Tightening his cloak around his shoulders, Lord Rickard Stark poked at the roaring fire in the hearth of his solar. Shifting the logs around for an even flame. Even with both, he was still impossibly cold. Outside, the roar of the autumn rainstorms pounded against the wooden roof and stone walls of Winterfell—as if the gods themselves were furious at the world. Lightning cackled and thunder boomed, adding to the feeling.
Nothing Rickard hadn't gotten used to, so perhaps it was the contents of the letters received only a week before that was grating on him. No, it's definitely that.
"It's days like this that I miss the Reach," moaned Wyman Manderly. The fit, if beefy, Lord of White Harbor was a childhood friend of Rickard's—gregarious and friendly, they made quite a pair.
Beside him, Roose Bolton rolled his eyes. The youngest man there, his sharp mind nevertheless thrust him into the realm of the big players in the North. "You've never lived in the Reach, nor has your house for thousands of years." Unlike the rest, House Manderly was not of the blood of the First Men. Rather of Andal blood that settled in the North long ago.
Wyman chuckled, downing his cup of heated ale. "I guess I miss the idea of the Reach. Ya' never hear of House Tarly freezin' their balls off."
Not one to take part in such idle chit-chat, Roose looked back to his liege lord. "My Lord, why is it that you are worried here? The prospect of marrying your daughter off to the Lord of Storm's End or the random tourney in the south?"
"It isn't a random tourney, Lord Bolton," Martyn Cassel shot back. "The king himself essentially demanded that he ride south."
Pursuing his lips, Bolton nodded. "You're right, that is inherently suspicious."
"What could the king want from me?" Rickard normally was like the ice of the land he ruled, unflappable—Ned took after him, while his other children were more like their wild mother. Now though, he was quite exasperated, sweat streaming down his brow. Aerys II Targaryen tended to have that effect on people. "I've loyally paid my taxes to the crown and traded well with the southern kingdoms."
"He's a madman," boasted Wyman, slapping the arm of the chair he sat in. "The North hasn't involved itself in southern affairs since the Dance of Dragons. We didn't even involve ourselves in the Blackfyre Rebellions!"
A snort came from Roose Bolton, drawing the attention of the other three men. "Have anything to add, Roose?" Martyn Cassel said.
Roose crossed his arms. "It is never wise to underestimate one's… adversaries, for lack of a better term. Look at it from the king's perspective. After most of his reign spent under Tywin Lannister's reign as Hand, he's suddenly sacked, and the Targaryen bootlicker Connington is put in his place. Lannister foe Mace Tyrell placed on the Small Council and his son married to the Princess of Dorne. What do you make of that?"
It started to dawn on Rickard. "He's seeing threats all around him… especially from the Westerlands."
Wyman paled. "Fuck, Rickard. Yer' marrying off yer' children to the lords of powerful houses in the south. He could see it as an even bigger threat."
"You're not as thick as I thought you were, Wyman," smirked Roose. "Although if you keep eating as much as you do, you will be." All of them, even Lord Manderly, enjoyed a chuckle at the jape. "This tourney is clearly a stunt. He's testing everyone's loyalty."
Sighing, Rickard fell into his chair. "So what would you have me do?"
"Simple. Accept Robert Baratheon's offer. The Stormlands are loyal to the crown, and if you have something huge to offer the king, then he'll be more inclined to seek our counsel rather than burn you alive." A shudder ran through each man's body at the thought.
Nevertheless, despite it being the proper political option, it still weighed on Rickard. "But what of Lyanna? She should have some say in who she marries."
Roose shrugged his shoulders. "She's a woman. Her personal feelings don't matter." In the grand scheme of things… he was right. "For gods' sake, Lord Stark, you realize this is how the world works?"
"Don't you think I know that, Lord Bolton?" Rickard shot back.
"I don't think you do," Roose said dismissively. "Little girls should be learning to sew and manage a household, not gallivanting on horses or playing men's warcraft." He sneered. "It's cruel, if you think about it."
Rickard fumed. "How I raise my daughter is my business, not yours."
"It is my business if your insane parenting style threatens the stability of the North."
