thought of something.

‘Stop,’ she called in her mind. ‘Leave them alone.’

The wights either chose to ignore her message, or did not hear it.

‘Leave them be!’

This time a few hesitated. She heard groan of pain, and a scream of despair.

‘Listen to me. Let them go.’

Her tone was not frantic or urgent. It was commanding. The wights fell back into the earth.

Lyss bolted through the deep drifts to one of the tunnel entrances.

“Kyra!” she shouted, her voice echoing slightly. “Kyra, tha daoine a-muigh! (There’s people outside!)”

Kyra was with her one of her sisters, Leaf.

“Thá iad an seo, (They’re here,)” Leaf breathed, darting out the door.

“Cò iad? Carson a thá iad an seo? (Who are they?)”

“Innsidh mi dhut nas fháide aír adhart, (I will tell you later,)” Kyra said, following Leaf out the door. Instead of turning left, she went in the direction of Brynden Bloodraven’s throne room.

Lyss hung back, frustrated again by the lack of answers. She tugged fruitlessly at the irritating chain around her neck. Another thing she hated here.

Lyss heard voices and willed herself to go back to her true form- unheard and unseen. She pulled herself up against the roots as Leaf came into view, leading three people and a dog.

No, not a dog. A direwolf. Lyss clamped a hand to her mouth as she recognised the boy who was on the sled. Bran Stark, Robb’s brother. Robb’s dead brother, slain at the hand of Theon Greyjoy. She watched in incredulity as they unknowingly passed her. But then, she shouldn’t find it so hard to believe Brandon Stark had risen from the dead. After all, she was here. Not exactly alive, but not gone either.

She recognised the tall man pulling him along, but did not remember his name. He had been at Winterfell, all those moons ago. He carried Bran down the corridors. Lyss had never seen the girl before, but her grief stricken expression was familiar. She had seen it too many times in mirrors.

With silent footsteps, Lyss shadowed them to Lord Bloodraven’s hall. At one point, the direwolf turned his head in her direction. He knew she was there, when even the children did not. Lyss found it unsettling.

When they reached it, the man set Bran down. One of the Bloodraven’s birds cawed.

“You’re the Three Eyed Raven,” Bran gazed up at the old man, sat as always on his throne of roots.

“I have been many things. Now, I am what you see.”

“My brother,” the girl said. “He led us to you, and now he-“

“He knew what would happen. From the moment he left, he knew. And he went anyway.”

A surge of anger replaced the shock Lyss felt at seeing Bran. He had known about their arrival, and had not told her a thing. She should have known. He should have told her.

“How do you know?” The girl asked, her voice breaking.

“I’ve been watching you,” Brynden said simply. “All of you. All of your lives, with a thousand eyes and one.” He raised his eyes to where Lyss stood in the background.

Of course he saw her. He saw everything. Lyss wanted to leave, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“Meera of House Reed,” Lord Bloodraven said. The girl Meera looked at him warily. “Daughter of Howland Reed, sworn to House Stark.”

“Hodor, a former stableboy. He tended to the horses in Winterfell.”

Lyss realised he was talking to her.

“I think you know who the boy is.” The Three Eyed Raven looked directly at her. Another bird cawed. She couldn’t tell whether it was a raven or a crow. Much like Brynden Bloodraven.

“Brandon of House Stark. You were close to his brother.” His tone was too casual.

Lyss backed away towards the door, shaking her head.

“Na labhair uime, no aír Catelyn, no aír mo bhràthair fein mar sin (Do not speak of him, or Catelyn, or my own brother like that,)” she hissed.

“Who are you talking to?” Bran’s voice was somewhat raised.

“Carson a thá iad an seo? A b’heil iad fìor? No an’e mealladh a th’ annta? (Why are they here? Are they real? Or are they illusions?)”

The roots around her started writhing and twisting.

“Chan eil iad mì-mhodhail, (They are no illusions,)” Lord Bloodraven told her. “Nochd thu fèin dhoibh. (Show yourself to them.)”

Lyss was suddenly terrified. She didn’t want to.

The Three Eyed Raven said something she couldn’t hear. She felt solid again. Almost whole. Lyss could feel the glamour that concealed her terrible wounds, and was glad.

“Alyssea Baratheon?” Bran asked slowly. “I heard you were dead.”

“And ravens brought us word of your demise,” Lyss said, testing the alienated syllables. She did not like to use the Common Tongue. It reminded her of all she had lost. “Why are you here?”

“He led me,” Bran said simply.

Lyss nodded, stumbling backwards and out of the hall. Their appearance had interested her at first, but now she wanted them gone. Beyond the Wall, there was no reminders of home. Now, Lyss saw echoes of Catelyn whenever she looked at Bran. She didn’t want that.

A harrowing chill spiked her chest again, and Lyss fell to the side, clutching at weirwood roots to keep her upright. She saw the man made of ice. He spoke to her wordlessly.

“Kill the boy.”

“No.”

“Kill the boy.”

“No.”

“We will come.”

“Don’t.”

“You must take up your crown.”

He vanished. Lyss staggered down the passageway, her hand brushing over the earthy roots. She found Kyra kneeling in a spacey chamber. Her eyes were closed, and she was whispering to a small rock.

Lyss sat amongst the roots at the edge of the room and waited for Kyra to finish her ritual.

“A bheil mi an dùil taobh a thaghadh? (Am I meant to choose a side?)”

Kyra carefully placed the stone aside, and picked up another one from the small pile beside her.

“Mu dheireadh thall. (Eventually.)”

“Am bi thu? (Will you?)”

“Chan eil e gu diofar dè a tha sinn a’ smaoineachadh. (It does not matter what we think.)” Kyra turned the stone over on her hands.

“Dè a roghnaicheadh ​​​​tu? (What would you choose?)”

“Bhithinn còmhla ris an Rìgh na h-oidhche. (I would join the Night King.)”

“Càr’son? (Why?)”

Kyra muttered to her palms. Lyss waited for her to answer.

“Tha ‘e na ròghaínn furásta d’homh, (It is an easy choice for me,)” she said finally. “Rugadh mi an seo, agus dh’fhàs mi suas ag ìonns’achádh diofar sgeulàchdan. (I was born here, and I grew up learning different stories.)”

Lyss was silent for a minute, watching Kyra spread her hands across the floor, etching lines into the dust.

“Dè bu chòir dhomh a thaghadh. (What should I choose?)”

“Chan urrainn dh’òmh sin innse d’hut, (I cannot tell you that,)” Kyra said, not looking up from the floor.

Lyss sighed. She thought Kyra might say that.

“Ach innsidh mise dhut, ge b’ e dè an taobh a thaghas tu, gun atharraich e toradh a’ chogaidh a tha ri thighinn. (But I will tell you that whatever side you choose, it will change the outcome of the war that is to come.”

Kyra swept her hand towards Lyss. She stood, brushing her arm on her leg before leaving. Lyss got up to follow her, and snatched a glance at what Kyra was drawing.

It was a heart tree, done in great detail. A moon hung between the branches. A figure with long hair knelt at the bottom.

Her fingers shot to her naked wrists. Lyss clenched them tighter and tighter. A cold wind blew at the sketch on the floor, until it was smooth and plain again.

Chapter Text

She saw the Night King more and more. Lyss had not slept at all, and instead wandered the corridors, while the man of ice whispered constantly in her ear.

The Three Eyed Raven spent more and more time with Bran. Lyss avoided his hall altogether. She did not want to run into the Stark boy, or his companions.

Lyss practised. She practised her new craft until her mind was numb, and all the while she listened to the voice.

One day the voice changed. It did not belong to the Night King, but to Lord Bloodraven.

Come to me, he said. There is much and more to show you.

Lyss did not want to see, but she went. She forced her steps towards the Bloodraven.

To her relief, the he was on his own. The Three Eyed Raven sat on his chair as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“You will have to choose soon,” he said. He sounded more tired than usual. “Whatever you’re shown, you will have to watch. I am showing it to you for a reason.”

Lyss said nothing.

“The Westeros you know has changed. Tywin Lannister is dead, as is your half brother Joffrey. Tommen reigns.”

Lyss was silent for a while longer before asking,

“How long have I been here?”

The Three Eyed Raven moved his stiff head slightly as he answered.

“Almost a year.”

Almost a year.

