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“Ly?”
Jon's voice was quiet, but his sixteen-year-old daughter was not a deep sleeper so it woke her immediately. When she opened her eyes, Jon was kneeling next to the chair where she had fallen asleep, embroidery hoop on her lap. It quickly fell to the ground when she jumped up to embrace him.
“Father!”
He hugged her tightly, lifting her off the ground.
“Mother said you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”
“And not be here to wake up my dearest darling on her sixteenth name day? What kind of father do you take me for?”
Lyanna blushed, as she always did when her father doted on her. Robbie, her older brother, had the kind of height and beauty—like their mother—that demanded attention. Her younger siblings had not yet outgrown the brashness of childhood. Lyanna on the other hand was reserved and quiet. She resembled the grandmother she was named for and her Aunt Arya in physique if not temperament. She was, in essence the child most like her father and, recognizing that in herself, treasured the time she got to spend alone with him.
Throwing her arms around him again, she said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
When they pulled away again, Jon bent down to pick up her embroidery hoop. “What’s this?”
“The last of my dress. I’ll be so happy when it’s done.”
Jon looked at the figure. It was a wolf, the detail and precision only surpassed by things made by Sansa herself.
“It’s not as good as mother’s,” Lyanna said, as if reading his thoughts.
“This is exquisite—but if you must compare your work remember hers comes from more practiced hands . . . and speaking of hands.” Jon set the hoop down on the chair and held Lyanna’s hands up to look at them closely. “Have you been butchering pigs?”
She laughed. “It’s dye! It’ll wash off eventually.”
“Did your mother insist you do the dyeing yourself too? I thought it was just the making of the dress.”
“No, she didn’t, but I wanted to get my reds just right, and I realized to do so I had to do it myself.”
“Your reds?”
“Shades of red—all different and all very important!”
Jon smiled. “What are they?”
“It’ll be easier if I show you.”
Lyanna pulled her father along to a wardrobe at the end of the room. She opened the doors and took out a simple gray dress, more akin to the kind Lady Catelyn wore everyday than the fancier things Sansa made for herself now.
“I know it doesn’t look like much, but I wanted something that suited my taste, honored the Northern styles of old and resembled at least somewhat what the women servants here in Winterfell wear under their aprons. Not fit for a queen only in the minds those who don’t see the queen as a servant to her realm.” Lyanna bit her lip. She’d rehearsed her explanation and would have to be more deliberate when she presented it to her mother, but she was pleased that her father seemed to understand it.
Lyanna wasn’t born to follow her mother’s footsteps as queen. But when her older brother declared on reaching the very age Lyanna would reach tomorrow—16 years—that he would forgo his claim to the Northern crown to serve as a member of the Night’s Watch, as his father, great uncle and many Stark men had done before him, Lyanna was thrust into the position. As Lyanna's birthday approached, Sansa suggested an investiture ceremony, in which Lyanna would be presented to the Northern Lords as her heir apparent. Investiture meant dress and Lyanna was tasked with creating her own, one that represented who she was and showed the kind of queen she would be if the lords saw fit to let her keep the crown they had bestowed on her mother when the time came. Lyanna may not have been the seamstress her mother was, but she was just as thoughtful and just as strategic.
Using Sansa’s coronation dress as her guide, she sought to make a statement that was unique to her character. While Sansa’s deft fingers had created something that offered detail at every turn, Lyanna looked to color to make her own mark.
“Where will your wolf go?” Jon asked, impressed and proud at how thoughtful she was, imbuing so much meaning even in a frock as simple as this.
"This will go on the cloak, which is separate."
She put the dress back into the wardrobe and pulled out a larger piece of material. Walking over to her bed, she unfolded it and spread it out in one motion.
Noticing her father’s wide eyes, she smiled to herself and then took a deep breath. She had rehearsed this part as well.
“We begin with the collar and shoulders, which are made of fur from the Freefolk traders. It is meant to honor those of their clans who fought along side you in the Battle of Bastards and the Battle for Winterfell against the Night King.”
Jon nodded, holding his breath but feeling tears pool in his eyes all the same.
“Then, the cape itself. It’s black to honor the Night’s Watch and to remember The Long Night. On it is the Wall”—this was the most intricate part, the massive monument taking up most of the upper back and embroidered in various shades of blue—“The Breach is here in the middle and where my wolf will go, representing me as the guardian and protector to those living to its North and South.”
“There are still some north of the Wall who don’t recognize the monarch in the North as their sovereign.”
“Whether they call me Queen or not, I will protect them if such a threat as the Army of Death returns, just like you and mother did.”
Jon smiled again. “Go on.”
"Below me, you see there are the outlines of direwolf prints representing my brothers and sisters. Robbie’s is black to mark his duty to the Night’s Watch. The rest I will fill in in an appropriate color once they are older and know what their purpose will be. Below the prints is grass embroidered in the gray of our sigil, green to represent our dream of spring, and the blue of the Riverlands."
"I see more red on your fingers than this."
"The red is all for me," Lyanna said with a twinkle in her eye.
She walked back over to where they had left her embroidery hoop. She picked it up nervously. This was the hardest part.
"This is me. The red wolf."
"Like your mother."
"Yes and no. Mother is called the Red Wolf because of her hair, which is light red, like the red of the sunset. See these two heart tree leaves at the wolf’s feet? I took some of the garnet thread that she used for the leaves of her coronation dress and mixed them with the red I dyed like her hair. I am standing on the leaves like I will stand on her shoulders when I take her place." She took a deep breath and continued, "My red . . . is, well, it’s blood red. The blood of those who fell fighting for Winterfell and the blood of House Targaryen, which is also mine."
Lyanna noticed Jon’s face tighten slightly. "I cannot forget where I come from and who I am, father. There will be those who seek to undermine me and they won’t let me forget it. I am not ashamed of it any more than any other part of me, even if it is a small part. I carry Prince Rheagar’s triumphs and defeats with me just as I am proud to carry yours."
Jon regarded his daughter—his lovely, kind, brilliant daughter—with soft eyes.
"Do you remember your Uncle King Bran’s Hand?" he asked.
"The little man?"
Jon nodded. "When I met him he told me, 'Don’t forget you’re a bastard because the world will not. Use it as armor, that way it will never be used against you.' You are not older than I was when he taught me this great lesson and here you are teaching it to me over again."
"There's more," Lyanna said. "My wolf is not all red. I’ve mixed the red with white for Snow, so the red is tempered by the sacrifice of my grandmother and great-uncle Ned, who made you a Snow to save you."
The tears that had been threatening for the last few minutes finally made their way quietly down Jon's cheeks. "Are you done?"
Lyanna chuckled nervously. "Yes. What do you think? I know it's a lot, but . . . "
Jon stepped forward and took his daughter's face in his hands. "I think you are going to be the wisest queen the North has ever seen."
"Present company included?"
Jon and Lyanna, who now also had tears in her eyes, laughed as they turned to see Sansa smiling just inside the door to Lyanna's room. Jon let go of his daughter and wiping his tears walked over to Sansa slowly. Taking her hand and kissing it, he said, "Your grace had the fool notion to forgive me, pardon my exile and marry me, so yes, I would say you are not the wisest in the land."
"Ugh, take it to your own chambers please," Lyanna said with a laugh. Her parents' story was the stuff of songs, but it was these moments of teasing and laughter between them that were her favorite.
"Sleep well, my darling," Jon said, kissing her forehead.
Then, she stepped into her mother's arms. "Thank you, mother."
"He's right," Sansa said. "Thanks to you, the best is yet to come."