Before Rickard could get angry, Wyman stood. "I know, Rickard, that the girl means a lot to you. I've seen you let her do things like ride and swing a sword that only the Mormonts or the Martells do, but… she has her duty. To marry and seal alliances. I know you know this… and she likely does too."
Closing his eyes, Rickard nodded. "Aye, she does." He knew Roose had hit the mark—the only question remaining was whether Lyanna would ever truly forgive him. Wordlessly, he walked back to his desk, picking up a quill to write a letter to Lord Baratheon.
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The clash of steel filled the courtyard. Butterflies and cicadas whizzed by the flowers and trees in the gardens as the two great warriors fought brutally, muscles straining and sweat soaking them. Servants stopped whatever they were doing to watch, mesmerized. The fluid movements of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Training blade in each hand, his wrists flicked and twirled the blunted steel. As amazingly as any mummer dancer from Braavos, pressing an attack or patching an opening in his defensive stance. Truly one of the best warriors in the world.
But if Arthur was exceptional, the Crown Prince of House Targaryen was simply astonishing. Rhaegar's silver locks sparkled in the high sun of midday, loose strands escaping from his bun to mat on his sweaty forehead. On Arthur it was all business, lips pursed in concentration—the dragon was awoken in Rhaegar, a fury crossing him as he charged. His blade striking the steel of Ser Arthur's, rapidly coming up to parry the blow from the Kingsguard's second blade. A pure rage that set alight every female with a working set of eyes watching the spectacle. God, how they envied the Princess Elia at that moment.
Breaking off, the two sized each other up. Circling the other. Arthur's wrists twirled his swords, waiting for the attack—Rhaegar kept his presented, eyes narrowed. Waiting for an opportunity… At a perfect angle the sun glinted off his gorget, forcing Arthur to blink. Rhaegar surged, clashing against the Kingsguard's blades.
The Sword of the Morning fought back valiantly, one blade always behind his back while the other slashed and parried, but Rhaegar was a machine. Always pushing forth. Taking the initiative. With a snarl he managed to hit one sword with a downward blow, steel clattering on the ground. A roundhouse punch to the gut sent Arthur sprawling before Rhaegar launched the killing blow.
Arthur sucked in the cool breeze from the bay, letting the fresh salt spray ease his lungs—fighting from coughing. "Son of… a bitch…" The training sword brushed against his Adam's apple, one of the few weak points in his armor.
"Do you yield?" demanded Rhaegar, steel gorget rising and falling with his heaving chest. "Ser Arthur?"
"Yes, I yield." Swords clattered to the ground, the two men struggling to not collapse on the stone floor of the training ground. From the onlookers, wild cheers and applause rang out for the Crown Prince's victory. "I think only you could defeat me, your Grace."
"My goodbrother probably could," Rhaegar shrugged, grabbing a waterskin from a bench and downing the lukewarm liquid. It felt wonderful. "And I think you let me win."
Arthur gave a wan grin. "Perhaps partly, your Grace."
Rhaegar punched him in the shoulder. "Cunt." Arthur's grin only widened.
"Good job, my son." Both turned to see Queen Rhaella, smiling softly and walking to them. Behind was Ser Jaime, hand idly on the hilt of his sword.
Both bowed. "Mother."
"Your Grace."
Rhaella swatted her son's shoulder. "You're my son, so stop that." She leaned in to kiss him and wrinkled her nose. "You reek. I'll have the servants warm you up a nice bath to wash out that sweat…"
"Mother…" Hearing Arthur and Jaime snicker at his embarrassment, Rhaegar took Rhaella's arm and began to walk her to their quarters in Maegor's Holdfast. "Must you?"
"Don't give me that," Rhaella chided. "I'm your mother; I'll always worry about you." Ever since she was ten and four, being given a screaming baby after an arduous labor in which she nearly died, Rhaella had treasured her beloved firstborn. He and Viserys were the only happiness her marriage brought her. "I saw how enraged you were. How you attacked Arthur back there. The mysterious bruises on all the Kingsguards…"
"We're quite alright, your Grace," Jaime piped up, only to be hushed by the older Arthur. He had been Rhaegar's sparring partner—victim—the day before.