A year that had felt like two weeks. The dark earth and weirwood roots spun. Lyss didn’t let her fear and panic show. Not for the first time, she made her face a mask of composure. When she first set eyes upon the plinth with her crown on it, Lyss told herself she would not show weakness in this place. That had not changed, except for perhaps the wariness she showed to the new residents of the Three Eyed Raven’s cave.

The Bloodraven held out his hand, and beckoned for her to come closer. He put his hand on her shoulder and the cave with all its roots disappeared.

They were in a hut. Two girls stood before a woman half hidden in the shadows.

“That is your mother,” Brynden Bloodraven said, pointing to a girl with blonde hair. “The other is Melara Heatherspoon.”

“Who is the woman?”

“The locals called her Maggy the Frog.”

“They said that you were terrifying,” Cersei said accusingly. “With cat’s teeth and three eyes. You’re not terrifying. You’re boring.”

“You don’t know what I am,” Maggy whispered.

“I know you’re a witch, and you can see the future. Tell me mine.”

“Everyone wants to know their future. Until they know their future.”

“This is my father’s land. My land. Tell me my future or I’ll have your two boring eyes gouged out of your head.”

The woman laughed. She picked up a knife and held it out Cersei.

“Your blood,” she said, “give me a taste.”

Lyss watched as her mother took it and held it over her thumb. She hesitated before slicing downwards. Maggy the Frog snatched her arm and pulled her in closer. She put the Cersei’s thumb in her mouth and sucked the blood. Cersei looked back to Melara Heatherspoon, suddenly uncertain.

“Three questions you get,” the woman told her when she was done. She leaned forwards. “You won’t like the answers.”

Cersei regarded her before speaking.

“I’ve been promised to the prince. When will we marry?”

“You’ll never wed the prince. You’ll wed the king .”

“But I will be queen.”

“Oh yes, you’ll be queen. For a time.” Maggy took a tone of mock-pity. “Then comes another. Younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.”

“Will the king and I have children?”

Maggy the Frog smiled. “Five, and yet only two.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Cersei said scathingly.

“Two in black and three in gold. Two in red shrouds and three in gold shrouds. The colours of your house and his,” Maggy paused, a faint smile on her lips. “Three will wear crowns. Black and gold and red and gold. They will clash, until everything turns red. There will be no place for gold in the bloodshed.”

The image swirled and dissolved. They stood outside a castle Lyss had longed to see.

“Storm’s End,” she said, smiling.

An army was camped around it. Lyss walked through the tents to get closer. She heard a faint rush from the night sky, and looked up. She saw a dragon, spiralling down to the ground.

“This is the time of Aegon’s Conquest,” the Three Eyed Raven told her. “Argella Durrandon has declared herself the Storm Queen.”

“She was my ancestor,” Lyss said. “They made her marry Orys Baratheon.”

“They did,” Brynden Bloodraven said, before continuing. “Instead of bending the knee to another king, Argella promised Rhaenys Targaryen she would win only blood and ashes.”

A peace banner fluttered from the battlements, and shouting rose from behind the castle walls. The gates burst open and a screaming woman was dragged from the castle. She was naked and bound in chains.

The woman was Argella Durrandon. She howled curses to the moon upon the men who were once loyal as they pulled her across the muddy earth.

A tall man with black hair and black eyes strode out of one of the tents as the dragon landed. A woman slid down from its back. Her silver-gold hair was unbound and tumbled down her back.

“Orys Baratheon and Rhaenys Targaryen,” the Bloodraven said. Argella Durrandon was thrown at their feet.

“Tell me the words of your house.”

Although Lyss thought he already knew, she recited them anyway. “Ours is the fury.”

“They belonged to House Durrandon first.”

“As did our sigil.”

Orys Baratheon unhooked his cloak and swept it around Argella’s shoulders. She had stopped resisting, but a fire still burned behind her eyes.

Rhaenys Targaryen left as Orys led Argella  into the tent he came out of.

The world blurred again.

They were in the same place, but the tents had disappeared. It was evening in place of night, and faint light shone from the sconces around Storm’s End.

They set off to the castle. Lyss passed under the raised portcullis, and rested her hands on the tall wooden gates. Memories of happier times came flooding back.

She could feel the spells woven into the stones. She hadn’t felt them there before.

“Bran the Builder raised this castle,” she said, “though some say it was the children of the forest. The stories agreed they cast spells into the walls, so they could withstand the wrath of the gods of wind and sea. I didn’t believe them until now.”

Lyss went further in. The castle was almost deserted.

“They are in the godswood,” Brynden Bloodraven affirmed. “House Durrandon is joining to House Baratheon.”

“I was meant to go to Dorne in my sixteenth year to marry a prince,” Lyss said distantly.

“And lose the name you wear so proudly.”

“Then I went north instead of south, north to Riverrun.” Lyss bit her lip. “I don’t know if I even reached six-and-ten. I lost count of the of the days during the long hours we spent travelling to the Twins.”

“You did reach your name day,” Brynden said. “It was the day Kyra came. The moon was blue as it was the night you were born.”

If her life had been different, Lyss would be a married woman living in Dorne. Myrcella was living there years before she would have been. Lyss smiled inwardly at the thought that her mother feared Myrcella would run off to crown herself, as she had done.

Orys and Argella emerged from the godswood wearing identical cloaks. The highborn of the stormlands were close behind, all smiling. Argella was not. She held her husband’s arm stiffly, and gazed straight ahead.

“My maester and my father told the same story,” Lyss said as Lord and Lady Baratheon swept past. “I thought she would have murdered Orys while he slept.”

“She had her reasons,” the Bloodraven told her. “Orys Baratheon was a better man than some. He covered her with his cloak when her own men pulled her naked from the castle. He kept the words and sigil of House Durrandon to honour Argilac  Durrandon, and she would have seen her sons grow to be storm lords.”

“Argella would’ve had power,” Lyss noted. “Orys Baratheon was a distant stranger, a foreigner to the stormlands, whereas his wife had grown up in this castle.”

As the sun set, Brynden touched her shoulder yet again. The wedding guests melted into nothingness. Lyss still stood with the Bloodraven in the courtyard of Storm’s End. The sky was darkened with rain clouds, but the day was still dry.

A woman went by, lugging a pail of water.

“When is this?”

“This is Storm’s End in the present day. With no other option, half of your men have joined the Lannisters, and the other half have remained in this castle. There is no clear reason why, other than mistrust and hatred of the Lannisters, particularly after what happened to their queen.”

“Who is in command?” Lyss interjected.

“Ser Cortnay Penrose,” the Bloodraven said. “A stubborn man. He would rather die than bend the knee to a false Baratheon.”

“Tommen,” Lyss ran her fingers through her hair, straightening the entangled roses and smoothing her locks against her back. “He was always so sweet. The crown will surely kill him.”

“He is to marry Margaery Tyrell,” Brynden said unexpectedly.

“Margaery Tyrell?” Lyss was taken aback. She remembered Margaery, and the short time they had spent together. Lyss had considered Margaery a true friend, despite that it was only a month they had spent together.

“The last king they could turn to was Joffrey. Margaery was to wed him first as part of a peace agreement, but he died during the wedding feast.”

Lyss felt no remorse for her half brother.

“I have shown you the prophecy told to your mother about her children,” Brynden Bloodraven put his hand on her shoulder again. “I have shown you the first queen of Storm’s End, and the beginning of House Baratheon. There is one more place I will take you this time.”

Storm’s End changed. In its place was a river, swollen with rain. Water fell from the heavens, but Lyss was not wet.

“North here.” Lord Bloodraven started walking along the riverbank, and she soon caught up.

Lyss did not recognise her surroundings, but an unnerving sense of dread pricked at the end of her fingers.

It seemed they had been walking forever when a familiar castle rose into view. The Twins, seat of House Frey.

Lyss halted for a fraction of a second.

“I did not bring you here for no reason,” Brynden said quietly.

She kept going. Long tents rose into view, for those deemed not important enough to dine in the castle. As she drew closer, Lyss heard laughter and snatches of music. Their drunken revelry would not last long.

They walked past the tents and over to the bridge. A few people milled about in the rain, but not many. Lyss remembered riding over the bridge.

