Winter's Blood & Dragon Fire
Chapter One: A Long journey
The very north of Westeros is a realm where the world seems to slumber beneath an endless blanket of snow and ice. Here, the air is a biting chill, carrying with it the whispers of ancient legends and the howls of wolves echoing through the night. The land is stark and unforgiving, a vast expanse where the snow-covered hills and dark forests stretch out as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the occasional frozen river or barren, rocky outcrop.
In this desolate and beautiful landscape stands Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark. Winterfell is a fortress as old as time itself, its great stone walls rising up from the white landscape like the unyielding mountains in the distance. The castle is a sprawling complex of towers, walls, and courtyards, each part of it touched by the harsh breath of the North. Its high walls are crowned with frost, and the massive gates, forged of ancient oak and iron, seem to groan with the weight of centuries.
The heart of Winterfell is the Great Keep, a towering edifice of gray stone that dominates the skyline. From its battlements, one can see the vast stretch of the Wolfswood to the west, where direwolves still roam, their eyes gleaming in the twilight. To the east lies the wide expanse of the Kingsroad, winding its way southward through the endless snow towards the warmer, softer lands beyond the Neck.
The Godswood within Winterfell's walls is a sacred place, a haven of ancient trees with branches heavy with snow. At its center stands a weirwood tree, its bark pale as bone, and its leaves a dark red, like the blood of old gods. The face carved into its trunk gazes out with solemn eyes, watching over the quiet grove where the Stark family has prayed for countless generations.
As the cold winds howl around Winterfell, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of winter, the people within its walls go about their lives with a resilience born of necessity. The blacksmith’s hammer rings out in the cold air, the scent of baking bread wafts from the kitchens, and the sound of laughter echoes through the stone halls. The Stark motto, "Winter is Coming," is not just a warning but a way of life, a constant reminder of the harshness of their world and the strength required to survive it.
Sitting beneath the weirwood tree sat the younger sister of Cregan Stark, eyes white as snow and a mind far away from her own body. Atop the great fortress that was Winterfell a bird of prey soared, eyes the same matching white as that of the girl sat against the ancient tree. Humans, in their ceaseless pursuit of power and conquest, found the power to carry swords and armor, their feet bound to the earth while their hearts yearn for what true freedom might feel like. Lyria often watches the birds with envy, their wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, embodying the freedom she craves. Yet, she is grateful beyond measure for the gift of skinchanging, a rare blessing from the Gods that allows her spirit to soar. Each time she melds her consciousness with that of a raven, she savors every moment, feeling the rush of wind beneath her wings and the exhilarating vastness of the world below. In these stolen moments of flight, Lyria truly feels alive, unburdened by the chains of the mortal realm.
A voice of which felt close, yet so far away came to join Lyira’s trail of thoughts, but it was not before the call of her name that her eyes returned to their normal, cool shade of gray. Behind her stood Cregan, her brother, Lord of WInterfell and Warden of The North, his eyes locked with hers, his mouth moving without her being able to make out a single word of what he said. Blinking a few times in hopes of getting rid of the ringing in her ears and the blurriness of her vision, Lyria’s brother knelt made way to kneel before her, his hand coming up to wipe the crimson liquid that escaped her nose.
“How long were you gone, sister?” A question Cregan had repeated for a third time before his sister made sense of what had been asked, her hands found their way to his arms, gripping them lightly as he went on to help her to her feet. When she looked around, it became clear to her that the sun had risen, the sky no longer bleeding gold— she had been gone for a good while without realizing.
“The sky had yet to look blue when I came outside…” She paused for a moment, taking in her surroundings as she now stood with her feet on the ground once more. Cregan went to link their arms, guiding his sister out from the Godswood, slowly making their way towards the courtyard. “Are we to depart soon? The Gods seem to have granted us fine weather for our long journey– not a single cloud to be seen in the sky.” Lord Stark looked at his sister, her mind still far away even though she walked by his side. It was the usual outcome of her skinchanging— ever since it first happened. It took a while for Lyria to find herself again once her spirit returned into her body, as if it took a while for her to adjust to everything when she no longer saw the world through the eyes of whatever creature she came to possess.
