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Chapter Text

The Old Man wandered through the docks of Qarth. The city sat at the edge of the world, a massive trading outpost with dozens of ships docked outside its triple walls. He had traveled far to reach it. Long walks and an even longer voyage that had turned him green. 

The first depicted a menagerie of animals big and small, mundane and exotic. The second depicted war, in all its horror. He avoided looking at it too closely. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. The third depicted lovemaking. Even at his age and with a vow of celibacy, it made him blush. 

But he hadn’t traveled all this way to stare at Qarth’s walls. He had come for an altogether different purpose. Redemption was an odd reason for one as old as him, but it drove Ser Barristan the Bold forward even in his old age. 

He walked the docks and searched. Clad in a cowled robe, he was another man among thousands. His blade stayed under the cloak and he was just another old man. He did not have to search long. They walked the docks themselves, looking for a passage. Gossip around him abounded by the girl who had birthed dragons into the world once more. 

He found them shortly after. 

He found the Queen he had expected, the last dragon. 

He found the knight he had expected, the spider’s pet bear. 

He found the three old friends, knights, those …

he did not expect. He had thought them lost long ago. 

They found him as well. Swords were in hands in the flicker of an eye. 

He had not drawn his sword, for the second time in his life. He could not. He would not. 

He knew these men, long thought dead. He had searched for them, hoping to find bleached bones to return and grant their families peace. He had searched for them, to finish their entries in the book of the kingsguard and write their fates. 

Here they stood, very much alive. Very much in control of their fates … and his. Deception would be impossible from his former brothers - they knew each other too well.  

He knelt and removed his cowl. The girl with violent eyes and hair as pale as his - from blood rather than age - walked over. She looked so much like her brother. The hair was silken silver, glistening in the sunlight, cut short. She wore Qarthi clothing - a dress with bold tones of blue and gold. At her side, a dagger strapped to her waist. 

She pushed past her protectors, and Barristan saw it. 

A dragon sat on her shoulder, head coiled and wings bared. Black as night, the size of a small cat. It’s tail dropped down from her shoulder, nearly reaching her waist. A small head, with sharp teeth and a snarl faced him. The wings were big, leathery things with the span of an eagle’s. A myth, a legend, awakened from stone. He had thought it folly, long ago. The whispers of her father, raw madness. Yet here it was. A Dragon gazed and snarled at him, sprung from the pages of myth.

He knelt. “Your grace.” He dared not look up. 

“Rise, ser knight. Who are you to provoke my companions thus?” He met those violet eyes, eyes he had not seen for decades. The eyes of a dragon. They were so much like Ashara’s. So much like Rhaegar’s. They brought a tear to his eye. 

“Ser Barristan the Bold. I served your father and brother, and have returned to serve you.”

A stranger emerged, a balding man built like a bear. He pointed his blade at Ser Barristan, face a sneer. Jorah Mormont. Varys’s lackey. 

“He serves the usurper, your grace. He was the lord commander of his kingsguard. He cannot be trusted.” 

The young queen’s eyes hardened. “Is this true?” 

“Aye. I served many kings. I served King Jaehaerys the Second, and after him King Aerys the Second and his son Prince Rhaegar. I was wounded protecting your brother at the Battle of the Trident.” He paused. Grief and pain clouded his vision. 

“It was my greatest failure. I am sorry. I have come to serve you, and renew my vows to your family. As I should have done, long ago.” 

The princess contemplated for a long moment, her dragon hissing and cooing. She turned to her kingsguard, the three men he knew all too well. 

“Do you know this man?” 

They nodded, each in turn, utterly silent. He rose to face old friends, and faced the oldest, still years younger than him. 

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, looked older than his years - exile had not been kind to him. His hair and beard bore flecks of gray. A good man, a true man. Loyal to the end, even now. His frown creased with suspicion. 

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had not tempered with time. He looked as sharp as the blade he held. His violet eyes held no warmth at reunion. 

Ser Oswald Whent had no jape this time. He was deadly serious, his mind and face ready for a clash. 

None of his former comrades in arms had anything but hostility in their eyes. 

“Can he be trusted?” The Girl pierced Barristan with a shrewd glare. It was so much like her brother’s. Her father’s. It peeled away a man’s secrets. 

“He served the Usurper.” said Ser Arthur Dayne. 

“He betrayed our oaths.” said Ser Gerold Hightower.

“He failed your brother.” said Ser Oswald Whent. 

With each word, the girl’s eyes narrowed. Her Dragon hissed and grew more agitated. 

Barristan spoke his piece. “I rode with him into battle, when you three were absent. I looked for you all. You did not accompany your prince to the Trident.” At that, her eyes widened. Daenerys looked … surprised. 

“We were not there.” Spoke Ser Gerold.  

“Woe to the usurper and his dogs if we had been,” said Ser Oswell. 

Barristan rarely lost his temper. He was a man of discipline, of control. Rhaegar had returned to the capitol without his kingsguard escort. He had said nothing of their whereabouts before riding into battle. Barristan had done his best, but it was only himself and Lewyn. The host they led was fresh, green as summer grass. They needed experienced leadership. Kingsguard leadership. 

And for that, his prince had sent them away to the flanks, preferring to lead alone. His prince had fought alone. And his prince had died alone.  

“I was gravely wounded, kept alive only by Robert’s mercy. None of you were bedridden. Where were you when King’s Landing fell, when Jaime ran our king through? When Rhaegar’s wife and children were slaughtered? Where were you then?” Barristan’s voice raised and his eyes filled with tears. Daenerys’s face darkened at this point and she looked to her kingsguard with the same question in her own eyes. 

“Far away,” Said Ser Gerold. “Or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.” 

“When Ned Stark lifted the siege of Storm’s End, I thought he might find you there. The Tyrells and their bannermen dipped their banners and bent the knee. You were not there.” 

“Our knees do not bend easily, as yours did,” said Ser Arthur. 

“Had you sailed to Dragonstone? I knew Ser Willem Darry was sent there with Viserys and the pregnant queen Rhaella.” There, Daenerys had a look of recognition for each name. First Happiness, then wariness, then sadness. 

“Ser Willem was a good man and true. We were not with him, we were fulfilling our oaths.” She looked shocked at this answer, as did Barristan. 

“Where were you? Where had you fled?” Barristan’s voice was hoarse with grief and rage. Where had they gone? What could be more important than their oaths? Their prince? His babes? 

“The Kingsguard does not flee,” said Ser Gerold. His face had flushed and he grit his teeth. 

“Then or now,” added Ser Arthur. His eyes narrowed, and he readied his blade. 

“We swore a vow,” said Ser Oswald. “Kings died, and we held our vow all the same.” 

“Now we serve a Queen,” said Ser Arthur. 

“We did not forget our oaths, as you did.” said Ser Gerold. 

“Will you serve her in the same fashion, being far away when she needs you the most?” Barristan spoke, unarmed, gesturing with fury and upset. His own brothers, accusing him of treachery - he had fought against Robert on the Trident. They had not. He tempted fate but no blade would scare him now. Answers scared him more. 

They were silent at that. The fourth brother of their group, the one without any scrap of honor, Mormont, spoke up. “Will you serve her like you did the Usurper?” 

Barristan met the man’s gaze. “I will serve her with more loyalty than you ever had.” 

At that, Daenerys’s eyes widened and his brothers looked to Mormont. He wilted under the pressure. 

“What do you mean, Ser Barristan?” Her eyes were cool, calm, searching. 

“This man was a spy in the service of the Usurper.” He’d attended the small council meetings. He knew Varys’s source from the eunuch’s own mouth, and the man who had informed on a child and nearly caused her death by assassin. He had opposed it when reminded of honor by Ned Stark. All the others had condoned it. The murder of a pregnant girl. He’d felt alone then among the vipers. The fury of his former king had sobered him. 

He did not think it a coincidence he was dismissed after, in the reign of the next king. 

Now he was here, while the vipers still sat in King’s Landing. 

Daenerys’s eyes widened, and Ser Arthur turned to face Mormont, blade in hand. “And you know this how?” 

“I was on Robert’s small council. The master of whisperers, Varys, disclosed Mormont as a source. This was before he sent assassins to murder you and your unborn child.” 

She spoke, a whisper. “Did you condone this?” 

“No. I bitterly opposed it alongside Robert’s own hand, Ned Stark. We were unsuccessful, your grace.”

“The Usurper’s wolf opposed him?” The girl seemed lost in thought. That revelation had thrown her for a loop. Barristan said nothing. 

She looked to Barristan yet again. “Other assassins were sent after me, before then. My brother and I had to run and hide, begging for scraps.”

Barristan let his confusion show on his face. “They sent no assassinations. Jon Arryn sent none after either of you after you had fled to Essos.” She stared him down, trying to sense falsehood in words. That shocked her and left her stunned. Her lip trembled and her eyes watered. 

After collecting herself, She nodded at him. “Are you free of your oaths? How have you come here, when the Usurper still lives?” 

He had traveled faster than the news, it seemed. 

“Robert is dead, your Grace. Killed by a boar.” One last failing of his own, but he did not share that. She smiled at the news. 

Barristan continued. “When Robert died, his son Joffrey took the throne. His son and his mother thought me too old to serve in the Kingsguard and dismissed me.” 

None hid their surprise at that. Even Mormont, who had glared at Barristan like a stain on his boot, was shocked. His brothers looked at him with something fresh in their eyes. They were furious at the insult, even with their dislike of his own honor. Kingsguard served for life, oaths sworn until death. They had only their oaths and honor to hold onto. Broken men. 

Like he was. They would need a long time to accept him. Things would never be as they had been. Too much time had passed, too much had changed. 

“You are free of all oaths?” 

“I am, your grace.” 

“And you chose me?” 

“Yes, my queen.” 

She extended a hand to him, beckoning him to her side. “I would be honored to have you join my queensguard as you served my father before me.”  

“Khaleesi, I must insist.” Mormont spoke up then, with desperate eyes. 

Her glare silenced him. “Ser Arthur, take Ser Jorah back. Remove his blade and keep him under watch.” 

The man’s shoulders sagged and he surrendered his blade. Arthur Dayne looked disappointed. Then again, maybe this Mormont possessed some sense. Fighting the sword of the morning was a fool’s errand. 

The other two queensguard kept their blades drawn and leveled at Barristan. 

Daenerys noticed this and glanced between the two. Her voice was kind, sympathetic. “Only injury prevented you from joining my family, and you kept your oath to a man who had saved your life.” 

Then, with steel in her voice. “My guards will stand down.” 

And they did, silently. Their faces were serious. It would be a long time before they spoke to him, if ever. 

“Tell me more news about the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Barristan.” Then, with a slight smile and a look of wanderlust. “You have been there more recently than I.”  

“They are at war. Joffrey faces his uncles as pretenders, and after the execution of Ned Stark, the north has rebelled against the crown entirely, my queen.” 

Her eyes widened. “Truly?” 

He nodded. “In my long experience, I have never seen such division and turmoil, such treachery.” 

She looked sullen then. The face was thoughtful, pensive. It was oddly familiar. For some reason, she reminded him of someone. He wasn’t quite sure who. 

Then she smiled. That, he recognized. It was all Rhaegar. “It bodes well for our restoration. Thank you for these tidings.” 

He nodded. 

“Come with me, ser. We have so much to discuss.” 

He fell into position beside his old brothers, and felt long distant memories come into focus. 

He felt like he was home. Home, in a city so far away he had been the first source of news. A city on the edge of the world. A city with a young queen and legends of the king’s guard. And Dragons. 

The world had trembled before them before. Seven Kingdoms had knelt and sown fealty. It would happen again, he knew. 

Chapter Text

Lyarra was exhausted. They’d ridden hard for two days straight. 

The first day, they’d put the gate behind them after a few hours. They’d followed the goldroad, east towards the Lannisters and their gold mines. They’d galloped across the road from weary refugees. 

They’d left the road soon after that, once out of sight of their pursuers, heading north. They’d followed farmer’s trails and dirt tracks north. Lyarra knew how to navigate - the basics at least. She’d hunted and camped in the wolfswood up north. Landmarks, directions, signs all could change. But you could trust your eyes, and the sky. You could trust the sun during the day. It rose in the East and set in the West. A vague North was easy to find based on that. At night, it was easier. Just follow the eye of the white dragon in the sky. 

They’d rode far into the woods that first night. Ghost and Nymeria had run off and hadn’t yet returned. Their time in King’s Landing had driven them mad. Even with walks and good care they had suffered. They were wild creatures, stuck in a cage built by man. Even the Red Keep godswood - twice as big as Winterfell’s - was still a cage with tall stone walls to them. Even Lyarra had felt that, towards the end. With the freedom of the wild beckoning, they’d gone feral. Ghost had looked back once and plunged off into the bush. Lyarra didn’t have the heart to stop them. Or the energy. Their horse was terrified of the wolves, and they couldn’t ride the wolves, even with their size. Only Rickon had dared to try, and he was small enough Shaggydog could manage. 

That night, they’d camped without a fire. She didn’t want to risk it. They found a clearing and collapsed on the ground, exhausted. Their stolen horse - she didn’t know the stallion’s name had led to Arya having fallen asleep soon after. 

Lyarra still had work to do. She offloaded the dead goldcloak they had been hauling. 

Pulling the body off the horse took the last of her energy. 

Then she ripped his helmet off - hers now - and saw the face of the man she had killed. Well, her and Ghost. 

Ghost had left his neck in a bad spot. His mail coif had prevented bleeding, but did nothing to stop the crushing force of direwolf jaws. 

His face was frozen, almost peaceful. His still brown eyes stared into hers. She looked away.

It didn’t help. He was barely a man grown - hardly older than herself. She kept herself from retching by willpower. My family comes first. Better you than me.  

She stripped the boy of his armor and cloak. He had mail leggings and a mail shirt she appropriated. They didn’t fit too well over herself - she was a little small - but the bagginess would help hide her features well enough. The extra belt kept it from hanging too loose.  

He had a small pack she riffled through. Some snacks, a spare bloodless goldcloak she used, and some coins. All hers by the oldest rule of survival - stronger pack wins. She took his sword as well - Arya could use another one, and a spare blade never hurt. 

Soon he was left in a tunic, leggings and boots. Her boots were better, so he could keep his. 

She turned him face down so she didn’t have to fall asleep looking at him. Even with what little energy she had remaining after the day, she still saw his young face. 

Better you than me. She repeated that in her head over and over. Better you than me. 

After that effort, she collapsed into the dirt and slept. She dreamed of wolves and the hunt, chasing a stag through the woods. She awoke with the smell of blood thick and cloying in his nostrils.

When they left in the morning, she left the body of the boy for the crows. She didn’t have the time or energy to dig a grave. Besides, he worked for the Lannisters. He was an enemy. When she galloped away, Arya sitting with her on the saddle, she tried not to think of those still brown eyes. It didn’t do to dwell. 

She remembered them anyway. 

The next three days were no kinder. 

Arya and her seldom spoke. During the day, no words could be overheard over the sound of thudding hooves on dirt and wind passing past them. At night, they were too exhausted to talk, and collapsed into dreamless sleep. 

They should set watches, Lyarra knew. But they managed without them. Speed was more important, she reckoned. She stayed up late caring for the stallion, letting him graze some, and Arya got up early, before light, and saddled him. They worked seamlessly and silently. There wasn’t much to really talk about, either. Nothing they cared to, at least. Just bad nightmares. They cared for each other, sleeping close and giving reassuring touches to each other. 

Lyarra hoped their pursuers would follow the goldroad until they hit the fords. She knew that was wishful thinking. The Goldcloaks would know who had slipped through their fingers at the Old Gate. Direwolves were fearsome… but not subtle. It was obvious where they would head. Lyarra and her sister were Northerners, and so would head north. Where exactly they would go north was a decision they would come to later. They continued on their path north, towards the Kingsroad for three more days. 

They ran along the tributary roads of the great road, following quieter parallel tracks that hugged the grand river that was the Kingsroad. Even these tracks had plenty of travelers, all heading the opposite direction to them. Fleeing the War. 

Lyarra’s strategy was simple. The goldcloaks would send out riders to search for her and her sister. Their escape through the gate was anything but subtle. Hundreds of riders would be dispatched by the Lannisters to search for the two missing children - one stark and one snow. They would run all up and down the Kingsroad, searching the obvious path to the north. 

So she’d take advantage of that. 

She bore a gold cloak now from the boy she'd killed. Dressed in looted mail, with helmet and coif covering most of her face, she would blend right in. She looked like a picturesque southron goldcloak. Only her gray eyes would give her away, every other part covered by glove or leather or mail. That, and her stature - she was a bit short for a guard. 

Arya was harder to disguise, but a goldcloak with some boy in the saddle wasn’t that unusual. She could be a missing noble’s son or some thief pinched by her. Or a page or apprentice. It didn’t matter: peasants didn’t dare to question goldcloaks. When they caught the eyes of local peasants as they rode past, the look was fear or hatred, not curiosity. None found enough courage to attack them - yet. 

Lyarra’s path took her through farms and hamlets, all on the outskirts of king’s landing. They were what supplied the city with most of its livestock vegetables, and odds and ends. There were some cornfields for staples, but grain also came from the Reach by boat. These fields were sparse - some had already been picked over, and now others well guarded by villagers. She didn’t stop to talk to them. 

She had thought to request food from them, using the disguise to feed them as well, but that notion had failed. But even here, in the protected crownlands, paranoia about the war ran rampant. Rumors spread like wildfire. The peasants and smallfolk wouldn’t give her anything. Winter was coming. They locked up and guarded their feed, their food with a grim determination. If they lost it, they would not survive the winter. She was a ‘goldcloak’, and an officer of the king, but she was only one. One against many. She had a sword, but they had spears, bows, flails and scythes. Villages had more men than her. For that reason, they gave her nothing. It was a cold, hard truth. The lone wolf dies … but the pack survives. Her pack of two was outnumbered and weak. 

Soon , she vowed. We will be a whole pack again.  

Soon all the fields and roads would have goldcloak riders searching for the missing girls. Lyarra and Arya would slip right into this search and blend right in until they were through it.

All she’d need is the first goldcloak they found to be alone, and she and Arya would have another disguise and another horse. Then they could travel further and faster.

On the fourth day, their horse had begun to slow. Lyarra left him at a trot for the rest of the day. He was growing thin and weak. She’d pushed him too hard, and they’d have to rest a day, at least. He’d need feed and some nourishment too - grazing was not enough for him, for now. 

She settled into a small track early and let the stallion graze on pasturage fed by a small stream nearby. The nearby hut was abandoned, and the horse ate and drank to his content. They would have to content themselves with the last of their meager supplies. Most went to the Horse - whatever he could actually eat, hardtack and bread in place of oats. The remnants, mostly meat, went to Arya, and Lyarra fed herself on hope. Arya had gathered branches for a fire.

