Lyanna woke to the rattle of a cart and the slow grind of wheels in mud. Canvas brushed her cheek. The air smelled of wet wood and horse. Winter's hooves thudded steady out front, matched by the marsh-pony's shorter steps. She pushed up on an elbow. The world tilted, then settled.
"You're back with us," Dacey said. She sat on a chest at the cart's tail, cloak thrown wide to dry. "Shouldn't have put all that armor on if you were just gonna faint like a princess."
Lyanna tried to smile. It came out thin. "How long?"
"Four hours," Howland said from the driver's plank. Rain beaded on his cloak. His hands were steady on the reins. "We left Harrenhal as soon as you fell. Safer to grieve behind hedges than under those walls."
Memory hit like a blow. Rickard. Brandon. Smoke. Chains. Her breath caught. She pressed her fist to her mouth and stared at the warped boards. Dacey slid closer and put an arm around her shoulders. The warmth was simple and solid.
"It's true," Dacey said, voice low now. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Dijkstra hopped along the cart frame. The albino raven peered down, head canted. "Aerys burned the father," he said, frank as a butcher. "He strangled the son with madness dressed as law. King's Landing still reeks of it."
Lyanna's throat worked. No sound came. She nodded once.
Howland kept his voice even. "We pieced it from three sources at the castle. A raven from the Hightower, a riverman with a letter from Darry, and a wine seller who listens more than he pours. The tale fits."
Dacey tightened her hold. "When Brandon heard you were 'stolen,' he rode to King's Landing to demand a duel with Rhaegar. Aerys had him seized. Then he summoned your father to answer for it. Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat." Her jaw set. "Aerys named fire his champion."
Lyanna shut her eyes. She saw her father's face in Winterfell's hall, always putting his people first. She saw Brandon's grin as he swung her up by the waist when she was small. Heat rose behind her eyes. She forced it down. The cart creaked on.
"What of Ned and Benjen," she asked at last. The names scraped her tongue.
"Named traitors by decree," Howland said. "So is Robert. Aerys sent to the Vale and to Storm's End. He commanded their heads. Jon Arryn refused. The banners rose. Benjen is safe at least, left as the Stark in Winterfell."
Dacey rubbed Lyanna's shoulder with a slow, steady motion. "The realm is choosing sides. We're far from the first to be on the road."
Lyanna swallowed hard. "We should have told them," she said. "I should have written more than one note. Left a trail as big as a road. Why was I so clever about secrets." She looked at Dijkstra. "Where did this lie start? In Riverrun's halls after the wedding? Or in Goodbrook village when Rhaegar was sniffing around me?"
"Both mouths chew the meat," Dijkstra croaked, pleased with his own phrase. He hopped to the cart bed and paced. "Some say the prince took a wolf for a prize. Some say the wolf ran to the prince for love. All say something. It tastes better than truth. Truth is a thin soup."
"I need facts," Lyanna said. Anger gave her voice a spine. "Did anyone see me in Goodbrook with him in a way that could be twisted."
Dacey's mouth flattened. "He tried to corner you. You told him to go pick flowers. If someone turned that into a romance, it's because they wanted a romance."
"Or a match," Howland added.
Lyanna stared at the wet weave above her. The memory of the window at Harrenhal came back. Men talking in low voices about wildfire and taxes. Hoster Tully. Jon Arryn. Plans laid like snares.
"If I had made a show of it," she said. "If I had stood in the yard and shouted where I was going, would it have changed anything?"
"Maybe for a morning," Dacey said. "But men who want a story will drag it where they please. And storytellers don't usually give ladies much agency. We'll fix what we can now. That's all the world ever lets you do."
Lyanna's hands curled in the blanket. "I will not be used," she said. "Not by dragons. Not by stags. Not by my own kin."
"Good," Dacey said. "Keep that fire."
Winter flicked an ear at the sound of Lyanna's voice and tossed her head. Lyanna reached through the canvas slit and brushed the mare's damp neck with her fingertips. The familiar touch steadied her. Beside Winter the marsh-pony snorted, stoic as a stone.
Howland guided the team around a flooded rut. "We are angling south and west," he said. "Maple spoke with birds that circle the Blackwater. Thistle saw iron helms in Stony Sept. We'll meet trouble there or learn where it passed. Either answer is useful."
"Useful gets us killed if we're careless," Dacey said. "We need to be quiet and careful."
Dijkstra pecked at a knot in the plank. "I like a town with bells," he said. "Bells ring for joy and for alarms. They tell on themselves."
Lyanna looked up at him. "You saw this coming. Couldn't you have warned me?"
The raven fluffed, annoyed. "I am a poor prophet. I told you before. I do not walk the now with ease. My roots remember old water. They replay one long dream of another road this world might have walked. That is the show I know. The rest is guesses and gossip." He eyed her. "But the guesses are good. I collect them with both claws."
She let out a breath she hadn't known she held. "Then don't pretend certainty. I have had enough of men speaking like gods."
"Ha," Dacey said. "You will hate princes for life. Not the worst taste you could develop."
Lyanna rubbed the ache behind her eyes. "Ned and Robert are at the Eyrie," she said. "Or were. If Jon Arryn refused, they will be with him."
"Likely," Howland said. "And likely moving. Lords who sit still now will be pulled apart by whoever reaches them first."
Lyanna thought of Ned's careful smile. Of Ashara's hand in his. A knot formed under her ribs. "I swear I will not be the stone that drags him under."
"You won't," Dacey said. "You're a current, not a weight."
The cart creaked on. Rain tapered to a mist, then to a fine spray. A hedgerow lane took them between dark fields and hedges heavy with drops.
"News spreads quicker than legs," Howland said. "Word will outpace us. We must be careful what names we wear."
"Fisherfolk," Dacey said. "Bored, broke, and hard to remember. If someone asks, we're running nets on the God's Eye for carp fat as a baby. No one invites fisherfolk to battlefields."
Lyanna nodded. "And if someone tries to claim me for ransom," she said, "they'll regret it."
Dacey's grin returned, sharp now. "There's my girl."
Lyanna leaned back against the cart side and let the motion lull her breath into rhythm. Grief came and went like a wave. When it rose, it pressed hot behind her eyes and burned her chest. When it fell, it left her washed out and tired. In the quieter troughs she saw again the circle of men in the dark room at Harrenhal. She heard about a restless kingdom. She heard "marriage ties." She heard "eager to spill blood."
"Arryn and Tully," she said. "They spoke of a future they would build if the time came. Maybe they built it faster when they got the lie they needed."
"You think they primed the tinder," Dacey said.
"I think they were waiting for a spark," Lyanna answered. "Whether or not I meant to help them light it."
Howland nodded once, grave. "It is the way of lords to weave a net and then point at the fish. We cannot unweave this one by hand. We must swim around it."
Lyanna reached for the amulet under her tunic. The carved token was warm against her palm. Not mystical. Just carved wood that carried a promise. She closed her fingers and let the promise stand.
"I will not be hunted like a deer," she said. "If the realm wants a wolf in its stories, I will be that and more."
Dacey squeezed her shoulder and let go. "Good," she said. "Because wolves eat well when civilization goes to pieces."
Dijkstra croaked, pleased. "And ravens feast after wolves," he added, shameless. "Bring me to the bells and I will bring you all the talk worth hearing."
Howland flicked the reins. The cart rolled on toward the next bend in the road. The hedges dripped. The sky lightened from iron to pewter. Winter glanced back once, as if to check that her rider still sat in reach.
Lyanna wiped her face with the heel of her hand and made herself sit straight. The ache in her chest did not ease, but it no longer owned her.