Sandor is prone to nightmares. He’s lived through a lot of traumatic things and despite his attempts to ignore that trauma, it will work its way out one way or another.
The most common nightmares he has are about being back at Clegane’s Keep. The events vary, but he’s always stuck there. He’ll find himself wandering the familiar halls but the paths and doors change and don’t lead where they should. Sometimes he sees his mother or sister. Sometimes he sees his father. Gregor is always there, whether he sees him or simply feels his presence.
The more anxious he is to leave, the more the layout twists and changes. Sometimes the people in his dreams will talk to him, warn him to stay away from Gregor today, he’s in a mood and not very pleasant. Sometimes he will try to talk to them but they will continue on with what they’re doing as if they can’t see or hear him. Most of the time it ends with Gregor burning him again and him being powerless to stop it. When he tries to fight back his limbs feel so heavy he can’t do anything to protect himself.
That’s the point where he wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily with faint phantom pain on the right side of his face. He does not like to talk about the nightmares. He does not like to acknowledge they exist. He does not like the reminders of deep rooted fears he can’t shake.
Summary: Reina Rivers returns to Westeros, disguised as a noblewoman with an offer of marriage for King Joffrey. Joffrey's hound catches her eye, and she catches his.
CW: MDNI, Cersei & Joffrey, language, mentions of slavery, vague allusion to/mention of sexual slavery, age gaps
Note: I'm getting the hang of like,,, posting regularly and tagging everything, so please don't be afraid to be like hey girl you totally didn't tag this shit (my anxiety is telling me I somehow missed a major trigger tag but I wrote this and reread it ten million times and there isn't anything 😭). I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it!
Volantis might have been beautiful had Reina arrived there under different circumstances. She pictured herself as a traveler, stepping onto the dock with eyes full of wonder, but she couldn't quite see it. The reality of being bought and paid for was too heavy for her to shoulder any other possibility.
Her new master was a man named Malaquo Maegyr. He was a man with power, and a man with daughters too close to her own age. Reina wondered how he could look those daughters in the eye, how he could preserve their youth but shatter her own as he brought her into his home as a bed slave.
She could have been angry, furious with the girls that were full of the innocence that had been stolen from her. But then, she met Laenaya, a girl too young and naive to care about their difference in station. She met Talisa, who was noble and seething over the treatment of slaves by her father. They were too kind and lovely to stay cross with, forcing their way into her life with all the persistence of flowering weeds in the garden, and they soon proved themselves to be spots of glimmering light in the darkness.
While Laenaya wore the ignorance of childhood like armor, Talisa spoke often of leaving Volantis. She wove stories of far off lands and magical beasts, of cities without slavery. The sisters would sneak Reina into their chambers when the rest of the household slept, and there Reina found pieces of herself hidden in laughter and candlelight. She found hope in Talisa’s stories, memories of her mother in the gentleness of Laenaya’s hands as she braided her hair.
And then Talisa left, and Tyrion Lannister offered Malaquo Maegyr an alliance with a King.
“He’s going to send me away,” Laenaya sobbed, and Reina cradled her head against her chest. Her friend shook against her, and something within her bared its teeth.
“No,” she replied, “he isn’t.”
Reina couldn’t remember much of her childhood, but she knew she had been hopeful. Standing before the Queen, she could feel whatever she had regained of her youthful optimism slipping through her fingers.
Cersei circled her, her gaze sharp as a knife, and Reina’s thumbnail dug into her finger behind her clasped hands. She recalled seeing vultures circling a dead elephant in Volantis. They had been impatient, studying their prize as Cersei studied her now, something like bloodlust in their eyes. They had descended upon the carcass in moments, tearing through skin and muscle with razor sharp beaks, and she remembered Talisa’s words as the girls had watched on above all else: “The world is cruel, Laenaya,” she’d said to her sister, “don’t let it scare you.”
Cersei Lannister watched her as if she might tear into her flesh, but Reina stood tall. She kept her back straight as a rod, her shoulders back, and her chin up. She reminded herself that she was doing this for Laenaya, entering the lion’s den knowing that, should her identity be revealed, she would be killed. She thought that she might have been doing it for herself as well, freeing herself from a life of servitude even under risk of death.
Cersei caught a strand of Reina’s hair between her fingers, studying it for a moment before speaking. “Have you bled yet?” The question was direct, but not unfamiliar.
A lady would blush, Reina thought, willing her cheeks to redden. “Yes, your grace.” She steeled herself as the Queen came around and faced her, taking her in from head to toe.
“Why haven’t you married?” Cersei’s eyes were piercing as they met hers, and for a moment Reina worried that she might see past her highborn mask, see right down to her common bones. She summoned the answer she’d practiced so many times on the ship from Volantis.
“My father wanted only the best match for me, your grace,” she said, and her voice didn’t shake. Cersei’s eyes flashed to Tyrion who sat at the council table, sipping his wine.
“Joffrey already has his eyes set on the Stark girl,” Cersei said, smug and dismissive.
“Sansa is our only bargaining piece against her brother,” Tyrion shot back, “a Volantene noble is a perfectly suitable alternative. We could use an ally across the sea.” He finished off his wine, giving his sister a look. “Father approves.”
Cersei considered his words for a moment. The silence was heavy, stretching over them like fog settled over the bay, and its breaking was no less tense.
“We’ll see what Joffrey thinks of her.” To Reina’s ears, it sounded like condemnation, and the walk through the halls of the Red Keep was silent as a death march save for the clink of the guard’s armor.
The great doors to the throne room swung open, and she couldn’t help but think that Joffrey was painfully young, more boy than man. Laenaya had begged and cried when her father agreed to marry her to the King of Westeros. Lady Maegyr had gone to her knees, pleading with her husband not to send her remaining daughter away. Then, it had been so simple to take her friend’s place, to let Lady Maegyr ship her off under her husband’s nose. Now, she could see a glint of malice in the King’s eyes, and she wondered if she had truly escaped her Volantene prison, or if she’d only exchanged it for a gilded cage.
“Dog,” Joffrey said, and the tall man behind him stepped forward. He caught Reina’s attention for the first time. His face was lined and gnarled with scarring, his expression hard as stone, and yet there was a familiarity to him that replaced any fear Reina might have felt with curiosity. “Escort Lady Maegyr to her quarters,” Joffrey instructed. He kissed her hand again, giving her a sickly sweet smile. “I shall see you soon, my lady.”
Reina returned his smile, bowing her head. “I will eagerly await our next meeting,” she replied, and the lie was sticky on her tongue.
Joffrey’s guard led her through the castle’s twisting halls. He towered over her, broad shoulders made all the wider by his dark armor, and Reina couldn’t place him. That familiarity itched at the edge of her mind, just out of reach of searching hands.
She could remember the end of her childhood with startling clarity. She could still feel the rocks biting into her bare feet as she waded through the river, the pinch in her side as she ran until she tasted blood. She recalled the face of the slaver who’d caught her, the feel of his hands binding her wrists, but she couldn’t pinpoint how she knew the man walking beside her.
“What is your name, Ser?” He scowled, hardly looking at her.
“I’m no Ser,” he grumbled.
“Then what are you?” He paused, seemingly caught off guard.
“A dog,” he replied. His voice was harsh and unreadable, his face more so, and Reina frowned. Joffrey had called him dog, spoken to him like a man calling his hound before a hunt. The man had replied with all of the biddability of the hound, but with none of the admiration for his master. She wondered then, if not admiration, what fires forged his loyalty?
She didn’t speak again until they arrived at a large, wooden door, and neither did he. The door creaked as the man pushed it open.
“Thank you, Ser,” Reina said, and he bared his teeth like a wounded beast.
“Don’t call me that.” His voice was sharp, meant to scare her. Instead, clarity washed over her. He’d spoken the same words to her what felt like a million years ago, left her sprawled on the ground with the weight of his tourney winnings heavy in her hands. “I’m not a fucking knight.”
“Then tell me what to call you,” Reina countered. She thought that she should have been frightened, but as the words spilled from her mouth she couldn’t find any recognition in his eyes, only surprise.
He observed her, quiet for a moment. She almost thought he wouldn’t respond, that he might turn around and walk away, but then he spoke. “Sandor.”
Sandor trailed behind Reina and Joffrey in the gardens, and for once, he found himself glad to be a Kingsguard. The streets of King’s Landing ran red, and here he was, cloaked in white and free of blood. Sandor Clegane may have been a killer, but the glow of Reina’s fair hair in the sunlight was a far more welcome sight than a babe at the end of his knife.
Joffrey said something to make Reina laugh, and Sandor wondered if the lamb knew the nature of the knife held to her throat: marry Joffrey and live under his cruelty, or scorn him and die. She was bright as the sun, flirting and joking like she was born to do so, but Sandor had been in King’s Landing long enough to note the difference in tune between lie and truth. Joffrey was none the wiser, but Sandor suspected that the girl was more aware than her lovestruck act let on. He could see it in the slight strain in her smile, in the flash of her eyes, and he knew that her lies would eventually float to the surface like bloated corpses in the Blackwater Rush.
There was a strange twinge in his chest, the urge to raise his hackles and defend her with claws and teeth. He pushed the feeling down, smothering it with anger and hate, and yet her smile lingered behind his eyes.
“My mother wishes for you to dine with her tomorrow evening, along with my brother and sister,” Joffrey said, pulling Sandor from his thoughts.
“I look forward to it, your grace,” Reina replied, and there was that smile again, “I miss my own sisters. The company will be more than welcome.” Sandor found himself wishing that she would grace him with that expression once more, like a flower searching for sunlight. He scowled at the thought. Even if she did, he was the Hound, hardened and cold. And yet, he craved the warmth of this girl’s smile.
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Sandor’s hand went to his sword. “Your Grace,” a voice called out. It was Meryn Trant. Sandor considered drawing his sword anyway, but Joffrey turned around to face them. Trant caught up, leaning in to speak to Joffrey so that only the King could hear. Joffrey looked annoyed, but nodded.
“Duty calls,” Joffrey said. He turned smug and preening when he looked at Reina. “Dog, follow me.” Sandor bristled, but bowed his head, ever the dutiful hound. He didn’t miss the way Reina’s smile flickered before returning in full force as she curtsied.
As Joffrey walked away, surrounded by guards, Reina turned her attention to Sandor. “Why do you let him call you that?” She asked as if Sandor was more than a dog, as if Joffrey wasn’t the King. She looked at him without hesitation, without fear or disgust, and Sandor couldn’t make sense of it.
Why does it bother you? The thought swirled, and Sandor returned her gaze. “Back to your cage, little lamb,” he said instead, following after Joffrey, “or your lion will be missing you.”
Note: So Reina's backstory is starting to come together, and she's got Sandor's attention! I'm literally about to freak the freak out to get to the juicier parts, but I'm also having so much fun with the way the story is building. Any feedback is welcome (aka it would cure my mental illness)! Much love 💕
warning: animal death described towards the end of the chapter!
With a harsh 'bang', Lyarra woke in a rush. As her eyes peeled open, she came to realize that she wasn't nestled in her bed. Instead, she was surrounded by dogs. At her side, laid Tyrion Lannister — who seemed to be using one of the shaggier beasts as a pillow. The two had been drinking through the night, no doubt. She didn't quite remember why the two ended up in the kennels, but she could vaguely recall Tyrion making some sort of joke about 'Hounds'. Lyarra rubbed her eyes, bleary as she forced herself up. She only then took notice of the man in front of her.
There, Sandor stood with a grimace bordering on a smirk. Lyarra could only imagine how she looked at that moment. Disheveled, grimy. Far from the appearance expected of a lady. He only waited another moment before extending his armored hand. She glanced over him before clutching onto it, allowing him to pull her up arduously. She quickly brushed herself off, moving to thank the man — before she noticed the Prince approaching in the distance.
"Go on, I'll handle the little lord." Sandor grunted, nodding towards the door for her to make her escape. Lyarra sent him a gracious nod, before moving in the opposite direction of Joffrey.
Since Eddard notified her of their coming departure, Lyarra hadn't had much of an opportunity to speak with the royal family. Joffrey, in particular, had evaded her — not that she was disappointed by that fact. Rather, she was grateful to avoid more Lannisters. Or, Baratheons, she supposed. The only Lannister she sought to speak with, beyond Tyrion, had been impossible to find, it seemed. At each opportunity, Jaime Lannister snuck away from her — as if he was frightened of being seen with her. She hadn't expected the two to be close, after all of these years, but seeing the man avoid her as he had struck Lyarra with a cold feeling. She'd had half the mind to mention it to Tyrion, before thinking better of it.
As she exited her quarters, this time properly prepared — with her hair braided and held high, and white furs pulled tightly around herself — Lyarra made the familiar journey to Bran's room. She'd spent most of her nights there, since the boy had been injured. Reyne had been assigned as his caretaker for the time being, meaning Sansa was given a new handmaiden. As the door cracked open, Lyarra peaked through. There, sat Catelyn — who'd been sewing something that she didn't dare question. Reyne was by her side, brushing Bran's hair from his face with the back of her hand.
"How is he?" She questioned softly, delicately trying to not disturb the peace within the room. Catelyn didn't acknowledge her, and only tilted her head as she considered the words.
"They say that if he makes it through the night, he'll live." Her voice was raspy, straining with the lack of use. Lyarra nodded, settling herself in the seat beside Reyne. She reached to clasp Catelyn's free hand, squeezing it with all of the energy she could muster. Her sister-by-law sent her a grateful smile, moving as if she meant to speak — before the two were interrupted by the harsh creek of a door being opened. Cersei Lannister made her way inside, and Catelyn was on her feet within seconds. Lyarra herself hadn't moved, nor had Reyne — a fact that had the Queen shoot them an almost imperceptible glare.
"Please," Cersei amended, nodding to Catelyn to take her seat. The woman in question only ruffled her clothing, hands grasping at anything she could find to make herself appear less disheveled.
"I would have dressed, Your Grace."
"This is your home. I'm your guest."
"You must forgive us for the state of things, Your Grace. The last few days have been rather difficult." Lyarra remarked, brushing her fingers through the furs that covered Bran.
Cersei didn't acknowledge that she'd spoke, and instead moved further towards the boy in bed. She began telling a story of her own, describing the death of her first son. The tale had Lyarra's heart pang with sympathy, something that she'd been surprised to feel for the Queen. As she continued to recount the story, Lyarra reached to grasp onto Reyne's hand, rubbing her thumb along her knuckles. Cersei extended prayers to Catelyn, before she turned to Lyarra.
"Do you have children of your own?" The question held no malice, yet Lyarra observed as Cersei's gaze turned sharp. Tears were still brimming within the eyes of the Queen. Lyarra willed herself to take a breath, before turning to Reyne.
"Not of my own blood, but yes." She admitted, continuing to rub the girl's hand. Reyne hadn't looked away from Bran once, but Lyarra noticed her startle at the question all the same.
"I extend my prayers to you as well, then. No mother should be separated from their children, by death or distance alike." With that, Cersei exited the room — sucking the air out with her. The remaining women within the room were silent, processing her words. They were only disturbed when Maester Luwin entered the room, raising a brow at their solemn expressions.
Though she'd been searching relentlessly for the boy, Jon seemed to be a step ahead of her everywhere she went. She'd gone to the blacksmith, and instead learned he'd been there just minutes prior. She'd gone to find Arya, just to be told that Jon had just left her side. She'd even peaked her head into Bran's room, only for Catelyn to tell her with a grimace that he'd only just left.
When she finally caught him, he had been making his way through the courtyard with a sack of his belongings. Lyarra's own attempts to pack evaded her. Usually, she would have asked Reyne to do so — but since Bran had yet to wake, Reyne was charged with staying by his side in Winterfell. As such, she wouldn't be able to make the journey to King's Landing. Lyarra came to realize with a sinking feeling, that she'd be saying goodbye to both of her children on the same day.
She watched as Robb and Jon made their way through the yard, sharing words between themselves. She chose to make her approach then, placing an hand on Robb — as he turned to acknowledge her presence.
"Next time we see him, he'll be all in black." Robb laughed, shaking the boy with his free arm. Lyarra tried her hardest to force a smile to her lips, but she was sure she'd failed when the two boys winced.
"It was always my color." Jon joked, his laugh coming out more forced than anything. The two boys brought one another close again, muttering words imperceptible to the common ear. As they pulled away, Robb gave her a significant look — stepping away then to chase after one of his siblings. Lyarra took a breath as she tightened her jaw. She'd be riding alongside Eddard to bid Jon farewell properly, once the road forked. But she'd realized now, that this could be her last chance to hold him close.
Jon met her halfway, matching her fervor as he wrapped his arms around her. She buried herself in his neck, with a face full of fur. Lyarra wasn't certain how long the two sat like that, wrapped in one another. He'd pulled away after another moment, with an expression of steel — save for his quivering lip. She only stepped away once she noticed a blonde mop of hair approaching, her hands clasped timidly. Just as he had with Lyarra, Jon pulled Reyne to him. Lyarra couldn't help but join their embrace, kissing their foreheads in tandem.
"You'll come back, won't you? We'll all see each other again?" Reyne questioned, her voice hardly higher than a whisper. Lyarra's heart plummeted at the inquiry, and she could hardly hold back the tears that threatened to break free. It was all so similar to the last time she'd seen Brandon. When he promised her he'd return, holding her close as he whispered things that would never come to pass. Lyarra did not want to make false promises, as he had. But as she saw the girl's composure threaten to break, she forced herself to nod — clasping onto Jon's furs as she spoke.
"We'll all see one another again." Lyarra repeated, pressing another kiss to Reyne's temple as Jon pulled away. He mounted his horse then, peeling off with another look in Reyne's direction. The girl's sniffles were becoming more noticeable by the minute, though Lyarra did her best to not take note of them.
"Take care of the boys, alright? Don't leave their side. They'll need you, as you'll need them." Reyne nodded repeatedly, as if she was no longer in true control of her actions. Lyarra ran her hands down the girl's arm in what she could only hope was a comforting motion. "You're a Stark, through and through. Never forget that, Reyne. You are my daughter. And I love you with all my heart."
The remainder of her goodbyes were short, as most of the family was making the journey to King's Landing anyway. Robb had pulled her to him, similar to Jon, and placed his forehead against hers. Though the two had their differences, Lyarra did not doubt that she'd miss her nephew beyond measure. Theon, however, had been a far more emotional farewell. By the time she'd found him, she was no longer able to hold back her tears. He did his best to act as if he wasn't crying himself, only brushing her hair back as she continued to unload her tears into his fur — but she'd bristled as he'd hiccuped through his own cries more than once. Theon Greyjoy was the biggest nuisance she'd ever met. And she missed the boy already.
Catelyn only placed her hand overtop Lyarra's, asking her to look over her children. Unlike the last time they had bid one another farewell, she made no promise of her return — nor that of Eddard's. She squeezed her hand within hers as she had before, and assured her that she would do her best.
After so many years, it was unusual taking part in such a large traveling party. She rode close to Jon and Eddard, observing as Benjen and Tyrion rode further ahead than the rest. Benjen had approached her the night before with caution, fearing an outburst from her —
no doubt. She could no longer force herself to blame the man for Jon's wishes, however, and only sighed at his trepidation. She'd hugged her brother then, tighter than she had in years. He promised to look after Jon, to watch over him as he began his Watch. As much as Lyarra longed to ignore the feeling, she couldn't help but think that these goodbyes felt different than they had in the past. They felt more permanent, more sorrowful.
Tyrion, however, only suggested that the two drink through their sorrows. Thus, resulting in the two waking in the kennels. She'd miss the little Lannister, she came to realize. He'd been a comforting presence through the days of the King's visit. He had never once treated her any different because of her station — or because she was a woman, for that matter.
As part of the group tore off, heading in another direction — Lyarra forced herself to steel her nerves. Tyrion turned to look at her then, giving her a long look — which, from her time with the man, could be interpreted as 'Well, fuck'. Benjen nodded in her direction, forcing a smile as he turned his horse back to face the road itself.
"There's great honor serving in the Night's Watch. The Starks have manned the wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark." Ned stated, and Lyarra couldn't help but nod in agreement. At his words, Jon turned to face her — an unreadable expression marring his face. "You may not have our name, but you have our blood." He gestured towards Lyarra then, and the action itself brought warmth through her. She knew that Jon was not her son, that he longed to be Eddard's true-born, and yet Ned's tone suggested that he was just as much her blood as his.
Jon glanced at her then, eyes flickering between the two figures. He was thinking over his words, no doubt. Ned hesitated for only a moment, before riding off to join the remaining group. Lyarra steadied her horse, clasping onto his mane as she attempted to force words to come to her lips.
"I've spent my entire life wondering who my mother is. Wondering, is she alive? Does she know about me? Where I am, where I'm going?" Jon paused, turning to Lyarra once more. She held her breath as the boy rambled on, forcing herself to not take his words to heart. "Does she care?"
"Jon—" She started, but was cut off by a quick shake of the boy's head. The two only had so much time. She could still see Eddard's head peeking over the hills, but within a moment she'd have to quicken the speed of her horse to catch up with the rest.
