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Chapter Text

The sept was quiet as Minisa Tully and her ladies finished their prayers. The only sounds to be heard were the rustle of skirts, the soft swish of veils, and the hum of overlapping hymns. Morning, when the sept was quiet and filled with light, was the lady of Riverrun’s favorite time to pray. There were no petitions to hear in the Great Hall, no fights to break up between her children, and no servants to direct. For just a short time, she could be still and find some peace.

Minisa rose slowly from her position in front of the altar, back straight and face impassive as each of her joints groaned in turn. Her ladies knew well enough to not touch her or offer her their hand. Once she had completely straightened and begun to walk towards the doors of the sept, one of her companions scooped up the cushion she had been kneeling on and tucked it away. After three children, she could no longer rest easily on the smooth stone floor but that did not infringe upon her daily ritual.

Despite her faith, Minisa often thought the Seven had a cruel sense of humor. They created women to bring forth life into the world but not perfectly. Childbirth was pain, blood, and suffering. Only the most blessed of women found that their pains ended shortly after the birth of their babes. It was more likely that they would be haunted by the shifting of their bones and innards for the rest of their days. Even then, the suffering wasn’t enough to ensure that those children might live, grow, and have children of their own. They might perish in the womb or while being brought into the world. Crueler still, they might be laid to sleep in their cradles only to be found cold and blue. Worst of all, they might be allowed to grow for a short time only to be felled by a fever or breath-stealing cough.

When her marriage had still been a new and fragile thing, Minisa had thought the gods might allow her to gift her husband with a shimmering school of Tully trout. Clever, kind, and honorable children; each more delightful than the last. Gods knew she had tried, only to bleed away the babes before they could quicken. That she had had two girls, healthy and strong, should have been enough. Even Hoster had pleaded with her to relent and give up her dreams of a son. But she hadn’t wanted to give up her hope of a little boy with his father’s chin and her smile. And although she had gotten her wish, the maester had been firm in his pronouncements. If she ever managed to make it to the birthing bed, she would not survive the attempt.

Yet, it was hard to regret Edmure. Her sweet, soft boy didn’t quite have the mettle for swordplay or the mind for military strategy. He did, however, care about his future people. Whether they were the highest of lords or the lowest of smallfolk, Edmure endeavored to care for them all. Her husband might mistake their son’s kindness for weakness but Minisa firmly believed it could be asset to their House. Tywin Lannister might have bent the Westerlands to his will through bloody steel and mercilessness but fear only sufficed for so long. Eventually the people would refuse to be cowed; then no amount of cruelty would suffice. The most successful lords were the ones who inspired loyalty through love. A man who feared his liege might eventually rise up or flee but a man who loved his liege would be there until the bitter end.

Still, there were times that Minisa wished she had not pushed Hoster to try for one last babe. Had she not begged and pleaded for once last chance to do her duty, it would have been Cat who would have served as Hoster’s heir. Cunning, dutiful, lovely Cat with her brilliant mind and spine of steel. Quick thinking even in anger, fierce when her own were in danger, and a heart that might forgive but would never forget. In a fairer world, she might have ruled after her father. In a better world, she might have been queen. She, of all Minisa’s children, embodied the Tully words the best. Her eldest did her duty without a word of complaint; at turns playing second mother to her siblings or steward to her father. The whole of the Riverlands would miss their little Cat when she set out North to become the future Lady of House Stark.

Yet despite Edmure’s sweetness and Catelyn’s competence, Lysa was undoubtably Minisa’s favorite. Her dreamy youngest daughter would have been better suited for the Age of Heroes. With her heart full of songs and her head full of stories, she should have been soft and sweet to match. But Lysa was all sharp petulance. She was the quickest to anger and the loudest when expressing her dissatisfaction. She wanted the life of some great, romantic heroine and refused to be dissuaded. It was a shame, Minisa thought, that she had given birth to a child fashioned for the kind of courtly love that only existed in songs. Because Lysa would not be content to be given as a gift to some loyal lord or to submit to marriage to secure better relationships or trade. Lysa wished to marry for love and, to that purpose, had fixed her heart on Petyr Baelish. It was unfortunate that, even with all the gold of Braavos in his coffers, he would never be a suitable match.

It was Petyr, of all her children, that worried her the most. As loathe as she was to think on it, there was something unsettling about her foster son. She doubted Hoster noticed. He rarely took note of the boy except to exclaim that he was more of a disaster in the training yard than even Edmure. Truly, she doubted anyone noticed. Perhaps it was something only a mother could see; no one else seemed to be bothered. Little Petyr always seemed to be able to deflect suspicion in the midst of mischief and his silver tongue kept him from trouble when he could not. He was nearly always one step ahead; never where you expected him to be.

Still, had that been all, it might not have been cause enough to worry. However, the boy was never satisfied; he was forever grasping for what could never be his. He was not satisfied with being favored by one Lord Paramount and fostered by another. Nor was he satisfied with having obtained the kind of education he could only have previously dreamed of had he stayed in the Fingers. Worst of all, he was not satisfied with being another brother to her lovely daughters. A child might be forgiven coveting what he could not have but as he grew, Minisa wondered what would become of a man who refused to curb those impulses.

It was Petyr, she feared, who would ruin them all. And all of her worries had nearly come true when he challenged Brandon Stark to duel to the death over the rights to Catelyn’s hand. Had Jon Arryn not been so fond of Brandon’s brother, he might have taken grave offense that the boy he’d placed in their care had been nearly gutted. Had he managed to kill the Stark heir, the Riverlands likely would have faced the full wrath of the North for the death of their favorite son. So, while Minisa might have tended the boy’s wound, wiped his brow, and poured the maester’s concoctions down his throat, she had had no trouble sending him back to his lonely keep as soon as she was able. She couldn’t help but love him, that was true. But no sellsword’s son would wield that sort of power over her family.

So caught up in her thoughts, Minisa nearly missed the sight of Lysa curled up in her solar. Her eyes were red-rimmed and a cloak had been hastily thrown over her night rail. Her knuckles were white where they clutched at a cup that had likely long gone cold. While Lysa often sought her out, it was rare for her to do so early in the morning. Knowing her daughter as she did, Minisa knew there was only one thing that could have spurred her to do such a thing. It sent a chill down her spine that Lysa had waited until Petyr had set off down the Kingsroad.

“Mama,” when she finally spoke, her daughter’s voice was reed thin and plaintive. “Mama, I don’t know what to do.” Her sweet girl took a breath that caught on a sob. “Cat. He called me Cat, Mama. I don’t know what to do. He was supposed to love me, only me. How could he call me Cat, Mama?”

Sweet Mother, it would be a miracle if the gossip didn’t reach Hoster’s ears by mid-day. Lysa’s hair was a braided tangle, purple bruises were set deep under her eyes, and the skin around her mouth and neck was an angry pink. Minisa’s mind raced and she gripped her skirts to keep her hands from shaking as she crossed the room. There was so much to do. So very, very much to do. For now, though, she would wrap her daughter in her arms and dry her tears. The rest of it could wait.

“It’s all right, my little love. Just rest for a moment. Just rest and your mama will take care of everything.”

As she settled Lysa even closer against her, Minisa had a moment of absolute clarity. If she ever laid eyes on her foster son again she would kill him, pray for the Stranger to bring him back, and then kill him again. Being sliced from stem to stern would be nothing when she was through with him. She should not have been so quick to dismiss her concerns. Despite the love she had for him, Minisa should have never let Petyr Baelish out of her sight.

“...O courageous Maiden, obtain for us that every unclean flame may be extinguished in us and only the fire of Divine Love may burn within us...”

She was the daughter of a Whent and the wife of a Tully; Minisa would be damned to an eternity in each of the Seven Hells before she let anyone ruin her precious daughter. No jumped up lordling from the Fingers would ruin her sweet girl’s life before it began.

Chapter Text

On the eve of Catelyn’s betrothal feast to Lord Brandon, the walls of Riverrun are nearly filled to bursting with loyal river lords and northmen. House Tully’s vassals have been filing in for weeks now; eager to reaffirm their loyalty to their liege lord and celebrate the joining of two great Houses. The northmen had arrived with their heir, smaller in number but no less boisterous. Although her lady mother had escorted Lysa and her siblings from the Great Hall hours ago, she can still hear the rumble of laughter and calls for ale from behind the walls of her room.

Lysa’s body has been buzzing with excitement from the moment her sister’s wolf lord first guided his shaggy northern mount through the castle gates. She loves her sister, she does, truly. But Petyr has been so dour since the match was announced; he has only had eyes for Catelyn. Lysa misses the sly, secret smiles that he only gifts to her. She misses Petyr’s wit and the way he whispers mean little jokes at whichever heir to whatever seat cut her in favor of Cat or Edmure or whoever they felt was more worthy of their attention.

It will be better, she is sure, once the feast is over. A betrothal is not an easy thing to break. Certainly not after such a feast, signifying promises set in ink and wax. Surely, once Petyr has seen that Catelyn is well and truly lost to him, he will shift his attention once more. Whatever Father may say, Lysa is not stupid. She understands what a great prize her sister is: older, more accomplished, raised to be Father’s heir in all ways until Edmure’s surprising birth. But she knows that Petyr is not meant for Cat; he is meant for her. He cannot help it, they are dreamers. Petyr just needs to see the truth of things and then he can move on to better dreams.

They will be wed one day soon and return to the Baelish seat. With her dowry, Petyr’s brain, and their connections to three great Houses, together they can carve out a place in the Vale. Perhaps, if they prove themselves, Lord Arryn will send them to Court as his representatives. Lysa knows they can shine, if only given half a chance. It is so easy to imagine: gaining the confidence of the Crown Prince and Princess Elia, rising higher than her sister and her northern husband.

Lysa is tempted to slip into her softest, sheerest night rail and sneak into Petyr’s room. She wants to trade quiet whispers, soft touches, and deep kisses. The preparations for the feast have kept everyone so busy. It feels as though Mother has had her running from one end of the keep to the other, all hours of the day. There has not hardly been time to talk to one another, much less press their bodies close and steal a kiss. But she cannot be sure she would go unnoticed with so many unfamiliar bodies in the halls and it is not worth the risk if she were to be discovered.

Instead, she wraps a quilt around her shoulders and walks through to the solar joining her room to Cat’s. Her sister is curled up on her side. Her hands are tucked under her chin and her dark eyelashes fan out on her cheeks. Lysa does not know how she can sleep. Why she would want to sleep. If their roles were reversed, Lysa would not know a moment’s rest until her wedding day. For once, she hopes it is just perfect Cat being the perfect daughter, the perfect lady. She cannot stand the thought that it is anything else. Not tonight. Not when all her dreams are so close to coming to fruition.

It feels so natural to slide under the covers beside Catelyn. She had missed this. She had missed curling up against her sister’s back. There is something so comforting in warming her cold toes on the backs of Cat’s knees and falling asleep to her soft, sighing breaths. So she quiets her racing thoughts, sets her worries aside, and snuggles closer. One day soon, she will not be able to do this anymore and she is not quite as ready as she thought.

—

Lysa makes sure to dress carefully for the feast; wanting to look every inch a lady of House Tully. A dove grey chemise, paired with a dark red underdress, makes her skin look luminous and her hair shine. The wide square neck of the underdress showcases the swell of her bosom; the sleeves are slim and fitted closely to her arms. Her overdress is a brilliant blue and embroidered with shimmering thread to look as if patterned in fish scales. The sleeves split at her elbow, then open and widen to trail to the floor. The dress is slashed again at the waist to show off the red underneath. Lysa cannot wait to step into the Great Hall; to show all those callow lords what they have been overlooking.

Tonight may belong to Catelyn but it also marks that she is well and truly spoken for. The lords will finally turn their thoughts to Lysa. They will finally remember that her lord father has two daughters. And she will delight in reminding them of their inattentions. These lords might have beautiful keeps, bountiful fields, and old names but they have never held her hand when she was sad or made her laugh until her ribs ached. She will enjoy stringing them along, relishing in the fact that she has made her choice.

It shocks her, then, when things spiral so quickly out of control. Cat sparkles and Petyr scowls. Lysa tries everything she can think of to raise his spirits between dances. She insults Lord Blackwood’s garish surcoat and the way Marc Piper trips over the easiest Riverland reels. She compliments Petyr’s neat appearance, how brilliant green his eyes look, and even the shining mockingbird pin on his collar. Between dances with Ser Myles, Ser Raymun, and countless Freys, Lysa tries to coax him into taking a turn with her around the Great Hall. But Petyr only seems happy when Catelyn takes him by the hand and they twist and twirl amongst the other guests. Lysa grits her teeth and minds her manners, smiling prettily at every lord and knight her mother sees fit to introduce.

It means nothing, she tells herself, as her sister takes Petyr’s hand six times and leads him in a merry dance. It means nothing as Petyr drinks longer and deeper each time Lord Brandon’s hands slip lower than is proper, Cat’s chin tipped back as she laughs and laughs. It means nothing, Lysa tells herself over and over, as she lets Uncle Brynden escort her from the hall. It means nothing and it does not matter, she whispers as she washes her face, unlaces her dress, and pulls the covers to her chin.

When Lysa wakes, the keep is silent and the sky is dark. Her dreams of Cat’s blue eyes twinkling with silent laughter and Petyr’s mouth turned down in a deep scowl have made doubt sit heavy on her chest. She will not lose Petyr; not to Cat, not to anyone.

It is in that moment that Lysa makes her decision. Like the night before, she slips from her bed. But this time she crosses her room and emerges into the hallway, rather than her solar. It does not take long to walk to Petyr’s room and, once inside, bar the door. Lysa takes her time. She lights the candles and pulls her hair from its braid, brushing it out with her fingers. Careful not to wake Petyr, she pulls her night rail over her head and then carefully, gently begins running her hands down her body.

She brushes her fingers along her neck, smooths her hands over her breasts, and trails them down, down, down. Mother had said that men can be selfish in the marriage bed. That sometimes a woman’s body might need coaxing to please her husband; that sometimes she might need to do the coaxing. Lysa tells herself that she wants Petyr to be selfish as she climbs up the bed to where he sleeps. She lets him have his fill of her as he mouths at her neck and squeezes at her roughly. She listens to his quiet moans, tries to move clumsily along with him as he thrusts up into her. She focuses on how lovely they look in the candlelight. Surely, Lysa thinks once Petyr has finished and is falling back to sleep, nothing so beautiful could be anything but destiny.

—

“Catelyn! Put a leash on your damn dog!” Lysa screams as her sister rushes forward, pleading with her betrothed to not gut Petyr as he lays curled and bleeding in the dirt.