She’d stay here a day, let the horse build up his strength before continuing. They were close to the road north - the kingsroad, all paved and proper.

It would be easier riding for the horse then. Pushing him with two passengers at full speed was not feasible, however reedy Arya might be. Ditching the body of the goldcloak boy had helped but not by enough. 

She felt no better - her wounds ached from riding, but by some blessing they hadn’t reopened. She checked them each night. They’d heal ugly, scarred. But they’d heal. She’d cleaned and rebandaged them. They camped in the hut - just mud walls and a thatched roof with a firepit in the center. They would risk a fire tonight. They sat in the hut. The horse was penned outside, tied to rope and left to graze and slumber. Lyarra had ditched the looted armor and cloak in and piled by the door. 

They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, leaning on each other, both staring into the flames. 

Arya spoke first. 

“What happens if the Lannisters capture us, Lya?” 

The flames crackled and Lyarra stoked the fire with a stick. 

“They’ll put us in irons and take us back to the Red Keep.” 

“To Joffrey and Cersei?”

It depended on who found and took them. If it was the Lannister army, or the Mountain, then perhaps they would be sent to Tywin rather than his daughter and grandson. Lyarra wasn’t sure that was much better. 

“Probably. You would be a prisoner. They’d let you live and keep you alive.” 

Arya turned to her.  “What about you?” 

Lyarra met her sister’s gaze. “I don’t know.” 

She did. She lied. Arya’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t ask. She knew too. Her little sister had seen much in their journey south. They were both toughened now. Lines creased their faces. It made them look like their father. Winter had come. Father had known, in all his wisdom. Did he know that he wouldn’t be there? 

She turned away from her sister’s stare. “They would either try to ransom you or use you to get Robb to kneel.” Arya's face grew furious at the thought. 

“I won’t let that happen.” Lyarra didn’t say anything to that. They wouldn’t have much choice as prisoners. They had probably already forced Sansa to write sweet letters to her family for them, implying them to kneel - or else. They’d probably also lied and claimed Arya and her were hostages. 

Arya looked to Lyarra with a hopeful expression. “They would ransom you, Lya. Like a knight.” 

Well, Lyarra doubted Lady Stark would let Robb pay any. He’d try regardless. She hoped at least, however pointless the gesture would be. 

“I wouldn’t be ransomed.” It was pointless. She wouldn’t live to see it. Now-King Joffrey’s murderous eyes at the Trident seared into her brain now. They chased her, taunted her in her nightmares. 

He and his vengeful mother would make sure she’d never live long enough to see a ransom. She would meet some short, sharp accident courtesy of Cersei Lannister beforehand. A long, painful accident if it was the Joffrey instead. The best she could hope for was a beheading like her father. She doubted they’d even give her that. There were plenty of other ways to torment her. She didn’t think about them.

Her sister just hugged her. She didn’t cry. Lyarra returned the embrace, resting a hand in Arya’s short, ratty hair. She tried to comfort her sister, whispering in her ear. “We will just have to make sure we don’t get captured.” 

“I wish we had a dragon.” Her sister mumbled into her. “Then we could fly all the way to Winterfell and be home tomorrow.” 

“I wish we did too.”

“If we did, I’d fly south and feed Joffrey to it.” Arya smiled at that, a thin feral thing.

I’d feed his mother and whole family to it, and torch that accursed city for good measure. 

Lyarra’s face smiled at the thought. “That would be good. Justice for father.” 

Arya echoed. “Justice for father.” Their shared grief had them scoot closer and hold each other. 

Then Arya spoke again. “Flying on dragons in the sky. If we did that, I’d be Visenya, and you’d be Rhaenys.” 

Lyarra made a face at Arya. “I want to be Visenya. She gets Dark Sister. Rhaenys only had lutes and harps.” And lovers, if the stories were true. Lyarra preferred steel to strings. She did like singing. She did it at home in the Wolfswood, singing to trees. Most were not the type of songs favored at court, bawdy and scandalous. Soldier’s songs. 

Arya made the face right back. “Well, Visenya was the youngest, and I’m the youngest.” 

"No she wasn't, she was the oldest. Rhaenys was the youngest." Lyarra's voice was outraged. 

"Nuh-uh." Arya shook her head emphatically. 

For a brief moment, It was like they were in Winterfell again, arguing about tales from a story book. Lyarra held onto that feeling and savored its taste. It made her forget about her empty stomach. Then Lyarra stuck her tongue out and gagged. “We’d have to marry Robb.”

Arya gagged too. “Yeah, that part can stay in the stories. I just want the dragon. The dragonlords can keep their incest.” Her sister’s face was innocent - she had no way of knowing - but Lyarra had gasped at the sudden reminder. 

Lyarra found her smile had faded and her face grew grave at that reminder. Winterfell’s soft snow and sweet memories were gone then. Another took its place. Janos Slynt holding up a head with a blank stare, dripping ichor from the neck. It had blinked. 

Her sister noticed. Of course she did. She poked Lyarra on the shoulder. “Hello?” 

Lyarra turned to her sister. Should she tell her? Her father had died keeping it a secret, taking it to his grave. He’d told no one, and they killed him anyway. She didn’t owe the Lannisters any secrets. They were in danger either way. She met Arya’s face again, and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“They weren’t the only ones.” Her voice was quiet, softer than Arya’s then. 

Arya looked at her, surprised. 

“You remember that dusty old book?” 

Arya nodded. 

“Father and I were looking for who killed Jon Arryn and why.” 

“I thought he got sick?” Arya looked confused. 

Lyarra shook her head. “Your aunt said the Lannisters killed him, make it look that way.” 

“Poison.” Arya’s voice spat it out. “Like they tried to kill you with.” Her sister furrowed her brow. Lyarra held her close. 

“Why?” Arya’s face was curious.

“We didn’t know why when we started. Father found it out.” 

“He told you?” She stared at Lyarra. 

“No, I found out when Syrio told you the story about the cat.” 

Arya scrunched up her nose at that. “What was it?” 

Lyarra poked the fire before answering. “He knew that Joffrey, and his siblings, weren’t King Robert's children.” 

“They weren’t his? How?” Arya perked up with the questions, full of enthusiasm. Lyarra steadied her with her hand. 

She sighed. “Well, when a girl and a boy…”

“I know how it works, Lya.” Arya looked at her if she was daft. 

“Do you?” Lyarra raised an eyebrow, goadin gher sister on. 

“I watched the cats and dogs. I figured out how it works.” Arya had a cool look for a second, proud of her forbidden knowledge. Then she shuddered. Lyarra did too. 

“Well, their mother is the queen and their father is her brother.” Lyarra turned back to stoke the fire with the stick. The end was smoldering, burning now. 

“The Kingslayer?” Lyarra nodded in response. 

Arya took the news well: calm and collected, as if it were obvious. Her face was scrunched up but she didn’t scream or run about. She just nodded. “No wonder Joffey’s half mad and his sister and brother are stupid.” 

Lyarra sighed before continuing. “That’s why they killed father and Jon Arryn.”

Arya chewed her lip. “Because Joffrey couldn’t be King because his dad isn’t the King.” 

Lyarra nodded and turned back to the flames. She left the stick in the fire, pushing it in and letting go. She hugged her sister and held her close. Arya’s shoulders moved slowly, in sync with the silent sobs and tears rolling down her cheeks. 

Lyarra’s shoulders moved too. It was such a dumb reason for someone they loved to die. 

After a long while, Arya laid down into the dirt and fell asleep. She tended the fire with a fresh stick, and stared into the flames. The fire crackled and her sister’s soft breathing the only sounds in the night. 

Lyarra thought over their next steps. Obviously, they would travel north, to friendly territory. But where? 

Riverrun was her first bet. Arya would be safe there, with her grandfather and uncle. But when she was in court last, the Riverlands were already subject to Lannister attacks. She doubted the strife had lessened with her father’s execution. Riverrun was the first place the Lannisters would put under siege. The Tully’s bannermen would protect Arya, but their castles would also face the same threat and were far less fortified than that of their liege. 

The Vale was another tempting possibility - it was closer, and Lysa Arryn was no friend of the Lannisters. Arya was her niece. Lyarra wouldn’t be received well, but her sister’s safety came first. But Lyarra doubted her courage - she had left King’s Landing in a hurry and sent us there in her stead, offering no help. Her father had been killed because of it. They would also have to ride through desolate mountains filled with unfriendly hill tribes. She considered the possibility for now. If they got desperate, maybe. 

Simply put, It was the North or bust. Hopefully, they would stumble into Robb on their way home. Robb would have called the banners and marched south, if he hadn’t already, and the Riverlands would be the battlefield. She would travel through it and hope to reach friendly lines, or the North, whatever came first. 

So, north, along the Kingsroad, until they found what they needed. 

She gazed back into the fire and let her mind wander. With that came memories. 

And guilt. 

She remembered the bank of a river. She and Arya had been alone then, for a time. Sparring with sticks. Then a real right, her first real taste of danger. The fire flickered and crackled ahead of her. 

She’d won then. She had her dagger. She could’ve plunged it into the Prince’s chest, slit his throat, or thrust it into his eye. He would’ve died there on that riverbank. If she had, her father would still be alive. 

She’d hesitated. Out of what? Weakness? Compassion? 

Honor. It wasn’t honorable to kill a beaten opponent, a boy younger than her. Her father had honor. 

He’d tried to save the children. The Princes and Princess. That was what he had talked to the queen about in the Godswood, where she sat and watched.  He’d granted mercy. They had killed him for it. One of those he had tried to save had killed him for it. 

Cubs and Pups grew up. They bit and fought just like full grown animals. She was dangerous enough. The sun glinted off the edge of her dagger. Flashes of faces flew by. Some were indistinct, blurs. She squeezed her eyes shut to shut them out. 

It was futile - the dead boy stared back at her. The boy whose dagger she held. The boy she had run through. He was a goldcloak. He was an enemy. He was going to lance me.  

The sad, dead, cold eyes stared back regardless. She opened her eyes again. Boys could kill just like men. The prince, now king, had taught her that lesson, painfully. 

She looked to Arya, to her own hands. So could girls. 

Yet she’d hesitated. She knew his eyes were cruel, furious. She’d known he was a Lannister. Now she knew he was full blooded rather than half, but it didn’t matter. 

His family had harmed hers. 

Bran hadn’t fallen from the tower now, she was certain. He was pushed.

She knew now what they had tried to kill him over. What he had likely seen. 

They’d sent assassins to silence him, a crippled boy. 

They’d tried to gut her and her sister. 

They had tried to poison her. 

They had killed her father. 

She felt the blood then, on her hands. 

She sliced her little finger and let blood fall into the flames of the fire. 

Blood Oaths were an ancient thing. The first men had considered them sacrosanct. 

She’d never let her family, her sisters, her brothers, get in such danger again. 

She swore then. “Next time, I won’t hesitate. Next time I see a Lannister, I won’t hestitate.” 

She lay down and her head nestled into dirt. Her eyes closed and she fell asleep. 

She dreamed she was a wolf. She felt a bloodrush, the joy of the hunt. She would hunt soon. 

Behind the sleeping sisters, in the dark night sky lit up. 

Stars faded from view. The sky turned bright red. 

A falling star fell across the sky, blood red and trailing fire across the sky, bright enough to act as a second moon and illuminate the world. 

In the far distance, across seas of water and grass, far, far away, screeches and cries resounded from a burnt pyre, and fire made flesh was reborn into the World. 

Chapter Text

The Comet burned brightly in the sky above them, a fiery red gash that bled across the blue sky. It burned brighter than any star, appearing even in daylight. Light emerged from its path, first red then orange then pink, fading as distance grew from the fiery white center of it. At night, it was bright enough to be a second moon, casting light to see from. Instead of cool white, it was an angry orange, much like the sun. 

It felt like it was watching Lyarra, a second red eye fixed on their path, following them. She found herself looking over her shoulder, staring at it at night. It filled her with guilt and shame when she saw it. The Comet mocked her, sitting there and watching her silently. Like it knew something she did not. 

After three days of worrying, Lyarra turned her back on it and stopped caring about it. She had other, more mundane things to worry about. She would let the maesters and soothsayers argue about the comet and its meaning. She would worry about getting home.  

Lyarra dreamed of revenge in her exhausted dreams. Each night when she fell into a fitful sleep on the cold earth on her cloak, she dreamed of vengeance. It took many shapes. 

She dreamed her hands were around the queen’s throat, throttling her to death. Lyarra had known she was smiling when she did so. She had bared her teeth as the queen’s face turned purple and the wicked light had drained out of her green eyes. He stared at the blue-faced corpse and smiled in triumph. Other times, Cersei would just fall asleep slowly, fading into nothingness before her eyes, smiling spitefully as her breath faded. Those dreams taunted her the most - she would awoke then to find her hands clenched into fists and a furious scowl on her face. It was like she knew Lyarra was coming and took delight in denying her revenge. 

Jaime Lannister was there too. He was always in a cage, trapped before her. Sometimes she set the floor beneath him on fire. She found herself making a mad cackle as he had scrambled away to the far edge of his cage. The fire followed him regardless, as green as his frightened eyes. It consumed him. He didn’t smirk then. He screamed. She heard herself laughing. The smell always made her hungry, and if she awoke then she thought of pork pies. Sometimes he just sat in the cage and slowly wasted in front of her, losing weight until he was nothing but bone and hair and skin. 

She had dreamt of Tyrion Lannister only once. His face had been scarred, his nose cut off.He never fought back against her, she found. He had just smiled and sat across from her and tried to engage her in conversation, as if they were in Winterfell. She would threaten and bluster and leap the table, and he would just run away and jape and laugh. She chased him through the halls of winterfell, tripping over the hem of her dress. When she cornered him, she had no dagger or blade on anything to kill him with. She’d tackled him, raised her fists to pummel him instead. Their eyes met then. There was a sadness there deeper than any well in those discolored eyes. Then he had been dragged away from her by black hands of shadows. He didn’t struggle and merely gave her a sad little smile.

Joffrey was another common target. She stabbed him, over and over in her dreams, a hundred different times. Sometimes he was dressed like a lannister, and the blood gushed out onto his doublet, his cloak. It had dyed them a truer red. Sometimes he was dressed as a goldcloak and she slit his throat and watched him gurgle and stir at her feet. Sometimes he was fleeing her and she had a crossbow. She followed him and shot quarrel after quarrel into him, working her way up his limbs as he crawled like a wounded animal. Sometimes he was dressed like her father, unkempt like a prisoner, and she beheaded him in one stroke with Ice. None of them made her feel any better. 

She dreamed of Myrcella, his vapid sister. She dreamed of her death, too. She would invite Lyarra to play with her, face innocent and pure. She was a wolf in those dreams, chasing the girl through the woods. The girl knew it wasn’t a game after that. She screamed and ran, tears on her cheeks. She had sobbed and begged. Pleaded for mercy. Lyarra had pounced regardless and tasted sweet blood on her lips. That dream had disturbed her the most, but by then she was too deep in the dream to wake up. It made her sick. She comforted herself when she woke with the emptiness in her belly - it was proof the dream wasn’t real. 

Tommen was last and it never was pleasant to watch the plump boy die. Watching his head be dashed against a wall nauseated her. Watching him gurgle and choke in a pool in his own blood was unpleasant as well. Occasionally he would just drift into sleep in front of her and his breathing would just stop. Those were the easiest to bear. 

She never found herself dreaming of Tywin Lannister. He was faint, indistinct, no clearer than a faded portrait. She never met him and knew him only by rumor and reputation. He was fighting Robb and her uncle, and his reputation was nothing good. She would stumble towards him, sword in hand, but always found herself in snowy blizzards as she tried to reach him. No matter how many dreams she had, she never got lucky enough to reach him. 

Even in her dreams, her revenge was never enough. Always too quick, never painful enough for those who deserved it. Too vicious for those who did not. It was never just. Her vengeance was always half complete. But they beat the other dreams. The ones where she was too slow, too stupid, or too weak. 

The ones where Ser Meryn Trant had disemboweled her with his sword. The ones where he disarmed her and beat her to death with mailed gloves, smiling and staring at her with piggish eyes. 

The ones where Prince Joffrey had caught her. Those were too terrible to recount. Lyarra just prayed to forget them. 

The ones where the mountain had caught her. He would do unspeakable things to her, leave her bleeding, and then cut in her twain with one blow of his sword. She’d fight back, hitting steel plates with fists, doing nothing but bloody her knuckles. 

Or a Lannister man with a manticore on his shield who would grab her hair and stab her to death with a dagger, over and over again. He would laugh with a high thin voice and drag her from wherever she ran or hid. 

Or when Cersei Lannister would sip wine across from her. Lyarra would find a wine glass in her hand and would drink deep until her insides twisted, her throat constricted and she felt the vigor fade from her limbs. The Queen would just watch her writhe, her green eyes sparkling like wildfire in triumph. 

The worst ones never had her in them. Instead, she would watch Arya or Sansa go through the same, a helpless spectator. Never never had a weapon in any of those terrible dreams. Only waking up with a sword or dagger in her grip calmed her. 

She knew Arya had similar dreams. Arya knew about hers. Waking up screaming or with panicked breaths wasn’t difficult to notice. They slept snuggled close, even when one was ostensibly on watch. It soothed their sleep and kept the worst dreams at bay. They didn’t talk about it - how could you, really? 

Before she fell asleep, Arya whispered a list of names. Lyarra hadn’t asked about it. She knew what it was about. She had suggested a few more, and Arya’s list grew. Lyarra found herself echoing it some nights. 

Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Ilyn Payne, Janos Slynt, Pycelle, Littlefinger. 

It gave her a sense of calm, of purpose. Of control. When she did, she dreamed of her vengeance, her victory and not the victory of her enemies. 

The best dreams were the wolf dreams, where she would find herself running through the woods on half-remembered paws, hunting and running and fighting. They made her feel strong and safe. 

The best nights were when ghost and Nymeria returned from their wild wanderings and curled up beside them. Then, she and Arya both slept like babes in their pack of four. The smell of the wolves brought her peace, and the warmth beside them eased their minds. Her and Ary both nestled in that shaggy fur and felt it was better than a featherbed. 

They stayed in their makeshift shelter for the next day. Their horse was getting temperamental from the constant ride and needed the rest. They’d sparred and practiced the best they could on empty bellies, and let the stallion graze as they did so. He wasn’t fully recovered by the night, but he was improved. 

The next day they awoke to the sound of hooves. Their blades were out and ready before they had even risen. 

Lyarra listened. One rider. No others. They snuck out of the hut and into a nearby hedgerow, crouching low in the bushes. 

They watched a goldcloak ride down the trail leading to their little hut. 

