Chapter Text
The morning had found Lyanna in a good mood, a fact her brother had commented on with undisguised amusement. She paid him no mind, impatiently bouncing on her toes as the stableboy prepared her horse.
Despite his attempts to appear dignified as the crown prince should, Brandon was no better. His left leg kept twitching almost as if it had developed a mind of its own and he shot it a glance of great betrayal.
Standing mulishly next to the two of them, Benjen was the image of misery.
“It’s not fair,” he repeated for the hundredth time in the same sullen tone, “I want to go too! It’s been almost a moon since I last rode my pony. At this rate I’ll outgrow it before Father will let me out.”
Brandon clicked with his tongue sharply, growing impatient with his brother’s complainings. Already temperamental, being trapped in the castle without being able to escape the King and the maester breathing down his neck had rendered his temper dark like the water in the Godswood.
“Whose fault was it that you got sick? Father told you to wait until the blizzard had passed before leaving the castle.”
The boy wiped his leaking nose with the back of his hand morosely, unmoved by his brother’s chastisement.
“But it took ages! And I wasn’t alone, Lyanna went out too but nobody is forcing her to stay inside!”
“That’s because I didn’t fall ill.” Lyanna took mercy on her sniffling brother, messing up his hair gently. “I’m sure Father will let you come with us soon. You saw how happy he was to get rid of the two of us this morning and you were by far worse behaved if Old Nan is to be believed.”
Privately, she was glad Benjen would not be joining them today. After being confined between Winterfell’s walls for nearly a moon, all she wanted was to ride and she didn’t wish to adjust her pace to the old pony’s slow waddle. Neither, she imagined, would Brandon, though her brother’s consideration was oftentimes unpredictable.
Lyanna remembered their mother once likening him to the pendulum on the large Valyrian clock that hung in Father’s cellar. It had been made out of polished jade and engraved with hundreds of exotic flowers. She would watch it swing from one side to the other while her father worked and her mother lay dying.
The long wait ended at least when Martyn Cassel and Wyl finally appeared, carrying two large flax bags that held the food and equipment the siblings needed for their day trip. Lyanna tried to smother her disappointment when she saw them struggle under the weight. She should have had expected the King would not let his children go unprepared, no matter how eager he was for some peace and quiet but the sheer amount of baggage meant her pace would have to be slower than she would have liked.
Her disappointment faded when the stablehand brought her horse, his pale fur shining in the winter sun. No doubt, the servant had brushed him meticulously to prepare him for the Princess but as far as Lyanna was concerned, they could have brought her a muddy, flea-bitten mule and she would have been excited all the same.
She rejected Martyn’s hand, swinging into the saddle with a practiced ease despite her heavy winter clothes, much to the man’s amusement.
“A little bit longer Princess,” he assured her, “Wyl needs to secure the bags.”
Skinchanger must have heard him as the horse neighed impatiently, hooves digging into the soft ground of the stables. Lyanna pulled the reins lightly as a warning.
Benjen skulked into her field of vision, warily avoiding Skinchanger, more than familiar with the horse’s temperamental nature.
“I swear I can’t tell which one of you is more impatient to get going.” He joked half-heartedly.
“It’s Brandon.” She assured him for the sake of going along with the joke.
Her brother smacked his lips together in irritation. He was sitting ramrod straight atop his muscular chestnut stallion and tapping a pattern on the reins with his thumbs.
“I’ve been nothing but behaved. Unlike the two of you, I am burdened with duties and expectations.”
Lyanna rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. It was an open secret that Brandon liked to savour the benefits of his title, usually coming in the form of local maidens. The only people who were blind to that were Father and Ned and even the two of them had to at least suspect something.
Whatever duties and expectations her brother had, at very least he had his freedom, something he didn’t seem to appreciate enough much to her resentment.
“Yes, I’m sure the kingdom will collapse if the Crown Prince isn’t a model son all of the time.” She mocked, only a touch of bitterness in her tone.
Brandon didn’t seem to notice it, turning his face to the skies in a mute gesture of irritation.