"I've been so focused on a woman I didn't know, that I've ignored the mother in front of me." Anything she'd intended to say before was now muddled, leaving way for nothing but silence. "You are my mother. You always have been. Blood or no, that doesn't change." He stated, leaving no room for argument. Lyarra's breaths were shallow. She found herself longing to be beside him, then, to pull him close as she had before. The two were interrupted only by a shout from Eddard. They'd run out of time. Lyarra grasped the reins of her horse, pulling him ahead.
"I will see you again, my son. I'm sure of it." With that Lyarra forced herself to ride on, tearing her eyes from the boy as they moved in separate directions. She'd caught up to Ned with ease, as he'd stalled to wait for her.
"Did he ask about his mother?" Eddard questioned once they'd returned to the group. She paused only for a moment, before turning to him with finality set in her gaze.
"Aye, he did."
The party seldom stopped, usually only for the sake of Robert's bladder alone. Once, they'd took a break just before an open field. Arya had grown tired of her carriage, and through the journey had somehow ended up perched on Lyarra's horse. The moment they'd peeled off to rest, Arya had shot off of the beast and into the field. This resulted in a chase between the two, as Arya attempted to weave past the woman. They continued to run after one another for what felt like hours, only stopping when a familiar voice called after them.
"The fuck' are you two doing?" Sandor rasped, stomping towards them as he made his way down the hill. Lyarra panted, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed, chest heaving with exhaustion. All the while, Arya continued running circles around the woman — carefully avoiding the man before them, though Lyarra paid that no mind.
"What does it look like? Running after her. This little beast," She paused as Arya rounded on her, and took that as the moment to strike. Within an instant, the girl was wrapped around the side of her, held only by what little strength Lyarra had left. "is difficult to catch. She's too fast for the likes of me." She laughed as the girl flailed in her arms, conceding to place her back on the grass after a moment.
Sandor shot her a curious look, unclasping one of his gauntlets. Before Lyarra could question him, the man lunged at her — picking her up with ease, slinging her on his shoulder. Lyarra let out an indignant squawk. She was facing his back, while her legs hung against his chest. She had half the mind to shout, before kicking her legs in aggravation.
"Seems like you, on the other hand, aren't hard to catch at all." He placed her heavily back on the grass after another moment, a smug grin turning the corner of his lips. Lyarra groaned in a way unbecoming of herself, before she harshly dropped to the ground — laying her back against the grass.
"Is that what it was like when you were younger?" She questioned, turning towards Arya — who had been watching the two with an unreadable expression. "Cause' that was no fair. Twice my height, and then some." Lyarra repeated the familiar words, a complaint that she'd heard from Arya not long ago. Sandor only snorted before retreating to where they'd last seen the prince. She watched as he made his retreat, something that Arya used to her advantage — as she took the opportunity to strike, climbing over the woman to elbow her in the ribs.
Arya spent the next few days tormenting Lyarra. Every time she thought she'd get a moment of silence, the girl decided to pipe up — asking questions about anything they came across. Eventually, Lyarra had enough — handing the girl off to Septa Mordane before she could say anything else. Sansa, on the other hand, hadn't said much at all. Instead, she'd taken to staring longingly after the royal family as they rode ahead.
By the time they had reached an Inn at the crossroads, Lyarra had decided she'd had enough of horses for a lifetime. She was beginning to regret bargaining to ride her own, so that she hadn't had to ride in the carriage with the rest. As she dismounted the creature, she observed from a distance as Sansa shared words with Sandor. 'The Hound', she'd heard the men call him. A beast. The title almost made her laugh, if not for the mocking way they'd declared it. She didn't know the man well, if at all. Yet even as a boy, he'd protected her from his brother. He carried her to her bed, when she was too drunk to walk. More than once, he'd spent his evenings with her and Tyrion in Winterfell. She couldn't find anything 'beastly' about that.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, the man approached her then — head bowed low after his conversation with the Prince.
"The little bird scares easy. She won't do very well in King's Landing, with that attitude." Sandor muttered, nodding towards the red-haired girl who now walked alongside the Prince. Lyarra only hummed, brushing the mane of her horse. 'Frost', Jon had named the beast — due to his white hue. Even his lashes were pale, a fact that only further reminded her of Reyne.
"Can't say for certain that I'll fare any better." Lyarra admitted, turning to the man then — as he raised a brow. He'd gone to speak once more, before the two were cut off by a harsh shout. In an instant, the Kingsguard were up-in-arms, chasing after the sound. Sandor only shot her a look of defeat before he took off after them, Lyarra following suit. Sansa came running then, meeting the men before they could go any further. Joffrey was hurt, she'd supplied, though she hadn't said much else. Before Lyarra could follow them, Sansa grasped onto her arm — pulling her back.
"It was Arya, Arya did it. Nymeria bit Joffrey," She'd whispered, her voice shaking with fear. Lyarra felt terror sink into her own heart, as the implications of what the girl was saying hit her fully. If Arya was behind an attack on the prince, she could be greatly punished for it. Lyarra moved then to look for the girl, before she was once again pulled back by Sansa. "Please, please don't let anyone get hurt. Joffrey didn't mean to hurt anyone."
Lyarra attempted to soothe the girl as best she could, brushing her hair back softly — though the shaking in her own hands had become increasingly noticeable. "What happened out there? What did Joffrey do?" The moment the Prince's name had been mentioned, Lyarra ignored any blame directed towards her niece. In an instant, Sansa became rigid — hesitation coating her actions, as she all but refused to meet Lyarra's eye. She couldn't speak against the Prince, not when she was intending on becoming his future queen. When she came to realize properly that the girl wasn't going to speak, Lyarra called after Septa Mordane. Once she was certain Sansa would have someone watching over her, she ran in the opposite direction of the Kingsguard — searching desperately for her niece.
She'd found her just before a full hour had passed, curled under the stump of a tree. Lyarra was at her side in a flash, her hands running over her in quick movements to check for any kind of wound. Once she was certain there were none to be found, she pulled the girl back to face her — all but crumpling as she noticed the look of sorrow on her face.
"I had to send Nymeria away. They would have killed her for what she did to Joffrey. They would have killed her," Arya repeated, fisting Lyarra's tunic as she collapsed into her chest. She couldn't do much more than rub the girl's back as she cried, her heart only further shattering at each hiccup.
"Arya, you must tell me what happened," She requested, once she had begun to settle in the slightest. She'd felt the girl tense in her arms, and Lyarra almost regretted asking as she felt another fit of tears build. Arya had only just gone to speak, when they were interrupted by the familiar clinking of metal. The Kingsguard had found them. Not only that, but when she found the courage to raise her head — she was met with the face of Jaime Lannister. His expression hadn't given much away, but his eyes held a level of regret within them. He extended his hand to her then, and Lyarra resigned herself to clutching it — still holding Arya to her chest as she rose.
The men beside him had shot forward then, taking the girl from her arms as if she were a prisoner. Lyarra protested in anger, but was quickly silenced by Jaime's sharp glare.
"She is to be brought before the King. Those are my orders. Nothing else." He parted his arms then as if to placate her, but as Lyarra observed a guard push Arya harshly forwards — all comfort evaded her. Jaime, seemingly noticing this, only resigned himself to nod and move ahead.
"And what of her father? Should he not be present for this audience?" She demanded, stomping forward to move into his line of sight. Jaime all but deflated as she continued to argue, moving to push past her once again — before she stopped him with a harsh shove of her own.
"She attacked the Prince, Lyarra. I don't know what you expect of me. The Queen asked me to find her, so I did. She asked me to bring her to the King, so I will. I am a Guard, and as such I follow orders." Jaime ranted in one quick breath. The group itself had walked ahead, though Lyarra could still see the top of Arya's head between the bodies of the guards.
"The King's orders? Or your sister's?" Lyarra bit back, pausing only to watch the words sink into Jaime's head as she stomped ahead.
By the time Eddard had made his way back to the inn, Arya had already been brought to stand before the King. Robert had made a point to not speak to her without her Father present, a right that only he had deemed important. The moment Arya caught sight of her father, he reached to grasp her face in the palm of his hands.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She chanted, voice crumpling as her resolve threatened to break. Arya always acted as if she were so much older than she was. She carried herself like a warrior. It was only at this moment that Lyarra allowed herself to notice how young the girl truly was. Within a moment she was beside her niece. As Eddard stepped forward to consult the King, Arya leaned into Lyarra's side. Jory stood close behind the two, a fact that only comforted Lyarra but a fraction.
"What is the meaning of this? Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?"
"How dare you speak to your king in that manner?" Cersei bit, scowling down at Ned. Lyarra had her own reply waiting, but as Jory placed a hand on her shoulder — shaking his head in the slightest, she allowed herself to take a breath. Robert rolled his eyes as his wife spoke, a fact that would have filled Lyarra with pity — had they not been in the situation they were.
"Quiet, woman." He grunted, and Lyarra observed as Cersei hadn't even batted an eye. She was used to his attitude, then. For a moment, she couldn't help but think that this could have been her sister. Lyanna could have been the one who'd been forced to suffer his wrath, tolerating his insults. "Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this done quickly." Cersei stepped forward then, unperturbed as her husband prattled on.
"Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son. That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off." The Queen stated, only meeting Ned's gaze. Lyarra paused then to glance down at Arya. She had yet to receive the truth of what had happened from anyone. Sansa had suggested Joffrey had something to do with it, but hadn't said much else.
"That's not true! She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah." Arya spat, glancing up at her aunt — before soon realizing she should be directing her explanation to the King. Robert's eyes had widened a fraction, as he processed what she said. Cersei and the Prince, however, made no such movement. They convinced themself of what the truth was, and weren't going to let a little girl argue with them any longer.
"Joff' told us what happened. You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him." The Queen insisted, only then glancing down at Arya. Lyarra felt the girl tense in her arms, and reached to keep her at her side.
"That's not what happened!"
"Yes, it is!"
The two children argued back and forth for another moment, as Lyarra came to a frightening realization. They would not come out of this confrontation unscathed. The Lannisters would not allow them to. Cersei called Sansa in at that moment, asking her to recount what had occurred. Sansa, just as she had before, avoided the question — her voice timid, as she only stared forward at the King. She claimed that she hadn't remembered, that she didn't know what had happened. That was all it took for Arya to retaliate, pulling on her sister's furs.
"She's as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished."
As the group continued to argue, Robert spoke up once again. Eddard was to discipline Arya privately, while he tended to Joffrey on his own. Just as she had gone to make her retreat, pushing Arya in front of her — Cersei spoke up once more.
"And what of the direwolf? What of the beast that savaged your son?"
If they were lucky, Nymeria had fled into the night. The Lannister guard confirmed as much, telling the King that they caught no sign of the beast. Before Lyarra could allow herself a breath of relief, the Queen had another thought.
"We have another wolf."
Within a beat, Lyarra's heart ran cold. Lady. The Lannisters intended to have Lady killed, due to Nymeria's defense of Arya. Sansa began to tremble once more, leaning heavily into her aunt's side. Before she could stop herself, she pulled the girl against her — doing her best to muffle her cries.
"He doesn't mean Lady, does he? No, no, not Lady! Lady didn't bite anyone! She's good!" Sansa cried into her furs, as Arya came to her defense — arguing that Lady shouldn't be punished. Cersei had made up her mind, however, requesting that Ilyn Payne tend to the wolf. Eddard spoke up then, halting the man's motions. He looked to Lyarra then, nodding to his daughters.
"Jory, Lyarra. Take the girls to their rooms." He grumbled, resigned to do the deed himself. "If it must be done, then I'll do it myself." With that, he made his way out-- head bowed low. Jory moved to heed Ned's wishes, taking Arya in arm, before noticing that Lyarra hadn't budged. She pulled herself from Sansa then, kissing her forehead as she followed her brother — gesturing for Jory to watch over the girls.
Eddard hadn't been difficult to catch up to, and Lyarra held no doubt that he was stalling to avoid what was to come. As she stepped towards him, his expression wasn't one of surprise — rather, defeat.
"You don't need to see this. You should be with the girls. They need you right now, more than I do." Ned muttered, though his tone held no sense of expectancy. He knew she didn't intend to budge, and only moved further towards the kennels. As they trudged down the path, they took note of the man approaching them — horse at his side, something slung over the creature. Sandor hadn't done more than raise a brow upon sight of her, but he stalled in the slightest. Across the horse laid a body, one coated in blood — with thick slashes down its body. It could only belong to one person, Lyarra came to realize in horror.
"The butcher's boy, you rode him down?" Eddard's voice wavered, disgust evident in his glare. Sandor paused then, facing the two — though he only met Lyarra's gaze. She willed herself to feel something other than fear, but nothing came. She wasn't sure what she as afraid of, in that moment. However, she was oddly certain it wasn't Sandor. She'd never seen a body before, especially not that of a child's. But she knew of what it meant to honor duty. To know you must follow something, though you did not want to do it. Lyarra had heard of 'The Hound'. Of the Sandor Clegane that could slice a grown man in half with only the flick of his blade. She wasn't certain that she'd met him, until that very moment.
"He ran. Not very fast." With that, Sandor shot another look her away — before pulling away with the horse in tow. Lyarra willed her feet to move, after that, doing her best to ignore the trembling within her figure. Eddard had glanced over at her, once he was certain the man was out of sight — but she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.
Once they'd reached the kennels, Lyarra could hardly hold back her gasp. There, Lady sat, bright as a first snow — with wide eyes, tail wagging once she took note of the two familiar faces. She had half the mind to release the beast, as Arya had. But she knew better. They hadn't found the last wolf. This time, they wouldn't settle without seeing its corpse.
Lyarra crouched beside Lady, as Eddard approached her from behind. She could hardly hold back her tears, as she caressed the animal's fur. Lady came to lay beside her, looking up at her with love that could only be found in an animal. Ned made quick work of the blade, and with a whine — she was gone. She rose then, taking note of Eddard's solemn expression, before making her way back to the inn.
Her feet carried her to the tavern, and she perched herself on a stool — throwing coin in the vague direction of a worker, before she could stop herself. Sleep would evade her, and if she returned to her room now — she'd find one of her nieces, inconsolable. The thought made her heart heavy, but she knew all too well that she was not sober enough for the night ahead. Before her drink came, a heavy lump took a seat beside her. There, Sandor sat, blood still coating his cheeks. Had Lyarra not been as exhausted as she was, the sight itself would have disgusted her. Instead, she raised her thumb to his cheek — determinedly ignoring his sharp flinch at her approach, as she wiped the blood from him. As he adjusted himself, leaning closer to her by only an inch, Lyarra couldn't help her own flinch.
"You frightened of me now, Little Wolf?" The name forced painful memories through her head. Memories that she'd been doing her best to forget. Instead, she grimaced — her drink being placed beside her at that moment. She took a swig of the ale, cringing at its bitter flavor.
"I've seen worse than the likes of you. Takes more than a little blood to scare me." Lyarra admitted, avoiding his gaze — though she could feel the heat of it. He only rasped out a noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. When she had glanced over at him, he'd been staring down at his gauntlets — furiously wiping what appeared to be another stain of blood. "In fact, I'd say I'm more frightened with myself now — than anything." As Sandor ripped his stare away from his armor, raising a brow at her words — she continued.
"I cried when we put down Lady. As if she were my own flesh and blood. And yet, just before— when I saw the butcher's boy," Lyarra paused then, forcing a name to come to her lips, "Mycah. When I saw him, I froze. I didn't cry. I didn't feel much of anything, beyond fear." Sandor was silent for a moment, taking her words in with a swig of his own drink. Wine, she assumed. She'd only seen the man drink wine, in all this time.
"Dogs are honest creatures," Wolves, she corrected in her head, though she made no move to speak. "'S why I like 'em. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you in the face." He paused then, his fingers outstretched as if he itched to remove his armor. "If it's anyone's fault, it's your idiot fucking' brother. Who the fuck' brings a wolf the size of three-men-combined to King's Landing? Let alone two."
Lyarra allowed herself to laugh, as she considered the man's words. Ned permitted the girls to bring their wolves, partially because he didn't want them to be alone — but also because he knew well enough they wouldn't be able to be cared for back home. If only she'd argued against it. In the back of her mind, she thought of what it would have been like for Jon. He would've fought to the death for Ghost, no doubt. He would've stepped in front of a blade himself, before he allowed it to be brought down on the wolf's head. The thought made her shudder, and Sandor sent her another curious glance before she drank down the remainder of her ale.
She stood then, wobbling on her two feet — before bumping into the figure beside her. It was only after a moment that she'd realized Sandor had placed two hands on her, steadying her so that she wouldn't fall again. His expression held a vague hint of amusement within it, though he steeled himself — light fading just as quickly as it had appeared.
"Seven hells, woman. You need me to fucking' carry you again?" He grumbled, moving to pick her up by her waist — but she quickly shot out a hand to stop him. Lyarra gestured only for him to help her to the door, and the two paused once the moon hit their faces. Just before they reached the rooms of the inn, Lyarra stopped — Sandor shooting an arm out in order to keep himself in place, after her sudden movement.
"We won't be safe in King's Landing, will we?" She questioned quietly, her eyes turned to him — seeking something, though she was not certain what it was. Comfort? Reassurance? He only paused, moving to grasp onto her shoulder with familiarity she was not certain she deserved.
"I'll keep you safe, Little Wolf." He promised, moving her forward then before she could say much else. She turned to thank him properly once they had reached her room, but by the time she had the chance — he was gone. Lyarra only frowned for a moment, before barging her way in. She regretted her loud entrance after only a second, as she noticed Sansa curled into her bed. The red-head shot up at the sound of the door opening, and Lyarra couldn't help but wince at her expression. The girl was exhausted, no doubt. She made her way to her quickly, laying beside her as she pulled Sansa to her chest.
"She's going to hate me forever, isn't she?" The girl questioned, voice only slightly muffled by the fur. Lyarra paused as she considered the question. Arya was stubborn, and likely would march around for the next few days — even weeks, claiming that she despised her sister. That Sansa was evil, and she never wanted to see her again. She only brushed Sansa's hair back, curling her finger around the smaller locks near her ear.
"She'll come to understand why you did what you did. When she's older." Lyarra felt the girl's tears start to build again, and with a comforting hush she held her tighter. Eventually, Sansa's breath started to even — sleep overtaking her. Lyarra did not dare move, and instead only pulled the furs tighter around the two of them. She did not know what the future had in store for them, let alone in King's Landing. She couldn't promise to keep the Stark girls safe. Not with lions breathing down their neck. All she could do was try to care for them the best she was able to.
So. Then that happened. This has been one of my shorter chapters actually.. Weird. Not a lot happened in this. Besides... everything I guess. Never mind. Maybe so much happened that it feels like nothing happened?? Idk... Anyways.
More Sandor & Lyarra scenes! Yay! I will warn you all now that this will be.. very much a slow-burn. More slow than burn. But they will have many more interactions from now on. Sandor is intrigued by Lyarra, especially since she didn't shy away from him after the whole .. 'Mycah' incident.
In other news, Jaime is still being weird! Ig that happens when you sleep with your sister... Alright buddy. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, feel free to leave any comments you have!
Between raising two children, training to become a better swordsman, and managing her duties as a lady — Lyarra had very little time to herself. If she wasn't with one of her own, she was looking after one of the other Stark children for Eddard and Catelyn. Since Gogni's death, she hadn't once left Winterfell. Even traveling down that train of thought had her seizing with fear. Instead, she spent her nights practicing her work with a blade.
Reyne was seemingly growing taller by the minute. Her blonde locks reached down to her belly button by now, with similarly blonde lashes — almost a mirror image of the red-haired boy from years before. Initially, her appearance had caused a stir within the castle. Eddard had questioned her ceaselessly, but Lyarra never answered any of his inquiries. Similarly to when he had returned with Jon, she only told him that she couldn't answer him truthfully — pleading with him to not ask her to do so. Eventually, the man conceded. His wife did no such thing, however Lyarra paid her no mind. Reyne would be raised under Lyarra's care. In her eyes, she was a Stark — but neither she nor Jon would ever be able to take the name. Once she was old enough, it was decided that she would be given a job as a handmaiden. Lyarra argued that Reyne should be treated as her own daughter, and that she should not have to work to stay — but she had pushed her luck far enough already, and Eddard wouldn't do much more than blink at her. She had no Stark blood within her, unlike Jon.
The two were thick as thieves from the moment that Lyarra brought her home. The gap between the two was minimal, and it was evident in the way they treated one another as equals. Jon quickly accepted Reyne as his family, as she did with him. It was oddly reminiscent of Lyarra's own relationship with Benjen, and the thought forced a bittersweet feeling to course through her. Benjen had returned only thrice now, and each time he waited at the gate for Jon to come running. He'd accepted Reyne into his heart as easily as Jon had, and had taken to picking the girl up and spinning her each time he saw her. As much as seeing her brother overjoyed Lyarra, she couldn't help the beat of trepidation each time she watched him speak with Jon. More than once now, he'd brought up the Night's Watch to her. He was still too young to be a member now, a thought that calmed her ever-so-slightly, but one could see his own anticipation building. He wanted to be like his Uncle Benjen, and Lyarra couldn't fault him for that — but that didn't make dealing with the fact any easier.