He spotted the smoke and slowed for a second, then let his horse canter forward, approaching the hut. He dismounted a good deal away and called out before approaching, spear in hand. Lyarra tapped her sister on the shoulder and pointed at the horse. She pointed to herself, and then to the guard. Arya nodded and scurried off into the bush. She was quiet - far quieter than Lyarra remembered. 

Lyarra slipped her dagger out of the sheath. Slowly, taking a long time to avoid any noise. Time to hunt. When it was out, she followed the goldcloak, shadowing his footsteps in the morning gloom. Stepping when he stepped. He was hardly careful or quiet. 

She followed slowly, carefully, closing the distance. She rolled her shoulders and crept closer, until she could hear the guard’s breaths. He came upon their hut and pushed the wooden door in. He swore when he saw the goldcloak and mail. 

It was the last curse he made. She came up behind and stabbed him in the spine, lifting up the back of his mail shirt to do so. His legs spasmed and he fell. He screamed, and she clamped a hand over his mouth and hopped on his back before stabbing him in the neck. 

She tried to not hear the begging or pleading. He didn’t even reach for a weapon. 

She stripped him soon after of mail, cloak, and helm. Arya had her new disguise. Lyarra shoved the body into the hut before Arya could see. Arya strolled in soon after, a big smile on her face as she led the horse. The beast was meek as a kitten, calmly following her. 

Lyarra tossed her the helm, which Arya caught. “Armor for my squire!” 

Arya made a face. “Squire?” 

“Knights are older than squires. I am older than you, dear sister.” 

Arya made a face. “You aren’t a knight.” 

Lyarra ruffled her hair. “Whatever you say, my squire.” She looked away from the body in the hut as she retrieved their supplies. She’d see it enough in her dreams. 

They rode out soon after, mounted on their horses, clad in the garb of the goldcloaks. Arya looked very short for a goldcloak, but other than that, the disguise would hold. Both had fastened their coifs and let the chain mail dangle from their helmets so only their eyes and the bridges of their noses could be seen. 

They made their way on the Kingsroad and rode north. They passed other goldcloak riders, but none stopped them. The disguises worked well enough at a distance or gallop. 

They passed merchant caravans and more smallfolk fleeing with whatever they could carry. Most carried arms as well. Some eyed the two goldcloaks with opportunism in their eyes, but Lyarra sped them past before any got any ideas. That didn’t bode well for the rest of their journey, but Lyarra was content to worry about present dangers rather than future ones. 

Their future issue was a lack of provisions. They had one goldcloak’s bag of rations - they had eaten the other’s completely over four days. Waterskins they could replenish from any creek. Well, the creeks without bodies in them, but food was not easy. They could forage, but that took time and would slow them down. Besides - where they went was slim pickings - hundreds of others had traveled through, also looking for food. Lyarra wanted to get to friendly territory as soon as possible. The sooner the better. 

Lyarra could eat less and have the bag last them maybe six days, but she doubted food would get any more plentiful when they reached the war. Armies were like locusts and a plague all in one - they stripped fields bare and slaughtered livestock. They would leave little behind for them. Their trip north on the Kingsroad would be obvious to any army - it was likely where the northern and lannister hosts would clash alongside further north. 

Graves lined the roadside. They were fresh, recently covered with Earth. They grew in number and simplicity as they traveled north.

They rode until dusk, when they came across an Ivy Inn. Lyarra remembered it from the ride down from Winterfell. They hadn’t stayed inside it - The royal party had been too large - so they had slept in tents outside and feasted on tables under the stars. She doubted they would be recognized now. She steered her horse into the yard. Arya cocked her head - it was hard to communicate under mail. 

“Food. We need it, and have spare silver. I doubt inns will operate up north, near the frontline.”

“They might rat on us.” 

“We won’t stay here - we’ll eat and leave and camp a good bit away. I’ll grab the food. You stay here with the horses.” 

Lyarra dismounted and handed Arya her reins. Arya grumbled but did as she was told. 

Outside the inn were a multitude of wagons. All were burdened with supplies and had a variety of men and boys around them, a dozen or so. They all glanced at Lyarra with hostility and kept their hands on their weapons - axes, tools, a few swords. There were too many to fight, for certain. At least ten or so. 

She put a hand on her sword and kept walking. She had no quarrel with them. They weren’t Lannisters. They wore no insignia. They were just a gang of smallfolk. She’d pay them no attention and they would return the favor. 

Her path took her past them and none moved for her. Besides, the three in the caged wagon, chained to the floor, were not anything she wanted to go near. One hissed and spat at the bars, lunging at her as she passed. She tightened her hand around her sword pommel. His teeth were filed to points. He was bulky, far bigger than her. She was glad he was in a cage. The others were no better. Another bulky man without a nose who just laughed when he saw her. “Come again for another try, goldy?” 

The third man acted the most calm. Red hair on one side and white on the other, he stared at her silently. His gaze was piercing. The other two sat on the far edge of the cage from him, to put the most distance between them and him. For some reason, he seemed the most dangerous to her, despite his average size and calm demeanor. Or maybe it was because of it. 

She walked inside and found their way to the common room of the inn. It was filled to the bursting. Lyarra kept a firm hand on her sword as she walked through the doorway. When she did the conversation died and about half the room stared at her, going for weapons discreetly. They were alike to the boys and young men outside - all young, and not a woman among them. Hands slipped under tables and to hilts or tools. Shit. 

She loved the disguise of the goldcloak - it was simple and efficient. Smallfolk and peasants didn’t question them as officials of the King, nobles paid them no heed because they were more important than to deal with the city watch, and fellow goldcloaks assumed they had a different mission. It was just her luck she ran into the one caravan of criminals who hated the watch for obvious reasons. 

It was impossible to notice the tension in the air. It wasn’t a fight she could win. She met the stares of several of the men. If she ran, that showed weakness, they would chase her. So she decided to be bold. 

She just walked over to the innkeep’s bar and ignored them. Obviously, she was either the least observant or smartest goldcloak around. Either way, she had no issue with them, and would let them be. 

She sat at a barstool. Nobody spoke and the room was still silent. The Innkeep came over. She deepen her voice and spoke in a growl. “Got any bread or salted meat?” 

The Innkeep shook his head. “Nope, all out. I got apples, though.” 

She fished in her purse and handed him enough silver for three days of meals. They'd stretch them out to twice that long and it would keep them from using the supplies in the pack. They would keep the horse going, at least. 

“I’ll take two pork pies and however many apples this gets me, in a sack.” 

The Innkeeper wandered into the kitchen and pocketed the silvers. 

“I don’t think you got the message last time.” A man saddled up next to her in the bar. He had black hair and a black cloak. And a sword. It was still sheathed. She watched him with the corner of his eye. 

“I wasn’t here last time. Reckon you could remind me?” She turned slowly to face him. His face was hard and harsh, and his eyes were fixed on her. He was old, but looked anything but feeble, body lean despite the wrinkles of age. She kept a hand on her sword. 

Then the man moved, fast, with years of practice. She went to pull her sword and got it a few inches out of the scabbard. Before she knew it, the man had a knife out in his hands, pointed at her mid thigh. 

Now the room fell fully silent. Every set of eyes turned to her and her new friend. “Sword’s a bad choice for a fight this close. You want a knife. And in a knife fight, you always get cut. You want to get cut, boy?”

It was right where the mail leggings started, between where they and the surcoat would protect, exposed by her current position, sitting. Only her breeches protected her from a quick death. One thrust, and she’d bleed to death on the floor in seconds. 

She met the man’s glare. 

He spoke clearly. “I told your friends to fuck off. We’re the Night’s Watch. I’m not handing over any boys of mine.”

She met the man’s stare and then it clicked. Yoren. He’d given her father news in King’s Landing, back when Arya had gotten lost. She saw him somewhere else, too, but she couldn’t remember where. He didn’t recognize her. She thought about lowering the coif, letting the man know who she was. 

Then she saw the room around her. All around her were criminals. They were robbers, rapers, thieves. They would betray her for a pardon or a gold dragon in a heartbeat, watch or no watch. 

He saw her flicker of recognition and mistook it for something else. His glare went harsher and her frown deepened. “Where are your buds, goldie? I know you know where they are.” He rotated the knife back and forth slowly.  

She felt the blade on her thigh, pushing the wool of her breeches against her thigh, a half inch stab from a quick death. She strained to keep her voice deep, from rising in panic. If any of them realized she was a girl, they would ask questions. Then she would be dead, or worse. 

“My buddy is outside, with my horse. We’re not looking for any of yours.” She slid the sword back down into its scabbard. She would have to talk rather than fight. 

“Fat chance of that.” Yoren spat onto the floor without ever looking away. 

“I don’t even know they wanted any of your boys. I came here for the pork pies and apples, same as you, I reckon.” She lowered her hands and let them dangle, away from her belt, far from the knife. 

Yoren didn’t so much as twitch. “Bullshit.” 

She turned and looked at him. “Not looking for any boys at all, old man.” He still wouldn’t drop it. 

He looked at her for a long while, like she was a pustule or small rodent.  “I call horse piss on that.” He looked her right in the eyes, narrowing them. Yoren had blocked the view of all in front of her with his knife, and her back was to the others.

“You can call horse piss on whatever you like for all I care. I’m looking for the Stark girls. You see them?” She winked when she said girls, then raised an eyebrow at them. 

Then she pulled the mail shirt down and in, fidgeting in her seat like she was nervous. It pulled taut against her chest for a brief moment, revealing enough to prove her point then dangled loose again. Yoren’s eyes widened and he said nothing. The Innkeep took the opportunity to return with a sack of apples. He set it down on the counter in front of her. Yoren’s voice was still firm. “No, I haven’t.”

“Shame. I’ll be going now. Up north, away from my friends. If you want to make sure, you can watch, watchman.” She kept her voice even and reached for the sack of apples. 

He was slow to respond, but he sheathed the knife and took her sword out of her scabbard. “Aye, I think I’ll do just that.” 

She grabbed the sack with two hands and walked out, her own sword pointed at her back. She walked slowly and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. They were out the door and into the yard. 

The rest of the watch’s recruits jeered at her as she walked back to her horse. She had to trust Yoren now. He’d helped out her father, he’d help her. The Starks had been good to the Watch. Now he could be good to them. All he had to do was let them go. 

She froze when she saw a young man - no, boy, gods he was big - arguing with Arya. They both hand hands on their swords. He wore a bull’s head helmet and was gesticulating wildly. “What are you doing here, watchman?” 

Arya, thank the gods, hadn’t said a word, only stared at him. She looked tiny on the horse, compared to him. Her hand was on Needle’s hilt and her eyes were wide. 

“Boy!” Yoren shouted. The boy continued to yell at Arya, who had her hand ready to draw Needle.

“Gendry!” The boy turned to Yoren then, surprise evident. Arya looked over, saw her and her hands drew her sword, immediately. Lyarra shook her head.

“I got them boy, I’ll turn them right around just like last time.”

Gendry walked up to him, and whispered. “That one isn’t a goldcloak at all. I’ve never seen a goldcloak that small. They are spies, or something.” 

“Boy, they aren’t goldcloaks, and that’s all I care about.” Yoren’s voice was an easygoing drawl. It was much too soft for his weather-beaten face. 

Gendry, this boy, met her eyes then. He was well-muscled and built like a bull. Blue eyed and Black haired. He reminded her of the king, for some reason. He stared at her and met her eyes. 

Then he did a quick look up and down, and the teenage boy saw enough to understand. He reared back, furrowing his brow, and then his mouth gaped. It was like he’d never seen a girl in mail before. Lyarra hissed at him. “Close your mouth, idiot.” He did. 

Yoren put the sword to the back and they kept walking. Gendry tagged along behind them. She slung the sack of apples on Arya’s saddle without a word. Arya and her looked at each other, silent communication. Arya’s eyes were wide and wary. Lyarra shook her head.  

Then she turned to face Yoren. They were far enough away to speak in muted tones and not be overheard. The rest of the recruits watched but didn’t follow. 

She pulled down her coif and revealed her face. They were far enough away that the details couldn’t be made out, she hoped. She pointed to herself then Arya. “I am Lyarra, this is my sister Arya. The names should be familiar enough to you, I hope.” 

Yoren looked even more surprised. “Aye, they are. You are Stark’s brood.” Gendry’s mouth just gaped. 

At least he had the sense to whisper. “You are the Hand, the traitor’s daughters? Highborn ladies?” 

Lyarra stared at him. “Yes, look at my dress, you oaf.” 

He just stared after that, mouth open and face ashen. Yoren looked at him as if he were daft. “First girl you’ve seen, boy?” 

He looked sheepish. “Your father … he visited me at my master’s smithy.” 

Of all the sentences Lyarra expected, that wasn’t one of them. It was her turn to gape with her mouth catching flies. Now all this made sense. The hostility to goldcloaks, the reason behind the previous visit, everything. 

Yoren looked at her, then Gendry. At last he returned to Arya. “First boy she’s seen?” 

Arya giggled at that. Lyarra shut her mouth with a pop and covered her face with the coif. She tried to mount her horse, but Yoren stopped her. 

“You know something, don’t you. Share, if you please.” He still had a sword in his hand, and she did not, so Lyarra complied. 

“Gendry’s father was the old King. He’s a bastard. The Queen hates his bastards. The Queen sent the goldcloaks after you.” 

Gendry looked flabbergasted. He said in a small voice. “That’s why?”

Yoren simply grimaced and spat on the ground, cursing. 

She just nodded. She met his eyes, and a sad glance passed between them. “Sorry this is how you found out.” 

He grabbed her horse’s bridle and stared at her, his blue eyes furious. “You’re sorry? How could you know how it feels?” 

She met his furious glare with her own sad stare. “Because this isn’t how I would want to find out who my mother was.” Her voice was softer than she’d been before. 

He let go at that. She nodded at him and he nodded back. She made to mount again and this time, Yoren didn’t stop her. He just looked back and forth between them, before sighing. 

Lyarra spoke first. “Since you know who we are, you know we like the goldcloaks even less than you do.” 

He spat on the ground. “True enough. I’d take you, for your Uncle’s blood’s as black as mine, but…” 

She looked past the collection of beggars, criminals, and human detritus he had gathered. Arya, disguised as a boy, maybe. Her? Not in a million years. “I’ll settle for forgetting we met each other.” 

“At the very least, they should be busy looking for us and not for you.” Lyarra’s words brought reassurance to both black brothers. They both nodded at that. 

Yoren then made a wry smile, and then he hit the rump of her horse with her sword. He yelled, “Off you go goldie! Up north, where you have no friends!” 

She reached a hand for her sword. He shook his head. He raised his voice. “We at the watch thank you for your donation!” His other hand, hidden from his men in front of his chest, pointed to her sister and the spare sword on Arya’s belt. 

Arya passed her the spare sword she had, keeping Needle on her hip. 

Arya followed her, and then they rode off into the dusk, following the road under faded light.

As soon as they were out of earshot and left the vine covered Inn behind them, Arya started to laugh. 

“You liked him, didn’t you!” Arya's voice was teasing as she pulled alongside Lyarra. 

Lyarra looked at her sister like she was mad. “What?” Now was hardly the time or place to think of such things. 

Arya just flexed her bicep, before bursting into laughter at Lyarra’s look of shock. Then Arya mimed a sad face. Then she kneeled her horse into a gallop. Lyarra chased after her. 

It was good to laugh, to smile, to feel angry at her little sister for japes. It lasted a long while, until they ran into an orchard. It was filled with apple trees, the source for the Inn long past, no doubt. No apples hung from those trees, only people. They stopped smiling there and pressed onward, following the Kingsroad north. 

Grim faced, they pressed on. They had a long way to go.

Chapter Text

Lyarra and Ayra rode along the Kingsroad. 

The signs of the war were ever-present now. The fields alongside the roads were picked clean or burned. Every village, hamlet, farmhouse and holdfast was either looted or burned as well. They just rode past all these ruins and pushed onward. They camped in the woods and outskirts outside the road at night. Lyarra had refused to risk a fire again - it would draw attention, and no matter who, it could be unpleasant. Instead, her and Arya huddled together for warmth and used their cloaks.  

They set watches now - Lyarra watched for half the night, listening to crickets and distant wolf howls, and then woke Arya to do the same. 

Ghost and Nymeria had been absent from their rides, but periodically turned up at night when they were on watch. They periodically turned up, emerging from the underbrush, receiving a few nuzzles, and then darting off again. Sometimes they returned with rabbits or prey of their own gathered in their mouths. Those nights, Lyarra would risk a smoky fire against the black sky. 

The graves were ever present along the roadside, and the crowds of refugees dropped to a trickle. They whispered of wolves and lions ahead, and Lyarra knew that Robb had marched south and war had come. 

The North and Riverlords were fighting the Lannisters. On one hand, that gave her hope, but she had no idea where Robb (or his forces) held sway. They could be as far away as the Neck and she would know nothing about it. Rumors were thick and panicked peasants were poor spies. Both sides had sent outriders and foraging parties across the riverlands, which would have blurred their locations. The occasional encounters between such parties would result in big clashes with one another. 

Their first true encounter with trouble was a group of thirty footmen ahead of them. They didn’t have a banner or signs of allegiance. In the end, who they served didn’t matter. They were thirty, and Lyarra and Arya were two. For that reason, they jeered and brandished their weapons, and Lyarra and Arya had rode past them on the outskirts of the road, arrows flying behind them. They had healthy horses and the men at arms did not. The next group might, and that kept her wary. 

And so they passed on, further into the war.

Lyarra stopped them when they came to a muddy hillside that had washed into the road. The trees on the hillside had been turned into trunks - not a single one still stood, even the saplings were stripped dry, as if a dragon had flown through and knocked them all down with a tail. Now the stumps lay exposed, roots pointing to the sky. 

She’d hunted before. Not the pageantry of the royal hunt with dogs and spears and an entourage to flush everything out, real hunting. Uncle Benjen had insisted on teaching her and Robb the basics of true hunting. The kind one would have to do in winter, with bow and wits and a growling belly. Tracking game through snow and mud was a skill she had enjoyed learning. Tracking people wasn’t much different - easier, really - because people didn’t care who followed them most of the time. Here, she had an advantage: Mud held tracks better than snow, and mud didn’t melt when it got hot. 

The cobblestones of the kingsroad had been covered in a thick mud, at least a foot deep in the worst places. It had dried a few days ago and clung to the road in clumps. She dismounted to investigate.

This tiny stretch of mud held an uncountable multitude of footprints. She’d never seen so many in one place. The easiest thing to distinguish was the two ruts of wagon wheels, which overran and blurred together. Occasionally, on the outskirts of the mud coat, near where the road met earth, individual horse hoofprints could be distinguished. 