Cregan turned to his sister Lyria as they arrived in the frost-kissed courtyard, his hands finding and gripping her elbows with a mixture of urgency and tenderness. “We were to leave not long ago, but you were nowhere to be found.” He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with a stern but caring gaze. “I wish for you to stay here, Lyria. The South is no place for a wolf—”
Lyria’s calm fury interrupted him, her eyes flashing with a mix of longing and defiance. “I want to come—no, I need to. I wish to see dragons, Cregan. To feel winds melting my skin instead of the ones that nip at my soul. The North is my home, but you are my pack. You cannot make me stay while you dine with all the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.”
Her voice, steady yet fervent, cut through the chill of the air. Cregan’s gaze softened, torn between the protective instincts of a brother and the understanding of a sibling who knows too well the pull of one's heart. All Cregan could do was nod. Knowing his sister as he did, he realized there was no arguing with her resolute and wild spirit. With one final, reluctant squeeze of her elbows, he released her, though his gaze lingered on hers, filled with both resignation and affection. "Aye, then you shall dine alongside all the Lords and Ladies, lie your eyes upon the biggest of beasts, and see all that the South of the Neck has to offer."
Lyria’s grin widened, a flash of triumph in her eyes. With a playful jab to her brother’s shoulder, she spun on her heel and hurried towards her black stallion, her heart brimming with excitement. “Then we shall waste no more time! To the South we ride!” she declared, her voice ringing with a blend of determination and exhilaration as she mounted her horse and set off towards the awaiting journey.
The journey south was a grueling one, a week of relentless travel that saw Lyria and her companions spending a cumulative forty hours on horseback. The Northern travelers, accustomed to the biting chill and the steady rhythm of the snowy landscape, found themselves weary from the relentless pace and the varying terrain of the South. Despite making numerous stops to rest and resupply, the weariness of the road weighed heavily upon them.
As they traversed the Kingsroad, Lyria marveled at the changing scenery. The stark beauty of the North gave way to the lush and varied landscapes of the South. Passing the Neck, the looming silhouettes of the Twins came into view, their stone towers rising above the misty waters of the river. The sound of rushing rivers filled the air as they neared Harrenhal, its massive, crumbling structure a stark contrast to the vibrant life of the surrounding lands.
The Gods Eye sparkled like a jewel in the early morning sun, its serene surface reflecting the soft light and adding a touch of magic to their journey. They pressed on past Sow’s Horn, its name evoking images of the ancient and the mythical, and Hayford Castle, with its imposing walls and storied past.
Finally, after days of arduous travel and the subtle shift of seasons, the travelers were greeted by the sight of King’s Landing. The sprawling city, nestled against the bay, shimmered in the distance, a vibrant and bustling hub of life. Its towering Red Keep and the bustling streets below seemed almost to beckon, a far cry from the cold, unyielding landscape of the North. As the travelers approached, the city’s grandeur and the promise of new experiences provided a welcome contrast to the fatigue of their long journey.
— — —
Lyria, Cregan, and their small assembly of Northerners made their way through the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the city alive with the sounds and scents of the capital. The Great Sept loomed magnificently to their left, its towering spires catching the midday sun, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. In the distance, the Dragonpit’s dome was a stark reminder of the powerful beast it housed below.
As they continued, the Red Keep came into view, a stunning fortress of red stone that dominated the skyline. Its high walls and grand towers were both imposing and awe-inspiring, a testament to the might and majesty of House Targaryen. The Northerners, weary yet resolute, felt a sense of anticipation and respect as they approached the grand entrance leading into the castle grounds.
Upon arrival, they were greeted by an honor guard of Kingsguards, their white cloaks billowing slightly in the gentle breeze, and their polished armor gleaming. Beyond them stood the royal family, a sight both regal and formidable. King Viserys, though frail and in ill health, was seated in his grand chair, exuding an air of dignified authority. Behind him stood Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his expression stern and watchful. To the king’s right stood his sons, Aegon II with a proud stance and Aemond with a piercing gaze.