Lysa feels unmoored. Petyr, Petyr, Petyr, she thinks. She can still hear the clashing of steel, Petyr’s grunts as he tried and failed to avoid his opponent’s blows, and Lord Brandon’s laughter ringing through the training yard. Even the sight of Mother striding across the yard, face red and eyes flashing, is not enough to settle Lysa’s panic.

She tries to follow her mother and the maester but Septa Sabithe suddenly appears and grasps her by the elbow. She had not even realized she had been crying “Petyr, Petyr, Petyr” in great gulping breaths until the septa had started speaking quietly to her, guiding her back toward the keep.

—

The first time she snuck into Petyr’s room had been pure impulse. Her heart hurt and the night was quiet and she couldn’t wait another moment. Poor Petyr. Poor heartbroken, humiliated, drunken Petyr. This was her chance, her heart had seemed to whisper. This was her chance to show him just how much she loved him. How good they could be together. How easy it would be to let her sister go.

Her lady mother sent Lord Brandon and his northern entourage back to Winterfell the day after the duel. He’d laughed, the savage, kissed Cat soundly, and said he looked forward to their wedding after the tourney at Harrenhal. The rest of the household had been barred from Petyr’s sickbed and only Mother and Maester Vyman has been allowed to tend to him. Her parents had been furious with Petyr over the duel and no amount of begging and pleading could make them change their course. When Mother was not tending Petyr’s wounds, she was trading ravens with Lady Arryn and overseeing the packing of Petyr’s belongings. Father spoke of it once, to inform them that Petyr would be returning to the Fingers, and then seemed to dismiss the matter entirely.

She knew it would do no good attempting to argue. Her father was stubborn and prideful; he would not be swayed by words once he made up his mind. As much as she was loathe to admit it, Lysa was his daughter. So, the second time she came to Petyr, she intended to trap him. He could not refuse her with a babe in her belly, not without risking the ire of House Tully. And her father would not be able to refuse the union. Petyr might be a minor lord with minor holdings but no suitable lord would take a wife who was full of child. Agreeing to a marriage with a no-name lord of the Vale was still preferable to being the grandfather of a bastard.

Now that Mother has deemed it safe for Petyr to travel, he will be setting off in the morning. Unfortunately, that does not leave Lysa with much time. It is the first night since the duel that Petyr has been left alone. Even after the danger had passed, he had been watched. Perhaps to ensure he did not die; perhaps to ensure he did not try to sneak into Cat’s room. But her blood had come while Petyr lay locked away and she knows a broken maidenhead will not be enough to change her father’s mind.

Lysa feels so very clever as she sneaks into Petyr’s room. Clever and powerful. All her life she has been told that her virtue is her greatest treasure; that she must guard it lest she become soiled and unable to be married off. But she had made the choice, not anyone else, and that makes her as powerful as any princess, any queen. So she bars the door while Petyr squints into the weak firelight and chooses to ignore his carelessness, the burn from his unshaved face, and the way his love feels sharp and angry.

And then Petyr breathes her sister’s name into her neck and in that moment Lysa realizes her mistake. She is not clever or powerful; she is just a silly, stupid, ruined girl. She is the one who has been the fool all along.

—

Mother brews her a cup of tea that stinks of tansy and Mother helps her drink it. Mother orders a steaming bath and washes her gently until all Lysa can smell is the scent of lemons and lavender. Mother smoothes oil into her skin, soothing irritation and throbbing bruises. Mother promises not to tell Father. Mother promises not to write Lady Arryn. Mother curls up in bed beside her every night and holds her while she cries. And weeks later, after her blood has come and gone once again, it is Mother who tells her they will be attending the tourney at Harrenhal to find Lysa a husband.

—

Father stays behind at Riverrun and Uncle Brynden plays escort. It is frustrating and reassuring in equal turns that no one seems to notice anything amiss. Edmure still tugs at her hand or at the end of her braid, begging for his favorite stories. Catelyn still slumps over onto her shoulder when she falls asleep in the wheelhouse and lets Lysa tuck her cold toes behind her knees at night. Uncle still treats her with the utmost care, helping her mount her mare and slipping her pieces of candy when he thinks his good sister isn’t looking. And Mother loves her as fiercely as ever; as if Lysa had never come into her solar that morning and confessed everything.

Lysa’s lady mother has been given leave to negotiate a betrothal and her uncle to stand in Father’s stead. She finds she does not much care who Mother chooses. She thought she had found love in Petyr; she had been willing to do anything to bind herself to him. That willingness brought her nothing but pain. It is another mercy that Mother seems to understand. She mostly leaves her alone except to escort her to tea with some lord and lady of such and such who have a son that Mother deems worthy of consideration.

Lord Ormond Yronwood and his wife, Lady Gwyneth, are one such lord and lady. Lady Gwyneth has the look of a proper Dornishwoman: smooth dark skin, shiny black hair, and sparkling brown eyes. But Lord Ormond has a ruddy pale complexion with blond hair and blue eyes. He might as well hail from the Riverlands or Westerlands. As their son, Lord Anders, takes her for a turn around the tourney grounds she notices that he has the look of his father. Lysa wonders who a child of theirs might take after. Blue eyed, surely, but would it have pale skin or dark? Would its hair be red or blond? Might it completely take after Lady Gwyneth?

”Our child, my lady?” Lysa can feel a blush spreading hot across her cheeks and neck, tears pricking in her eyes as she realizes she has spoken aloud. “I cannot imagine that the Yronwood seat is so great that it would draw Lord Tully’s daughter all the way to Dorne.”

She wonders, then, if he knows what she has done. That she was willful and selfish enough to throw away her entire life and her family’s reputation. Surely he will hate her for it and all the talk at the tourney will be of her and her mistake.

“I am sorry, my lord, I did not mean to say that.” Lysa ducks her head, watching him through her lashes, waiting for some sign that he has grown tired of her. However, Lord Anders’s eyes stay kind and his hand is gentle where it rests over her own. “I am afraid I have not been myself lately.”

”In Dorne, ladies are not afraid to speak their minds. And they are free to be whoever they feel like being whenever it suits them.” His fingers reach up carefully as he tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and Lysa can’t help but lean into him, just a little. “My lord father and lady mother are in good health. If you were to choose me, we would have many years to learn each other, to grow together.”

Lord Anders is not Petyr. He is one and twenty. He was a man grown when she was watching Petyr approach the cusp of manhood. His face is friendly and open; she doubts there are any secrets to be wheedled from him. But best of all, Lysa thinks, his eyes are so, so kind. His sword-callused hands handle her as if she is something to be treasured. It will not be the kind of life she had once imagined, if she is tucked up in the ironwood forests of Dorne. She smiles to herself. That does not seem like such a bad thing anymore.

”Perhaps, my lord, you could tell me more about your Dornish ladies? I must admit, my maester has been neglectful in his lessons about Dorne.”

It is enough, for now. Maybe tomorrow there will be more.

Chapter Text

“Must you go? Truly?” Lady Elaena looked up through her lashes from where her head was pillowed in Loreza’s lap and sighed. “It seems like so much trouble for a king who will already be crowned when you arrive.”

Life had been calm prior to the raven’s arrival. Autumn was slowly giving way to winter in Dorne. And while they would not suffer snow and ice, the skies were already beginning to show signs of rain. From the window in her solar, Loreza could watch the fog roll in and the waves slowly gain in height. She could only tolerate the grey skies and rough winds of autumn in Sunspear for so long. Gathering up Elia, Oberyn, and a not-so-small amount of courtiers, Loreza had made for the Water Gardens. They had been there a moon, hardly any time at all to settle her household, before the message had come from the capital. Aegon could have at least had the decency to die before I moved court.

Unlike her father, who only left the Old Palace when absolutely necessary, Loreza enjoyed a revolving court. In the early days of her rule, before Doran’s birth, she would spend half the year paying visit to her lords and ladies. Although motherhood necessitated that she travel less, Loreza still enjoyed splitting her time between the principle Martell seat, the Sandship, and the Water Gardens. Much like her mother, she misliked staying in one place for too long.

“Oh ‘Laena, hush.” Lady Wylla mimed throwing a section of blood orange at Lord Manwoody’s youngest daughter but seemed to think better of it. “You know our Princess would not venture into that bloody cesspit if it was not absolutely necessary.”

Ser Wylann plucked the offending fruit from her fingers and popped it in his mouth. “Please, Princess, tell me you plan to leave this lady and her loose tongue at home. I do not fancy telling Uncle Wylard his favorite niece lost her head in King’s Landing.”

Loreza ran her fingers through Elaena’s curls and pretended to be annoyed with the Wyl cousins’ antics but could not quite hide her smile. Wylla is right. I would never step foot in Court if I could help it. To her lady-in-waiting she said, “King Jaehaerys might understand if I sent the Prince or Doran in my stead but his son would not. He would see it as a weakness and attempt to undermine my rule where he could. Given the rumors of the king’s health, I would rather avoid that if possible. No need to encourage strife between the Iron Throne and Dorne.”

Her people would not take such an insult lightly. For all they loved her husband and her heir, they loved Loreza more. And while it would have been satisiying, she had no desire to watch the northern lords and ladies of Court cut themselves on the sharp wits of her own inner circle. Lord Wyl is not the only one with family amongst my court who would be displeased if my carelessness returned to him a box of bones. There were members of the Small Council who would delight in forcing the new king to punish Dorne over a minor offense.

“I have recalled Doran from Salt Shore. He will oversee the Old Palace while his father travels here to stay with the little prince and princess.”

At two and nearly four, Oberyn and Elia had no business anywhere near the Red Keep. After Doran’s birth, Loreza had suffered one disappointment after another. There had been countless failed attempts, far too many miscarriages, and two babes dead in the cradle. After nine long years, she had thought to give up. Then Elia had come, over a moon early, and Loreza had been sure she would be lost. But the gods had blessed her darling girl and she had survived. Loreza had taken her husband to bed to celebrate and to everyone’s great surprise, Oberyn had been the result. She would not trust her children at Court; there were far too many lords and ladies who would think nothing of hurting some Dornish brat.

“Elaena, I want you to stay here and keep them from too much mischief.” The lady pouted but was clearly delighted. Still unmarried at two and twenty, she enjoyed playing mother when she could. There was not anyone in the realm, outside of her family, that Loreza would rather have caring for her children. No wet nurse or septa could keep a more watchful eye or be more attentive to their needs.

In truth, it was Doran she worried about most. Loreza knew he would be disappointed to leave his foster family, if only for a short time. He longed for the day he would be knighted and she knew he would be annoyed by the interruption to his training. Lord Gargalen will welcome him with open arms upon his return. He would not presume to take offense at his princess needing her heir.

“Your uncle has requested that you return home, Wylla. Wylann, he has given you leave to join our traveling party.” Loreza had no doubt that Lord Wyl hoped to betroth his niece during the months she was away from both court and her cousin’s side. If nothing else, Loreza envied his resolve. So far, Wylla had rejected every suitor brought forth in favor of her merchant lover in Sunspear. And Ser Wylann had protested the selections nearly as fiercely. “I hope to make it a short trip, there and back to prove our fealty, but one never knows with Court. Perhaps more than ever, we will need to take care.”

As more of her lords and ladies trickled in from the terrace, soaked and laughing from their time chasing the children in the pools, Loreza sent a prayer to Mother Rhoyne to keep them safe. Both for her sake and their own.

—

By the time Loreza and her caravan arrived from Dorne, the feasts and tourneys celebrating Jaehaerys’s coronation and Rhaegar’s birth had mostly concluded. Years ago she might have been offended that the Dornish were so easily overlooked. That the realm viewed her lords and ladies as lesser. Now, however, she saw it as the blessing it was. If only they would forget us entirely. We would be better off for it. As a result the large hosts, made up of the Great Houses and their vassals, had departed; leaving behind their representatives at Court.

It was surprising, then, that the Lannisters remained. Lord Tytos had departed for Casterly Rock, leaving enriched whores in his wake, but his oldest son had not. The whispers around Court claimed that Lord Tywin was Prince Aerys’s new favorite. Given that the golden lord was never far from the crown prince, it seemed the gossip was true.

Considering the concessions King Aegon had made after his son and daughter had broken their betrothals, hopefully the Lannister presence would lessen the influence of the River and Reacher lords. Especially the Reacher lords. Entitled, encroaching rats. Everyone knew they would press their advantage to take the Boneway if they thought it could be done.

After only a fortnight in the Red Keep, Loreza felt as though she would crawl out of her skin. The king and queen were pleasant enough but they were equally oblivious to the factions being formed within their court. Prince Aerys was all charm and courtesy; between he and Lord Tywin, they had the ear of several lords on the Small Council. Then, of course, the Riverlands and Reach were determined to have a say in nearly everything, whether it was warranted or not. Worst of all were the Freys, who believed that poor Lady Gemma’s dowry proved something other than Lord Tytos’s stupidity. Not to be forgotten were the Baratheons and their Storm lords, who were quick to point out their blood connection to the crown. Loreza did not understand how anyone could keep to Court for years and years; she had been done with it all in less than a sennight.

She had grown so tired of dancing attendance on the royal family, of playing lady-in-waiting to Queen Shaera, that she had begun snapping at even the most cheerful of her lords and ladies. Ser Wylann, brave knight that he was, had leveled Loreza with a look and suggested she take a turn through the godswood. For all our sakes. Swallowing a harsh retort, she turned on her heel and left without a word. It would only sour her mood further to punish the man for speaking truly.

With the changing seasons, the godswood was a veritable explosion of colors. The summer green had given way to brilliant reds, oranges, and golds. Plush carpets of sweet alyssum lined the walkways and bright purple beautyberries peaked out from round green bushes. Soft petaled pansies had sprung up in nearly every color imaginable and everywhere she turned, Loreza was confronted with some new delight. Perhaps if the queen hosted more dull teas and boring sewing circles in the godswood, they would not be such a chore to attend.

So caught up was she in the myriad of sights and smells that she nearly missed that hers was not the only presence there. On a bench beneath a flower-laden arbor sat a maiden. Dressed in red, with glorious golden curls, she might as well been painted into the autumnal scene. Before the young lady could stand to curtsey, Loreza snorted and waved her courtesies away.

”Oh, never mind that, my lady. With just you and I here, I see no need to stand on ceremony. I am much to old for that nonsense.”

“Surely not, Princess!” The Lannister lady, for she could only be a Lannister with that hair and those green eyes, laughed gaily and moved aside to make a place for Loreza.

“Old enough to be your mother, I would imagine. My eldest is three and ten, my lady.” And had I been born anywhere but Dorne, he might have been older still. When the girl’s eyes widened a fraction, Loreza could not help but feel gratified.

”Please, Princess, you must call me Joanna. At least here, where the flowers will not judge my bad manners.”