Rhaella chuckled. "I know, Ser Jaime." She turned back to the prince. "They can take it, but it's not healthy to vent your frustrations out like that." While they were still in the gardens—lush with life thanks to Princess Elia's handpicked Dornish horticulturists from the Water Gardens of Sunspear—she reached up to cup her son's cheek. "Please talk to me, my sweetling."
"There's not much to say… Father made his command, and I must live with it."
"I know you will obey him, my son. You are too dutiful not to, but that doesn't mean you have to agree with it."
"What would you have me say, Mother?" Rhaegar sighed. "I already have made one woman miserable in a marriage she never wanted. Now I must subject another to it?"
It was what made Rhaegar different from most men—hell, most men in their own family. Such care… he was a good man. Rhaella knew he would be a great king, but they just had to survive long enough for him to get there. "All we can do is hope, my son. Perhaps it will turn out the way you want?"
Rhaegar snorted. "That's bloody likely." Sarcasm drifted to sorrow, hanging his head as they reached the Holdfast. He hated exposing his emotions—the lessons his father drilled into him years before held firm—but his mother was different. A refuge in the darkest storm. "Never will I know what real love is. Hold a real marriage with real intimacy. Elia… she'll never love me like that, and I can't blame her."
"Elia loves you. I know she does." Gods, both of them were still so young when they were betrothed. Denied any chance to even get to know each other before Aerys was demanding heirs, Prince Doran mining her for information useful to Dorne, and both of them the target of the king's vicious japes. It just… forced them to give up even trying to bond.
It all infected Rhaegar's head, always too kind and sentimental for his own good. "I know how unhappy she is, Mother. I've seen it since we were forced together by a godfather who calls her and our children nothing but trash every single fucking day!"
His pain hitting her like a knife to the heart, Rhaella tried to comfort her son. Knowing how the depths of Aerys' japes and slander hurt him, knowing that he couldn't reply. Knowing it would only be worse if he tried to defend Aerys' targets.
But Rhaegar wouldn't calm down. "The Stark daughter… I just know she'll hate me, and like Elia, she'll be completely right to." Blinking back the anguish, he composed himself once more. "I need to be alone."
"Rhaegar!" Rhaella called out to him, but it was too late. He had already disappeared, probably to his chamber to play the harp.
"He'll be alright, your Grace," Ser Jaime stated, pressing a hand to her shoulder despite Arthur's disapproving look.
Smiling despite herself, Rhaella patted the offered hand. Glad for someone's comfort. Especially Jaime's, fond as she was of the newest Kingsguard. "No, he won't, I'm afraid." Her boy had the weight of the kingdoms on his shoulders. The same weight that had driven Aerys to madness—and Rhaegar only denied himself the loving support structure needed to save himself from his father's fate.
Arthur winced. "I know him. He'll give this girl everything, at the expense of his own heart."
Nodding, Rhaella closed her eyes, praying for a miracle.
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"She really is a gorgeous horse."
Softly brushing the luscious silver mane hanging down from its neck, Lyanna stroked the horse's muzzle. Rewarded with nicks of contentment. "Her name is Winter," the daughter of House Stark told her new handmaiden. "She's mine."
Dacey Mormont could only nod. It really was a beautiful beast. A solid silver-grey with smatterings of darker grey spots on its haunches, the mare was as close to a thoroughbred Crakehall or Dornish breed as could be found in the north. "How long have you had Winter?"
"It was a gift from my father when I was eleven, just a foal. Told me to raise her and care for her myself. It's been mine ever since… Isn't that right, Winter?" Further strokes brought a delighted neigh, the horse tilting its head to the side in order to nuzzle Lyanna's hair. "Winter…" she giggled. "Stop it." Dacey couldn't help but laugh at the both hilarious and heartwarming scene.
Both highborn northern ladies wore dresses, but they were streaked with grass stains and little rips from the brambles and branches that adorned the riding trails through the Wolfswood. When Nan bugged Lyanna incessantly about choosing a lady-in-waiting, the idea was for the more graceful northern ladies, such as Wylla Manderly or Sybelle Locke… not the raven-haired she-warrior of Bear Island, niece of Lord Jeor Mormont, and… practically exactly like Lyanna herself. A week had passed, and they were already fast friends—and giving Nan grey hairs. Be careful what you wish for.