On Viserys’ left, Queen Alicent stood with a composed grace, her presence commanding and serene. Next to her was the princess Helaena, her delicate features reflecting both beauty and melancholy. The Targaryen family stood proud and united, a powerful symbol of the realm’s might.
Lyria, Cregan, and their companions dismounted their steeds, the journey’s fatigue momentarily forgotten in the face of such grandeur. They slowly climbed the steps leading up to the royals, their movements measured and respectful. As they ascended, the Northerners felt the weight of tradition and history pressing upon them, aware of the significance of this meeting between the North and the Iron Throne. The air was thick with anticipation as they prepared to pay their respects and present themselves to the rulers of Westeros.
All of the guests lowered their heads in respect for the king and his family, though it didn’t go unnoticed by the Stark’s that a certain member of the family was nowhere to be seen— the heir, princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
As the lord of Winterfell and his sister approached the king, Cregan was the first to offer his greetings. Their hands met in a firm yet gentle handshake, a silent exchange of respect and acknowledgment. While King Viserys welcomed the young wolf lord, his gaze shifted to Lyria, whose soft features did not go unnoticed by his Grace.
Cregan then moved on to greet the remaining members of the royal family, each gesture marked by the formal courtesy befitting his station. Meanwhile, Lyria stepped forward, her steps measured and graceful. She curtsied with deep respect before the king, who reached out and gently grasped her hand.
"Lady Stark, your brother failed to mention your presence, albeit I am honored to be graced with your northern beauty," King Viserys said, his voice warm and welcoming.
Lyria offered the elder man a small smile, holding her head high despite barely standing taller than the seated king. "You honor me, Your Grace. We sent a raven, though it seems that we reached your blessed home before it got the chance to inform you of my joining."
The king’s face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook his head. "Nonsense, my dear. Your presence is that of a pleasant surprise."
His hand continued to engulf hers, a gesture both reassuring and kind. Lyria felt a sense of warmth emanate from the frail yet resilient king, a stark contrast to the icy winds of her homeland. As she stood there, hand in hand with the Realm's protector, she could not help but feel a sense of profound connection and mutual respect. This moment, amidst the grandeur of the Red Keep and the presence of the powerful Targaryen family, was a testament to the strength and unity of Westeros, a tapestry woven from the diverse threads of its noble houses.
Once the king released Lyria’s hand, she moved on to greet Aegon. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, widening as the snow-white beauty bowed her head to him. In a swift motion, his hands found hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a long, rather un-kingly kiss. His violet eyes locked onto hers as their hands parted, his gaze that of a predator eyeing its next meal.
“The Realm has failed to mention that northern ladies are that of beauty, Lady Stark. The view before me is sent by the heavens.”
Surely Aegon thought his flirtatious words would elicit a blush, but Lyria saw the lustful gleam in his eyes, the gaze of a man longing to see what lay beneath the layers of her dress. She smiled—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—as she replied.
“You flatter me, prince, though I assure you that I am simply human and not a gift sent from the heavens above.”
Aegon chuckled at her response, a small snicker escaping him, followed by a nod. “You could have fooled me, my lady. I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming days.”
Another kiss was placed on her knuckle before she moved to greet the second son of the king: Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. He stood stoic, taller than his older brother, his well-tended hair resting against the black leather he wore. Lyria nodded at him, her eyes fixed on his uncovered violet eye. This time, she spoke first, her hands intertwined in front of her.
“There are widespread tales of your skills with the blade, my prince. It would be an honor to witness them with my own eyes.”
Aemond’s lips curled slightly, a glimmer of confidence shining in his eye at the compliment. He bowed, his gaze never leaving hers as he extended his hand. Lyria placed her hand in his, and he bestowed a chaste kiss upon her pale knuckles before straightening.