The river flowed beneath her feet. The wind blew colder and colder as she drew closer to the gates, which opened seamlessly. Lyss wanted them to be locked. She went through them and into the courtyard, Brynden Bloodraven at her side.

The doors also opened.

“Locks do not work on us,” the Three Eyes Raven said. “They do not matter to us, and we do not matter to them.”

Lyss nodded, though her head had started to spin again. People were dancing in the centre of the hall. She saw herself, alive and happy, dancing with Robb to the painful music of Lord Walder’s musicians and the Greatjon’s intoxicated singing.

Lyss cast her eyes around, and found Edric sat with three of her knights, Ser Willem, Ser Alfrid and Ser Petyr. Ser Kaden had vanished, perhaps with a comely Frey girl.

Lord Walder raised his voice, requesting the bedding. Lyss wasn’t listening. She saw the hidden crossbows start to emerge. There was nothing she could do to stop them. Nothing. And that hurt more than the sword that had plunged into her stomach.

Edric had moved with Fair Walda to a corner as others around them got up for the bedding ceremony, her knights included. They smiled a lot, but Lyss noticed Walda was tight and anxious, though she concealed it well.

Lyss watched her past self head over to Edric’s corner. She had been pretty, with cheeks flushed slightly from dancing and light shining in her emerald eyes. Full of life, despite all the tragedies. Lyss wondered what she must look like now. Gaunt and hollow-eyed most likely, despite the glamour she wore like fine silk.

Fair Walda left, and disappeared up a flight of stairs.

“It will happen soon,” Lyss whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself, and watched the horrors replay.

Catelyn hurried over to Edwyn Frey. After a moment of conversing, he shoved her aside. The musicians picked up their crossbows as Robb came to defend his lady mother.

Lyss watched her past-self hurtle desperately across to where they stood. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner on the wind. Past Lyss slammed into Robb the same time as the first arrow hit her lower ribs.

Out of instinct, she put a hand to where the arrow wound was hidden.

The blood that flowed down her white skirt was thick, and red, and there was much more of it than she remembered. Lyss turned away. Dacey Mormont, one of Robb’s close companions, had been seized by Ryman Frey. She took a flagon of wine and swung it round into the man’s face. She ran, but Ser Ryman was quicker. He took up an axe, and buried it in her neck.

Lyss had not seen that before, in her attempt to reach Lord Walder. Lyss noticed her past-self’s footsteps slow but never falter as she raced through the hall.

She saw Catelyn flying round the edge of the halls, eventually seeking shelter under a trestle table.

The screams of those dying around her increased tenfold. Lyss fell to the ground. She shut her eyes, and held her hands over her ears.

“Make it stop,” she pleaded. “Make it stop. Please, make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop.”

The screams echoed in her ears. After an eternity, the Bloodraven put a hand on her shoulder. Lyss felt the earth change.

Her sorrow and anger swirled into one, and she was cold all over. It was the most she could do to lie on the frozen soil, a freezing burn rising up across her body.

It took a while for the sensation to diminish. When it did, her grief faded too, and Lyss was left with rage.

Chapter Text

Brynden Bloodraven had promised her more visions, more insights to the past. He had promised her a great deal, but Lyss did not care. She was angry, very angry, and her fury was not just directed at the Bloodraven, who had no right to show her the Red Wedding. She hated Lord Walder, for what he had done. She hated Lord Tywin, for devising the Red Wedding, and Tyrion for not putting an end to it. The list of people she hated was long, and would certainly grow.

Lyss got to her feet and sprinted down the passageway. She wanted to be far, far away from the Three Eyed Raven.

She had decided what she was going to do, but first she wanted to say goodbye to Kyra. She tied her blue cloak on, and went to find her.

“Tha mi a' falbh, (I’m leaving),” Lyss told Kyra, when she eventually located her. “ Chan eil mi airson fuireach an seo tuilleadh. (I do not want to stay here any longer.)”

“Càit an tèid thu? (Where will you go?)”

“Nas fhaide tuath. (Further north.)”

“Chan urrainn dhut falbh fhathast. Tha sinn air gu leòr a theagasg dhut airson na dh'fheumas tu a dhèanamh, ach chan urrainn dhut falbh fhathast. (You cannot leave yet. We have taught you sufficiently enough to do what you must, but you cannot leave yet.)”

“Kyra-“

“ Do bhràthair, (Your brother,)” Kyra hissed, and Lyss fell silent as the grave.

“ Bha triùir bhràithrean agam air an robh dragh orm, agus chan eil mi airson dad a chluinntinn bhuapa, (I had three brothers I cared about, and I do not wish to hear anything of them,)” Lyss said icily, after a long pause.

“Tha am fear seo do chàraid bràthair. Thig, (This one is your twin brother. Come,)” Kyra beckoned, darting into the shadowy passages.

Lyss hesitated until her curiosity overruled her dread, and she followed Kyra down the corridor. There had been something she was genuinely afraid to ask; that if Steffon was out there somewhere like she was. Lyss was scared to imagine a world where Stef was with her again, because she was scared that he would be gone again, nothing more than a fanciful wish.

Kyra had told her about an old green dream about two children, ultimately Lyss and her brother. Part of her was angry they had been chosen. She did not choose this- but that side of her grew smaller each passing day.

Time worked differently here. It seemed slower, but passed quicker than the rest of Westeros. It was calmer too. South of the wall, the people spent bitter days simply trying to survive while the highborn played their game of thrones above them. The children of the forest did not care about crowns.

Kyra led her out into the snow and up, across the frozen landscape to places Lyss had not discovered yet.

They reached an icy lake. Towering above it were mountains just about visible from the cave. They had been specks against the winter sky, and now they blocked out the sun.

“Na leasanan Valirian agad, (Your Valyrian lessons,)” Kyra spoke in her hissing tone. “Cha do dh’ionnsaich thu a’ chànan sin airson dad. Cha mhò a dh'ionnsaich thu luibhre a-mach à co-thuiteamas. (You did not learn that language for nothing. Nor did you learn herblore out of coincidence.)”

She pointed to one of the mountains, the tallest one.

“ Rach suas a sin, chun mhullach. Ann an Valirian, feumaidh tu a ràdh, ‘Bhràthair anns teine. Tha mi an seo. Thig, thig thugam, thig gu tuath, tha mi an seo, agus feumaidh tu a bhith cuideachd, bràthair anns teine.’ (Go up there, to the top. In Valyrian, you must say, ‘~you don’t get to know yet. unless you Google translates it but on your head be it.~’ )”

Lyss skirted round the foot of the mountain. She found a likely path upwards, and started to climb.

The wind howled into her ears, but did not push her off. Lyss clung to the mountain, and gazed across the open land beyond the mountains. On the horizon an eagle swooped downwards, having caught sight of prey.

The sun had shifted behind heavy grey clouds by the time she reached the top. Lyss could see a small dot, Kyra, far below.

She liked it here. Lyss would remember to come back, when she had done all the things she meant to.

She turned south.

“Lēkia isse perzys!” Lyss cried to the gathering dusk. “Nyke kesīr, nkye kesīr sir!”

Lyss clenched her fists and closed her eyes. Her voice grew louder and stronger.

“Lēkia isse perzys, māzigon naejot aōha mandia isse suvion! Māzigon naejot issa. Nyke kesīr se sīr līs ao!”

Snowflakes whirled around her head. Lyss felt the cold strength flowing from her, into the sky.

“LĒKIA ISSE PERZYS, MĀZIGON NAEJOT AŌHA MANDIA ISSE SUVION!”

A roaring filled her ears as the snow on the mountains began to fall. A blizzard had started, blown along by sharp wind. Lyss stood still, eyes closed, and felt the north stir to her rage.

When she descended from the mountaintop, night cloaked the land. Lyss looked around for Kyra, and eventually found her sat upon a rock on the other side of the lake.

“ An do rinn mi e ceart? (Did I do it right?)”

Kyra smiled sadly. Lyss didn’t think she had ever seen her smile before.

“ Rinn thu na b’ fheàrr na dh’ fhaodadh mi a bhith air iarraidh a-riamh, (You did better than I ever could have asked,)” she said. She took a deep breath before continuing.