This one is trouble, Loreza mused, this one is trouble indeed. But, at least for now, it seemed like the kind of trouble that would make King’s Landing much more tolerable. “Well, if you do not mind offending the flowers’ delicate sensibilities, you may call me Loreza. And then you must give me your measure of Queen Shaena’s ladies. I have a feeling not much escapes you.”

Lady Joanna’s answering smile was a sharp, pretty thing. And her observations even sharper. New to Court and yet to distinguish herself, she had leveraged that into making careful notes of the royal family and courtiers. That she kept her composure, raised her even higher in Loreza’s esteem.

By the time Jaehaerys had been properly assured of Dorne’s loyalty, Loreza found that she could count Joanna among her closest friends. They sat together in the Maidenvault and whispered behind their embroidery hoops. Whenever Prince Aerys drew too close or grew too familiar, Loreza would loop her arm through Joanna’s and lead her to the Dornish suites where Lady Alyse and Lord Anders would teach her their second best cyvasse strategies. They shared stories of their families and taught each other their favorite dances from home.

Once the Princess of Dorne and the future Lady Lannister returned to their homes, ravens flew steadily between Sunspear and Casterly Rock for the first time in living memory.

—

”No! She did not!” With one hand clutching at her belly and the other resting on Loreza’s shoulder for balance, Joanna’s laugh rang out through her solar. “Not sweet Elia!”

Loreza could only roll her eyes. “Your sweet Elia would have set Lady Crane’s skirts aflame had Elaena not caught her with the flint.” It had been a wonder she had not gone and done it anyway. “‘Those Reacher lords need to mind their tongues,’ she said. Right before Doran dragged her out of the exhibition tent.”

Attending the tourney, hosted by Lord Tywin in Joanna’s honor, had been an unavoidable nuisance. The very last thing Loreza wished to do, with Joanna so close to birthing twins, was chase her children through the tourney grounds. At least Elia will be no trouble, she had thought to herself. And then Lady Mallorie had made a quip about lusty Dornish lordlings and innocent Reacher maids within Oberyn’s hearing. Elia had taken particular offense and, despite being thwarted, resolved to teach Lady Crane a lesson.

Joanna opened her mouth to retort but cringed instead. Loreza leaned forward to check on her friend, only to be shooed back.

“It is nothing, Loree; it is just the babes. They have very strong opinions already, my little lions. They do not like it when I laugh or stand or...move, really.”

She looked so delighted that Loreza could not help but smile. Surely no woman had taken more naturally to pregnancy and impending motherhood. Loreza had had her doubts that the sober, severe Lord Tywin would make a good match for the vivacious, brilliant Joanna but she had been utterly pleased to be proven wrong. It was obvious he loved his wife.

”Now then! Enough stalling, ‘Ana. You promised me names, the last time you wrote, and I mean to know before your husband sends announcements throughout the realm.”

”Fine. Fine! A Lannister always pays their debts.” At that, Joanna rolled her eyes but shifted so that she might lay her head on Loreza’s shoulder. “Cersei and Jocasta for girls; Jaime and Cerion for boys. I thought of Loreon but...”

Loreza snaked her arm around her beloved Lady Lannister and gently squeezed her closer. “You know as well as I that your little lions will be well loved by me, no matter what you name them. No need to inflame anyone’s...well...anyone, really.” Gods know Aerys does not need another reason to doubt Tywin’s loyalty. “We will keep them safe, ‘Ana, you and I.”

She politely turned her head as Joanna sighed and wiped her tears with her sleeve. Loreza would gather her up in her arms, were it not to embarrass sweet Joanna entirely. A moment passed before Joanna, voice thick with unshed tears, looked up to meet her eyes. “Now, I think you promised me news of Doran? How goes his plans to tour the Free Cities now that he is an anointed knight and a man grown? Has he saved any ladies besides that awful Lady Crane? These babes keep me to bed and Genna is far too busy to gossip with me.”

After they had exhausted their voices and their news, Loreza curled up around Joanna like they had done when they were bedmates at court. She prayed to Mother Rhoyne, the Seven, and even the nameless northern gods that she might be heard and that these babes would not rob the realm of such a beautiful light.

—

I should have never left the Westerlands for last. I was there when the twins were born; I should have been here for this babe as well. Joanna had done so well with two babes, neither woman had thought one would give her any trouble at all. They had agreed to make a show of it; to take the attention off of Joanna’s pregnancy and the growing tension between King Aerys and Tywin. The realm would be too busy talking of Loreza’s betrothal tour for Elia and Oberyn to pay any mind to the Lannisters and the Rock. And then, at the end, they would finalize their years long promise to keep their children safe by betrothing them to one another. It was becoming clear that Jaime needed a wife like Elia: political, witty, and kind. Cersei would do well as Oberyn’s bride; she was the kind of girl who was meant for Dorne.

But then Lord Hightower had met Loreza and her children at the dock, a scroll bearing the Lannister seal in his hand. And, without any warning at all, the world turned upside down. It cannot be true. How can she be gone?

By the time they arrived, the Rock was draped in black and every member of the household wore mourning according to their station. It felt as though the whole keep was wading through a thick fog.

I had hoped to visit Joanna’s rooms one last time but all anyone will say is that have been barred to everyone but Lord Lannister. It has been a week and Lord Lannister still refuses to speak with me.

She wanted to give Tywin time, to allow him to make some sense of his grief, but she was mourning too. Loreza wanted to be home, with Wylla, Elaena, and Alyse; she wanted to plan Doran and Mellario’s wedding. She wanted to be anywhere but Casterly Rock, where every corridor revealed another memory.

Loreza was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost missed when Tywin finally, finally chose to grace her with his presence.

”I suppose it would be too much to hope that you have considered my offer to take the babe back to Dorne when we go?”

She watched carefully as he scrubbed a hand down his weary, haggard face; shoulders slumped in grief. “I suppose it might be better. No one would think anything of the babe perishing during such a journey.”

”Perish?!” Loreza could not help but cringe as she heard her voice turn shrill. “I mean to foster him! You know, just as well as I, that Joanna would have wanted...”

”Do not dare presume to tell me what my wife would have wanted! She wanted to live! She wanted half a dozen healthy, strong children. She wanted to see them marry and have children of her own. She wanted...”

Loreza wanted to rise from her chair, to cross the room and comfort him. But she could not move; she felt as though she was rooted to her seat. Tywin had tolerated her for ‘Ana’s sake but nothing more and she felt ill equipped to handle any feelings of his beyond annoyance.

”You know as well as I that she wanted to join our Houses. Cersei is much too...much to be wasted on one of your bannermen’s heirs. She will wilt if you wed her to some man who thinks of her as a womb; who sees her as an extension of your favor. And Jaime...Jaime needs balance. He will not be well suited with some empty headed decoration. And Tyrion...”

”If you want the babe so badly, you can have him!” Loreza felt her heart begin to soar, just as Tywin’s somber expression to turned cruel. “You can foster him in Dorne, so long as you wed him to Elia when he comes of age. If you take him, I will not see him back.”

White hot rage sizzled up her spine. Now she had to tighten her hands around the arms of her chair, lest she fly at Tywin and rake her nails down his face. With those words, her sympathy and understanding disappeared into the ether. “Elia is seven and ten, my lord. You offer in jest, surely.”

“You presume too much, Princess Loreza.” Tywin’s face remained impassive, even as a red flush began to travel up his neck. “You come here, my wife barely cold in the ground, intent on making matches with my children. Matches made over needlework and watercolors; matches I took no part in. My heir deserves better than some salty Dornish whore, princess that she might be. And Cersei...I have no plans to waste Cersei on anyone. My daughter, Joanna’s daughter, will be queen.”

It was too much. It was all too much. Loreza knew she was moving, she could see herself growing closer and closer to Tywin, but it was as if some strange magic had taken control of her body. She was mine first. She was the only friendly face in a sea of strangers. ‘Ana was my friend before you ever even noticed her. Loreza fisted her hands in her skirts and met Tywin’s gaze through narrowed eyes.

”Your children deserve better than some angry, broken widower. Joanna’s children deserve better than this empty shell of a man. If there was any justice in this world, the gods would have taken your life instead of hers. Gods know all of Westeros would have been better for it.” Her voice broke on those last words but Loreza refused to cry. Not in front of him; never in front of him. She would leave this wretched place with some dignity, mourning be damned.

I will not say another word, not to him. Not ever. Loreza refused to cry and she refused to allow Tywin to sacrifice Cersei upon the altar of his own ambitions. Joanna would have smothered him in his sleep had he proposed such a thing. Not while Aerys still lives. If Tywin thought for one moment that she would stand aside while brilliant, sharp, cunning little Cersei was sold off to put a half Lannister king on the throne, he was as much of a fool as his father.

Not the golden haired daughter of her heart. Not Cersei. Not ever.

—

When the raven came, bearing the seal of the three headed dragon, Loreza felt anything but joy. She had never meant to trade Joanna’s daughter for her own. Take heart, Loree, she could almost hear ‘Ana’s voice in her ear, no dragons ever conquered Dorne. No matter how hot their flames or how sharp their teeth.

It was not enough but it would have to be. At least Cersei would not be sold to the son of the man who would have made her mother his whore. If the gods were good, Loreza would live to see Elia crowned queen of the realm. Perhaps, among King Rhaegar’s court, Cersei might find a man who would look at her like Tywin had once looked at Joanna. As if he had found a treasure of untold riches, hidden in plain sight.

Setting the scroll down beside her, Loreza turned her gaze once again to the scene below her terrace. Arianne ran naked through the shallow pools, shrieking as her mother chased her. So intent on her mother was the little girl that she did not notice her father until he had scooped her up and slung her, all giggles and dripping hair, over his shoulders.

Let them play a little more. This news will keep; if just for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

When Elia is small, her papa takes her to the banks of the Greenblood. Alaba, he calls her. Daughter. He kneels down, in the muck and reeds, and cradles her face between his hands. Your amona, my mother, was an Orphan. She grew up on this river. During the day she learned how to navigate the river, to fish, and to trade. At night, her parents would pull her close and whisper into her ear all the wisdom the Red Priests outlawed. Then he smiles and tells Elia a story she has heard a hundred times before. A story she thinks she knows.

Her father’s father was Trystane Dalt, one of Lord Dalt’s sons. When he was a child, he wandered away from his minders and fell into the river. Had it not been for her grandmother’s quick action, he would have drowned. Once she had gotten him to shore, she fled, not wishing to attract the attention of the Lord of Lemonwood. But grandfather never forgot the pattern her freckles made across the bridge of her nose or how one eye was a lighter brown than the other. When he came of age, he traveled up and down the Greenblood until he found her. He courted her for a year and a day, until she finally relented, and they married in Planky Town.

First before the Seven, Father says, and then before Mother Rhoyne. And when their children were born, Amona taught us all of the secrets she knew. This is the part of the story that Elia has never heard. You are the blood of Nymeria twice over, alaba. You are a child of the river. When you were born, so small that we thought you would fade away, I convinced your mother to bring you to this very place. We bathed you in these waters and prayed to Mother Rhoyne to save you. She listened. You lived.

On that day, Elia learns a great many things. Most she forgets, her lessons as a princess of Dorne crowd out her memories of that one day on the Greenblood. But there is one thing her papa tells her that she remembers her whole life. Ibaia zure bihotzean eramaten duzu. You carry the river in your heart. Unbeknownst to her there will be a moment, as she gazes down at the banks of a very different river, that those words will remind her of Mother Rhoyne’s blessing and give her the courage to stage a rebellion of her very own.

—

The day of Elia’s wedding dawns bright and clear. Elaena, still beautiful after all these years, rouses her from her nest of blankets and urges her toward the steaming copper tub the maids have prepared. It seems as though all of the Dornish court has come to see her married and Elia is grateful for it. She barely remembers her Aunt Joanna anymore. She can just recall the golden halo of her hair and the softness of her hands but her mother never stopped telling her stories of the brilliant, cunning, lovely Lady Lannister. Elia has no illusions as to why this marriage is happening. And she knows, under this king, that no matter who you might be, no one is safe at Court.

Her mother might be the Princess of Dorne but even she is powerless to stand against the whims of the king. King Aerys might have no great love for the Dornish but he loves his once favorite and former Hand even less. He has already punished Lord Lannister’s supposed ambitions by taking his heir as a member of the Kingsguard. Making an offer of marriage to Elia, after refusing Lady Cersei, was just another insult. One made possible by the Targaryen blood in the Martell line. She is simply collateral damage.

Elaena washes her hair and Wylla rubs oil on her skin while her mother and Ashara set out all the things she is to wear for the day. Her maids, Layna and Cedra, sing softly as they ready the rest of her belongings for the journey to Dragonstone after the wedding. She leans into Elaena’s touch and soaks in her mother’s voice, trying to commit every little detail to memory.

—

In her wedding dress, Elia could be the sunset. A flame. She is dressed in silks of soft red, dark orange, and brilliant yellow. With every step she takes, her mother’s jewelry jingles at her wrists and ankles and throat. A crown of orange blossoms is woven into her hair and the sigil on her cloak, embroidered in thread-of-gold, shimmers in the light.

No one watching, as Oberyn leads her up the steps to the Sept of Baelor, will ever forget that Prince Rhaegar is marrying a princess of Dorne. It has only been a matter of weeks since Elia arrived at the Red Keep but she has not been deaf to the whispers. They say she is weak, in body and in mind. That it is only a matter of time before Rhaegar sets her aside for a better wife. A proper wife. Let them talk. I am a Martell and a daughter of the river. Unbent, unbowed, unbroken, and blessed by Mother Rhoyne. So she lets them look their fill. Tomorrow, they will still be nothing to her and she will be the mother of their future king.

—

The wedding seems to stretch on for an eternity. It is nothing like she imagined, all those years ago. Her mother would stretch out beside her and pull her close, whispering stories about her friend Joanna and how they hoped Elia would become Lady of Casterly Rock one day. Whenever she would worry about leaving Dorne behind, Mama would promise her that ‘Ana would keep her safe. That no one would dare go against Lady Lannister.

But Mama’s dear friend died in the birthing bed and her husband set Elia’s wedding into motion the moment he refused to join their Houses. She resolves to be as brave and cunning as Nymeria and as steadfast as Mother River. So many years ago, her mother kissed her one last time before she departed for King’s Landing and promised to return to Elia and to Dorne. Elia promises herself that she will step foot on her land again; will look once more upon her people. This will not be the ending to my story.

—

Rhaegar beds her. He is careful and patient and kind. He is soft kisses and softer words. He rolls over onto his side, after, and gazes into her eyes. Then her husband tells her about his dreams. About a prophecy. It is all that she can do to keep from weeping.

Their household leaves for Dragonstone the next day. Before Elia has even had time to settle into her new home, she is heaving.

