Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

The Lions in the North

Winterfell stirred like a great beast roused from slumber.

Servants bustled through the corridors, arms full of linens, platters of food, and bolts of Northern wool dyed in the richest shades the castle could offer. The clang of steel rang from the yard as guards drilled with more ceremony than usual. Fires were lit in long-empty chambers, tapestries shaken free of dust, and old silver polished until it gleamed like freshly fallen snow. Even the direwolves were restless—Summer whining at the stable doors, Ghost pacing along the edges of the godswood.

The King was coming—and with him, the Queen, the children, the Lannisters, the Kingsguard— everyone.

Lyarra Stark stood on the battlements overlooking the gatehouse, the wind tangling her hair and tugging at the edge of her cloak. The sky above was pale and cold, a northern white that swallowed the sun. Her eyes scanned the treeline beyond the long road south. Somewhere beyond those woods, the royal procession was snaking its way toward them—trumpets and silks and secrets.

She wasn’t nervous. But her arms were folded tightly across her chest, and her jaw had set into a thoughtful line. There was a shift in the air that morning, as if the gods themselves held their breath. Beneath her, the courtyard teemed with anticipation: grooms leading fidgeting horses, maids running with last-minute bundles, Maester Luwin lecturing a page who had dropped an entire tray of drinking horns.

“Try not to look like you’re ready for battle,” Robb said behind her, stepping up beside her with an easy grin. “You’ll only frighten the southerners.”

“I thought that was the idea,” Lyarra murmured, not looking away from the trees.

Robb chuckled, nudging her shoulder. “They’re just people, Ly.”

She glanced at him. “People with lions on their banners.”

That wiped the grin from his face. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. They had all heard the stories. The truth of them mattered less than the weight they carried.

Their younger siblings were gathered just below—Bran bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager for the first glimpse of the King; Rickon half-asleep, clutching Old Nan’s hand; Arya straining forward at the front of the line, hair wild despite Septa Mordane’s best efforts. Sansa stood tall beside their mother, hands folded, expression painfully serene.

Lyarra moved down the steps and came to stand behind Arya just as a horn blew from the watchtower. The royal party had been sighted.

The sound of hooves started echoing. The royal banners broke through the trees first—crimson and gold snapping in the wind. The procession was immense: dozens of riders in glinting mail, richly caparisoned horses, gilt carriages drawn by teams of eight. A fanfare of horns echoed through the courtyard, and Lyarra felt the walls of Winterfell themselves groan under the weight of Southern spectacle.

Arya craned forward. Bran cheered. Sansa let out a small gasp.

“That’s Jaime Lannister,” Arya said almost in awe, as the knight, who had arrived first, took off his helmet. “The queen’s twin brother.”

“Like having a twin is anything special,” Robb muttered as he leaned closer to Lyarra, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smirked, her eyes still on the man in question. “Indeed. You’ve had one your whole life, and you're nothing special.”

“I’m the better twin.”

“You’re the older twin—there’s a difference.”

“Ouch.”

Jaime Lannister looked every bit the tale spun around hearthfires: handsome, arrogant, untouchable. He rode with lazy grace, his posture regal without trying, his sword hanging casually at his hip like a reminder rather than a threat. And those eyes—green, sharp, searching—swept across the gathered crowd with all the ease of a predator in familiar territory.

When his gaze met hers, the world stilled.

He didn’t blink. Nor did she. Lyarra’s spine straightened, her chin lifting just slightly in response to his unspoken challenge. She saw the moment he registered her defiance—how the edge of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. Smug. Curious. Almost impressed.

He looked away first, and the air returned to her lungs.

“Is it just me,” Robb said under his breath, “or did he just look at you like he meant something by it?”

Lyarra gave a faint shrug, but her heart was beating faster than before.

“Let him look,” she said. “He’ll find the North doesn’t blink.”

Later, when Winterfell had quieted beneath twilight and the shadows grew long across stone, Lyarra sought solitude.

The godswood welcomed her like an old friend. She stepped lightly across the mossy ground, the hush of leaves and the murmur of the brook softening the noise still echoing in her thoughts. The heart tree stood at the center, solemn and still, its red leaves drifting in the breeze like falling embers.

She knelt before it, pressing her palm against a root slick with dew. Her breath came in steady rhythm, though her mind wandered far from prayer.

Golden hair. A gleam of polished steel. The weight of a stranger’s gaze on her face.

She hadn’t expected him to look at her. And certainly not like that.

A twig snapped behind her.

“Do all Northerners glare as fiercely as you do, my lady?” an unfamiliar voice asked, low and dry.

Lyarra turned slowly.

Ser Jaime Lannister stood beneath the boughs like a misplaced portrait, all gleaming gold and smirking arrogance. He leaned against a tree with practiced ease, arms folded, as if the godswood were no more sacred than a King’s Landing balcony.

His eyes, bright and green, studied her without shame.

“Do all Lannisters skulk where they’re not welcome?” she said calmly, brushing off her hands as she rose.

“Skulk?” Jaime echoed, mock-wounded. “You wound me, my lady. I prefer ‘wander gracefully.’”

“I’m sure you do.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful. You don’t have many places like this in the capital.”

Lyarra raised a brow. “Is that what you came here for? Peace?”

Jaime smiled as if she’d said something clever. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No.”

That made him laugh—softly, but sincerely. “So suspicious. And here I thought Northern hospitality was the stuff of songs.”

“We welcome guests,” she said, folding her arms, “but not interruptions.”

“Ah.” He tilted his head. “So this is your place, then? Your little sanctuary?”

“I don’t share it with people who drift in uninvited.”

Another smirk. “You must be Lady Lyarra.”

“And you must be very proud of your deductive skills.”

He grinned. “And you’ve got quite the tongue on you. Most women tend to blush and curtsy when they come near me.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not most women.”

Jaime gave a low chuckle, and for a moment, she saw something flicker behind the mirth. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. He seemed… entertained. That was somehow more irritating than anything he could have said.

“Why do I get the feeling,” he said, “that you don’t like me very much?”

Lyarra’s expression didn’t shift. “I hardly know you, Ser Jaime.”

“Yet your glare was impressive. Just now. And also earlier, when I rode in.”

“Must be your imagination.”

“Oh, I know what I saw. The Starks were all lined up like carved stone. But you—” he paused, eyes narrowing just slightly, “—you looked like you wanted to throw me back to the South yourself.”

“Perhaps I just didn’t like your horse.”

He laughed again, and this time it echoed faintly through the trees.

“You’re clever,” he said, almost to himself. “Clever and cold. That’s rare.”

“And you’re arrogant and nosy,” she replied. “That, sadly, is not.”

There was a brief, simmering silence. His smile lingered, but his eyes watched her too closely. Like he was trying to make sense of her, peel back the outer layer and see what made her so sharp-edged.

“Well then,” Jaime said, shifting back a pace, “should I go before I further offend your gods?”

“They were offended the moment you walked in.”

He gave her a slight bow, more mocking than sincere. “And here I thought I’d been rather charming.”

Lyarra stepped back toward the heart tree, voice cool.

“Go back and prepare yourself for the feast, Ser Jaime. The gods won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

Jaime didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was lower, almost thoughtful.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But you might.”

She looked over her shoulder just long enough to offer him a raised brow, unimpressed. “Then I suggest you lower your expectations or prepare for disappointment.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned her back on him, the trailing edge of her cloak brushing against the fallen leaves as she disappeared through the trees.

Jaime lingered. And for once, he didn’t have a clever thing to say.

That evening, Winterfell’s Great Hall was nearly unrecognizable beneath the veil of Southern opulence.

Dozens of braziers roared along the stone walls, their heat fighting back the chill that even the finest velvets couldn’t entirely keep at bay. Long tables were dressed in their best linens, golden-threaded banners draped from the rafters. Candlelight shimmered across goblets and pitchers, gilded platters heavy with roasted venison, honeyed carrots, and lemon cakes dusted with powdered sugar—an indulgence meant to impress the visiting court.