“ Faodaidh tu falbh a-nis. Chan fheum thu tilleadh. Tha e glè choltach nach fhaic mi tuilleadh thu. Tha e air a bhith na thoileachas, a bhith gad fhaicinn a’ fàs chun na tha thu a-nis. Beannachd leat, Alyssea Baratheon. (You can leave now. You don't have to come back. It is likely that I will never see you again, but it has been a pleasure to watch you grow into what you are now. Farewell, Alyssea Baratheon.)”

Lyss was taken aback. Her words were out of character, the Kyra she knew was guarded, and barely ever showed emotion.

“Chi mi a-rithist thu, ( I will see you again,) Lyss promised.

Kyra’s smile grew a little sadder. She slid off her rock and set her course east, to where the heart tree stood. Lord Bloodraven would not be happy with what she had done. Not at all.

Lyss sat where Kyra had been seconds before and waited for the voice to come creeping back. It did not take long. It was the same whisper of join me , followed by promises of frozen crowns and glory.

She concentrated on the voice, and an image burst across her eyes. The Night King stood a several feet in front of her.

Yes, she said silently. I accept your offers. I will be your queen.

Come north, to the far north, to see your people and take up your crown.

The vision blurred, and Lyss was left staring at the ground. The burning hatred she felt to the people who had inflicted all this pain and suffering on her had kept Lyss going this far. It would likely get her further.

Lyss jumped up, and sang a note into the clear air. Less than five minutes later, a colossal snow bear padded over to her. It had worked. Grasping his thick fur, Lyss pulled herself onto his back.

She urged the bear on. He moved more elegantly than she thought he would. The world flashed by. It was dawn now, and the rising sun shone like gold on the pristine snow.

A campfire flickered to the west. Lyss saw a small huddle of wildlings wrapped in animal skins. She didn’t know if they saw her. She wondered where they were going. They would not stay here.

It was almost evening again when the snow bear started to flag. He needed sleep. The land was exposed, and Lyss did not feel safe in the open. There was a forest, far on the horizon. She had watched it grow closer for some time.

Her bear was tired, and had not stopped got food or water since he arrived. Lyss was beginning to see that he would not make it all the way to the forest. She instead turned him to the mountains on their left.

She found a small cave just large enough for both of them. Her bear folded himself around her and closed his eyes. Lyss was comforted by his presence. She wasn’t completely alone yet, even if her only friend left was a white bear.

Lyss curled into his thick fur. They stayed like that almost all night, until she heard voices outside, people speaking in the Old Tongue. She sat up, suddenly tense. Her bear stirred.

Still, she said to him. Stay still.

“ An uamh sin, (That cave there,)” someone said. “ Faic na lorgan-coise? (See the footprints?)”

“ Is e droch bheachd a th’ ann, (It’s a fucking bad idea,)” another person cut in. “ Bhiodh e gad reubadh às a chèile mus fhaigheadh ​​​​tu cothrom do shleagh a chleachdadh. (It would tear you apart before you could use your spear.)”

“Tapadh leat, Mykal, (You craven, Mykal,)” a woman spoke this time. “Co-dhiù ma bhios am mathan gar marbhadh, cha bhith sinn a’ reothadh sa gheamhradh. Tha bàs a' teachd air ar son aon chuid. (If the bear does kill us, then we won’t have to freeze over the winter. Death comes for us either way.)”

“ Cha bhi, oir ma tha am mathan agus mura marbhadh e sinn, bidh biadh agus bian againn gu leòr, (It won’t, because if the bear it doesn’t kill us, then we will have food and fur aplenty,)” the first speaker said cheerfully.

They fell silent. Lyss wanted to know what they were doing. She waited for them to come.

They did, all three of them coming into view with raised spears. One of them held a torch. There was a desperate, hungry look in their eyes. That didn’t matter. Lyss sat straighter.

“ Rachaibh , (Leave,)” she said. Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper, yet it echoed round the stone cave.

“ Chan eil innte ach nighean, (She’s just a girl,)” one of them said. His dark red hair glinted in the fire. “ Chan eil i fiù 's armaichte . (She’s not even armed.)”

“ Chan eil feum agam air armachd, (I don’t need weapons.)” Lyss gazed up at the wildling intruders. “ Rachaibh. (Leave.)”

“ Marbh i , (Kill her,)” the woman hissed.

“ Chan urrainn dhut mo mharbhadh. (You can’t kill me,)” Lyss said softly. “ Chan urrainn dha duine tuilleadh. (No one can anymore.)”

She stood, and the glamour fell away from her.

“ Bana-bhuidseach , (A witch,)” the red-haired man raised his spear higher.

The man beside him said something unintelligible. Lyss caught the words ‘kissed by fire,’ and ‘your luck will run out.’ He edged backwards slightly, towards the opening that would let him back out to the snowy freedom of the north.

He never made it. Lyss stood, and envisioned vines of ice, writhing around his chest, and snaking upwards to his neck.

Anguished screams filled the cave as the man fell blue-faced to the snow. Lyss pressed her palm to the walls, and whispered to the mountain.

Run, she said to her bear. He had lain still, but now he got to his feet, and was gone. Lyss sprinted after him. She took hold of his pelt and swung herself onto his back as the sound of mountains crumbling spread across the still air.

Lyss turned the bear back. To her surprise, none of the wildlings had survived. She saw a hand, outstretched from the rocks. It was hard to tell who it belonged to.

Once, a long time ago, she would have let the people go. Not any more. Lyss had learned a hard lesson. Her bear started moving again, to the far north. She wondered how long the journey would take.

Chapter Text

Snow fell. Pine needles dropped in a forest. A blue cloak flapped in the wind. A bear carried the queen to her king.

The Bloodraven had shown her the world in all its cruelty. The Night King had promised her revenge.

Lyss did not feel guilty for the murder of the wildlings. They had attempted to kill her bear. She had a distant memory of walking through Riverrun with a boy called Edric. Lyss had not been happy with the fighting, and slaughter of enemy soldiers.

She did not understand why she had felt that way anymore. She had been at war with those men. She had been silly and stupid. A summer child. A summer queen, doomed to freeze when the snow came.

And they would all freeze, the people who had done her wrong. While other memories had faded, the ones of pain, and hurt, and loss, haunted her constantly, searing themselves into her mind. She would never forget them.

Her bear stopped at a river. The water was moving too fast for ice to spread across the banks.

Lyss slid off his back while he drank. She rested her hand against his shoulder, and watched for movement.

The snow stayed still, her bear finished drinking, and she mounted him again. The snow had gotten heavier. Lyss could barely see past her bear’s ears. She pulled her hood over her head and urged him on.

                         ❄️

He waited in the balcony overlooking Meereen. He had heard a woman’s voice calling him in the tongue of Old Valyria, calling from him to go north.

Brother in fire, she had said. Come to your sister in ice.

Stef had been in Meereen for two years, with Daenerys Targaryen. With the dragons. He had wanted to back to Westeros. Stef had not set foot there for a decade.

He didn’t remember much from the last eight years. But they had told him to stay with the dragons. It had seemed a funny request, but Stef had done what they told him to.

He had tried leaving, going to the docks to find a boat sailing across the Narrow Sea. He had even tried swimming, but his body had burned. Don’t try that again, they had warned him. They had told him they held power enough for no one to see him again. Stef faced no choice but to do what they asked him.

His anger at them faded, and he was left with the determination to see home again. Stef needed Dany back. She had left, flying away on Drogon’s back. He had stayed behind. He had to look after Rhaegal and Viserion. They listened to him.

And Uncle Tyrion was here too.

Stef had not shown his true face. He hid behind a mask of glamour, until his own blood and kin did not recognise him. Even though they had told him to, Stef would have been hesitant to talk to his uncle, after what had happened. But they had told him to wait, and so he did.

He waited for Dany to come back. He waited to see Westeros again. And he waited to see his sister.

His sister…he did not know what had happened to her. It would have been something terrible, if she was like him now. Stef would have preferred for none of this to happen. He would have preferred to stay in King’s Landing, where they had been happy.

Shouting from the streets brought Stef back to the present. There had been a struggle in Meereen ever since Dany left. But Stef didn’t bother anyone, and no one bothered him.

He left the balcony, as the silence he wanted had dissipated. He went to Rhaegal and Viserion.

Stef’s dark clothes concealed him in the shadows. As a private rebellion, he had stitched gold thread into the black. It was a reminder of who he was, before they took him and moulded him. Black and gold, the colours of House Baratheon. They could not take Stef’s heritage.