While Lyarra was glad to see Jon have a friend — have family, even — other than Robb, it was growing increasingly evident that he wasn't any less of an outsider. He still longed to be Ned's true-born son, something that conflicted, as well as saddened her in equal measure. She viewed Jon as her own, and had since the moment he'd been placed in her arms. She knew in her heart that he wasn't hers, but to see him long to be someone else's entirely was not an easy thing for her to accept. Lyarra did her best to appease to her brother, coaxing him into allowing Jon into more familial settings. While Jon was never allowed to sit by the family at feasts, she herself would place herself next to him. It was torturous for Lyarra, watching the boy so desperately try to be a part of a family that he wasn't made for.
Beyond Jon and Theon, Lyarra was not particularly close with any of the Stark children. They were her kin, so she had always had love for them. But, she'd never struck a proper bond with the rest. Robb was too eager, a trait that only Jon had been able to match. Oftentimes when the two sparred, she would stand at Theon's side — critiquing their form. Robb had brushed off her advice more than once, but Jon would always correct himself — listening to each word. Sansa, from the moment she was born, was meant to be a lady. She welcomed the fact with pride, something that Lyarra herself had never been able to do. Within a few years, it had been decided that Reyne would be her handmaiden. Initially, the two hadn't gotten along-- which came as no surprise to Lyarra, considering Sansa's other relationships with the 'help'. But overtime, the two grew closer than she'd expected. Sansa hadn't seem to have accepted Reyne into the family by any means, but the two were good friends — close enough that she allowed Reyne to travel with her wherever they went.
It wasn't until the birth of Arya, that Lyarra found herself developing a true bond with one of the Stark children. Arya was the brasher, more cunning version of Lyanna Stark. There was a boundless list of similarities between the two, and yet Lyarra still felt as if she had never met someone like Arya. From the moment she was old enough, she wanted to learn to swing a blade. Jon had been hesitant, afraid of causing her any kind of harm — but Lyarra was more than willing.
Initially, Eddard had advised against it. He and Catelyn knew that Arya was also meant to be a lady of the court. Yet, in true fashion, Lyarra did nothing to heed his words. She only agreed to not allow Arya a true sword, instead promising to teach her with a wooden blade. Additionally, the two only ever practiced at night — just before Arya was meant to take herself to bed. Sometimes Jon would oversee their movements, chiming in to assist his sister. Other times, Eddard would watch from a distance — smiling softly in his own secretive way that Lyarra had come to know all too well.
Arya, similar to Robb, had never seemed to look at Jon differently for being a 'bastard.' The day that she'd learned what it meant, she had laughed in Lyarra's face. In her eyes, Jon was her brother — whether they shared the same mother, or no.
Catelyn, however, was a complicated figure. Lyarra sympathized with the woman, and tried to reach out to her more than once after the death of Brandon. Initially it had seemed as if Lyarra's connection with Jon had established resentment within Catelyn, however the woman did her best to maintain a connection between the two. More often than not, she would request Lyarra's assistance with the children — even if just to sit with her while she watched them. Lyarra longed to be closer with her, even if just to have a sister again. But their differences were too great. Again, she couldn't help but wonder how different things would have been if she had married Edmure Tully as she was meant to.
The birth of Brandon 'Bran' Stark served to surprise Lyarra further. The boy was even more adventurous than she had been at his age, often climbing whatever it was that he could find. She had half the heart to tell him of the clearing beyond the woods, before thinking better of it. Bran, who was hardly reminiscent of his namesake, had come to Lyarra more than once in the middle of the night — as if he knew he wouldn't be waking her from her slumber. He'd spend hours asking her about the world that she knew, asking her to tell him anything she could think of. Lyarra would spin her own stories more often than not, but there were a few times that she would tell the boy of the tales she'd heard with the Free Folk. Since she had fled from the camp, Lyarra never once mentioned any of their names. She wouldn't speak of any of it, not even to Reyne. When Bran had questioned where she'd heard the 'story of a man who had suckled at the teat of a Giant', Lyarra only shrugged — pushing him out of her chambers with a light smile.
More often than not, Jon had found himself in her chambers as of late as well. His nightmares had been more frequent than ever, resulting in him pounding on her door in the middle of the night. By the third time it'd happened, Lyarra had learned to leave her door open a fraction — if only to save herself from the harrowing sound of his loud knocking. Every night since Jon could remember, he dreamt of a girl with hair so blonde it could've been white — with eyes of a violet hue, and a snow-white complexion. In Jon's eyes, it didn't appear to be a dream — on either side. The girl had seemed to notice him as well, though she never told him her name. Lyarra had never heard of someone sharing dreams, and had half the mind to question Maester Luwin — if not for Jon begging for her secrecy. He did not want the girl to go away, as if he was scared of what it meant.
The Stark children had seemed to age at a speed beyond Lyarra's control. Before she knew it, Bran was standing tall at her hip — with Robb and Jon towering over her. Even Sansa had almost reached her in stature by now, though Arya seemed to have no such luck.
Lyarra watched from the stone window of her chambers, as the boys helped Brandon nock his arrows. Eddard and Catelyn were also watching from the platform above the group, and she observed as they had warm smiles of their own. Each time, Bran had missed. Lyarra herself had never been proficient with a bow, but the boy barely reached the target itself. Jon, unsurprisingly, stepped forward to assist the boy each time — recommending a different approach whenever Brandon had missed.
She couldn't make out what Jon had said to the boy due to their distance, but when they both turned back to glance at her — Lyarra couldn't help but shoot the boy a supportive grin. Jon matched it with one of his own, patting Bran on the back as the boy turned to the target once more. Again, the boy missed after a moment — and chuckles echoed through the courtyard. Just barely, Lyarra could hear Eddard admonishing the boys — and couldn't help but let out a laugh of her own.
Just as she had begun to settle down, Lyarra watched as an arrow met its mark — finally reaching the center of the target. She'd gone to clap instantly, before noticing the arrow still nocked in Bran's bow. From her spot, she couldn't see where the shot had come from — but after Jon's laugh echoed through the yard again, she could just barely make out Arya's retreating figure, with Bran on her tail.
Lyarra took the chance to make her way down to the yard then, as she watched Ned move from his spot on the platform. Jon hadn't moved an inch, and instead he was cleaning up after the other boys — as Robb was removing the arrows from the target. Lyarra placed her hand on the boy's shoulder, gently notifying him of her presence.
"You saw that, then?" Jon laughed, shaking his head as he replaced the arrows in the basket. Lyarra grinned, watching as the other Stark boys began to argue in the distance. Just barely, she could still make out Arya running in the distance — Bran not far behind her.
"It was hard to miss." Lyarra admitted after a moment, tilting her head as she felt eyes burning into her. There, still above the two on the platform, stood Catelyn. Her glare towards the boy was sharp, the hate within her eyes evident. In an instant, Jon seemed to shrink in on himself. Before she could allow herself to do much else, Lyarra smiled at the woman above them — attempting to placate her nerves. Catelyn, remembering herself, did seem to calm at that — even shooting Lyarra a timid smile of her own, before she marched off.
Lyarra rarely observed her brother's executions, so it came as no surprise when she'd only pulled Jon's furs tighter around him — before stomping off to find the girls. After Arya's stunt earlier, she was nowhere to be seen — but she was able to spot Reyne and Sansa together, as they were sewing something for Septa Mordane. Reyne's smile was instant, while Sansa's eyes only slightly brightened at her arrival.
"Ah, my Lady! You must see Lady Sansa's work. It's simply beautiful. The stitching is near perfect, wouldn't you say?" Septa Mordane clasped her hands as she spoke, the cheerfulness in her tone almost sickening. Lyarra couldn't bring herself to do much more than nod, as she placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder. She'd never been very good at sewing herself, a fact that Old Nan had often criticized her for — but she did have to admit, her work was appealing. She stood there for only a moment longer, placing a kiss on the foreheads of the two girls — before she made her way through the castle.
Lyarra had only just made her way back to the yard before she just barely made out the sound of light footsteps. She willed herself to be silent, only taking a short breath before she reached her hand out — plucking the girl up by her furs. Arya grunted, legs swinging wildly in the air. She yelled for the woman to put her down, and after another fit of laughs Lyarra conceded. She was met with Arya's frustrated grin, a sight that only further amused her.
"That's no fair! You're twice my height, and then some. You don't see me kicking your ankles when you walk by, do you?" Arya's complaints were half-nonsense, as she grumbled to herself. Lyarra leaned back to watch the girl ramble in amusement. It was true, the action was unnecessary — and yet each time she had the opportunity, she found herself repeating it. Brandon was too large for her to successfully pick him up any more, which left only Arya for her to terrorize — as Rickon would cry each time she'd tried.
"You're good with a bow. I didn't know you'd been practicing." Came Lyarra's reply after she'd wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. Arya reeled from the sudden topic change, as her arms came to cross themselves across her defensively.
"Only when Bran leaves his behind." Arya muttered out, foot still swinging beneath her as she stomped. Lyarra's heart warmed at the sentiment. Had Bran left his bow out and Eddard noticed, the boy would have been admonished to no end. They were taught to have greater respect for their belongings. Arya knew this all too well, and took the opportunity to help both her brother and herself.
The two were interrupted, then, by the sound of the gate creaking open. They made their way to the crowd together, only pausing when they noticed the creatures in the boys hands. Each one held a wolf pup — a direwolf, she'd later come to know. While they were gone, they'd come upon a litter of pups — and Jon, she'd been told, was the one to suggest that each Stark child had one of their own. Robb had named his Grey-Wind, Sansa named her lady, Arya— Nymeria, Brandon— Summer, Rickon— Shaggydog, while Jon named his Ghost. Reyne had been delighted at the sight of the pup, and dashed forward to see him. At that, Ghost had almost cowered further into Jon's arms. From that day on, Jon rarely went anywhere without Ghost at his side. If he had to leave him behind for any reason, Lyarra was likely the one watching him. Reyne took the opportunity to visit more than once, normally when Sansa was at her lessons.
The death of Jon Arryn came suddenly, without warning. Lyarra hadn't known the man well, but she knew of her brother's love for him. She admired the man for protecting her brother — as well as the King — with honor. She'd been beside Eddard at the weirwood tree, when Catelyn had approached. Lyarra had come to the same spot with Eddard more than once, after an execution, as he took the time to collect his thoughts as well as himself. She would never say anything, choosing only to relish her time outside of the castle itself. As Catelyn stepped forward, Lyarra turned herself in the slightest to give the two more space.
"All these years and I still feel like an outsider when I come here," She'd heard, observing as Catelyn stared wondrously at the tree. She knew the feeling all too well. Although she was a Stark, through and through, she'd felt like an outsider every day of her life. Unlike Catelyn, however, this was one of the only places that she'd felt as if she did belong.
"You have five northern children, you're not an outsider." Came Eddard's eventual reply. After that, Lyarra did her best to tune the two out. She had no part in their talks, and that much was apparent. She pulled her furs tighter around herself, sharpening her own blade as Eddard cleaned his. Lyarra only properly tuned back in, once she'd observed brother's sorrow — silent, but clear as day in the way his brow had pinched. Jon Arryn was dead. Though she'd only remembered Lysa Arryn as the girl who had glared at her in Riverrun, she was thankful to hear that the woman and her boy were alright.
The brunt of the news came after. This time, Catelyn spoke to the two equally — meeting Lyarra's eyes with a gaze filled with sorrow of her own. The King, alongside his family, was riding to Winterfell. With the death of the hand, that could only mean one thing. The realization hadn't seemed to dawn on Ned, as he was too conflicted by his own emotions. Robert was Eddard's best friend, and despite his connection with Lyanna — he had never cared for the man any less. Lyarra, however, despised the man. Since the death of her sister, he'd only become worse in his own grief. The King was known as a drunk with a harsh temper. He married Cersei Lannister not long after the death of Lyanna, and within a few years they'd had their own litter of children.
"If he's coming this far North, there's only one thing he's after." Ned trailed off, staring into the reflection of his sword rather than meeting the gaze of the two women beside him. Lyarra met Catelyn's eyes warily, a fraction of her own fear reminiscent of the other woman's eyes.
"You don't have to agree, Ned." Lyarra all but whispered, as Catelyn had muttered her own words of agreement. The thought of her brother leaving to King's Landing, as Brandon had — as their father had, had her gut churning.
Once they had returned to the castle, Lyarra made her way to Jon within an instant. He'd been perched on a barrel, laughing as Theon demonstrated something vulgar with Robb. She'd seen this same act repeated between the boys more than once. Theon was the oldest of the group, and as such he felt obligated to teach the boys what he knew — more specifically, about the ways of women. When Lyarra had reached the group, she watched as Robb placed his hands on Theon's waist — leaning him towards the ground as if he meant to kiss him. They only stopped when Lyarra let out a light cough, raising her brow at their antics. Robb yanked Theon up with a laugh, patting Jon's back before he walked off. Theon, however, stood there for a moment — wobbling as if he couldn't stand properly. Lyarra could hardly hold back her laughter, as the boy's face was beet red. Robb called after him not long after, and she finally let out a chuckle once she noticed the speed Theon had chased after him. Jon only shook his head before he turned to face her properly
"I didn't mean to interrupt your fun," Lyarra posed the statement as a question, her brow still raised as she observed Jon's expression. He only shrugged, letting out a laugh of his own.
"I promise you, I wasn't the one having fun there." Lyarra couldn't help but agree, as she leaned against a post to look at the boy. Jon was unlike most boys his age. He never spoke of women, and when he did it was never in the way that Theon had. He seemed more interested in them as a concept, than as something to chase after.
"The King is riding for Winterfell. With his family." She told him after a moment, raising her elbows to place herself on a barrel of her own. Jon's eyes widened a bit, but he nodded all the same. He had never met the royal family, a fact that Lyarra herself had been thankful for. Beyond the color of his eyes, Jon appeared to be Lyanna's mirror-image. She could only imagine Robert's reaction when he saw him for the first time.
"You don't sound excited." Jon raised his own eyebrow at her then, tilting his head as if he didn't understand her intentions. Lyarra only shrugged, kicking her foot now that she had a bit of leverage.
"Can't say I have much reason to be. I'll look forward to when they leave, and I no longer have Catelyn up my arse' every minute of every day." Jon's laughter was hesitant, as if he was afraid the woman in question would hear. Lyarra, however, paid that no mind. She spoke freely, a fact that had landed her in trouble more than once. Before she could say another word, a snap of a twig echoed around them — and within a moment, a head of blonde hair timidly approached. Reyne, once noticing who the two were, noticeably relaxed — coming to stand by the two with a light smile of her own.
"What are they like? The Lannisters?" Reyne asked timidly, clutching the ends of her sleeves with her fingers. Lyarra paused at the question, thinking it over. She'd only ever truly met Jaime, and that was years prior. Now, he was a member of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard. She'd only seen Cersei from a distance, and had never even met the notorious 'imp' of the family.
"I suppose we'll all find out in the days to come. Now, off to bed with the both of you. We'll all have duties to attend to in the morning, and staying up until the sun rises won't make it any easier." With that, she placed a light kiss on their heads — before making her way to her own chambers. Lyarra did her best to not think the worst, but she dreaded the days to come. If Robert had his way, her brother would be leaving with the family by the end of their visit — no doubt with one of his children in tow. The thought only further sickened Lyarra, and she was only able to escape it once she shut her eyes — a feather pillow harshly placed over head to drown out the light.
The day of the King's arrival came all too soon. Throughout the morning she had been at Ghost's side, marveling at the size of the wolf. It'd only been a few weeks, and yet he was half her size. In the back of her mind, it reminded her of how quickly Jon grew. She only left the beast be when she heard Eddard calling for her. The family lined themselves up, standing in wait by the front gate. Lyarra herself stood on Catelyn's left. If she peaked past the two beside her, she could see Robb, followed by Sansa and Bran. Behind her stood Jory, Theon, and Jon. She longed to be at her boy's side, but Lyarra stood solemnly all the same. Just behind the two boys, she could see Reyne peaking over the crowd. Jon shifted, allowing her to see past him, and the sight brought a smile to her lips before she could control herself. After a moment Arya came barreling through with a helmet on her head. The girl's antics forced a reluctant chuckle from Lyarra's lips, though she was silenced with a glare from Catelyn.
Rickon bristled beside her as the riders approached the family, and Lyarra couldn't help but place a comforting hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. She noticed first, that the King wasn't leading the line. An unsurprising fact, but it left Lyarra to scan over those she could see. In the front was a member of the Kingsguard, though she couldn't see beyond the helmet to further look over who exactly it could be. Behind him, rode a blonde boy — too proud to be anyone other than the prince. Joffrey, then, she decided. Catelyn had described the members of their traveling party in length, and Lyarra only forced herself to listen in order to relay the information to Reyne.
The moment she looked beyond the Prince, Lyarra's breath caught in her throat. Catelyn glanced at her in concern, but she only waved the woman off. There, rode a man with chain-mail armor — with a helm resembling some sort of beast. As he opened his helm in the slightest, Lyarra found herself leaning forward to observe what was underneath it. She was only broken out of her stupor by the sudden movement beside her, as Catelyn tugged her sleeve down to kneel with the rest of the family. King Robert approached then, climbing off of his horse with a hefty grunt.
His stomps could be heard from inside the castle, Lyarra thought to herself. Once Robert motioned for them to stand, Lyarra was the first on her feet. He'd glanced over at her in that moment, eyes widening as he scanned over her features. She had met with Robert a handful of times now, and each time he would pause as if he thought she truly was Lyanna. He seemingly shook himself out of his own shock then, as he only turned back to her brother with a glare.
"You've got fat," Robert claimed after a beat of silence. Eddard only raised his brow, motioning towards the man himself. After another moment of quiet, the two laughed between themselves — hugging with joy that could only be found in reuniting with a loved one. Robert made his way to Catelyn then, pulling her close as well, as if the two were good friends. He paused when he came to stand in front of Lyarra, his smile slipping off of his face — making way for something uncertain. Lyarra forced a grin to tug at the corner of her lips, moving to curtsy in a way unbecoming of herself.
"Your Grace," She greeted, voice tight as she did her best to appear jovial. Robert moved to hug her then, his arms snug around her waist as she was forced to lean into his furs.
"Ah, Lyarra. As beautiful as ever." Lyarra could hardly hold back the flash of disgust that bled through her, but she held her head high as ever. The man moved from her then, ruffling Rickon's hair before standing beside the other children. She'd glanced back at Jon, meeting his worried glance with a smile that she could only hope was convincing.
As a woman with hair as blonde as the mane of a Lion stepped out of the carriage, Lyarra realized then that she could only be one person. Cersei Lannister. Her features were all too similar to that of Jaime's, though she could only vaguely recall them. She was beautiful, and carried herself in a way that Lyarra was certain she knew it. After a moment, more children climbed out as well. They all appeared to be smaller copies of herself, none even slightly resembling Robert Baratheon's round features. True lions, Lyarra thought to herself. She watched as the King made his way through the other Stark children, greeting them each with separate comments.
She only stopped when the Kingsguard from before reached to remove his helmet, releasing a pile of golden locks. In an instant, Lyarra knew it was Jaime Lannister. He'd grown ten-fold since last she'd seen him, and yet his eyes were just as youthful as they had been before. She found herself growing concerned on whether he would recognize her — or even remember her, for that matter — after all this time. Her concerns were only buried when he met her eyes from across the yard, his gaze sparkling with familiarity. She smiled at him then, eyes conveying a message that only he could understand. Similar to before, amusement flooded into his expression as he communicated with her through glances alone. All at once, he shut himself off — moving to stand behind the Queen, as Cersei turned to look in confusion. Following her brother's gaze, she met Lyarra's eyes with distrust. Lyarra forced herself to smile at the woman, doing her best to not shrink at her intensity. This seemed to do nothing to placate her, however she approached nonetheless.
Cersei held out an expectant hand to Eddard, as he leaned to kiss her hand. With the woman distracted, Lyarra turned to catch Jaime's gaze again — but he was all-too focused on the ground beneath him. She had no doubt that she wouldn't get the chance to even speak with him until later. Cersei came to stand in front of her then, moving into her line of sight with another curious glance.
"My queen," She greeted, curtsying as Catelyn had. Cersei lingered for a moment, scanning over Lyarra in a way that only further discomforted the woman. After a moment, she'd stepped away — giving Lyarra the chance to take a breath. She took the time to search for the man with the beast-shaped helm again, furrowing her brow as she came to notice that he was already looking at her. She held his gaze for a moment too long. He seemed familiar, in a way that she could not quite decipher. Lyarra was certain she hadn't met the man before, and yet his eyes glimmered in a way that she knew all too well. Before she had the chance to further investigate the man, she was interrupted by her brother stepping away from the group.
She shot him an inquisitive look, bordering on concern, but Eddard only smiled back at her — in a way that had not truly met his eyes. Lyarra took a breath then, choosing to listen in on the conversations beside her.