“For Gods’ sake, how long are you going to be securing the bags for? At this point we’ll have another blizzard before we set off.”
Like most of Winterfell’s servants, Martyn was used to his Prince’s temper and didn’t take offense.
“In due time, your grace. Your father tasked me with keeping you safe and I intend to do my job well.”
With nothing to say to that, Brandon simply clicked his tongue and abstained from lashing out at anyone else for the rest of the wait, which was a feat when his temper was this foul.
Soon, Martyn and Wyl finished their work and mounted their own horses, signalling that the party was about to head off.
“Come back soon!” Benjen yelled behind them but Lyanna paid him no mind. Doubtlessly, the morning would soon find him back to his lessons, with the old maester dictating to him the great houses of Westeros.
Better him than me , she thought somewhat pettily.
Outside the stables, the air was sharp and cool, biting into her face and chilling her lungs with every breath. The storms have scattered a great deal of snow, through which the servants have dutifully shoveled a path that led across the courtyard and outside the walls of the castle. The rare winter sun hit the icy crystals in the snow, making it gleam like thousands of gemstones.
Her lips stretched into a smile almost against her will.
Brandon took the lead, spurring his horse into a fast paced stride that had snow flying everywhere in tandem with the click of his hooves.
Not to be outdone, Lyanna dug her heels into Skinchanger’s sides, urging him to speed up and ignoring the cursing of their guards.
Their father would have their hides when he found out they were racing through the courtyard like this and it only made her grin wider. It was king Rickard’s idea to send the two of them out for the day in the first place so as far as Lyanna was concerned, he only had himself to blame.
Her father was a stern man on best days; his eyes were grey and hard much like the land he ruled over. Yet he understood his wolf-blooded children well. The morning he noticed that the blizzard that had kept them confined to Winterfell’s walls had passed at last, he brusquely told them to get out for the day.
“ I don’t want to see your faces around here before sundown. ” He had said, seemingly irritated but Lyanna hadn’t been fooled. Rickard Stark never did anything without a reason, least of all when it came to the matter of his children.
Soon, they passed through the bustling streets of Wintertown and onwards, following the road to Castle Cerwyn and then straying off it to follow a shortcut. The snow was deep and thick and they had to slow once they led the horses into it.
It was a slow progress at that point. Lyanna lost track of time between the swaying of horses and the monotonous landscape. Every stalk, tree and bush was covered in white, making her eyes hurt. Riding behind Brandon, her brother’s broad back was a dark spot in her vision, joined by Wyl who rode at the Prince’s side.
At some point they stopped because Wly noticed fox tracks in the shallow snow beneath the trees and Brandon briefly considered going hunting.
“I will go on without you if you do.” Lyanna warned him and uncharacteristically, he relented.
“I should have left you at home with Benjen.” There was no bite in his words, Lyanna knew. He had told her the same thing over and over before, yet for years now she had been his constant companion on these kinds of rides. “Martyn, at this rate we won’t be home by sundown.”
The older man shook his head.
“I’ve travelled this path many times, your grace. Even with the snow, it should be a one day’s ride.”
By the time she noticed the shapes of the approaching village, her cheeks had gone numb with cold and her fingers shivered through the thick leather gloves. Above them, the skies began to lazily shower snowflakes, a far cry from the violent flurry of the storm that raged across the North for the past moon.
Tired of watching them melt in her hair, she pushed the hood of her coat further on her face.
“Careful now.” Wyl warned once they headed near the first houses. He had dismounted and was now leading his horse from the ground, boots breaking the thin layer of ice that collected on the hastily cleared pathway. “We must try not to get recognised.”
The statement surprised Lyanna.
“We’re a couple hours’ ride from Winterfell, what’s the harm?”
It was Martyn who answered her, his voice a low rumble.
“It’s not safe, Princess. Your father’s enemies would see you and your siblings dead.”
It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. It was a lesson her father made sure to imprint on her well.
“ The people we are ruling over have bent their knees to the Starks for thousands of years, ” he had told her. “ But out there, we are one kingdom, out of seven. They will have no mercy for you because each of them would rather see their flags flying over our land and one rival less to worry about.”