Sansa sat to Lyarra’s right, posture perfect, eyes wide. “Look at the queen’s gown,” she whispered, barely containing herself. “All that embroidery—it must’ve taken a hundred hours. And her necklace—did you see the rubies? They're almost the size of eggs.”

Lyarra nodded faintly, sipping from her wine cup, but her mind was elsewhere.

“And Joffrey,” Sansa continued, eyes drifting toward the royal table, “he looks every inch a prince. So regal.”

Lyarra swallowed a sigh with another mouthful of wine. “If by regal you mean sullen and smug, then yes. He’s positively radiant.”

Sansa’s expression pinched. “You always say things like that. Just because you don’t care what boys think.”

Across the hall, the laughter of knights echoed like a ripple of glass breaking. Jaime Lannister lounged amongst his own, a goblet in hand, one arm slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He was all polished gold and confidence, like a lion sprawled in the sun, utterly untouchable. The Southern nobles around him seemed caught in his orbit, leaning in at every word.

He looked, Lyarra thought, like he belonged to a world made entirely of sharp steel and smoother lies.

As if on cue, his eyes found her across the room. He tilted his goblet in mock salute, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She raised her own goblet in return, slow and deliberate, her expression as cool and unreadable as the first snow.

And then, to her irritation, he rose from his seat.

Robb noticed. “Don’t look now,” he muttered, lowering his goblet, “but the Kingslayer approaches.”

“I know,” Lyarra said.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You must’ve done something.”

“Robb,” she warned.

He grinned, then turned to take a long sip from his cup just as Jaime Lannister came to a stop beside their table.

“Lady Lyarra,” he said smoothly, his voice somehow louder and softer than the rest. “I trust you’re finding the evening bearable?”

Lyarra didn’t smile. “I was,” she replied, “until someone let in a lion.”

Robb choked on his drink, coughing loudly. Sansa’s eyes went round as dinner plates. Even Catelyn glanced up from her seat with the faintest quirk of her brow, wondering what was going on.

Jaime gave a mock wince. “Sharp tongue for such a lovely face.”

“Flattery,” Lyarra said, unimpressed, “is the tool of those with nothing else worth offering.”

“Oh, I have plenty to offer,” he said, smiling like the devil. “Though most people just want the flattery.”

“Then you must spend your days surrounded by flatterers.”

“Not tonight,” he said, watching her. “You’ve been a delightful exception.”

She met him smile for smile, her gaze steady. “Then you’ll forgive me if I don’t find your delight especially flattering.”

“You wound me again, my lady.”

“I imagine you’re used to that by now.”

Jaime leaned in slightly, his tone dropping just enough for the words to feel intimate. “Still, I can’t help but wonder… why so much disdain? You don’t even know me.”

She tilted her head. “Exactly.”

His grin faltered for the briefest second—just long enough for her to see the flicker beneath it. Then it returned, brighter than before.

“Well struck,” he said again, chuckling softly. “I’ve known men who fell silent after half the sting you just gave me. I’m starting to think the North is colder in more ways than one.”

“Perhaps we just don’t fawn over pretty faces and polished armor.”

He looked down at himself. “Is that what you see when you look at me?”

“I haven’t looked long enough to say.”

“But you’ve looked,” he said, voice warm with amusement. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Lyarra leaned in just a touch, her voice sugar-sweet. “And you seem like a man who’s spent too long hearing the word yes.”

Jaime blinked—just once. It was subtle, barely more than a pause, but Lyarra caught it.

Then he laughed, tipping his head back, clearly enjoying himself. “Gods, you’re fun.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s what makes it better.”

Robb cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t you be back at your table, Lannister? I believe your queen looks bored without you.”

Jaime turned briefly to glance toward the royal dais. “She’s always bored. It’s nothing personal.” His eyes flicked back to Lyarra. “But this is.”

She arched a brow.

He bowed—not deeply, not formally. Just enough to make a show of charm.

“Until next time, Lady Lyarra.”

She didn’t respond. Just watched him go with her spine straight and her face calm, like the wind before a storm. Around her, the feast went on—clinking goblets, muttered gossip, bards striking up another round of polished notes.

But something in her chest pulsed harder.

Not admiration. A warning perhaps. Or a promise.

As Jaime Lannister strode back across the hall, his crimson cloak trailing like spilled wine behind him, Robb leaned in without missing a beat.

“What in the seven hells was that?”

Lyarra reached calmly for her goblet, her expression unreadable. “The Kingslayer attempting to get under my skin.”

“Did he succeed?”

She took a sip. “No.”

Robb snorted. “Could’ve fooled me. You had that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get when someone’s about two words away from regretting their life choices.”

Sansa, still wide-eyed beside her, shook her head in dismay. “You shouldn’t speak to him like that, Lyarra.”

Lyarra tilted her head. “Like what?”

Sansa frowned as if she couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or simply offended on Jaime’s behalf. “He’s the queen’s brother.”

“He’s the Kingslayer,” Lyarra replied. “I don’t care whose brother he is.”

“But he’s a knight!” Sansa protested. “He’s famous!”

“So are syphilis and wildfire,” Robb muttered, not bothering to lower his voice.

Arya snorted into her cup.

Sansa turned pink. “You’re impossible.”

Arya leaned forward, eyes bright. “I thought it was amazing. No one ever talks to people like that—especially not him.” She grinned.

Lyarra gave a small shrug, but she couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’ll recover.”

“I hope he doesn’t,” Arya said cheerfully. “He deserves it.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, muttering something about Northern savagery under her breath.

Catelyn cast a glance down the table. “That’s enough, all of you. Mind your manners—especially with guests in the hall.”

“Yes, Mother,” they chorused, though none of them sounded particularly remorseful.

As conversation around the table shifted back to less dangerous topics—weather, politics, who had spilled wine on Ser Boros Blount—Lyarra let her eyes drift once more toward the knights’ table.

Jaime was speaking with Ser Barristan now, all easy smiles and clever flourishes of his hand. But she saw it—just for a second. His gaze flicked sideways, seeking her out across the distance.

Their eyes met.

This time, it was Lyarra who raised her goblet first. But she didn’t smile.

And neither did he.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

Bark, Bite and Silence

The morning air was cold enough to sting the lungs. Frost clung to the edges of stone and timber, silvery and delicate, as if nature had tried to cover Winterfell in white lace overnight. The grey sky hung low, stretched taut like wool over a drum, and the pale light that filtered through did little to warm the bones.

Lyarra stood by the edge of the training yard, her arms folded tight over her cloak. Her breath curled in the air like smoke.

Before her, Robb and Jon sparred with their swords, boots crunching against the gravel, grunts echoing against the inner walls. Bran watched from atop a hay bale, kicking his legs idly, while Theon lounged nearby offering unsolicited advice, half of which sounded more designed to irritate than instruct.

There was something comforting in the rhythm of it. The clash of metal. The familiar snap of Robb’s footwork. The way Jon’s brow furrowed in focus, jaw clenched, always holding back just slightly—as if even here, in a yard meant for play, he had something to prove.

Lyarra leaned against the post, letting herself sink into the safety of routine. For a moment, she felt like nothing had changed. As if the South hadn’t spilled into their home in waves of crimson and gold.

But it had. She could feel it. The scent of strange perfumes still clung faintly to the halls. The Queen’s sharp-eyed glances lingered like bruises. And even now, in the open air, something in her chest felt tighter than usual. Stretched. Waiting.

“Not joining in?”

The voice came from behind, smooth and unhurried, like honey poured over a blade.

Lyarra turned—and there he was again. 

Jaime Lannister stood a few paces away, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, his posture effortless. He wore no armor this morning—just a finely cut jerkin of crimson suede and dark riding leathers—but he looked no less like a weapon ready to strike.