"Where's the imp?" She overheard Arya questioning, her tone expectant as if she had asked the same thing only minutes prior. Lyarra was seemingly not the only one who'd heard, as Cersei then turned to ask Jaime of his whereabouts. He shot Lyarra another quick look before he turned. She took the opportunity to glance over at Jon and Reyne, who almost stood side by side now. Theon, who had previously been at Jon's side, stood just behind Robb. Catelyn shot the two boys wary looks, but they seemed to pay her no mind. Once the group had begun to disperse, Lyarra quickly moved to Jon's side.
The rest of her night was spent preparing for the feast. While most ladies often had a handmaiden to take care of them — and ready them for most occasions, Lyarra had all but refused one. Instead, if she did need any help she would often ask for Reyne's assistance alone. Tonight in particular had been one of those nights. While the girl was braiding Lyarra's hair, Jon sat in the corner — perched on her dresser.
"D'you know Ser Jaime?" Jon questioned after a moment, twirling a dagger in his fingers. The inquiry gave Lyarra pause, and she glanced over at the boy with a raised brow.
"I knew him when we were children, yes. But it's been many years since we last spoke. Why do you ask?" She leaned back, wincing as Reyne tugged on the front of her hair. She liked to avoid these intricate designs when she had the chance, but Catelyn had all but demanded that everyone dress 'properly' for their guests.
"He's sort of beautiful." Jon whispered, trailing off as if he hadn't realized he spoke at all. At Lyarra's inquisitive glance, he grunted — sitting up and placing the dagger beside him. "In the way that all Knights are, I mean. He looks like he fell out of one of Bran's stories."
Lyarra couldn't help the laugh that followed. When she'd first seen Jaime, she'd traveled down a similar train of thought. It was hard to picture a man more perfect than Jaime Lannister. However, when she thought of the man there was far from attraction in her mind. She adored him, but not in the way that she'd felt for Gogni — nor Petyr, for that matter. Still, he was difficult to look away from.
"You were right the first time, I think. He's beautiful." Reyne whispered, curling her hands around Lyarra's locks wistfully. With a sharp look, she returned to her previous movements. Jon's response was an audible chuckle, one that was only interrupted by the distant sound of Catelyn shouting after one of her children. Lyarra sat up then, pulling her furs tighter around herself. She was adorned with a white fur pelt, a red gown trailing down her figure. Jon solemnly nodded as he moved to open the door for her. Jon wasn't to attend the feast at all, while Reyne was not to leave Sansa's side. As they approached the hall, Lyarra paused to kiss Jon's forehead — before entering with Reyne at her side. She took her seat beside Eddard, while Reyne was placed next to Sansa.
The feast itself passed agonizingly slow, as Lyarra had no choice but to mingle with guests. The man with the beast-shaped helm from earlier was nowhere to be found, a fact that only further suited to disappoint her. As she watched Eddard pour himself another drink, her heart only lightened when she heard a familiar voice.
"You two at a feast.." Benjen announced his presence, "It's like a bear in a trap." The sight of her brother instantly filled Lyarra with joy, and she could hardly hold herself back as she jumped into the man's arms. With a grunt, he picked her up with just as much fervor. He only pulled back to pat Ned on the back, before he slung an arm around Lyarra's shoulder.
Rather than meet Benjen with the same level of enthusiasm, Eddard had only forced a light — almost unnoticeable smile, on his lips. Within a moment, he was describing the beheading from earlier. Lyarra allowed herself to tune the two men out, taking the opportunity to peak over her brother's arm and gaze at the crowd. In the center was the King, with a woman on his lap. Beside him, men were cheering — arm in arm.
"Direwolves south of the wall, talk of the walkers, and my brother might be the next Hand to the king." Lyarra allowed herself a light laugh, leaning further into Benjen's arm as he trailed on. "Winter is coming." He'd finished, watching in amusement was Ned let out a laugh of his own.
"Winter is coming." Both she and Eddard repeated, nodding solemnly as the familiar words of their house poured from their lips. She'd said the same words so many times that Lyarra was convinced they'd lost their meaning, but they still held a weight in her chest each time. It was only when Robb approached to greet Benjen, that Lyarra allowed herself to slink away from her brothers.
The bite of the cold air was a welcoming gift as she snuck out of the hall. Lyarra perched herself on a bench, watching as the men walked the ramparts. She'd half expected Jon to be out here when she arrived, but the thought that he'd taken an early night to himself wasn't altogether surprising either. Instead, she relished the chance for comfortable silence — until, of course, that was broken by a sharp voice.
"Ah! The Lady Lyarra Stark. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. The stories do not do you justice, I must say." In truth, Lyarra was growing quite sick of golden-haired men. As the man approached her, she took notice of his stature. There was only one person he could be, due to his height alone.
"You must be Lord Tyrion, then?" She'd greeted, clasping her hands together on the wooden table to capture a bit of warmth. As he came closer, he'd taken her greeting as a warm welcome, placing himself on the bench across from her.
"My, is it that obvious?" He'd questioned, mock-offense littering his tone. For the first time in hours, Lyarra found herself struggling not to grin.
"All you Lannisters have the same hair. It's harder not to point you out." Sarcasm was heavy in her words, and she found herself longing for a drink to hide her smile in. As if he sensed her thought, Tyrion offered his cup of wine — presenting it as if he no longer wanted it. She had half the heart to wave him off, before she'd nodded and took it from his hands.
"Oh, of course. The hair! Not the 'impish' bits, at all."
"I've seen shorter." Lyarra admitted, shrugging as she took another sip of the wine. Her words brought an honest cackle out of the man, loud enough that she had to struggle not to startle where she sat. After she'd calmed, she found a giggle building its way in her chest.
"You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
Lyarra only guffawed at his words, glancing longingly down at the now-empty cup of wine. As Tyrion noticed her now solemn state, he let out his own roar of laughter. Within minutes, the two were leaning against the table with tears in their eyes.
"You two sound like a couple of fucking' drunks." A voice called out, then, harsh stomps following. It sounded distantly familiar, yet it was harsher than anything she'd heard in years. Lyarra forced herself to look up, taking in the large man's form. It was the man from earlier, who now only carried the helm in the crevice of his arm. Due to the lack of light in the yard, she couldn't properly see his face.
"Takes a drunk to know a drunk, Clegane." Tyrion's words shot a chill through Lyarra's body, and although the effects of the liquor began to take hold of her — she forced her eyes to narrow on the man's features. The name Clegane was familiar, forcing Lyarra to return back to years prior. To Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal. She remembers the fear in her heart as Gregor Clegane approached her, and then the overwhelming relief as she was saved by a smaller boy. One with burns littering his cheek, and eyes that appeared to stare back at her in this very moment. The man in front of her was the boy she'd been longing to find all throughout the tourney, Lyarra realized suddenly. The thought was almost sobering, but his glare was enough to muddle her brain.
The man before her seemed harsher than the boy who had come to her aid. His glare was heavy, though if she looked close enough — into the light of familiarity she had seen before in his eyes, she could see his own youth peaking through the cracks. Lyarra couldn't help the smile that came to her lips, as relief at finally finding the boy after years flooded through her. Her expression seemed to only further worry the man, and she only looked away when Tyrion coughed expectantly.
"And, as a drunk, I can say with confidence that it would appear that our lady is rather inebriated. Would you mind?" Lyarra could distantly make out, as she rested her temple against the cool wood of the table. She'd felt so many emotions within the past few moments that it was hard to hold back her exhaustion now, and she felt sleep over coming her. Before her eyes could properly shut, she felt herself being raised into the air — pressed against someone's chest. The chain-mail pressing into her sent chills through her body, and Lyarra found herself leaning into the warmth of whoever had been carrying her.
Distantly, she noticed the familiar feeling of her quilts, as she was seemingly placed within her bed. Just as quickly as the warmth had arrived, it disappeared. Lyarra was left to curl into her furs, and she couldn't fight back the sleep that overtook her this time.
The remaining days of the King's stay were just as dreadful as the days leading up to it. Lyarra knew, the morning after his arrival, that her brother had decided to go back with him to King's Landing. He'd been standing in front of her door, silent as ever, as she'd gone to make her way to the yard for the morning. His presence was enough to startle her, and she had to clutch her dress to calm herself.
"Forgive me, sister. I don't know how long I've been out here. Hours, maybe. I didn't want to disturb you, but.." Ned trailed off, avoiding her gaze as he readjusted his furs. Lyarra's own head was pounding after the night before, and she could hardly make out his words — but she did her best to focus, moving to place a comforting hand on her brother's arm. "I wouldn't ask this of you, had I another choice. I've asked too much of you as it is, I know that already."
Lyarra's heart went cold, as the implications of his words sunk in. He intended for her to come to King's Landing with him, with his daughters. He only looked further from her as she admitted her realization. She took her hand from his arm as quickly as she'd placed it, moving to curl around herself instead. She'd have to leave Winterfell, leave the only home she'd ever known. She'd have to leave Jon. That alone was enough to have Lyarra shaking her head in denial, stepping back from the man in despair. She couldn't leave him, not in Winterfell. Not alone. Reyne would be coming with them to serve as Sansa's handmaiden, but Jon? A bastard had no place in the royal court, something that Lyarra knew all too well.
"Maester Luwin came to me last night, just after the feast ended. He wants to join the Watch, Lyarra. Told Benjen so himself. He'll be safe among them. You know that, as well as I do. He'll be better off on the Wall, than here." Ned did his best to placate her, leaning down then to place his hands on her shoulders. She only shook her head, forcing herself to not allow tears to fall.
"He's just a boy, Ned. He's not ready for the Watch. I'll never see him again." Her words were panicked, jumbled rambles coming from her lips as her hands began to shake. In an instant, she was met with overwhelming warmth — as Eddard wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. She couldn't help the tears that came then, as she all but sobbed in her brother's arms. "You can't. Please, Ned. Please, don't do this."
"I don't have a choice. I wish I did. I wish I was not asking this of you, but I am. I need your help." Eddard pulled back, wiping the pad of his glove against her cheeks as she closed her eyes to keep her tears at bay. "The Lannisters .. They had something to do with Jon Arryn's death, I know it. Robert needs my help, now more than ever. And I need yours." The revelation that the Lannisters could have done something so dastardly only had Lyarra's head shaking in disbelief. It was only when she peeled her eyes open, and was met with the true despair in Ned's eyes — that she knew he was telling the truth. He believed all that he was saying.
Lyarra couldn't bring herself to say anything then, only choosing to stand upright as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Eddard retreated then, telling her to think about it — though they both knew he wasn't giving her a choice.
Since that day, Lyarra had not left Jon's side. A fact that he seemed both grateful of, and annoyed by in equal measure. He did not know the life he was giving away. How could he, after all? She tried her best to not resent Benjen for the boy's decision, knowing that it was his alone to make — but if she found herself keeping away from her brother for a few days, that was her business alone. Jon was never her son. He was not her boy, though she would never see him as anything less. The fact alone only made his departure harder to handle.
Each night, once she was certain Jon was asleep, Lyarra would meet Tyrion Lannister in the yard. Despite her brother's best wishes, Lyarra couldn't force herself to be wary of the little lion. Some nights he would leave early to visit the closest brothel he could find. Other nights, they would be joined by the man from the previous night — the man she'd only come to know as 'Clegane'. Those nights, he would drink at Tyrion's side, chiming in only to let out a harsh laugh, or grunt. Despite how little she knew about the man, Lyarra couldn't hold back her fascination. More often than not, the man would scowl as she stared after him — likely assuming the worst. Yet Lyarra's face never held much more than a light smile, as she glanced over his features.
One night, when Tyrion had already slunk off, it was just the two sitting side-by-side on the bench. They hadn't spoke a word to one another, only passing the bottle back and forth when one needed a refill. After another beat of silence, the man grunted — sliding off of the bench as if to make his retreat.
"Oh, er— Ser!" She called after him, climbing off of the bench in haste to catch him before he disappeared into the darkness. He'd turned back to her hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure she was calling for him. When he noticed her focus, he only grimaced — forcing another swig down his throat.
"I'm no Ser," His words a familiar repetition of those that she'd heard years prior, and that alone was enough to shoot vigor through her. She only moved closer to him, a fact that made the large man seemingly shrink in on himself.
"So, it was you, then. You were at the tourney. You saved me that night, from Ser Gregor." Lyarra whispered in wonder, her eyes widening as she processed her own words. She'd been looking for the man for so long, that it was almost laughable that they'd reunited here — now.
"The fucks' it matter?" The man's words were harsh, but they alone were not enough for Lyarra to back down — and again, she took a step towards him, properly taking in his features. He was just as fascinating to her now, as he had been all those years ago.
"I'd like to know your name, if you'd let me. I've only known you as 'Clegane' for all these years." The name itself seemed to force the man to flinch, and he moved to stand taller as he remembered himself. Again, silence stretched between them. Lyarra had half the mind to question if she had overstepped, before the man turned on his heel. He took no more than four steps, before he paused.
"Sandor," he called over his shoulder, the name rough on his lips — as if he hadn't spoken it in years. With that, he was gone, and she couldn't have caught up to him if she wanted to. She tried the name on her lips a few times, before she turned to retreat to her own chambers. That night, she went to sleep a little lighter — a familiar name on her lips, and a certain weightlifted from her shoulders.
The day that Ned had left to hunt alongside Robert-- with Benjen and Robb in tow, Lyarra had been practicing with Theon in the yard. Catelyn had advised her against any swordplay while the King was their guest, but she paid the woman no mind. Theon was not the most proficient with a blade, but Lyarra relished the chance to spend time with him regardless. The boy was still harsh — particularly unkind to Jon. But she forced herself to push resentment aside. He was just a boy. And regardless of his less-than desirable attitude, she couldn't help but care for him.
The two were only disrupted by a familiar grunt. Lyarra asked the boy to clean up, as she made her way to Tyrion. He was perched on a set of steps, leaning his head against a wooden door — with furs draped over him. He was hungover, no doubt, but her figure blocking the sun in the slightest seemed to flood him with relief.
"Well, don't you just look lovely, my Lord Tyrion." Lyarra settled on his right, placing herself on the step just below him. He barely raised a brow at her, before leaning back against the door.
"Not all of us can handle our liquor as well as you, my Lady. Though, if I recall, you were the one who needed Clegane to carry you through your own castle." Tyrion grumbled out, though his words held no heat. Lyarra, however, felt heat course through her. She had thought it was Sandor who carried her to her bed, but she wasn't certain. Tyrion snickered to himself, as the two were interrupted by a rough stomp. Sandor all but threw himself down by the two, fastening his boots as he glanced over them both.
"Rough night, Imp?" He grunted after a moment, seemingly taking amusement at the disheveled state of the man. Tyrion only groaned, squinting to look at Sandor.
"If I get through this without squirting from one end or the other, it'll be a miracle." Came his eventual reply, and Lyarra only just barely cringed at his description. Sandor let out a noise that bordered on another grunt, and a laugh — at her expression.
"I didn't take you for a hunter, my Lord." Never once did the honorifics slip, though Lyarra had grown increasingly comfortable in the man's presence. Tyrion seemed to lean towards the direction of her voice, but didn't properly open his eyes to address her.
"On the contrary, my Lady, I am the greatest in the land. My spear never misses." Sandor, seemingly displeased at Tyrion's response, only grunted — standing to unsheathe his dagger.
"It's not hunting if you pay for it." He admonished, turning to Lyarra with a curious look. She had half the heart to question it, before she noticed Theon making his way towards her brother. Lyarra paused then, standing before turning back to the two men at her side.
"I wish you both good fortune." She declared, her gaze lingering on Sandor for a moment longer than necessary — before she bid them farewell, moving to follow Theon towards her brother. She delivered similar wishes to her brothers, making her way inside as they departed. The rest of her afternoon was spent at Reyne's side, as she, Sansa, and Catelyn were all sitting together. In the back of her mind, she thought over the location of the Queen — but made no motion to question her whereabouts. Catelyn seemingly had a similar thought, as she scanned over the hall. It was only when they heard a desperate cry ring through the castle, that any of them moved.
Brandon had been discovered in the courtyard, unconscious — and alone. No doubt, he'd fallen from the wall he'd climbed so often. Lyarra did not allow herself to cry, and only moved to help the boy — if only so that his mother herself did not have to do so. Once Bran was safely placed in his bed, with Maesters pushing the women out of the room, Lyarra allowed herself to shed a tear. In an instant, Catelyn was in her arms — shedding tears of her own.
She wasn't certain how long the two sat, wrapped in one another, muddled in their own sorrow. The only thing ringing through Lyarra's mind was the thought of how unfortunate it was, that she'd only once again found a sister through grief.
First proper episode of Game of Thrones.. AND a Sandor introduction. Guys are we winning or what. I loved writing this chapter and I am not sorry about it. Lyarra loves her two children (who aren't at all her children) so much. Theon as well, sometimes.
So. Lyarra can't hold her alcohol. Tyrion is too easy to drink with. Jon wants to leave. Ned does not want to leave. And Jaime is being weird ... what a great set-up! Stay tuned btw.. Reyne's storyline is not as predictable as I am setting it up today.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And as always, feel free to leave any comments you have.
Maesters flew in and out of the small room as another fit of wailing rang through the air. Jon, a boy no older than three now, had come down with the Pox. An illness that could take any man it wished, let alone a defenseless babe. Lyarra hadn't slept in weeks, knowing that any moment could be his last. She did not fear contracting the illness herself, only the thought of being away from him. Catelyn had not left his bedside either — a fact that Lyarra found surprising all things considered. She had despised the boy, and made it clear every time he had entered the room. Lyarra tried her best to not hold it against the woman, reasoning that if the roles were reversed, she would be the same — however untrue that felt. But at that moment, Catelyn wouldn't take her eyes off of the boy. If Lyarra looked close enough, she could almost see a flicker of guilt within them.
True to her word, Lyarra raised the boy as her own. He was a Stark in all but name. Ned had taken the boy as his son, having him taught among the other Stark children. During the days, Jon would train alongside Robb — the two, thick as thieves. Oftentimes they were joined by Theon, the remaining son of Balon Greyjoy — whom her brother had taken on as a ward. Yet, Theon did not seem to care much for Jon. Nor vice versa, however young they may be. A flicker of resentment coursed through Lyarra whenever she saw the two interact, yet she knew it was foolish to despise such a child. Theon felt just as much of an outsider as Jon was made to be, yet he was all but accepted wholly as one of their own. The Greyjoy boy, however, had no such luck. When Robb had other duties to attend to, Lyarra would spend her evenings training the two boys.
She'd become proficient with a blade, only further improving after the years of war. Benjen had taught her throughout the nights for years, and oftentimes they would not cease until the sun began to rise. Eddard had initially not been pleased with this arrangement, nor Catelyn for that matter, but Lyarra would listen to no such argument. After the death of her sister, Lyarra demanded that she not be married off like a prize — as Lyanna had been. Regardless of what it meant for the family name, she would not have her fate repeated. It had been an uphill battle to convince him, but after years of begging — he'd reluctantly agreed. Lyarra Stark was not to be wed to any man against her will, nor was she to live anywhere beyond the walls of Winterfell.
Benjen, however, had left their ancestral home within a year of Ned's return. The day that he told Lyarra he was swearing himself to the Night's Watch came as no surprise. She'd been expecting it, dreading it even, since the Tourney. The moment his eyes filled with light once he'd heard of the Watch, she knew it was only a matter of time. Lyarra was not losing Benjen properly, yet it felt to her as if she was. He would not return for some time, and never with haste. She did not make him promise to return home in due time, only that he would answer her ravens. In so little time, he had grown to love Jon as she had. The feeling seemed mutual, as Jon oftentimes would wake and instantly begin to search for the older man. She dreaded breaking the news to the boy. That one of the only men who accepted him as he was, intended on leaving — with no return in mind. Lyarra did not watch as he left, nor did anyone ask her to. She'd had quite enough of goodbyes, all things considered. Instead, she locked herself away in her chambers — reading some fable of nonsense to her boy.
Jon was not a difficult boy. His heart was too big for his own good. More than once, Lyarra had observed him giving up his own blade so that the younger children of Winterfell could have a turn to spar. Lyarra did her best to steer him in a proper direction, so that he would learn to love not only those around him — but himself as well. However, the boy seemed self-sacrificial even from a young age. He would do anything for his family, regardless of the fact that they likely would not do the same for him. His nights were spent in Lyarra's chambers, a fact that was decided the day he'd been brought to Winterfell. Within a days time, he had a small cot in the corner of the room facing her own. He'd only found his own separate quarters when Old Nan had been moved to a smaller room. Jon's absence made the room almost suffocating. The first night that he'd slept outside of her room, for the first time in years Lyarra found herself sneaking out of the castle.
