P . O . V Lyanna Stark
281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
"It's so boring here," I thought, looking at the reflections of the wine playing on the walls of the glass goblet with bats depicted on it. "And it's musty..."
"How I miss my native North…" My sad words were drowned out by the roar coming from the neighboring tables, where the southern lords and their ladies were feasting.
I have always been free.
Always.
From childhood, I played and studied with my brothers, oblivious to the fact that I was a "lady." Archery, sword and spear fighting, reading and writing, geography, law, and arithmetic were taught to me alongside my brothers (though they didn't forget the southern ladies' lessons I hated). Sometimes Maester Luwin even held me up as an example to Brandon and Benjen, saying that if I were a man, I would easily have become a fine maester. If only...
But I wasn't too offended by this, because I had another passion - horse riding.
For there is nothing better than galloping across the endless plains and hills of my native North, while wild gusts of wind whip through your hair and body, trying to unseat you. It's an incredible, indescribable feeling of competition and battle with the elements themselves. I could go hours or days without returning to Winterfell, sleeping under the open skies of the Wolfswood, whose shaggy spruce branches often blotted out the sky itself, or in the hidden floodplains of the White Knife, where fishermen I'd known since childhood would prepare the most delicious fish soup from nearby fish and wild lake herbs.
"How's Star doing while I'm gone?" the thought flashed through my mind, making my mood even worse. I loved my horse and missed her terribly on this journey south. "Stupid rules about ladies not being allowed to ride!"
Of course, when I returned home, I received a severe scolding from my mother and father, who were deeply worried about me and repeatedly threatened to forbid me from even going near the stables. But over time, prompted by my and my brothers' pleas, they relented, and I once again raced like lightning through such familiar places, breathing in the cold and indescribably intoxicating air of the North.
But soon all this will turn to dust.
Because my parents decided everything for me.
Engagement…
My fiancé, Robert Baratheon, was a close friend of my middle brother, Eddard, and the one I despised most in the world. A dissolute, drunkard, hypocritical, loudmouth… He embodied everything I hated in men. While vowing his boundless love to me at every meeting, he unabashedly slept with other women and flirted with many of them right in front of me.
"I never understood how my brother became friends with him," I thought, looking at the only brown-haired member of our family. "They're completely different. Eddard is quiet, intelligent, noble, and gallant. And this one…" I couldn't help but glance at my fiancé, who was at that moment drinking on a dare with a knight in a yellow cloak. "…He looks more like a large, muscular pig mistaken for a man than a noble, graceful stag!"
Turning my head back discreetly, so as not to give Benjen anything to laugh at, I noticed two people standing near the entrance. They were acting rather strangely. The very first, a black-haired man standing in front, as tall and broad-shouldered as Robert, kept his eyes fixed on our family and the vassals seated nearby. His bright green eyes slowly swept over me, my father, my mother, my brothers, and the others, as if noticing some important detail.
The second, judging by his height and very similar features, was a relative of the dark-haired man. A brother or cousin. Only his figure was thinner, and his hair was light brown, like my middle brother's. But unlike the dark-haired man, his gaze was fixed on the nearby crowd celebrating and drinking, with a clear desire to join in.
Suddenly, a dialogue took place between them, after which the "second one", waving his blue cloak, with four white snowflakes (I had never seen such a coat of arms) went towards the other lords, and the black-haired one went towards us, attracting the attention of the rest of the people sitting at our table.
"What does he want here?" I thought, my heart on edge. Everyone in the North had told me not to trust the southerners, and his slight resemblance to Robert reinforced that feeling. Still, his actions had left many slightly stunned.
"Howland, long time no see. How is Lord Ailis?" he addressed Howland Reed, our Reed vassal, whom I'd met today and helped fight off some stinking ferrets and their lackeys. He merely turned and stared at the stranger with his piercing, mud-colored eyes, the kind only swamp dwellers possess. As old Anne, our nurse, used to say, Reed's gaze could frighten a lizard lion, and I readily agreed—not everyone could withstand Howland's gaze. But the brown-haired man didn't even flinch, continuing to smile affably, and his emerald eyes seemed to glow even more, becoming as bright as the northern lights that sometimes appeared far to the north of our domain, near the Wall.
