Chapter Text
Stannis Baratheon wasn’t handsome, Lyanna Stark thought, but he was tall. Taller than her father, her brothers, almost as tall as Jon Umber, despite being only fifteen. He was three years older than her and his brother Robert had grown up with Ned, in the Vale, and Ned often spoke of how serious he was when the elder Baratheon came to visit and scold his younger brother.
He looked every inch the Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands that he had been since he had seen his father and mother perished. A man who had grown up raising two brothers, one who was called the Laughing Storm reborn and the other who was barely walking. A man who was weighed down by his duty and his honor.
The only Gods he worships are honor and duty, Old Nan had told her one night before the Stark party had departed towards Riverrun. He was friends, if anyone could call it that, with the Crown Prince himself, being second cousins, but his closest friend was a maester who treated him more like a son than a lord he was supposed to be serving.
The tourney at Riverrun was just beginning, with freeriders and hedge knights coming from all over to participate in honor of Edmure Tully’s first name-day. Stannis had refused to enter the melee or the jousting, which prompted whispers of cowardice from slippery tongues, but Lyanna knew that the fifteen-year old lord looked more like a commander than a warrior.
A captain of his own ship, maybe, but not a warrior like Robert. Robert, who had just turned fourteen, had entered the melee with a great warhammer. He was a warrior despite his young age. Stannis had scowled and ground his teeth when his brother had announced it but had not forbidden his younger brother from entering.
The two were opposites, Lyanna could tell. Robert was like the knight in the maiden’s song, though she was unsure if he would ever keep to one bed.
“Lya, you’re staring,” and she turned to see Brandon, her eldest brother, and heir to Winterfell, plopping down next to her. The twelve-year old daughter of Lord Rickard blushed slightly before denying it. She had principles of course. “He’s not going to make any maidens swoon after him, like his brother, but he looks strong...and Ned seems to like him well enough, the Seven know why. Wonder who would brood even more, Ned or him?”
“Stannis. Ned is solemn, but he’s a Northman and solemnity is a required trait. But Stannis just has to brood even more than our brother. He’s scowling right now,” Lyanna said, pointing where Stannis was sitting, a young Renly in his lap with a young servant nearby. A heavy scowl weighed on his face, while Renly was bubbling with laughter. A stark contrast. “Just because his brother entered the great melee.”
“Can you blame him? He’s probably afraid for him,” Brandon replied, surprising Lyanna. She had not thought of it that way. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I might not be as smart as Ned, but I know a concerned brother when I see one. After all, every time you wear breeches or ride your horse, I have that same look.”
“Hey!” she protested with some indignation. “I can ride a horse better than anybody in the North, even better than those Ryswell fools father keeps having over.”
Brandon roared with laughter. It was no secret that Lord Ryswell continued to send his sons to Winterfell in order to try and woo her, but she was no blushing maiden, easily cowed by songs and gifts. The first time one of the idiots had tried to kiss her, she had given him a mean right-hook to the face, a knee in the groin, and a couple of choice words. Father had not been happy, but the Ryswell boys knew better than to try and do something as bold as that ever again.
“Maybe you’ll marry one of them,” he mockingly teased. She swatted at him with her hand but he danced away. “Rickard Ryswell and Lyanna kissing. Having...wait for it... children. Two children, I think, at your skirts, one girl, and one boy, with dark hair and grey eyes. Momma, momma, they’ll cry, and you’ll pick them up, hold them, and start to whisper it’s okay-”
She didn’t let him finish as she smacked him on the back of the head and he shouted with indignity but wisely kept his mouth firmly shut. This talk of children...I’m twelve, not fifteen.
She looked at Stannis again. He was just glowering as his brother fought opponent after opponent, laughing all the time. His facial expression never changed, though his eyes did. It went from acceptance to concern, to anger. So many emotions for an emotionless man, she mused.
Robert was indeed the Laughing Storm reborn, knocking men out left and right. He finally went down when Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard battled him for ten seconds and the Laughing Storm found himself flat on his arse. Lyanna stifled a giggle when she saw Stannis’s reaction. One of concern and utter contempt.
How could someone do that was beyond her understanding, mixing two emotions together that were in direct opposite of one another?
The crown prince had fought in the tourney as well, looking dashing in his black and red armor, rubies glittering in the afternoon sun. Stannis, Lyanna saw, wore a face of utter boredom. He was not a fan of tourneys, she could see. The only time he even seemed to emit some joy was when Renly would laugh or smile. He’s a boy trying to be a man trying to be a father to an infant.