"The land's too flat for my taste, but I do like being able to ride… without inhibitions," Dacey laughed, stroking the hide of her own horse. "Anything else worth exploring?"
Lyanna fished out an apple from her pocket—a precious commodity in Winterfell, coming from the Vale—and cut it in thirds. One for herself, one to hand to Dacey, and one for Winter to enjoy. "There's the Crypts, but Father doesn't like any of us going in there…"
"You're ten and seven. What's stopping you?"
Shrugging, Lyanna took a bite of her apple slice. "I don't much like it there either. Otherwise, there's this waterfall about an hour's ride north. My brothers and I like to swim in the water there—it's heated with hot springs."
That put a smile on Dacey's face. "Sounds like a blast. Perhaps…" The smile turned sly. "Perhaps we should invite some of these comely guards for a real fun time."
Hearing what Dacey was suggesting—the women of Bear Island known for fierceness and… more—she simply blushed. "I don't think that would be wise." Her wild personality had its limits. It just caused Dacey to laugh louder.
Their conversation in the stables was cut off by a visitor. "My Lady Stark." A member of the household guard bowed. "Lord Stark wishes your presence in his solar." Lyanna blinked, sharing a quizzical look with Dacey. Her father usually would seek her out himself for anything normal, so this was quite serious. "This way, my lady. I shall escort you."
Rickard Stark was seated at his desk, quill in hand as he scribbled on a sheaf of parchment. The ironwood was piled high with various dispatches and ledgers, touching on everything from granary yields to congratulations to Lord Karstark for the birth of his first daughter. Growing up among the Lords of the North, Lyanna knew plenty who could barely read or write, instead leaving others to handle the work for them while they hunted or sparred. Not her father—he did the work himself and made sure each of his children was well-read and had excellent calligraphy.
He didn't notice her entry, so Lyanna cleared her throat. "You summoned me, Father."
Looking up, Rickard smiled—one that didn't reach his eyes. Uh oh. "Dearest daughter, please." He rose from his desk in respect, motioning to a chair across from him. "Have a seat. We have something important to discuss."
With trepidation, Lyanna complied. Casting her father a wary look—he was never this formal with her. "Do I need to worry? ..." Suddenly she froze, shaking from fear. "Is it Ned? Did something happen to him?" Even so far away, Lyanna was the closest to him.
Rickard raised his hands, shaking his head. "No… not at all… Well, it does involve him, but your brother is alright, I promise." Lyanna visibly relaxed, though she was still guarded. "I received a request for your hand in marriage, the most prominent one."
Lyanna froze, the news rocking her just as strongly as had her worry for Ned's health—though in a different way. Requests from many lords for betrothals had poured in for years, but all were dismissed by her father. It was something Lyanna ultimately dreaded but took lightly since all so far were ridiculous. How her father had laughed when old Walder Frey wanted to betroth her to his son Lothar… already she could tell this was different.
"Who… who is he?" she finally croaked out.
"Robert of House Baratheon, the newly designated Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands." A noble, august house. Any maiden daughter couldn't do much better." Ned suggested the match, given he was fostered with Jon Arryn alongside him."
But Lyanna didn't care about how prestigious such a betrothal was. Robert Baratheon… the Stormlands… You couldn't get farther from Winterfell if one tried, and it was a common saying in the North that the further south one went, the less value a woman really had—Dorne aside, from what Lyanna heard, it was an accurate statement. "You're considering this, Father?"
"Of course, my daughter. Brandon is marrying Lady Tully; the Lord of the Vale thinks Ned is the son he never had. A marriage with the Lord of Storm's End grants our House with influence we haven't had since Cregan Stark went south during the Dance of Dragons." He sighed as Lyanna started to take in deep breaths, trembling. "Calm yourself, Lyanna, I'm not going to marry you to a complete stranger." He rose from his chair and rounded the desk, sitting beside Lyanna. "We are to leave in two days for the Riverlands. There's a tourney in Harrenhal the king is throwing that we will be attending. Your brother Eddard will bring Lord Baratheon there, as I will you. There you will get to know him in preparation for an official betrothal."