"A long time ago, indeed, Lord Temper. He died six months ago," Holand replied, breaking the stare-off first, turning around and downing half a goblet of wine. And the brown-haired man, called Lord Temper, felt as if a rod had been pulled out of him. His eyes suddenly grew dim, his hands dropped, and his face quickly became regretful and sad.
"This is very bad news. He was a wonderful man," he said, bowing slightly toward Reed and placing his hand on his chest. "Why wasn't I told such sad news? We weren't great friends, but I always thought I had enough of a relationship with Ailis to attend the funeral."
"Because they haven't happened yet," Howland replied, turning and looking at this Temper with a sad, apathetic gaze. "I've been on the Isle of Faces for a whole year, and by tradition in our house, only a son can bury his father. So until I return to Greywater Watch, no funeral invitations will be sent out."
"The journey through the Riverlands isn't easy. Let me take you home. I was just about to show my son the Neck. It would be a good experience for him." I was becoming increasingly confused about what was going on here. Who was this man? Why was Howland, who hadn't said ten words to me, talking so much to him? What was their connection? And why did everyone only just now learn that Lord Ailis had died? Judging by the expressions on my father and brothers' faces, this conversation was full of revelations for them, too.
"Thank you, Lord Temper. The sooner I get home, the better," Reed said, standing up and shaking the hand that looked like a bear's paw against the lake dweller's small palm.
"Then I'll be going. I need to check a few things. If you need anything, just let me know," the brown-haired man said, turning away and leaving, giving a glimpse of his cloak with its coat of arms emblazoned on the back. A bright yellow sun with a purple flame blazing in the center.
"I remember," I thought, turning my gaze to Howland, who had become the center of attention among the other northerners and looked very embarrassed, as if he'd shrunk. "The Tempers. A young and very wealthy Dornish family, first generation. Former merchants, doing business with the Boltons, Mormonts, and the Night's Watch." Looking at the Old Bear and Lord Roose Bolton (ugh... a very unpleasant man), I noticed they weren't particularly surprised. So they knew. "The leader is Felix Temper. And he only just turned twenty... Interesting."
Any further thoughts I had were interrupted by a sudden commotion coming from the stairs leading to the second floor. Raising my head and looking in that direction, I realized what had happened. The princess had appeared.
Elia Martell was the first Dornish woman I saw. Thick black hair, slightly dark, bronze-tinted skin, and regular, if slightly dull, features, beautifully accentuated by her sun-patterned makeup. She was attractive and very slender.
"If her skin were whiter and she didn't have that strange coloring, she'd pass for a northerner," I thought, immediately noticing something odd. Most of those present weren't looking at the princess. Looking up, past a few unremarkable ladies-in-waiting quietly following their mistress, I discovered the reason.
Tall, with thick black hair like the princess's, the girl followed quietly at the end of the procession, stealing all the attention from the princess. She was superior to her mistress in every way—her softer, more delicate features, reminiscent of Valyrian violet eyes, her graceful gait and manners, and her more voluminous figure. Glancing briefly at her fiancé and seeing where he was looking, I had just one word on the tip of my tongue.
"Male Dog"
And looking at the other men, I realized they, too, could be counted in that category. Even my brother Eddard, never one to fall for a woman's charms, stared fixedly at the violet-eyed maid of honor, his mug forgotten. There were only two exceptions: Prince Rhaegar, who approached his wife and, taking her arm, led her to the chair reserved for her, and that same Temper, who ignored the other girls altogether, approaching one of the inconspicuous maids of honor and tenderly embracing her. Judging by the replica of that maid of honor who approached a minute later, and the fair-haired man with snowflakes on his cloak, as well as their physical resemblance, this was his sister or cousin.
"But it's still strange—why didn't he notice the purple-eyed one?" Glancing at Reed, who was sitting nearby, I decided that after the banquet I'd grill him thoroughly about this merchant. He could very well help with my plan.