The path to the clearing had become overgrown with years of neglect, yet the road itself was still engraved in her mind. Once the stump was within sight, Lyarra's gaze trained in on it, yet she hesitated when light came into her view. There in the center, stood a fire. A campfire, at that. Surrounding the flames sat four clear figures, with two resting at their side in heaps of furs. Wildings, she thought with a shiver. She'd never seen one, not with her own eyes. Benjen's ravens described them as beastly creatures, more animal than man. They raped, pillaged, and slaughtered as they saw fit. However, as Lyarra watched the figures dance about around the flames — singing gleefully in a tongue that she did not understand, she couldn't help but think they were just people, as she was. Her observation was cut short when a rough, calloused hand grasped the back of her furs. She was pulled into the light, then, and at once all raucous ceased. Instead, each and every head — even the ones who were previously asleep, turned to gaze at her in wonderment and distrust.
The hand who had drug her belonged to a boy who couldn't be more than eight years Jon's elder. His hair was bright as fire, with light-blonde wisps painted throughout the mane. His eyelashes were white, something that Lyarra was not quite certain she'd seen before. The most memorable thing about the boy, however, was how tall he stood. He was large for a boy his age, seeing as how he'd almost matched Lyarra in height. However, he carried himself as if he were a giant. Once she'd seen enough of him, her head whipped back to the surrounding crowd. No one had spoken, the forest eerily silent beyond the crackling of the flames. Lyarra's throat was dry, and she resisted the urge to cough with a heavy breath. All at once, the silence of the night was broken. Another man stepped forward. One with a thick, matted brown — maybe blonde, in some lights — braid, reaching down to his lower back. He had the marks of an older man, however his eyes still held youth to them. She did not doubt that he was her elder, yet not by much. He leaned then, narrowing his eyes as he moved into her space.
"Who are you?" His accent was rough, as if he were only trying the words out for the first time. She did not doubt that he was not entirely fluent in the Common Tongue, but he was more sure of himself than someone speaking an entirely foreign language would have been. His inquiry brought a grimace to Lyarra's lips, as she furrowed her brow at him.
"No one. Just a traveler passing through. I apologize for disturbing your night, my friends." Her voice was elevated higher than it should have been, betraying the fear lying in wait. Her hesitation only probed the man further, as he knelt in front of her face — taking her chin into his hand. They sat like that for a moment too long, the man scanning over her features while Lyarra did her best to not shiver at the intensity of his gaze. The boy with red hair was still holding her arms back, though he'd loosened his grip at the glance of the man in front of them.
"A traveler with the mark of a Southron house on her clothes," he poked at the wolf that had been sewn into her leathers. Originally, Eddard had protested when she decided she no longer wanted to dress as a lady of the court. Yet, as she had with most things, she did it anyway. He only allowed her to do so properly once she'd agreed to wearing her furs overtop them, alongside having their crest sewn into all that she wears. "'Stark' isn't it? The wolves?" Lyarra searched his tone for anything akin to mocking, but his eyes were imploring her to speak. He was curious, above all else. Once she'd realized that he'd been waiting for a proper answer, she tugged out of the boy's grasp to stand on her own.
"What does it matter?" Her question came before her tongue could catch it. Remembering herself, Lyarra's eyes widened but a fraction. This only further amused the man, as he stood to face her properly. He looked over her once again, this time taking in her full form.
"I'd like to know when a wolf enters my woods. A pretty one or no." His words caused a ripple of snickers to echo through the camp, though a snap of his head silenced them just as quickly. Her breath caught in her throat, choosing to look at those surrounding her rather than the man who'd been addressing her. His stance wasn't threatening, however, instead his arms were wide as if to welcome her. "I am Gogni, of the Free Folk. Gogni Frostbiter, to those among us."
Lyarra raised a brow as he continued. She wasn't surprised that the Free Folk despised such a title as 'Wildlings', though she'd never known one to outright claim it the way he had. He seemed proud, and for once she'd found herself envious of a stranger. Gogni, as he'd introduced himself, belonged with the Free Folk — he knew his station, claimed it with honor. Lyarra had never had the chance to do that. She often felt like an outsider in her own house, in her own body even. It was then, that she'd noticed the beat of silence stretching across the came. She'd been staring at him, observing him, for far longer than what was deemed appropriate. With a light cough, she turned her gaze back to the dirt.
"Lyarra Stark, if you must know." After a moment, she willed herself to step forward — glancing around at the clearing that she'd come to know as a second home. "What brings you here?" Her question was met with an impatient raise of Gogni's brow. He seemed unimpressed by her, and the thought almost had her retreat into herself consciously. Lyarra stood tall, raising her chin as if she weren't perturbed by his judgment.
"Are these your woods? Did you plant these trees? Were you here to watch them grow?" Gogni approached her, then, his gaze bordering on something predatorial. Lyarra could not will herself to meet his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the distant flames — the familiar crackle of the heat. "Answer me, Wolf. Are these woods yours? Have you claimed them as your own?" Before she had the chance to move, Gogni grabbed her chin — all but forcing her to face him. His eyes narrowed in on her, as her breath escaped her in one powerful sweep.
"They're not any more yours than they are mine." After but a moment came her biting reply. Gogni had almost seemed enthused by her reaction, leaning closer into her space. He was examining her then as he had before, searching for something within her that she was not entirely sure she had possessed.
"Very well, then, my Little Wolf. We'll share them." His words held a question within them, an expectance of her cooperation. She'd had no choice in the matter, if she chose to think properly, however she found herself dreading the thought of their absence as well. She felt watched, uncomfortably scanned over — and yet she did not feel wholly unsafe. For once, the gaze of a man did not make her shrink back, rather she felt empowered.
That night, she sat with the Free Folk by the warmth of their fire. They did not return to dancing and singing as they had before, but they were not hesitant to speak with her. The respect she had given them had seemed to go a long way within the group. They'd offered her food, meat from what appeared to be some large woodland beast — but she'd denied it with a light wave of her hand. The boy from earlier sat by her side, telling her every tale he could think of. He told her of the Giants he'd seen, of the beasts he'd taken on already. All things considered, Lyarra was half convinced the boy had enjoyed hearing himself talk more than anything. All the while, Gogni had not taken his eyes off of her. Lyarra did her best to not shrink under his gaze, yet the intensity of it made it difficult to pull her eyes away from.
Not long before the sun came up, the Red-haired boy had made his departure. She watched as he left, taking note of his thunderous steps. It was a wonder the rest of the camp had managed to sleep as soundly as they were, when he all but stomped around.
"Tormund." Came a voice from across the fire. As Lyarra dragged her attention back to it, she noticed Gogni staring back at her. "He likes you. Called you She-Wolf when you weren't listening. He's loud, and a bit of a fool. But he's not easy to gain the approval of." His words were hushed, and Lyarra found herself leaning closer to hear him properly. After a beat, he'd stood up for just a moment before properly placing himself at her side. Their knees were touching, and the heat swarming off of him was enough for her to lean into his side as unnoticeably as she could.
"He's.. an interesting boy." Came her eventual reply. Gogni picked his head up quickly as if he wasn't expecting her to answer. Again, he searched her eyes — looking desperately for something that Lyarra found herself wanting to help him find. He looked at her then, as if she had fascinated him. The thought brought heat to Lyarra's neck, and she did her best to avoid his stare.
"Will you come back?" He'd asked, once the sun had begun to properly rise. He helped her to her feet, his rough hands clasping onto her own with fervor. She'd held onto his hand for a beat too long, before retreating backwards. She'd need to make her trip home with haste, if she was to return before anyone noticed her absence. As she turned to make her way back, she found herself pausing just before the tree line.
"Will you be here?" Lyarra found herself questioning underneath her breath, turning back to face the man who had not moved an inch. He met her question with a grin, barring his teeth as if he were a beast himself. He did not attempt to move any closer to her, yet even from his distance Lyarra found herself suffocating.
"For you, my Little Wolf? I'll be here."
"Then, yes. I'll come back."
True to her word, every night once the moon began to shine over the stone of Winterfell, Lyarra would sneak back through the forest. Some nights Gogni would not talk to her much at all, instead tending to those in his party. Those nights, Tormund would not leave her side. As Gogni had told her, he'd taken to calling her 'She-Wolf'. A title that in her mind, made little sense, yet she did nothing to question the boy. If there was one thing about Tormund, it was that he was sure of himself — even when he knew he was wrong, he was confident. A strange boy, Lyarra couldn't help but think.
Other nights, Gogni stuck close to her. Similar to Tormund, he'd tell her of life beyond the Wall. What it looked like when the stars would dance, painting colors through the night sky. Against her better judgement, Lyarra found herself longing to return with them, to see the painted sky for herself.
The numbers within the group often changed. Yet each time she'd returned, Tormund and Gogni would both stand there solemnly, awaiting her arrival. As if they knew she'd be too unfamiliar without them there, they did not dare leave the camp. After a few weeks, Lyarra had managed to convince Gogni to teach her to fight as the Free Folk did. She knew how to swing a blade as a 'Southerner' — as they had named anyone beyond the Wall — did, but she wanted to know more. She found herself valuing the power that women held in the Free Folk, at that moment, as Gogni did not do much more than grunt at her request. She'd even gone on to ask him to teach her their language, so that she could properly speak to the group. Gogni had been more hesitant with this request, but he conceded all the same. Though their lessons were far less frequent, she learned to greet him with common phrases all the same.
Lyarra found herself becoming familiar with the group at an uncomfortably quickened speed. Each time they'd returned, their expressions became less distrusting — less guarded, and more expectant. Tormund had taken to barreling into her the moment she came into view. At first, this had caught her so off-guard that she fell to the ground with a heap of Ginger on top of her. That time, Gogni had done nothing to help her — only chuckling with great power as she struggled to get the boy off of her. By now, however, she knew to expect the barrel of weight, and quickly matched it with her own energy.
Despite her frequent visits, Gogni never took to referring to her by her true name. Instead, she remained his 'Little Wolf. — or sometimes Lya'. He'd greet her with the title just as he bid her goodbye with it. She'd be lying if she said the words hadn't begun to bring a consistent rise of heat through her body each time she heard it. She'd felt for a man before. Petyr was not only her first friend, but the first boy that she'd found herself truly caring for. However, while Petyr was soft and familiar — Gogni was rough, and new. He was something to be explored, something she had yet to properly understand. Oftentimes she felt as if these feelings were matched with equal fervor, yet she ignored the thought altogether. For once, she'd felt as if she'd had a place among someone — and Lyarra was not willing to throw that away for 'childish' adoration.
Once her presence had become frequent enough, she'd been introduced to another member of the group. A babe, with blonde eyelashes and blue eyes — reminiscent of the boy she'd come to know all too well. She was Tormund's kin, no doubt. While she was not 'kissed by fire' the way that he was, her complexion was a mirror-image of his own. She couldn't have been more than a year old, yet when Lyarra began to question the location of the babe's mother, Gogni had silenced her with one dark look. Once the crowd had begun to file away, leaving the child in Lyarra's arms, Gogni had pulled her aside to explain.
Tormund's parents were gone, he'd whispered. Taken by the 'Crows' — a title that Lyarra had come to learn was bestowed upon the men of the Night's Watch. Her own guilt churned within her stomach, as she thought of the possibilities of her own brother being involved. However, his last raven had informed her that he had yet to travel outside of Castle Black — yet the thought continued to cloud her mind. After a while, Tormund had come to collect his sister. For a while, he sat by her and Gogni — telling her stories about who the babe in his arms would grow to be. In turn, she told him of her boy — of Jon.
"You'd like him, I think. He has a bigger heart than anyone I've ever met. Than any of us combined, I'd say." She spoke of her boy wistfully, yet she knew he was safe within Winterfell. The more she spent with the Free Folk, the more she found herself wanting to stay with them. Jon would fit in, she'd think to herself. He would find his place — and the thought that he would finally have one brought a glimpse of hope into her life. Tormund matched her soft grin with one of his own, paired with a gentle nudge to return her from her thoughts. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet, something that had struck Lyarra until his calm voice rang out.
"I'd like to meet him, then. If you'd let me." Once more, his tone was soft— something that she had not been entirely certain he was capable of. She'd agreed in that moment, but the more she thought of bringing Jon to the camp — the more reasons she had found against it. Jon was just a boy. He was not fit for travel, especially not for climbing over the castle walls. She found herself wandering down a dangerous train of thought, one that questioned even the loyalty of those around her. She'd learned to trust the Free Folk, even admire them as if they were her own — but Jon meant more to her than anything she had left. She wouldn't put the boy in any danger, regardless of whether she thought there was any to begin with.
"You think too loud, my Little Wolf. My own head hurts, even just by wondering what goes on in there." Gogni chose to make his appearance known, then, as he perched himself on a log beside Lyarra. Tormund had long since retreated into his own tent, taking his unnamed sister with him. He took a moment to look over her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil. Gogni placed his hand on top of hers then, spreading his warmth throughout her. He'd never flinched away from her cold complexion, and instead it almost seemed to draw him in further.
"I should be returning to Winterfell." Lyarra mumbled in greeting, all but avoiding his eyes. It was earlier than she'd left in the past, and she knew her words were hardly believable — and yet Gogni nodded all the same, standing as if to walk her to the tree-line. Just before they'd reached the edge of the camp, however, Gogni had steered her in a different direction. The sudden shift had Lyarra stumbling, leading to her harshly bumping into the side of the man. He'd only let out a slight grunt, however, and hadn't allowed it to deter him. By the time he stopped moving, they were standing in front of a fur tent. In her time within the camp, Lyarra had never been inside one of their tents. She'd had no reason to, after all. Gogni was still staring at her expectantly, before she begrudgingly threw one of the flaps open and marched inside.
Within a moment, he bounded past her to throw himself onto a pile of furs. In truth, she had become too used to his antics to startle, and instead she chose to place herself down lightly beside him. Noting the contrast, Gogni had let out a harsh chuckle, before he pulled the girl down beside him. After a moment, Lyarra collected herself enough to sit up properly, shooting a harsh glare at the man.
"You're too tense, Lya'. All you do is think." With that, he poked her forehead with his pointer finger. She'd flinched at the contact, but only after the fact. Gogni leaned further into her space, only stopping once the two were close enough for their breath to mingle. "Let yourself be free, my Little Wolf. You deserve it." Lyarra had only shook her head at that, pushing herself backwards with her elbows so that the two had more space.
"I'm here with you now, aren't I? I'm free." She'd muttered, after silence had stretched throughout the tent. Gogni titled his head as if he did not quite believe her, and he took another moment then to lean back himself.
"Only, you're not here, are you? You're somewhere else. You always are. You're never here with us. With me." For the first time, Lyarra heard true aggravation sneak into his tone. The thought caught in her throat, but she did her best to not allow her trepidation to become apparent. She did not fear the man before her, nor had she ever been given a reason to. Yet she found herself tensing all the same, turning then to avoid his glare. Again, Lyarra could hear nothing but her own breath — her chest heaving with tension.
"I don't like being away from Jon." She'd whispered finally, her voice carrying through the furs of the tent. Gogni met her gaze then, imploringly serious. To her knowledge, he'd had no children of his own. However, his stare carried a level of understanding within it. For the second time that evening, he covered her hand with his own — rubbing the tips of his fingers against the lines of her palm.
"Tormund is right, you know. You can bring him here. No one would dare come near the babe. I wouldn't let them." His tone carried a level of finality that Lyarra knew she could trust, and she found herself leaning into his warmth in the slightest. Part of her longed to give into the man, to allow his protection as well as his adoration. She turned to him then, taking in the intensity of his stare. As if sensing her thoughts, he moved closer into her space, repeating his movement from before. His intentions had never been more clear, as his eyes were all but trained on her lips. Yet, Lyarra leaned out of his path all the same.
"I would not ask that of you," Lyarra whispered, her gaze trained on the furs beneath them. Absentmindedly, she ran her fingers through them, allowing her mind to wander as she thought of what sort of beast it came from. It was only when Gogni grasped her chin in his palm, pulling her to face him — that she allowed her mind to go properly blank.
"You're not asking me, my Little Wolf. You never ask me for anything. I doubt you ever will. I am offering." The pad of Gogni's thumb raised then beyond her chin, swiping across her bottom lip in exploration. The touch made Lyarra shiver, a fact that seemed to delight the man before her.
"Why am I here?" Her question came out harsher than intended, but when alarm flashed through Gogni's eyes— as he moved to retreat, she only pushed further into his space, grasping onto his hand so that it would not move from her lip. "You allow me to walk with your people. To eat with you, to hear your stories. To hold your children. Why? What about me fascinates you so?"
Gogni paused then, not as if he hadn't been expecting the question — but almost as if he had been considering it himself. With another swipe of his thumb, his palm came to rest against her cheek. Lyarra found herself leaning into his touch, pressing into his warmth.
"I've never known a wolf to accept her cage as willingly as you have. You did not fight when we labeled you a 'kneeler'. You so eagerly named yourself 'Stark'. And yet, I see in your eyes what I see in the eyes of my people. You want to be free. You want to belong." His words were quiet, thoughtful. Emotion bled through them, as he rasped. "We can give you that. I can give you that, Lyarra Stark, if you let me."
Lyarra would go on to claim that she had a decent amount of self-restraint. Yet, in that moment, she only waited for Gogni to stop speaking — before she lunged to the man, pulling him against her lips with fervor she was not aware she was capable of. It felt as if fire was meeting water. Simultaneously warmth was flooding her body, while ice crept to meet it in equal power. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but Lyarra found herself chasing it all the same. She'd never kissed a man before, and as their lips properly met one another — she was grateful for that fact. Grateful that her first moment of passion was with him, and not a lord that she hadn't chose herself.
The two repeated the motion for what felt like hours. Lyarra only pulled away to catch her breath, leaning against his forehead with a heavy push. Unknowingly, she had found herself perched in his lap — a fact that only further brought pink to her cheeks. Gogni had let out a hearty chuckle when he'd noticed, moving to recapture her lips as his hands gripped her waist. However long they'd sat tangled in one another, he made no attempt to move further. Instead, he'd flipped their position, leaning into her space as she laid on her back against the furs. After a moment, he'd placed one final kiss against her lips, before he climbed over her — placing himself beside her.
A silence had stretched through the tent once again at that, however unlike the previous times it was not an awkward one. This silence was comfortable. Lyarra couldn't help but move further into Gogni's chest, placing one hand on him while her neck curled into the crevice of his arm. She wasn't sure how long the two laid by one another, only the sudden weight on her chest. As her eyes began to droop, she vaguely heard Gogni mutter beside her — promising to wake her before the sun rose.
With the birth of more true-born Starks, Lyarra found herself growing increasingly guilty every time she'd left Winterfell in the night. Robb did not often leave his side, but when he did he wouldn't return for what felt like hours. The Greyjoy boy often trailed after him as well, leaving Jon on his own. He had never claimed that he minded, instead choosing to spend his time with Lyarra as they would have normally. Yet, she saw the hurt lingering in his eyes nonetheless. He wanted to be a proper Stark. To be Ned Stark's true son. As he grew older, he'd only become further aware that this was a fruitless dream.
Each night before she left, she would spend but a minute watching Jon sleep — only leaving once she'd properly seen the consistent rise and fall of his chest. One night she'd returned just before the sun rose, as she normally would have, only to find Jon perched on her bed — staring at the door, as she crept in. His presence was enough for her to jump out of her own skin, before she calmed herself with a palm to her chest. He couldn't sleep, he'd told her. He had a nightmare, and when he'd come to look for her she wasn't there. Once she'd coaxed him back into resting for the remaining hours of the night, Lyarra found tightness creeping into her chest. She felt the tears before she'd noticed they were coming at all. Since that night, Lyarra did not allow herself to leave until she was certain that Jon was asleep.
The more she visited the camp without Jon, the worse she felt. Oftentimes she did not leave Gogni's tent, save for listening to Tormund's rambles by the fire. She spent her evenings encased against the man's chest, as he spun his own stories for her — detailing anything he could think of. Some nights she would cry in his arms, the guilt of leaving her boy behind overtaking her. Each time, he'd reason that she was welcome to bring him — and still she would ignore that fact, choosing to burrow further into his chest.
One evening, Gogni had seemingly had enough of the repetitiveness of their talks. He'd offered to walk Lyarra back to the walls of Winterfell, so that she could retrieve Jon and bring him back to camp. The moment that she let out a light laugh, she knew she had done something wrong. Gogni tensed, moving to push her off of his lap in an instant. Gogni took her amusement as mockery, and Lyarra could do nothing to argue against the point. His ideas were outlandish, possible only for a version of herself that was not as scared as she was for the fate of her boy. The two had fought throughout the night, yet Lyarra did her best to not allow her voice to raise above a whisper.
Once she had returned home just before dawn, Lyarra allowed herself a moment to think. She'd began to trust Gogni with her heart, why couldn't she trust him with that of Jon's? A man who had never appeared to be anything but caring — strong enough to protect them both. The rest of her day was spent fantasizing about what their life could be, if she grew the courage to flee with him. Their lives could mean something. They would have positions of importance among the Free Folk. They would be free. Eddard may never forgive her for being the cause of the loss of both of his sisters — but he'd be begrudgingly gladdened to see her finally happy, she reasoned.