The tourney ended with Ser Barristan Selmy knocking down the prince, his rubies flashing before he fell. She had been rooting for the Sword in the Morning, but Rhaegar had snuck up behind him when the Dornish knight had been fending off three different men. Crafty.
The night festivities had come and she had managed to slip away from Ned, Brandon, and her father. No doubt they would try and find him, wherever she ended up. But she was wily, willful, and knew Riverrun better than any Stark.
She didn’t know Riverrun very well, but at least she didn’t almost walk into the moat blind drunk like the Greatjon.
She was sneaking by a couple of guards who were in Stark livery, their iron caps and ringmail shirts betraying their location, allowing her to stay one step ahead.
Why am I out here again? She didn’t really have a purpose, but then again, where was the fun in not having a little fun?
She snuck by the Greatjon, Lady Umber, and the Smalljon, who was just starting to walk and talk. The Crowsfood and Whoresbane were arm wrestling each other and drinking mead and ale, while Lady Umber was scolding her husband and son.
The Umbers and the Karstark camps were heavily drinking and there was talk of Harrion Karstark, the newborn son of Lord Rickard Karstark. All these Rickards. I’m getting a bit confused. She slipped by the Manderlys, the Tallharts, the Dustins, the Ryswells (she especially wanted to avoid them), the Lockes, the Flints, the Manderlys...there was a lot of various camps from the Northern houses.
As she continued to listen in, she heard several rumors.
There were the rumors that made sense. There was the rumor that Ned was in love with some Dornish girl with haunting violet eyes and shimmering black hair. The Sword in the Morning was going to knight Robert for his actions in the melee or that her brother Brandon would be betrothed to Catelyn Tully.
Then there were the rumors that didn’t make any sense. Mad King Aerys was able to breathe wildfire. Tywin Lannister was handing gold bricks to anyone who could bring back his dead wife. Quenton Greyjoy was planning on invading all of Westeros with a fleet made of iron ships.
Rumors and loose tongues, her father had once said with disdain. Rumors and loose tongues can bring down a kingdom.
“Well, a pretty girl. I’ve been missing one of you,” a slippery sound came biting into her ear and she turned quickly on her heel to see two men dressed in the colors of House Frey. Why the fuck does it have to be Freys? “What in seven hells is a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Exploring.”
“Exploring heh?” the other one, with black hair and a mean grin, spat. He’s only a boy, she realized. A shadow of a mustache was evident on his upper lip. Barely older than fifteen. “I’ll let you explore... my cock!”
“Exploring your cock? That’s the best you can come up with?” she said with a mean spiritedness she didn’t know she possessed and the two men recoiled in surprise. “I understand that you’re a Frey, so you have an excuse for your ignorance, but you were educated by a maester I assume, were you not?”
“Ah...yes I was.”
“And you have older brothers, I assume? Or at least older Frey men who you look up to?” she continued to interrogate the Frey lad as his companion rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. The boy nodded “Listen to them talk about women, their various conquests, and how they got them.”
“Well...this really awkward, I must say...my lady,” the Frey boy said hesitantly. Lyanna smiled wolfishly.
“And let’s not add to the fact that I’m twelve. I haven’t had my first bleeding yet. You were going to have sex with a child, you idiot.”
“You’re twelve?” the boy said with shock. “But you’re so-”
“Shut it,” she demanded, not wanting to hear about how pretty and feminine she was. “What’s your name, so that I may spit at it when I say my prayers to the Old Gods in the godswood?”
“Black Walder.”
“That’s it? Black Walder?” she hauntingly mocked. “Go on, get out of here and take your friend with you as well.” The two were quiet, staying still, and not moving. She raised her voice. “ Get out of here!”
The two scurried away like rats, getting out of her view within in a matter of moments. She felt a certain smugness when she turned, only to run into two more men. Oh, by the old gods. But these men, like the others, were not actually men, but boys pretending to be men.
A deep scowl was on the boy’s face while the boy next to him was only a year or two younger, who was just as tall as Stannis, but with brown hair instead of black, and bushy eyebrows instead of thin.
“Should you be out here by yourself, Lady Lyanna Stark?” Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands asked. “Especially near the Frey encampment?”