The feast was gathering pace. Wine flowed freely, beer was consumed by the gallon, pigs, steers, and lambs were gnawed to the bone in minutes, and I was increasingly amazed at how people could eat so much. In the cold and inhospitable North, such feasts weren't held even to celebrate the birth of the heirs of a Great House, but here it was a common evening before a tourney. And the more people drank and reveled, the more boundaries blurred. Already, several Northmen were shouting drunken songs with the rivermen and Westerlings, and by some miracle, several Dornishmen and stormmen had appeared at our table.
"My prince!" the loud voice of a robust, elderly man with slightly gray hair carried through the vaults of the chamber. If my memory served me right, it was the tournament organizer, Lord Walter Whent. "Would you do us the honor of playing something? We've all heard of your wondrous musical talent, which makes all bards weep bitter tears of envy. Please, do us the favor!"
The loud roar of approval from the lords and their ladies, who, in my opinion, were already unconscious from the alcohol in their blood, was the most understandable form of approval.
"Although, what's there to hide—I want to listen too," I thought, and, standing up a little, looked towards the dais where the prince sat—the most handsome and gallant man I'd ever seen in my entire life.
"With pleasure, my dear friend," the Silver Dragon replied with a sad smile, softly striking his fingers on the strings of his silver harp. The very first notes stirred something in my soul, causing me to sit up immediately and listen to every sound of this beautiful melody.
Soon the dragon began to sing. This song, so simple and yet so complex, about the forbidden love of a young knight and a beautiful lady, touched every fiber of my soul. All the sadness, all the pain, all the doom that the heir to the Iron Throne infused into this melody, I felt. It was as if I myself were destined to become that very lady, in love with an intelligent, handsome, and simply wonderful knight, but fate, the villain, forced me to marry an ignorant monster, mistakenly called a man. And looking at Robert, who, even during such a beautiful song, did not let go of his goblet of wine, it became clear to me that this was so.
The realization that I would soon have to give up everything, abandon my native North, and move to the wet and inhospitable Storm's End, where my hated husband and his vassals, who considered all northerners uncouth barbarians, awaited me, made me feel even worse. By the end of the song, tears were streaming from my eyes, and I couldn't stop them.
"Little sister, why are you crying?" Benjen's mocking voice came over my ear. "Who told me back home that no southern bard could ever make you smile? Liar, liar, liars..."
I don't know why, but it was these words that helped me come to my senses.
"I'm still home and not married to that dog," I thought, pouring a full jug of wine over my little brother's head, causing his disgruntled squeals to probably be heard throughout the room. "Nothing's decided yet—northern women don't give up that easily!"
After the prince's stunning performance, at a signal from the castle's owner, musicians appeared on the upper galleries, announcing the beginning of the dance.
Morris, basse, alman, northern round dances, pavane... I knew most of these dances, so I happily responded to the invitations of my brothers and vassals and happily twirled in the center of the hall. Of course, I glanced at the dancers, too.
There's a beauty with cheerful violet eyes (her name, I learned, is Ashara Dayne) dancing with a tall man with matching eyes, wearing the white cloak of a Kingsguard. There's Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper and second Prince of Dorne, merrily twirling with one of the raven-haired twin ladies-in-waiting. The passing couple of Princess Elia and that same Temper momentarily stunned me, only to be dispelled when I spotted Prince Rhaegar dancing nearby with Aleria Hightower. But I didn't expect to see Eddard and Catelyn Tully.
"Could it be…" I thought, turning around to see a picture that almost made me want to vomit all over Jorah Mormont, who was now my partner.
My older brother Brandon was chatting cheerfully with my fiancé, simultaneously cuddling one of the maids and sipping mugs of wine. The deer kept pace with him.
"What the Old Gods is he thinking about!" I thought, taking my final step and walking away from the slightly out-of-breath bear. "If Lord Hoster sees this then..." Glancing toward where the master of Rivveran should have been sitting, it became clear to me why my brother had relaxed so much. Father and Hoster Tully were busy doing the same thing as the chief stag pig had done at the beginning of the feast—competing to see who could drink the most from a strange barrel, emblazoned with the symbol of the sun and burning flame.
"My dear guests!" Walter Whent's voice, despite the amount he'd drunk (and the master of Harrenhal wasn't holding back—I'd passed by several times and seen how much he drank), was loud and firm, instantly capturing most of their attention. "At Prince Oberyn's request..." He gestured to the smiling Dornishman standing nearby, the one who'd recently danced with Ashara Dayne. "...a dance famous in Essos and Dorne will now be performed! All who can dance it, come to the center! Show us your mastery of the Haggal dance!"