Despite this, neither Lyanna nor her siblings had ever experienced any attempts on their lives and the King had gone against his own words when he sent his son to be fostered in the Eyrie under the King of the Vale.
She imagined if it was safe enough for Ned in the Vale, surrounded by southerners and enjoying a companionship with the Storm Prince, then she shouldn’t be in danger while in her own kingdom.
But Ned is a man , her reason reminded her. Her family would never put it plainly like that but Lyanna was observant enough to notice what wasn’t being spoken.
“My father’s enemies have always existed.” She reasoned evenly, trying to keep her mood from souring. “We have never shied from visiting the people.”
Martyn kept silent to that, mouth forming a grim line. It frustrated her to the core, filling her with nervous energy that had her wanting to step closer to the man and shake him by the collar until he relented; an impulse very unbefitting for a princess.
Irritated, Lyanna looked to Brandon for support instead.
Her brother was looking solemnly to the side. He looked so much like their father at that moment, the uncompromising frost falling onto his sharp, handsome features. His grey eyes traded the falling snowflakes without interest.
“They’re right, Lya,” he told her and there was a quiet anger in his words, directed not at her but at some faraway target, concealed from her sight, “it’s not safe now. Father’s been getting ravens from White Harbour. Those thrice-cursed Ironborn have been -” he stopped and shook his head.
“Your grace -” Martyn spoke quietly, a warning in his voice. “Your father-”
“-Yeah, yeah.” Brandon waved him off. “I know. We can’t talk about it. We've reached the inn anyway.”
It was true; the old logs that formed the outer walls of the inn have neared in the span of their conversation without Lyanna even noticing. She allowed Wyl to help her dismount, too busy thinking about what she’s just heard to think of her pride.
The implications of it felt like frost settling in her bones. There was only one thing that ravens from White Harbour concerning the Iron Islanders could mean but-
-Father hadn’t told her about any Ironborn raids happening recently.
Did he tell Benjen? She wondered, or Ned, solemn Ned, who isn’t even in the North?
It made her want to scream and shout until they knew of her displeasure. She was a Stark too, damn them all, and she wanted to know what was happening in her lands.
The rational part of her told her to hold her tongue. You don’t have the whole story , she reminded herself, trying to quiet the treacherous anger warming her under her furs. It only partially worked; she was far too offended over being brushed off without an explanation to return to her previous good mood.
More than that, she was frustrated by the knowledge that even should she voice her thoughts, it would have done no good. A princess’ voice was made for pleasantries and songs, not for being heard, she had come to learn, and certainly not for speaking her mind.
Mulishly, she was quiet once they entered the building. When Wyl offered to take her coat she shook her head silently, pointedly looking away. It was childish, she knew, but she couldn’t help the impulse.
I don’t want to talk to you.
Fortunately, the men got the message. Or more likely, the guards did and Brandon didn’t care either way. She didn’t miss the way her brother’s sharp eyes travelled to the ample bosom of the serving maid the moment she walked past them.
For Gods’ sake.
Diverting her attention away, she observed the inside of the inn.
The ceiling was low and creaked frequently under the feet of the innkeeper’s family living upstairs. A simple red wooden rug covered most of the ground, but it was by now trampled with dirt and melting snow to the point of being a moody brown.
There were few occupants; smallfolk, she gathered, probably the villagers as the blizzard didn’t allow for much travel. They were dressed in simple cloaks and tunics, gap-toothed and occasionally missing fingers or parts of their faces from the cruel northern winters. Despite the lackluster attendance, the atmosphere was lively; a bard was strumming along an old lute made from red oak and a couple people were dancing to the tune.
Lyanna allowed the men to lead her to a table in the corner and waited with Wyl and Brandon while Martyn went to speak with the innkeeper in private.
Her brother tapped his foot impatiently and stretched his neck to look over their heads, doubtlessly tracking the maid’s movements across the room. Her temper flared in disgust.