“Your words honor me, Lady Wolf. I suppose it would be a pleasure to demonstrate my honed skills—if the celebrations of my father’s nameday spare us such pleasantries.”
Lyria nodded, her eyes meeting his with a mix of respect and curiosity, the formalities of the greeting charged with unspoken understanding and anticipation.
After greeting the king and princes, Lyria made her way to the queen. Alicent Hightower was young—much younger than her husband. Her auburn hair was neatly braided away from her face, falling freely down her back. A stunning green gown hugged her body, leaves embroidered with gold thread stretching from the collar, wrapping around her waist. As Lyria stood before the gracefully composed woman, she was struck by the realization that Alicent embodied beauty itself. Dropping into a small curtsy, she was met with a forced, yet tender smile from the queen.
“Words do you no justice, my queen. You are as graceful as they come,” Lyria said earnestly. She had never seen such beauty until her eyes slipped to the princess beside the queen. Their exchange was brief, only a few words passing between them before Lyria continued on to Helaena.
Just as Lyria was about to bow her head to the princess, she felt soft, cool hands embrace her face. She met Helaena’s gaze, shocked by the sudden touch of her gentle hands. In the princess’s eyes, Lyria found something familiar—a faraway look, though her physical form was present.
“The wolf can fly…” Helaena’s voice was soft, enigmatic.
Lyria was momentarily confused, aware of the many eyes upon them. Despite not fully understanding Helaena’s words, she nodded, her hands finding and holding the ones on her face. She made no effort to remove the princess’s hands, allowing the white-haired girl to maintain the tender contact.
“The wolf can fly, princess,” Lyria affirmed.
With Lyria’s words, it seemed Helaena returned to her senses, her eyes studying the northern girl she had embraced. It wasn’t often that others responded to her cryptic sayings, yet this stranger from a distant land looked at her with understanding and respect. Helaena smiled, her thumbs softly stroking Lyria’s warm skin. The two stood in comfortable silence, as if the world around them ceased to exist, until the queen beside them cleared her throat.
Helaena’s hands left Lyria’s face, the ghost of her touch lingering on her pale cheeks as the princess took a step back, her eyes still on Lyria, mirroring the curiosity of the Targaryen family. “A wolf with wings is but a rare thing—” She paused, as if the rest of her sentence had slipped her mind. “I’d like to show you the Keep, if you’d let me? The Godswood would be a great start to your stay with us, though I’m sure ours is nothing compared to what your home has to offer.”
Before Alicent or Viserys could stop their daughter, Helaena swiftly led the brunette girl away from the gathering and towards the Red Keep’s own Godswood. The two girls moved in tandem, the world around them a blur as they delved into the serene sanctuary, a silent understanding forming between them.
Arriving in the godswood, Lyria realized that the princess had been right—while the royal godswood was beautiful, it was nothing compared to that of Winterfell. The white bark of the weirwood trees did not blend into the soft summer snow as they did in the North, nor did the crimson leaves provide the striking contrast she was accustomed to. The weirwood tree here stood tall but felt small compared to the ancient giant she was used to praying by, though the somber face carved into its trunk remained much the same, a silent witness to their presence.
The two girls came to a stop before the mighty tree, its roots sprawling out like the veins of the land itself. They sat down by its base, settling into a comfortable silence. Helaena’s eyes roamed the ground as if searching for something hidden in the soil, while Lyria found her small dagger fastened at her hip. Unsheathing the blade, she brought it to her thumb and sliced the skin just deep enough to draw blood. The small drop of crimson, resembling a ruby, gleamed before it met the bark of the weirwood, which seemed to absorb the offering from the northern lady.
The two sat in silence, a sense of peace enveloping them. Though strangers, their brief introduction had unfolded an unspoken understanding between them. The sacred space, with its ancient trees and whispering leaves, provided a sanctuary where words were unnecessary. They were connected by something deeper, something primal and ancient.
