When dawn's light broke through Riverrun's godswood, Lyanna told Howland and Dacey everything. Benjen was trustworthy, but he was only 10 namedays old, and she didn't want to frighten him. She spoke of Old Nan's voice in the dream, of the children of the forest waiting on the Isle of Faces, of the pact and the vows that still bound them. Both of them listened as if the words were sacred.
Howland's eyes gleamed with quiet certainty. "It is no small thing," he said. "Few living are called to the Isle. If you are, you must go."
Dacey clenched Lyanna's hands in hers. "And we'll go with you. I'm your sworn protector, you can't get rid of me that easily."
They made their plan in whispers: to slip away under cover of night, only a few provisions between them, trusting Winter's hooves and the old gods' will.
That same morning, the courtyard filled with the noise of farewells. Jon Arryn's banners were already raised, the falcon of the Vale bright against the winter sky. Robert Baratheon bellowed and joked, a depleted wineskin already swinging from his belt, as he clasped Brandon's hand and clapped Ned on the shoulder.
"I'll keep them in line, Lord Stark," Jon said as he led his wards toward the waiting horses. Ned's eyes sought Lyanna once before he mounted, something unspoken lingering there. Ashara was gone already, her violet eyes turned south to Starfall where her great wedding would be planned.
One by one, Riverrun emptied of wedding guests. Once the newlyweds were ready, the remaining northerners would depart as well with a caravan of flour.
At dusk, while the keep settled into wine-induced slumber, Lyanna lit a single candle and took up a scrap of parchment. Her hand shook as she wrote, but the words came out firmly:
Dear Lord Stark,
The gods call me where no command of yours can follow. I go to the Isle of Faces, to provide what was promised in blood long ago. This is not flight nor disobedience, but pilgrimage. If you had not bound me to Robert, perhaps I would have stayed. But as it is, I must walk the path the old gods have laid. I will not return until I have my answer from them.
Lyanna held the quill hovering one last time over the parchment. Your Daughter. Her hand ached to write it, but she left the page impersonal, with only her name: Lyanna Stark.
She folded the letter and sealed it with a drop of wax. Rather than go to her father, Lyanna pinned the letter to Brandon's door. He would understand her, or at least know where she had gone.
Cloaked in shadow, she found Dacey already saddling Winter. Howland waited, reed-cloak tight, his marsh-pony restless in the chill. Together they slipped from the stables like thieves, though in her heart Lyanna felt no guilt. She was only following through on the wishes of her gods, placing them before family.
Behind them, Riverrun glowed with torchlight, setting the confluence of the red fork alight. Ahead stretched the road east, dark and silent. Somewhere across the still waters of the God's Eye, the Isle of Faces waited.
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The maester's salves still stung, and every step pressed at fresh bruises. Yet Petyr Baelish walked the quiet corridors of Riverrun with a smile tugging at his lips. He had been beaten near senseless, aye, but not defeated. Never defeated.
Catelyn had not come to see him. She would not. Her eyes lingered only on Brandon Stark, as if Petyr was a shadow clinging to her childhood and nothing more. It burned him, that cold dismissal, but he knew it was temporary. He would not admit defeat.
Lysa, at least, had not turned away. She wept when she tended his cuts, and kissed his split lips as deserving of such gallant wounds. She was not Cat, but with Petyr's eyes half-shut and his mind elsewhere, he could live his great fantasy.
Moving past the guest chambers to fetch another carafe of wine, he winced faintly at the twinge in his side. That was when he saw it: a scrap of parchment, folded neat and pinned to Lord Brandon's door. Curious, he plucked it free, slipping it open with a quick glance around to make sure he was alone.
The words made Petyr's pulse quicken. The Isle of Faces. A pilgrimage. I will not return until I have my answer from the gods.
His smile widened, sharp as a knife. He tucked the letter into his doublet, already imagining the ripples this little scrap of truth could make.
When he pushed back into Lysa's chamber, she rushed to him eagerly, her night-robe falling loose. He kissed her, hard enough to make her gasp, before holding the parchment up in the firelight.
"Lyanna Stark is gone," he said softly, savoring each syllable. "The realm will believe what I tell it."
Lysa's eyes went wide. "Gone? What do you mean?"
Petyr tossed the parchment into the flames and watched it curl to ash. "Tomorrow, tell your father this: Rhaegar Targaryen has stolen her away. Let that whisper take wing. The rest will follow."
After all, there was no greater danger than the gaze of mad king Aerys. What better way could there be to get his attention than accusing his son? And the truth was dull. Lies moved the world.
Petyr turned back to Lysa with a smirk, and his hands curled possessively around her waist. Brandon may have Cat for now, but Petyr could always take his place later.
The fire popped, devouring the last trace of Lyanna's letter, while he murmured Cat's name against Lysa's mouth.
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The land east of Riverrun blurred into hills and thickets until Lyanna scarcely knew where one day ended and another began. They rode without pause, her aches growing sharper with each mile. By the time Howland called a halt, Lyanna slid from Winter's back on legs so stiff she nearly toppled.
Their party made camp in a hollow between low ridges, screened from the road by brambles. The fire Dacey coaxed to life seemed a miracle, small though it was. Lyanna tore into the bread Howland handed her with hands that shook, hunger warring with exhaustion.
"Thirty hours hard," Dacey muttered, stretching her arms until her shoulders popped. "You're lucky your horse has the lungs of a mammoth, or we'd have been carrion by the roadside."
Winter snorted as if to agree, nosing at Lyanna's sleeve for an apple. Then she pressed her mane into Lyanna's face, begging for a brushing. Tangles didn't remove themselves.
They slept, backs against the horses for warmth, but not for long. When dawn smeared pale light over the horizon, Howland shook Lyanna awake. "Up," he said simply. "Before we ride again, we train."
Dacey tossed her the wooden blade Benjen had gifted Lyanna back at Riverrun. The she-wolf's fingers ached just holding it, but stubbornness pulled her to her feet.
"Feet apart," Jorah had told Lyanna once. "Brace for a storm." She widened her stance, drawing the sword into guard.
Dacey grinned ferociously and came at Lyanna with her practice mace — a weighted stick that looked more like driftwood than a weapon. Lyanna parried too high, and the shock numbed her wrists due to the poor leverage.
"Better," she said, circling. "But don't fight like you're wielding a teacup. You're not dainty, She-Wolf. Use your bite."
Howland watched from the stump of a fallen tree, quiet as a shadow. When Lyanna lunged too eagerly, stumbling over a root, he finally spoke. "You reach for the future without understanding the present. I'm no great knight, but I know the importance of awareness. Find it, or you'll fall."
During the next exchange Lyanna forced herself to manage her footwork, maintaining space from possible obstacles. The blows still rattled her arms, but this time she held her ground.
By the time sweat beaded her temples, Lyanna's chest was heaving, and her arms screamed to drop the sword. Yet she found herself grinning. Each strike, each correction, felt like proof that she could shape herself into something fierce.
Dacey rapped her stick against Lyanna's in salute. "That's enough for now" she said, though her smirk left little doubt she meant to beat Lyanna black-and-blue the next chance she got.
They packed quickly, kicking dirt over the fire. Winter pawed the ground, tossing her head, as though she had grown tired of idling. Lyanna swung into the saddle behind Dacey. She was sore and weary, but less afraid. The road east stretched long, but for the first time Lyanna felt it was hers.