But the center of the road were hundreds of bootprints, all mushed and mashed together, in ordered rows six abreast. Marching boots, with hobnails - the nails dug into the mud further than the boot itself. Hoofprints sunk deeper within and around them. 

Only one thing made this many tracks. An army, thousands strong, men and horses and carts. 

It was hard to distinguish direction, but the outrider tracks on the flanks made it clear. More were headed North than South. No army of her brother or uncle would be heading North from King’s Landing. A Lannister Army had passed through, perhaps days - or a week - ahead of them. The devastation in its wake they had ridden through made far too much sense now. 

Arya looked down at her from her horse. Lyarra was crouched over, looking at the mud, reins in hand. She swallowed deep. 

Arya peered down, looking at the mud. “What is it?” 

There was no need to mince words. “We’re traveling behind a Lannister Army marching North.” 

The chance of them foraging anything from the nearby land seemed impossible now - an army would have sent out foraging parties for miles and taken anything they could pillage or loot. Arya’s eyes looked glum and they just stared back and forth. Then, Lyarra mounted her horse. 

“Armies don’t wander the countryside for fun. They are heading to fight Robb.” Arya’s voice was hopeful. 

“I hope so.” Her brother was fifteen - could he even lead an army? He would have to gather and cajole the Northern Lords. They were a fractious bunch, and he was a young boy with no experience. Could he? Would they listen? He must have. She didn’t dare think of alternatives. 

They would arrive after the clash between the two armies, she was certain. They were days or weeks behind the tracks - no rain had come for a while, and the tracks could be very, very old. She hoped she didn’t have to ride past her brother’s corpse after a lost battle. Hopefully, he would be the victor and they would run into his army marching south in victory rather than fleeing north in defeat. 

She saddled herself and rode on. They could do nothing else. 

They rode on, following the Kingsroad north. They rode without encountering a soul, and avoiding those they ran into. 

Most were armed, and Lyarra and Arya had to gallop and charge their way out of several attempts on their lives. 

It was simple - they had horses and armor, and the brigands and outlaws wanted that for themselves. Some already had armor - faded, beaten mail for some, fresh lannister crimson for others - but they bore no allegiance, instead trying their luck with two goldcloaks. 

Luckily, most lacked horses, and those that had them gave up the chase. 

They had just evaded another group of ex-Lannisters when they came to a curve in the road and ran into a massive party of big men on small shaggy horses. They wore thick beards and roundspun clothing. They bore fresh ringmail covered by hide. 

The group in front of them had at least thirty. 

Lyarra halted her horse, and drew her sword. Arya did the same behind her. They laughed at that. 

One rode out from the group. He was massive and hairy, with a thick beard and long hair - longer than Lyarra’s. The stench carried over from three horse lengths away. 

Then again, she probably didn’t smell much nicer. 

“We will not kill you, golden man. You carry a message, yes?” 

Lyarra just nodded. He took that as affirmation. “Follow Shaga, son of Dolf, small ones. They make you small in the cities, that must be why he is so small.” 

She sheathed her sword, and eased her horse forward. She let Arya pull alongside her. If they treated goldcloaks as friendly, these were Lannister men. Mercenaries or sellswords from gods knew where. Arya gazed across them with shock and a small amount of fear. 

She whispered through the corner of her mouth. “As soon as we see an opening, we’ll bolt.” She reached over and pushed Arya’s helmet down, hoping the brim would cover her sister’s eyes and face in shadow. 

They had no such chance. The bearded man’s retinue surrounded them. Their horses were short things, several hands shorter than her own horse. The men’s height made up for the difference: they still towered over Lyarra.

She studied them keenly - they wore far too many hides to be professional soldiers, but their steel was too fine and fresh - castle-forged - to be brigands. They were too irregular, laughing, joking and jostling to be soldiers. There was no way this was the Lannister rearguard - the mud tracks were too old and cracked to be recent, and their indiscipline was not suited for that role. She and Arya stayed silent - the less talking they both did, the better.

She adjusted her helmet, lowering it so the brim covered her eyes. With her short stature, even ahorse, anyone looking down wouldn’t catch her gray eyes. Given she stood shorter than most men, she’d be safe. They’d meet the commander of these men, apologize for the confusion and move on as quickly as they could, say they had a message for the main host.

They saw a larger party up ahead after an hour of riding, more men of a similar ilk to those that escorted them. Almost a hundred, it seemed. They clustered around a small party. 

When they saw the leader, Arya gasped and Lyarra nearly stopped her horse out of surprise. 

Ahead of them, stood the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, astride his unique saddle, clad in plate armor, a dirk in his belt and a battleaxe on his back. 

Her mind raced. Lady Stark had kidnapped him - it couldn’t be. He should be rotting in a cell in Winterfell. How did he escape? 

Besides him sat a sellsword on another horse, clad in ringmail and basic helm. Behind them, a boy in a surcoat - he couldn’t have been older than Lyarra - and a woman in a pale pink shift. The Imp, his guard, his squire, and his … whore. 

He waved over, face boasting a big smile, helmet on his belt. Lyarra tilted her helm in greeting, pushing it down and hopefully plunging her gray stark eyes into shadow.

“Ah Shagga! Thank you for bringing these goldcloaks to me. You may go.”  Behind them, the thirty men rode off. His vanguard.   

“I hope my Stone Crows didn’t frighten you too much?” So they were clansmen. Not Northerners. Probably from the Vale. How on earth had he nanaged that? 

They likely had scouts. The mountain clans were stealthy raiders, both in the North and in the Vale. They probably had eyes on us for miles before Shagga found us.  

At least the disguise worked. She left her thoughts and shook her head. She didn’t dare speak a full sentence - best to keep her responses nonverbal, or laconic. She met this man and spoke with him in Winterfell’s library. Would he recognize her voice? She dared not risk a long conversation. Hopefully, her sullen silences could be taken as fear, awe, or contempt. 

“No words for the heroic clansmen? A shame.” Tyrion gestured with his hand to his entourage. 

“Chella, go ahead. Timmet, you stay with ten. The rest can ride on. These messengers are sufficiently spooked already.” The Imp smiled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 

The amount of riders trickled past at a trot, leaving a dozen or so around them. Loose enough to escape, if they galloped fast enough. 

I could kill him. The thought filled her with a cold weight to her stomach. I could get my revenge for Bran. 

 Arya tensed, her horse preparing to bolt, but Lyarra steadied her horse and Arya followed her lead, thankfully. They fanned out around them, leaving only two between her and the northern portion of the road, behind their new lord. He’d put his silver tongue to work to get the Vale clans to ride with him.  

“How fares the city?” His eyes settled on hers, but thankfully, no recognition lit those discolored eyes, one green and one black. He had a smirk on his face that reminded her of the Kingslayer. 

Lyarra swallowed and deepened her voice, speaking from her throat. “Well, my lord.”  She sounded like a boy, but that was better than a girl.  

“Somehow, I sincerely doubt that.” His eyes were piercing, staring her down. He held out a pudgy hand in a gauntlet for a message scroll. She didn’t have any - well, none addressed to him. She shook her head. The mail jangled as she did. She was a few trots away, and prayed that the distance concealed her identity alongside her disguise. 

“No message for me?” His head moved back and he put a hand to his chin, stroking the beginnings of a beard, strangely thoughtful. 

His sellsword made a comment. “Guess they didn’t argue with Shagga. Don’t blame them.” He gave a short chuckle. The others laughed with him. The squire just looked confused. 

He turned then. “This far from the city, along the Kingsroad without a message for me or my lord father. Curious.” He sat there, pondering. Lyarra scanned around herself for an opening but found none. Her hands found their way to her belt and hung there. The sellsword’s eyes were watching them intently. 

He looked up then. “Who are you looking for?” 

“Fugitives, my lord.” He raised a brow and his eyes widened.

“Fugitives? But who did my dear sister lose?” She cursed herself. Stupid. You should have said fugitive and said you were looking for the bastard boy with the watch. 

Arya saved her. Her voice was petulant, but it was muffled enough through the mail coif to sound boyish. “Who says we have to tell you?” 

Bronn looked at her then, hand on his sword, other pointing to Tyrion. “Look, boy. This is the King’s hand.”

Rumor had flown throughout their stay with the Antler Men in the city. Lyarra had paid attention to that and the Royal proclamations given by the Queen Regent. Tywin Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands and Warden of the East, was the Hand of the King. His son before her was not. Apparently, he had given his son a promotion: his own job. 

Tyrion had told her that his father despised him in Winterfell. That his father considered him a bastard. He sat and claimed common cause with her, complaining about his family. He lied to her - about it all, about everything. It stung and burned. Her eyes watered, ever so slightly.  

Of course he had - why was she surprised? He was a Lannister. Lann the Clever had won a castle through lies. Why would his descendants discard them? He’d been sympathetic because he wanted an agent - start with the discarded bastard girl, use her envy, her loneliness and turn her against her siblings. 

It was cold, calculated, and clever. It had nearly worked, too. Lyarra saw only red for the betrayal. She felt nothing but a deep, bitter hatred for the Imp now. Played for a fool, again. How many times had she done it? Seen a stranger and welcomed them, only to find them no friend at all? 

Her breath seized and her gasp was audible enough. Apparently, Bronn found that funny and laughed. Arya’s exclamation was much less tactful. “What?” 

Lyarra felt her temper rise, but there were too many now, and Lord Lannister was too far from her. They needed to wait. Still, her fist clenched. 

Lyarra just reached out to Arya and gave her forearm a squeeze. “Forgive my cousin - too young and doesn’t know how to hold his tongue, my lord.” The jingling of the loose mail coif with her words preserved her disguise, for now. She kept her voice low, soft, so they needed to strain to hear … or come closer. 

Tyrion merely smiled. “Do not fret. He’s a little short to be a goldcloak, don’t you think?” 

Lyarra just stared at him. She couldn’t prevent her eyebrow from raising.

Arya was much less diplomatic. “Look who’s talking.” 

Then the sellsword and the girl behind them laughed and laughed and laughed at that. Her and Arya didn’t. Not even a smile. 

She saw Tyrion’s - no, Lord Lannister’s - face flicker into cold fury for an eyeblink before he joined in with his own guffaws. He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes, long and hard. Then he was all business again. “Well, who are you looking for?” 

Lyarra’s heart sank even further. He wouldn’t let it lie. The Sellsword pulled his thumbs out of his belt. Slowly, discreetly, her right arm slid from the reins and down to her thigh. Her boot held a knife and she was close enough to throw it. 

She let it rest there as she responded. She moved forward, slowly, as if sharing a secret. Still paces away, but closer. Arya followed next to her, silent. A short answer, to hide her voice. “Escaped wolves.” 

Tyrion Lannister furrowed his malformed brow, deep in thought. His face was a mask of concentration. Then he wore shock and then utter, profound joy. He began to laugh again. “Oh my dear sister, the disappointing child. How lovely .” He smiled, widely and happily now. “Which of the Starks did she lose?” 

“Two daughters.” He moved closer this time, alongside his sellsword. Her hand had reached her knee. 

He tsked. “That won’t do. Let me guess - the bastard girl and the youngest - the feral one.” Lyarra smiled. It felt good to be recognized. 

Revenge would be even sweeter. 

She nodded. The mail jangled again, and she let her hand slip down her leg to the top of the boot. The other stayed on the reins, but close enough to draw her dagger. The Sellsword watched her with wary black eyes. She scratched her shin to make the motion less suspicious. 

He glanced at her again, a keen green eye studying her while the black one stared at her like a gaping pit. “My, my. How did that happen?” 

“It was bloody.” 

The Sellsword snorted. “Goldcloaks wouldn’t know a real fight if they fell into one.” 

It was a jibe. Lyarra didn't rise to it. Neither did Arya. They would scarcely defend Goldcloak honor. 

It was a mistake. Her absence of a reaction triggered something in the sellsword, who just watched her with curiosity in his gaze. Tyrion watched her keenly then. He pushed his horse a little closer. Still too far to cut, but close enough for the knife. His sellsword trailed behind him. 

But then he smiled, and his face contorted into a grin. “Well, thank you for your news, regardless.” 

He dared a jape. “Hopefully, I won’t share Lord Eddard’s fate in the capitol. The Hand of the King is becoming a very dangerous position. First Lord Arryn, now Lord Stark. Seems like an unlucky job these days.” 

The sellsword laughed and the girl twittered to herself. The squire looked confused and then put on a placating smile. Her and Arya did not. He and his sellsword exchanged a glance. “Not fans of comedy? Ah, a shame.” 

Lyarra spoke softly then, under her breath. “You weren’t there.” It was too soft for even Arya to hear. 

He didn’t notice it. His sellsword turned to them. “Is Regina’s house still offering the discount to you lads? That, and the Arbor Gold?”  What?

Lyarra had no idea what he was referring to. A whorehouse? She stumbled out a response, tripping over her own tongue. “I wouldn’t know.”

Tyrion laughed. “Oh, do not fear. Bronn and I are well studied in those arts.” He pointed to Shae. She didn’t even blush. “And the fair lady is as well. You can tell.” His voice was conspiratorial. His squire blushed like a babe, cheeks redder than blood. The girl didn’t blush at all. She was paid not to, no doubt. 

“I wouldn’t know.” Her voice was firm. Gods please, just a bit closer. 

The sellsword shrugged. “A virtuous, chaste goldcloak. Never thought I’d see the day.” 

He and Tyrion exchanged another glance, looking at each other for a long time. Lyarra’s heart began to beat faster and faster, galloping in her chest and against her ribs. Tyrion shook his head, and their silent conversation ended. They were surrounded, and Arya was beside her. Around them, a dozen riders of the hill clans a quick turn and moment away. Her fear cut her, but she sat still. She wouldn’t die without taking little lord Lannister with her. 

The sellsword stayed where he was. Tyrion rode to her right, his squire pulling up alongside Bronn, across from Arya. “Well, It has been lovely meeting you...” The two riders behind him moved past him and her to join their fellows, only a few paces behind her and her sister. Only the sellsword and squire stood in their way North. 

“My time in the capitol will be trying. I may have use of you.” She didn’t pay any attention to the words at all. She just watched him with her eyes and flexed her fingers. She wouldn’t get a better chance. He pulled alongside her, just feet away. 

He didn’t move his horse any further past her. He had a battleax stuck against his backplate and the dirk in his belt jangled. The crimson plates hugged every part of him except for his face, his helmet tucked on the horn of his custom saddle. A little closer and your head is mine. 

He managed to speak. “I wish you luck on your journey.”

Lyarra nodded, for a moment. He stared up at her. They made eye contact. I get stopped by the one lannister shorter than me, just my luck. The brim did nothing to hide her gray eyes from him at this distance. His brow furrowed and he stared. She stared back with cold fury in her eyes. 

He saw it for a moment. Her heart stopped and she swallowed. His mouth began to gape, expanding ever so slowly. Her hand slid into her boot and the waiting knife. Bronn’s hand went to his sword. 

Arya spoke next. “If the Gods are just, we will be.” The squire looked confused. His face scrunched up and his cheeks wrinkled. Arya had a hand on Needle already. 

“Gods?” Tyrion spoke aloud, confusion on his face. Then Tyrion Lannister’s pupils widened. Now he had two black eyes. 

Lyarra felt her blood boil over. Next time, I won’t hesitate. Finally, blessedly, she let herself loose. 

Her right arm ripped the knife from her boot - she threw it straight ahead, at the sellsword’s face. He was the most dangerous foe within range. Too far for a swing, and the knife would be balanced enough. Him first, then revenge.  

It found purchase in his eye and he slid from his horse, hilt in hand but sword still in scabbard. He screamed and cursed and held his hands to his head there, rolling in the dirt. The girl screamed at the top of her lungs in fear. 

Arya rushed forward to attack the squire, ripping out Needle with a rasp. He stared at Bronn, shocked, before drawing his own sword. Just in time to frantically parry Arya’s stab towards his head. 

As soon as the knife left the fingers of her right hand, Her left hand went for her dagger, ripped it from its home on her right hip. She plunged it toward Tyrion Lannister’s green eye. His Lannister eye. He held up a hand and managed to divert the thrust with a small hand covered in plate and mail. The point of her dagger scraped across the plate rather sliding into skin. His other hand scrambled for his battleaxe at his back but found no purchase. It remained there, trapped in it’s harness

Her right hand went for her sword. She drew it and swung in it into a cut down at the Imp’s head. A fast, simple one handed cut. Just the edge and the strength of one arm. Hasty, but it should be enough. He managed to scramble back in his saddle and avoid his skull being split, but the blade still kissed his face, cutting from left brow across the nose to right cheek. Blood spattered from the wound onto her face, her coif. 

He stumbled from the horse, yelling in pain, a sign he was still alive. She needed to finish him, quickly. She maneuvered her horse, trying to hit him but found no strike.

She tried to swing again, but his horse was in the way and he hid behind it. Instead, she buried her sword in the Horse’s neck, severing its spine but not completely cutting through. It screamed and fell, legs falling out. She tried to run around it, circling the horse but Tyrion kept his now dead horse between them, blood streaming down his face. It made him look like he was weeping blood.

Behind her, she heard the exclamations of the Clansmen behind them as they jolted themselves out of their stupor. Ugly rasps of steel on leather filled her eardrums as they drew axes and swords. Their horses canted forward, the sound of hooves racing on the cobbles. She turned to see Arya still fighting Tyrion’s squire. She roared in frustration: Her time was up. Oaths kept her from blood, for now. 

“Arya, we need to go!” 

Her sister whipped her reins and rode off down the road. Lyarra placed herself between Arya and her opponent, but the boy squire rushed to his lord instead of to her. They ran past the girl, who was still screaming her lungs out atop her mount, pale as milk, and the sellsword, who was still rolling in the dirt, blood flowing across his face and puddling onto the ground. He was groaning, and Lyarra hoped he died. She followed her sister down the road at a full gallop. 

The Mountain clansmen followed, hollering and galloping on their sturdy mounts. She turned to look and found about half of them pursuing and half staying to guard their wounded lord. I hope he gets infected, I hope he dies. 

One of the mountain men, clad in fur and mail both, lead the pursuit. He had a stone instead of an eye. It was pale and black, and glistened with a slight sheen. Behind them, more followed in the distance. 

The rest of the day and night was spent at a gallop. The Mountain clansmen were not far behind them. They stayed on the road - from what Lyarra had heard, the clans were expert trackers, and would move faster in the woods than her and her sister could on their mounts. She hoped their horses could outrun their shorter, shaggier opponents on the road. In the brush and rough hills they would most certainly lose that race, but on the flat, cobbled road, they had a chance. 

They galloped by moonlight, Arya in the lead, and prayed that their horses kept their footing. Stumbling, or falling in the dark could break a horse, and then they would be finished. A tree root or rock or pothole could be the end. Then she heard howls in the dark woods and knew they would be fine. They were familiar to her, comforting. The screams followed afterwards. 