Eventually, Helaena broke the pleasant silence. A spider crawled in the palm of her hand as she turned to face Lyria, whose thumb still rested against the tree. “I must ask… How does a wolf fly? Such creatures have no wings, yet your eyes have seen the world from above. How so?”
Lyria looked at the princess, her gaze thoughtful, not sure how the princess knew this information. She took a deep breath, feeling the connection between her and the weirwood tree, the life force that seemed to pulse through its roots and into her soul.
“Wolves may not have wings, but there are other ways to soar,” Lyria began softly. “In the North, some are gifted with the ability to skinchange—to enter the minds of animals and see the world through their eyes. I am one of those few. Through the eyes of a raven, I have soared above the trees, felt the wind beneath my wings, and seen the world from the sky. In the body of a wolf, I roamed the woods and lived freely and in the skin of a bear I experienced the mind of a beast and the power that comes with it. ” She paused briefly, but continued as if knowing that she could trust the princess with such a heavy secret. “I know the South views our ways as wrong, some going so far as to call it black magic, but it is far from truth. I swear it by my Old Gods, for they granted me this gift.”
Helaena’s eyes widened slightly, her fascination evident as she listened. The spider in her hand crawled leisurely, oblivious to the weight of the conversation. “A raven,” she mused, her voice almost a whisper. “How extraordinary. To see the world from such a vantage point… it must be freeing.”
“It is, though I believe you have felt that freedom too.” Lyria agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s a gift, one I cherish deeply. It allows me to escape, to see beyond the confines of my own body and experience the world in a way few others can.”
The princess smiled, a serene expression settling on her face. “Perhaps we are more alike than I thought, Lady Stark. We both see the world differently, in ways others might not understand.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them and the ancient tree that bore witness to their bond. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty; it was filled with mutual respect and the promise of a deepening friendship.
Now it was Lyria who continued their conversation. She removed her thumb from the weirwood and moved closer to the princess, her eyes captivated by the massive red spider in Helaena’s hands.
"That is one big spider. We only have small ones in the North, and it’s rare to be graced with their presence."
Helaena nodded, turning her hands over and over as the spider crawled along her skin. There was no fear in her eyes, only a fondness for the small, eight-legged creature. "I can't imagine the North having many insects... Word says it’s terribly cold in those lands, that snow never leaves the ground." She paused, letting the spider go and watching as it crawled its way up the massive tree they sat under. "Though that is just a word of tongue. I'm sure a true Northerner like yourself would be the right person to ask about such things."
Lyria found her dagger again, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she twirled the blade between her fingers with ease. "Aye, while winter is everlasting, we are blessed with bare ground for a while, albeit very short. Summer snow is not as heavy, nor the winds as harsh. My home might not be as colorful as yours, princess, but the North is beautiful in its own way."
Helaena reached forward, grabbing Lyria's unoccupied hand in hers. Normally, the princess was quite reserved, tensing at physical contact—even from her own mother. But seated under the weirwood tree, observed by the gods, the two girls had quickly come to understand each other. In all earnestness, Lyria had been the first person not to judge her, not to question her odd sayings, nor look at her as if she had said something that should never be spoken. Their friendship, though new, was profound. The Targaryen princess had never been around anyone like the girl wolf seated with her.
Lyria looked at Helaena, her expression softening. "The North may be harsh and unforgiving, but it has its own kind of beauty. The silence of the snow, the strength of the trees, the resilience of its people. It’s a land that teaches you to be strong, to endure. And in that, there is a beauty unlike any other."
Helaena’s eyes shimmered with understanding. "I would like to see it someday. To feel the cold you speak of, to witness the stark beauty of your home."
Lyria smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. "And I would love to show it to you. The godswood at Winterfell is ancient, the heart tree standing tall and proud. It’s a place of reverence and peace, much like this one, but with a unique northern charm."
The princess squeezed Lyria’s hand gently. "You are different, Lyria. In a good way. You see things others don’t, like me, and you don’t shy away from what you find."
"And you, Helaena," Lyria replied, her voice soft, "are one of the most genuine souls I’ve ever met. Your insight, your way of seeing the world—it’s a gift."