“Err…” now she was speechless. Black Walder had been easy to mock and fool. She looked high-born but from since it was dark they couldn’t see her eyes. But Stannis was nothing if not observant.
“No, is the simple answer. You’re a highborn lady whose father happens to be the most powerful man in the North,” Stannis continued, slicing her actions apart as cleanly as Father did when he executed a man with Ice. “Sneaking by camps filled with drunk guards, knights, and other fools is something that I would expect from my brother Robert. I do not expect that from House Stark.”
“My lord,” she began but Stannis cut her off.
“My cousin and I will escort you back to the Stark camp,” and when words of protest came to her mouth, Stannis held up his hand. “No doubt you can shame any green boy, but you were about to wander right into the Bolton camp.”
And Lyanna looked straight ahead and saw the flayed man. Roose Bolton and his ilk. Everyone in the North feared the Boltons and despite Lord Roose being a few years older than Lyanna, he already had a fearsome reputation.
Look what he did to Bethany Ryswell. She had been a lively woman, full of laughter and life. When she came to Winterfell, she was as meek as a mouse and quiet as death itself.
“Thank you,” she gritted and then remembered her courtesies her mother had taught her before she died. “ My lord.”
“Andrew, two paces behind. Hand on your sword. Drunk men are stupid,” Stannis instructed and the boy fell behind two paces, his hand on the handle of his sword. “I must apologize that I do not have more men with me.”
“He seems like a fine lad,” Lyanna praised. Andrew, whoever this boy was, was poised and disciplined, even for being thirteen or fourteen. “Cousin you said? An Estermont, I must presume.”
“You presume correctly, my lady,” Stannis gritted and Lyanna realized she had just forgotten to say my lord. Eh, who cares. “Andrew Estermont, my squire, son of my uncle Lomas on my mother’s side. Thirteen years of age, the first son of a second son.”
“A boy squiring for a boy,” Lyanna jested and Stannis grit his teeth. So the rumors are true. He is humorless and drab and boring. “What is the Lord of Storm’s End doing at the edge of the Northmen’s camps? Can’t sleep?”
“I was coming back from a meeting with the prince, who has taken residence in the castle,” Stannis said, with carefulness in his voice. “He fought well in the melee and I wished to extend my congratulations to him.”
“That sounds very out of character,” Lyanna said, once more not thinking. Stannis scowled deeply and frowned at her.
“And what does sound in character for me, my lady? I am not a trained crow where I croak my courtesies at the right time, but even I know when someone fights well. Robert fought well, as well as any fourteen year old could, and he did honor on our house,” Stannis said as they passed by the Northmen camps one by one. “Prince Rhaegar fought well, even if the men not in the Kingsguard didn’t fight as hard when they raised their blades against him.”
“Will you or Robert be participating in the joust, my lord?” she asked and Stannis shook his head. “Why not?”
“Jousting is a waste of time and resources. With a melee, all you need is arms and armor and it actually tests you,” Stannis said. “Jousting is a spectacle, meant to stroke the egos of knights and their lords. Robert doesn’t know how to joust well. All he knows is how to use that warhammer of his, always hammering something or someone. Would I use that warhammer on him to knock some sense into his thick skull.”
Lyanna stifled a giggle. Humorless? Stannis was funny. He didn’t know it, the world didn’t know, but she did.
They continued to walk, nobody noticing the boy lord of Storm’s End and the mischievous Stark girl, tailed by a tall thirteen-year-old squire.
“We’ve arrived,” Stannis announced and she saw that they were near the entrance to their camp. She saw Ned blushing as he spoke to a Dornish girl with black hair, Brandon, and her father drinking, while little Benjen was running around being chased by a nursemaid. “I will not tell your father where you were, though, by all means, I should. Good night to you, Lady Lyanna Stark.”
He turned to leave, but she couldn’t just let him leave without a proper goodbye. On impulse and with the wolfsblood, she said, “Wait!”
“Is there anything else you require, Lady Lyanna Stark?” and she rolled her eyes, before marching up to him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She had to lean up because Stannis was tall. Curse my short height. A blush spread across her face and Stannis looked in shock.
“Thank you. And it’s Lyanna, not Lady Lyanna Stark. Have a good night, my lord.”
Andrew Estermont coughed and Stannis Baratheon left with him as Lyanna snuck back into the Stark camp. She slipped to her tent just as her father walked in.
Stannis Baratheon,
she thought.
What an interesting lad.