That night, she took a moment longer than necessary watching Jon peacefully sleep. His nose was twitching, black curls ruffling as his breath came sharply through his nose. She'd bring him in the morning, she decided. Her night would be spent with Gogni, if not solely to get his approval — to fully rally herself for the decision ahead. The trip beyond the walls of the castle was familiar as always, but Lyarra felt herself holding her head high for the first time. By the time dawn had arrived, she would never have to sneak beyond these walls again. She would be allowed her freedom.
As she approached the tree-line, she couldn't help but notice the overwhelming heat bursting from within the forest. Her skin felt hot for the first time, goosebumps met with an unsettling mixture of warmth. However, the light was the first thing she properly noticed. Similar to the night that she had been introduced to the clan, she could recognize the rising flickering of flames in the distance. Instantly, Lyarra picked up her speed ten-fold. In but a moment, she had reached the opening within the trees. Each and every tent was in flames, with furs strewn about. There were corpses littering the dirt, corpses of Free Folk that she had come to know well.
As she scanned through the rubble in horror, her gaze trained on one familiar bloodied figure. Gogni. Before she could stop herself, Lyarra rushed to him, running her hands over him to search for the cause of his pain. Instead of being met with a pained expression, however, Gogni was all smiles. His teeth shined so bright that the blood dripping into his mouth was impossible not to notice.
"Ah, ha— My Little Wolf. A lucky sight, for a dying man." Gogni rasped, blood spitting from between his teeth as he bit the words out. Lyarra couldn't bring herself to do much of anything besides grasp onto him. Her words were stuck within her throat, bile rising as tears began to burn down her cheeks. "Come, Stark. It's alright. Don't weep for me." He raised his hand to her cheek, and similar to their first contact — Lyarra jumped into his touch. She held his palm against her face, pressing him closer.
"What happened? Who did this to you?" Lyarra felt her focus slipping, her vision quickly becoming hazy with tears. For the first time in her life she had found true freedom-- true joy, and now it was being stripped from her. A selfish thought, as bodies littered through the camp— yet it was stuck in her mind anyway. She lifted his tunic then to visit his wounds, but halted her motions when Gogni moved his hand to place over hers. With a sharp nod, he interlocked their fingers and moved them back to her cheek.
"Crows. Came in the night. I was waiting for you, by the edge of the tree-line. Should've been here. But, after last night. I wasn't sure.." Gogni trailed off then, looking beyond her to gaze at the rising flames. She couldn't stay much longer. She knew that, as well as he did. Yet she made no movement to leave, instead curling against him. He let out a light grunt at her actions, but quickly placed his hand on the back of her head — petting her hair, as she couldn't help but wail in his arms. "Lyarra, you can't stay here. They'll be back, and they can't see a Stark with us."
"I can't just leave you," She argued, sitting up then only to glare at the dying man before her. She knew, then, just how much she still wanted to tell him. How little she'd been able to express, as it was. How was she meant to leave him to die alone? He would never have done that to her. He would have sat by her side, cradling her head as he did now. Tormund would've joined him as well, no doubt. A flash of horror flickered through her at the thought of the red-haired boy. "Tormund." Lyarra breathed, and in an instant she watched as familiar terror ran through Gogni. He was their leader, the protector of their clan— and here he lied in a pile of his own blood, with no true idea of where his people were.
Before she could think better of it, Lyarra was on her feet. She tore through every fur she could find, even the ones littered with flames. She did not dare to stop, until she heard grunting in the distance — followed by the clashing of steel. In an instant, Lyarra chased after the sound. There, just beyond the trees stood Tormund, with a babe in one arm and a blade in the next. Lyarra rushed forward then, grabbing a forgotten blade on the ground before slashing towards the man Tormund had been fighting. After a moment, horror dawned on Lyarra — as she realized the true extent of what she had done. As the man fell to the ground, she recognized the black cloak coating his shoulders. He was a 'Crow', a man of the Night's Watch. One of her people, no doubt. However, as she turned her attention back to the boy with red hair, she couldn't feel guilt rise to her chest. Tormund wobbled on his feet, as Lyarra rushed to catch him.
"Thought you'd left us for good this time, She-Wolf. Didn't expect to see you back here." As far as she could see, there were no lasting wounds on Tormund. He had only a few cuts littering his cheeks, ones that would no doubt leave a scar — but weren't fatal by any means. Nonetheless, she held the boy's face in her hands. Before she could do much else, she was met with a harsh shove — and a thick bundle placed in her arms. There, sat Tormund's sister. Lyarra glanced up to the boy, who now stood tall with a blade secure in his two hands. "Take her. Take her back to your prissy lords, and your cunt of a king. She'll be a kneeler, but at least she'll be alive. And tell your boy, I'm sorry. I would've liked to meet him." With that, Tormund bounded off into the direction of more Crows. She wanted to call after him, clawing at her throat to force some sort of plea to come out. Yet, she could only watch as the remainder of the camp ran off with him.
As the flames continued to rise, Lyarra forced herself to scramble up— a difficult feat with the babe nestled in her arms. By the time she had returned to Gogni, the light had already faded from his eyes. She sank to her knees beside him, leaning to place one final kiss against his solid temple — a prayer in the Old tongue falling from her lips. Once she made her way out of the camp, exhaustion overtook her. Lyarra all but sunk to her knees, leaning to rest against the stone walls of Winterfell. At that moment, the infant in her harms began to rise— cooing to capture Lyarra's attention.
Her sharp blue eyes were the first thing that she noticed about her. Her hair was thin, wispy blonde streaks curling around her temple. She was Jon's opposite in everything but stature. Explaining the babe in her arms would be more difficult than fleeing with Jon in the night would have been, Lyarra thought to herself. She couldn't claim that she was hers, nor could she find a reason to argue for her presence in the first place. The only thing she could hope to do was beg Eddard for her right to stay. Lyarra would stop at nothing to heed Tormund's wishes, to protect the girl in her arms with her life.
All at once, she'd remembered that the infant still had no name. She scoured her memory for anything fitting, any Free Folk name that would suit her. After a moment, 'Reyne' came to mind. It wasn't a common name, nor was it something that stood out unnecessarily. Reyne babbled at that moment, grasping Lyarra's finger in her small palm.
It was ironic, in truth, that Lyarra's only two children weren't hers at all. And yet she would stop at nothing to ensure that the two had a safe life— that they would never struggle. She'd hesitated with her own chance for freedom, but Lyarra would give her life to give her children the right they deserved.
So. That was a lot. Two more of the main characters were introduced.. and then one of them instantly died. Please forgive me. If their relationship seems a bit rushed, it's because it is! Lyarra has never had a proper run-in with love before this moment. Petyr is something else, something way.. more complicated. And yes we have young Tormund! Something I need to preface is that this will have Jon/Tormund as a secondary ship. It won't be the focus, and if you truly despise the pairing you can ignore their sections. But it will be more relevant as the story progresses, especially through the later chapters. To this point, I feel the need to mention that the relationship between Lyarra & Gogni is meant to be a parallel to Tormund & Jon in a way. "My little Wolf, My little Crow, etc." They're very dear to me.
From now on, every chapter will most likely represent one episode. There will be episodes that she won't be present, but for the most part I will try to stick to the show. This fic will likely be a fix-it, so there will be parts that differ from the source material. I am very excited to officially start the proper show-focused part of it. I hope you've enjoyed it so far, and as always feel free to leave any kind of comment below.
The tourney at Harrenhal marked a turning point in the life of Lyarra Stark. Things were not easy between the siblings once they made their return, especially since Brandon was hardly around — and Eddard had once again returned to the Eyrie. Benjen, Lyanna, and Lyarra were left to their own devices. Lyarra made a consistent effort to not sneak out as much, choosing to stay with her sister throughout the night instead. She'd even taken to sharing her bed, only so that she would not have to leave her side. The three children would march around Winterfell, carrying on as if nothing had changed. After the tourney, Benjen seemed to collect himself — moving on from petty grievances, to take a place at his sister's side.
The three had become inseparable within the first week of their return. Everywhere they went, they went together. Lyarra was not certain how much time she'd have left with Lyanna, before she would lose her to Robert. Her sister seemed to know that as well as she did, and made sure that her two siblings were with her at all times. She rarely talked about Rhaegar, as Lyarra feared the topic itself, but when she had — her eyes were distant, longing for something out of her grasp.
The topic of Brandon's wedding shed light on their somber attitudes, though. as they finally had something to look forward to. Lyarra, in particular, longed to return to Riverrun — a thought that would make her younger self wince. Last she'd heard, Petyr was still with the Tullys. He'd have no choice, then, but to talk to her. She'd finally get a proper answer on whether he'd been avoiding her. Though, as much as she longed to see her friend, she was more concerned with her own brother's joy. In truth, she did not know if Brandon and his betrothed cared for one another. Every time that she'd questioned her brother, he'd avoided the topic altogether. Benjen had suggested that there was someone else that he'd given his heart to, that he had not been permitted to marry. Yet, even still Brandon was never overtly expressive with matters of the heart.
However, the idea of a wedding — outside of that of her sister's — brought a sense of expectation to Lyarra. It was a fascinating concept, despite its often barbarish implications. Lyanna, however, did not appear to be as enthused. She'd been happy for her brother, no doubt. But the very thought of a wedding likely only further reminded her of her own. Some nights, Lyarra would observe her sister cradling a winter rose — one that had once littered the crown, she'd assumed. In that moment, she would have given anything to see her sister as joyful as she once had been. She would ride off with her in the night, fleeing the city to live a life of their own. They could make it as some sort of sellswords, no doubt. They'd have to cut off their hair and dress as men, but that wouldn't be the worst thing, in Lyarra's mind. If they were caught, there would be dastardly consequences — but she would accept them head-on for her sister. Benjen held no such fantasy. He'd become too much of a realist of Lyarra's liking, recently.
A month after the tourney, a raven reached Winterfell. Brandon was to be wed in a month. Lyarra and her siblings would need to prepare for travel as soon as possible, seeing as the journey to Riverrun was not overtly short. Lyarra hadn't snuck out in a fortnight, instead spending her nights with Benjen and Lyanna. Their routine had started off almost entirely by accident. Lyarra had spent the night in Lyanna's room, and just before the sun had begun to creep over the hills — the two were disturbed from their slumber by their youngest brother. He hadn't slept a wink, made apparent by the red circles around his eyes. Lyarra let him in within moments, and moved to set up blankets on the ground. As Benjen himself had gone to lay down, she sat by his side. For the remaining weeks until their departure, the three slept side-by-side every night. It'd done nothing to ease their discomfort, as they now woke with an aching back and a bent neck every morning. Yet they felt better than they had in months. Regardless of what was coming, the three had one another.
Lyanna had taken to wearing a winter rose in her gowns. She no longer dressed as the boyish, rough girl that her sister knew all too well. No longer was she allowed to wear leather trousers, instead she was to wear her traditional furs and garments wherever she went. Despite her evident discomfort at such clothing, Lyanna knew better than to argue with her father.
Leaving Winterfell had become such a routine for Lyarra, that she no longer felt such sinking discomfort at doing so. It'd become familiar, and she could easily recall every familiar tree, hill, and building. Again, came the longing feeling in her chest. Soon, she'd see Petyr again. As she rode alongside her brother, she allowed her mind to wander. What would he look like now, after all this time? Was he still the small, sharp-featured boy that she'd come to know all too well? Was he longing to see her again, the way she was him?
Traveling without Eddard left a sour taste in her mouth. It'd only been months since she'd last seen her brother, but it felt wrong to be apart from him for so long. He'd always been the comforting presence that she'd needed for these journeys. Ned had never been the most talkative, but she felt better around him than she did now, at the very least.
In Lyarra's mind, they'd been on the road for months by the time they reached Fairmarket. It was the first proper town that they'd come across, and Lyarra welcomed the opportunity to take a break. Lyanna had been silent for most of their journey, opting to nod along to whatever the others had to say instead. She'd hardly seen Benjen since they left, seeing as he rode ahead with the other men in their party. The moment they had been given a room in a local inn, Lyarra threw herself onto the first mattress she saw.
"That can't be comfortable." The distant voice of her brother rang out. Lyarra only further buried her face into the quilt in response, with an almost silent grunt of aggravation.
"You'd be surprised." Her words were muffled by the fabric, but she knew Benjen could discern them well enough. She had half the mind to turn and glance over at him, before she was cut off by a sudden, sharp weight pushing her further into the mattress. Lyarra whipped her head towards the offending pressure in annoyance, when she saw Benjen draped across her.
"You know, you're actually right! This is pretty comfortable." Benjen emphasized his words with by raising his head and dropping it heavily on her back. She let out an offending grunt, before pushing him off of her with all of her strength.
"You're such an idiot" She grumbled out, choosing to sit up at that moment to brush her hair out of her face. Benjen was still lying on the ground when she had the chance to peak over at him, sprawled out on the floorboards. Somehow, that almost looked more comfortable than the stiff mattresses they were stuck with. Lyarra made a point of tripping over his ankle, before making her way out of the room once she heard a distant yelp of pain from behind her.
Lyanna was sitting outside when she finally found her, perched on a rock — gazing into what little landscape they could see. Lyarra did her best to announce her approach, taking heavy steps in the short distance. Eventually, Lyanna craned her neck to discern who had been walking up to her. When their eyes met, Lyarra could hardly help the gasp that was punched out of her. Her sister's eyes were bloodshot, heavy bags littering them. Lyarra's reaction was instant, lunging towards her to pull her against her chest as the girl's tears returned in waves. She was not certain how long the two sat, cradled in one another's arms. Once she had seemingly collected herself, Lyarra pulled back to wipe the pads of her thumbs against her cheeks.
She did not once stop to ask what was wrong, or if there was any way that she could help — a fact that she would later come to regret. Instead, she held her sister tighter, promising that she would take care of her. Promising that no matter what, the two would face what was to come together.
Sleep evaded Lyarra that night. After the image of her sister's devastated expression came into mind more than once, she'd resigned to the fact that she'd likely get no rest. Instead, she did her best to take quiet steps out of the room, making a quick distance to the same rock that she'd seen Lyanna earlier. She was unaware of how long she sat there, caught in a cascading jumble of her own thoughts, until she heard a door shut behind her.
Her traveling party were not the sole inhabitants of the inn, yet Lyarra couldn't help but spin back to face the offending sound. She was met with the started expression of her sister, who had a leather sack in her arms — eyes wide, like she had been caught in the act of something that Lyarra could not discern.
"What are you doing out here?" The question was barely above a whisper, but the words themselves were sharp. Lyarra raised an eyebrow at her sister's inquiry, choosing then to climb off of the rock and approach her. Lyanna took a step back, a motion that was only made noticeable by the moon shining across her pale complexion.
"I could ask you the same thing." Lyarra sighed, choosing then to scan over the objects that Lyanna had with her. The same winter rose that she'd coveted so closely before — which came as no surprise to Lyarra — a sack of what appeared to be the clothes she'd brought with her for the journey, and a steel blade. The final object gave Lyarra pause, as she moved to grab Lyanna's chin — forcing the girl to meet her gaze.
"You can't be serious. Where are you going?" Lyarra looked over her sister, looking for anything else she could have on her. The concept that her sister planned on leaving in the night, to gods knows where, had her gut reeling.
"Away. Somewhere. To pray, maybe." Lyanna's tone was wistful, and far too calm to satiate Lyarra's nerves. Lyanna had never been one to devote herself to the gods, but when she had it had been at the weirwood tree in Winterfell. Her sister's poorly covered lies only made Lyarra's stomach curl further into a pit.
"What does that mean, Lyanna? Where were you going?" Her words were punctuated with sharp intakes of breath, Lyarra leaning further into Lyanna's line of sight, imploring her to answer anything. Her attempts were to no avail, however, as her sister only stood prouder — chin raised, assured, and unwilling to budge.
"Why does it matter, Lyarra? Am I not allowed one moment to myself? My body won't even be my own anymore, soon enough. I'm not allowed to go anywhere anymore. To even speak to a man alone, let alone my family. I don't need you down my throat, as well." In an instant, the night sky felt suffocating. Lyarra took a sharp breath, stepping back as she furrowed her brow.
"So, what, I'm not allowed to care for my sister anymore? Was I meant to allow you to slink off into the darkness, knowing full well I may never see you again? You don't know what is out there, Lyanna. If you want a night to yourself, take it. I'll sleep in Benjen's room, for all I care. But this?" She pauses, gesturing widely between the two, "This is running away. This is a coward's way out."
"Fine, then. Let me be a coward! I would rather betray my family name than live a life that was not meant for me. I am not meant to be Robert Baratheon's prize, a wolf locked away on a shelf for him to show off when he is drunk enough to remember my existence. As he fucks everything he sees. That is not my life. It is not fair of you to ask me to live it." The two were still speaking hardly above a whisper, but Lyarra's lungs hurt like they had been shouting. Lyanna would not relent, not even to step out of the bubble the two had created.
"No, it's not fair. I wish you were not asked this, I wish this was not your life. I would give anything to take your place, if only so that you would have your freedom. I would leave with you this very moment, if I could." Lyarra took her sister's hands into her own, bending to gaze into her eyes pleadingly.
"You mean it? You'd leave with me now, if I asked?" Lyanna's words were quiet, her tone noticeably hopeful. The shift made Lyarra flinch, as she took a slight step back. She meant it, then. She meant to flee in the middle of the night, while Lyarra herself had been none the wiser. As if Lyanna knew what she was thinking, she took a step foward herself — her features hardening. Lyanna's mind had made up, regardless of what Lyarra had wished. "I would not ask that of you. I would not ask you to leave your life for me, as I chase a fool's dream. Go inside, Lyarra. Rest. The ride to Riverrun is not an overtly pleasant one." With that, Lyanna took a step forward — meaning to walk past her sister, and keep going. Before she could step out of her range, Lyarra grasped onto her wrist.
"Do you take me for a fool? I would never leave you, especially when I know you intend to flee in the night." Her words were harsh, sharper than she meant to be — as she dug her nails into Lyanna's wrist. She did not stop until she heard a resounding hiss, which inspired Lyarra to pull her back to her. "Please, please don't go. Please, Lyanna." She knew well enough that she was begging, her tone closer to pathetic than it had ever sounded before. This gave Lyanna pause, and she couldn't help the warm hope that flowed through her chest.
"Please, don't ask me to stay. If you won't leave with me, just let me go. I need to go." Lyarra hadn't noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks until Lyanna wiped one away, pressing her palm gently into the side of her face. Lyarra leaned into the touch in an instant, desperate to keep her sister close to her in any way that she could. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg, plead for Lyanna to not leave her. She couldn't bare the thought of living without her, of suffocating within the all-encompassing walls of Winterfell without her by her side.
"Lyarra, look at me. This is not my life. I am not meant for this. I wish, for you, that it could be. But it isn't. So let me go. Go back to our room, rest your eyes. In the morning they'll ask where I am. Say you don't know. Please, Lyarra." At that, Lyanna had to pull Lyarra against her to muffle her tears. The two would be found, sooner or later. They only had so much time, and Lyarra was becoming all too aware of this. "Do this for me, sister. I promise you, I will see you again. I swear it." Lyarra said nothing, only cowering further into her sister's chest. She was too cowardly to protect her the first time, but if this was what it took to give Lyanna the life she wanted — Lyarra nodded through her tears, muttering loose promises through her lips. The childlike hope in Lyanna's eyes made it worth it.
For the first time in years, Lyarra saw the young Lyanna staring back at her. The version of her that she had been longing to reach, that she had been longing to bring back — at what ever cost necessary. This was the cost, she supposed. She would lose her sister, if only to protect what was left of her. She knew that her brothers would likely not forgive her for this, if they found out. The thought made her stomach churn uneasily, as she tried to swallow down her tears.
Their goodbyes were short, gone before Lyarra's mind could properly catch up with itself. Lyanna kissed her forehead as if they were once again children, and Lyarra watched as her figure faded until she was nothing more than a shadow in the distance. She found her bed as quickly as she had abandoned it, and did her best to not make her cries audible — as she buried her face in the quilt for the second time that day.
Once the disappearance of Lyanna Stark had spread through the area, the remainder of their journey to Riverrun was rushed. What should have taken well over a fortnight took no longer than a week. Lyarra couldn't say that she was surprised. They didn't want to risk the disappearance of the other two siblings, not when rumor had it that Rhaegar Targaryen had been the one to 'abduct' Lyanna to begin with. She wasn't caught off guard by the thought, not entirely. Lyanna went willingly, to that there was no doubt — but the way that she had caressed the winter rose came to Lyarra's mind. She knew she would be meeting Rhaegar, wherever it had been that they had found one another.
Part of Lyarra was comforted by the fact that Lyanna had the opportunity for true happiness with the man, and the other part of her — the part fighting for dominance of her — felt ill at the very thought. She knew, all too well, what was to come. Lyanna was betrothed, and Rhaegar Targaryen had ignored this claim entirely — ignored his own wife, at that. Robert would not allow this to pass unpunished.