—

As soon as she is well enough to travel, Elia departs Dragonstone for King’s Landing with her husband and Rhaenys. It had taken moons before she could leave her bed without feeling dizzy and six before she could move without pain. With little to do but think, Elia had worried how Rhaegar would react to the birth of a daughter. But he had seemed pleased enough with his little princess and eager to present her to his father.

Her husband had brought their daughter to her, once the maester was convinced she was strong enough to hold Rhaenys without dropping her. He had laughed when she had given voice to her concerns and kissed her on the top of her head. Remember, Elia, the dragon has three heads. Just like the first Aegon took his Rhaenys and Visenya to wife, so will our promised prince. We still have time; it will all be fine. The unexpected burst of laughter from her normally solemn husband had been enough to silence her for the time. But Rhaegar is not yet king and her good father has made his disdain for Elia and her people well known. And, everywhere but Dorne, a woman is not safe until she has given her husband a son.

Everyone who sees the little princess says Rhaenys is her mother in miniature. But as Elia looks into her daughter’s eyes, one lighter than the other, and traces the constellation of freckles along the bridge of her nose, she knows the truth. One night on the road, while everyone sleeps, Elia slips down to the banks of a river whose name she does not know and bathes her daughter in its waters.

Keep her safe, she pleads, Mother River bless your littlest daughter and keep her safe. I could bear almost any heartbreak, any sorrow, but please do not take my sweet babe from me.

—

For Oberyn’s tenth name day, they had all traveled to Sandstone to celebrate with him. One of Lord Qorgyle’s nephews had built up a large bonfire in the courtyard and the whole keep had stayed up feasting and dancing. Towards the end of the night, a scuffle had broken out amongst the squires. Before anyone could think to stop them, one unfortunate boy tripped over the others and fell into the fire. The smell of burned flesh had clung to the air for days.

When Elia enters the throne room, she is immediately transported back to that horrible moment. The remnants of a pyre sit in the middle of the room and she clutches Rhaenys closer as she realizes the blackened mass in the center is a body. None of the courtiers act as though anything is amiss. The lords and ladies watch the procession of the crown prince and his party as if something, Gods let it be something and not someone, had not been burned before the throne.

Rhaegar’s expression is shuttered, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders tense. He is not surprised. He knew, he knew, he knew. The faces of the Kingsguard are blank as Elia sinks down before the king. Rhaenys lets out a grizzled sort of cry and Ser Jaime flinches. It is a quick thing, over in the blink of an eye, but Elia notices. It might be nothing. It might be everything. And she is determined to find out which.

Later, in the privacy of her rooms, Elia hands the baby off to Lady Jynna so that she might lay her head in Ashara’s lap and cry.

Lord Wyllyam starts to sing something low and lilting as Ashara cards her fingers through Elia’s hair. She wonders if her mother had ever felt this way all those years ago at Court. Weak. Powerless. Hopeless. Cruelty is predictable and can sometimes be appeased. But madness. Madness is like a wildfire; a rambling, uncontrollable inferno. There is not anything you can do but pray for rain.

So she prays and then sends Layna and Cedra home the very next day.

—

Elia prays in the sept. She walks the stinking streets of the city and gives alms to the poor. She reads to the children in the foundling houses. When Rhaegar decides on a trip to the ruins of Summerhall, Elia gathers her lords and ladies so that they might all dance attendance on her husband. She gathers her court in the godswood, in her solar, and avoids any place the king might be. She hardens her heart against Rhaella’s anguished screaming on the nights after a new body scorches the stone of the throne room. She writes a dozen letters to Mama, to Doran, to Oberyn and burns every last one.

And every day, Elia and her ladies venture into the training yard to watch the knights and their squires train. It takes nearly a fortnight before she manages to approach Ser Jaime without attracting any notice and loops her arm through his own.

”You are quite an impressive sight, ser. It is difficult to believe the very same babe I once held in my arms can give Ser Arthur a challenge in the yard.”

When he says nothing, she pats his arm with her free hand and shoots him a sunny smile.

”We should trade stories, you and I. Our mothers were very dear friends, you know. Like sisters. I grew up on stories of your lady mother and I worry I might forget them without someone to share them with.”

Nearly every day, Elia finds a moment to slip her arm through the young knight’s and regale him with another story of his mother. With every new memory, Ser Jaime thaws a little bit more. He volunteers to accompany her to the sept. He jokes with her lords and ladies as he stands guard in the godswood. He lets Rhaenys hold onto his fingers and helps guide her as she toddles around Elia’s solar. Bit by bit he opens up to her and by the time she goes into confinement for her second pregnancy, Elia’s golden knight has stories of his own to tell her when he visits her every day.

—

Once, when Papa was teaching her to swim, Elia drifted too far. Accustom to the river, she had not expected the large ocean wave that had gone over her head. Down, down, down she had gone. Right before her father had managed to reach her, everything had gone dark and warm and still. It feels like that now. It feels like she is sinking.

Swim, alaba, swim. Papa’s voice rings in her ears. She wants to ask him why. Why should she swim back into the pain? The panic? Elia feels weightless; feels free. Mesedez, neska gozoa, igeri egin. His pleading voice is overtaken by a lusty cry. My babies, she thinks, I cannot leave my babies behind.

There are hands touching her everywhere. She can hear Ashara shouting at someone but finds her head is too heavy to lift and her eyes feel stuck shut. Everything aches, even her hair, and she can taste copper on her tongue. It is hard, so very hard, to not just let the water close over her head. But Elia tells herself to focus on the babe. How it will look. How soft it will feel in her arms. How sweet it will smell. And the second time she drifts off, it is into an exhausted sleep and not into the depths of the sea

—

Aegon is beautiful. Golden brown skin. A tuft of silvery blonde hair on the top of his head. Large violet eyes framed by long, sooty lashes. My little dragon, Rhaegar says, the Prince Who was Promised. Elia feels hollowed out, gutted. She does not know what will happen to her, this far north, but she knows she can not trust her husband to protect her. Maybe not ever but certainly not anymore.

—

”You should take Ashara to bed,” Elia tells Rhaegar. It had taken every bit of her strength not to throw herself at him and claw out his eyes after he had been so foolish to crown Lord Stark’s daughter with the wreath of blue roses. “She joined me in confinement with Aegon and no one will think it strange if I hide myself away before I start showing.” Her husband’s jaw clenches, the small movement giving away that he has heard her at all. She is the only one I trust to hold my life in her hands.

”No,” Rhaegar does not even look her way as he paces around the room, “and I do not want to hear that suggestion again.” White hot hate bubbles up in Elia’s chest and threatens to choke her. “I will wed Lady Lyanna before her Old Gods and take her as my second wife. If the High Septon objects, I will simply remind him that he has no dominion over the Northern gods.” He smooths his hand down her cheek as his eyes light up with a fervent glow. Elia closes her eyes and tries not to shudder at his soft touch. “Our will be a song of ice and fire. Our son and his sister-wives will defeat the darkness and bring light back to the world.”

So set on his course, Elia is surprised Rhaegar even joins her on the journey back to the capital. She fights down the surge of foolish hope in her heart and cries anyway when he leaves.

She sends her lords and ladies away. Brandon Stark burns. And the world crumbles into pieces at her feet.

—

The Red Keep is empty. Uncle Llewyn has gone; ordered to take ten thousand Dornish men into battle. Most of Court has disappeared. Once Aerys started to burn noblemen instead of peasants, they found that they were not so accepting of the smell of burning flesh. Her goodmother and Viserys have been sent to Dragonstone and the only Kingsguard that remains is Ser Jaime.

Elia takes to wandering the halls of the castle, one hand trailing along the stone while the other holds Aegon’s as he learns to walk. There are days she thinks she could wind her way through the keep, out of the gates, and be halfway to Dorne before the king, in his madness, would notice. Other days, she kneels before his shrunken form as he lectures her on Dornish treachery. There are no trips to the sept, to Flea Bottom, or even to the godswood. The only stories she trades with Ser Jaime are in barely audible whispers as they are banished from Aerys’s presence. They do not speak of his mother anymore.

The war is not going well. Lyanna Stark is still missing. The king has made a pyromancer his Hand. Rubies are scattered along the banks of the Trident. A vanguard approaches and no ones knows if they are friend or foe.

One night, Lord Varys approaches her on one of her walks. Aegon is bundled in a sling across her chest and Rhaenys’s hand is clutched firmly in her own.

”I believe,” the eunuch begins, “that I can get the little prince out of the city. I do not think your lives are in danger, Princess, but I think we would all rest easier if Prince Rhaegar’s heir was removed from the city all the same.”

”I am afraid I would not rest easier, Lord Varys. I would take my chance, I think, if you had come promising safe passage for both of my children. You forget that I am a Dornishwoman. One of my children is not more valuable than the other simply because of the presence of a cock.” A year ago, Elia’s voice would have shaken. Even months ago, she might have laughed or cried or both. But now, she simply stares at the bald little lord who would have her send her son away in case the king’s madness finally leaks out onto Elia and her children. “You are absolutely mad if you think otherwise.”

The Master of Whispers takes his leave. Elia goes to change herself and the children into the clothes buried in the bottom of an old trunk and then goes to find Ser Jaime. It is time; she will not wait a moment longer.

—

”Do you understand?” Elia adjusts the drab, rough-spun cloak around her daughter’s shoulders as they hide beneath the shadows of long dead dragons. “Do you understand, Ser Jaime?” Elia thinks he has never looked like more of a boy than he does now. I think my heart would break if it had not hardened into steel. Her almost cousin, her almost husband, her almost friend nods and his lank blond hair falls into his eyes.

”I understand, Princess Elia. I will stay here and do my duty to the realm.”

She does not look back. She will not look back. This is Jaime’s duty as a member of the Kingsguard. To protect the king and the royal family; to preserve the realm. She refuses to feel guilty as she steps into the first dark tunnel, hours of exploring the castle finally proving useful for something other than dampening her fear. Her children are drugged; a dead weight. Rhaenys is asleep in a sling across her back and Aegon asleep in her arms. Neither should wake until the sunrise and by then they will hopefully be far enough away to not need the perfect silence.

When Elia and her children emerge from the Red Keep, the city is dark and silent. Aerys had flown into a terrifying rage when, weeks before, he had been informed that the Goldcloaks had fled their posts. He had not even waited for the pyromancer. Instead, he had ordered Jaime to tie the poor messenger to a pillar and set him alight. He had taken a very long time to die.

It is both a blessing and a curse that the smallfolk seem to have fled with the City Watch. She needs a horse, if she is to make it to Fawnton. There is no guarantee the Reacher forces will be loyal to Prince Rhaegar’s Dornish widow and she cannot trust the conduct of the storm lords if she comes upon them. So Elia walks, following the edge of the kingswood as closely as she dares. She rests. She prays.

It is Rhaenys who spots a thin mule on their third day. By the grace of the gods, Old and New and Rhoynish, it somehow gets them nearly to town before it collapses in the road. Once there, Elia doles out the coin sewn into her skirts carefully. While it seems every able bodied man has followed Lord Cafferen into battle, she does not dare attract too much attention. It is a risk, then, to feign a pregnancy to gain access to the keep’s maester. But he takes her gold dragon without a word and sends her scroll off to Sandspear without so much as a twitch.

Elia waits. She scrubs chamber pots, wrings out wet laundry, and does everything the inn keeper’s wife asks her without complaint in return for a room and meals for herself and her children. She waits for news of the war but no one in Fawnton seems to know anything and she refuses to take another trip up to the maester. She barely sleeps at night, for fear something might happen to the children, and she is a ball of nervous energy during the day for fear that someone might finally recognize her.

When she looks up from where she is tossing out chamber pots, Elia nearly faints when she realizes the sound of horses is Mama’s dear Ser Wylann and a company of nearly a hundred men. She hardly hears anything he says, she is so intent on staring at his craggy, windburned face. Safe, safe, safe, her hearts sings. Even still, is not until the first night after crossing into the Dornish marches that Elia allows herself to cry.

”Mama?” Rhaenys rubs the sleep from her eyes and crawls over to where Elia is curled up in bed. “Mama, why are you crying? Ser Wylann says we’re going to Sunspear to see Grandmama. Are you sad to go home?”

”Oh, amona, come snuggle close. Mama is so happy that she cannot help but cry.” It is a miracle they are here; that they escaped and are surrounded by people who would die to protect them. “My papa told me something, once, and Mama thinks it is time to tell you. Ibaia zure bihotzean eramaten duzu.”

Her daughter blinks up at her with big brown eyes, one lighter than the other, and itches at the freckles on her nose.

“You carry the river in your heart, sweetling. You are a child of Mother Rhoyne and, with Her blessing, you will always find your way home.”

Chapter Text

The first time Lyarra sees the sisters of the Dawn’s Front, she is five. With her grandmother dead, there is no húsfreyja in the keep. Her mother is the Flint of the Mountain and, as such, cannot be both lord and mistress. Her older sister, Branda, has not yet flowered and is Mother’s heir besides. So, as the summer slowly slips into autumn, the sisters are called down from the Wall to renew the protections woven into Breakstone Hill.

Young, old, serene, or severe, each one is clad in white from their cloaks to their boots. The air feels charged as they enter the courtyard, like the still before the storm. Lyarra suddenly feels like she is too big for her skin and her whole body is covered in goosebumps. She worries she might cry, embarrassing herself and her parents. Before she can, one of the women crouches down in front of her and lays a cool hand on her chest.

“Peace, little sister.” Before Lyarra can respond, the woman has her gathered up in her arms and stands. “With your leave, Lady Flint, we would take her with us to the godswood.” She feels silly, balanced on the sister’s hip like a babe, but the too big feeling has ebbed and the buzzing in her bones is gone. Mother nods once and Lyarra lets out a breath she did not know she was holding.

That night, with the sisters still circling the keep, Mother curls up in bed beside her and strokes her hair.

”What was it like, my little wolf?”

It is so hard to explain. To find the words she needs. She cuddles up closer to her mother’s warm body and her answer comes out on a sigh. “Peaceful. Safe.” Mother hums, soft, and they do not speak of it again.

—-

When she is eight, Lyarra travels with her father to Winterfell. She had gone once before with her family for the harvest festival, representing House Flint. But now it is just her and Father, the two wolves on the mountain, and Lyarra is giddy with excitement.

Her cousin, his wife, and son are standing in the courtyard awaiting their arrival. Edwyle is the first to move, his arms thrown open wide. Only a few years between them, her father and his nephew look like brothers. They embrace with genuine affection, acting as if it has been years, rather than moons, since they saw each other last and Lyarra cannot help smile.

Then Lady Stark appears before her and the smile drops off her face. Her cousin’s wife is beautiful and sharp, a good lady wife for House Stark but intimidating all the same. After an awkward curtsey and empty pleasantries, Lyarra finds herself greeting her cousin’s son. At nine and ten, he is tall. With gangly limbs and a weak chin partially hidden by a patchy beard. She cannot help but compare him to her Flint cousins, brawny with sun-browned skin, and find him lacking. Men grown at four and ten, they put Rickard Stark to shame.