Two days… Harrenhal… official betrothal… This was happening. Lyanna felt as if chains were materializing out of thin air to shackle her. "What if I don't want to live in the south?" she asked, voice halting, mind in a surreal daze. "What if I don't want to be married?"
Rickard's voice grew hard. "I know I've been lenient on you, Lyanna. You remind me so much of your mother that I couldn't help but give in to even your most… outlandish demands and requests. Myself, Brandon, Ned, Benjen… Seven hells, every one of us in Winterfell loves your fiery personality, but you are still my daughter. What is expected of you is different from what is expected of Brandon or Ned. I may have been neglectful of what was truly important."
Red blinded her vision, her father's words like a knife to the heart. "You do not mean that. How could you want to chain me up like some caged bird?"
"You will do your duty, Lyanna. As a daughter of House Stark, you will fulfill what you have been raised to be." The Lord of Winterfell softened. "I know that you can do it." He kissed her head. "Now find Lady Mormont and pack. It'll be a busy few days."
Lyanna didn't remember how she had left her father's solar… or how she ended up in the great hall. Everything was a blur, her mind whirring with the suddenness of her destiny being foisted on her. Betrothed… betrothed… two days… "Lya!" Blinking, Lyanna looked up to find the thatch of sandy blonde hair of her brother, seated upon one of the tables scarfing down a meat pie. Taking after their mother's family, the fair yet rugged looks of the heir to Winterfell made many a maiden swoon. "Come over here and sit with your brother!"
While normally she'd smirk and punch him in the shoulder, the tempest inside of Lyanna caused her to just nod dumbly. Wordlessly, she took a seat. Barely listening as Brandon began bragging about the new sword the smiths had forged for him, how many wildling bandits he would slay with it… "Brother, does Ned talk to you often?"
She had cut him off mid-sentence, Brandon gulping down a bite of pie to peer at her. "Umm… as often as he talks to you. Why?"
"What do you know about Robert Baratheon?" Ned never told her about him—if anyone knew the gossip of rumors from Ned or otherwise, it was Brandon. There was bound to be a lot of it in Riverrun when he went south to meet his intended.
Brandon's eyes went wide. "Ah… so Father accepted."
Lyanna stared. "You knew?!"
Her brother shrugged. "Ned and Robert were always close, even if he was two years older." Brandon suddenly laughed. "Ha, I can't imagine sour old Ned being friends with Robert! He already has a bastard girl in the Eyrie, and that's only the one we know of…"
But whatever he cared to say was lost on Lyanna. "What?!" Several servants looked up at the screeching of their lady, though they quickly averted their gazes. "He has a bastard?!"
"Oh…" Brandon had the respect to look away sheepishly. "I wasn't supposed to say that."
"You were going to keep this from me?" Gods… Lord Baratheon has a bastard… and only one is known. Perhaps more? It was like a warhammer slamming into her.
"It's not my place to speak ill of someone's… intended. Most wives would want to be kept in ignorance…" Seeing her anger, her hurt, Brandon reached out to clasp her hands. "Lya, please don't be upset. It's common for highborns to bear bastards, especially in their wild youth. Marriage has a way of settling these men down."
She ripped her hands away, shaking her head fiercely. "Once a whoremonger, always a whoremonger!" Lyanna stood, eyes red with unshed tears. "I don't want to get married! I don't want to live in chains!" Before her brother could stop her, she dashed out. Servants giving her a wide berth.
As soon as she disappeared out of the hall, Brandon ran a hand down his face. "Thank the gods Catelyn was enamored with me." The way of betrothals in Westeros left much to be desired—first impressions were everything, and even then a whoremongering or cold spouse could end any chance at even affection before it started. Anyone Ned was friends with had to be someone decent, but the facts spoke for themselves. "Robert's going to break her heart, the cunt." There was literally nothing he could do about it, though. Who's a better match than Lord Robert Baratheon?