The sound of hooves fell off after that, and soon Ghost and Nymeria sprinted alongside them, snouts red and bearing fresh scars. 

They rode all night and all day until they found a patch of woods on the left of the road to shelter within. There they sat in silence, panting at their close-run escape and in shock. That night, the direwolves curled up alongside them. 

Lyarra came to a simple conclusion before she fell asleep that night. We are definitely not going to the Eyrie. They had already run into enough mountain clansmen outside of their mountains.

Chapter Text

The rider rode along the Roseroad, heading towards Highgarden. His horse was a plow mare, bought with his cloak from a poor farmer awed by the fine embroidery, and nearly all the silver he carried. He shivered in his saddle even now, but devotion drove him onward. 

Above him, he had spotted white ravens in flight, above him. Every boy and girl in the seven kingdoms knew what the white raven’s of oldtown meant. The Maesters sent them aloft with a change in season. Summer was over, Autumn would reign. 

Around him, the verdant green fields and pastures stretched as fair as he could see from the roadside. Divided by painted fences, mossy stone walls, and even hedgerows he couldn’t see over. 

They were magnificent. He’d never left the Capitol, the city. He’d traveled around the Crownlands and seen its farms. Even within the city, little gardens for herbs and vegetables were common, grown in planters, rooftops, or even the yards of mansions. The roads had lines of trimmed trees, cut for decades and decades of firewood. The Crownlands had golden fields of wheat, majestic when the wind blew their grains. They also had the pigsties, muddy and covering in filth and slop. He’d worked to escape their stench, the pits where your boots stuck to the mixture of mud and manure of the pen floor. 

The Road he traveled now was paved and well-maintained, and even his repurposed draft horse made good time at a trot. Bitterbridge lay behind him, but his quest would take him to Highgarden. 

But the scenery almost slowed him. Orchards of trees so large he had thought them forests, if it weren’t for their straight, ordered lines. The wheat fields were so vast they had stretched onward to the horizon. The Reach’s bounty dwarfed that of the crownlands. He was a merchant, and he knew that food was an easy sell. Everyone needed it. Farmers never went out of business. The little hamlets and towns he passed through, where all the peasants looked at him anxiously. 

Another sign of divine favor was the Red Comet behind him, high across the sky. It lit his way day and night. It blazed across the Eastern Sky, red light like a sunset that stretched on forever. 

It was the herald of the crowning of his king, fair and noble. He would be king, a true king, not some barely aged boy backed by a pride of vicious lions or bitter, resentful brother consigned to exile on some blasted volcanic rock. Cason had seen him, strong and graceful. He talked to them, all fair and gracious to even him, a lowly merchant. A true king, if there ever was. 

Even now, Cason would see the lines of men marching and quartering along the Roseroad. His King’s Host, and the host of his wife’s house and their bannermen. Their helmets and armor transmuted into roses in the endless sunset. They marched through the towns as he passed, and voices raised into shouts. 

Cason rode onward, to the infamous hedge maze and tiered white walls of Highgarden. His King, Renly of House Baratheon, first of his name, would knight him and his fellows for their efforts to aid him. He’d left them in the city for a reason. He’d arrive at a city with a gate flung open to let in his host, and a secret passage straight to his throne.  

Ser Cason. He liked the sound of that. The future, his future, looked bright.

Chapter Text

Lyarra rode hard and fast alongside Arya during the day. The exhaustion caught up to her and overpowered her emotions. She would collapse into resting instead of thinking. Sometimes, Ghost and Nymeria woudl race alongside them before disappearing off into the trees and woods.  

She never was able to outrun the guilt. It clung to her like a balm. Sitting alone on watch was the worst part. Arya slumbered beside her in the darkness and Lyarra was left alone with it. It all came crashing down then. Her guilt found her in the quiet moments. 

The wind blew past. It rustled trees and pushed leaves to float down. The wind became a voice. Her father’s voice. “Protect your sisters.” 

It mocked her. The wind cackled at her failure. 

Sansa wasn’t safe. Sansa was at the mercy of Joffrey and his mother. What tortures did they inflict on her? What new torments did they invent to break her? What portion of the black cells had they turned over to her? 

Her thoughts fought with the wind in her ears. I tried, she was gone, there was no way I could have reached her.

“Coward,” the wind blew back. “Craven.”

I would have gotten her, dragged her if it was possible. I would’ve saved her. 

“Liar,” the wind said. “Deceiver. Bastard.” 

Lyarra was terrified then, her hands trembling. She chewed on her lip. 

The wind blew again. “You never loved her. She called you half-sister, lady snow, bastard.” 

Her eyes watered. No. I loved her. I still love her. 

“Red hair like her mother. Blue eyes like her mother. Was this a way to settle the score?”

She clenched her fist and pulled her knees to her chest. 

“If you loved her, why didn’t you save her? You left her there. Cuckoo. Bitter bastard. Perhaps with her death, her mother's heart may open out of grief…”

No. Evil notions. Begone. Those aren’t my thoughts.  

The wind just blew past her, pushing her hair past her face. It was laughing. 

I saved Arya. I saved the sister I could. 

“You saved a favorite. Ignored the other.” The wind howled once more. “Traitor.” 

Lyarra sat there and hugged her knees tight. She tried to still her body. Her stomach growled as she sat. She eaten less and less as they rode. That left more for the horses, for Arya. 

The branches shifted in the wind, cracking against each other. “You didn’t even look for her.”

She was gone. Within Maegor’s Keep. There was no way…

The leaves blew past, a rush with the wind. “Oh, of course. Just like you couldn’t save your father. You let him walk away into danger. You let him stay.”

He wanted to, and I couldn't convince him. 

“You didn’t bother to really try, did you?”

He's stubborn, like me. He wouldn’t have listened.

“Was he a weakling like you?” 

They already had him when they came for me…

The wind fell silent. Her shoulders were cowed and her hands trembling. It left her defeated. Lyarra sat with only her own thoughts for company. 

I couldn’t save my father. They had sent for him to go to court. He had been confident - up to some idea, no doubt. But the Lannisters had struck first. 

Right before Arya's lesson. Right before we were supposed to leave. They had known and had captured him immediately. Then they had come after the Stark guards and tried to seize her and her sisters. Before they left, rapidly. No, they had already grabbed Sansa. She had left some time after their argument and then…

Sansa had gone to say goodbye. They had grabbed her before any of them, before even father. If she had been there, away from Arya, she could have caught Sansa in the halls, stopped her from leaving. She could have saved her. 

Sansa had slipped away to Joffrey and then he had summoned father. They must have sent Ser Meryn to her and Arya right after. They had known . The Lannisters had known they were soon to leave. They had struck right before, hadn’t waited a moment. Why else would they sent only seven guards? 

But how had they known?  Her blood chilled. No, it wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have.  

The wind was silent and yet she knew it was laughing at her once more. 

Oh sweet sister, what did you do? An agonized scream from her memories, from the Sept of Baelor. A man holding up a head that blinked in the sunlight. She buried the revelation deep within. It would do her no good now. 

They rode through the woods all night and all of the next day. They rode until Arya looked like she would fall off her horse. They found a burned-out hamlet several miles off the road.  The smell was enough to banish Lyarra's hunger completely. 

They slept inside the sole building without corpses: the stable, on the dirt and old, broken straw. The roof had a caved in, so the stable resembled a cave or den more than a building. The horses joined them inside, and they slept within the day. They awoke to a pitch-black sky. 

Arya had made a suggestion as they lay there, stars above them. “We should travel at night, like the wolves.” 

Lyarra had agreed. 

The day was too risky, especially after their encounter with the Imp. She bet most of his retinue had ridden off with him - in search of a maester, no doubt. But just a few eyes searching for them nearby was a few eyes too many. Best to travel when they did not and avoid a third unlucky encounter with unfriendly faces. 

She grimaced at the thought. She’d come so close, agonizingly close. If he hadn’t fallen from his damned horse. At the very least, he would be even uglier now. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted his head, and Joffrey’s, and Cersei’s, and the Kingslayer's. Blood for blood. 

A quiet voice in the back of her head made her glance to Arya. She breathed deep and sat down. 

When they rode in the night, camps and fires were easy to spot and avoid: light could be seen for miles. They rode at a slower pace - galloping at night on unfamiliar roads was a recipe for accident and subsequent disaster. Their horses appreciated the respite. The non-stop journey had taxed them immensely. They were getting thinner and temperamental. The slower pace let them keep what meat they had on their bones. Regardless, the horses were losing weight and wouldn’t last. They weren’t dothraki or mountain clan beasts that could live off grazed grass and little else. They were warhorses, and needed fodder. They’d have to find supplies or fresh horses shortly. 

Finding fresh horses or feed in the wake of a massive army was unlikely. Maybe if they could catch a few outriders… No, that was too risky. But that was a problem for later. 

Exhausted, they slid into a copse of trees, tied the reins to the trees, and fell into a deep sleep. Her head rested upon a pale stump. 

Lyarra awoke to a fire crackling by her feet in front of her. She looked and found Arya still asleep by her side and the horses dead asleep on the grass beside them. They were in a clearing surrounded by trees and the Sky was black above them. Several stars glimmered above and one even moved. They’d overslept and now was the time to travel.

She wiped her eyes, groggy with sleep still. She looked across the fire and found a large man sitting there. Her blood ran cold. He was wearing a helmet and mail. A shield strap dangled across his blackened surcoat, the item in question dangling from his back. His face was covered, as were his legs and arms. He was covered in armor, and his cloak was black in the night, ratty and torn, the edges singed. The fire illuminated only the front of him and his silhouette. He was big, but he sat there, stoking the fire with a stick held in a meaty paw covered in a gauntlet tinged rosy by the flame. 

Her hand was on her sword and she pulled it out by reflex. She stood in a low crouch, hand on her hilt, ready for an attack. “Who are you?” 

The helm turned to regard her, slowly. No other part of him moved at all. He didn’t reach for the longsword from his belt or even stir from his seat upon the log. His voice was a low growl and reminded her of the Hound’s. “That’s the strangest thing. I can’t quite remember.” 

His helmet bore no visor, just a thin slit for the eyes to see through. She saw no insignia on his shield. His surcoat was too blackened to make out any heraldry. She stared at the vision slit in that helmet. It was a black slit with no eyes there, a darkness that seemed to swallow all light that fell into it. A cowl rested across his shoulders and back, left off his head. He could be a freerider for the Lannisters, a Riverlord, or a Northern lord. She had no idea who he belonged to or who he served. 

She tried to kick Arya awake to no avail. She spoke up to stall him. “That’s not an answer.” 

“No. It isn’t. But we’ve met before.” He rolled his neck and shoulders, his armor clinking softly as he did so. 

She kept her sword level, but curiosity overtook her concern. This stranger had shown no desire to attack her - despite the fact he stumbled across her and Arya asleep, helpless. “We have?” 

He nodded, the helmet scraping as he did so. One hand lay on his knee, and the other stoked the fire with the stick. The flames leaped and danced when he did so, far higher than they should’ve done. “You’ve had a few brushes with me, but we’ve never really been introduced.” 

Lyarra lowered her sword. Whoever he was, he wasn’t trying to fight her now. That could change. She kept her hand on hilt at her side. “But I do know you.” That voice was a cold croak and made the hair on her neck stand out. 

“I’m not particularly notable. I doubt that.” If he knew, he could turn her in for a ransom. Her grip on her blade tightened. 

“I met your father when he was young, long, long ago. You have his habits.” He stoked the flames then, his armor moving as he did so. The flames glinted across his chestplate, reflected off the many rings of his mail. Both were obscured by his surcoat, which went from ashy grey to inky black in a strange mottled pattern. It bore no heraldry at all. Embers from the fire lanced out and fell across the ground like little glowing stones. 

“You have?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. Perhaps he was a northman? But his voice didn't have any of the lilt, the accent of the north. 

“And your mother, but that was much different. Much later, too.” The firelight danced off his surcoat tails, his mail leggings, his plate greaves covering simple boots. It made the silver metal gleam molten orange, almost red in the hot light. 

“You are lying.” He was fooling with her, jesting, taking her for a fool. Her fist clenched and eyes narrowed. 

The Helmet turned to regard her again, the black slit a gaping abyss her eyes grew lost in. “I never lie. No knight should.” 

“You are a knight? What’s your name?” She rubbed her eyes. This stranger was endlessly frustrating, almost simple in his desire to avoid her questions. 

“I’ve gone by many.” He stoked the fire one last time and then tossed the stick in. He leaned back, and Lyarra was stuck by how big he was. Even sitting, he was at her eye level. 

She just stared at him until he gave her a straight answer. She drew her sword slowly. It glinted pale silver in the moonlight, before the light of the fire turned it orange and red too.  

“You are heading north, aren’t you? I am too. Slim pickings around here, especially now. Just waiting really. So much more to happen up there.” His helmet pointed at the fire, eyes not even looking at her. The voice remained a low growl and sharpened as she spoke. 

She said nothing. She didn’t trust him. 

“If you are going there, avoid the Twins. There was trouble last time I was there.” He sat there, hands on his knees. 

“Why do you care?” 

The Helmet regarded her for a long time. “Why do you?” He nodded towards Arya, who was still asleep. 

“She’s my sister.” 

He stared and didn’t say anything for a long time. She got lost in that black abyss of a visor slit. “A noble goal, to protect your kin.” He pulled out his sword without standing and wiped it down with an oilcloth. Flakes of rust and ash billowed like snow off the blade. 

He mused as the cloth swept up and down the blade. “We find family in the strangest of places, don’t you think?”

She said nothing to that. He sounded simple, like a jesting fool, or Hodor. Again, he turned to her. He studied her as if truly seeing her for the first time. “Ah, that’s it. A she-wolf. You are heading north, to Winterfell. Always a few there, in my experience.” 

She put her blade into a low guard. “What do you want?”

He pulled out a whetstone and ran it along his blade. It rasped as he spoke. His voice sounded like a croak alongside it. “Me? Nothing. You’ll give me plenty in time. Feasts and fellowship.” The fire glimmered off the breath holes in the bottom of his helm, and made it look like he wore a bloody grin across his face. 

“I doubt that.” He just shook his helmeted head, as if she didn’t understand, his arm slowly moving up and down the blade with the whetstone. 

He lifted the sword, as if to study the edge. “I have to see to the harvest before winter. So much to gather. So little time.” 

He put the whetstone and oil cloth in his belt and sheathed his sword. He stood up to leave, revealing his blacked, singed coat the size of half a tent. Flakes of ash fell from him as he stood, like droplets of water falling off a coat. He was no mountain, but he towered over Lyarra. 

Her blade was up and pointed at him, held over the fire, blade glinting. He turned away from her. But before he left, he spoke over his shoulder. “When you make it to the Wall, say hello for me.” 

His footsteps carried off into the night, rustling leaves and snapping twigs. They faded in the distance, and the fire faded with them. Soon, The Stranger was gone into the black night. 

Lyarra awoke again, her breath coming in short gasps. Her dagger was out and her feet were scrambling to stand before she knew what she was doing. The sun beat down on her from the sky and Arya looked at her questioningly, sitting back. She was awake, on watch. As she should have been. Not asleep. The sky was bright, not dark.  

“Bad dream?” Arya’s voice was soft, sympathetic. 

She nodded. They’d both started having them as their pace had slowed and they traveled by day. The exhausted, blessed simple sleep had been left behind. Now they were struck with dreams - nightmares, really.

Arya had them far more often than her. Lyarra had taken to waking her up to end them. It broke her heart every time. She had thought herself less affected. 

“Bad memories?” 

“No. Something … else.” She’d never had a dream like that before. The conversation stuck with her plain as day. It was as normal as could be, but it couldn’t be real.

“Wolf dreams?” Arya looked at her with curiosity.

She looked at Arya then, surprised. “You have those, too?”

Arya nodded. The dreams were vivid - she was a wolf, hunting in the woods, running and howling. So vivid she would taste the blood of a successful hunt. 

“They make me feel strong, safe.” Arya’s voice was soft. 

“Me too.” Lyarra scooted next to her sister. 

“I wish I could have been stronger, Lya. Then maybe…” The guilt and grief weren’t hers alone, either. 

“Oh, sweet sister. I wish I had been too.” He hugged her sister close, burying her head into her chest. They sat there for a while, before sleep claimed them once more.  

They were drawing close to the Trident. Lyarra dreaded it’s coming. It was wide and deep, and she knew none of the fords. The ruby ford was going to be guarded heavily, likely by Lannister men. She didn’t know of any other crossing point, and so they stuck to the road the lions had marched up ahead of them. The Lion’s den awaited them. 

They stopped after a long night of riding. Their camp for the night was another copse of trees on a hill overlooking the road. It was a circle of brambles and trees so dense light barely reached beneath them. The branches intertwined and wove together over piles of stones covering their roots. The trees formed a rough oval, and they placed their horses within and took shelter there when the sun rose. In the center was a stump surrounded by stones. 

It was odd, sleeping when the sun was out and moving under the moon. But it had paid dividends - they ran into a few others and evaded those they did stumble upon. They bore torches and lanterns to stave away the darkness. Stupid - light could be seen for miles. Lyarra and Arya just watched with eyes that grew sharper at night. They slipped past when the light passed, like the wild beasts did. 

It was early morning when she was awoken by horns and galloping riders. Irritation filled her before concern did - she had just fallen asleep after the night’s ride. She stirred from her place leaning against a trunk, cloak draped around her like a blanket. Arya was already awake, her head stuffed between trunks to look at the approaching riders. Her legs trembled with excitement and fear. 

Lyarra pushed her way alongside her sister. The sounds came from the Kingsroad, heading south. Hooves beating over cobbled stone. From the sound, it was dozens of riders. The group of men was at least a hundred. They all wore red cloaks and lion helms.

Outriders - they rode along the road and split off the run other roads and returns. Scouts. 

They rode down trails off the road and split off. They resembled more of a teeming herd rather than an ordered formation. 

Periodically, they blew horn bursts that sounded off the hillsides and startled their horses. They were answered by fainter horn blasts to the east and west. Other scouts, or foraging parties. 

Sleep would prove impossible with the noise and the fear. Lyarra sighed with exasperation. 

Arya shuffled out of her branches. “Lannisters. Robb must have beat them, why else would they come south?” 

“The King’s brothers?” Arya shrugged at that. Lyarra did too. They’d been out of the loop for too long. They both turned back to watch and Lyarra’s mind wandered. 

Lord Renly had escaped the city and Lord Stannis sat on Dragonstone. Perhaps one of them had made a move towards the capitol. She still had a letter addressed to the latter, sealed and left in a leather pouch tied to her belt. Her hand found it and clutched that bag. It would be a lot easier to deliver if he was in King's Landing. 