The sun had broken through a sliver in the clouds behind him, lighting his golden hair like a flame.

Lyarra arched an eyebrow. “Do you always skulk around, or is this a recent development?”

“Skulking?” he echoed, feigning offense as he approached. “Again with the Northern hospitality. I prefer to think of it as observing. Quietly.”

“From the shadows.”

He gave a mock gasp. “You wound me. Truly.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I usually do.”

He stopped beside her, arms folding as he mirrored her stance, both of them watching the sparring boys in silence for a beat. Lyarra didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way he was half-facing the yard and half-watching her.

“They’re good,” he said, nodding toward Robb and Jon. “Quick. Tenacious. A bit wild.”

“In the North we prefer to train with purpose,” Lyarra said. “Not spectacle.”

“Of course.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Though if I’m honest, I expected more from the great wolf pups of Winterfell. So far, they’re all bark and no bite.”

“Careful,” she said, eyes still on the yard. “One of those pups might take offense and bite back.”

“I’ve faced worse.” His tone was breezy, but his eyes glittered. “Though I’m beginning to suspect the North’s true ferocity lies elsewhere.”

She turned to him then, slowly. “You’re a fool.”

He didn’t flinch. “A family trait.”

“Then perhaps it’s time you outgrew it.”

He hummed, content to stand in the cold as if the weather had singled him out for kindness. Their brothers circled, blades ringing; Theon whooped something unhelpful, and Bran shouted that Jon should feint left. Lyarra’s fingers flexed inside her sleeves.

“You truly won’t join them?” Jaime asked at last. “I was told Winterfell breeds its girls with iron in their bones.”

“Normally, I would. I often do.”

“But not today?”

“I was informed it wasn’t appropriate when we have guests.”

He turned his head. “Informed by whom?”

“Someone with a talent for whispering propriety,” she said. “It carries differently when southern banners fly from our walls.”

His mouth tilted. “Propriety is a southern specialty. It seems a shame though. Steel learns as much from error as from elegance. You could show your brothers something useful.”

“I often do,” she repeated, and let the words sit between them. “But Winterfell has visitors. And ladies are prettier when they’re quiet.”

“Is that the Northern rule or the southern one?”

“It is the sort of rule men like to pretend came from the gods.”

Jaime’s laugh was low. “If the gods meant for women to be quiet, they’d have made them less interesting to listen to.”

“And you listen?” she asked.

“Only when it’s worth it.” His eyes swept the yard, then returned to her. “What would you do right now, if no one was watching?”

“Take Robb’s place for three passes,” she said without hesitating. “Make Jon stop holding back. Then hand Bran a blunt and let him try to take my knees.”

“And if the Queen were watching?”

“Then I’d remember to bow after,” Lyarra said. 

He considered her a moment, something sharper than amusement moving behind his eyes. Then he tipped his chin toward the rack of practice swords. “Come. One lesson. I promise to be very dull.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “What would King’s Landing do if you returned with a bruise that was made by the Warden of the North’s eldest daughter?”

“You assume I’d take the bruise,” he said, warm with vanity. “How charming.”

“I assume you’d insist I let you win.”

“Never,” he said, and there was something so clean in the word it startled her. “I prefer the truth of what a blade will tell me.”

“And what truth do you think you’d find here?”

He turned fully to her then, abandoning the pretense of watching the yard. “That Winterfell is ill-advised to keep its sharpest knives sheathed for the sake of a few southern eyes.”

“Winterfell survives,” she said. “We’ve managed it without southern approval.”

“I didn’t say approval. I said eyes. They’re different things.”

She let silence answer him, the kind that belongs to cold mornings and long histories. Below, the bout ended with a clatter and Robb’s bark of laughter; Jon’s grin was quick, unwilling.

“You could take them both, I assumed?” Jaime asked, as if commenting on the weather.

“I could embarrass them both,” she corrected. “That’s different.”

“Ah. Yes. Mercy.” He glanced toward the archway that led back into the keep. “I wonder which of us offends your lady mother more: the daughter who trains, or the guest who invites her to.”

“Definitely you,” Lyarra said.

“Mmm. Fair.” He seemed pleased by the verdict. “Still. Should you ever decide propriety has bored you enough for one morning, find me. I’m told I give an adequate lesson.”

“Told by whom?”

“By myself,” he said, without shame. “And I never lie to me.”

“Perhaps you should start,” she said. “It might make you bearable.”

“I’m already bearable.” He let his gaze rest on her for a heartbeat more, as if filing away something he didn’t yet have a name for. “To the right eyes.”

“Then go be borne elsewhere, Ser Jaime.”

“With pleasure.” He offered her the smallest bow—no flourish, only the idea of courtesy. “Until next time, Lady Lyarra. Do try not to glare anyone into an early grave.”

“I’ll save it,” she said, “for when I need it.”

“Wise.” His smile deepened—not kinder, only clearer.

With that, he turned and began toward the keep, boots whispering over frost-bitten stone. The sun slipped back behind its veil; the yard felt colder once he was gone.

Only then did she realize her fists had clenched inside her cloak. She breathed out and unfurled them, one finger at a time, and the ache left behind was almost pleasant. Robb called her name, asking if she’d seen the last exchange; Theon shouted that he hadn’t been watching because he was too busy admiring himself; Bran demanded a turn.

Lyarra remained where she stood, unmoving, though the sun had begun to retreat behind a cloud and a wind crept in over the wall, sharper now, carrying the scent of snow. The boys’ sparring continued, the steady rhythm of strikes and footwork filling the space, but she no longer heard it clearly. Not really.

Her thoughts were elsewhere—damn them.

Jaime Lannister had no right to take up space in her mind. Not with his smug smile and careful posture. Not with that too-casual confidence that wrapped around every word he said like a velvet sheath hiding a dagger.

And yet—he had.

She hated that he amused himself at her expense. Hated that he made her feel watched, as if she were part of some private game only he understood. Most of all, she hated that spark inside her, the one that flared when he leaned in just slightly too close, when his voice dipped with mock politeness. It wasn’t fear. Not quite.

It was... irritation, perhaps. And something more treacherous underneath.

He had looked at her like she wasn’t what he expected. And that was dangerous.

Lyarra had spent her life being what was expected. Daughter of the North. Wolf’s blood in her veins. Stern and sharp and steady. It had always been her duty to balance Robb’s fire and Sansa’s softness, to listen when others spoke, to speak only when necessary. She had been shaped by stillness, by silence, by the weight of Winterfell’s stones and the cold lessons of the godswood.

Men like Jaime Lannister didn’t understand that kind of strength.

They were fire and flourish, all flash and performance. She knew his kind. She had seen them in books and at feasts and heard whispers in the halls. The ones who wore armor like decoration and wielded words like blades. Dangerous not because they struck, but because they smiled while doing it.

And yet, for all his arrogance, he’d said something honest beneath the games—she had seen it. Just a flicker. A moment where the mask slipped and the man stood behind it, unsure if she was going to let him keep it on. That was the part that bothered her. That she noticed.

Lyarra pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, irritated with herself. It didn’t matter what flickered behind his eyes. The Kingslayer wasn’t her concern. She would do what she had always done: observe, endure, and remember who she was. A wolf does not waste time wondering what a lion dreams.

Still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Jaime Lannister had already marked her down as something to toy with. She just wasn’t sure yet whether he thought she was flint or kindling.

The sound of footsteps crunching over the frost pulled Lyarra from her thoughts. She didn’t need to look to know it was Jon. He moved differently than Robb or Theon—quieter, more measured. Like someone used to making himself small, even when there was no need. He stopped beside her, shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed just like hers.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

Robb and Theon had begun another round in the yard, the clash of blades and muffled grunts carrying on the air. Bran’s excited voice rang out, cheering for someone, though he didn’t seem to care who won.