Benjen had attempted to reach out to her on the remainder of their journey more than once, but Lyarra did not spare him more than a blank smile. She could not manage much more than that, she thought. This was her fault. Had she simply pulled her sister back, convinced her not to go, they would not be in such peril. But she hadn't. She chose her sister's freedom, and this was the result of it.
The moment that the walls of Riverrun came into view, Lyarra all but rushed to the doors. In a flash, she was across the drawbridge and thought the doors. Her movements were wild, as she tore down every door until she found who she was looking for. Once her eyes caught onto him, she dashed forward — burying herself in the older man's furs. Brandon was stiff, hesitation embedded in every movement. However she paid his reluctance no mind, as she only pulled him closer to her. After a beat, his resolve crashed — as he dropped to his knees to wrap his arms around her, burying his nose into her hair. The two sat like that for far longer than necessary, a moment reminiscent of the night that she'd cried in his arms. Only this time, the two were just as afraid as the other.
Every waking moment after that she stayed by her brother's side. Even Catelyn, his intended, had seemed to understand that — as that night, she'd offered for Lyarra to stay with him, claiming that she'll sleep in her own quarters. Lyarra knew better than to accept her offer, however, and chose to spend her night in Benjen's room — as she had been doing for months. The boy accepted her back welcomingly, only hesitating for but a moment before allowing her in.
It was when she woke up, that she began to realize she'd yet to see Petyr. It was hardly the time to create a stir for him, however. She'd only had the chance to ask when she had caught Catelyn alone. The question was timid, yet Catelyn responded as if she knew she'd been intending to ask since she'd arrived. Petyr had been sent back to the Fingers, not too long ago. According to her, Petyr and Brandon had gotten into a quarrel of some kind — though, as much as Lyarra questioned, Catelyn would not divulge the details of their fight. Only that it had not ended pretty, and it was decided that he would return home. This fact alone was enough for Lyarra to sink further into her own sorrows.
At the moment where she needed him the most, Petyr was gone. To no fault of his own, she'd assumed — yet she couldn't help the sting that burned in her chest. She had half the mind to send him a raven, but couldn't bring herself to write to him. Another ignored letter would only cause her further pain, she decided. It was not worth the trouble.
The concept of time seemed to become a foreign thought to Lyarra after that. She could hardly keep up any longer. Brandon was riding to King's Landing, alongside their father. The day that he left, she had properly expelled all of her remaining tears into his pelt — leaving him with a half-soaked tunic. He took her face in his palm as he promised to return. Her father made no such promise, only grasping onto her chin similarly to Brandon. As the two rode away, Lyarra allowed her legs to give out underneath her, collapsing into Benjen as he did his best to hold her up.
She did not let the younger boy out of her sight, from that day on. Just before she had begun to settle for the night at his side, a knock came at the door. Brynden Tully chose to appear then, a man who had previously made himself scarce. It was evident then, just how uncomfortable the man was with his own presence — as he approached the two siblings. They were to return to Winterfell, with haste. Eddard would likely be there by the time that they returned, and until further notice they were not to leave their ancestral home. Lyarra thanked the man, asking him to send her thanks to his nephew Edmure as well — suddenly feeling rather guilty for the way she had treated him. Catelyn bid the two siblings farewell, as Lyarra made a point to assure her that Brandon would return — if not for duty, simply because he had promised. Her words likely did nothing to satiate Catelyn's nerves, though she sent an appreciative smile nonetheless.
It wasn't until they had returned to the snow-ridden castle of Winterfell, that Lyarra's world properly came crashing down around her. Once she'd entered the gate, she'd scoured the courtyard for the first sight of her brother — warmth enveloping her as she finally caught his eye, only to be frozen in fear as she noticed his expression. He was devastated, grief hovering over him like a shadow. She gazed into the depths of his eyes, brow furrowed as she tried to discover the cause of what was ailing him so. It was only when she noticed just how alone they were, how everyone had seemingly been giving the siblings space — that Lyarra realized what must have happened. She sunk to her knees then, Eddard following her suit. Benjen stood solemnly behind the two, his emotions hidden behind an expression far too mature for a boy of his age.
Lyarra fell into Eddard's chest, wailing in a way she never had before. Brandon was gone. Their father was gone. Lyanna was never coming home. A war had started, then and there. The King was begging for Eddard's head as well, claiming that he and Robert must face him in King's Landing. Vaguely, Lyarra heard him revealing all of this to Benjen, explaining further that Jon Arryn was the only one to defend the two boys properly.
Eddard was leaving for war, a thought that further removed all stability in Lyarra's legs. She could no longer feel her own tears, even if she had tried. She felt numb, too many losses hitting her at once. Ned had attempted to promise her that he would return, but she cut him off with a sharp glare. The last person that had assured her he'd return broke that very promise. She'd even comforted his betrothed with those same words, only to let her down tenfold.
Within months, there would be another wedding. As if some joy was meant to be found in a time like this. Eddard was to be married to Catelyn Tully, a fact that Lyarra wasn't certain either party was pleased with. Their marriage would strengthen the house, but at what cost? The wedding came and went. Lyarra did her best to weather her own feelings, pushing them aside at the hopeful look in Eddard's eyes. He was an honorable man, a fact that even those who barely knew of the name 'Stark' knew. He would treat Catelyn with respect, and if Lyarra looked close enough she could almost see warmth in Ned's gaze.
The day that Ned left Winterfell, Lyarra could hardly force herself to look up to face him. She sat at Benjen's side, weakly nodding as Eddard made empty promises. He swore to bring Lyanna home, regardless of what the cost was. The younger siblings knew his words were empty, as well as he did. He brought them both to his chest, kissing their foreheads in tandem. They were meant to look after one another, protecting Winterfell above all else. Should Eddard fall, Benjen would be the next 'Lord Stark'. As the two watched Ned ride off into the distance, they felt one another properly break apart in each others arms. After all of this, they might only have one other. A thought that both comforted Lyarra, and filled her with more guilt than she had ever felt in her life.
When it was announced that Eddard had returned, Catelyn had all but jumped from her seat to greet her Lord Husband. Lyarra, however, did not move an inch. Benjen had given her an inquisitive look, but she only waved him off. She knew all too well, the moment that she stood up to greet Ned — all she would be able to think about is Lyanna's absence. He swore to her that he would bring her back, and she had a fool's hope to believe him. After another moment, Benjen stood to follow Catelyn, raising his arm to Lyarra.
Lyarra took a sharp breath, before nodding to follow him — clasping onto his arm for strength. Just as she had expected, Eddard stood alone in front of the gates. He looked older. He was only a few years her elder, and yet he looked just a year younger than their father had. His eyes were restless, his own somber attitude carrying him as he solitarily. It was only then, that she noticed the small bundle pressed against his chest.
There, Ned Stark held a babe. She couldn't help her own curiosity, as she unlinked her arm from Benjen to cautiously approach the two. Eddard's eyes widened at her approach, as if he'd assumed she would avoid the very thought of him. Once she reached the two, she couldn't help but peel back the blanket from the infant's face — clutching her chest as a gasp escaped her. There, the face of Lyanna Stark looked back at her. The babe had her eyes — though they were far from the same hue — her nose, her smile. He looked like her mirror image. The thought flooded Lyarra with confusion, as her head snapped to the man holding him.
Eddard only met her with a quick shake of his head, unnoticeable to anyone more than a foot away from the two. His eyes told a simple story, 'I'll speak of it later,' and the heat within them was enough for her to nod mindlessly, moving to step away from the two instead. To anyone who asked, the babe was Ned Stark's bastard. A thought that was hard to believe for many, considering the man was not one to break an oath. However, Lyarra could not help but hold her breath. There was something he was not sharing, a fact made clear by the unreadable expression that marred him any time he looked her way.
He found her when she was alone, that night. Before she had fled to Benjen's quarters. There, he carried the babe against his chest. He was well and truly asleep, however that did not change his familiarity. Lyarra did not open with a question, choosing instead to lean against her nightstand with a raised brow.
"I can't explain it. Do not ask me to, Lyarra." His words allowed no room for argument, while his gaze carried a level of finality that only furthered his intensity. Lyarra found herself speechless, choosing that moment to take a harsh seat, the chair thundering beneath her. She deserved answers, he knew that as well as she did. However, there was something keeping him from telling her the truth — something that Ned would not relent from, no matter how much she attempted to persuade him to do so.
"What is his name, then?" Her voice was weak, hardly recognizable as her own. Ned's gaze met hers in surprise, almost as if he did not expect her to relent as quickly as she had. The thought was unsurprising, but in truth Lyarra was tired of fighting. All she could think about was the babe in his arms, a babe that carried the face of Lyanna Stark wherever he went.
"Jon. After Lord Arryn." His words were soft as he looked down at the infant in amazement, as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. Lyarra narrowed her gaze, at that, making quick strides across the room to stand at his side. Eddard seemed to shrink at her approach, his arms coming up to cradle the baby closer to him. "I can't raise him alone. Catelyn won't speak to me, won't even look at me. She wouldn't let me explain. Not that I could, anyway." He hardly allowed her to get a word in, before his arm came up to wipe sweat from his own brow. He wasn't handling this well, not that she could blame him.
"I need your help. This is far too much to ask of you, I know that. I wouldn't, had I any other choice. He deserves to grow up proper, deserves a better life than I can give him." Ned sounded almost ashamed of himself, as he continued to gaze down at the boy. He hadn't looked away once, as if he were afraid he'd disappear the moment he closed his eyes.
"I'll take care of him, Ned. I promise you, I will care for him as he deserves. You have my word." Lyarra clutched onto Eddard's hand, bending in the slightest to meet his line of sight. Reluctantly he met her gaze, his eyes brimmed to the edge with tears. In that moment, she couldn't bring herself to ask the fate of her sister. She'd learn in due time, if not from her brother — then from someone in the courtyard who hadn't learned to whisper quiet enough. News travels quickly throughout the realm. Instead, she chose to lean into Eddard's space, gazing down at the boy alongside him. He'd repositioned, then, moving to offer her the babe. In an instant, Lyarra was filled with nerves. She'd never felt as if motherhood was for her — especially not her brother's bastard. Yet, the moment he was in her arms, Lyarra had never felt something more right.
Once his eyes peeled open, Lyarra was met with the tentative gaze of her sister. His eyes bore into hers, holding a question that she could not answer. Tears came streaming down her face before she could control them, and it was only the stable hand of her brother that kept her upright. She knew then, gazing into the eyes of the babe in her arms, that she would do anything for him. Regardless of what his story was — where he came from, in that moment he was hers. She'd hardly noticed Eddard slinking from the room, as she came to rest against the wall instead of his stiff arm.
"Hello, Jon." She cooed, caressing the boy's cheek with the pad of her thumb. She was stunned then, by the realization that she had never felt more love than she had in that moment, as she held him in her arms. A baby that she had known for less than a day, yet felt like she had loved more than half of her life. Jon Snow was her boy to care for, hers to protect. She may have failed her sister, but Lyarra swore in that moment that she would protect him with her life — regardless of what was to come.
Hey, so. Remember when I said I was going to make this one shorter... Oops. The last few chapters are a little rushed, but Lyarra is grieving okay. Things aren't going to go as they normally would. I really wanted to focus on the growing connection between Benjen and Lyarra, and ALSO the loss of Lyanna. Lyarra lost more than half of her family in less than a year .. She is not handling things well alright. I tried to do this in a proper way that made sense, but I also beg you guys to bear with me. The timeline is likely messy but.. Who reads a fanfic for a proper timeline?? Right?? Haha.. Okay.
The next chapter is likely going to introduce two of the main characters that haven't been mentioned yet. Right now, I'm thinking it's going to cover everything from this moment until the first proper episode of the show. So it will likely be a pretty long chapter. I apologize to everyone who decided to read this thinking it'd be a normal Sandor fic.. but above all this is the story about Lyarra Stark. I hope you all still enjoy! I am having a lot of fun writing this. And as always, feel free to leave any comments you have here!
I do love that in Rohan culture, it seems that it's the custom for men to go out and fight and die heroically, and for women to honour their sacrifice by crying over their bodies or at their funerals. The men are to be brave, the woman to be loving. The men are to do great things. The women are to remember.
But in the film, whereas Eowyn's most iconic moment is her slaying of the Witch King, a great, heroic deed that cements her place in history, Eomer's most iconic moment is (arguably) his guttural scream when he sees Eowyn dead on the ground, dropping to his knees and cradling her to his chest.
Not only is Eowyn's most iconic moment a scene in which she takes on, by her culture's definition, the man's role, the most important role of a man, to die heroically, Eomer's most iconic moment is when he takes on the "woman's" role, to grieve.
I do love his "Death!" charge in the books so much, but because of this parallel between the siblings, I also love the film version where there is no battle for him to fight, no justice for him to wreak, there's nothing for him to do but cradle Eowyn to his chest and rock her back and forth.
Thinking about how much Craster represents all that is broken in Westeros, and it occurs to me: Craster has nineteen daughter-wives, the way that the Watch has nineteen Castles. Are Craster's sacrificed sons analogous to the brotherhood of the Night's Watchmen?
The simplicity of Winterfell's consistent snowfall was something all too easy to overlook. To under-appreciate when it was all you were subjected to. It's when we spend our days longing for that which is out of our grasp, that we forget what we have already.
Every night since Lyarra's return to the comforting stone palace that she knew as home, she'd snuck out as the moon reached its peak. Every night, she made her way to the same spot. In truth, she wasn't sure exactly how long it had been. Weeks, she thought — maybe months. It was hard to tell. Her days were spent with either Benjen or Lyanna — as her two older brothers had too much responsibility to take on to spare a moment for their little sister. Brandon was coming into his own while Eddard was, more often than not, at the Eyrie. He'd been fostered there for what felt like years, rarely coming back to Winterfell unless it was for a matter of great import.
She longed to return to the days where she could talk to Brandon about anything on her mind, where he would match her vigor with his own — and it felt as if they were the only two who felt things as passionately as they did. She missed Eddard's all too serious tone in her ear constantly, nitpicking at all that she did. Years passed like this. She'd spend her nights in the forest, and her days with her younger brother and Lyanna. Lyarra learned to value the moments that she had with her family, cherishing them as if there wouldn't be another.
When she had the chance, she'd roam the halls with Benjen. Talking about anything and everything they could think of. He had even taken to sparring with her in the courtyard, though it took what felt like years of convincing. He wouldn't go near Lyanna — though she was almost the most enthusiastic for the chance — as there were rumors spiraling that Father was intending on wedding her soon. The girls were closing on ten-and-three, now. They knew well enough what was to come, whether they wanted it or not. A year prior, Brandon had come to Lyarra's room, just before she meant to sneak out. Her nerves were on fire, her palms sweating at the thought of being caught. But that wasn't what her brother was here for at all. In truth, she could've been halfway out the window by the time he entered, and he wouldn't have cared. He sat her down, and in a somber tone unbecoming of his character, told her that their father — Lord Rickard Stark — was considering marrying her to Edmure Tully.
Her initial reaction was to laugh. Her contempt for the boy was evident, even when she was staying with his family. They bickered, constantly. Not in the way that friends — or even siblings — do, no. The two despised one another. In truth, Lyarra wasn't certain what necessarily brought it on. Maybe it was his apparent distaste for her friend, or maybe it was just his attitude in and of itself. The very thought brought an uneasy feeling to her stomach, and that night she forgot all about her peace within the forest. That night, she begged Brandon — inconsolably bawling in his arms, soaking his tunic — to convince father otherwise.
"Please, Brandon. Please, don't let him. I've never met such a horrible boy in my life, truly! It's not fair, it's just not fair." Her words were muffled by his thick fur pelt, as she felt two broad arms come to wrap around her. Brandon caressed the back of her head, petting her hair as she continued to fall apart in his arms.
The two sat wrapped in one another for so long, that she hadn't even noticed her eyes growing heavy. She woke up to the sun in her vision — lighting up her puffy, tear-stained cheeks. When she sat up, she had her brother's cloak on. After that day, Edmure Tully was never mentioned to her again. Lyarra wasn't a fool. She was lucky, lucky that her father had started mulling over potential matches with the worst possible option. And more than anything, she was lucky that she had a brother caring enough to tell their father that he was a fool.
Lyanna, however, was not so lucky. She was to be wed to Robert Baratheon. A boy that the twins knew well, due to how close he was with Ned. Lyarra had never felt any particular way about him, not entirely. His longing for her sister was known, and oftentimes if he was drunk enough he'd confuse the two. She pitied him, in a way. A stupid boy, who fell for a brash girl — who knew all too well she'd be doomed to an unhappy marriage. Robert, though he claimed to love her sister, would never pass down an offer from a woman. Would never look away, when someone would strip themselves bare. He would be an unfaithful husband, even if no one was willing to acknowledge it but her and Lyanna. Eddard didn't disagree, necessarily. He knew the boy better than anyone. But his love for him was as clear as her own love for Petyr.
The night that the news was delivered, Lyarra clutched onto her sister's hand as tightly as she could. 'Lyanna was the most beautiful girl in all the seven kingdoms', Lyarra had thought. For all of her 'boyish' qualities, there had never lived a girl with more beauty. Both in spirit and in body. Compassion bled through Lyanna as if it was her own blood. When the two bid their farewells from the dining hall, Lyarra held her sister in her quarters as she all but sobbed in her arms. This time, she couldn't go to their father as Brandon had. She couldn't stand up for her, force him to make another decision. It was in that moment that she realized just how weak she was. How powerless she would be, from this day until the end of her days.
At ten-and-four, the betrothal was official. Lyanna Stark would wed Robert Baratheon, at a time that they saw fit. The night that it became an official decree throughout the realm, Lyarra spent hours sitting on her stump. At first, she sat in silence. Not even staring up at the sky, as she usually would have. This time, she gazed curiously down at her hands. Her fingers, though littered with calluses and scrapes from holding a blade, held no power. She couldn't help anyone. She couldn't fix anything.
Later, her eldest brother would scold her for missing the feast. Claiming that her sister needs her at her side now, more than ever. But it wasn't unnatural for her to miss celebrations. She rarely attended any sort of gathering, had she not been forced to do so. She'd seen her sister staring after her longingly, pleading with her to not go. But Lyarra wasn't strong enough to help her sister to begin with, so why should she try to be brave for her?
These nights repeated themselves, a consistent routine. It was only when it was announced that the children would be attending Lord Walter Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, that she took a pause. She hadn't left the castle properly since Riverrun. It was a fool's wish, but she couldn't help the giddiness that crept up her, as her thoughts swept to Petyr. Benjen took that moment to list off who he knew would be attending. He was fascinated by the knights, after all, and Lyarra couldn't blame him. Had she not been born a woman, she'd spend her nights dreaming of a life as a knight. A sworn brother, giving his life to his king. A strong, brave hero. By the end of the list, she couldn't help the displeasing churn that twisted in her gut. She missed her friend, dearly. As everything began to spiral out of control in her life, her need to see him was stronger than ever.
She'd sent ravens. Half a dozen, by now. They all contained various messages. Some describing what was going on, some detailing what she'd be doing right now if she could, and some asking him about what was going on in his life. Yet after years, she'd yet to receive a response. Perhaps he'd never gotten them. Perhaps something went wrong with each and every bird she'd sent. Or perhaps, he no longer wanted to hear from her at all.
The journey to Harrenhal wasn't nearly as discomforting as it had been to Riverrun. This time, she walked ahead with the eldest members of her family. Her and Lyanna would have to ride different horses this time, and seeing as she couldn't stand another minute of discussing Robert Baratheon — Lyarra chose to ride alongside Eddard, who had hardly seemed surprised by her presence. He cast a longing look towards his two younger siblings, as Benjen and Lyanna had begun bickering about anything and everything. First, her horse was too close to his. Then, his horse stunk — and it was making her horse stink. Then, all horses stink. Lyarra and Eddard were nearly in hysterics by the end of the ride, after hearing their ridiculous arguments.
Harrenhal almost made Lyarra miss the castle in Riverrun. Though it'd felt almost like a cell while inside, this castle was bordering on ruin. And by the looks of it, it always had been. The first event of the tourney itself came quickly. Her eyes caught on the shields, on the way that the clashing almost appeared to be a dance. She knew some of the knights by their sigil alone, while other times she needed Benjen to name them for her. Across the stands, Lyarra's eyes were caught curiously by what she saw before her. Across her stood a boy, who couldn't be more than a year — maybe two — her elder, with a scar stretching across his cheek. A boy who, to most, no doubt appeared monstrous. With a patch of hair missing, and puckered burns across his face, the sight would make any take a shallow breath.
But Lyarra, forgetting herself, couldn't take her eyes off of the boy. For all the monstrous things about him, his eyes were captivatingly beautiful, enraptured in a way she had never seen. He was fascinated by what was going on, entirely absorbed. His own adoration matched her own, though she was sure she was not able to express her excitement exactly the way that he was. After a beat or two longer, the boy's head seemed to snap up in an instant — his eyes finding Lyarra in the crowd, as if he knew exactly where she'd be. She watches as his brow, or what is left of it, furrows at her stare. She did her best to pull her lips in a soft smile, so that he would know she wasn't staring out of ignorance or anything of the sort. But his piercing eyes flitted away just as quickly as they had appeared. He seemed to compose himself, his previous childlike grin dampened to ash.