He had necklace made from purest gold. They had given it to him. The pendant was a curled dragon, with one winking red eye.

Stef had been wary of Dany when he first met her, given what had happened with the war his father waged upon her father, eventually taking his throne. Her throne. Dany would surely have heard of the Usurper’s heir, and she would also know of Baelor’s Sept. Though she was only young when it had happened, she had likely rejoiced at the news of his death. Stef did not like to dwell on that thought. He had not told her he was Robert’s son. Some old wounds never heal, and this was one.

Aegon the Conqueror had taken Westeros with Orys Baratheon at his side. History seemed bound to repeat itself through their descendants. They even had three dragon, just as Aegon Targaryen did. But all Dany’s brothers were gone.

There were masked figures guarding the doors as always, but they let Stef through without challenge. They always did.

Rhaegal was the first to come to him, ascending from the darkest depths of the catacombs. His eyes shone with life, and Stef caught a flash of his reflection.

The face he had chosen was the polar opposite of the one he had been born with. In place of typical Baratheon cheek and jawbones, he wore delicate features and a pointed face. Red hair instead of black.

He used to have green eyes. But they changed them, and he was left with eyes of orange-red. Eyes the colour of fire. The hue did not change, whatever face he chose with his glamour. Stef’s eyes used to be the only thing he shared with all his “trueborn” siblings. It had been the only feature his mother had given him.

They had told him of Joffrey and Myrcella’s illegitimacy. There had been another brother, Tommen. Stef had never met Tommen.

They told him to tell Dany that he had been blessed by the dying gods of Old Valyria. Stef did. She had believed him, after she saw what he could do.

He ran his hands along Rhaegal’s bronze-and-emerald scales. It was dark. There were torches in sconces, but they had failed to be lit. Stef lifted his right arm from Rhaegal and flames burst from his fingers.

With the light, Stef could see Viserion. A week ago, he had scratched a hole in the wall big enough for him to lie in. Whenever Stef frequented the catacombs, he was in his cave watching Stef with golden eyes. The dragon missed his mother.

Stef moved with his left had still trailing along Rhaegal’s side. He was growing bigger each passing day. Both of them would be large enough to be ridden. Stef had often fantasised about riding a dragon. He loved the times when the sun burst across the sky best, and would wake his sister Lyss so they could watch the sunrises together. Sunsets were best, but his window in King’s Landing had faced east.

Stef turned back again, towards Rhaegal’s head. Dragons were like horses. They did not like it when people walked behind them. Rhaegal shifted, raising his wings slightly. Stef felt warm air flutter across his face.

He heard something from outside. Voices, a scuffle. Stef wondered if it was the Meereen nobles, coming to claim a dragon. The flames vanished from his hand and he waited, half-hidden in the shadows.

After a series of loud bangs and clatters, and a man Stef recognised as Archibald Yronwood pulled the doors open. He had come from Dorne with Quentyn Martell.

He waited while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. Archibald stepped out of the way and Quentyn edged forward, holding a torch. The light bounced off Rhaegal’s scales.

“Go, before they burn you,” Stef told him.

Quentyn swung his torch round. Stef drew further into the shadows.

“Aidyn?” He asked, voice trembling. Aidyn was the name Stef went by. “Is that you?”

He stayed in the shadows.

Quentyn waited for an answer. When there was none, he motioned to the entrance. Someone wheeled a cart through. Stef smelled decaying sheep.

“Quentyn,” he said again. “Go back.”

“Show your face,” Quentyn replied.

Stef stepped from Rhaegal’s shadow. For the first time, he saw a whip in Quentyn’s hands.

“Put the whip down.”

He turned his head shakily, but did not do as Stef instructed. Viserion stirred in his cave. He stretched his wings and flapped lazily to the ground. For a brief moment, Quentyn stood in awe of the cream-and-gold dragon towering above him. Then he remembered what he was doing, and raised the whip.

“Quentyn-“

“No,” he said. “I must do this.”

Quentyn brought the whip sailing down on Viserion.

Fire, Stef thought. Dracarys.

Both dragons obeyed. Stef stood in the middle of two streams of fire, watching Quentyn Martell burn.

This was the man his sister was meant to marry. In another lifetime they would have been brothers, bound by marriage. Lyss would have lived in Dorne with him and given him Dornish children. And now Quentyn Martell danced to the flames.

Rhaegal made for the entrance. Freedom from captivity. Viserion had started going as well.

Wait .

Stef clung to his scales, and hauled himself onto the dragon’s back as he swooped out into the open. Meereen spread beneath them like a fine Myrish carpet.

There was nothing like flying on a dragon. Nothing. All other thoughts slipped from Stef’s mind as he felt the wind blow his hair from his face. He did not try to control Viserion. It would not work. Instead, he let the dragon fly where he pleased.

Rhaegal dived down on his right, spiralling towards the ground and opening his wings out like a fan. Stef sensed pure joy from both of them. Dany had chained them up after Drogon allegedly killed a child. It was not something she wanted to do. Stef knew the decision had weighed heavily on her mind.

But now they were out. Now they were free. Stef had the chance to go to Westeros.

But instead, he would wait for Daenerys to return.

                         🔥

It was another two days before Lyss reached her journey’s end. The snows were still falling, but less heavily. The Night King waited for her in a sheltered glen.

Lyss was surprised to see none of them were heart trees, just normal wizened oaks with branches covered in snow.

She slid off her bear’s back and approached the man who had whispered to her inner ear all this time.

The Night King outstretched his hand, and Lyss knew what to do. She pulled her necklace from her bodice and held the pendant out to him as far as it could go. He ran his fingers over the stones, before settling on the middle blue one.

Lyss felt the weight of a crown resting in her brow, and then it faded. Her eyes turned icy blue. Like the gem in her necklace.

Chapter Text

That night, Lyss saw the heart tree on the hill.

She went through the earthy tunnels, and reached the hall where Lord Bloodraven sat. If he had held power over the north before, he did not any more.

Lyss saw him hidden amongst his weirwood roots. A small figure -Kyra- skulked in the shadows.

“Come out,” Brynden said. “I want to talk to you.”

Kyra stayed in the darkness for another moment, before stepping out into the open.

“I do not understand why,” the Three Eyed Raven stated in a measured voice.

“You do.”

Her tone was barely above a whisper, but it was full of defiance.

“You know we are not meant to choose sides.”

“I didn’t.“

“Kyra-“

“You knew what would have happened,” Kyra grew louder. “When ice and fire clash, nothing emerges alive.”

The Bloodraven went to speak, but Kyra interrupted him.

“You are jealous,” she said lashingly, and for the first time, Lyss saw her fumbling with something. “Jealous of the dragons. You would have seen them dead, rather than in the hands of another.”

“That is not true.” Brynden regarded her coldly.

“Don’t deny it. You whispered into the ear of Aegon V, until his obsession with the creatures grew, and Summerhall burned to the ground.”

Lyss noticed Kyra shifting something in her hand.

“Aegon was a monster of his own creation!” The Bloodraven’s voice raised. “ Dragons made the Targaryens mad; I had no hand in it.”

“Is that why you want the Targaryen girl to stay away? You believe the dragons will drive her to insanity?”

“No,” Lord Bloodraven said uncertainly. “No,” he said again, this time with conviction. “I do not want her to stay away.”

“Then what,” Kyra asked, “is wrong with what we did?”

“Seventh hell,” the Bloodraven swore angrily. “I told you not to.”

“You’re not our king,” Kyra hissed. “Sometimes, act like you are. But you aren’t. My kind have no kings. We keep you alive, and you hold yourself above me and my people.” She shook her head. “But you would not be here without us.”

She leapt forward, and Lyss finally saw what she had been hiding. A knife, made of Valyrian steel. Perfect for hiding underneath sleeves.

“After everything we have done for you,” Kyra spat, “after everything we’ve done, you sit there and tell us what we can and cannot do.”

“You knew not to,” the Bloodraven said, trying to fend Kyra off. She was like a cat, slipping through his clutches.

“I don’t think I did. There are worse things in this world than calling brother to sister. Perhaps, perhaps it could be called kinslaying.”

The Three Eyed Raven caught her wrists, and she tried to wrestle free.

“No man is accursed as the kinslayer, and the kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. Do you deny being a kinslayer?”