Jon tilted his head slightly, studying her in profile. “What did he want?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the training yard, though her thoughts were still tangled with golden hair and veiled amusement.

“Nothing important,” she said finally. “Just his usual arrogance.”

Jon’s jaw shifted, tightening. “He’s watching you.”

She turned to look at him then, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Yesterday, when they arrived. Then at the feast. This morning, just now. He watches you.”

Lyarra blinked, caught off guard. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I always pay attention.”

There was no boast in the way he said it—just quiet certainty. The kind Jon wore like second skin. She felt a flicker of guilt for brushing him off earlier.

“He says things to get under people’s skin,” she muttered. “It’s a game to him. That’s all.”

Jon didn’t look convinced. His eyes tracked the archway where Jaime had disappeared, as though he expected him to step back through it any moment. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Her brow lifted. “What way is that?”

“Like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve,” Jon said. “Or a fox he wants to trap.”

Lyarra let out a quiet breath, more sigh than laugh. “You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “But I’ve seen men like him before. Charming, when they want to be. Cold when it suits them. He’s dangerous.”

“I’m not blind, Jon.”

“I know.” He looked at her then, properly. “But you’re not as guarded as you think.”

That stopped her. She frowned, not offended—but unsettled.

“I can handle him,” she said at last.

“I don’t doubt that,” Jon replied. “But just because you can doesn’t mean you should have to.”

The words were simple, but something in them hit her squarely in the chest.

She turned away, toward the yard again, where Robb had knocked Theon flat on his back and was helping him up with a cocky grin. Lyarra watched them, watched the way they laughed and shoved and swung at each other, unbothered by Southern visitors or whispered court intrigue.

“I don’t want trouble,” she murmured.

Jon’s voice was quiet beside her. “Then stay away from the lion.”

Lyarra didn’t answer. Because she knew he was right. But something told her that trouble wasn’t something you always walked toward. Sometimes, it came looking for you.

The wind had picked up along the battlements by midday, knifing through wool and leather. Jaime let it comb his hair back from his face and pretended it was welcome.

Below, the yard rang with another round of practice. In the distance, smoke from the smithy drew a steady line into the grey.

“Chilly little paradise,” Tyrion said, appearing at his brother’s side with a skin of wine he did not offer to share. “Do you suppose the Northerners keep the sky tied down with string?”

“They keep everything tied down with string,” Jaime said. “Except their daughters.”

Tyrion followed his brother’s line of sight to the covered walk below, where Lyarra Stark moved with a basket hooked on her arm, the bite of winter in her mouth and the firm, unhurried set of her shoulders. She paused to take the heavier of two pails from a serving girl, checked a strap on a passing groom’s burden with a quick, efficient tug, then kept on without ceremony. No fuss. No spectacle. Purpose.

“Ah,” Tyrion said. “You’ve found a window with a view.”

“Plenty of windows in this place,” Jaime replied.

“Mm. Not all of them come with such lovely scenery.” Tyrion’s eyes warmed with amusement. “Curious. I had the impression you favored women with golden hair.”

“I favor competence,” Jaime said. “It’s rarer than gold.”

“How drearily virtuous of you.”

“Don’t mistake boredom for virtue.” He watched as Lyarra Stark paused to chide Arya for muddy boots, then smoothed Sansa’s cloak, a brief, absent gesture of care. “She moves as if she knows what needs doing and does it. Most courtiers need an audience first.”

Tyrion took a pull from the skin. “Careful, brother. You sound dangerously close to admiring something that isn’t yourself.”

“I admire many things that aren’t me,” Jaime said, dry. “I just have the good sense not to marry them.”

“Spoken like a man who never intends to wed.” Tyrion’s mouth twitched. “Do try not to let our sister hear you say it aloud. She’s decided the North is quaint. She’ll take offense if you prefer it.”

“Cersei is bored,” Jaime said. “Bored queens go looking for interest.”

“They do. And if they cannot find it, they manufacture it.” Tyrion leaned his forearms on the crenelation and peered down at the yard. “What is it with this one? The set of her jaw? The way she doesn’t flinch when people look? The absence of simpering?”

“All of that,” Jaime said. “And the absence of calculation in her eyes. She watches, but not to keep score.”

Tyrion made a small, considering noise. “You mean she watches the way Father watches a ledger—carefully, without sentiment.”

“Not without sentiment,” Jaime said, surprising himself. “Without theater.”

“How refreshing for you.” Tyrion’s gaze slid sideways. “You do understand that refreshing things melt in warm weather, don’t you?”

“Then it’s fortunate we’re in the cold.”

Below, a bell rang the hour. Theon Greyjoy executed a dramatic bow to no one in particular and nearly slipped on the frost; Robb shoved him, laughing. Lyarra didn’t spare the antics a glance. She had stopped to speak to a greybeard from the stables, listened without interrupting, then adjusted the basket on her arm and moved on.

“Curiosity sometimes is a useful thing.” Tyrion tipped the skin toward Jaime, finally offering it. Jaime waved it away. “Do you intend to indulge yours?”

“About Lady Lyarra?” Jaime let the name sit in his mouth for a moment, neutral as steel. “No. Observation suffices.”

“How prudent.” Tyrion looked pleased and disappointed at once. “And completely unbelievable.”

“You mistake me for someone else, little brother.” Jaime’s voice stayed even. “I’m not a boy in a song to be undone by the first sharp girl who doesn’t curtsey on command. I find her interesting. Nothing more.”

“Interest leads to foolishness in men of your profession,” Tyrion said. “And to war in men of our family.”

Jaime’s mouth crooked. “Everything leads to war in our family.”

“Another truth.” Tyrion considered the yard. “Still, I’m curious myself. Not about her—though she’s a well-turned puzzle—but about you. It’s so unlike you to enjoy being unnoticed.”

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

“No, but you haven’t made any effort to correct it.” Tyrion lifted a brow. “Usually, you make a point of being the point.”

“Perhaps I’m practicing,” Jaime said.

“For what?”

“For our return to King’s Landing,” he answered, and his tone flattened on the name. “Where everyone is the point and nothing is the point.”

“Poetic.” Tyrion took another drink. “Father will be delighted to hear you’ve discovered aphorisms. What’s next I wonder.”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to the far end of the walkway, where Lyarra had disappeared into shadow. “Ned Stark plays at honesty. It works for him because he means it. Men like that are dangerous.”

“More dangerous than men like you?”

“Dangerous in a different way.” He tapped a knuckle against the stone. “A man who lies knows he may be caught. A man who tells the truth doesn’t imagine he needs to hide.”

“And where does his daughter fall?” Tyrion asked. “Truth or lie?”

“Neither,” Jaime said after a beat. “She falls in the space between. She knows when to keep her mouth shut. That’s where the knives live.”

Tyrion laughed. “Father would have you promoted for that line if he thought you’d invented it yourself.”

“If Father thought I’d invented it, he’d ask why I took so long.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, companionable as old scars. Below, the hounds barked twice and then were quiet. A raven lifted from the rookery and beat its way into the grey.

“Shall we go down?” Tyrion asked. “I’ll wager you a cask from the cellars you cannot pass the Lady Lyarra without making some cutting remark you will pretend not to have rehearsed.”

“I don’t rehearse,” Jaime said.

“Everyone rehearses. The trick is to make it sound improvised." Tyrion set off toward the stair, then hesitated, glancing back. “Just to satisfy the record: are you certain it isn’t the hair?”

“What hair?”

“The not-golden kind,” Tyrion said, eyes glinting. 

Jaime rolled his eyes.

Tyrion grinned. “Very well. Let us say you are motivated purely by intellectual vigor and the novelty of competence. I accept your reform.”

“Don’t.” Jaime started toward the stair, the wind snapping at his cloak like an impatient hound. “I haven’t applied.”