The two girls shared a moment of silence, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing second. The godswood around them seemed to embrace their newfound friendship, the ancient trees bearing silent witness to the connection forming beneath their branches.
Before the two girls could continue their genuine conversation, footsteps approached, stopping a few feet away from them. The girls looked up to meet the stoic gaze of the one-eyed prince, Aemond Targaryen. His right hand firmly gripped the sword at his hip, while his left hand rested behind his back. He studied the scene before him: his sister’s hands playing with the Northerner’s fingers, both of them looking utterly peaceful in each other’s company. A small hum emitted from his throat, his eyes darting between the young ladies before settling on his sister, though she didn’t meet his gaze.
"The King is requesting your presence. You will have time to show the Lady Wolf our home in due course, sister. As of now, though, the day is growing late, and I’m sure our guest would be pleased to clean up before the welcome feast."
Though Aemond had finished speaking, he remained standing in front of them, waiting to be their escort into the castle. Lyria was the first to stand, dusting herself off before lending a hand to the princess and helping her to her feet. As the two of them closed in on Aemond, he offered his arms to the girls—like a proper prince ought to do.
Lyria placed her hand on his elbow, accepting his escort. However, Helaena chose to intertwine her arm with Lyria's instead of her brother’s. Aemond wouldn’t go so far as to say he was offended, but the fact that Helaena preferred to link arms with someone who was initially a stranger instead of her own brother did something to weaken his ego.
As they walked towards the castle, the air between them was filled with an unspoken tension. The courtyard was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone path. Aemond’s tall, imposing figure contrasted sharply with the delicate forms of Lyria and Helaena. The serene atmosphere of the godswood was left behind as they moved closer to the grandeur of the Red Keep.
Lyria couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for Aemond. She sensed the hurt behind his stoic demeanor, the subtle wound inflicted by his sister’s preference for her company over his. But she also understood Helaena’s choice. There was a unique bond forming between the two girls, one that transcended the formalities and expectations of court life.
As they approached the grand entrance of the castle, Aemond spoke again, his voice a touch softer than before. "Lady Stark, I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."
Lyria nodded, offering him a gentle smile. "Thank you, Prince Aemond. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."
Helaena, still holding Lyria’s arm, glanced at her brother with a look that held a mixture of apology and defiance. "We shall make haste, brother. But know that Lyria’s company is a welcomed change for me. She understands things others do not."
Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through his eye, despite not fully gripping what his sister meant.. "Very well, sister. But do remember, the feast awaits."
Helaena and Lyria walked slowly through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the warm glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. As they reached Lyria’s chamber, Helaena paused and gave her new friend a gentle smile.
"This is your room, Lady Stark. I hope you find it comfortable. I’ll see you at the feast."
Lyria returned the smile, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Princess. I’ll be there shortly."
Helaena nodded, her hand lingering on Lyria’s arm for a moment before she turned and walked away, her footsteps soft and echoing down the corridor.
Lyria entered her room, taking in the opulent surroundings. A large bathtub had been brought in, steam rising from the hot water. She sighed in relief, eager to wash away the dust and weariness of their journey. She carefully removed her travel-stained clothes, folding them neatly before stepping into the tub. The hot water enveloped her, soothing her sore muscles. She took her time, scrubbing her skin clean and letting the warmth relax her.
Once she felt sufficiently refreshed, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a soft towel. She found a small bottle of cinnamon-scented oil on the vanity and applied a few drops behind her ears, enjoying the comforting aroma. She then began to work on her hair, her fingers deftly weaving it into an intricate triple braid that joined into one at the back. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped into a stunning white gown. The shimmering silver thread and stormy gray accents complemented her eyes perfectly, and the white fox fur that draped over her shoulders added a touch of northern elegance.
Ready to join the feast, Lyria left her room and met her brother, Cregan, in the hallway. The two of them walked in silence, the bond between them unspoken but strong. Cregan, in his dark shades of gray and black, with a mighty fur cloak hanging over his broad shoulders, looked every bit the formidable Lord of Winterfell. In contrast, Lyria shone in her white gown, a vision of northern grace and beauty.
