The company crawled westward, mile by mile, banners snapping lazily in the warm breeze. For a fortnight they rode, and each day Lyanna stole her hour of practice. One hundred thrusts. One hundred slashes. Her arms no longer shook when the wooden blade grew heavy, and the calluses on her hands thickened. Jorah at last deemed her ready to move beyond drills.
When the travelers halted at Stone Hedge, Lyanna sought out the godswood for quiet, only to find no heart tree waiting. The air felt empty, the ground stripped bare. In the center of the grove, a pale stump marked where the weirwood had once stood, its face long ago hacked away.
Lyanna's chest tightened. "They butchered it."
Dacey, following behind, gave a snort. "Brackens turned to the Seven centuries ago. They've been at odds with the Blackwoods over it ever since. Don't expect their grove to look like Winterfell's."
Lyanna pressed her lips thin. The silence of the place unnerved her, as though the gods themselves had been gagged.
Jorah walked into the clearing, wooden practice sword resting on his shoulder. "Come on then, She-Wolf. Show me what you've learned."
She stepped forward, gripping the hilt hard, and swung with all her strength. He slipped aside with ease, rapped her knuckles, and sent the sword tumbling from her hand.
"Too much arm," Jorah said, calm as ever. "Draw strength from your legs and core when you lunge." He tapped Lyanna's boot with his own. "Your stance is weak. You overreach, you lose everything. Power's useless if your feet betray you."
Lyanna scowled, retrieving her blade. "Then tell me how to fix it."
"By learning to move without losing yourself," he said. "Every step must keep you ready. Never over-committed, never off-balance. A fight isn't won with strength. It's won with control."
From the edge of the clearing, Howland's quiet voice carried. "Look to the stump, Lyanna. The Brackens cut the tree down, but its roots run deep beneath the soil still. That is balance. That is strength. No axe, no fire can truly unmake it. You must be the same: rooted, steady, unshaken."
Dacey leaned against the stump, smirking. "What he means, Lyanna, is that you fight like Robert. All fury and no thought. And we all know how that ends when the night is done: drunk, flat on his back."
Heat flushed Lyanna's cheeks, but her grip tightened. She reset her stance, stubborn fire in her eyes.
Jorah only nodded, patient as stone. "Again."
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The gates of Riverrun rose ahead, towers catching the pale winter light. Lyanna urged Winter forward, craning her neck to take in the unfamiliar stone walls. Her stomach twisted with both anticipation and unease. Soon the celebrations and introductions would begin.
At the gate, a broad-shouldered man stood alert, arms crossed as he surveyed the approaching column. Brynden Blackfish Tully, Lyanna realized, his presence commanding and unyielding. Behind him waited Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure. Three bright specimens of red hair and startling blue eyes, standing in a neat row like fine wares set out on a fishmonger's table.
Lyanna's gaze slid to Brandon, who dismounted beside their father's men, his tall frame relaxed yet assured. Hoster Tully stepped forward, voice carrying. "Brandon Stark, I present your betrothed, Catelyn Tully."
Before Brandon could reply, a slight young man with a wisp of hair on his chin pushed into the clearing. He moved with confidence, not fear. "Lady Catelyn! I… I declare my devotion!"
Lyanna's eyebrows rose. Petyr Baelish was nothing like a frightened boy. His charm radiated as sharp as the steel of a well-made blade, and his boldness drew every eye in the courtyard.
Hoster's face darkened, but Petyr's grin held. "I challenge Lord Stark! By trial of combat, if it is required, to prove my intentions!"
Lyanna's eyebrows rose faintly in surprise. Brandon was one of the greatest fighters of their generation. He only lost in the melee after defeat by Robert's hand. Not to mention he had six namedays more than Petyr.
Brandon laughed, a low amused sound. "You? A string bean like you dares challenge me?" He shook his head, then shrugged as if indulgent. "Very well. If you insist on proving your courage, I will not refuse."
Lyanna watched Petyr closely, noting the tilt of his chin and the glint of cunning in his eyes. He was small, and no warrior, yet his audacity was almost enviable.
Her stomach fluttered with excitement and tension. Lyanna imagined, just for a moment, what it might feel like if someone dared to speak on her behalf, even against the strongest lords of Westeros. Perhaps one day she would find a way to do it herself.
They filed into the godswood, pale winter light slanting through the bare branches. Lyanna let Winter pick her way across the frost-hardened roots while the tension coiled tighter in the clearing ahead.
Catelyn's hands trembled as she spoke, her voice soft but urgent. "Brandon… please. Show mercy. Take my favor, and let him live."
She held out a handkerchief embroidered with Tully trout. Petyr's eyes widened, disappointment flashing in his face, but he said nothing. He squared his shoulders instead.
Brandon barely looked at her. He stooped, choosing the sturdiest stick he could find, and snapped off the stray branches. Petyr adjusted his thin armor and drew his slender sword, his confidence unbroken.
Lyanna's stomach tightened. She wished she had that kind of nerve.
Hoster raised his hand. The fight began.
Brandon stepped forward, the stick loose in his grip. Petyr lunged with his little sword, but Brandon's reach and strength knocked it aside. Then came the stick, swinging hard. One, two, three blows that drove Petyr back. He tried to parry, tried to slip past, but Brandon gave him no space.
Jorah, standing nearby, gave a low whistle. "Even the novice wolf," he said, nodding toward Lyanna, "could do far better than this boy."
"Yield," Brandon growled.
Petyr's jaw tightened. "Never."
The stick came down again and again, like the beating of a wayward child. At last Petyr's knees gave. He crumpled, finally unconscious.
Dacey muttered, lips pursed. "Well… that's over. But he certainly has guts, thinking he could match a Stark."
Lyanna only nodded, her eyes lingering on the empty space where Baelish had fallen. Even defeated, she could almost respect the audacity. Yet she knew better. To fight only when the fight could be won. A lesson Petyr learned today.