She goes to curtsey, for lack of anything else to do, but is stopped halfway by a heavy hand on her shoulder.

”None of that, little cousin. We’re all family here.” Edwyle’s hand does not leave her shoulder, not even when the other one reaches down to brush the hair out of her eyes. “If I could borrow your daughter a moment, ‘Rik?”

She straightens up and watches warily as her father nods his assent. Lady Stark opens her mouth to speak but quickly shuts it after a sharp look from her husband. “I’ve waited long enough, I think. If you would be kind enough, wife, to show my uncle and his party to their rooms? The lass and I will be along shortly.”

Lyarra wants to squirm away from her cousin, from the feeling of eyes on her back as she is led away. She remembers, suddenly, how her mother had sent a man to the Wall the year before. Sentenced to the Wall and gelded for good measure, all because he had dared to wed a child in her lands. Her hands itch for the sharp little dagger in her riding boot and she scolds herself for not returning it to the hidden pocket in her riding habit.

”Easy, lass,” Edwyle says as if able to read her thoughts, “I thought this was a conversation for the godswood, is all.” Her thoughts had been racing so wildly, could she stab Lord Stark, would they kill her for it, would her father send her back if she got away, that she had not even noticed the thick canopy of leaves overhead. She was glad for it. The godswood was a sanctuary, a sacred place, no Northman would harm her here.

”I’d imagine there’ll be many offers for you in the next few years if all that ‘Rik has said is true. From the Dawn’s Front, the scholars at the Høyborg, and any number of northern lords. A daughter of the Flint and a Stark from Winterfell. You’re quite the prize, cousin.” Edwyle finally, finally takes his hand off her shoulder and sinks down to sit on one of the heart tree’s thick roots. “The night you were born, I had a dream. A true dream. A wolf came from behind this very tree, four pups behind her. The fur of her belly was crusted with old blood but her steps were sure and her gait was smooth. Then my son was there; a babe, a boy, the man he might be come.”

For a moment, Lyarra cannot breathe. For how often they appear in the stories, the histories, of the North, true dreams are rare. Princess Eddara founded Queenscrown after dreaming it and King Torrhen dreamed of a field of fire blanketed with snow years before the Conqueror and his wives steered their dragons towards the Starry Sept. Lyarra had prayed, a thousand times over, for the gods to send her a dream and this was as close as they had come to answering her prayers.

”Then the she-wolf came before him, nosing against his hand. And just like that, a wolf stood in his place. Sleek and large and fierce. I promised your mother and my uncle that I would hold my tongue. But you’re nearly old enough to be sent to White Harbor and I thought, well, I thought you should know.”

The gods are strange, Arry, her mother was fond of saying, and what messages they send us are not so easy to puzzle out.

Lord Stark takes a deep, shuddering breath and his lips curve into a wry smile. “There’ll come a day, little cousin, when you’ve many offers to consider. Winterfell has been without a proper húsfreyja for far too long. I think the gods would be pleased, Lyarra, if you’d have us. I would be pleased if you’d have us.”

He leads her back then, his large gentle hand back on her shoulder and it no longer makes her squirm. As Lord Paramount, her cousin could order her to wed his son. He could declare it was the gods’ will and no one would gainsay him. He could demand it for the good of House Stark and the North and not a soul would disagree with him. But Edwyle Stark was not just some great lord, he was a Northman. Norden husker. He would leave the choice to her, despite the risk, because the North did not offer their daughters up in sacrifice. Not any longer. Not since the Long Night.

And so, when the marriage offer comes, nearly eight years to the day, she accepts before Mother has even finished reading the proposal.

—-

When she is seven and ten, Lyarra weds Rickard in Winterfell before the heart tree. Then her goodfather dies. Then the king dies. And then her husband marches off to war and she is left alone, the Stark in Winterfell. Although he returns home, returns to her, his thoughts stay with the South. Lyarra is filled with a sense of foreboding and she spends every day in the godswood, a silent prayer on her lips.

—-

The coming of spring meant a great many things in the North. The days lengthened, the snows lightened, and thoughts turned to fresh greens and meat as barrels were scraped of the last bits of salted pork. It meant planting. It meant the slow, steady trek of musk ox from Queenscrown to Moat Cailin and the moving of gentle, shaggy cattle from the valleys to the mountains. It meant never ending repairs made necessary by fierce winter storms. Most importantly, it meant babes. In this, Lyarra was no exception.

She might as well have been some great beached whale for how she managed to navigate the godswood. Her belt of keys pinched at her ever expanding belly and her dagger no longer rested comfortably in her boot or pocket. Lyarra had not expected to catch with a babe so quickly after the birth of her daughter. She had been so careful after Ned, not wishing for another surprise. After Brandon was born, she had passed him off to a wet nurse; too hurt and exhausted to consider suckling her babe. Then her courses never came and the maester confirmed that she had quickened. It had been an unpleasant shock indeed.

She loved Ned, she did, but birthing him had nearly killed her. She had not wanted to go through that again. Yet, here she was, watching her daughter practice her steps on the uneven ground while another babe was likely only a moon away. Gudene vær gode, she thought, I would live to see another spring.

At only four, Eddard managed to walk with all the gravity of the kings of old. He had the look of a Stark with his grey eyes and long face. But whenever Lyarra saw him she thought of her grandmother, who had been a Royce. He felt deeply, her boy, and weighed every thought and action carefully. While his older brother threw himself fully into whatever caught his eye, Ned kept himself back. Not even in the training yard, practicing with wooden swords, did his careful poise falter. Only gathered around the hearth, learning the songs and stories of the North, did his eyes sparkle and his cheeks grow pink.

Brandon was wild; ulveblod ran through his veins. His dark curls were forever tangled with whatever he had crawled, run, or waded through while exploring. Even in sleep he was never still; the boy tossed, turned, and rolled. Always a laugh on his lips and mischief in his eyes, Brandon was doted on by everyone; even his grandmother Marna, who was cold to even her only son. A right proper little wolf, said the Northern lords when they were deep in their cups, it’s been too long since we ‘ad one like ‘at.

If Lyarra’s boys were the sun and the moon, Lyanna was a bright comet streaking between them. She was impatient, her little girl, always in a rush despite being just two moons past her first name day. Lyanna took her first steps and said her first words far earlier than her brothers. If the way she watched Brandon was any indication, she would pick up a sword earlier too.

Now she watched, her heart full, while her children led the way to the godswood. She had hoped, foolishly, that this babe might be born before the seasons began to turn. But here she was, fit to burst, about to start the rituals that would protect the keep should the Others return.

In another time, in another Keep, Lyarra might have called for sisters to come and do the workings for her. Just as they had for her mother all those years ago. However, her goodfather had spoken true; Winterfell been too long without a proper húsfreyja and it was in desperate need of one. As a Stark twice over, even the imminent arrival of a babe was not enough to prompt her to pass off such an important task.

With that in mind, Lyarra herded her children around the heart tree and instructed them to bow their heads. They were Starks; this was their place and she would have them there. Carefully sinking down to the ground, she bowed her head with theirs and started her own quiet prayers.

—-

The pain came in waves. At times it was dull and throbbing. Other times, sharp and hot and blinding. Lyarra was not sure how long it had been since she had entered her chambers but she knew it must have been days. Far too long when it came to birthing a babe.

Desperate for relief, she had even allowed the maester to examine her. To poke and prod and smooth his too soft hands over her stomach. Lyarra had thrown him out when he had suggested a simple operation that would widen her and make it easier for the babe to emerge. An operation that might leave her a stinking, hobbling mess.

”I will gut him,” Lyarra had told Rickard when her yelled threats had brought him running, “and then I will gut you.”

It should not kill you, my lady, the maester had said, and it will mean that you will be able to birth more children for his lordship.

“If I see you in these rooms,” her voice never shook as she set her steely gaze on Maester Walys, “I will kill you. And I will send your body back to the Citadel in pieces. Do you understand?” He had, it seemed, for it had only been a flurry of maids and midwives since.

Now, however, she braced against another wave of pain and wondered if she had been too quick in her dismissal. Lyarra was beginning to think being maimed by the maester might be preferable to another moment of this horrible, awful waiting.

There was a knock at the door, soft and hesitant, and one of the midwives tripped over her skirts rushing to open it. Blinking away tears to clear her vision, it took her a moment to realize that her sons were at the door. Ned was clutching the hand of a girl barely old enough to be called a woman, urging her forward in the same soft, patient way he had with his pony.

The girl was nervous, freckled cheeks flushed nearly purple, and her free hand shaking. She went to take a step forward and then stopped, as if she thought better of it. For a moment there was no sound in the room but Lyarra’s harsh, labored breathing and a quick, hushed conversation between her sons and the stranger. And then the girl nodded once, half to herself and half to Ned, then took a step forward.

”M’lady, Lady Stark, I think I can help. I, well, I geld the sows when they can’t whelp anymore. It’ll hurt, m’lady, but I’ve delivered on sows whose babes wouldn’t come.”

”What would hurt?” One of the midwives had stepped forward when the girl, a sow gelder of all things, had started talking. Lyarra wanted to speak, had questions of her own, but it was all she could do to keep from screaming herself hoarse while her boys were in the room.

”It’s a cut, here, on your belly. You see, your boys saw me in the sow barn one day. It’ll hurt, m’lady, and it takes time. But sows aren’t so much different than women. I don’t, we don’t, want m’lady to die.”

Everyone starts speaking all at once. The girl is crying, her wide shoulders shaking, and it only seems to spur on the maids, midwives, and Brandon to yell at her and at each other. Only Ned is quiet, seeming to shrink into himself. Then, squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin, he takes a step forward.

”You cannot die, mama. You cannot die when someone, when Sara, can save you.”

”They live then? The sows?” It takes her a moment to gather her breath to force out the words but Lyarra has to know. She does not want to die. She does not want to leave her family behind.

”Sometimes there’s too much blood. Sometimes the blood goes bad. But, aye, they mostly live.”

Lyarra remembers then, that day in the godswood with Rickard’s father. Four pups and a belly matted with old blood. She orders Ned and Brandon out; sends a maid to bring hot water and brennende vin. One of the midwives retrieves a shiny set of maester’s knives; another one dips them in the basin of spirits. Waiting until the milk of poppy has made the world dim at the edges, the little sow gelder gets to work.

—-

The pain is always there but it is dull and muzzy. There is a great rushing in her ears, like a swollen river over rocks, that drowns out all the other sounds in the room. Sara, Ned had called her Sara, is bent over a basin of water and scrubbing at her skin roughly. Gods know where her hands have been. Lyarra grimaces at the thought. She does not want to die; believes her gods will see her through. But if she does, she intends for it to be by Northern hands.

The girl examining the slim, sharp steel blades beside the bed is brave. She had taken the hand of her lord’s son and crossed into the Great Keep, knowing what she was offering to the Lady of Winterfell. But she had done it for her lady. Not for the babe, not for Rickard, but for Lyarra. Just Lyarra. If she dies, it will be as a person and not his lordship’s wife. As his womb.

In the end, Lyarra can barely breathe much less scream. She is vaguely aware that she is being held down and she stares at a spot on the ceiling, willing herself not to look. Gudene vær gode, she thinks. I would live, she prays. Then there is one final, wretched tug and Lyarra lets herself float away.

—-

It is surprising, truly, that the next time she opens her eyes is to the sight of Rickard cradling their babe in his arms. She tries to move, tries to sit up to get a better look, but Lyarra feels as if she has been flattened by a loose stone from the ramparts. She must make a sound then because everyone turns to look at her. Lyarra watches as the color returns to Rickard’s pale face and as Brandon scoops up Lyanna before she can launch herself forward, their Stark eyes sparkling. But it is Ned’s face she finds herself focused on. Her sweet, brave boy who swallows his tears and twists his lips up into a tremulous smile.

”Surely the gods have blessed us,” she rasps out, “to bring us all here.”

Her husband chokes back a thick laugh and Brandon brings Lyanna closer, her chubby fists grabbing at the bed sheets. Ned stays rooted, the same hand that had pulled her savior into the room clutches tightly to his father’s breeches.

It takes all of her strength to lift her hand, to summon her family over. But she does. Lyanna wiggles away from her eldest brother and snuggles up with more care than Lyarra thought she was capable. Rickard sinks down into the plush chair beside her bed and leans close, his chapped lips warm against her forehead.

”Never again, my brave, brave wife.” Rickard whispers, soft and solemn, “I could not bear to lose you.”

—-

When he is eight, Ned leaves for the Vale. Her husband wishes for their second son to go South; to refine his quiet, measured mien into something resembling southron manners. She begs her husband to keep him north of the Neck. To send him to foster with one of their bannermen or to study at the Høyborg. But Rickard will not be swayed and a part of her hates him for it.

Lyarra dreams of a mockingbird with feathers like knives and of Ned, falling and falling and falling. She wakes to her mother’s voice in her ear, tricky things, dreams, bars the door to her chambers, and refuses to speak to Rickard for over a moon’s turn.

—-

A year later, when Lord Arryn weds his little Hightower bride, Lyarra rides to the Eyrie with Branda. Even in the North they have heard about the pretty little maid meant to wed a man nearly four times her age. Unlike the pampered, perfumed southron lords, no one praises Lord Arryn’s choice there.

”If Mother were here,” Branda mutters as they settle back into their spots after joining the ladies’ dance, “she’d gut his lordship where he stands. Three and ten and a true marriage. What a waste; that man’ll be the death of her.”

”It was Lord Hightower who pushed for a true marriage, not a proxy,” Lyarra whispers back, “it sounds as if Lord Arryn has no wish to take his child bride to bed.” Her sister purses her lips at that, considering. All of Westeros knows how Lord Arryn longs for children, an heir. And, perhaps, even in the South they have realized that young brides lead to dead mothers and babes. After two dead wives, Lord Arryn would be a fool if he did not seek to avoid a third.

Still, given the sly looks the lords sneak at the head table, Lyarra doubts that it is common knowledge. Her Ned had been full of stories to tell in the months since Lady Lynesse came to the Eyrie. Each letter he wrote contained more and more mentions of the little Reacher lady, just a few years older than himself, that soon it seemed that Lord Robert had competition for the place of Ned’s dearest companion.

Lyarra wishes she could spend the feast next to her son, to touch him and talk to him, but Ned is only one of the reasons she had come to the Vale. She visits with the Royces, talks trade with Lord Hightower, and dances with every lord who asks. When she can, she sneaks glances at Ned. He acts the part of the perfect little lordling but there is a tension in his shoulders that only relaxes whenever the new Lady Arryn returns to her seat at the table. At some point, Lord Arryn catches Ned’s eye and her son jerks his head in a short nod before escorting the lady at his side out of the hall.

