Chapter Text
Lyanna Stark & Benjen Stark, tears
The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle, but when her pup brother teased her for crying she poured wine over his head. (A Storm of Swords)
By night the prince played his silver harp and made her weep. When she had been presented to him, Cersei had almost drowned in the depths of his sad purple eyes. He has been wounded, she recalled thinking, but I will mend his hurt when we are wed. (A Feast for Crows)
Later, after he had cleaned himself up and changed the damp clothing stained with the red wine she had poured over his head, Ben would ask, mystified, “Why did you cry, Lya? Those three southron ladies sitting at the next table to ours in the hall, the ones who also cried, they talked about his pain and his sorrow, about wanting to heal his wounded heart. What wounded heart? I wanted to ask. He’s a prince. He’ll be king one day. He’s a prince more beloved by the realm than his lord father the current king. What wounded heart? And yet they say … but surely you’re not like that, Lya? Surely that’s not why you cried? You’re … well, you’re Lya. You’re my sister. You wouldn’t shed tears for that.”
“I was not crying for him, you fool,” Lyanna replied, raising her wine goblet high, as if threatening to empty its content over her brother’s head again.
“Then who were you crying for?”
“I was crying for myself. His song … it reminded me of –“
Of my own sorrow. Of my own wounded heart.
“It reminds you of you? But isn’t that what all singers do? They make you believe they are singing about you, about you and only you, and about no one else, even when they know nothing about you, truly. You were the one who said this, Lya, the one who told me this.”
“I know, Ben. I know that is what they do. But it … it has never … it –“
“It has never worked on you before?”
“And I don’t know why it is different, this time.” She laughed, the sound a bitter draught, before adding, “I’m a fool."
“You’re not!” Ben replied, heatedly. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Do you hate it so much, the thought of being the Lady of Storm’s End?”
“It is not about Storm’s End.”
“It is about the man,” Ben stated, not asked.
The man they had seen beating one lord or knight after another in endless wine-cup wars, whose hands had groped, grabbed, tickled and slapped countless female bosoms and backsides throughout the night, who did not seem to care that the woman he was betrothed to was sitting in the same hall, watching him with eyes wide open.
“He will love me, Ned said. Love, and marriage, will change him, Ned claimed.”
“Ned is a fool when it comes to his foster brother.”
Lyanna Stark & Lyarra Stark, fear
Lya , don’t. Do not do this, child. Do not choose this path. It will not bring you joy.
She does not hear, of course. How could you hear the whispers of the dead?
You married for love, Mother. How much joy have you had of that? Lyarra had asked her mother, another lifetime ago.
You married not for love, Mother. How much joy did you have of that? Lyanna never had the chance to ask her mother.
The answer, according to their daughters, would have been the same for Arya Flint and Lyarra Stark: very little joy.
You must be careful, Lyarra. You must be careful that you are not making a grave mistake of your own while trying so hard not to repeat what you see as your mother's mistake. You must be careful that you are not choosing an even more treacherous path because you are so intent on avoiding the path I once chose, Arya Flint had warned her daughter.
I’m afraid, Mother. I’m afraid of losing myself the way you did. I’m afraid of love that turns to indifference, to bitterness, to hatred, Lyarra had thought, but never had the courage to confide to her mother.
I’m afraid, Mother. I’m afraid of being trapped in a cage the way you were. I’m afraid of civility that turns to cold courtesy, to dutiful embrace, to endless silence, Lyanna wished she could have confided to her mother.
I’m afraid, Lya. I’m afraid that you are about to commit a grave mistake of your own, because you are so intent on not repeating your mother’s.
Lyanna Stark and Rickard Stark, tell me
I let you run wild, they say. That poor, motherless Stark girl. Her father lets her run wild.
What nonsense they speak, these chattering harpies, these creatures of court. There is no 'running wild' about expecting you to know how to handle a horse as deftly as your brothers, for one. You are a daughter of the north after all, not a fragile, delicate southron lady expecting always to be carried with pomp and grandeur on a litter or a wheelhouse. When your brother's betrothed finally comes north from Riverrun, she will have to learn -
I can hear you laughing, Lya. I can hear your gentle but firm chiding. They are not all the same, Father, these southron ladies, just like northern ladies are not all the same. We are not coins made to order, each minted no different than others of the same value.
Oh? And how are you different, pray tell me? I asked you, in jest.
I want to travel, to roam the world from one end to another, like my grandsire the Wandering Wolf, you replied, equally in jest, I believed.
A sword, Lya? Surely you know better, child. And certainly not a sword in lieu of marriage. A knight errant? A fool's errand is more like it.
It is cruel, Father. It is cruel to allow me little glimpses of the whole wide world, only to shut the door so decisively.
Was that what he promised you, Lya, with his silver tongue and his silver harp? Did he promise you more than just a glimpse of the whole wide world?
Tell me he forced your hand, Lya.
Or tell me he took the hand you offered willingly.
Tell me he lied to you, Lya, lied to you and made a mockery of his words and his promises.
Or tell me he kept every single one of them.
Tell me something, anything.
Or tell me nothing, if you wish, my just punishment for hearing but never really listening.
Only ...
Tell me you are alive, Lya.
Tell me I will not have to bury a child.