Judging by how quickly the southern lords parted to create a small circle in the center of the Hall, I knew what kind of dance this was. I was immediately curious, so, using my elbows and slipping through small gaps between people, I soon found myself in the front row, where I was surprised to find Eddard.
And in the center, nine people were already standing. Three men—Oberyn Martell, who had proposed all this; Arthur Dayne, a Kingsguard and, according to the others, the strongest swordsman of this generation; and Felix Temper, smiling cheerfully and flashing his white teeth; and six girls—that same Eshara and five Dornish women unknown to me. Although I recognized several of the coats of arms sewn onto their clothes. They were all kneeling in two circles—a small circle of lords within a larger circle of ladies.
The dance began unexpectedly. The quiet whistle of the flute, initially drowned out by the hubbub of the disinterested guests, grew louder until it became a soft whistle, audible to all.
Little by little, the noise began to increase, as if someone was beating their hands on something hollow, and the dancers, in time with it, began to rise little by little, swaying gently, creating the sensation of waves passing through them.
- Bob-bob-bob...
The beats suddenly grew louder, and a violin, a flute, some strange rattles, and other instruments joined in. The musicians themselves seemed to have gone wild. Their movements, performed in time to the music, were sharp and explosive, accompanied by light clapping and stamping.
- He-ey!..
Suddenly they cried out sharply, accelerating even more, and beginning to make movements that were simply astonishing. Eshara and two other Dornish women twisted sharply, displaying their… figures, and nearly fell to the floor until the men caught them at the last moment, lifted them, and carried them over themselves.
- He-ey!..
Within a minute, it became clear that the Dorniics were the main attraction. They performed a wide variety of movements and pirouettes, sometimes arching and revealing their bodies so much that many of the lords present (even the older ones) blushed as if they were seeing the girl for the first time.
- He-ey!..
Oberyn, Dayne and Temper served as backup, helping and carrying the Dornishmen during the dance, remaining an unnoticed but very important element of the dance.
- He-ey!..
The dance itself was beautiful even without the dornieki, which exposed their arms and shoulders in the process. Soft and flowing movements, merging with the music into sharp and choppy ones… Together, they formed a beautiful picture that one could gaze at forever.
"Haggal the Rhoyne's eagle," said a man next to me, though I didn't even glance at him, unwilling to tear myself away from my contemplation of the dance. "The life path of the Rhoynar. And of every Dornishman."
- He-ey!..
"Live like a fire, growing ever stronger. Burn, burn, like a candle in the night." The unknown man continued speaking as the dance gained momentum. So much so that the Dornieks' bodies were now visible, completely drenched in their own sweat. The dance was approaching its climax. "So that later, in one moment..."
- He-ey!..
The dance ended abruptly, just as it had begun. The dancers simply stopped, falling to their knees, as the music faded away.
— To fade away, having completed one's earthly journey.
Turning my head slightly and glancing to the side, I could see that the speaker was an older Dornishman, with a short beard and warm brown eyes. But the most important thing was his attire—only seven people in the Seven Kingdoms could wear the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
The applause that burst forth at the end of the dance nearly deafened me, bringing me out of my stupor. It also shook my brother Eddard, who hadn't taken his eyes off the purple-eyed beauty the entire dance.
It was amazing.
I even forgot how to breathe, frozen in one position, not daring to make a single move, afraid to disturb the dancers. And judging by the faces of Eddard and the nobles surrounding me, they felt exactly the same.
"So much energy... So much life... So much warmth... I wish I could dance like that," I thought, looking with slight envy at the Dornieks who had gathered in a group and fluttered beyond the Hall—they all, like the men, needed to change their sweat-soaked clothes. "I'll have to ask someone the meaning of this dance."
As much as I would have liked to stay here longer after such performances, the feast was drawing to a close - most of the southerners and northerners were lying in a drunken stupor under the tables, like my fiancé and older brother, and those who could still stand on their feet went to their chambers to indulge in the sweet embrace of sleep... or someone else.