”You’ll want to talk to that boy, I think.” Branda’s voice is quiet and low in her ear and it worries Lyarra that she was not the only one who noticed. “I wouldn’t ‘ave thought it of our Ned. But his lordship won’t be so forgiving in a couple of years.” Her sister smirks, likely at the thought of sweet Ned chasing skirts, and Lyarra cannot help but elbow her in the ribs like she did when they were children. Even still, she resolves to seek her son out before she leaves.

—-

The castle’s godswood, for all its careful gardening and statuary, is an empty place. Lyarra is not one to believe that the gods are limited to their sacred groves but there seems to be no place for them here. Still, it is where she knows Ned to be and she finds him in the spot Lord Arryn had described. He sits in the soft grass beside a shallow pool, his hands in his lap and his head bowed.

A small smile quirks the corner of her lips when she realizes that her son has scratched runes into the rocks bordering the pool. There is no magic to them, no answering call thrumming in her bones, but he had made them all the same. It makes her proud, to see him honoring the North’s gods even when turning to the Seven would smooth his way here in the Vale.”

”Your Lady Arryn is pretty,” she says, in lieu of a proper greeting”

Ned startles a bit but quickly recovers to meet her eyes. “Lonely,” he huffs a sigh and scoots over so she can join him, “she’s lonely. She couldn’t bring any of her ladies with her and her mother and sister will be leaving soon.”

He looks like he is going to say something else but then must think better of it.

”Lonely like you were, before Lord Robert drug you to the training yard?”

Instead of replying, Ned moves closer until he can lay his head against her arm. “I want to go home,” he says after a long moment, “I know I cannot but I want to.” Lyarra shifts until he can lay his head in her lap and cards her fingers in his hair. “I keep thinking of Lyanna; of how miserable she would be in the South.”

She hates the helpless feeling that has wormed its way into her heart. Since returning from his southron war, Rickard had been adamant that their children forge ties with the South. A southron bride for Brandon, a southron fostering for Ned, and a southron husband for Lyanna. He locks himself up with Maester Walys in his solar and refuses to be swayed from his course, even by his wife.

Lyarra can ward the keep and protect her children within its walls but there is little she can do to protect them from their father’s ambitions.

”You are a wolf, sweetling.” His face scrunches up at her words and she sighs. “You are a Stark of Winterfell, just the same as Brandon, Lyanna, and Ben. You are just as fierce, even if you wait to bare your teeth. You must not forget that, no matter how long you stay in the South.”

They sit like that for a long time. Lyarra tries to memorize the freckle behind Ned’s left ear and the way his hair curls gently at the nape of his neck. Watch over my sweet, brave boy, she prays, and let him always find his way home.

—-

With Rickard’s gaze turned firmly south, Lyarra does what she can to strengthen her children’s ties to the North. She sends Brandon to Last Hearth, to hone the skills he learned in the training yard into something battle-ready. She send her youngest two to White Harbor, for a year of study, and afterwards packs Ben off to Greywater Watch to learn how to navigate the land like a crannogman. Lyanna she sends to Dawnfort, to learn what she can from the sisters there although she is no hekseblod.

Her husband speaks nary a word of her decisions and Lyarra learns to ignore Maester Walys as if he is a splash of mud staining her hem. The household follows her example and she clings to the vain hope that they might freeze the maester out of Winterfell and send him scurrying back to Oldtown.

—-

”Mama, what if I never wish to marry?”

Lyanna’s face is still red and streaked with angry tears after another shouting match with her father. Since their daughter’s flowering, Rickard has only two ways of dealing with Lyanna: overly strict or overly indulgent. Today, it seems, he has had enough of her skipping her lessons to embarrass the young men in the training yard. Even Brandon’s intervention had not been enough to head off the shouting match that had followed the family’s morning meal. Still, when she had come into her daughter’s room, this was not the question she had thought to answer.

”Well, in truth, this would have been a far easier manner to settle before you accepted Lord Robert’s suit.” It had not surprised her when Ned has had returned to Winterfell with a letter from his friend, requesting Lyanna’s hand in marriage. Her boy had made no secret of his friendship with the Lord of Storm’s End and of Robert’s desire to secure a place for him in his household. What had been surprising was how quickly her daughter had accepted the proposal.

Ducking her head, Lyanna at least has the sense to look embarrassed. “I know. It is...well, I suppose it is nothing, truly.” They had all known this day would come, that Rickard would not be satisfied until she had made a southron match. And Lord Robert had seemed like the best of the lot. No perfumed, velvet-clad lord; he was as much of a Northman as they might find south of the Neck. “Nerves, I suppose.”

Lyarra has to force herself to bite back a snort. Nerves? From her daughter who once had to be held back from throwing herself between a bear and her favorite hound? Choosing to remain quiet, she instead busies herself with packing her daughter’s trunk for Harrenhal.

”If you do not wish to wed, I will find a way. It might not be the way that you wish but I will find a way.” Very few of their bannermen are happy with Rickard’s choices. They have no wish to see Winterfell’s only daughter sent south or for the next Lady Stark to be some southron lass who follows the Seven. It has been difficult, smoothing ruffled feathers and defending choices that she does not agree with. “We do not sell our daughters in the North.”

Lyanna shoots her a wry grin from her vanity, where she is scrubbing her face clean and replaiting her hair. Rickard may not be selling their daughter but it is clear there is something larger at work than a simple marriage.

”Let me know if it stops being just nerves, little wolf.” She smooths her hand down the length of Lyanna’s braid and ties a ribbon at the end. Later, she will look back and wonder if she should have pushed. Should have ignored the stubborn tilt of her daughter’s chin and refused to let her husband have his way. Instead, she lets Lyanna leave the room and they never speak of it again.

Her children return from Harrenhal with a half crushed wreath of winter roses and dark moods. It marks the beginning of the end.

—-

Rickard and her boys go hunting in the wolfswood. That night, Lyarra dreams of flames. Of straining and choking and red hot heat licking at her toes. She dreams of blood and the cloying scent of rotting roses. A mockingbird with feathers like knives. The Wall crumbling and the dead marching. She wakes drenched in sweat, her whole body trembling. Lyanna is gone. Brandon follows. Lyanna stays missing and Brandon dies.

—-

The North shakes with the fury of its people. Northern lords and ladies crowd the Great Hall and its smallfolk crowd Winter Town. Brandon is dead and their heirs have been left to rot in the Black Cells. The only reason her husband is not dead with their son is because Lyarra had gotten to her knees in the courtyard and begged for him not to follow after Brandon to King’s Landing.

Ned is safe behind the walls of Winterfell, having returned with his brothers and sister from the tourney, but the Mad King still calls for Lord Arryn to deliver his head along with Lord Robert’s. The Vale has answered by calling their banners and there is no doubt that the North will follow. Veturinn er að koma. Or, rather, winter has come.

Within a fortnight of receiving news of Brandon’s death, boiled alive in a suit of armor, Rickard and Ned march for Riverrun. For war. Lyarra stands just outside the gates of the keep, a bone white bowl in one hand, and marks a rune of ash and blood on the forehead of every man and woman who passes by.

May the gods keep you, she whispers and wills herself not to cry, I would see you home.

—-

When they return, when Ned returns, numbered among their forces are three boxes of bones and a chubby babe with a mop of curly brown hair and eyes the same grey as the winter sky.

Ned grips her elbow, soft and gentle, and urges her and Ben toward the crypts. Not even the gods could have prepared her for what he says, when they are settled amongst the Starks of old.

And, for once in her life, Lyarra is nearly pleased that they did not try.

Chapter Text

Red cheeked and wind blown, Lyanna clambers down her horse and throws the reins to a waiting stableboy. At ten, she is old enough to know she should feel guilty for skipping her morning lessons with the maester but most assuredly does not. Maester Walys had been insufferable lately. He had separated her from Benjen during their lessons and now spent most of his time lecturing her on the joys of being a submissive wife than he did on anything of real importance.

If Mother can pretend he doesn’t exist, she reasoned, then I can too.

The stable is quiet when she enters to change into the dress she had stashed in her horse’s stall. She will still smell of horse but her father is like to ignore it, so long as she does not come striding into the keep looking as if she just came from riding. Lyanna muffles her steps out of habit, having learned from Ben and his time at Greywater Watch. Just as she is about to reach for the latch on the stall, a quiet moan stays her hand.

Just a sennight ago, she had caught two boys wrestling half naked in one of the empty stalls. They had turned bright red when they caught sight of her and promised that they would do anything provided she did not tell Lord Stark. And while Lyanna was still not entirely sure why her father would care about wrestling stableboys, she certainly was not one to waste an opportunity.

So, she had traded her silence for their help in sneaking out and was eager to find something else she could use to keep herself out of trouble.

Except, it is decidedly not two stableboys she sees when she peaks through the knot in the stall door. It is Brandon. His breeches are dropped to his knees and his hands are tangled in some girl’s hair. Her first thought is that he must have hurt himself riding and did not want to go to the maester. But the girl is wearing a brushed wool gown with velvet trim and her hair is done in some ridiculous plait. None of the healers sent from White Harbor dress like that. The girl shifts, just enough, and Lyanna realizes that it is Barbrey Ryswell on her knees in front of her brother.

Barbrey is moaning softly and Brandon’s face is twisted up as if he is in pain. Lyanna thinks to barge in, jerk back on the Ryswell girl’s hair, and sit on her until she stops; sure that she must be hurting her brother. But then he is whispering to her, soft and sweet, and Lyanna feels her stomach twist.

She does not know why she wants to cry, only that she does. Just like she does not know what they are doing but knows that it probably is not anything good. Worse, her heart is beating so hard in her chest that it is a wonder no one else can hear it. Lyanna takes care to back away quietly before slipping back into her own stall to change and wait.

She is lucky that Brandon leaves first, whistling The Wolf and the Maid cheerfully as he saunters out of the stable. Barbrey takes longer, so much longer that Lyanna almost gives up, but her patience is finally rewarded when the older girl slips around the stall door.

“What were you doing with my brother?”

Barbrey jumps, hands dropping out of her hair to clutch at her chest. She stares at Lyanna for a long moment before taking a deep breath to curse, long and low. Lyanna only understands about half of what she is saying; it is rather impressive.

“What are you doing here, brat? Brandon..”

“Lord Brandon...” Lyanna says, quirking her eyebrow.

“Lord Brandon said you and your brother would be in lessons until just before mid-day.” Barbrey’s pretty face is flushed and twisted up in a sneer. “What are you doing out here, Lady Lyanna?”

Father probably already knows she skipped her lessons, so it makes no difference whether she tells Barbrey or not. “Maester Walys is stupid and boring. Riding is a much better use of my time.” She rocks back on her heels and smirks. “So, what were you doing with my brother?”

Of all of the girls who come to Winterfell, either when their fathers come for lordly business or pretending to be Lyanna’s friend, Barbrey is probably her favorite. She has a sharp mind, a sharper tongue, and never makes her feel like a baby. It almost makes Lyanna feel bad, the way Barbrey stutters and stops, but not bad enough to override her curiosity.

“Nothing that concerns you, little girl.”

“Would it concern my father?” She might not know what they were doing but her father surely would. And, from the way Barbrey is acting, she does not imagine that he would be happy about it either.

Barbrey splutters again and breathes out slowly through her nose, “What do you want, Lyanna?”

“For you to tell me what you were doing and a favor in the future.” It seems a fair trade, given that Lyanna at least knows they would be in trouble for sneaking off alone.

“I was giving him a kiss. A special kiss. On his...on his...cock.”

That makes Lyanna pause and she can feel the smirk drop off her face. “But why?” Barbrey laughs, only a little meanly, and shrugs.

“He likes it and I like him. Gods be good, Lyanna! I will owe you two favors if you stop making me talk about it!”

Lyanna lets her go then, happy to be owed a debt from Barbrey. She thinks about asking Brandon, if for no other reason than to have something to hold over his head, but decides against it. She still feels a little sick when she thinks about what they were doing. Brandon is five and ten, so much older and wiser, and she wonders if some boy might want her to do the same to him some day. The longer she thinks on it, the less Lyanna thinks she would like it.

I am a Stark of Winterfell, she decides, and no one can make me do anything I do not want.

—-

The Høyborg rises up from over the horizon, gleaming white sandstone with copper-capped turrets, like something out of a southron song. Lyanna urges her horse forward, eager to see more.

She had nearly said no when her mother had suggested a year of study in White Harbor. But then her blood came. Suddenly there was nothing that she could do right. Her father did not want her riding alone, he did not want her training in the yard without proper supervision, and he did not want her lingering around any man she was not related to. When she had reminded him that there were people who hurt little girls too, so not much had changed, his face had turned purple and he had stormed out of the room to spend the day in the godswood.

At least Mother had kept her sense. She had sent Maester Walys back to his tower and spent the afternoon explaining the workings of her body. She still did not understand why it meant Father was acting so strange but at least she knew she was not dying.

She might have been able to ignore Father or put it from her mind but then there was Brandon. Brandon, who even while fostering at the Rills, had a far reaching reputation. Yet no one, not even Father, demanded he keep his breeches buttoned or called him back from the Ryswells. Nearly a year had passed since she had caught her brother and the lady in the stables and she could still hear Barbrey’s voice in her head, he likes it and I like him. It was absolutely infuriating that Brandon, the heir to Winterfell could slip his hand up whichever skirts he pleased while Lyanna found her every move limited whenever their father remembered that she had flowered.

Oh little wolf, her mother had said, who told you life was fair? Your father wishes for a southron match, so a southern lady he would have you be.

It took Berena Greenguard pulling up beside her to shake her from her thoughts. “Oi! What’s the matter?” A child of the Front, in any other part of Westeros, Berena would have been considered a bastard. But her mother was a sister, which made her father the Wall itself. She was older than many of her fellows, having trained for several years on Bear Island after it was discovered she had a knack for knocking down people larger than herself. Now she was headed to the Høyborg, likely to return to the Wall to join the Dawn’s Front.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Lyanna wanted to hate her. Berena was free in a way that she would never be. No father whose whims she was beholden to, no family name to uphold, and no true expectations place upon her. Compared to her, Lyanna was a trapped any other woman between the Neck and the Dornish mountains.

And yet, it would do her no good to take her frustrations out on her friend who had only ever been kind. Instead, Lyanna snorted and gently nudged Berena’s leg with the toe of her boot. “Just wondering if the stories are true. If there really is a cellar full of Ironborn ghosts somewhere in that fairy castle.” She laughed and set her horse to a gallop, forcing Berena to catch up. A year of ghosts and books and lectures, it was far better than having her every move watched at Winterfell.