“Would you stop that?” She hissed, kicking him sharply in the chin under the table.
He shot her a betrayed look.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
That was the last straw. Lyanna took a deep breath and was about to give him a piece of mind when Martyn returned.
“We will be getting a hot meal soon; good quality. The innkeeper is going to slaughter a goose. He was… very excited but agreed to make your presence here a secret.”
She huffed, annoyed that she had been interrupted.
Despite her stubborn silence, time passed fast amids the lively chatter. She allowed Brandon to drag her onto the dancefloor when the bard started singing the Bear and the Maiden Fair, though it was more for her brother’s sake; her mood had been insolubly ruined.
And it was such a good morning too , she bemoaned to herself once they returned to the table. The first clear morning in Gods knew how long, and she couldn’t even enjoy it.
All too soon, the maid came in carrying ale and the innkeeper sauntered in carrying the roasted goose not long afterwards.
“It is an honor to have the royal family in my humble inn.” He babbled, almost bouncing on his toes in excitement.
Brandon flashed him the same charming smile he used to make ladies sway. The face of the heir , Lyanna thought.
“Of course. It is our duty to see how the people of the North are doing after a storm this fierce.”
The older man nodded his head so enthusiastically it was in danger of falling off. His whole face was red and despite the chill Lyanna could see him sweating.
“Yes, yes,. It was an awful storm, your grace. But people here are strong. I’ve survived many winters, a blizzard is nothing!” He paused for breath. “But this was a fierce one, a fierce one for sure. My wife didn’t sleep a wink for days with how it howled. We woke up to snow up to our windows and Old Tom’s roof had caved in. He froze to death, the poor man, him and his daughter and all three of his grandchildren.”
“That’s awful.” Lyanna’s heart ached at the thought of the tragedy, though she didn’t know who Old Tom was. All of the sudden, a realisation had snuck up on her: how many more stories like these had taken place all over the North in the past moon?
She had been so busy bemoaning the fact she had been trapped inside Winterfell, she hadn’t even considered how the common folk were faring, she realised. It was a sobering thought.
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
Across the table, her brother shot her a subtle look without dropping his pleasant smile for a moment. A warning not to be too generous, but not a prohibition of the offer; if she hadn’t spoken up, he probably would have done the same.
“Her grace is too kind.” The old man hastily bowed, his whisker-like beard flying with the earnest intensity of his movements. “I would never dare ask anything but -” he started carefully “-there has been quite a bit of damage in our village. We will rebuild, of course but materials are expensive and hard to get in winter.”
“Of course.” Lyanna agreed, retrieving the small pouch she had tied around her neck earlier that morning, just in case. She counted the money fast and furrowed her brows. “Would thirty gold pieces suffice?”
“ Thirty gold pieces? ” The owner sputtered. His red face rapidly lost colour and he was once again bowing profusely. “Her grace is too kind.”
Taking this as a confirmation, she passed him the pouch, mindful of keeping the action concealed from the others in the inn.
“You need to use this money to rebuild the village and feed the people though.” She made her voice sharp and uncompromising, trying to copy the tone her father used when giving orders. “Do you swear it by the old gods?”
“I swear.”
The breathed promise was enough for her and she leaned back in her seat, quirking her lips in a slight smile of dismissal. The roasted goose on the table was tempting her and her stomach suddenly reminded her she hadn’t eaten since morning.
The innkeeper lingered, his thick meaty fingers twitching with hesitation.
“Was there anything else you’d like to ask of us?” Brandon asked, sharply but not unkindly. Never the one to care much about what the others thought, he was already helping himself to a nicely browned goose wing.
Privately, Lyanna thought he conveniently stopped caring once the serving maid left but she knew when to pick her battles. Following his lead, she leaned over the table to cut off a piece for himself before he took all the good bits for himself.
“There is the matter of -” the man stopped himself, biting his lip. “-Your grace will think me mad or superstitious.”
Her brother raised a dark eyebrow, making the other clear his throat awkwardly.