"Stop! I needed to talk to Temper!" I remembered my thought, grabbing Howland by the elbow and whispering a request to be led to the right tent. Reed, of course, resisted, saying it wasn't customary for an unmarried girl to wander into other people's tents late at night, but seeing my unyielding, determined gaze, he soon relented. "That's why I like him so much—he knows right away when to back off."
Slipping past the drunken guards and my father's men, having donned a deep hooded cloak, was a matter of minutes, and soon Howland and I found ourselves in the camp outside the castle, where the festivities showed no sign of abating. Men and women laughter echoed everywhere, drunken and vomiting soldiers strolled about, half-naked girls leaped out of tents, and cauldrons of all sorts of contents simmered over fires. I was surprised to recognize one of them as my sister's stew, which I had sampled when our family visited the Manderlys.
"This is where Robert belongs, among drunkards and whores," I thought, seeing yet another prostitute jump out of the tent, blowing a kiss. "And not among well-bred and noble aristocrats."
It was a long walk to Temper's tent—almost a mile. He lived near the shore of the God's Eye, near a small anchorage where, in addition to the usual fishing boats, there were three elegant warships, judging by the flags they bore, belonging to the lord I was seeking, not the locals. It was clear that this was a separate, small camp of twenty tents, separated from the other tents by a small palisade and a moat connected to the lake.
It wasn't easy to enter—unlike the rest of the camp, there were sober guards here, and upon learning who had come to visit them, they warned their master and led him to his tent. Thank the Old Gods, they didn't ask me to show my face, or there would have been too many rumor mill problems.
Felix Temper sat at a huge table covered with a white linen cloth, poring over some papers, occasionally making notes on various sheets. At this moment, he looked very much like his father, who also spent hours in his solarium, signing various documents that would decide the fate of the North.
"I wonder who a minor Dornish lord might be writing to?" I thought, watching a steady hand trace neat lines of words across a sheet of paper. Wait… Firm⁈—"He's sober⁈"
Even I, who hardly drank wine and asked Howland to do the same, had to strain a little to keep from staggering and talking normally. And he... didn't drink at all?
"Howland!" Temper said, finishing the paperwork and finally turning his attention to us, rising from the table. "Did something happen? Frankly, I'm at a loss—what business do you need me for at such a late hour?"
"Do you have any questions about me, Lord Temper?" I asked, slightly annoyed that he hadn't paid any attention to me.
"Lady Lyanna, you came accompanied by Howland, so this will surely be connected to him." The tent owner's words left me slightly stunned.
"How?" flashed through my mind as my gaze wandered uncontrollably around the tent. "I didn't take off my hood; the cloak completely covered my clothes. The most he could have done was guess I was a woman."
"How did you guess?" I asked, removing my hood and spilling my hidden hair behind me. A small detail, but it has an immediate effect on men.
"A fibula, Lady Stark." But it had no effect on him. Those green eyes continued to look at me with a slight twinkle, as if I were... a little girl! "Only your house may wear direwolf head jewelry."
The flushed cheeks and hands that rushed towards the brooch were stopped only by an extreme effort of will.
"How embarrassing!" I thought, somehow composing myself and remembering the purpose of my coming here. "Okay, you've exposed me. So maybe you'll hear why we came here?"
"Of course, lady," Temper replied, folding his arms and smiling kindly. "I'm all ears. I confess I'm terribly curious as to what the only daughter of House Stark could possibly want from me, a simple Dornish lord."
"It's too late to retreat, but this is the only chance to avenge Howland." Mustering all my resolve and willpower, I finally uttered the phrase I had prepared back at the feast. "Can you find me armor for the tournament?"
Howland's stunned look didn't surprise me, since I hadn't told him about my plan, but Temper's reaction really surprised me - his good-natured smile turned into a slight grin, and a slight, feverish glint appeared in his green eyes.
— Ha-ha- aha-ha-ha-ha-ha… Aha-ha-ha-ha…
And soon he laughed. Loudly and boomingly, like a man who's heard a really good joke. I was about to turn around in anger and leave, when the laughter abruptly stopped.
"Now can you tell me more?" Temper asked, his bright green eyes fixed on me.