—-

At the Wall, at the Dawnfort, Lyanna had learned to appreciate the company of ladies. She knew her mother would be ashamed of her if she ever admitted it but she had once thought them all empty and vapid, lesser. Even Northwomen, who all received some training to defend themselves and their households, Lyanna had found lacking. What did it matter if her stitches were neat, so long as she had maids to do the mending? Why should she bother with knowing how to spin wool, treat ailments, or how to seat guests at a feast? There were people who could do that for her, especially in the South. Why waste her time on things that were utterly unimportant to her?

But the sisters had taught her the value in these things, as they all worked together to run their parts of the castles on the Wall. They had shown her that there was a certain strength in having a knowledge of female things. Lyanna would still rather be on horseback or in the training yard but she had also begun paying attention to her mother’s lessons. And, having learned the value of differing points of view, had started gathering the younger ladies in Winterfell for afternoons in her solar.

What had been born of pragmatism had quickly become something that she looked forward to every day. Lyanna loved spending afternoons with her ladies. Her solar was warm and cozy and filled with soothing sounds and smells. Wool being carded or spun. The click clack of knitting needles and whisper soft chatter. The smell of fragrant cups of tea overlaid with the scents of rosemary and lemon balm from fire-warmed skin. All of it combined to calm her thoughts and soothe her body.

Today, though, she could have run every single one of them through with a sword if she could. It had been several days since Winterfell had gotten word that Brandon would be returning for good from his fostering and the ladies of the keep were still talking about it. They sighed together, talking about his rakish grin and the way his grey eyes sparkled. They giggled behind their hands as they spoke of his strong chin, his broad shoulders, and his big hands. And, worst of all, they whispered about how they might turn his roving eye in their direction.

Gudene vær gode but it was enough to make Lyanna bite her tongue lest she start screaming and never stop.

She loved her brother, she did, but how could any woman with a drop of sense want his hands on them? Gods knew how many women he had touched and kissed and kissed. Everyone knew how Father had his eye set on making a match with Lord Tully’s eldest daughter, yet it did not stop her ladies from hoping that they might be able to do what Lady Barbrey had not yet managed.

At least Brandon had redeeming qualities besides his handsome face. They sighed over Lord Rickard Karstark, who was a pompous ass, and Lord Roose Bolton, who was odd in look and manner. Yet, these same ladies did not spare a second glance to Lord Howland Reed, who was so very kind, or her cousin Lord Torghen Flint, who had run down his sister’s betrothed and held him still while Lady Arsa enacted her justice after he dared to hit her.

Worse, all the talk about handsome lords made Lyanna wonder if something was wrong with her. No butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the sight of a rakish smile. She did not flush at a firm, strong hand on her waist or grow hot at the sight of bare, sweat slicked chests in the training yard. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much of her life beating them soundly, whether in archery, swordplay, or riding but Lyanna did not feel anything other than an appreciation for their footwork or the way they sat in their saddle.

Mother might speak of Lyanna’s choices but the truth was, Father was the Lord of Winterfell and his word was law. Love her mother as he might, Rickard Stark was set on sending his daughter South. What did it matter which southron lord she picked, when she dreaded her wedding night regardless? When she could not fathom life as some pampered, southron lady? Father loved Mother well, everyone said, but that did not stop him from ignoring the keep’s húsfreyja in favor of his southron master.

What chance to I have, Lyanna thought as she mended a pair of Benjen’s breeches, if a good Northman like my father sees fit to ignore his wife’s advice?

Any man she wed would bed her and, no matter how considerate and gentle he might be, it was not something Lyanna could ever imagine enjoying. If a northern man could behave as her father did, how would Lyanna manage with a southron one? How could she explain it? Where would she even begin?

She cannot speak of it to her ladies, who all seem to be swayed by a pretty face, or her mother, who stands by her lord and husband even when she disagrees with him. Then there is Brandon, who is an idiot, and Ben, who knows even less than she does. It all seems impossible, that she might be happy in the end.

It is not long before she excuses herself and makes her way to the maester’s tower. I need Ned, Lyanna thinks, who else would know how I feel? Ned, serious and kind, who Father sent South without any thought to how it might hurt him. Who else might know what to do?

It takes less than a fortnight for her brother’s raven to arrive.

I will not pretend to know what challenges you are facing. I imagine that Father is anxious to make a match, with Brandon’s betrothal nearly secured. I think I might know someone who might suit but would rather wait until we can speak face to face. I will be coming home, shortly after my name day, and hope that we might speak then.

Lyanna nearly throws the scroll into the fire, for how useless it is to her. It is not until she blinks back her angry tears that she notices the hastily scrawled note at the bottom.

Lady Arryn has promised to say a prayer for you, in hopes the gods might guide your way.

Her heart seizes up along with her hand. Of course! Ned has never been one to twist up his words, no matter how long he lingers in the South. But his clever Lady Arryn is exactly the sort. She cannot imagine what would make Ned, of all people, worry about the security of his ravens. It must be bad, however, if her middle brother is allowing his southron friend to dictate personal correspondence.

She prays in the godswood that night, something that she has never done with any regularity. The trees, and the gods, are silent but for the soft notes of a harp straining in the darkness. Lyanna cannot even begin to wonder what it means.

—-

Ned comes home, as shy and shuttered as ever, taller, broader, and every inch a Northman. He’s more cautious, which Lyanna knows she should have expected, and bypasses the godswood in favor of the crypts. Even then, he refuses to speak to her until they have settled between the careworn statues of the first two Brandons.

At which time, he opens his big fat mouth and utterly ruins her opinion of him.

”Your foster brother, Ned? The very one who took you to a pillow house when you turned four and ten and puts his cock in any woman who holds still long enough? Gudene vær gode! Did you lose all your wits on your journey north?”

It is easy for Ned to love Lord Robert who, for all that he is a stag, has all the fierceness and loyalty of a wolf. But Ned does not have to marry Lord Robert; never mind submit to his attentions in the marriage bed. Perhaps if I hit him in the head hard enough, she ponders, he will forget this nonsense.

”Unless you think you can convince Father of a Dornish match, Robert is the best choice. He is a good man, Lya, I swear it. And he has offered me a place as his steward once he returns home. He is half in love with you already...”

”Love me! Gods, Ned, he does not even know me!”

”Lya,” Ned sighs, soft and sad, and Lyanna’s anger diminishes at the look on his face. Helpless, she thinks, he looks so helpless. “I would be there, with you. We could be a pack, us two. You would not have to face your marriage alone.”

She wonders how many nights he has thought of this. How many times he has rolled the words around in his mouth and practiced how to say them. Ned has never had a way with words, not like their mother or Brandon, and eight years in the South has done little to change that. But he is so earnest, so sure of his plan.

”I can make him love you, Lya. I swear it.”

“Den ensomme ulven dør, men flokken overlever.” She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him as tightly as she can. “You saved Mother, once. I have no doubt you can save me, too.”

—-

Every night, Lyanna’s dreams are full of the same soft, plaintive cords from the godswood. She wakes to dried tears on her face and reminds herself of Grandma Arya, who had little patience for dreams. She avoids her mother, yells at her father, and writes to Ned’s Robert. And when she is four and ten, she leaves for Harrenhal with her brothers, and promises she will say goodbye to her childish hopes. It is time to pack them away, just as neatly as her mother packed her trunk.

And then, at the tourney, the dragon prince plays that awful, familiar song on his harp and she cannot hold back her tears.

—-

I should have never entered the lists. Lyanna thinks as she struggles out of her piecemeal armor. I just wanted to defend Howland, to shame those knights, and now the king will kill us all.

In Winterfell, she might have shed her helm after trouncing that idiot Frey boy but she had not dared this far from her home. And, gods, the king had been so angry, his frail body shaking with his rage. If she is discovered, Lyanna knows she will not be the only Stark to suffer. She just has to hide her armor. No one would never suspect that some northern girl of five and ten had trounced three knights in the joust. She is nearly done when a man appears when her back is turned.

”Lady Lyanna?” Prince Rhaegar seems as surprised to find her there as she is that he knows her name. She thinks of Barbrey then, of the not wrestling stableboys, and wonders if this is how they felt when their liege lord’s daughter had cornered them and demanded a price for her silence. Maybe this is her punishment, for all those years ago.

”Please. Please do not tell the king.”

”Oh sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and strangely sad, “how could I ever do such a thing? Meet me here, after the evening’s feast, and consider your secret safe.”

—-

By the time Rhaegar has finished speaking, describing a prophecy of a hero and the return of dragons, Lyanna finds herself slumped upon the ground. Was this what the gods meant to prepare her for that night in the godswood?

”I knew, when I saw you here, that the Seven had brought me to this place, to you. The first Visenya was a warrior. It seems only fitting that her namesake should be birthed from one.”

”Birthed? Your grace, you have a wife. And my father will not set aside my betrothal so I might be the crown prince’s mistress and birth his...child.” Her head is swirling. A promised prince. Dragons. A song. Now that she no longer fears for her life, not from this man with sad eyes, she cannot help the words that tumble from her mouth.

Whatever else, the prince believes the prophecy to be true. Lyanna stuffs her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing. If he is to be believed, the gods want her for a broodmare too.

”You misunderstand, my lady.” Rhaegar kneels down in the dirt in front of her, gently removing her hand and clasping it between his own. “I would have you for a wife. The Faith long declared that exceptions may be made for Targaryen kings. A wife wed before the Seven and a wife wed before the old gods. In this way, I may have a wife of fire and a wife of ice.”

How could she fear this man, who touches her so reverently? This man who the gods prepared her for, led her to? With his kind eyes and soft smiles and smooth hands. Surely it would not be so bad to marry in order to protect the world from darkness?

”You will need to come to Winterfell and speak with my mother and father.” There is a small, selfish part of her that wants the prince to sweep her into his arms and take her away but she knows she cannot disappear without warning. “Magic still lives in the North, your grace. I cannot imagine that they would stand in the way of a union, if it is the means to defeating a great darkness.”

Lyanna feels a shiver down her spine when he leans forward to plant a warm, dry kiss on her forehead. Her mother had been destined to be the mother of wolves. It seems fitting that she would be destined to be a mother of dragons.

—-

She spends the journey back to Winterfell fuming. At Rhaegar for being such a fool, to all but announce his intentions to everyone in attendance. At Brandon who she was sure was going to leap from the stands and who had not stopped yelling at her since they had started for home. Even Benjen and Ned were not safe from her anger; Benjen for staying silent and Ned for trying to play peace maker. By the time they arrive home, Lyanna half wishes she would have just given into her impulses and urged Rhaegar to take her away that night.

This is not how she wanted to return home. Avoiding her brothers least she start screaming and never stop. Avoiding her father, for fear he might decide to pack her off to Storm’s End least some other man takes a fancy to her. Avoiding her mother most of all because she is so afraid everything is just going to come bubbling up and Mother will send her away to the the lands beyond the Wall, the Free Cities, anywhere beyond the reach of the crown.

Lyanna waits. And prays. And waits. She starts working on her bridal cloak, white brushed wool lined with swan down and edged with white seal fur. What she wants are light grey wolves amongst blue winter roses but knows it would draw too much attention. Instead, she gathers her ladies and they stitch a maiden’s cloak worthy of the North. Dazzling snowflakes accented with seed pearls, blue shaded snowdrifts under sentinel pines, wolves running and playing and hunting, and the runes of the First Men kept alive by the sisters and the hekseblod stitched in thread-of-silver.

She waits for her dragon prince and while she switches out her thread, she wonders for the first time how his lips might feel on her lips and how his hands might feel cupping her face or firm around her waist. The gods may be silent but Lyanna has dreams of her own.

—-

Before nearly the whole of the North sets out for Riverrun to witness the wedding of their favorite son, Lyanna’s father hosts a hunt. One last time as a free man, one of the Umbers bellows as he claps Brandon roughly on the shoulders, let’s get you worn out, boy, lest you scare off that southron bride of yours.

”Try not to catch the pox,” Lyanna says as she pulls back from hugging her eldest brother. Lord Karstark splutters and a few of her Flint cousins laugh but most every other man looks away, children caught out with a stolen treat. She is sure there will be a proper hunt, else they would not have promise to bring back meat enough for a wedding feast and Winterfell’s larders. But Lyanna has no doubt they plan to visit the whores in Wintertown on their way to the wolfswood as well. As if Brandon has somehow not gotten his fill of northern women.

Her brother just shoots her a wry grin and tugs on a curl that has escaped her braid. “Oh, don’t be a brat, Lya. Everyone here knows you can out shoot us all.”

”Idiot,” she says fondly and watches as the men mount up. Before the last of the hunting party has left the courtyard, Lyanna is heading for the godswood. She does not know why she feels like crying, only that if she does, she would like the trees to be the only witnesses.

When the prince appears from behind the heart tree and offers her his hand, Lyanna takes it without a second thought.

—-

They wed then, in the very godswood where generations of Starks had wed before, with only Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell as witnesses. Lyanna means to ask about her maiden’s cloak, her parents and brothers, but then Rhaegar looks at her with an expression so soft and sweet that her thoughts scatter and fly away.

A wrinkled maester, bent nearly in half with age, scurries off to gods only know where the moment their vows are sealed. It all seems like a dream, how gently her husband sets her atop his horse. Some part of her is screaming, harsh and furious, that she wake up but Lyanna cannot seem to shake the fog from her head. They avoid the Kingsroad and trail the banks of the White Knife, heading not for Moat Cailin but White Harbor.

Once, just once, she offers that the Starks of the Moat would no doubt welcome them with open arms. The three men go silent then and she can feel Rhaegar shake his head as he sits behind her.

”One day,” he finally says after several long, tense moments, “I will bring you back for a proper Northern progress; Elia and our children by our sides. But, for now little wife, we have enemies on all sides and the darkness approaches.” He rests his hand over her stomach then, reminding her of dragons and a hero and the promise of a fierce princess.

The two knights keep a more watchful eye on her after that, as if she will disappear the moment their eyes are off of her. It would bother Lyanna more, if she did not have other thoughts to keep at bay. How frantic her mother must have been, must still be, when her daughter did not appear for the evening meal. She wonders at her father’s reaction, anger or fear, and how her brothers felt when learning that their sister was gone.

Elopements, rare enough in the South, are all but unheard of in the North. Northwomen do not run from the consequences of an unapproved marriage, clinging to their husband’s tunics. They stand firm, before the gods and their families, and say their vows proudly whatever may come. Lyanna tries to hide it, the way her thoughts eat at her, but Rhaegar must notice anyway.

He is so very patient on the road, all wistful looks and air soft kisses, petting her hair and taking her arm and never anything but utterly proper. But once they arrive in White Harbor, ensconced on the unassuming boat that will take them from Gulltown to Greenstone to the Dornish Marches, her husband finally approaches her with intent.