As they entered the grand hall, they were met with the sight of lords and ladies already taking their seats. The room was filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of goblets. Helaena spotted the siblings and waved in their direction before returning to her conversation.
The Starks made their way to their seats, their contrasting attires drawing the eyes of many. Once seated, goblets were filled with wine—a more fruity and refined beverage than what they were used to in the North. Lyria took a sip, savoring the unfamiliar taste, while Cregan merely nodded his approval, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with a warrior’s vigilance.
As they settled in, the feast began in earnest, the tables laden with an array of sumptuous dishes. Lyria and Cregan exchanged a glance, both feeling the weight of their northern heritage amidst the southern opulence. They were wolves in a dragon’s den, but they held their heads high, ready to face whatever the evening—and the days to come—might bring.
The feast in the grand hall of the Red Keep was a dazzling affair. Lords and ladies engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of goblets and laughter filling the air. Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was frequently engaged in conversation with various nobles, discussing matters of the realm, the North, and their mutual interests. Despite the attention, his gaze frequently darted to his sister, Lyria, to ensure her well-being.
Lyria, however, sat mostly in silence. She was a stark contrast to the animated conversations around her. Her quiet demeanor was alarming to Cregan. He knew his sister to be a wild spirit, full of life and opinions. Her silence in such a setting was unusual and disconcerting.
As the feast progressed, and dessert was served, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Most men were deep in their cups of wine, their tongues loosened by the drink. It was then that Lyria, with a determined glint in her eye, rose from her seat. The creaking of her chair drew attention, and soon all eyes were upon her.
Ignoring the stares, Lyria focused on the royal family. Helaena, sensing Lyria's intent, gave a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Lyria addressed the king. "My King!" Her voice rang out, silencing the hall. Cregan watched her, confused and worried.
"If I may be so bold and ask," Lyria continued, "it is said that Old Valyria was a place of great things, such as magic. Is that something you believe in, Your Grace?"
At this, Otto and Alicent Hightower, seated beside the king, shot her sharp looks of disapproval. Cregan’s grip on his sister’s wrist tightened, a silent plea for her to reconsider. But Viserys, intrigued by the boldness of the young lady, smiled warmly. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort of his wife and the Hand.
"Well, yes, Lady Lyria," Viserys responded, taking a sip of his wine. "The Targaryens are from a place of old magic. If there are such creatures as dragons, it would be foolish not to believe that things akin exist, no? Any particular reason for these questions?"
Cregan's grip grew more intense, but Lyria met his gaze with a soft yet determined look. In a whisper meant only for her brother, she said, "The South paints us as heathens, brother. We should not be shamed for sharing blood with the First Men. Our home was built atop creations made by the Children of the Forest. Our faith is no laughing matter, and we should not be a jest for our beliefs—no matter how old."
Returning her attention to the king, a mischievous grin played on Lyria’s lips. "It would do me great honor, Your Grace, to show you the gift I’ve been granted by the Old Gods... though I’d much prefer less of an audience for such a matter. Only if it pleases you, my king."
Viserys leaned back in his chair, clearly fascinated by the young Stark's boldness. "Such confidence and conviction in your beliefs, Lady Lyria. Very well, I shall see this gift of yours. Ser Otto, Alicent, and my sons will accompany us. Let us adjourn to a more private setting."
As the king rose, the hall buzzed with whispers and curious glances. Cregan released his grip on Lyria, his expression a mix of concern and pride. He followed the royal family, along with his sister, to a more secluded part of the castle where Lyria would reveal her extraordinary gift.
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A/N: This story will be cross-published here and on AO3, eventually Wattpad, if you see it anywhere else, please report it. On another note- I'd love to hear thoughts on this chapter, as well as feedback, but be kind! I don't normally write and usually my ideas remain that of stories told to my friend @thee-horny-thicky