Brynden Bloodraven said nothing. Lyss was surprised at his strength, from one so old.

“What about a murderer? Oathbreaker? Do you deny being those?”

“Then why did you take me in all those years ago? You knew my past.”

“I didn’t want it to be you,” Kyra struggled harder. “I wanted to give you to the White Walkers. But the Old Gods had spoken. And they have spoken again, to my ears only. They told me to kill you. It is time for a new Three Eyed Raven.”

The cave started to disintegrate. Lyss felt the earth beneath her feet change from roots to snow. A scream started, echoing in her ears, even when all she saw was the snowy landscape of the North. She knew it was Kyra screaming.

The Night King had taken Lyss to see their army. It was bigger than her Stormlords and Highgardeners amassed. Was it though? It was difficult to remember.

We will end their suffering, he had told her. South of the Wall, the people will thank us. You have suffered first-hand the cruelty of humans. Their misery will end. Just like yours.

He had put a hand to her cheek, brushing her hair away. Lyss tensed, despising his touch; but she put up with it. What she wanted was important, and the Night King could give it to her.

They had began travelling south. Lyss rode on her bear. She had kept him nameless. He was a wild creature of the north, and it did not feel right to label him.

Lyss tried to remeber simple things, happy things, but those memories slipped further from her grasp with each passing day. There was one dark hour when she forgot Stef’s name. Lyss thought desperately of his face, which blurred in and out of memory. She concentrated hard, subconsciously grasping her bear’s fur.

And then she remembered he might be out there somewhere. He might come back to her. That thought burst a thousand and one images into her mind. Lyss remembered his face, and his voice.

With that came the loss of both Stef and their mother. It had been a year since Cersei had brought herself to properly look at Lyss, who was a visual reminder of her lost son.

It had been her father who comforted her during the sleepless nights, and her uncles who had taught her to smile again. Renly had played games with her; hide-the-treasure, come-into-my-castle, and Rats and Cats. Renly had enlisted Isa, the daughter of one of the serving women, to join them. Two was not enough, and Isa had been watching them from the courtyard steps.

Like always, Stannis had been away, but he sent a letter that had tried to be comforting but had turned out formal. Lyss was grateful all the same.

Jaime had taught her to wield a sword. They had spent long hours in the training yard of King’s Landing, waving blades at each other. Lyss didn’t remeber who had taught her the Knife’s Edge Dance, and to use the daggers that had killed the people she had cared about.

A travelling mummer offered to teach her archery. He had also taught her how to disguise herself. Lyss had liked that. She pretended she had a different life. She had fantasised at being a mummer. To practice her skills, Lyss had hidden away with the Tyrells. She had been discovered, and sent back to the Red Keep. Lyss rapidly lost interest in becoming a mummer after that.

Tyrion had told her stories a six year old would laugh at. He had read old books to Lyss, piquing her interest in the history of Westeros.

Tyrion had helped kill her, alongside Edric, Robb and Catelyn. Jaime had abandoned her, her father and Renly were both dead, and Isa had betrayed her. Stannis had disappeared at the battle of Blackwater Bay, most likely drowned.

Her fury throbbed again, and Lyss felt icy coldness spread around her body. The snow fell ever so slightly harder. She was sick of waiting for what was promised. She needed it now.

The Night King had told her they were to go to the cave of the Three Eyed Raven. That suited Lyss perfectly. Kyra’s scream still echoed in her ears. It kindled her ever-festering rage. She wanted to kill Brynden Bloodraven herself. Lyss was sure the Night King would let her.

That was all she thought about. All through the day, and through the night she imagined killing the Three Eyed Raven. Lyss rode at the head of the army, alongside the Night King’s highest warriors. More often than not, the snow would be falling too thick to see each other. Lyss did not object, or try to change it. She preferred the false sense of solitude.

She didn’t know how long it took to reach the heart tree on the hill. The skies were always darkened with winter clouds, therefore making is difficult to tell whether it was the sun or moon shining down on them.

Her bear needed sleep.

Don’t wait for me, Lyss told the Night King. We will catch you up.

Let me change him to one of us.

She could not say why, but Lyss detested the idea of converting her bear. It would make sense to do it, but she refused.

Her bear found another mountain cave, and settled down. Lyss lay against him, feeling his chest rise and fall. She closed her eyes. Lyss did not expect sleep to come for her as well, but she was tired of looking at the plain whiteness of the north.

Images flashed in her mind. The bad memories relived themselves. Lyss saw the innocent statues of the Seven, doors slamming, her mother sweeping past in black and her father on his deathbed.

There were the men slain on the way to Riverrun; and letters, so many letters, each containing news worse than the last. For a heartbeat she was back in her cousins’ cell, with blood on her hands and the dead lying amongst her.

The Twins rose above her, imposing against the rainy backdrop. There was Edric, talking to Fair Walda, then there he was again, with a sword sticking out of his chest. Lyss herself was lying on the floor, her white skirt covered in crimson and her dark locks spread across the stones.

She heard Robb’s muffled shouting as he saw her blood-soaked body, Catelyn sobbing as she held a knife to an indistinguishable person’s throat. And then they were all dead, fallen to the floor of Walder Frey’s Great Hall. He smiled nastily, almost as if he could see Lyss watching something she had never been able to see before.

The people flickered from view, and disappeared into darkness. Lyss became conscious of her bear again, and the cave they rested in. She was so fucking angry.

Chapter Text

By the time Lyss and her bear rejoined the Night King, their army had already reached the heart tree.

By what she could see, the children had set up some meagre defences, but the tide was not turning in their favour. Already, wights had started to overcome them.

Lyss rode her bear through them, and to a tunnel entrance. She slid off and entered the passageway, turning the corner. Lyss knew where she was going, and what she needed to get. She found herself in the room with the plinth.

Two daggers lay stop it. Her daggers. Lyss walked over to them. She tucked her hands as far into her sleeves as possible before taking one in each hand.

The Valyrian steel burned through her feeble protection. It was worse than anything. Lyss closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth. They were her daggers. Lyss had to kill the Bloodraven, and though it burned, she wanted the satisfaction of doing it with her knives.

One agonising step at a time, she walked through the tunnels, encountering no one.

Brynden Bloodraven was sat upon entwined roots, in the same place as always. He watched as Lyss entered his hall.

“You have come to kill me.”

He knew. Of course he knew. He knew everything.

Lyss said nothing, only advanced closer and closer. She clenched her teeth harder, as pangs shot from her fingers. She was almost blinded with the pain, but she would not drop her daggers.

The old man seemed to have accepted what was coming. He had seen it his future, but it seemed hard to change fate.

Lyss thought of the things he had shown her, made her relive. She screamed with pent up rage, and sank one of the knives into his hollow chest. Blood soaked through the thin material of his clothing.

She considered her last dagger, and plunged it into the space in his forehead, where a third eye might hide. An circle of red blood winked at her in the dim light.

Lyss stepped back, and stared at her hands. They were red, so very red. But not bleeding. The agonising sensation from her knives had not faded. She got up, and staggered from the Bloodraven’s corpse.

Cradling her burned hands, she emerged into the snow. The Night King waited for her.

Did you do it?

Lyss remembered the third eye she had given the Bloodraven.

Yes.

Good. You have done well.

Somehow, he had gotten it into his head that she had done it to please him. Lyss had not. She didn’t fucking care if he was happy or not, as long as he would do what was promised.

We are going to raise our army. We are going to bring the Wall crumbling down. The Seven Kingdoms will be on their knees before us.

Lyss thought of the words she had shouted on the mountaintop. Maybe that had been a mistake, but by the seventh hell she would do it again if she had to.

                     ❄️❄️❄️

Snowfall caught in her eyelashes, even with her hood pulled up. The lands beyond the Wall were larger than she could have ever imagined, and the snow made it all look the same.

True to his word, the Night King had grown their number. Behind Lyss, the army of wights stretched across the horizon. There were too many to count.

Lyss wished she knew the north better. She hated not knowing when they would reach the Wall.

The Night King had sent out a scouting band of wights. Lyss had not seen them for a while. They would return when the Wall was in sight.

Her bear had begun to slow, and she knew he needed rest. Lyss turned him toward the mountains on the horizon, where he would get shelter. It had become habit. The Night King did not stop her as she veered away. He knew she would return.