It is not entirely unpleasant, the way he brings her to the marriage bed. Rhaegar touches her as if she is made of glass, something precious and fragile. His hands are long fingered and calloused by both sword and harp, firm and sure and gentle. He whispers reverently, telling her how lovely and wonderful and fierce she is. Little wife. Little wolf. A brave, brave girl. He does not seem to mind that she does not know where to put her hands, how to move, what to say. Lyanna’s head is all fogged up, like on her wedding day, and so she focuses on Rhaegar’s eyes and the cadence of his words.

Afterwards, he talks about their princess to be. Our little ice dragon, he says as he maneuvers her until she is curled into his chest, our little warrior queen. Her husband draws northern stories out of her, the same way he draws out breathy sighs, and Lyanna tells him of Princess Jocelyn who slipped skins as easily as one might change a cloak. Torrhen’s daughter, Raya Stark, who cloaked her half-uncle in her protection rewarding the man who helped save the North from dragon fire and saving herself from an unwanted southron marriage. By the time they have reached Wyl and begun their journey along the Boneway, she has told him every story that she can remember. The Berserkers of House Umber, who even the wildings fear. And the women warriors of Bear Island, who train only the most promising northern girls. How her little brother learned to navigate the swamps of Greywater Watch and move silently through the forest under the tutelage of House Reed. It fills up all the space her head, recalling the stories of her childhood. By the time their small party has reached the shining, lonely tower in the desert, Lyanna has almost forgotten to worry about the mess she might have left behind.

Unfortunately, she has been far from forgotten at home.

—-

Ser Arthur arrives at the tower and, for the first time since her husband had approached her in the godswood, Lyanna is left alone as Rhaegar and his knights lock themselves behind a heavy wooden door. It feels so strange, to not feel the heavy gaze of the kingsguard on her back or to not feel Rhaegar’s touch somewhere on her body. For the first time in moons, Lyanna feels as if she can breathe deeply again.

It has been nearly a moon since her blood had last come and she cannot help but worry. Will she have more freedom or less, once Rhaegar knows he has gotten a babe on her? Lyanna had thought things might have settled, once they had arrived in the Dornish desert. After all, even if she wished to go, it is not as if there is anywhere for her to go. Dorne is as unfamiliar as the lands beyond the Wall and just as dangerous.

Perhaps they will just lock me away, she muses angrily as the meeting continues to drag on, like some maiden from a southron song.

When Rhaegar leaves, Ser Arthur still dusty and travel worn, it takes all of her strength to not beg. For him to take her with him. For some scraps of information about her family, the North, the realm...for anything. Instead, Lyanna bites her tongue until she can taste blood in her mouth.

”Veturinn er að koma,” she says between her teeth when he tells her there are things he must settle for her safety and the security of the realm, “og norður man.” Rhaegar takes her face between his hands and Lyanna prays, not for his safety but for her freedom.

—-

Lyanna spends her days retching and exhausted. Nothing stays in her stomach for long. Ser Arthur brings her soft, flat bread and tea made from lemon rinds stepped in boiling water. He gives her little pieces of ginger to chew, until she is sick all over his freshly polished boots. The faint scent of sickness clings, no matter how many times her bedding is changed and the floors are scrubbed with wet sand.

She spends her days in bed, nearly too weary and sore to make it to the chamber pot, and prays. Ser Arthur is kind, more lady’s maid than guard, but he is as reticent as Sers Oswell and Gerold. She had hoped, with Rhaegar gone, that she might be bestowed with some fraction of authority. But as polite as they are, with their murmurs of “yes, my princess” and “of course, your grace,” it is clear that she holds no power here. Even her pleas for a midwife, even just some old woman, who might know of a way to ease her mother’s stomach fall on deaf ears.

Eventually, Lyanna just stops. She curls up on her bed and stops. Stops begging, for there is nothing she can say that will make them listen. Stops praying, for the gods must be unable to find her this far south. Stops fighting the waves of nausea whenever Ser Arthur spoons tea or broth past her lips. She knows it is cowardly, to wait to die even as her stomach grows larger and rounder, but she cannot find it in herself to care.

The lone wolf dies, she thinks meanly, and this is no place for wolves.

—-

The days drag into months and the months blend together until Lyanna feels unmoored. One morning, she hears muffled shouting coming from outside the tower. There is a moment when she thinks it is Brandon, come to save her. Just as soon as she thinks it, Lyanna pushes the thought away. It would be too cruel, for the gods to bring her brother all this way, only for him to be felled by the best swordsman in the realm.

When the door to her chamber finally swings open Lyanna scrambles to sit up, ignoring the way the room spins. The man in the doorway is not one of Rhaegar’s men. Though his dark skin and boiled leather armor are covered in blood and gore, he still recoils, nose wrinkling, when he enters her room.

”Mother Rhoyne,” he hisses between his teeth, “how are you even still alive?”

I am a ghost, she wants to say when he lifts her up into his arms, the ghost of a stupid, stupid girl.

The kingsguard is nowhere to be found when they finally step outside. Their horses are there, laden down like pack mules. Lyanna realizes with a jolt, once her eyes have adjusted to the light, that it is not supplies but the bodies of their masters that the horses carry.

“Gods,” she manages to croak, “you killed them all.”

”They would not let you go,” he says, his voice barely louder than her own.

“Norden husker,” the words are barely a whisper but they carry in the empty air. “The North remembers,” she says again, stronger, when he raises an eyebrow in silent question, “I thought I would die in there. I dreamed of rotten roses and rivers of blood and I thought I would die. You saved me, even though I do not deserve it.”

They settle on the back of his horse, Lyanna still cradled in the stranger’s arms. “We do not hurt little girls in Dorne.”

She cannot help but snort. She feels like a dried up crone, like it has been a thousand years since she was anything nearing a little girl.

”I will see you safe, my lady. And, once we are safe in Sunspear, my mother will tell you all that has happened in the realm while you have been locked away.”

”Your mother?”

”Princess Loreza, of course. My sister sent word of where you might be and bid that we keep you safe.”

Her eyes are burning and she fights to swallow around the lump in her throat.

”My father? My brothers?”

He does not meet her eyes, this prince. He fixes his gaze on the horizon and sighs. “My mother will tell you, when we reach the palace.” He does not meet her eyes and she knows. And Lyanna wishes, not for the first time, that she had been left to rot in that godsforsaken tower.

—-

It is nearly a moon before the maester deems Lyanna well enough for visitors. He had echoed the prince, Oberyn, saying that it was a miracle that she was still alive.

In Dorne, he had said, you would have never been allowed to get so far. To quicken. Not even a prince is worth the life of his mother.

A princess, she had snarled, snapping her mouth shut before she said anything more.

It could be a thrice damned dragon, scales and all, and it still would not be worth your life, Oberyn had snarled back at her from the chair beside her bed.

He had scarcely left her side since the tower. Lyanna had begged that he stay with her, that first time the maester had come to examine her. And he had, holding her hand the entire, wretched time. He sat with her while she ate bowls full of stewed blood oranges and held her hair back when every third bowl made its way back up. Oberyn had even sent his brother to Starfall with a box of Ser Arthur’s bones and his famous sword; tales of the Red Viper already winding their way through Dorne. The argument that had proceeded the journey had nearly shook the walls of the castle but even in the face of Prince Doran’s ire, Oberyn had not budged.

”How can you stand it? How can you bear to be in the same room as me? Knowing what I have caused?”

”You?” He had finally said. “Mother, Maiden, and Crone, Lyanna, what you did? All you did was have the bad sense to trust the crown prince of the realm.”

”I ignored...”

”Yes, you ignored all good sense.” Oberyn jumped up, waving away her words as he paced. “But Rhaegar is, was, a man grown. He knew what would happen if he spirited you away from the North, without informing House Stark. You would have died, had Elia not sent that raven, all because he was more fearful of your discovery than ensuring to your safety. No maester, no midwife, no one but three knights who would have had you die before they defied their prince’s orders.”

Gods but what is she to say to that?

“What is it you Starks say, about winter?”

”That it is coming?” Oberyn quirks a brow and Lyanna cannot help the grin that tugs at her lips. “Veturinn er að koma. Winter is coming.”

”Winter comes, always, Lyanna. But so does the spring. I hate to think what might have happened, what I might have done, had Elia died. She lives and her children live and you will live.”

“I want my mother,” she says suddenly, “I want to go home.”

“I will take you home, one day,” he slips into bed beside her so easily, as if he had done it a thousand times before. He twines her hair around his fingers and Lyanna’s whole body relaxes.

She should feel sad and sick and guilty, safe in this bed while the world falls apart. Brandon is dead, the realm is at war, and she very well might die bringing a Rhaegar’s babe into the world. Instead, she focuses on the feeling of Oberyn’s fingers in her hair and lets it lull her into a dreamless sleep.

—-

Lyanna had not known what to think of Maester Caleotte when she had first arrived. She did not think he would have survived long in Dorne, had he been anything like Maester Walys, but that did not mean he could be trusted. Especially not when it came to matters of birth. Slowly though, so very slowly, the man began to gain her confidence.

“Tansy? You want me to drink tansy?” Her trust in him, in the intelligence hidden behind that soft voice and meek personality, is the only thing that keeps her from reaching for the knife on Oberyn’s belt and burying it into his stomach.

”The babe is big, even at eight moons gone.” Caleotte’s eyes dart between her and Oberyn, not sure which one is the more dire threat. “You were sick for so long and you are so very young. I fear that if we wait for your body to labor naturally, it might cause more damage than even I can fix.”

”Why tansy? Surely it would poison the babe?” In the months that she has gotten to know Prince Oberyn, Lyanna has learned he is as smart as he is tempestuous. Surely, had he been born in the North, he would have been sent to the Høyborg as soon as he could read and write. He has had questions about her sickness, her moods, even the way the babe twists and rolls inside of her. It is charming, the way he grasps for more information, more understanding.

At least, Lyanna finds it charming. She thinks the maester would roll his eyes, if he was not concerned about how his liege’s son might react.

”It affects the woman, not the babe, and causes the womb to...contract. Used as a preventative, like we do in Dorne, it can prevent the babe from finding a place to grow. You can also safely use it to expel a pregnancy that is not too far gone. The risks to the mother increase the further along the pregnancy, as the amount needed to be effective increases. With you so close to giving birth, my lady, we can use a small amount to encourage labor and hopefully deliver the babe before she can grow any larger.”

The maester sits once he is done, nervous again once he has remembered who he is speaking to.

Lyanna was too young to remember Benjen’s birth but she grew up hearing the story. Of how her older brothers hassled the sow gelder’s daughter to their mother’s chambers. How it had taken all the midwives in attendance to hold the lady of Winterfell down while a girl of six and ten cut her open. How that same girl had slept on a pallet beside Lyarra Stark’s bedside for weeks, ordering sun-dried boiled bandages and brennende vin until the wound had healed and the stitches could be removed. What was a cup of tea to that?

”I want to try,” she says, finally, ignoring the way Oberyn’s gaze flickers between her face and her stomach. A part of her wishes she could go on being with child forever, sure that it is what binds him to her side. He feels responsible for her, the princess in the tower, and for the babe his goodbrother put in her to fulfill a prophecy. It is selfish, to wish to keep him when all she has ever brought to the men in her life is ruin.

But Lyanna knows that, if she does not listen to the maester and she dies, there will never be another chance to look at his face again. To feel his fingers in her hair or wonder what he might be thinking. More than that, if she does not live she can never go home. And she longs for home so badly that she would do anything to make that wish come true. So, she grits her teeth and writes her will and drinks the tea when Maester Caleotte says that it is time.

—-

There must be a place for the old gods, even here in dusty Dorne, for Lyanna lives.

—-

”A prince,” Oberyn snarks as he looks down at the babe, his voice a near perfect mockery of her own all those months ago. “Whatever are you going to do with a prince?”

There had been a moment, one awful, terrible moment, when Lyanna had feared what might happen to her son. Her son. Even now, holding him in her arms, she is in disbelief. Rhaegar had been sure, so sure, that she would give him a daughter to wife to Elia’s son. A daughter of fire and a daughter of ice. After everything, their elopement, Brandon’s death, the war, she had never once doubted any other outcome but a little princess in her arms.

”Well,” she says, pursing her lips, “I certainly will not be naming him Aegon.” He grins at that and scoots closer on the bed so that he might take the babe in his arms.

A raven had come from Kingsgrave while she had labored, announcing that Lord Eddard Stark was riding to Sunspear with the bones of Princess Elia and her children. It seemed as if the realm, and most of Dorne, believed that the princess and her children had perished along with the king at the capital. More telling was that Princess Loreza seemed in no hurry to disabuse anyone of that notion.

“Jon, I think.” She takes a breath in the surprised silence that follows. “Prince Jon Stark. There was once a king named Jon whose heir would be my father’s namesake.”

“Are you sure, Lya?” Oberyn’s face, never still, is expressionless. “No matter how Northern he looks, your son is still half a dragon.”

The war is not over, no matter how dead Rhaegar and his mad father might be. Even now, the Tyrells sit outside the gates of Storm’s End and loyalists proclaim Viserys to be the king. And Princess Elia, Queen Elia, is tucked away somewhere safe, waiting to be spirited away and out of Dorne. Lyanna dreams of fire, of falling, of a sword at her neck, and a dagger to her heart. Drowning in blood and the cloying scent of roses.

”That king drove sea raiders out of the North and build at castle at the mouth of the White Knife to better defend it if they returned. And King Rickard would expanded the North all the way to the Neck. He would be the first King to rule a fully unified North.

Lyanna watches Oberyn’s face as he waits, patient and relaxed, for her to finish the story. He listens, this man, which is more than Lyanna had come to expect. He does not ignore her or belittle her or brush her words aside. He does not slip into his own dream world, coming to only to slot things into place how it pleases him. She could love him for that alone, if she were to let herself love him.

”Rhaegar’s wife I might be but I make no claim to Westeros or the Iron Throne. Let your mother and Doran have their plots and plans,” she places a finger to Oberyn’s lips before he can argue with her, “but my boy will have no part in them.”

”I am a Stark and my son is a Stark. He might never see a summer snow storm but he is a wolf all the same. Let Aegon and Rhaenys be the future of their father’s house for our thoughts will be forever turned North.”

There is one last battle, Lyanna muses as she takes her son from Oberyn and attempts to latch him before he gets too hungry to do anything but cry. There is one last battle, before the end of this campaign, and it is mine and mine alone. She is not a child any longer, half wild and entirely willful. She is not a naive maid, moved by a sad song and a story. Lyanna no longer has any doubts what the price of her freedom might be and she will fight to her last breath to ensure no one else but her pays that price.

Winter is coming and, this time, she will be prepared.