Or… Robb had won and they were in retreat. She didn’t dare to hope. They had to get north, then they would help Robb. Their time on the road had left them out of the loop of news. 

Another horn blast, and then the Scouts then moved as one, riding forward, sending three of their fellows back north, the rest galloping to the south. They were heading to King’s Landing or Harrenhal. Most likely the latter - King’s Landing would strand them too far from the goldroad. Harrenhal was large enough to quarter a host, even if it was cursed. 

Lyarra held her breath as they rode past. She and Arya didn’t move until the dust of their mounts had settled. 

“There may be more. We need to hide.” As Lyarra spoke, she stripped herself of mail, helm and yellow cloak, shoving them beneath her as quietly as possible. She covered them with spare branches. Arya mimicked her actions beside her. 

A single glint of a piece of metal could doom them. Getting captured by the Lannisters would be horrific. The mere thought turned her stomach. Lord Tywin was many things. Merciful was not one of them. She doubted the Kingslayer was either. But if she figured out who commanded this host, that could help Robb. He would know who he had beaten, or who had fled. Arya watched her movements and imitated them, stuffing her mail and helm at the bottom of the hedgerow. 

They grabbed their horses and tied them close to the hedgerow, then had them lay down. She wouldn’t have them neighing and give away their position. Arya and her sat beside them and whispered to them, keeping them calm. Stroking dirty coats and manes to keep the animals from becoming frightened. As for the direwolves, they were already somewhere far away, in their element. She hoped they would be safe for now. 

She prayed distance and the darkness of the grove hedgerow would hide them. They were at least a hundred yards from the roadside. But if the host decided to camp here or stop for a rest…

Then she heard hooves again. They rode across the road four abreast. The men rode in full plate, of every variety of armor she could find. Some in elaborately gilded gear, others in plainer, yet still expensive, full suits of metal plate. Even the horses were armored, plates placed over their heads and mail skirts hugging their chests. They all glittered, every knight and freerider. Lyarra tried to count the rows but gave up after two hundred rows of four. 

All of them bore red cloaks or surcoats, embroidered with the golden lion of lannister. Others had lion’s or other wild beasts embossed into their helms. Every one bore a lance or spear, along with shields all bearing a mixture of heraldry in a mixture of colors. Banners and pendants floated above them, held on poles far above the teeming mass of horses and men. They marched in silence - few of them were speaking, and none sang. They were a disciplined lot. 

She didn’t spot their leader until others came to his side for commands, and his pointing sent them away. Sat among them, perched a massive stallion, spotted through gaps in the line of his guards, in the finest armor and cloak she’d ever seen. His face was old and weathered. 

Tywin Lannister. He sat tall on his horse, age having done nothing to cow him. Even from their distance, she could see he was tall. Taller than her father. His golden cloak glittered in the sunlight and didn't move an inch as he rode. Next to him was a rider with the lion of lannister upon a banner. 

Lyarra wished she had a bow. It was a far shot from the trees. Her blood screamed at her to rush forward, to cut down this challenger. One arrow, one lucky shot, one foolhardy charge…

Her eyes drifted to her side, to Arya, and her anger cooled. She had family to protect. Vengeance would come later. 

And she didn’t have a bow. Lord Tywin was in the midst of his van, surrounded by bodyguards. He didn’t stray from their midst once as he rode by. He wore full plate, colored red with golden filgree she could see glinting, even on the march. Something had made him cautious. His guards’s visors scanned the woods around them, their heads constantly swiveling. She prayed they saw nothing in their patch of woods. 

Then the regular troops came, six abreast, marching in ordered rows. They marched piece by piece, each bearing heraldry of different Westerlands houses. Some bore pikes that made them into moving forests. Others marched with spears and shields, arms swinging both back and forth. Others bore bows, strung and unstrung alike. They were different from the spears - their tips didn’t gleam in the sunlight. They wore every collection of armor Lyarra had ever seen, their armor glinting in the sun where mud and dirt hadn’t spackled it. They’d come a long way and hadn’t dallied to clean their cloaks. 

And they sang as they marched. Different songs. Some bawdy, some martial. One was a particular favorite - she and Arya heard it sung nearly a dozen times as the line of men passed. Their voices were low, but they could make out the words as they marched. 

And who are you, the proud lord said…

That I must bow so low…

Between squares and rectangles of marching men would come wagons and mules, bearing supplies of every type. They clattered and followed the men, their wagoneers and mule drivers swearing and cajoling their steeds. The mules would rear and complain, agitated. The Horses and Oxen were no less temperamental. The beasts whined and shifted, their cries high pitched and stressed. They hadn’t stopped to rest much - the animals were first to show it. Just keep moving. Don’t stop here. 

Each detachment bore banners, which waved proudly, defiantly in the wind. A Red Bull. A Black hooded man. Golden Trees. Chevrons. A Dozen Seashells. A Purple Unicorn. A blue rooster. A Black boar. Dozens of others flapped as they passed with the flood of men. 

Periodically, a detachment of Cavalry would pass by, closer to Arya and her, and they would fall silent and still their horses. They ran alongside the road, eyes peeled and scanning for ambushers around them. They blocked between her and the marching men on the road. Arya and her would dig their faces and hands into the dirt, offering wordless prayers. They were definitely spooked - had Robb ambushed them alongside the Kingsroad? 

In a few of the wagons, chained and bound, were prisoners. They were shackled in the backs of wagons, with guards amongst them. That did not bode well. The Lannisters wouldn’t take common northmen as prisoners - these must be knights or nobles taken for ransom. She strained but could make out none of them. Their cloaks were hidden by the wood of the wagons. 

The army passed by, and excitement soon faded into dull exhaustion. Wagon after wagon, column after column, the Lannister host went on and on. It slithered like a massive snake past them, along the great kingsroad. Hour after hour, they marched past. 

She managed to keep herself awake by counting the columns. She lost count multiple times but managed to end up somewhere above 15,000 men. They sat and waited and Lyarra kept herself awake through willpower and fear. Across from her, Arya sat wide eyed, watching the army, her mouth moving, teeth chewing into her lip. 

Then, finally, the rearguard passed. They piqued Arya and Lyarra’s interest. They were a strange lot, bearing a black goat as their sigil. Some rode zorses, striped white and black beasts from Essos. They dressed strangely, a variety of shields and strange weapons. They were attentive but exhausted, loudly complaining as they passed by. 

They missed Arya and Lyarra completely. By this time, the sun was setting in the sky. Lyarra was exhausted - the clamor of the army had made sleep impossible. 

Arya’s breathing besides her had gone regular, head in the dirt, fast asleep. Lyarra found her own eyelids drooping, and followed her sister’s example. 

When they awoke, Lyarra and Arya rode onward, until at last the Trident approached. Lyarra recognized where they were now. They were approaching Darry, where she and Arya had been judged so long ago. 

They rode in the daylight now, confident that the majority of the Lannister forces were behind them. They rode past the castle of Darry, bearing lion banners, and kept moving onwards. Thankfully, none sallied out behind them for two lost goldcloaks. 

They trode onward, further, until they came to the Ruby Ford of the Trident. They went off the road and found their way to a grove of trees. Lyarra and Arya scanned the banks of either side for a long time. They waited until the sun had faded into darkness and their eyes had adjusted, before remounting their horses. 

It was unguarded. They walked slowly - the ford came up to their horse’s ankles, but it was still enough to hide any caltrops or traps. They kept their eyes wary and their steps slow. Lyarra saw no glimmers in the water. 

Arya kept her eyes on the treeline ahead of them. They worked slowly, Lyarra in front, making small moves. The slight splash of the water as their mount’s hooves moved was the only sound they gave. The moonlight was faint, and there were two shadows. 

Then Lyarra heard a twang and fell off her horse into the cold, cool water. Her tailbone bit into riverstones, making her hiss with pain. Her head hit the ford bed, her helmet cushioning her fall. It didn’t stop the throbbing of her head. But all those pains were secondary. 

Her chest ached like it had been kicked by a horse. Someone had hit her with a missile, and she lay in the riverbed, groaning. Without the mail coat, she would’ve died. She might have preferred that for a moment, the pain as it was. She sat there, breath knocked out of her, gasping and splashing frantically in the water as she tried to remember how to breathe. 

“Lya!” Arya’s voice was high pitched and she rode forward. Arya had drawn Needle, which glistened in the moonlight. Lyarra waved her off with one hand, splashing water as she did so. 

“Arya, run!” Her words were breathless, shouted between gasps of fresh air. 

Lya tried to sit up, feeling her entire chest burn as she did so. Arya’s horse turned, but stopped moving behind her - she felt no splashes or current. 

Across the river, in front of her, a row of men had emerged from the woods, spearpoints and helms glimmering silky silver like the reflection of the moon on the water. With them were others who bore crossbows and bows - Lyarra could tell only by the arrowheads glimmering in the moonlight. They stayed their hands, not drawing back the arrows. 

Lyarra turned her head, her helmet feeling ten stone heavier, and saw the same scene behind her, on the other bank. They were trapped. It was a cunning ambush.  

Arya sat on her horse, sword pointed at those men, her other hand holding the reins taut. Lyarra’s horse decided that now was the time to drink, of all things. 

Two against what thirty? A hundred? They’d never win, not even if they were Visenya and Nymeria reborn. At worst, their disguises would protect them long enough to be killed themselves. 

She might die, but her sister would be safe, as a hostage. It was better than Arya dead. 

“Arya. We can’t win.” 

Her sister turned to her, eyes frantic under the visor of her helm. “Lya…” 

“You’ll be safe.” 

“What about you?” 

She shook her head. “We’ll worry about that later.” 

She raised a hand to her helm and pulled it and the mail coif off. Her aching head thanked her, proud to be relieved of the weight. She held both in her hands, staring at them again. 

“We yield!” She got to her knees, groaning all the while, and unbuckled her sword belt. Even now, her breathing was shaky gasps between words. 

Arya did the same, casting her helm in the waters of the ford and putting her hands in the air. She dismounted, her little feet landing beside Lyarra’s. Her hands stowed Needle back into her scabbard. 

It took her a few times, with the sword trembling in her hands. She managed it, and Lyarra hugged her sister, then ruffled her hair. A small party emerged from the North bank. A half dozen men, clad in armor and surcoat. They were blank, inky figures without insignia indistinct in the shadowy night. 

They moved closer, until they were a few paces away. Then one spoke aloud, in a voice filled with astonishment. 

“Arya Underfoot?” The man's eyes were wide, but the clouds parted and the moonlight fell stronger onto the ford. The others looked at Lyarra’s girlish face and just stared with confusion in their eyes. The speaker’s surcoat bore a grey Direwolf. 

Lyarra and Arya looked at each other, and began to laugh hysterically, like they were madwomen. Then they hugged one another. Arya ripped off her gold cloak and cast it into the river. It glimmered in the moonlight as it floated down the river. They had found their pack, at last.  

Chapter Text

After a brief, but illuminating conversation from their ambushers, they began a long walk to the North host’s camp along the Kingsroad. They were camped alongside the Inn of the Crossroads, holding the Fords against the Lannisters. 

Once the Stark footmen had realized who they nearly killed, they were horrified. The archer who’d hit her had turned white with fear. He was a young boy, hardly older than her. “I almost shot a lady!” 

Arya had scrunched up her face and glared at him. Lyarra had just laughed - for a bit, before it turned into a hacking, excruciatingly painful cough. “It’s what the mail was for.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Good shot in the dark, that.” She’d have a horrific bruise on her chest for a long while, but all of her ribs were intact when she touched them, even if they produced a wince. Killing a fine archer like that over a mistake would be nothing but wasteful. 

She'd gotten lucky. Too lucky. If it had had been a bodkin point...

The rest of the footmen had looked at her and Arya with awe. “You came all the way from King’s Landing?” 

Lyarra had nodded, and they had rocked back on their heels. Then their faces filled with hope. They were Stark men, after all. Part of her father’s guard, like those that had fallen in the capitol. They asked about their comrades. 

Arya’s face fell, and she watered the dirt beneath her. Lyarra felt the grief herself, but still managed to say what needed to be said. “Lord Eddard sent out twenty to harry the mountain. I don’t know what became of them. The rest died bravely helping us.” Her eyes watered, and she wasn’t the only one. 

At that, their faces had darkened. “The North remembers,” became their collected, muttered refrain. 

They split then - a dozen went with the two of them and their commander, but the rest returned to their ambush spots in the treeside. No Lannisters would come after them. They were safe. 

Lyarra’s shoulders slumped in relief. Arya was excited and filled with a second wind, running around and skipping along. They were going to be taken to the Northmen camp. The commander was Garvy, a household guard Lyarra faintly remembered. Arya, with her close relationship with each and every guard, knew him very well. She’d asked him about his whittling habit and his nephews. They had walked the rest of the way to the Northmen camp. She’d caught up on news with the men who had found them. 

They knew Lord Eddard had been beheaded. “We heard the news, and the whole camp grew silent that night. We’ll pay them back for the old man, and the good men they killed with him. Each and every one, we will pay back tenfold.” She had grimly nodded along with those words.  

Robb was over in Riverrun. “He’s sent us, all the foot, here to distract lord Tywin. We got bruised on the Green Fork but most of us made it through. We tried a night attack. The right and center got it worse than us. Your brother, he’s a chip of the old block: he won a great victory at Riverrun against the Kingslayer. Captured him, the rumor is. Then they routed that Lannister force and sent them reeling.” That had left her in a state of shock - her brother, a victor of two battles? Captured the Kingslayer? She would’ve thought she was dreaming, but the guards around her had nothing but earnestness in their faces. She was proud of her brother. 

“He’s a wolf, your brother - a young wolf. He’s king in the North now. We won’t kneel to any more of these Southern twats ever again.”

“King in the North?” Lyarra was incredulous. The Seven Kingdoms had been united for nearly three hundred years since Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys had conquered them from dragonback. Then again, dragons were what the Starks had knelt to. They were dead now. 

“Aye, the King in the North!” Garvy and his men chanted it along, again and again. Arya joined in. 

Lyarra was more skeptical about independence. They’d been part of the Kingdoms for centuries of trade and communication. Could they afford to be independent when the winter came? Was it justified? They couldn’t kneel to Joffrey, of course, but there were other claimants, with armies of their own. She doubted Lord Stannis or Lord Renly would allow the North and Riverlands to leave without a fight. What would father have done? Questions and doubts filled her head. 

She found herself touching the leather pouch containing a letter from her father, the last one he had written. One he had handed to her and insisted she deliver it to Lord Stannis. She couldn’t bring herself to open it but felt her stomach turn. What words lay inside? Would they endorse or condemn? She felt nothing but doubt and uncertainty. 

But those were questions for later. For now, she needed to know which northern lord she was dealing with, since Robb was elsewhere. “Who commands this host?” 

“Lord Bolton is the commander. Your brother did that. Can’t say I like the man, but he’s canny and keeps his head about him. We certainly surprised the Lannisters with his night march. We’ll get them next time, we’re certain.” Lyarra's heart beat faster out of nervousness. Lord Bolton was a cold man when he had visited Winterfell. Something about him unnerved her. Cold eyes she had only seen warm on other faces. 

Other guards had muttered under their breath about Bolton cowardice and sloth, and Lyarra had not pushed the point. Lord Bolton was not as popular as her brother. That was good. Robb was young and vulnerable - he was new to being lord and king. Popularity was something to keep him safe and shielded. Lyarra brooded in her own thoughts and tuned out Arya’s interrogation of Garvy with questions about more mundane talk. 

Robb was king, and young. They needed to reach him as soon as possible. Heading straight up to Winterfell would be safer, of course. But if he had won and sent the Lannisters packing at Riverrun, and Lord Tywin was falling back towards Harrenhal, there was time to talk with him. To see him. 

Then they had reached the outskirts of camp. 

It was massive, a maze of tents and carts, with men lounging around. They bore the banner of nearly every house in the North. The mermen of the Manderlys. The crossed axes of the Dustins. The horse head of the Ryswells. The battleaxe of the Cerwyns. The triple firs of the Tallharts. The chained giant of the Umbers. The white starburst of the Karstarks. The flayed man of the Boltons. The black bear of the Mormonts. Every house of the north - and their infantry - was here to fight, it seemed. 

And the twin blue towers of the Freys. That surprised Lyarra. Even Arya made a comment, and their escort had frowned and said nothing. Nobody liked the Freys. The North had no love of their exorbitant tolls on all goods heading north, and their lack of honor was well-established. How Robb had gotten them to march into battle was a question for later. What toll had he paid? 

The camp was dripping with tension. The men clustered together under their own banners, not liable to play dice with those from other houses. Bolton men bearing the flayed man received hostile glances. Periodically, they’d receive a jeer of cowardice from the other men involved in the battle. Garvy had explained that. "Lord Bolton had his own men in reserve. Only the archers did anything." His face was dark as he said it.  

As they walked through, the collection of stares they had grew. Every eye on them turned hostile at her goldcloak, then confused at the sight of her face and hair. Those lucky enough to recognize Arya - mostly Stark and Cerwyn men - began to chant. 

“Arya Underfoot! Arya Underfoot!” They chanted. Lyarra found herself smiling. 

Then Arya found herself lifted to her feet and carried through the camp by their escort, held on shoulders. The enthusiasm bubbled out, spreading through the camp. Men rose and followed them in a procession. Others began to sing. Joy spread through the camp in their wake. Arya was beaming from her new watchpost. 

They made their way to the center, to the Crossroads Inn. Outside the Inn, a gallows stood with a rope dangling from it. The building was three stories tall with guards outside. They bore conical helmets and spears, with the flayed man on their surcoats. They did not celebrate when the procession reached them. 

Instead, they gazed at the Stark footmen and Lyarra with some measure of disdain. 

Then a man stepped out of the doorway, following the racket outside, followed by a few others.  He wore dark ringmail and boiled leather, with a pink cloak trimmed with white fur. His face was plain and pale, without a beard, but his eyes…

She knew those eyes well. Pale eyes, paler than Arya’s and her father’s gray, the color of milk. She knew them from another. Bittersweet memories from the past. 

She’d met him when he came to Winterfell, a year back. He was on his way back home to the Dreadfort after being a ward in the Vale. He didn’t want to be at Winterfell - his uneasiness had been evident to her. Her family hadn’t been eager to have a Bolton in the halls either. There was bad blood there, and if old nan’s tales were true, it was ancient, before Targaryens or Andals or even the King in the North. 

But Domeric Bolton was courteous, even to her. She never understood why, even now. Had he been so out of sorts he didn’t realize she was a bastard? Had he simply been unaware? Regardless of why, it had warmed her heart and she returned the favor. 