Tyrion’s laughter chased him down the first few steps. Jaime lingered half a heartbeat, looking once more at the covered walk where Lyarra Stark had vanished into stone and shadow.

Then he followed his brother into the keep, leaving the wind to proctor the empty wall.

The tower room held a wedge of winter sun and the smell of stone dust. A torn edge of tapestry fretted against the wall, whispering whenever the wind found the slit of the window.

Jaime hadn’t been surprised when Cersei asked him to meet her in the tower—after all he knew she had been bored out of her mind from the moment she set foot in Winterfell. Thus her fingers were currently tangled in his hair, commanding as ever. Her breath hitched—a small sound, pleased, triumphant. He closed his eyes and a shape flashed behind them: dark hair, a level gaze, a girl who did not flinch when watched. Annoyed with himself, he tried to shake it off—Tyrion’s prattle lingering like wine. You favor golden hair, his brother had said. As if Jaime Lannister were so simple he could be charted by color. He bent to Cersei, to the only certainty he allowed himself. Love, he told himself.

Suddenly a hinge rasped.

Jaime opened his eyes and saw one of the smaller Stark boys sitting in the window sill—wind-burned cheeks and a surprised face; the room pulled tight around it.

Cersei’s hand tightened in Jaime’s hair before she let go. “He saw us,” she said, voice low.

Jaime rose and went to the window, catching the boy by his tunic, “easy,” he said as the boy tried to disappear back out of the window.

“He saw us!” Cersei repeated, her voice more furious this time.

“I heard you the first time,” Jaime answered, voice flat as a shield.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the consequences of what the boy had seen arranged themselves as neatly as pieces on a cyvasse board. Cersei and himself beheaded for treason. Their children, named bastards and fed to rumor like grain to crows. Tywin, humiliated. Robert, drunk and roaring. The whole bright edifice of Lannister—shame-streaked, dragged through Northern mud. He could feel Cersei’s gaze on him—not pleading, never that—expectant, the way she looked when victory was close enough to taste.

“The things I do for love,” Jaime said, as if totaling a column. His grip shifted. And the boy fell towards the ground.

“Come,” Cersei said, smoothing her sleeve. “We need to leave. Surely no one will doubt the fall was of his own doing.”

Lyarra sat at the foot of Bran’s bed.

The room was dim, lit only by a single hearth fire and the dull glow of afternoon light spilling through the tall windows. The boy didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow rhythm, his face pale against the pillow. One hand rested atop the coverlet, fingers curled loosely. 

Two days had passed since he fell from the tower. They blurred together now—frantic footsteps, hushed voices, Maester Luwin’s worried murmurs. Her mother had barely left the room. Arya cried the first night. Sansa hadn’t spoken since. Rickon was confused and scared.

Lyarra hadn’t cried. She didn’t know if that made her strong or heartless.

She sat quietly now, her hands folded in her lap, watching her brother sleep beneath layers of blankets. She had combed his hair the night before, trying to do something, anything, to feel useful. The healer’s salves made his skin smell like pine sap and damp earth.

Everyone said it was an accident. Bran had fallen, they said. Boys who climb often fall—except Bran hadn’t. Not like this. Never.

The door creaked behind her. She turned to find Robb stepping inside, his face drawn and pale, circles etched beneath his eyes. He looked older somehow. Tougher.

He said nothing as he crossed the room, taking the chair beside Bran’s bed. They sat in silence for a long while, the crackle of the hearth their only companion.

Finally, Lyarra spoke.

“He used to tell me he wanted to fly.”

Robb’s jaw clenched. He nodded once. “He told me that too.”

“I think he really believed he could.”

A beat.

“He still might,” Robb said, so softly it barely reached her ears.

She didn’t believe it. Not really. But she didn’t say so. Outside the window, a raven cried once before vanishing into the trees.

Change was coming. She could feel it in her bones. 

The wind carried a bitter edge.

It was the kind of cold that crept into your bones, not harsh enough to sting, but insistent—lingering. Jaime had never liked it. The North wore its chill like armor, and he’d never been fond of armor he didn’t choose for himself.

He walked alone across the courtyard, the hard-packed earth crunching faintly beneath his boots. The air was still, the sky bleached of color, pale and expectant. The silence of Winterfell had changed. What little warmth the visit had begun with had long since faded in the wake of the boy’s fall.

Jaime found her, as he expected, alone by the heart tree.

Lyarra stood with her cloak pulled close but unhooded, the wind tugging gently at strands of her dark hair. She didn’t flinch at the cold. Of course she didn’t. She stood like someone used to stillness, like a woman shaped by the frost itself.

He approached without ceremony.

“Lady Lyarra.”

She turned, eyes already on him before his voice had finished the last syllable. Her expression didn’t change.

“Ser Jaime.”

“I’ve come to say farewell,” he said.

Her brows rose. “Farewell?”

“I ride south within the hour.”

There was a pause, just a flicker of surprise in her otherwise calm gaze. “So soon?”

He shrugged. 

“So the lion returns to the den,” she murmured.

“Or is sent to sweep the floors before the rest of the pride arrives.”

Her lips almost twitched. Almost. “Surely the King could use his sworn shield while hunting.”

“Robert doesn’t notice whether I’m beside him or not,” Jaime said, too easily. “As long as someone hands him wine and points him toward a boar, he’s content.”

“And your queen?”

He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Cersei knows I do as I’m told.”

Lyarra didn’t respond to that. She simply watched him, as if trying to see past the words.

“If it helps your sense of order, you may imagine I was commanded to return to King’s Landing.”

“By whom?”

“Does it matter?” He didn’t blink. “Choose between ‘the King’ and ‘the Queen’ and ‘my own good sense,’ and I’ll nod at whichever makes you less inclined to glare at me.”

Lyarra rolled her eyes.

He laughed under his breath. “You’re disappointed,” he said, feigning offense. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She said dismissively.

He grinned. “No. I don’t think I have.”

The wind shifted again, pulling a lock of her hair across her cheek. She didn’t reach to brush it away.

“You’ve spent your days here prowling corridors and offering riddles with teeth,” she said. “It’s no great loss that you’re leaving.”

“And yet, you still seem to remember every word I’ve said.” He tipped his head, “I’ll take that as flattery.”

Lyarra’s gaze sharpened, a quiet warning in the narrowing of her eyes. “I remember the howls of wolves too, Ser Jaime. That doesn’t mean I invite them into my home.”

He laughed at that—soft and genuine. “Spoken like a true Stark.”

“And you,” she replied, “like a true Lannister.”

“Then it’s good we’re saying goodbye.”

There was a beat of stillness.

He looked at her then—not just the posture or the glare, but the person beneath it. She had surprised him. That didn’t happen often. She wasn’t like the court women in silk who simpered and smiled, nor like the warriors who challenged him with swords and then begged for mercy. She didn’t want anything from him. Not his charm, not his attention.

And somehow, that had made him want to give her both.

 “I’ll miss that glare of yours—Seven save me, I’ll feel it between my shoulders all the way to Moat Cailin.”

“I’m certain you’ll be warm by then,” she said. “It won’t carry.”

“Don’t underestimate your reach.”

She studied him, searching for what part of the pose would crack. “Why tell me you’re leaving?” she asked. “You could have gone and spared yourself the effort.”

“Because you’d have noticed,” he said simply. “I prefer to own my exits.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course I do.” A trace of something else crossed his face—fatigue, perhaps, or the knowledge that silence in this place meant something different than it did in King’s Landing.

He touched two fingers to his temple—a salute made irreverent by ease—and then, more real than his flourishes in the yard, he bowed. “Farewell, Lady Lyarra.”

Her nod was slight but not dismissive. “Ser Jaime.”

He turned without another word.

As he crossed back toward the stables, the wind picked up behind him—clean, cold, sharp.

He didn’t look back.