Lyarra couldn't help the guilt churning within her. She hadn't meant to upset the boy. She wanted to ask her brother if he knew who the boy was, but she decided to take the attention off of him for a moment. Instead, she focused her gaze on what was transpiring before her. Benjen had been talking throughout the competition, apparently, but she only tuned back in towards the end. She didn't need him to name the golden boy below her, who stood proud as he was bestowed the honor of Kingsguard. She'd never met the boy personally, but one knows a lion when one sees it. Jaime Lannister carried his ego with him on his shoulder wherever he went. Not that Lyarra could blame him. He was beautiful, even she could admit that. He almost resembled a knight that she would read about in her stories, who'd come to save the fair maiden in her time of need.
Jaime Lannister, for all of his overwhelming self-confidence, had never seemed so small as he did in that moment. She took the time to scan over him with curious eyes. He was just a boy. His eyes only just barely gave away his facade, breaking away to show the display the true fear beneath them. He wanted to prove himself as badly as she did – as badly as anyone competing today did, she'd argue. When Lyarra came back from her train of thought, recognizing that her brother was speaking again, Jaime's eyes began to sweep over the crowd. It felt as if he were committing the moment to memory, and she couldn't help but sit up in the slightest to applaud properly. For only a moment, his eyes caught on her — flickering in vague recognition. A lion recognizes a wolf just as easily, it'd seem. By the time that Lyarra pulled her eyes away from Jaime, she glanced to the spot where she had seen the scarred boy from earlier. In his place left a small, almost unnoticeable gap in the crowd. Yet she couldn't help the faint pout on her lips as she tried to find him.
"Enjoying the tourney, my lady?" The Lion called to the Wolf. The festivities had been wrapped up for the night, with the final event being a knighting of a large man that Lyarra couldn't quite recall. Clegane, she thought. A monstrous man. Twice the size of her father, double that of her brother. There were whispers throughout the crowd, as he was bestowed the title of knight. However, she paid them no mind. Coming back to herself, Lyarra couldn't help the small smile on her lips as she turned to face the golden-haired boy. Jaime matched her smile with a coy grin of his own, his helmet buried in the crux of his armpit.
"It's fascinating, Ser Jaime. Though a bit tedious at times, if you don't mind my saying-" at that, she was cut off by a sharp laugh from the boy. Of course, even his laugh was princely. Lyarra decided then and there that Jaime Lannister was perfect. He had no faults. How could he, after all? Every step he made left a golden footprint, his words pure honey pouring out of his lips. Unbecoming of herself, she couldn't help the blush that crept up her neck. "But fascinating regardless. Congratulations are in order, I'd assume?"
"I thank you, my lady. I'll remember it for the rest of my days, I'm sure. There's nothing quite like standing in front of a crowd and hearing them all chant your name. Not mocking you, but worshipping you, cheering for you.." He trailed off, his eyes unfocused in the distance. Lyarra's own smile turned the slightest hint of bittersweet, at that. She'd never get to feel that, not the way he had. She'll never be a knight, nor will she be worshipped. Even if she is married off, it won't be to someone important enough to have the people chant her name. Her own eyes gaze longingly into the shrubbery for a moment, before she is stolen out of her stupor by an arm being presented to her.
"Would you accompany me to the feast, my lady? It's a terribly long walk, I'm afraid. I wouldn't want for you to get lost. Or me, for that matter!" Jaime's words were charmingly sweet, with a grin that stretched across his features wolfishly. Her arm linked with his before she could think through the action properly.
"The newly appointed Kingsguard lost on his first day? Oh, no. We can't have that, can we?" The two shared a laugh, as if they'd developed their own language within minutes of speaking to one another. Lyarra had half the heart to be wary of the lion, of how charming he was. But as he continued to make her laugh — to say exactly what she was thinking, just before she said it, her trepidation melted away, leaving only something warm and all encompassing within her chest. The two made their way to the hall with minimal conversation, Jaime making a few comments throughout the trip — clearly just seeking to hear her laugh again.
"Ah, yes. Here we are. Lord Whent's favorite bush. It's said he comes out here, at the cusp of night when he knows that no one is watching..." He trailed off then, widening his eyes expectantly. Lyarra felt a snort building up, and let out a quick cough to maintain her dignity. Her belly laughs quick became giggles, as the two continued throughout the night. "And uh, well. Looks at it? I'm not quite sure really. Can you really do much with a bush?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised! Think bigger, Ser Jaime. Think bigger."
"You know, you're not the first person to tell me that."
Once they had arrived to the feast itself, Lyarra moved to sit by her siblings. Jaime bid her farewell by kissing the tips of her fingers, and she promised to find him again before they made their journey back home. She did her best to ignore the looks coming from his family, as well as the confused glances from her own. Instead, she sat down harshly — with far too much weight than she should have. Had Old Nan been there, she would've called it 'unladylike'. To all seven hells with that, she thought. She directed her attention to once again scanning the faces in the hall, looking for the boy from earlier. At Benjen's inquisitive look, she went to describe him to ask for his aid — but thought better of it. If he was already offended by just her staring, of course he would hate it if her whole pack of wolves gawked at him too.
She was briefly distracted by this train of thought when her siblings began to argue. Apparently, Lyanna had been paying too much attention to Rhaegar Targaryen (not that anyone could blame her, for that matter) and Benjen took to mocking her like a child. Not only that, when the man had begun to sing — Lyanna couldn't hold back her tears. Their brother was laughing so hard that he was bordering on tears of her own. Lyarra sat back as well as she could on the bench, scanning the hall for the boy from earlier. Her eyes caught Jaime's from across the room, as he sent her a curious look. She brushed it off, turning her attention back to her rowdy siblings — who were now spilling wine on one another.
Lyarra had half a heart to chastise them for their behavior, but Eddard had spoken up in that moment already. She took one more glance around the room before standing to take her younger brother's arm, guiding him out of the hall.
"Does she have to act like such an idiot all the time?" He grumbled to himself once they were outside of the hall. Had Lyarra not been so close to him she likely wouldn't have heard it to begin with.
"If I remember right, you started it, dear brother. Perhaps, don't mock a woman while she holds a glass of wine." Lyarra added with a shrug, moving to ruffle his hair half-heartedly.
"Woman is a stretch. You're both children. Act like it too." His words were met with a sharp sigh. He was right, of course. They were only treated as women because of matters outside of their control. As if bleeding once should make you ready to bear a child, to take on the responsibilities of a lady.
"Like you're any better." With that, the conversation had ended. Benjen all but avoided her eyes as she guided him to his quarters. She'd intended on leaving the boy there to retreat to her own, before an arm shot out to grasp onto her. Lyarra jumped at the sudden movement, spinning back to face her brother.
"D'you mind staying, just for a while? I don't like being away from home. It's better when you're around." His admission was quiet, eyes cast low. She took this moment to raise her palm to his cheek, moving him to face her.
"Of course, Benjen. I'll stay as long as you'd like." And she did just that. The two only talked for a short while. He continued prattling on about Lyanna's fascination with Rhaegar, and Lyarra only scoffed and nodded along as she listened. She, in turn, told him of her time with Jaime Lannister. This was met with a bit of a scowl, but Benjen nodded nonetheless. The boy had fallen asleep soon after, but Lyarra did not leave his side until she saw the sun peaking over the castle.
The remaining days of the tourney seemed to wane on. She, along with the rest of her family, had been forced to attend every competition. Every blade swung just reminded Lyarra further that she would never be able to hold such a position. She'd always be the lady stuck in the crowd, watching as the men have their fun. She hardly held a scowl as she observed, though several times she was chastised by her brothers. Some nights Jaime would meet her in that same garden, escorting her to the feast in the same way he had the nights prior. Other nights the two would only meet one another's eyes from across the room, and smile in their own secretive way before moving on. All things considered, Lyarra was merely content to find a friend. The boy seemed to have mutual respect for her, as she did him.
On the fourth day of competition, Lyarra had decided she'd had enough of playing the silent observer. There had been two jousts already, and just before the men could begin the third — she'd heard a distant yell. It wasn't loud enough to catch the attention of the men in front of her, but it did catch the ears of her and her siblings. Benjen, at the very least.
"Men for the Night's Watch! Any able bodied man looking to serve the realm, look for the Night's Watch! The shield that guards the realms of men!" A poor advertisement, really. But effective to one, it'd appear. Lyarra watched as Benjen sat forward, his eyes muddled in thought. The very thought of her brother in the Night's watch forced an unladylike cackle out of her lips. Her brother? The boy who had begged her to stay in her room, so that he did not have to sleep alone, only nights ago? Regardless, the boy was transfixed. He only looked away when a group of boys behind them began to call out to the man.
They mocked him, belittling him for such a 'cowardly job', as they'd put it. The Night's Watch was embarrassing to them. A way to escape the duties of a 'proper man'. In Lyarra's eyes, she considered the men of the Watch brave. They were sacrificing their lives for the realm — for the better of everyone else's life. She stood up then to chastise them, before being yanked down by her older brother. Eddard shot her a sharp look, before quickly returning his focus to the tourney. Lyarra bore the man no mind, as she once again stood up, moving to empty the remainder of her cup of wine on them. They'd shot up instantly to retaliate, before remembering themselves — and quickly ran off. She could hardly hold back the prideful grin on her lips, as she turned back to her brother.
While she considered the idea of Benjen in the Night's Watch laughable, she wouldn't allow others to dampen his dream. That was her job, after all. She moved to place her hand on his, then, interlocking their fingers. He seemed to breathe after her touch, sending her a short — almost imperceptible — nod in thanks.
Lyanna did not pay much attention herself, until Rhaegar Targaryen was out. Lyarra couldn't help but admit that her sister did spend an odd amount of time watching the man. She thought he was fascinating herself, of course. The Targaryens were hard to not look away from. They were beautiful, almost standing as mythological beings. However Lyanna had yet to look away from the boy once. Robert had come to speak to her at one point, stomping across the stands — drunk already, no doubt. Lyarra had to step harshly on her sister's shoe to get the girl to notice, too transfixed by the mop of white hair in front of her. This seemed to delight Benjen, as his theory had been proven correct — to which Lyarra turned to stomp on his boot as well.
On the night before the last day of the tourney, Lyarra held back in the gardens to wait for Jaime. While she waited, she observed the flowers surrounding her. Winter Roses grew proudly everywhere she looked. Lyanna would love this, she couldn't help but think. Perhaps she should bring her sister down tomorrow, before the tourney starts. Or perhaps her sister had already come, with Rhaegar at her side. The man had begun to take interest in her too, no doubt. Only a blind man couldn't see that. Lyarra knew this blooming interest between them would only end poorly. Lyanna was to be wed, and King Aerys hardly seemed like a man to strike a bargain for her sake. She knew as well that Rhaegar was married himself, to Elia Martell, though in truth she had never seen the two together. Another Stark could easily be wed to Robert, to establish the bond. Unfortunate, that she knew well enough in that moment that no man would ever relinquish their 'right to a woman', regardless of how she felt.
At that moment, a snap of a branch caught Lyarra's attention. She whipped around with a smile, expecting to see Jaime Lannister's golden grin. Only, instead of Jaime, it was a much larger beast. There stood Gregor Clegane. Ser Gregor, she supposed. He was easily triple her size. She'd seen him maybe twice now in the tourney, crushing every man he went against. He peered down at her, his eyes the furthest thing from human she had ever seen. As she moved to speak, he stepped forward, all but backing her against a column. For the first time in her life, Lyarra was truly speechless in terror. Men had made their intentions with her clear more than once, and she was accustomed to a brutish man with a wandering hand. But Gregor? He wasn't a man at all. He raised his palm to her cheek, and was only halted by a sharp voice calling from across the garden.
"Brother! Your king is calling you. Says he needs you, now. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting. He seemed angry." The voice, unrecognizable to Lyarra, rang out. His words seemed to echo, as Gregor made no move to retreat. His eyes pierced into hers, and she couldn't help but tremble against the wall. With a grunt, he moved across the garden — staring daggers into whoever had spoken. It was then, as Lyarra sat forward to collect herself, that she was able to spot whom the voice had come from. It was the boy from the first day of the tourney. The boy with burns across his cheek, brown hair sweeping across his face. He looked so small, now that she could see him closer. His scar almost made him appear that much younger. She moved to thank the boy, before another voice rang out.
"My lady! I apologize for such a dastardly wait. The king has been rather unhappy tonight, I'm afraid. It was a chore to rid myself of him." Jaime Lannister took the opportunity to appear then, making quick strides to her. It was only when he'd reached Lyarra, that he noticed her ragged state. He glanced down at her, before turning accusatively to the boy who still stood silent as ever in the center of the garden. Lyarra shot up, then, placing a calm hand to Jaime's shoulder. The boy took this chance to make his leave, never once breaking eye contact with her. Just before he'd left the garden, she'd stepped forward, leaving Jaime's grasp.
"Ser?" She called, her voice ringing across the area. The boy stopped then, turning to her with a grimace. She could see then, that he truly wasn't much older than her. Not old enough that he couldn't be a knight, but he didn't carry himself like one at all. He was much larger than her. Smaller than Gregor, of course. But far larger than Jaime — or anyone else she'd met, for that matter. "Thank you."
"I'm no Ser," And with that, the boy had disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived. She almost deflated at that, leaning back on the soles of her feet. Jaime had taken her arm as quickly as he had the previous nights, only this time he lingered — glancing over her to make sure she had no lasting wounds. Her explanation came quick, leaving out names due to the man's connection with the King. Jaime promised her that he would find the man that attacked her, and Lyarra could hardly force a timid smile on her lips.
Lyarra did not leave her sister's side after that. She rarely saw Jaime, and if she did it was only in passing. The two would send one another a weak smile, before carrying on their respective paths. She knew better than to mention what happened to anyone. Lyarra, in truth, didn't even know if Gregor would be punished, and did not want to suffer his wrath unknowingly. Lyanna spent her time ogling Rhaegar Targaryen, unsurprisingly. She hardly looked away, and if she did it was only for a brief moment.
On the last day of the tourney, Lyarra could hardly force herself to pay attention. She knew that the purpose of the whole tournament was to name a 'queen of love and beauty'. A nameless title, used only to bring praise and further celebration to the victorious knight who would place the crown in a lady's lap. She spent her time scanning through the crowd, searching desperately for the boy that had her curiosity spiraling like a mad dog. He'd been almost frightened by her wandering eye originally, only to come to her aid when she needed it most. 'Brother', he'd called Ser Gregor. So he was a Clegane, then. Lyarra made a mental note to ask her brother of the Cleganes later, as she knew little to nothing of the name.
She only refocused her attention on the tournament when she noticed white hair sweeping through the field. Rhaegar Targaryen stood victorious over the other men, thus presenting him with the crown — to bestow upon a lady whom he saw fit. Lyarra had brushed the very concept off, choosing to clasp onto her sister's hand — assuming that he would pick his wife. Lyanna was to be wed, and he had a wife of his own. Regardless of whether there was something budding between the two, they'd have no choice in the matter. It was only as Lyarra watched Rhaegar approach in horror, that she began to reconsider. In a flash, Rhaegar placed the crown of blue winter roses in Lyanna's lap. Just as quickly as he'd arrived, he was gone. Lyanna's cheeks were flushed, a red hue creeping up her neck. She never quite thought she'd seen her sister as full of life as she was in that moment.
However, Lyarra was no fool. She knew the repercussions to this. The action itself was scandalous, and she watched in mute horror as Robert Baratheon turned his own shade of red in the face. Princess Elia was gone, disappeared in a flash before anyone else had noticed. She couldn't help the pang of pity that rang through her chest, at that.
The trip back to Winterfell was a quiet one. Benjen and Lyanna rode far from one another, with Lyanna lingering in the back alongside her sister. Lyarra did not leave her sister's side, save to speak with Eddard. Throughout their short talks, Ned did not take his eyes off of Lyanna. He wasn't pleased with her, no doubt. Though, Lyarra maintained that it was no fault of her sister's. Rhaegar made his decision on his own, she took no part in it. He seemed to grow a bit more complacent at her words, muttering a vague comment of appreciation before hastening his horse ahead.
Lyarra thought then of the golden lion she'd left behind. Jaime Lannister, for all his perfections, was a curious man. She'd only made one friend in her life, yet her bond with the Lannister boy blossomed almost just as quickly. They weren't nearly as close, however, and her heart did not long to return to him as it did to Petyr. Jaime Lannister was a kind, charming boy. Their goodbyes were short, away from prying eyes, in the garden that they'd properly met. He'd had to leave early as it was, with the intention of guarding the Queen Rhaella. Jaime had pulled her hand down to his lips, kissing her knuckles — as if she were a proper lady. Lyarra would miss the boy, she decided then. She only hoped that he'd serve his king well, and that they would later meet under better circumstances.
The Clegane boy, however, she had yet to see again. She searched for him after the tourney, eyes wandering where they could, but her brothers hardly let her out of their sight after the incident with Lyanna. She would be forever grateful to him, even if she never would get the chance to properly speak with him.
Lyarra rode silently at her sister's side, doing her best to observe her when she had the chance. She'd seemed somber, since the tourney. Originally, she was elated. Her spirits were only dampened when she'd seen the reaction of the onlookers surrounding her. Lyanna Stark was not one to let the opinions of the many disturb her. She was far from a typical lady. There were even rumors spiraling that she'd presented herself as a Knight at the tourney, though Lyarra was not by her sister's side enough to confirm nor deny that.
"Are you looking forward to returning home?" Lyarra asked tentatively, leaning down in the slightest to move into her sister's path of sight. It took a few moments for her to respond, and just before Lyarra had gone to ask again she was interrupted.
"Would you look forward to walking back into the arms of your captor?" Her words were venomous, yet the fury in them was not meant for Lyarra. She knew that well enough.
"You're not his captive, Lyanna. Robert loves you, at the very least-"
"At the very least? Oh, so I am meant to love a man because he gives me a golden cage rather than a steel cell? That is not love, dear sister. Robert will find and fuck the first thing he sees, you know that as well as I do." Lyarra was stunned for a beat too long, and before she could collect herself her sister had already ridden ahead. She was right. Lyarra knew she was right. Lyanna had never felt as adored as she had when Rhaegar placed the crown in her lap. A crown of her favorite flowers, solidifying her as the most beautiful lady in attendance. She would never get that from Robert, regardless of how he claimed to love her.
Lyarra rode on in silence, watching her sister's back as she faded in the distance. She'd wished in that moment, that she hadn't begged her brother to spare her from Edmure Tully. That she was locked in a cage of her own, if only to relieve her sister from the pressure of carrying that weight alone. As it was, she did not know how it felt to be tied to a man that she did not love. She would, in due time. Yet it was her sister who had to shoulder that burden alone now.
Okay. Well. There's that! I kind of had to force myself to end this chapter here, because I had too many ideas on where to go with it. I did not mean to make this 6k words.. Please bear with me.
I do have some things I'd like to note about this chapter! One, this is all from Lyarra's perspective, so if something is not included it is because she was not there to witness it. The bit with Howland Reed and the Knight of the Laughing Tree is only briefly touched on in his chapter. Partially because I do not know too much about it, and also because Lyarra was just not present for it. She is always up to smth.. Free my girl. Two, the friendship between Jaime and Lyarra admittedly came out of nowhere. As I was writing, it just felt natural. The chemistry between the two was so entertaining that I could not stop writing for a moment. It feels fitting to me, though, considering what happens between the two later on (maniacal laughter)
Three, we got our first Sandor appearance! Who cheered. I did not intend on introducing him so early but I saw my chance with the tourney and took it. Bless Lord Whent and his timing (that I altered with creative liberties) Four, the third chapter is likely going to be much shorter than the previous two have been. I have a lot that I'd like to write about Lyarra's life after what happens with Lyanna, so I know that I must separate the two chapters. Fifth and finally, there is a lot of history in the Stark line that is not touched on in this story. Ned being fostered in the Eyrie is only briefly touched on. Lyarra is a bit of an ignorant child, all things considered. She is very curious, but she spends a lot of her time in her own head. If something isn't touched on, it's likely because I felt that something was more important to include instead. I try to keep the familial storylines as close to canon as I can, so if anything isn't explicitly written feel free to assume it happens without saying.
That is all I have for the time being! If you have any comments, feel free to leave them.
WOW. Just wow, holy shit. First of all, I absolutely adore Lyarra. She's so relatable and engaging as a main character, and I'm obsessed. Second of all, I screamed when Sandor made his appearance. Like out loud. Third of all, I'm having so much fun seeing characters we know as adults as children, especially through Lyarra's eyes. Her interactions with them are so interesting, and I can't wait to see what happens with each relationship. Overall, this chapter was wonderful. It's really setting the stage for the rest of the story in a way that has me literally frothing at the mouth for more. I'm sprinting to the next chapter.
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
