The she-wolf could not bear the noise any longer. The hall reeked of sweat and spilled wine, of laughter too loud and hands too eager. Robert had vanished with his whores, Brandon with his bride, and still the music thundered on.
She rose quietly, brushing crumbs from her skirts. Benjen looked up, brow arched. "Where are you off to?"
"To the godswood," Lyanna answered. Her voice came out more clipped than she intended. "A prayer for the newlyweds might serve them well."
Howland tilted his head, as if weighing the words. Dacey gave a wolfish grin and pushed herself to her feet. "Then I'll come. Better a night under branches than watching Lord Tully drool into his cup."
Benjen muttered that he'd follow later, but Lyanna did not wait. She slipped into the cold night with Dacey and Howland at her side, the noise of the feast fading behind them.
The godswood of Riverrun was smaller than Winterfell's, its trees younger, its heart tree pale and thin compared to the ancient sentinel Lyanna had known since childhood. Yet when she stepped beneath its branches, the hush fell over her all the same.
They returned to the tent beneath the limbs, the pale fabric blending in with the bark. Dacey got the campfire started, while Howland lingered near the weirwood, his hand brushing the carved face.
Lyanna knelt in the grass, dew damp against her knees, and bowed her head. "For my brother and his bride," she whispered. "For whatever lies ahead of them."
The words were simple, but they stung.
A sound behind her — footfalls, soft but sure. She turned, expecting Benjen, but instead her brother Eddard stood at the tree line, Ashara Dayne's hand clasped in his.
Ashara's violet eyes glowed faint in the moonlight, and Ned's ears burned red, though he did not let her go. Lyanna's breath caught from the sight.
Dacey's grin spread wide. "Well, well. The wolf and the star."
Howland gave no smile, only stepped forward, bowing his head to them both. "You came seeking the old gods," he said softly. "And they do not turn away true hearts."
Ned's voice was low but steady. "We would be wed. Here, tonight. If the gods will hear us."
Ashara's hand tightened in his, and she nodded once, her gaze bright with certainty.
The clearing fell silent but for the rush of the red fork beyond the walls. Lyanna's heart pounded as she glanced between them. No sept, no lords, no banners. Only moonlight, the heart tree, and a promise.
"Then let us not keep them waiting," she said.
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They gathered a small, trustworthy group before the pale face of the heart tree. Its carved eyes wept red, its mouth a solemn line.
Ned and Ashara stood hand in hand. She was radiant even without a proper wedding dress, her dark hair unbound and glimmering. Her husband to be looked young and old all at once, stoic in spite of the handful of pimples at his hairline.
Howland Reed stepped forward and bowed to the tree for a moment. He lifted his head, voice soft but carrying. "The old gods need no sept, no adornment, no priest. They need only truth. Do you come here of your own will?"
Ned's voice was quiet. "I do."
Ashara's answer was a clear note in the dark. "I do."
Howland nodded. "Then speak your vows."
Ned swallowed, then turned to her fully, taking both her hands. "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I pledge myself to you, Ashara Dayne, before the faces of gods and men. My life, my strength, my honor are yours, from this night until my last."
Ashara's violet eyes shone, and she answered without hesitation. "I am Ashara Dayne of Starfall. I pledge myself to you, Eddard Stark. My heart, my body, my spirit are yours, from this night until the end of all things."
Howland's voice fell into the stillness. "The vows are made. By water and stone, by leaf and root, the old gods bear witness. Be as the roots beneath the soil, steady in perpetuity. Be as the rivers that carve mountains, undaunted and true. You are joined."
He gestured to Ned. "Cloak her."
Ned unclasped his worn wool travel cloak, lined with the direwolf of Stark. With careful hands he draped it around Ashara's exposed shoulders. She pulled it close, her smile small but fierce. For the first time, she looked like part of our pack.
Benjen gave a low chuckle. "Our brother is a married man now."
Jorah inclined his head, solemn in the shadows. "The gods themselves witnessed. No king, no lord, can undo it."
Lyanna felt her chest tighten, pride and sorrow twined together. For all their father's commands, for all the games of lords and banners, here was something real. Chosen.
Then, as if the gods themselves answered, the clouds above parted. A shaft of moonlight broke across the clearing, silvering the bark of the heart tree and the faces of the bride and groom. The air felt charged, holy.
Ashara raised her face to the light, her lips parted in wonder. Ned squeezed her hand, and for once his stoic mask slipped. He was smiling. Truly smiling.
The moment passed, but its weight lingered. Howland lowered his head in reverence. "The gods have blessed your union."
Ned turned to Ashara, his voice low, but Lyanna heard the words all the same. "Come. The night is ours now."
Together they left the clearing, hand in hand, their shadows long in the moonlight.
Lyanna stood rooted, staring after them until the trees swallowed them whole. Her own heart ached with longing she dared not name.
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That night the godswood drew Lyanna back into sleep as though the roots themselves had tangled around her. She dreamed again of Old Nan, but her voice was softer now, no longer warning — teaching. She sat beneath the heart tree, her gnarled hands folded in her lap, her pale eyes shining like milk glass.
"You've heard the tale of blood and axes," she said, rocking gently in her chair. "Of the forests burning and the Hammer of Waters. But the old gods did not end the tale in ruin. No, child. They gave men and children alike a chance."
The world around them shifted. Lyanna saw men with bronze blades and shaggy hair kneeling in the grass, faces wary and proud. Across from them hid the children of the forest, eyes bright as lanterns, skin camouflaged with sap and mud. Between them loomed the heart trees of the Isle of Faces, their pale limbs reaching skyward, red leaves whispering in a wind she could not feel.
"There," Old Nan murmured, "amid the weirwoods, they struck their bargain. The first men swore to spare the trees, to honor the old gods and keep faith. The children taught them the rites, and so the pact was made. No more axes. No more burning. Only peace, and the knowing that men and children alike must share the land."
She lifted a crooked finger toward Lyanna. "It was no small thing, girl. Without it, the North would not be, nor the Starks upon their thrones. Your forefathers bent the knee not to kings, but to the trees. That vow runs in your blood still."
The dream deepened, carrying her closer. Lyanna saw the isle itself, shrouded in mist, its lake smooth as a mirror. A ring of heart trees stood there, with one massive tree in the center. Shadows moved among them — children, small and strange, half-hidden but never gone.
"The Old Gods wait," Old Nan whispered, her voice growing thin as smoke. "They remember every promise, every betrayal, every drop of blood spilled into their roots. And now they call you, wolf-girl. Not your father. Not your brothers. You. Come to them, and the pact may be renewed… or broken forever."
The heart trees' eyes wept red sap as the mist curled around them, swallowing Old Nan, the children, even the Isle of Faces itself.
Lyanna woke with her cheek pressed to the cold ground of Riverrun's godswood, the dawn pale above her, with a pulse quick and unsteady. The words clung to her like frost: They wait. They call you.