She’d been the only person with Stark blood to do so.  He’d come and introduced himself, withstood her father’s glare, and stayed at Winterfell for a few weeks. She never found out why he stayed so long - probably something to do with travel arrangements. Privately, she hoped it was her. 

He’d sat alone at meals. Robb and Theon avoided him. That had just made her curious. 

So when he went riding one day, she slipped out after him herself. He’d smiled when he saw her approaching. “Good day, fair lady.” 

“I’m not a lady.” Her response was instinctual. 

He merely raised his eyebrows and showed interest in those pale eyes. That had been enough to make her blush. “You look fine enough to be one.” 

She didn't know what to say. It made her heart flutter. “Thanks.” 

“Shouldn’t it be thanks, my lord?” He’d smirked then, and she’d met it with a frown. 

“You aren’t lord yet. No more than Robb.”

“No. But someday.” Then he put on a wistful little smile. An annoying, daydreamy face, like Sansa. That provoked a desire for mischief from her. 

“Race you to the next hill?”  She was confident she could win. 

 He frowned. “We can’t have a race without a wager, otherwise there’s no point.” Oh, too easy.

She smiled, a mischievous one, not that he had known. “If I win, I get your boots and spurs.” It was an old joke of hers. She beat someone at racing horses and forced them to ride back in socks, proof to all they had been beaten. Either they dismounted in the muddy yard and had soiled socks the rest of the day or they would have to stoop to begging for them back. Robb and Theon had gotten wise to it long ago. 

He’d been taken aback then. Then he smiled. “Alright. But if I win…” He studied her then, looking at her with curious eyes. “I get a kiss.” She had stared then, mouth agape. His pale eyes… they were mesmerizing. The scandal, the stakes , of that had excited her. 

She shook her head to orient herself. “Deal, Bolton boy.” 

Then they raced, hard and fast, horses in a gallop. She rode slower than he. Domeric had worn a bright grin all the way back to her. It was almost worth it for that, then he had dismounted and held out a hand for her, the spitting image of a gallant knight.  

“Lady Lyarra, if you please, I do wish to claim my victory.” 

She’d spurned his hand to see his reaction, hoping off the horse herself. He’d worn the same grin across his face. It was infectious. And those eyes… They were like fluffy clouds. Then she’d closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable. She’d consigned herself to defeat, putting a sad expression on her face. 

He’d placed a chaste peck on her cheek, barely touching her. Her brow furrowed. She wanted a race’s worth. Anything else wasn’t sporting. 

That, and she would never lose a horse race u nless she wanted to. She’d opened her eyes, and he’d looked sheepish. “I apologize if….”

She just grabbed him and pulled him into an awkward kiss on the lips, both hands around his cheeks. It wasn’t particularly good, looking back, just hungry.

He’d just left his hands at his sides and just sat there, frozen. He did lean in, at least. 

Then she leaned back and put on her best smirk, arms crossed. The look of confusion (and a small degree of horror) played over his features. It made her laugh, and he joined in soon after. 

Then he brushed a gloved hand on her cheek, and whispered the sweetest words Lyarra had ever heard into her ear. “Another race with the same wager, my lady?” 

She smiled. “Call me Lya.” 

The rides had become a daily occurrence after that. As did the races. They became more sedate over time, taking time to talk. They’d moved to the wolfswood for privacy. Something about the secrecy, the forbidden nature, the scandal of it all thrilled her. It was the wolf’s blood, she knew. 

Father would be furious. To him, the pain of her lost aunt was still fresh. Lyarra was careful. She never left without a sword under her saddlebag, a knife in her boot, and a dagger on her belt. She wouldn’t be taken. She might not escape, but she wouldn’t be taken. 

But the time under the trees had been mystical. They’d talked about riding, they’d talked about music, she sang with him as he played the harp, together under the boughs. The month was the best of Lyarra’s life. She had felt so light. She felt so free.

They’d even talked of a betrothal between them. It wasn’t some crazy thing either - it was feasible. They were both Northerners, they both followed the Old Gods. Their homes were not far from each other. Both were from illustrious (if contentious) houses. That might even play to their advantage - they could present it to their fathers as an alliance and way to smooth over old tensions. They were old tensions, too - not a fresh hatred that would prevent anything. 

That and she loved him. That mattered more to her. He wasn’t decades older than her or some ugly brute. There was only one handicap. She was a Snow, a bastard. She’d raised it, awkwardly. He looked at her. “Why should that matter?” And that was that. It made her feel so whole, so complete. He didn’t care. 

Domeric had cautioned her about her hopes. It had been sweet for him to do that. He would work on convincing his father first. “I will raise the point with my father. I will be slow. It may take time - months, even.” 

She’d looked at him then, cautious. “That feels so long.” 

“I know my father - he's cautious and slow to change. I’ll be strategic. Then, one day, you’ll get the best raven of your life.” He smiled then, and she had too. 

Her father would be confused, but she’d explain it all then. He loved her - it would make her happy and take her far, far away from Lady Stark. There was no downside. He’d say yes, then, if he knew she wanted it. Gods above, he’d expressed frustration with her efforts to escape every betrothal offered. Her willingly consenting to one would make his decision certain. 

Then he’d rode off towards the Dreadfort. She’d watched him leave from an abandoned corner of the battlements. Robb had teased her about her upset nature in the week afterword. He hadn’t known anything about it. Nobody had. Best kept secrets were given with the fewest people. She hadn’t told anyone.

Winterfell got a raven from the Dreadfort, months later. She’d been giddy when she saw it land. The news within….

It was anything but sweet. It had killed her smiles for weeks. She’d rode into the wolfwood alone for months to weep under the trees. It was still raw, even now, despite her love being buried for months. Her dreams had died with him. 

Lyarra curtsied, and Arya followed her lead. There were other lords there, and their eyes looked over their party in confusion. 

Lyarra spoke first. “Lord Bolton.” 

She met those eyes. They were the same as his son’s - almost milky in their color, but just a shade darker. There was no warmth there, just a cool regard. His face betrayed nothing, no sentiment at all. Only a small spark when he saw Arya, and nothing for her. He let another lord speak first - Robett Glover. 

“What’s this?” 

Lyarra spoke. “I am Lyarra Snow, and this is my sister, Arya Stark. We’ve come a long way.” As she spoke, she pushed Arya ahead of her, front and center, keeping her arms on her sister’s shoulders. 

Then the crowd of noble eyes went wide with recognition, then astonishment. Most had been to Winterfell at least once, and had either seen or met Arya. Some had met her. 

Robett Glover gave voice to their sentiment. “Seven bloody hells. How’d you get here?” He addressed Arya and not her. That was to be expected, and she didn’t care.  But something about the situation made her nervous. 

They were among northmen, sword vassals to House Stark. Yet she still felt unease, even here, leagues away from King’s Landing. She ignored the feeling there, tried to settle her stomach and delude herself. It was a familiar passenger on the road, that fear. She hadn’t slept or looked behind it. Yet it was still present here, amongst her brother’s bannermen. Something was off. She kept her eyes moving, looking over the crowd of nobles. 

They were joyful and happy to see Arya Stark, but they seemed guarded, even now. Some glazed furtively around, passing glances on their fellows. They didn’t know how to take the news.  

Arya spoke clearly to answer the query. “Stabbed everyone who stood in the way.” 

They all laughed at that, and the mood turned celebratory. Except for one of them. Lord Bolton didn’t laugh at all. He was the locus of the glances. He did smile, though. 

Then he turned to address them both. “My sympathies for the passing of your father.” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but all heard it. The good mood died with the words. All of the men present wore expressions and sympathy. 

Arya’s shoulders shook slightly before she lifted her chin and chewed her lip. She wanted to look tough. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Lyarra spoke for her. “Thank you, Lord Bolton. My sympathies for the passing of your son.” Domeric’s death had been recent, within the past year. 

He looked at her curiously then, but then continued. “We must get you both settled then. Robett, I do believe a feast is in order to celebrate our good fortune.” 

Robett smiled and clapped him on the back. “A good day, when Bolton opens his larders! A rare day!” Several of the others laughed at that.  

Lyarra noticed the Stark footmen with them did not. They didn’t say anything. Garvey and his men had kept their hands on their weapons the entire time. 

The Lords had given Arya prime quarters in the Inn, owed given her status as daughter - a burst of grief filled her then, quickly smothered - no, sister of their liege lord. The Inn was similar to how it had been before, the only change being the empty gallows located outside. 

They probably cared a great deal less about Lyarra. Lord Bolton had offered to split them up and give Lyarra her own quarters - especially generous for a bastard girl. Why would he? He was unmarried, but she saw no emotion in those eyes regarding her at all. Not a bethrothal. 

In the end, Arya had refused that wholeheartedly. They’d slept next to each other on the road, they’d sleep together in the inn room. Lyarra was grateful for that. She didn’t want to let Arya out of her sight. 

In the end, they had ended up with one of the Inn rooms. One bed, but that was hardly an issue. It was a bed. They’d slept on dirt and cloaks up to then. 

They had washed themselves in the privacy of the inn bathhouse - something they hadn’t done in a long time, before they left the Red Keep. They had the bathhouse to themselves for a brief while. It was a nice feeling, to soak and feel the dirt float away. Their newfound safety hadn’t dulled their instincts. Their swords and daggers were always within reach. It was second nature now. Lord Bolton had offered to take them to be sharpened and repaired, but Lyarra had refused that. Arya clung stubbornly to Needle regardless, concerned someone would steal it from her. 

After their wash, they’d made their way to their room in wet clothing. On their beds lay surprises. The lords had somehow managed to find somewhat fine dresses in the midst of a war camp. Arya had wrinkled her nose at those and looked to Lyarra. 

“I’m not wearing that.” Arya crossed her arms at the sight of it. 

“You prefer the goldcloak disguise? Have you show up to a feast in mail?” 

“It would be better than this.” Arya’s grin at the idea was infectious. Lyarra was halfway tempted to let her. Reason prevailed. 

“It’s expected of us. You are a noble lady, a princess.” Lyarra smothered her sentiment then. Gods, Robb, how did that happen. 

“Princesses are stupid. Ladies are stupid. Dresses are stupid. They were happy to see us in the mail. It shouldn’t matter.”

“Arya, it's one night. Then we’re off to Robb anyway. Besides, they need to wash our travel clothes.”

Arya had sighed and consented then. Then a few ‘maids’ - Lyarra knew they were camp followers - had been scrounged to try make them presentable. The irony of their presence wasn't lost on Lyarra. Arya’s furious roars when they tried to brush her tangled hair and threats scared them off. 

Lyarra did her best herself. She was no Sansa, though. Arya just looked at her if she was daft. “This is all stupid. We are at war. We should be fighting, not feasting.”

Lyarra spoke softly as she worked the comb through Arya's hair, slowly. “They lost. The Lannisters beat them at the Green Fork. They didn’t all die, but they lost.” 

She’d read about her share of battles in the Winterfell libraries. She studied war first because they seemed far more interesting to her than anything else in the library. Sansa loved her romances for the romances. Robb and her rubbed shoulders over stories of generals and battles. 

Walking through the camp, leading their two captured steeds had made one thing obvious. This army had no cavalry - maybe a few hundred, but no more. They could fight, but they couldn’t truly win against a force with more horsemen. The enemy could just retreat and use their horse to fend off pursuit. They had been here to stall, to draw attention, and to prevent the Lannisters from moving North. 

They had paid a price for that victory - their current host was smaller than she had expected, even without the horse her brother had taken to Riverrun.  She’d seen the camp of this host. It was small, for a northern army. They’d lost a great deal of strength at the Green Fork. It was a wonder they weren’t shattered completely. Only Robb’s victories and the Lannister withdrawal southward had allowed them to reform themselves. They weren’t beaten - but they were battered.

Arya looked up at her. “But they are so happy? They say Robb won. They call him the Young Wolf.” She sounded so proud of her brother then. Lyarra was, too. But worry filled her as well. 

For all the tangles, one would think Arya’s hair was longer than it was. It had grown out over their weeks of travel, barely passing her chin. Lyarra spoke as she continued to push the comb through her sister’s hair. “He did win. But Robb isn’t here. His sisters are. We’re the wolves here, and they take heart in that. If two girls in dresses can escape King’s Landing and evade the Lannisters… They can do so much more. We make the Lannisters look stupid. That makes them feel strong, tough. We make them feel like they can win.” 

Arya’s eyes widened, then her face set and she stopped fighting the comb. Her face was set in a grim line. “Alright. I don’t have to like it.” 

“No, you don’t. We will be on the road soon. No dresses there, I promise.” Just a bit of mummery and then we can head home. 

The feasting tent was big and filled with Lords and Knights and Nobles. There were few women other than serving girls. A few brave wives (or mistress) of Knights or Masters. The occasional woman of the night with an arm draped around her employer, with more courage than sense. Not many though. 

It was a hall of fighters. In that sense, Arya and her fit right in, sword belts and all. That drew some eyes, but nobody said anything aloud. They’d fought their way out of King's Landing. Lyarra wasn’t going to hide that here. She and Arya were of a like mind regarding that. That, and it calmed them both. The only time they’d lose their swords was if they were stripped from their cold, dead fingers. 

A raucous cheer greeted them when they entered. They worked their way through the tent, led by a Bolton page. A seat at the main table, for her and Arya. Her hair stood on her neck but they wandered through, smiling and conveying well wishes to those who approached them. 

Arya managed passable courtesies and was the star of the show. Lyarra was content to sit back and guide her sister.  

They sat on that high table, to the right of Lord Bolton. Lyarra let Arya sit closer to the lord - she had a higher rank than her. Only a small boy sat between Arya and Roose. His squire, most likely. A Frey. Lyarra’s lips pursed at that. Across from them sat several distinguished figures.

Lord Bolton introduced them, in his quiet, soft voice Lyarra had to strain to hear. He didn’t introduce himself at all, not even to Arya. They knew him from reputation already. That piqued her interest. 

“Robett Glover, brother to master Galbart, who you have already met.” Robett nodded, having taken a swig of wine before the introduction. He had a young son and daughter. Both were very young - too young to worry about betrothals. Because of that, she didn’t have to avoid him when he visited Winterfell. He was a better guest than his younger brother, Ethan, who would stare intensely at Lyarra whenever he visited Winterfell. Robett had more manners and was courteous enough. His children were both kind and took to Bran and Rickon well. 

“Ser Helman Tallhart, master of Torrhen’s Square.” His hold was one of the closest to Winterfell, built on a lake that fed into the western sea. He visited often, and his son, Benfred, was younger than her, but he was old enough for Lyarra to worry about a betrothal. Benfred was loud, big, and thick necked, and far less polite than his father. Tallhart inclined his head and spoke. “I am saddened by your loss and gladdened by your company.” Lyarra and Arya nodded in response. 

“Ser Aenys Frey, third son of Walder Frey, lord of the crossing.” She’d never seen the man before, but took an immediate dislike to him. He looked like an egg - bald and boasting a thin goatee that Lyarra found resembled a rat’s tail. He smiled at them, a big wide, slimy thing that hid his teeth like they were playing cards. What does he know that I don’t?

“And, my squire, Elmar Frey, twenty-second son of Lord Walter.” The boy was small, looked like a weasel, and was barely older than Bran. Lyarra was very unimpressed. Twenty-second? Gods above. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, princess.” The Frey boy was smiling and looked to be in love. His eyes hadn’t left Arya since she had sat down. Gods, just what we needed, a boy with a hopeless crush. 

Arya was thoroughly unimpressed, if the upturn of her nose and narrowed eyes were anything to judge. She managed a courtesy regardless. “Nice to meet you.”

Then, she spoke again. “Have you killed anybody yet?” Gods, Arya, of all the things to say. 

Robett Glover thought the question was the funniest thing, snorting and spilling his wine. Ser Tallhart had the presence of mind to look scandalized. Ser Aenys wore a slightly concerned expression. Lord Bolton looked amused. He was enjoying this. 

Elmar hesitated. “I have. I stabbed four men.” Lyarra saw right through the boast. Robett laughed again. Tallhart looked confused, and Aenys watched with beady eyes slowly widening. Arya went in for another bite. Lord Bolton gave no emotion, sitting so motionless Lyarra though he might have died, until his eyes flickered to her watching him. What trick is he pulling?  

“Where?” Arya’s eyes bored into the Frey boy. He looked away, uncomfortable. 

“At the Green Fork.” 

“No, idiot, where on the body?” Lyarra felt her better judgment urging her to intervene, but she focused instead on the reactions of the table. Aenys had a look of horror and the rest of the table was echoing it. Lord Bolton looked to be … she wasn’t sure. His eyes bulged, his nose flared and his cheeks puffed out slightly. Was he suppressing laughter?  

Elmar didn’t say anything. Arya spoke then, using her dinner knife to demonstrate, stabbing into the table, digging into the wood multiple times. “Did you go for the neck or the chest?” 

The boy had stopped talking, and just stared at Arya, eyes wider than the dinner plates. Lyarra kept herself from snorting in amusement herself with raw willpower. Arya’s scared him off herself. Nice of her to save me the work. 

The second course interrupted the conversation when it arrived at the table. It was simple fare compared to the last feasts Lyarra had seen, but she didn’t complain. She dug into whatever they were given, barely remembering her table manners. Arya… Arya almost forgot them entirely, reaching out with her bare hands. Lyarra managed to chide her with a kick under the table. Arya glowered at her but used the utensils. 

Throughout, she would turn to the Frey boy and demonstrate with her silverware of where to cut and stab. None of the others at the table had the presence of mind to stop her. Lyarra had no desire to. Ser Tallhart began to look considerably paler and paler alongside Ser Aenys. Lyarra did her best to try and engage them in conversation, but it was a futile effort. Lord Bolton smothered any conversation with an implacable silence, Tallhart was too shocked to offer any commentary, and Ser Aenys had sneered at her when she had tried. Robett was too amused with Arya’s antics to look at anything else. 

Robett just thought the whole thing was the funniest display he had seen and goaded Arya on. Lyarra watched and held her silence. There was something else here in the air. No lord would ever endorse a lady like Arya messing around with a knife, no matter how much she had wanted to. It was scandalous. No lord in their right mind would tolerate this - not even Robb or father. 

Yet Robett urged Arya to talk more of it, and she repaid his interest with genuine smiles. Oh. His boy is too young for me… but old enough for Arya. 

Yet that was not it: otherwise he would not be alone in competing for Arya’s favor. Ser Tallhart hadn’t made any effort to ingratiate himself. He’d just looked to Lord Bolton or Ser Aenys to intervene. Why? Both had held their silence, not endorsing Arya but not condemning her either. The tension was inescapable. She could cut it with her dinner knife. Arya was making grand attempts with her own. 