“During the storm, a couple days ago, there was a terrible noise, I can’t describe it. Betty, that’s my oldest daughter swore she saw something move behind the clouds. Now, I told her she was dreaming but working here, I hear a lot of things. A couple others, trustworthy people all of them, said they saw the same.” He dropped his voice for the suspense. “They say during the storm, an ice dragon awakened and set off to find its rider, so they can bring back the Long Night.”
Lyanna put down her fork, interested but across the table Brandon snorted dryly.
“There is no such thing as ice dragons.The storm was quite loud and snow being blown around creates odd shadows.”
The innkeeper bit his lip again, nervously.
“If your grace says so. But people are superstitious and they don’t feel safe. They say something landed in the woods, though how they know that I know not, as none of them were willing to enter them today.”
“You shouldn’t waste your Prince’s time with such tales.” Martyn intervened in a stern tone, his face covered in shadows.
“Of course, of course. I apologise your grace, it was never my intention to - that is, to say, I don’t personally believe in any of these rumors -”
Brandon waved him off.
“No harm done. Don’t worry, I will personally prove it to you that there are no ice dragons in the woods so you will be able to rest easily.”
Lyanna looked at her brother in surprise. Next to her, Wyl tensed.
“Your grace, that is that truly wise? Your father-”
“-My father, the King, trusts me to ensure the wellbeing of his people. Where’s the harm, Wyl? It’s just a bunch of rumors.” His voice was sharp and allowed no arguments.
The innkeeper bent deeply at the waist, muttering thanks beneath his breath even as he left. How the man could even hope to claim to be unafraid of the rumors was beyond Lyanna.
Once he vanished, Brandon returned back to his goose, offhandedly addressing Wyl’s concerns.
“It’s a bunch of horseshit, his story. Commoners will believe anything.”
Still, the guards looked ill at ease, glancing at each other.
“We will need to hurry if we want to return before sundown.” Was all that Martyn said at last, the words almost spat through gritted teeth.
They couldn’t argue against Brandon, she realised bitterly. If it were her who suggested this, she would have been shot down in an instant. But Brandon was the crown prince and more importantly, a man, so they had no choice but to listen.
Despite the bitterness that was still boiling in her chest, Lyanna found herself gobbling her portion in a manner that would have elicited stern reminders from her father. She was not suited to sitting still in one place for long and already the prospect of new adventures brightened her mood.
She fantasized about being on horseback again, cool air on her skin and wind in her hair. With Skinchanger swaying beneath her and the open plains before her, she was sure the irritation would leave her; she was determined to have fun today, before she had to return to the castle and the maester and the studying and other unpleasant burdens of her status. The thought of it repulsed her with memory of a long moon spent with only dusty old books and an even dustier old maester still fresh in her mind.
Just one good day , she prayed. After this hellish moon I deserve one good day.
Heeding Martyn’s advice, her brother finished quickly, which was a rarity from him. Brandon liked to enjoy life; savour the food, savour the ale and savour the ladies, his friends joked when they thought she wasn’t listening.
They snuck out inconspicuously and the sound of chatter and lute soon faded in freshly fallen snow. This time, Lyanna noticed the signs of damage on the houses; broken beams and caved in roofs. She chided herself for missing it the first time around.
Brandon boldly led his horse into the thick snow, leading them into the part of the forest the innkeeper had pointed out to them. He sat tall and his eyes were alight with arrogant determination. In that moment he was the very image of the heir people expected him to be; handsome, commanding and reckless.
Lyanna followed quietly, secretly glad nobody thought to send her home.
In a way, her brother’s obvious excitement was infectious. She felt herself slowly forgetting the slight that has stained her mood, getting lost in grand visions of adventures the likes of which got portrayed in songs.
Her excitement slowly waned as they ventured further and further into the forest, with nothing to show for it. The trees protected the ground from most of the snow though so their pace was faster.
She could see her brother’s interest dissipating into the open air when they encountered a clearing full of broken trees. The plants were thrown in all directions, carelessly as if discarded by a giant and the snow was trampled and strewn with ash. Lyanna felt a sense of unease as she took in the destruction, which seemed to go on for acres.