But part of him was already imagining what her face would look like the next time they met.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE

The City That Doesn’t Sleep

The gates of King’s Landing loomed ahead, tall and sun-warmed, crowned with banners that fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Lyarra Stark let her eyes scan the surroundings of the road as it twisted between merchant stalls and curious onlookers. The noise was relentless—vendors shouting, horses clattering over cobblestones, the sea of humanity pressing in on every side. She could smell the city before she truly saw it: salt from the nearby bay, overripe fruit, boiled leather, and something sour beneath it all.

Winterfell had its own scents—woodsmoke, pine resin, damp stone—but they were clean, familiar. This was a different world entirely.

Beside her, Arya grumbled under her breath for the fifth time that hour. “I hate this place. It stinks.”

“And it’s loud,” Lyarra added, looking over at her younger sister. “But at least we’ll get to sleep in a proper bed tonight.”

Across from them Sansa sat, looking out her own window of the carriage. She had barely spoken to Arya since their last argument days ago, and Arya had responded with pointed silence and a string of petty provocations. Over the last leg of the journey, Lyarra had played the role of peacemaker. It was exhausting work. She could manage it in bursts, usually by distracting them both or making dry jokes at the expense of pompous Southern knights. But now, as the walls of the Red Keep rose into view, she could feel her patience wearing thin.

The moment they passed under the portcullis, the sun seemed to vanish. The Red Keep was a city unto itself—winding corridors, shadowed courtyards, high towers and thick gates. The air changed too, heavy with old stone and the scent of polished brass. Servants rushed to help them exit the carriage and take their luggage inside.

The Stark women were ushered toward their new chambers—lavish, gold-trimmed, overfurnished. Lyarra walked the rooms slowly, trailing her fingers across the velvet drapes and polished mirror frames. It was beautiful, yes. But it felt like a costume—one far too tight around the neck.

The rest of the day blurred: greetings, servants, formalities. The feast would be held tomorrow. Tonight, they were expected to rest.

But rest didn’t come easy in a place like this.

When her sisters had finally gone quiet—Sansa humming softly as she brushed her hair, Arya sulking in a chair by the window—Lyarra excused herself. She needed to move, to breathe, to feel stone beneath her feet that didn’t smell of wax and perfume.

She slipped into the corridor alone.

The Red Keep was a maze, and she didn’t bother asking for directions. Her feet led her down long, echoing halls until she turned a corner and found herself standing before two massive oak doors. They were slightly ajar. Curiosity tugged at her, quiet and insistent.

Lyarra slipped inside.

The Great Hall was cavernous. Even with torches lit in sconces along the walls, shadows lingered in every corner. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end like a beast at rest—massive, spiked, and cold.  She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the room settle on her shoulders. It was quieter here. Not peaceful—but ancient, like the bones of something long dead. Her footsteps echoed softly as she moved closer to the throne. She didn’t know what she expected to feel, standing before it. Awe? Fear?

She felt neither.

And then a voice rang out from behind her—low, lazy, unmistakable.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the fiercest wolf of Winterfell…”

Her spine straightened before she turned.

Jaime Lannister wore a cocky smile as he approached her. Torchlight threaded through his hair; the rest of him was shadow and poise.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you sniffing around the sharpest chair in the realm,” Lyarra said, unhurried as she closed the distance. “Does it purr when you pet it?”

He glanced at the Iron Throne, lips tilting. “It hisses. I’m rather fond of the sound.”

“Of course you are.”

He stopped and straightened, every movement elegant enough to be irritating. “Tell me, Lady Lyarra—what brings you to King’s Landing?” His eyes flicked over her face, taking in the travel-worn edges, the iron steadiness beneath. “Did you come here because you missed me?”

“Flatter yourself less,” she said, cool as winter water. “I’m here to help my father keep my sisters alive in a place that eats girls for breakfast. If you thought yourself a motivation for my being here, you’re sadly mistaken, Ser Jaime.”

“Cruel,” he murmured, amused. “And yet, you came straight to my favourite room. Coincidence?”

“I was mapping exits,” she said. “It seemed wise to start where the blades are.”

He laughed—quiet, genuine—and the sound slipped up into the dark rafters. “Gods, I have missed that sharp tongue of yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Find another to entertain you.”

“I’ve tried,” he said lightly. “They’re all very agreeable. It’s boring.”

They stood in a pocket of quiet. He studied her without hurry, and this time the amusement didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

“Truly now,” he said, softening the words. “Why are you here?”

She held his look. “Because my father asked it of me. Because Arya would rather fence with shadows than curtsy on command, and Sansa would rather curtsy herself into an early grave than admit she’s terrified. Because someone has to tell the truth when the courtiers forget what it looks like.”

“And that someone is you.” A statement, not a question.

“It’s always been me,” she said simply.

For a beat, he seemed to be weighing that—then he let the jest return to his mouth like a familiar glove. “A pity. I was dearly hoping it was for my benefit.”

“You are many things, Ser Jaime,” she said, “but an incentive is not among them.”

He put a hand to his heart. “You wound me again.”

“It seems very surface-level with you,” she said. “The wounds don’t go deep.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes glinting, “you think you’re the one to test that?”

“I think I have better uses for my time.”

He moved once more, a small circle around her that never became a prowl—careful not to come so close she had to step back, careful to make her choose not to. “You say you don’t care,” he mused. “I half-believe you. The other half thinks you protest on principle.”

“Think what you like, Ser Jaime,” she said. “It does not change the truth.”

That startled him into a quick, delighted laugh. “Very well. Since you didn’t come for me, I’ll accept the consolation prize.”

“And that is?”

“That we will keep running into each other until you admit this is the most interesting conversation you’ve had since crossing the Neck.”

“Your consolation prizes are as inflated as your ego.”

“That,” he said cheerfully, “is a yes.”

Lyarra stepped back, reclaiming distance like a shield. “I’m not here to amuse you, Ser Jaime.”

“And yet… I find myself thoroughly amused.”

“Find someone else to toy with.”

He bowed—neither mocking nor meek, a neat line drawn under the moment. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Lady Lyarra. Try not to let it teach you the wrong lessons.”

“And you,” she said, turning away first, “try not to forget the right ones.”

He watched her go until the shadows claimed her, then glanced up at the Iron Throne as if it had spoken. It said nothing, as ever. But he smiled anyway—the small, reluctant smile of a man who’d found a sharper edge than he’d expected and wasn’t sure whether to touch it again.

The Hand’s solar smelled of parchment and cooled iron.

Even at night, heat clung to the Red Keep, but here it felt held at a distance by shutters and stone and the stubborn discipline of a northern man’s habits. A single lamp burned low on the table; quills slept in their cups. Through the open lattice came the faint combing sound of wind over banners and the far-off bruise of the city—the sea’s hush, a wagon wheel, someone laughing where they ought not.

Lyarra paused in the doorway until her father looked up.

“Father,” she said softly. “You sent for me.”

“Come in,” he answered, and the tiredness in his voice didn’t blunt the warmth. “Close the door, please.”

She did and then sat down across from him.

“How do you find the keep?” he asked.

“Labyrinthine,” she said. “It pretends to be a house and behaves like a snare.”

He huffed a sound that might have been a laugh on a better day. “You’ve a good map for it?”

“I’m drawing one,” she said. “In my head.” She tapped her temple. “Exits. Quiet stairwells. Which guards get bored and which get cruel when it’s late.”

“Good.” He smiled softly. “I’ve had letters,” he said after a few moments of silence, his fingers resting on the edge of a sealed scroll he hadn’t broken. “And visitors. Southron courtiers are fond of ‘accidental’ conversations with a man who has daughters.”

“Mm,” Lyarra said. “Such accidents tend to arrive with pedigrees and a list of lands.”

“They do.” His mouth tipped, humorless. “And mothers.”

“Ambitious ones?”

