The morning of Brandon's wedding dawned cold and clear, yet Lyanna felt no joy in it. The godswood's whispers still clung to her, the weight of Old Nan's voice lingering in her chest like smoke.
Children of the forest remembered promises. When heart trees were threatened, they called the heavens down upon humanity. Now they called her to the Isle of Faces. And here, in Riverrun's stone halls, Lyanna's father had bartered every Stark child to septons and strangers.
Lyanna found him in the guest solar, hunched over ledgers, speaking low with Maester Walys about harvest tallies. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed, a storm brewing.
"You should be with your handmaid, preparing for the ceremony," he said. "Not skulking about like a thief."
Lyanna lifted her chin. "I came to speak before Brandon's vows are spoken. Before another word is bound in the name of gods we do not keep."
That made him look up fully, his dark eyes sharp as a drawn blade. "Choose your words with care, daughter."
But the fire had already caught in her. "You swore us to the old gods, Father. We bent the knee in their groves, offered our first hunts to their roots. Yet you give Brandon to the Seven, Ned to the Seven, me to Robert Baratheon, who mocks the very thought of a heart tree. Do you not see what you've done? You've forsaken the gods of our blood. And they are angered. They showed me—"
He slammed his fist on the table, the sound cracking like cut timber. "Enough! You shame me with this childish talk of dreams. The old gods are silent, girl. Dead trees and old superstitions. The South will not bow to them, and neither will our future. I bind you where I must for the good of our house. That is my right, my duty. You will obey."
Lyanna's throat burned, but she forced the words out anyway. "You bind us to strangers and false gods, and call it duty. But if the old gods are angered, it is you who will answer, not me."
His face darkened, voice rising. "You forget yourself, Lyanna. You are a girl, and I am Lord of Winterfell. Hold your tongue, or I will see it held for you!"
The fury in him struck harder than any blow. Lyanna felt the hot sting of tears, but she would not let them fall. She bowed her head only enough to hide the fire in her eyes. "Then I will leave you to your ledgers, my lord."
Lyanna turned on her heel before he could speak again, the echo of his voice still ringing in her ears. Her feet carried her through the halls, faster and faster, until she burst into the courtyard where the banners of Stark and Tully snapped in the wind.
The crowd was already gathering for Brandon's wedding. Trumpets blared, ladies preened, lords adjusted their finery. To them it was all a show of silk and heraldry. To Lyanna it felt like anchor chains rattling as they were drawn up.
She kept her head high as she walked toward the sept, but her hands were clenched so tight the nails bit her palms. She had accused her father to his face. He had roared her down. And yet, beneath her anger, a single thought repeated, steady as a drumbeat.
The gods are not silent. They have spoken to me.
The sept was already filling when Lyanna arrived, its stone walls bright with painted glass and candles burning thick with incense. Riverrun's banners hung beside Winterfell's, red trout swimming with grey wolves, a union of predator and prey. Who was the predator though, it was hard for Lyanna to tell right now. It didn't feel like the wolves were. Southern ladies in fine silks whispered behind fans. Lords murmured in secret voices, arranging themselves by rank. At the first sign of weakness, they were ready to pounce.
Lyanna slipped into the center aisle near the back. Her head still rang from her father's words, but the throng of the crowd pressed her forward. The air smelled of roses and smoke.
Two voices carried from the shadows of the transept, low but sharp with purpose. Lyanna knew both at once: she had heard them beneath Harrenhal's sept windows, when men thought no ears listened. She turned to see Jon Arryn. Steady, grave, a voice of councils.
"…he bleeds us dry," he said. "The king raises taxes again, and for what? To feed the pyromancers' follies."
Hoster Tully's reply was soft but tight. "Best not speak it here. Yet if Aerys keeps on, lords will break rather than bend. Apologies, I must join my daughter now"
She froze, breath caught. They had spoken of wildfire at Harrenhal, and now again here.
Before Lyanna could linger, the trumpets called, long and high. The crowd shifted, turning toward the altar where the septon waited with his seven-pointed staff of crystal.
After a short delay, Brandon entered first. Catelyn followed on her father's arm, her scarlet trout maiden cloak swimming behind. Their faces were solemn, Brandon's jaw set like stone, Catelyn pale but steady.
The septon began the vows. Lyanna kept her hands folded, the old gods silent in this place of light and crystal, yet their memory thrummed in her still. She watched as her brother and his bride were bound before strangers' gods, the Seven watching from above while the heart tree was far away, its face blind with distance.