“So this is where the ice dragon supposedly landed.”
Brandon didn’t seem concerned, idly guiding his stallion through the broken branches, filling the silent woods with eerie snapping noise. His mouth twisted in an amused sneer.
“Trees break under snow all the time.”
His words lit a flame of indignation in her chest.
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve already decided there was no such thing as ice dragons?”
Skinchanger nifty stepped over a trunk, flicking his ears uneasily. It didn’t escape her notice. The horse was temperamental but she trusted his senses more than her own.
“You’ve been listening to too many of Old Nan’s tales.”
His tone was harmlessly mocking; she knew her brother well enough to know he liked to tease her at any given opportunity. But more than that, she knew him enough to know that she would achieve nothing because Brandon had made his mind on the matter.
She huffed and clutched the reigns in irritation.
“At least I listen to people. Father would be half as grey if you didn’t insist on running off with your pack of followers every chance you get.” And your whores , she almost added belatedly, but bit her tongue.
You can’t win here , she reminded herself. The defeat tasted bitter on her tongue, a familiar brew of misery. How many more times would she need to contain herself and her temper because her brother could not?
On her left, Wyl rode closer, his face hard and tense.
“Your grace, while snow does sometimes break trees, it is odd that this should happen only in this one spot. On top of that, the way the trunks are bent, it doesn’t seem like they collapsed under a weight peacefully.”
Lyanna observed the clearing again and found herself understanding his tension. The trees were scattered on all sides, trunks snapped in half and torn clean off but the damage got worse towards the middle of the clearing symmetrically. While the trees on the sides were simply broken and damaged, the forest was nearly completely gone about an arrow’s flight to the inside. Whatever remains there were left, were buried under the snow that had fallen in the past couple days.
The innkeeper’s daughter saw something move through the clouds , she remembered. She bit the tip of her glove, chewing on cold leather.
Old Nan had spoken of ice dragons when talking about the Long Night. They were ghastly, pale creatures that rose with the horrors beyond the Wall and melted when they died. Larger than their Valyrian kin, they breathed deadly chill instead of flames but brought doom upon men all the same.
“Don’t tell me you believe in children’s tales now too. Ice dragons don’t exist, any good maester will tell you as much.”
Never the one to be held back, Brandon stubbornly headed further into the clearing and dismounted.
“Ice dragons might not.” Wly agreed, following him. “But regular dragons do. I’ve seen Harrenhall before, your grace. The Black Dread and his rider were very much real.”
Brandon poked through the snow, seemingly in search of something to prove him right.
“Yet I don’t see a dragon. If anything landed here, it probably already flew off.”
His words did nothing to reassure the older man.
“It is still dangerous. We promised his majesty-”
Those were the wrong words to pick. Lyanna saw her brother’s eyes gleam with anger and internally winced. He was prideful enough that the reminders of their father assigning them protection achieved nothing but provoking his temper.
Brandon seemed to be about to argue, his mouth already open and Lyanna prepared for the harsh words that were going to spill out when something caught his attention.
“-Wait,” he ended up saying, pointing at something in the snow. “Look.”
Lyanna strained to see what the dark spot was when he reached and picked it up gingerly. Dangling between his thumb and his pointer finger was a dark glove.
“This is not common leather.”
Taking his cue, Martyn rode closer and dismounted besides him, inspecting the glove more closely.
“Dragon leather.” He confirmed, his frown cutting a deep crease into his forehead.
It was an unspoken understanding between them; where there was a glove there was a rider. Wild dragons were one thing; descendants of the beasts Targaryens had brought into Westeros were not exactly common but not unheard of either.
There was only one place in the world that wore dragon leather like that.
Only one question remained; what was a Valyrian dragonlord doing in the North amidst a blizzard?
“Maybe they just got lost.” She suggested optimistically.
Brandon snorted. “Well if this was an attempt at conquest, it was a piss poor one. It looks like it was a hard landing; the only thing this dragonlord conquered was the ground.” He paused, thinking about his joke. “Or maybe rather, the ground conquered him.”