“All mothers are ambitious,” he said. “The honest ones are only ambitious for what will keep their children whole.”

She folded her hands. “Say what you mean, Father.”

He looked at her directly, no court polish, just the plain speech he wore at Winterfell. “Your mother and I sent you south for many reasons,” he said. “You know most of them. Your sisters. Me. The Queen. The need for someone who sees what rooms are really doing, not what they say they’re doing.”

“And the reason I don’t know?” she asked.

He didn’t flinch. “We hoped the South might offer you choices the North could not.” A beat. “That a good man—if there even is such a thing in this city—might see what you are and want to build his house stronger by it.”

“Marriage,” she said. Not a question; a measurement.

“A match,” he said. “Of your choosing or not at all.”

Lyarra held his gaze. “You want me bartered.”

“No,” he said, and the word landed like a blade set flat on the table. “I will not trade my children. But I also won’t pretend alliance is a sin. Every house stands because someone once agreed to share a roof.”

“The roofs in King’s Landing leak,” she muttered dryly.

“That’s why I ask you to choose for yourself,” he said. “If ever you choose. A match made of convenience will drown you here. A match made of admiration might let you breathe.”

She considered the lamp’s small circle of light. “Mother’s idea?”

“Ours,” he said. “But she is wise enough to say aloud what I would rather leave to time. She doesn’t want time deciding for you.”

Lyarra leaned back. “What if I don’t want any man deciding for me?”

“Then no man will,” he said simply. “I meant what I said: your choosing, or not at all. I will not press a name into your hand like a debt note.”

Lyarra exhaled, not relief exactly—something quieter. “You won’t be disappointed?” she asked, and hated that she cared.

“Disappointment is for men who mistake their children for plans,” Ned said. “I have never been that foolish.” He softened. “If you never wed, you will still be more use to this world than half the lords who send me their seals. I know your worth. I would have others know it too—if that serves you. Not if it uses you.”

She nodded once, the motion small and steady. “Good.”

Silence sat with them, companionable as an old hound.

“One more thing.” He turned the unbroken scroll under his fingers. “If you see danger coming—real danger, not rumour—tell me before you try to carry it yourself.”

“I can carry a great deal,” she said.

“I know,” he answered. “That is what frightens me.”

Her throat tightened. “I’ll tell you,” she said. Then, because they were in the South where words became weapons if left half said: “I promise.”

He inclined his head, accepting it like a pledge before the heart tree. “Good. Now—sleep, if the Keep allows it. Tomorrow there will be more courtesies than common sense, and I’ll need you near your sisters.”

She stood, but hesitated at the door. “Father?”

“Yes?”

“If a good man does appear,” she said, “and if he sees me clearly and wants the same kind of roof—” She stopped, grimacing at herself. “It’s not likely.”

“Unlikely things happen every day,” Ned said. “Most of them small. Some of them sufficient.”

She nodded. “Small things.”

“The ones that carry the day,” he said.

She lifted the latch. 

“Lyarra.”

She looked back.

“Whatever choice you make,” he said, “I will stand with you. Even if the room hates it. Especially then.”

This time the relief did feel like relief. “Thank you.”

She slipped into the corridor. Behind her, in the lamp’s low circle, the Hand of the King leaned over his papers again—not to drown in them, but to keep a roof from leaking over people he loved. Lyarra squared her shoulders and went to do the same.

The days in King’s Landing passed slowly for Lyarra Stark.

The heat clung to her skin like a second, suffocating cloak, and the Red Keep, with its twisting corridors and golden trim, felt less like a home and more like a lion’s den. Polished marble reflected the gleam of the midday sun, and voices echoed through long halls lined with stained glass and dragonbone reliefs. She found herself retreating often—to the shade of balconies, to the dark corners of the godswood, and more frequently, to the quiet company of the library.

Lyarra spent her mornings attempting to temper Arya’s frustration, coaxing her into sitting still, smoothing the worst of her temper before Septa Mordane could report anything too damning. Her youngest sister bristled at the confinement of lessons and embroidery hoops. Sansa, meanwhile, floated through the Keep with a dreamy grace, speaking often of Queen Cersei’s poise and Prince Joffrey’s smile. The sisters had grown more distant of late, the air between them brittle as dry parchment. When they did speak, it usually ended in some tangle of pride and misunderstanding, and it always fell to Lyarra to step in between them.

By evening, she was tired of pretending.

The corridors were cooler after sunset, washed in amber light and soft shadows. Lyarra’s slippers made no sound on the stone floors as she approached her chambers, fingers itching to untie the embroidered sash that clung to her waist. All she wanted was the solitude of her room, the relief of a basin of water and the chance to exhale without anyone watching her.

But as she reached the archway, a voice, smooth and unmistakably amused, greeted her like a stone in her boot.

“Lady Lyarra,” it purred. “It seems you’ve taken to hiding away in your chambers like a true Northerner. Tell me—does the South frighten you, or are you simply avoiding me?”

She turned on her heel.

Jaime Lannister leaned against the wall opposite her door, arms crossed over his chest, ankle lazily hooked in front of the other. The waning light from the nearest window caught in his hair, casting him in hues of gold and shadow. His smile was the same—lopsided and easy—but there was something sharper beneath it tonight. Less flippant. More…curious.

Lyarra didn’t flinch. “Neither,” she replied, unimpressed. “Though I can see why you might think the world revolves around you.”

“Old habit,” he said. “The world does make a rather convincing case, though.”

Jaime pushed off the wall with a lazy grace, his boots tapping softly on the stone as he crossed the space between them. He didn’t breach propriety—no, he was too clever for that. But he came close enough that she could smell the faint scent of leather, citrus oil, and the warm metal of a recently polished sword.

“Can you really blame me?” he continued. “When most people seem happy to indulge the notion.”

“Sounds to me as if you’ve been spending your time with the wrong people,” she replied coolly.

His grin widened. “Which is why I find you so refreshing, Lady Lyarra. You bruise my ego every time we speak.”

Lyarra’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you call it? Sparring with a spoiled lion to keep him entertained?”

“I never said you were here for my amusement,” Jaime said, his tone softer now, a thread of sincerity slipping in between the words. “But I think you enjoy this.”

She tilted her head. “Enjoy what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing faintly between them. “The verbal sparring. The little digs. You’re better at it than most of the court. Quicker. Sharper. Utterly ruthless.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice dealing with wolves,” Lyarra replied. “It seems lions aren’t so different.”

He gave a short laugh, but then something in his expression shifted—an unguarded flicker, there and gone.

“Perhaps not,” he murmured. “Though lions are far less loyal.”

She blinked, the honesty catching her off-guard. Jaime’s posture was still relaxed, his smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth, but there was a shadow in his eyes now—deep and unspoken. Lyarra opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say a word—

“Lyarra?”

Her father’s voice rang out down the corridor.

She turned to see Ned Stark approaching, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of his concern. Clad in dark wool and leather despite the heat, he was every inch the Warden of the North: silent, steady, and grim.

“Lord Stark,” Jaime said smoothly, bowing his head with a courtier’s polish. “I was merely keeping your daughter company. The South can be such a lonely place for those from the North.”

Ned’s gaze swept over him like a sword drawn slowly. “And what exactly are you doing outside my daughter’s chambers, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime’s smile didn’t falter, but his jaw tensed slightly. Before he could answer, Lyarra stepped forward.

“Father,” she said calmly, “there’s no need to worry. Ser Jaime was just leaving.”

The words came sharp and clean, a dismissal wrapped in politeness.

For a beat, Jaime said nothing. Then he gave her a bow far more theatrical than necessary. “Of course, my lady. Until next time.”

He turned and strode off down the corridor, the crimson and gold of his cloak flaring behind him like a trailing flame.

Ned watched him go, then turned back to Lyarra.

“You should be careful around him,” he said. “Jaime Lannister is not a man to be trusted.”