Lyss listened to her bear’s gentle breaths. She had forgotten what it had felt like to breathe. She took a fistful of black hair and held it in front of her. It had been Kyra who had taught her to use glamour. Lyss watched her hair turn bright gold, like the sunshine.

It looked a bit like Myrcella’s. She swept it all over her shoulder, and looked at the blondness of it in mild fascination.

Lyss changed it to brown, then red, and then back to black. Reaching back, she carefully tugged the white roses out. They had been woven into her hair a lifetime ago, and most of them had been broken or crushed. Lyss selected one and gently ran her finger along the petals. The flower seemed to bloom once more.

Satisfied with what she had done, Lyss laid it to one side and picked up another. When she had restored them all, she started twisting her hair into the complicated plait favoured by ladies in the south. It would take a while to do on her own, but she had barely anything else to do while her bear slept.

When she had finished, Lyss took the roses. There were four, and she tucked them into her flashy braid. She got up to find the nearest river. Lyss wanted to catch her bear some fish.

It was about a mile away from the sheltered cave. She lay on her stomach, and watched for the fish.

The first few were too quick for her, but on the fifth try, Lyss snatched one from the cold water. It wriggled and thrashed in her grasp. She almost dropped it, but managed to keep ahold of her prize.

She dug a small hole in the snow, and put the fish in before turning back to the river. It would be frozen over within a week. Lyss could see ice already forming from the riverbanks.

She waited for more to come. Lyss had a second one in her sights, and then the world changed. She saw a castle in the snow. It seemed a happy place. The high lord was returning from a hunt, and the smallfolk mingled in the courtyard, fetching water from the well, or simply talking to one another.

Lyss smelled fresh bread baking, and meat roasting over a spit. Children shrieked with laughter, chasing each other with sticks. Something called to her, from inside the castle. She followed a serving woman into the keep, and darted down the stone hallway.

There were lit sconces lining the walls, until a cold chill shot through the castle and the flames guttered and died. The serving woman vanished. Fumbling down the darkened and empty corridor, Lyss found a set of double doors. She pushed them open.

She was in a long room; the castle’s Great Hall. It was empty, save for a figure sat in a tall wooden chair. Lyss moved closer, and saw it was a woman.

The woman hid her face behind a sickeningly familiar blue hood. Lyss wanted to stop walking towards the chair, but an unseen force pushed her. The woman finally stood, pushing the hood away.

It was her face she saw. Lyss had known it would be. She watched herself stand, letting the blue cloak hang down to the ground. She was covered in her own blood, wounds still bleeding years later.

 “ Chan eil thu fìor , (You’re not real)” Lyss told the figure with her face. “ Tha thu na mo cheann. Tha thu dìreach na mo cheann. (You’re in my head. You’re just in my head.)”

“'S dòcha, (Maybe,)” the other Lyss said. She came closer.

“Carson a tha mi gad fhaicinn? (Why am I seeing you?)”

She spread her arms, blue cloak hanging elegantly.

“Is dòcha gur mise an àm ri teachd agad. Is dòcha gur e seo do chaisteal. (I might be your future. This might be your castle.)”

“Càite bheil na daoine? (Where are the people who live here?)” Lyss thought of the woman who had melted into thin air. 

“Tha iad a’ tighinn. (They’re coming.)”

She clasped her hands together. Lyss backed away. She wrenched open one of the doors, and ran back the way she had come.

Lyss reached the courtyard, and stopped cold on her tracks. The people she had seen earlier had not disappeared, like the serving woman. No, they lay dead on the floor. The world had gone grey; grey except for their scarlet blood. The image behind her eyes flashed, and for half a second she was back in Walder Frey’s hall.

A hand on her shoulder sent her spinning back into reality. Lyss lay stunned on the snow, staring up into the night sky. She could see the stars. It took a minute for her to readjust to the rest of her surroundings, and for then Lyss noticed the man peering over at her.

She sat bolt upright, panicked. The man said something in a language that was so familiar, yet she didn’t know what he was saying. She didn’t want to understand it; she wanted to get away. Lyss tried to stand and run far away, but the man put a hand on her shoulder, and said something else she couldn’t understand. Lyss shied away.

“Leig leam falbh, (Let me go,)” she told him. “Faigh- (Get-)”

The man made no answer, but his thick fur hood has shifted slightly, and Lyss could see his face, and hope replaced her terror.

“Stef? Stef, 's e mise a th' ann! Is mise, Lyss, Stef, is mise a th’ ann! (Stef? Stef, it’s me! It’s me, Lyss, Stef, it’s me!)”

The man put a hand on his chest.

“Gendry.”

Lyss shrugged his other hand off, and pointed at him weakly.

“Gendry?” She asked falteringly.

Gendry nodded. He wasn’t Stef. The disappointment came crashing down upon her. Lyss made to stand- and for the second time the landscape changed from snow to the Other Lyss, standing amidst blood and bodies.

She supposed she would have fallen back down again, except Gendry had caught her shoulders.

Before she could even think about anything else, the Night King whispered to her again.

Go with them. They have come north to find a wight as proof. If they do find one, more people will come. Do you want that?

No .

She didn’t fancy going with this strange man, even if he looked like her brother. She particularly didn’t want to be in a group of people.

Some of these people have killed our own. They are experienced. Dangerous. They are-

I’ll do it! I will do it, I’ll go with them. Just leave me be. I don’t want you talking to me every other second.

There was no more after that, and Lyss took it as a sign that the Night King agreed to her terms.

She stood again, and stumbled. The visions had left her slightly dizzy. Lyss looked at Gendry, and rubbed her arms, signifying she was cold. If he was with a group of people, there would be a fire. If she needed to lead them to her army, she would need to find the people who had come with Gendry.

Lyss thought guiltily of her bear, left in his cave. He would be alright. She’d call him back later. She wrapped herself tight in her cloak and tried to look innocuous as possible.

They hadn’t been walking for long when a light shining from the shadow of a mountain appeared. Gendry looked like he was about to say something, but then remembered they couldn’t understand each other. Instead, he called across the ice to the figures huddled around the fire.

There was about ten, or near enough that it made no difference. At the sight of people, actual living people, Lyss almost fled into the night, but she held her ground. She was not a broken little girl, who was scared of everything.

“Dè an t-ainm a th’ ort? (What is your name?)”

Lyss saw a man with fiery hair and a beard to match looking expectantly at her.

“M’ainm…(My name…)” she echoed falteringly. “‘ S e Kyra an t-anim a th’ orm. (My name is Kyra.)”

“Is mise Tormund Giantsbane. An cuala tu a-riamh mum dheidhinn? (I am Tormund Giantsbane. Ever heard of me?)”

Lyss shook her head.

“Cò às a tha thu a’ tighinn? (Where do you come from?)” Tormund Giantsbane asked instead.

“Fada gu tuath, (Far north,)” Lyss said, thinking quickly. “Bha mi a 'fuireach ann an dùthaich an-còmhnaidh a' gheamhraidh. Agus an uair sin thàinig iad. Monsters bho na sgeulachdan a. Mharbh iad mo theaghlach. (I lived in the lands of always winter. And then they came. Monsters from the stories. They killed my family.)”

“Thainig sinn g'an sealg, (We’ve come to hunt them,)” he told her. “Gabhaidh sinn aon gu deas, agus thig na deasronan le'n dràgon. (We’re taking one south, and the southrons will come with their dragonglass.)”

“Ciamar a bheir thu aon sud, gun bhi air do mharbhadh? (How will you take one south, without getting killed?)”

“Tha dòighean ann, (There are ways,)” Tormund said.

“Inns dhomh mun deidhinn, (Tell me about them,)” Lyss feigned eagerness. “Tha mi airson faighinn cuidhteas a h-uile wight a tha a 'coiseachd gu tuath. (I want to get rid of every wight that walks the north.)”

The person beside Tormund muttered something. He listened, before passing the message on.

“Tha Jon an seo airson faighinn a-mach an urrainn dhut sabaid. (Jon here wants to know if you can fight.)”

Lyss smiled, and then started to laugh. Tormund joined her laughter.

“An do choinnich e ri boireannach fiadhaich roimhe seo? (Has he met a wilding woman before?)”

Tormund nodded. “Tha aige. ( He has.)”