“The King must be notified at once.” Wyl worried his lower lip between his teeth. “It could have been a scout that got trapped in the storm.”
Her brother stared at the glove in his hand as if he wanted to shake it until it revealed its secrets. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm and commanding, a tone Lyanna and Benjen liked to call his prince-voice.
“Let’s look around for a bit first to see if they’re truly gone and to see if we can get more clues on what happened. I don’t want to worry my father unnecessarily by jumping to conclusions on a matter this important.”
The guards did not argue with that, swayed either by the logic in his argument or by the authority he exuded.
Climbing back into their saddles, they circled around the clearing while the sun steadily declined. It was an unspoken agreement that what they were doing was worth being late for.
Lyanna’s fingers and cheeks had long since grown numb with cold as the warmth steadily leaked out of the air but she didn’t mind. Her mind was abuzz with the possibilities and though the situation was dangerous, she didn’t feel frightened as much as intrigued.
Dragons were a common presence in songs ever since their riders first expressed interest in Westeros. Though songs praising the glory of Aegon Targaryen and his sister-wives had fallen out of favour of nobility after the Seven Kingdoms split, many still remained, clearly inspired by the events. When she was younger, Lyanna had favoured the song about Baela the Brave and her dragon, Moondancer, though the tune was sad and morose.
Benjen used to tease her for it, but to her, the sordid end of the last Targaryen to ever call herself a Queen had its own sense of glory to it, as much as the tale of Brave Danny Flint. Not that she expected her brothers to understand such things; tales of courageous kings, princes and knights were plentiful.
She wondered what it would be like to see a dragon. Maybe Brandon would have to slay it and then she would ask him for one of its scales to wear around her neck, a display of her brother’s bravery. The old worm of a maester would find it unseemingly, surely, but her father would approve.
Secretly, too presumptuous for her to even admit to herself, she wondered what it would be like if it were her who did the job, who took her brother’s sword and slayed the monster plaguing her lands. Without permission, her imagination ran wild with it.
Brandon would be embarrassed at first sure, but eventually he would be proud of her for it and speak of her achievement with the same tone he used to call her the best rider in the North. And her father, she imagined, would be proud as well. Stern and grim, Rickard Stark would smile at her and permit her to train with her brothers, seeing her potential-
-she smothered that dream. It would never happen, she knew, a touch of sadness swelling in her chest. Life was not a song; it didn’t have greatness in spades for most people. Though everyone wished otherwise, most would live and die without leaving a note in the history books.
Just like her mother had; it was rare and getting rarer that a Northerner remembered the kind, gentle Lyarra Stark, even though she had been their queen for a decade.
Lyanna didn’t want to share her mother’s fate. She wrapped her furs tighter around herself, swept in a sudden chill.
If only snow didn’t cover all tracks . The air had grown colder fast and her cheeks were beginning to sting. Already she was dreading the ride back to Winterfell.
She recalled sneaking out of the castle with Benjen during the blizzard. The snow had blown so fast and so fiercely that their footprints would fill up and vanish almost before their eyes. At that moment, she had understood why they warned about getting lost in a storm like that; if you were unfamiliar with the terrain, you would have gotten lost very quickly and be unable to follow your own steps back to where you started.
She doubted even a dragon could help with that and shivered in sympathy.
Brandon’s plan had them riding around the scar that marred the forest in circles that slowly became wider and wider. It was a tactic both Wyl and Martyn reluctantly approved of because it was the only option short of splitting up that let them search a large amount of land thoroughly.
Eventually, all of them were forced to resort to the additional furs the guards had prepared for the journey. Lyanna felt like a pillow under the heavy bearskin but at least it kept her warm even as the air steadily chilled and snowflakes began to fall heavily from the sky.
“The weather is souring.” Martyn commented, throwing a look at the sky.
“I thought the maester predicted a clear day.” Lyanna had no love for the old man but his predictions regarding the weather usually held true.
Martyn hummed. “I’ve lived in the North for decades, your grace, and learned to watch for all signs of storms yet this very morning I would have said the same. A bad omen, I fear.”