Lyarra’s eyes lingered on the space where he’d stood, empty now.

“I know,” she said softly. “But sometimes…it’s good to know your enemy.”

Ned studied her face for a moment but said nothing more. He placed a hand on her shoulder and walked her to her chamber door. When she was alone at last, Lyarra leaned back against the wood, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name.

Jaime Lannister was dangerous. That much she knew.

So why did part of her feel like she had just lost a battle she didn’t realize she’d been fighting?

The fishmarket by the river gate was packed and loud. Nets dripped, gulls screamed, barrels rolled. Lyarra kept her head down and shouldered through with a jug of lemon water under her arm.

A man lurched out of a knot of drinkers and cut her off. Wine breath. Red face.

“Pretty thing,” he said, catching her wrist tightly. “Give us a smile.”

“Let go,” Lyarra said. She tried to yank free. His fingers tightened. Pain shot up her arm.

“Easy,” he crooned. “No need to—”

She shoved his chest. He barely moved. The crowd pressed from behind, pinning her. He jerked her closer; her sleeve tore. The jug slipped and cracked against the street, sour water splashing her skirts.

“Stop,” she said, louder now, as the man pulled her towards him.. “I said—”

A gloved hand closed on the man’s wrist and twisted. Clean. Hard. He dropped to one knee with a yelp.

Jaime Lannister stepped between them, white cloak, bare head, calm face. “On your feet,” he said.

The drunk tried to swing with his free hand. Jaime knocked the blow aside and drove a short punch into his gut—nothing showy, enough to fold him. “Guards,” Jaime called without looking back.

Two guards shouldered in. “Ser?”

“Stocks,” Jaime said. “Or a holding cell. Your choice.”

They hauled the man away, still cursing. The crowd flowed around the gap like water, already done with the scene.

Lyarra had backed hard into a wall. Her breath came fast. Red marks bloomed around her wrist; her torn sleeve hung crooked. She hated that her hands were shaking.

“Are you hurt?” Jaime asked. No smirk. No drawl, but rather something like worry on his face.

She swallowed. “Just—” She nodded at her wrist. “He gripped hard and twisted my wrist.”

He held out a square of linen. “Tie it tight for now.”

She fumbled it; he took the corner back, folded it smaller, and handed it to her again without touching her. “Like that.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice unsteady in a way that annoyed her.

He glanced at the smashed jug. “Let me see you to the gate.”

“I can—” She stopped. Pride tasted stupid with her heart still racing. “All right. To the gate.”

He didn’t offer an arm. He took the outside of the street and set a steady pace, cutting space for her when the crowd pressed. “Keep left past the ropewalk,” he said. 

She nodded. “I shouldn’t have come alone.”

“You should be able to,” he said. “That’s different.”

They walked in silence for a few paces.

“Thank you,” she said again, firmer.

They reached the gate. The Keep’s walls threw cooler air across the road. Lyarra stopped, steadier now.

“I can take it from here,” she said.

He studied her face, decided, and stepped back. “If anyone asks, you broke a jug and chose better cloth,” he said, nodding at the makeshift bandage.

“It’s a good lie,” she said.

“It’s a small mercy,” he corrected, then caught himself and let the words go. “Good afternoon, Lady Lyarra.”

“Ser Jaime.”

He turned back toward the market. She watched him go until the crowd swallowed the white cloak, then slipped through the gate with her pulse still loud in her ears.

The Red Keep had a different temperament at night.

Gone were the bustle of courtiers and the clatter of steel. In their place came long silences and the occasional gust of wind curling through an open window, stirring torch flames into swaying shadows. The heat of the day still lingered faintly in the stones, but the corridors now felt cooler, hushed—like the great beast of the castle was merely sleeping, not gone.

Lyarra Stark stood at the window of her chambers, arms wrapped loosely around herself as she looked out over King’s Landing. From this height, the city was a sprawl of rooftops and flickering lamps, the Blackwater Bay shimmering in the distance like spilled ink under the moon. It was not beautiful—not truly—but there was something haunting in the way it breathed beneath her. She could still feel the day on her skin—the stink of the river gate, the burst of the jug, the shock of a hard hand on her wrist. Now, with her sisters asleep in their adjoining chambers and silence draped over the keep like a second sky, she felt the first true moment of stillness all day.

A knock. Soft, but clear. Two short raps.

Lyarra turned, a frown tugging at her brow. No one came to her door at this hour—not her sisters, not the handmaidens, not even her father.

She moved carefully, unhooking the latch and opening the door just enough to peer into the corridor.

Of course.

There he was.

Jaime Lannister stood leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across his chest like he’d been waiting for her all evening. The torchlight flickered across his face, throwing shadows under his cheekbones, catching in the gold of his hair. His smirk was almost lazy, like a man interrupting a dream instead of haunting the waking world.

“You again?” Lyarra said, not bothering to mask the mixture of wariness and amusement in her voice. “Tell me, Ser Jaime, do you make a habit of loitering outside ladies’ doors in the dead of night?”

“Only when the company is worth it,” he replied easily, pushing off the wall with a practiced grace. “Though I assure you, I’ve been very discreet. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your precious Northern reputation.”

She gave him a long look, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t believe for a second that you care about anyone’s reputation but your own.”

“You wound me.” Jaime placed a hand over his heart, as if she’d stabbed him straight through. “I simply came to wish you goodnight.”

Lyarra blinked. Then laughed once, short and sharp. “Goodnight?” she repeated, folding her arms. “That’s the best excuse you could come up with? Even for you, that’s pathetic.”

“I thought it was rather charming.” He leaned slightly into the doorway, not enough to cross it, but enough to challenge her.

Their eyes locked. The air between them had shifted—subtle, but palpable. Less playful now. Sharper. Jaime tilted his head, as though she were some puzzle he hadn’t quite solved.

“Still,” he said after a beat, “I meant what I said. I came to wish you goodnight.”

“Why?”

The question hung there, quiet but firm.

Jaime’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Maybe I was restless.”

Her expression didn’t soften, but she didn’t try to close the door either.

“And maybe,” he added, voice lower now, more honest than she had ever heard it, “I thought you might be, too, after what happened earlier.”

Lyarra didn’t speak right away. The corridor was quiet, save for the faint crackle of a torch and the distant hush of waves beyond the city walls. Jaime looked different in the dark—less like a golden knight from some bard’s tale and more like a man. One who was still dangerous, certainly. Still sharp. But not so untouchable.

“You didn’t need to come,” she said at last.

“I know,” he said. “But when I watched you walk away earlier you were still shaking.”

Her mouth tightened. “It passed.”

“I can see that,” he said. “Still—goodnight seemed better said than assumed.”

Lyarra didn’t know how to respond to that.

“And a word of advice, if I may,” he added. “If you must go to the river gate again, take someone who can shout ‘make way’ and be obeyed. One of your father’s men. Or me.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering as a chaperone, Ser Jaime?”

“As a deterrent,” he said. “Less romantic.”

“I’m not interested in romance.”

“Good,” he said, dry. “Neither am I.” His mouth tilted; not a grin, exactly—more an admission.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“Likewise,” he answered. “Which is inconvenient. I’m very fond of my expectations.”

“Then lower them,” she said.

“Impossible,” he said lightly, and stepped back a fraction so the threshold felt like hers again. “Will you sleep?”

“Eventually,” she said. “You?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “But you’ve endured my torment long enough, Lady Lyarra. I’ll let you get some rest.”

“See that you do,” she said. “Before someone sees you here and starts whispering tales.”

“Oh, let them,” he called over his shoulder, already walking away. “A little scandal might do wonders for your mystique.”

Lyarra watched him go until the corner of the corridor swallowed him whole.

Only then did she retreat back inside, resting her hand on the doorframe for a long, quiet moment before closing it gently.

She stood there in the stillness, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows across the floor.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could catch them.