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Scrambling into her private chambers, nearly stumbling on the hem of her long dress half a dozen times, Lyanna slammed the door behind her. Latching it firmly shut. She wanted no companions, no visitors. The desolate, terrified girl needed her space—needed time to calm herself. Lungs inhaled a sucking, deep breath… but she did not calm down. The tempest within Lyanna continued to howl and churn with the force to annihilate a massive sailing carrack.
She threw herself upon her bed, facedown and yelling into her goose-down pillow. Her father's and brother's words pounded the inside of her skull like hammers.
"...you will get to know him in preparation for an official betrothal..."
"...He already has a bastard girl in the Eyrie…"
"No!" she yelled into the soft mass. "I do not want to marry Robert Baratheon!" Normally so strong, so determined, and so composed, the weight of her young age and her sheltered life hit Lyanna fully. "I do not want it, Father!" All the words she was too afraid to say to him in person came tumbling out.
When conflicted and scared, unable to mount Winter and flee into the Wolfswood, Lyanna reached into the ironwood dresser and pulled out her most beloved possession. A leather-bound book, several years old. Slightly worn from overuse, parchment starting to color with age, but otherwise in perfect condition. The cover was devoid of scratches or cracks, the binding was tight, and there was barely even a single stain on the pages—such was how Lyanna treasured the tome.
It had been a gift from Ned and Jon Arryn for her nameday the one time Lyanna visited the Vale—her brother knowing her uncharacteristic love of books and knowledge and his ward knowing the perfect text to give a wild youth. The Dancing Queen. Unlike the dry Maester's tomes that Luwin instructed them with, this one was a 'novel.' Written in a flowing, dynamic style of prose and plot by then Prince Viserys, later King Viserys II. A tale of the Dance of Dragons, of the great Queen Rhaenyra and her uncle-husband, Prince Daemon.
Oh, had she read this book. Read and reread it more times than she could count. Lyanna knew every line by heart, but the book still sprang out at her each time she opened a page. A tale of love and of tragedy, of a completely devoted husband to his queen and love. Of the hero Prince Daemon fighting atop a dragon to his untimely death above the God's Eye against his kin. One that rode a dragon far larger and more feared, yet one Daemon did anyway… to protect his queen and beloved.
Oh, did Lyanna idolize such a man?
Clutching the precious book to her chest, tears tumbled down Lyanna's cheeks. Dropping her fierceness, her wild ways, and her strength. Beneath all was a spirited little girl that only desired to be free. To ride through the woods with the wind whipping through her hair—both literally and metaphorically. But what man would want that?
Much as they were looked down on as savages and country bumpkins by most of Westeros, the northerners knew a thing or two about high culture. Lyanna knew what marrying a southern lord would entail. Endless rows of parties and luncheons. Hosting visiting highborn wives while managing the domestic life of a castle. Pumping out heirs for a husband that probably wanted her as a status symbol. Lyanna was no fool—what her father and mother had… it was rare to the point of lampoon.
The life of a Southern lady wife would be one of chains, especially for one with the indignity to suffer an unfaithful husband. To which Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End apparently was—what else would compel a man to father a bastard? Perhaps she was a bit too harsh, but there was just something… an instinct telling Lyanna her first reaction was right here.
Why would my dear Ned even suggest such a man?
A servant knocked on the door, but Lyanna didn't even answer. Waiting with silent sobs until the knocking stopped and whoever it was went away. The words she had yelled at Brandon played over and over in her head.
I don't want to get married…
I don't want to get married…
I… I can't live in chains.
And another realization that seemed to have punctuated all her behavior. Her reluctance to marriage.
I want love. I want my Daemon.
Each time Lyanna read and reread her favorite book, the dynamic and passionate Queen Rhaenyra became her. And each time, Prince Daemon became the manifestation of the future husband she prayed the gods—old and new—would grant her. One loving and completely devoted. One who would give a caring hand in teaching her how to truly become the kind of lady only she could be. Respectful and even excited about her passions and desires, a man she would fall for completely, and he with her.
She was a proud lady of House Stark. Blood of the wolf, ice made flesh, but Lyanna couldn't care at this point. There she lay on the bed, letting the tears flow.
I just want my Daemon.