A bad omen .
Lyanna didn’t like the sound of that.
She looked to her brother uncertainly. Against all expectations, Brandon rode ahead in silence. His bright grey eyes flickered side to side in a single-minded search.
He won’t give up , she realised.
Neither cold nor darkness could stop Brandon when he set his mind on something; he would see it to the end no matter what. She could only hope he would find what he was looking for soon.
The Gods were on her side that day because it was not long afterwards her brother stopped his chestnut stallion abruptly.
By then, the sun had almost set, its fading light setting the frozen landscape aflame. The forest was thick and dark where they stopped, providing shelter from the powder-like snowflakes that came scattering from above.
It was there, half buried beneath the snow that they found the subject of their search.
What appeared to be a dark figure slouched against a tree slowly turned to be a young man clad in black. Lyanna might have mistaken him for a man of the Watch if he wasn’t so obviously not of Westerosi origin.
His hair was cut short, as was the habit for Valyrian men, but there was no mistaking the way it gleamed like molten silver in the light of the setting sun.
Even as they dismounted and came nearer, the stranger didn’t move. He was deathly still, unaware of what was happening around him. The freezing cold had soaked the colour from his face, making him look like a strange, pale corpse.
“Is he dead?” The words came out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
Martyn approached slowly, prodding the man with his foot then sinking into a crouch when he didn’t move.
“Still breathing.” He confirmed. “He probably got caught in the blizzard.”
Brandon leaned closer to inspect him and Lyanna followed suit, heart beating in her chest.
“It’s a wonder he hasn’t frozen to death in these clothes.” He commented, voicing what they were both thinking. The strange leather the man was wearing seemed insignificant compared to the furs protecting them from the cold and yet Lyanna could still feel its bite even so.
“It’s dragon leather, your grace.” The guard explained. “They say Valyrians wear it because it protects them not only from fire but from the cold winds when they’re riding their beasts.”
“It hasn’t protected this one from fire.”
The Valyrian had tried to bandage it with what must have been his cloak but the blizzard had, at some point, undone his efforts. The heavy, dark fabric had slipped loose, revealing blistered and blackened skin, stretching around his left shoulder and vanishing along his arm. The flames had burned the leather straight off.
Martyn frowned.
“Dragonfire, maybe.” He suggested. “It’s one of the few things that can burn through dragon leather.”
Brandon’s handsome face twisted in a grimace.
“A feud between dragonlords would explain much. You’d have to be mad to fly into a blizzard.”
His hand flew to his sword, clutching the handle heavily. It made Lyanna unsettled, unable to shake off the gruesome burns and the unnatural stillness.
“Are you going to kill him?”
“I should.” There was no hesitation or regret in his voice and it settled into her stomach like a rock.
She opened her mouth to argue when he stood up suddenly, closing his eyes with a sigh.
“-But I’m not going to. All we have right now is speculation; it doesn’t explain what a dragonlord is doing in Westeros. Should he live, this man could answer our questions but if he dies the answers die with him.”
He shot her a glance, amused. “Does my answer please you, sweet sister?”
Lyanna frowned. “There is no honour in killing a defenceless man.”
“Now you sound like Ned. ‘As h igh as honour ’, those are Arryn words, not ours - remember that. Those southerners might live differently but this is the North. There is no place for mercy or honour when winter falls.”
It was Brandon’s mouth that was speaking but the words were their father’s. King Rickard was a just man, but a hard one. Lyanna understood that about him and found it in her to love him nonetheless. She had been educated in the history of their house; she knew how in preparation of an especially hard winter, the North would seek battle with other kingdoms, young men looking for honourable death in combat to lessen the drain on the dwindling food storages.
“One more mouth to feed won’t hurt. The winter is nearly over.” She sneaked a look at the unconscious man, feeling pity for him. “With those injuries, he might yet die even so.”
Despite her words, she wished the Gods would spare him. To tame a dragon and then die like this - what a terrible end.
Above them, wind blew snowflakes in a flurry.