The wedding of Brandon Stark had begun.
The septon's voice rolled through the hall, sonorous as the toll of a bell. His hands, draped in cloth of gold, lifted as he spoke of duty, of union, of the Seven who watched from glass panes above. The air smelled of beeswax and roses, but beneath it was the sharper musk of iron and leather, nearly all the Northmen ill at ease in this place of southern faith.
"Do you, Brandon Stark of Winterfell, take this woman, Catelyn Tully, to be your lawful wife, before gods and men?"
Brandon's voice rang strong, a soldier's oath rather than a lover's vow. "I do."
The septon turned. "And do you, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, take this man, Brandon Stark, to be your lawful husband, before gods and men?"
Her voice was softer, but it carried all the same. "I do."
The septon smiled, spreading his hands wide. "Then let it be known, by the Seven above and all assembled here, that you are husband and wife."
Brandon unclasped the grey direwolf cloak from his shoulders. For an instant it hung in his hands, a mantle of the North heavy with snow and stone. Then he swept it over Catelyn's shoulders, replacing her crimson silk with wolf-grey.
The hall murmured, a tide of approval and satisfaction, as though the act itself had stitched the river and the north together. The septon declared them wed, and the crowd rose to its feet, applause swelling beneath the painted windows.
Lyanna stayed seated, watching the cloak settle over Catelyn like frost. Her brother's face was proud, but distant. Catelyn's was calm, but her blue eyes shone with something unreadable. Duty. Resolve. Perhaps even fear.
The vows were spoken, the cloak laid. Brandon Stark had his bride.
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The feast began as all feasts did: with noise.
The hall rang with laughter and the pounding of cups, the smell of spiced venison and buttered trout thick in the air. Minstrels plucked at lutes, their tunes lost beneath the roar of Lord Rickard Stark's toast to his new goodbrother.
Robert Baratheon had already claimed the head of the table, a pair of camp followers draped across his lap as though he were the king himself. His booming laugh drowned half the hall, and when both women kissed his cheeks at once, the lords only chuckled.
Lyanna sat further down, between Benjen and Howland. Dacey stole the flagon whenever she could, her grin growing wider with every cup. The wine was heavy, dark, its heat pooling in her chest. It did nothing to loosen the knot there.
Catelyn Tully sat at Brandon's side, composed even as his arm slung careless across her shoulders. She smiled when required, accepted the toasts, even raised her cup with grace. But her eyes were not on him. They were fixed on the table before her, as though the wood grain itself offered escape. Brandon did not seem to notice.
Plates emptied, cups refilled, the noise swelling higher with each course. By the time the last trenchers were scraped clean, the crowd was pounding fists on the tables. "The bedding! The bedding!"
Lyanna felt her stomach turn.
Brandon rose at once, eager, grinning as if the game were his to lead. Catelyn stood more slowly, her face pale beneath the torchlight. The men swept her up with lecherous hands, laughing as they pulled her dress apart. Silk unraveled, ribbons snapped, until her shoulders were bare, her gown stripped to a shift. She held her chin high, but her lips were pressed tight.
The women fell on Brandon with equal cheer, tugging off boots, belt, and tunic, until he was half-naked and half-drunk. He leaned into it, every bit the wolf unleashed, while his bride was paraded through the hall in near-bare skin.
Lyanna looked away, heat burning her cheeks. This was meant to be a joining, a binding of families, but it felt more like a hunt. The laughter, the tearing of cloth, the groping hands — all of it set her teeth on edge.
At last, they were driven up the stairs to the bridal chamber. The hall emptied after them, voices echoing down the stone passages. Robert stayed behind only long enough to order two more flagons, then stumbled away with his pair of whores hanging off his arms.
Lyanna remained at the table, her cup untouched, the sound of laughter fading above. Benjen leaned back in his chair, eyes dark. "It's done," he muttered.
Dacey smirked, still flushed with drink. "Better her than me. At least our new Lady Stark will not lack for warmth tonight."
Howland said nothing, only watching the torches flicker with his typical solemnity, cloak hood shadowing his face.
Lyanna pressed her palms against the rough wood of the table, willing her breath steady. The bedding was tradition, yes. Yet all she could think of was Catelyn's pale face, and the way the hall had cheered as though she were nothing but spoils of the hunt.