“An sin bu chòir dha fios a bhith againn nach eil sinn coltach ris na boireannaich eireachdail mu dheas, a bhios a 'cur seachad an làithean a' fuaigheal comharran gaoil, agus gu bheil ar n-athraichean a 'teagasg an cuid nigheanan gus sabaid cho mòr' sa tha iad a 'teagasg mic. (Then he should know we’re not like the fancy southern ladies, who spend their days sewing tokens of love, and that our fathers teach their girls to fight as much as they teach sons.)”

“Chan e facal breug a tha sin, (That’s no word of a lie,)” Tormund smiled.

He spoke to the rest of his party, in the other language. There was a slight discussion, leaving Lyss hovering uncertainly in the firelight. Then Tormund stood, and handed her a sword.

“Chan e stàilinn Valyrian a th’ ann an dòigh sam bith, ach bheir e seirbheis dhut nas fheàrr na gin. (It’s not Valyrian steel by any means, but it’ll serve you better than none.)”

It would serve her better than Valyrian steel. Lyss forced a smile, and strapped it to her waist. She joined Tormund beside the campfire.

Chapter Text

Lyss talked only to Tormund Giantsbane, as he was the only one who spoke in the Old Tongue. There was another wildling, but he said nothing and only stared at her with hungry eyes. By listening to the men around her, small fragment of language came back to her bit by bit.

It was the Common Tongue. Lyss had not heard anyone speak it in so long that it had fled her mind, along with happier memories. But she was learning.

“Bha eòlas aig mo mhàthair air Cumanta Cànain, (My mother knew some Common Tongue,)” she told Tormund, as the trekked through the snow. “Theagaisg i dhuinn e, ach cha robh cuimhne agam air mòran. (She tried to teach us some, but I couldn’t never remember much.”

“Cha bhiodh tu air ionnsachadh ann an dùthaich a' gheamhraidh daonnan, (You wouldn’t have had cause to learn in the lands of always winter,)” he replied.

Lyss did everything she could think of to ingratiate herself to Tormund, and earn his trust. Some of the other men had given her suspicious glances from time to time, but so long as the Giantsbane liked her, there wasn’t really anything else they could do. Lyss supposed she would be wary of herself, if she were in their shoes.

She settled herself against the side of the mountain, and prayed to the Old Gods that they would send her no more visions. Lyss would rather spend the next few hours staring at empty snow.

The starless sky spread like an ink stain beyond the mountains. Even the moon had vanished behind clouds. The night passed uneventfully, until the hour of the wolf.

Lyss had her back to the campfire, and had been staring out across the dark landscape. She missed sleep. Footsteps crunched on the snow behind her, and then the other wildling man had grasped hair savagely. He was trying to steal her.

His grip on her was tight. Instinctively, Lyss brought her elbow sailing into his face, where collided with his nose. The wildling yanked his head back. Lyss wriggled free of his grasp.

“Is iomadh mac laidir bheir thu dhomh, (You will give me many strong sons,)” the wildling said, smiling viciously through the blood gushing from his nose. He reached down to his sword.

“Tha mi gad iarraidh, (I want you,)” he told her. “Bha mi gad iarraidh bhon a chunnaic mi an toiseach thu. (I wanted you ever since I first saw you.)”

“Chan urrainn dhut a bhith agam. Chan urrainn no boireannach sam bith eile, (You can’t have me. You can’t any other woman,)” Lyss unsheathed her sword. “A-nochd, gheibh thu bàs. (Tonight, you will die.)”

The willing man laughed. “Bidh ar mic- (Our sons will be-)“

But she would never find out what her sons would be, because it was that moment she slid her sword into his throat. If he had wanted her as much as he said, he would have done a better job at stealing her.

Lyss glanced over to the rest of her company. Some men were truly asleep, but the firelight glinted off open eyes.

“Try that, I kill you,” Lyss said through broken Common Tongue.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Lyss didn’t see who spoke, and no one tested her claim. She went to the dead wildling. It would look strange if she didn’t take up his warm furs, when she had only a cloak.

I could raise him , she thought. It was a strange concept to her, but somehow exciting at the same time. Only Lyss wasn’t sure it was within her capabilities. And even if she could, the Night King had told her to bring them to him.

Lyss did not like how he had immediately assumed charge of her. More than once she had thought of sending Valyrian steel into his cold empty chest.

But she didn’t. And that was only because it was almost a certainty ‘her’ army only obeyed the Night King. However, if he showed any sign of breaking his promise, she would turn her dreams into reality.

Lyss wrapped herself in the furs. She wound her cloak up, and tucked it into her hood, pushing it down so there was enough room. Lyss pulled it over her head, and lay back against the mountain, and waited for morning to come. She missed sleep.

“Dìreach air sgàth ‘s gun do mharbh thu an duine sin chan eil sin a’ ciallachadh nach feuch an fheadhainn eile ri feise a chuir ort, (Just because you killed that man doesn’t mean the others won’t try and fuck you,)” Tormund said, as they left their campsite. “Is dòcha eadhon feuchainn orm fhìn. (Might even try myself.)”

“Nur nach crioch mo chlaidheamh a'd' mhuineal, (Only if my sword doesn't end up in your neck,)” Lyss teased, though she felt sick inside. Disgusted was a better word. She thought of the necklace she wore. How could she ever have hated it, when it gave her protection if she had no sword?

“An robh thu riamh deas air a’ bhalla, a nighean? (Never been south of the wall, have you girl?)

The question startled Lyss out of her thoughts. She thought quickly of whatever had been said before, when she pleaded as Kyra the wildling.

“Cha robh mi eadhon air a dhol thairis air na crìochan, (I hadn't even crossed the boundaries before,)” she lied.

“A-mhàin, tha cuid de na fir air a bhith a 'bruidhinn. A bhith ag ràdh gu bheil thu a 'coimhead air ìomhaigh nighean Rìgh Robert. (Some of the men have been talking. Been saying you have King Robert’s look.)”

“Cò tha sin? (Who’s that?)”

“Rìgh nan glùinean. (King o’ kneelers.)” Tormund brushed snow from his hood. “ A sin bhàsaich e, a’ fàgail rìoghachld slàn dhiubh air a ghlùinean roimhe. Seadh, chuala sinn mu dheidhinn sin. (Then he died, leaving a whole realm o’ them not knowing who to kneel before. Aye, we heard about that.”

“Cha do rinn mi, (I didn’t,)” Lyss said uneasily. “Cha chuala sinn riamh iomradh air rìghrean a deas. (We never heard of the southern kings.)”

“Uill, tha iad ag ràdh gu bheil thu coltach ris an nighinn aige, agus dh'fhàs i suas le cuid de ar companaich an seo. (Well, they’re saying you look like his daughter, and she grew up with some of our companions here.)” Tormund pointed vaguely ahead.

Lyss chose not to dwell on that, because it would only bring her more pain.

“Cuin a tha iad air a bhith ag ràdh seo (When have they been saying this?)”

“Bhruidhinn iad ann an congues cumanta. Cha bhiodh tu air tuigsinn. (They spoke in Common Tongue. You wouldn’t have understood.)”

“Teagaisg dhomh an uairsin. Tha mi a’ dol gu deas co-dhiù às deidh seo. (Teach me then. I’m going south anyway after this.)” It wasn’t a complete lie.

Tormund started by teaching her simple phrases like, My name is Kyra. I come from the Land of Always Winter. After growing impatient with introductions, he told her different words. By the dimpsy, Lyss could say things along the lines of he fucked a hundred pretty maidens.

It was like unraveling a ball of string. Lyss would learn one word, and sometimes whole sentences came back to her. Tormund said her accent was a strange mix of north and southern. Lyss would try and change that. She didn’t want people suspecting she wasn’t who she said more than they already did.

She was also careful to keep up the pretence of eating. The real Kyra had told her brusquely that the main difference between herself and a wight was awareness. Lyss was conscious of what was happening in the present. She saw the future and the past through reluctant visions. There hadn’t been one of those for several days.

Gendry was the first one to talk to her, after Lyss knew enough. She supposed he felt a hazy sort of responsibility, as he had found her first. They walked in silence at the back of the group, as she waited for what he had to say.

“I have this strange feeling that I’ve met you before,” he said eventually. “Can’t have, though.”

“Someone else,” Lyss answered.