But until she knew what they knew, saying anything could be a misstep. Arya was a trueborn daughter and a child. She could afford to be glib. Lyarra could not. Bastards had to pick and choose their words more carefully. Not that she even wanted to talk. Other than Robett, and maybe Ser Tallhart, the company at the table was decidedly chilly towards her. 

His kin - no, his brother, decades older than him, gods above - thankfully intervened before Arya tried to demonstrate her knife skills on his person. With each demonstration, Arya’s knife had wandered closer and closer to the Frey boy’s portion of the table. “You two must have come such a long way. How did you escape King’s Landing?” 

Aray spoke, recounting their tale between mouthfuls of food. They let her continue, not interrupting. They wore looks of skepticism, especially about Ser Meryn Trant, but Arya’s cheerful rendition of slitting Lannister throats or Nymeria’s mauling obviously didn’t ruin their appetites. Elmar began to grow very pale and stopped eating entirely. Nobody else stopped. None of them were squeamish. It’s not a death. 

They were all fairly surprised - they asked questions about the hardest aspects for them to believe. Two girls beating Meryn Trant, chiefly. But Arya’s words backed her up. Tallhart took heart in that. “If these two can kill a Kingsguard, this war will be over soon.” Both her and Arya smiled at that. It wasn’t praise but it was close enough. 

Bolton had gazed at her with a wary curiosity. She now seemed to be of interest to him. That fact did not make her comfortable. What trick is he pulling?

Glover was just continually amused by Arya’s antics. Aenys startled to look very, very worried. He periodically glanced at his younger brother - the man was older than her father, and his brother was no older than Bran - and Lord Bolton with a deep nervousness. Bolton and the Freys were close, allies here. 

Arya told everything, including about King Joffrey’s true parentage. She looked to Lyarra for permission before spilling that piece of information, and Lyarra had nodded. That little dirty secret would damage Lannister morale and pride. They had no duty to keep that secret. It wasn’t the heads of every Lannister, but it was a good first step. That had gotten a surprised look from everyone at the table, including Lord Bolton.

“The boy’s a bastard born of incest?” Ser Tallhart’s voice was incredulous. 

Lyarra prided herself on not flinching when he said bastard. “He is, my lord. He is a lion through and through, without a hint of stag.” 

“Proof of this would be most useful.” Lord Bolton’s voice was soft but the words were icy still. 

Lyarra had frowned at that. “Works on lineage and King Robert's other bastard children would prove it - all inherited his coal hair.” 

Robett spoke next. “Eh, proof is pointless, I trust the girls. They’re Ned’s through and through. He’d never tell a lie, and they’ve got too much of him - just look at them - to even consider a lie.”

Lyarra wanted to believe her father was that noble. Memories of the sept challenged that. She’d seen him lie in front of a crowd of thousands, about how he’d plotted treason and tried to usurp the throne. All of it was lies and he’d said it all without blinking. If she hadn’t seen the opposite herself, she might have believed them.

Arya continued their tale up to the Antler Men. Then her sister lied for the first time that night, slipping it into her story without a pause - they agreed to leave the truth to their brother for now. She described the Antler men as 'friendly northern merchants'. The lie passed muster in spite of their Stark blood - or maybe because of it.

Everybody lies. Lyarra had seen it all. She’d seen plenty of guards and servants lying about trysts when both were married, or the girl a maid. Robb was as bad as father at lying - Lyarra could tell from a mile away. Others seemed less wary and so missed them - they were rare enough. Rickon was too young to get away with it. 

Bran … Bran had the heart of a trickster, a little forest Imp. Arya wasn't half-bad either. 

But the real queen of deception was sweet, innocent little Sansa. She rarely lied - she never really had reason to - but if lemon cakes or tales of romance were on the line... Sansa would fool anyone. She would twitter out her words and nobody could tell any the wiser. 

Lyarra could tell lies easily now. Bastards grew up faster than other children. When all everyone expected of you was mischief and treachery from your bastard blood. Plenty found that excuse enough to make the bastard girl the fool. Learning how to read a false friend was important. 

That lesson was taught after getting locked in a dark room accidentally by a new 'friend' brought back from the Iron Islands. She'd gotten out after a day and half of straining at the lock. He'd gotten a thrashing by the guards after a thrashing from her. They’d hated each other since. 

After that, she trained herself to see behind other's eyes. It was better than ending up the victim of some scheme. She'd gotten good at lying herself as a result. Lyarra was good, but only when she'd prepared every detail to pass muster. She told herself her skill wasn't from her blood. She wasn't quite sure if she believed it. Was her mother a good liar? Was that where she had gotten it? 

Her musings didn’t do anything to stop Arya’s recounting of their journey through the crownlands, including the failed attack on the Imp, and finally, the failed ambush at the fords. 

Tallhart’s mouth lay agape at the end, Robett looked jovial - though that might have been the wine - and Lord Bolton looked to be lost in thought. Aenys's face was inscrutable, but looked to be concerned. 

Lyarra chose at that moment to shift gears. “My dear sister has told quite the tale and I’m sure she’s tired of speaking for now, perhaps you could repay her with some news of your own journey and valor on the battlefield?” Sansa was better at these speeches. Lyarra hoped she hadn’t put the flattery on too thick. 

Robett took the opportunity to speak for the rest, Recounting the mustering of the banners at Winterfell, the march south, the split at the Twins, and the subsequent battles. Lyarra took the opportunity to stuff herself. She hadn’t had a proper meal in days - after the encounter with the Lannister host they’d been down to a few strips of salt beef. Her ears could still listen while her mouth ate. Arya did likewise, but interjected with more questions. 

“Grey Wind chewed off the Greatjon’s fingers?” Arya spoke between bites. 

“Aye, he did. Made the Greatjon laugh, that did.” Lyarra’s brows had raised at that. Good work, Robb. Keep Grey Wind close. 

Her brother had never been an excellent judge of character. He’d become friends with Theon Greyjoy. She was glad things were holding together for now. A show of strength like that would keep him alive. Winning battles helped too. 

They continued on, describing the battles - Tallhart described the Whispering Wood and relief of Riverrun, as he had been there where the others had not. Then, the victory feast after and the proclamation of her brother.  

“He declared himself King in the North?” Lyarra interjected then. 

Aenys answered that one. “He did.” 

Lyarra tried to keep her expression neutral. Her stomach became rather uneasy. That worried her more than any other tiding. Stannis and Renly were unlikely to receive that well. She couldn’t hide her pursed lips or blink. Lord Bolton noticed, for one. His eyes stayed fixed on her and her sister. He did not seem to blink. 

But the vast majority of the other news was good news, and the food was filling. Arya and her sat and ate and listened, interrupting with the occasional questions. They began to grow a picture of what they had missed - the battles, the war at large. Throughout it all, Lord Bolton rarely spoke.

He changed that when the final course arrived. He turned to Lyarra, then, his eyes pale and unblinking. “Lady Snow, You must be pleased to hear of your sister’s betrothal.” Aenys Frey preened at that comment, and Robett and Tallhart looked very uncomfortable. Elmar was bouncing in his seat. Lord Bolton’s face was utterly expressionless. What betrothal? Pleased?  

Lyarra looked at him, faintly confused. “Sansa’s?” 

Lord Bolton shook his head. “No, Princess Arya.” Lyarra’s hand shot out to her sister’s shoulder and squeezed. The trap was sprung, and she felt herself trapped beside her sister. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t do anything I would do. 

Elmar Frey, oblivious to the mounting tension, put his hands on the table. Using them, he turned to Arya, a big grin on his face. “We’re to be married. Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll love each other and you be my princess and make tons of babies.” The boy was genuine and looked to be very happy. 

Lyarra set her gaze on the boy’s brother, Ser Aenys. He looked at her and gave a predatory smile, all teeth. Her stomach quailed and she sat there stunned. Robb, what did you do? 

Her first words after that weren’t her finest showing. “Gods above…” She stopped herself before she said anything more.  

Arya’s response was considerably less diplomatic. She met Elmar’s loving gaze with nothing but fury. 

“Liar!” She screamed, loud enough for the entire hall to quiet. 

Then she drove her dinner knife through Elmar’s hand, between the finger bones, out through the palm, and into the table. It made a dull thud and shook the whole table, wine inside goblets splashing out. Did I teach her that?

The boy stared at his hand with wide eyes at the blood flowing forth from the wound. After staring at it, growing paler and paler, he screamed like a little girl. The whole tent was silent and staring now. Across the table were three expressions: anger, in Aenys’s case, horror in Tallharts, and shock in Glover’s. Lord Bolton didn’t look surprised at all. The Others take him. This was his ill deed. 

The entire room fell silent and stared at the scene. 

Lyarra needed to take control of the situation. Now, before things spiraled any more out of control. Lyarra put one hand on Arya’s wrist and pulled her back into her seat. Arya looked at her and Lyarra gave her a full, wilting glare. Arya opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. 

“Lord Bolton, I think your squire will need to see a Maester. Ser Aenys, would you be so kind as to fetch one for your brother?” The knight looked at her with a mixture of anger and confusion, then to Lord Bolton. Lord Bolton just nodded, and he scurried off. 

Robett and Tallhart looked at Arya now with wide eyes. They might not have believed their escape when they told the tale, but they believed it now. Ayra hadn’t blinked or hesitated, even when blood spattered onto her arm and face or her complete lack of shock when the boy had screamed. 

Ayra squirmed under her grip, and Lyarra tightened it. She whispered into her sister’s ear. “Say nothing and sit still.” 

She turned to Elmar Frey. “I do apologize for my sister. You quite shocked her with the news.” The boy had nothing to do with it, of course. She turned to look at Lord Bolton then, eyes piercing. He met her gaze with those implacable eyes and Lyarra’s blood nearly froze. She returned back to gaze at the boy, trying to soften her gaze once more.

“Our journey was fraught with danger and peril. My poor sister has been scared out of her wits for such a long time. You quite surprised her and her reaction was because of those regrettable circumstances. I know you, as a noble squire yourself would have understanding of facing such danger? ” Arya made to say something - nothing good - and Lyarra tightened her grip on her wrist and slammed her foot down on her sister’s foot. Arya’s eyes watered and she bit her lip. Too hard. I’m sorry dear sister.   

“I do hope you accept our sincerest apologies, and find it in your heart to put this behind us.” The boy’s face was full of tears, but he managed to at least nod. Arya at least looked at him to nod as well, and he flinched under her glare. 

She stood up and wrapped his hand with another spare napkin, trying to keep it from bleeding too heavily. Arya made to stand, but Lyarra pushed her back into her seat. If we leave, we will be the wrongful, the weak party. A weak pack of two once more. 

A Maester came over with Ser Aenys, and immediately stared at the table, hand, knife, boy, and Arya. He gave a sigh and simply went to work. He managed to get the knife out of the wood without removing it from the hand, keeping the bleeding to a minimum and took Elmar Frey away to be treated. 

Lyarra took the chance to speak to Ser Aenys, alone. “I do wish to convey my sincerest apologies to you and your house. My sister has been quite frightened by her journey, and the surprise news quite unbalanced her.” Arya kept her mouth shut this time. 

Aenys stared at both of them, distaste quite evident on his face. “This is an outrage.” No, it wasn’t. You and Lord Bolton played a cruel trick and the poor boy paid the price. 

“By all means, if you wish to take your restitution by blood recompense, you are free to.” Arya looked at her with horror. Lyarra just looked back, expression grave. A bluff. Arya, please forgive me this. She held her sister down by her shoulders and gave her a subtle, comforting squeeze. Arya looked into her eyes and stilled herself, before placing her hand on the table. 

Ser Aenys looked surprised. He nodded, and went for a knife. His arms were thin and his hands gnarled. This one has others do his fighting for him. He picked it up, took two steps closer to Arya. Ser Tallhart and Robett Glover cleared their throats. 

Aenys Frey suddenly realized where he was.

He was in a tent filled to the brim with Northmen. Every single one of them was watching him. The gazes weren’t friendly. Robett’s and Tallhart’s faces were white with fury. They bordered on murderous. Not all of it was altruism, Lyarra knew. She would take it regardless. 

Ser Aenys Frey and the few of his kin were the only Rivermen present. 

He looked around the entire tent slowly as his situation sunk in. Abruptly, He realized stabbing a girl princess of nine who was the little sister to these men’s liege lord and his own king was a poor idea. A really bad idea. A life-shortening idea. The fact he had even picked up the knife at all had driven a wedge between him and every other man in the tent. Hopefully, none of them would trust him or associate with him after this. He set the knife back down and looked at her. 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she had done. His eyes were not pleased in the slightest. She met his glare and held it until he looked away. The knife was set back on the table. 

“A fine should be levied, at least.” His words were a last grasp at victory. They were weak, and he looked to Lord Bolton. Oh, he won’t help you now. 

Bolton said nothing, deep in contemplation. He had to choose who to please - the Freys, or the rest of his host. He would choose his Northmen. Without it, his command was threatened. The bigger pack wins, and lone wolves die. He knew this as well as she did. 

Lyarra spoke to fill the silence. “I think a dowry is fine enough, Ser Aenys.” 

Lord Bolton looked between the two of them and motioned both to sit. “I don’t believe that is warranted, Ser Aenys. The girl was clearly quite surprised by the news.” 

Ser Aenys’s glare turned into something else, bitter and loathing, but he returned to his seat. Lyarra sat down next to her sister. The feast goers settled back down. The crisis averted, the merrymaking resumed and men began to talk boisterously once more. They’d have a new tale about the Starks and their ferocity spreading soon enough.

Robett Glover had held a toast after, still jovial. “To the little she-wolf! Just as fierce as her brother!” The entire hall, besides the Freys, raised their glasses, Lord Bolton and herself among them. Even Ser Tallhart had done so, enjoying Ser Aenys’s squirming beside him with a slight smile. Ser Aenys’s gaze had turned to her with a glare that bordered on murderous.  

Arya had just sat down and looked very pale. Lyarra sat beside her, and gave her shoulder a short squeeze. She passed her sister her dinner knife. “Eat.” Her sister did. Lyarra made do with her fork. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the meal, just ate silently. 

As the feasting tent slowly emptied, Lyarra watched the other tables at large. Lord Bolton's little bout of mischief hadn't breached his facade, and even now he wore the same mask. He'd been testing them. Like the Greatjon had tested Robb. She noticed the missing faces. Not banners, but faces. 

Winterfell was the Capital of the north, and countless many of its lords and their sons had visited. She familiarized herself with most of them. Especially the boys, young men, and unmarried. Know your foes. She wasn't going to be parceled off to any of them unless she willed it. Old Gods above, some had tried. Even a bastard girl with the blood of the Starks was worth the effort. 

She'd expected to have to fend off a few suitors or overeager boys at the feast. But none had approached her or tried to start a dance or any other scheme of the like. The Frey table was packed with men, but that was to be expected. But the other tables were lacking nobles. Across the hall, their banners flew and each of the northern lords had a table. But there were no Karstarks, Manderlys, or Hornfoots that she recognized. That was odd. There were captains and commanders, of course, but not any of the members of each house. 

Robb couldn't have taken all of them. Lord Hornwood had always insisted on commanding his foot in person. His troops were here but he was not. Where had they gone? Had they fallen in the battle? 

There should be more nobles here. The Green Fork had not gone well at all. The fear returned, ever present. Lyarra calmed herself with deep breaths. She turned to regard Lord Bolton. He smiled at her and raised his wine cup silently. She raised hers and mirrored his placid smile. 

Lyarra waited to speak until the tent slowly emptied, hours later. Ser Aenys excused himself to look after the health of his brother. Ser Tallhart left soon after. Robett Glover was the last to leave. 

Soon, it was just her, Arya, and Lord Bolton in the tent. A few servants scuttled about, trying to clean and gather dishes. Them, and the few passed guests out on or under the tables. With the amount of spilled wine around some of them, you’d think they bled out and died. 

Lyarra turned to Lord Bolton. She’d been in King’s Landing long enough to recognize a mummer’s face. Varys had taught her that, at least. She didn’t know his game but she knew he was playing one. Father had never trusted the Boltons. 

“That was an unwelcome trick, Lord Bolton.” Arya looked back and forth, eyes wide. 

He’d turned his head slowly, eyes settling on hers. His voice was tinged with rehearsed surprise, yet still soft as his pink cape. “You didn’t know? I thought word had reached you.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course we didn’t.” 

He didn’t flinch. She tried not to think of Domeric in that movement, facing those Bolton eyes. “Lady Stark and King Robb arranged the betrothal for you.” - he looked at Arya then. “I did assume it was in conjunction with your sister's wishes.” Lyarra couldn’t keep her lip from curling. 

A twenty second son? Arya’s wishes? She never wanted to marry, Lyarra knew. But surely her mother could have done better than a Frey, and one so far out of succession that several plagues and wars were needed to give any chance of coming near the Twins. Rank madness.

But that didn’t matter. They had to show strength, unity now. 

Arya found her tongue then. “Liar.” Bolton’s gaze settled on her and she began to chew her lip nervously. Lyarra just squeezed her sister’s shoulder.

“I was there when it was agreed. You are welcome to ask your mother and brother when you see them next. They will not contradict me. Your brother is also taking a Frey to marriage.” Bolton’s voice was soft and cold. He was playing them like a harp, pulling strings to see how they reacted. The second daughter and first son of a Lord Paramount? Marrying Walter Frey’s brood? There was a time that match was below me , a bastard girl. 

Arya looked to Lyarra then. “They wouldn’t, Lya, they just wouldn’t.” 

“Your brother is King, sweet-sister.” She met her sister’s gaze, and let Arya see her fear. That stilled her. The message was obvious. Enemies here. The fear returned, her hairs on her neck standing tall.

It exhausted her so then, to say that with her eyes and realize it herself. A bath of icy water. If they weren’t safe here, amongst their brother’s men, where were they safe? 

She turned to Lord Bolton. “My sister and I have much to discuss. I do hope your squire isn’t too frightened and recovers swiftly.” 

Lord Bolton inclined his head. “Thank you.” He gave a thin little smile. “The boy is terrified of leeches, not his princess. He’ll survive.” 

“I hope to speak to you tomorrow about continuing our journey.” 

“I will see you then. Sleep well.” He didn’t move a muscle as they left. 

As soon as the flap was down and they were out of his sight again, Lyarra bent and pulled her sister into a tight hug, a death grip. Arya returned it. She whispered into her sister’s ear. “I’m so sorry, Arya.” They stayed there, clinging to each other like windswept debris, two pieces that didn’t quite fit. They never really had. 

Then they walked out together and made their way to their room within the Inn. They walked through a camp lit by torches, with few men walking about. Most had returned to their tents. Other than the sentries at watch, the camp was quiet and deserted. 

She waited until they had shut and barred their door to speak. “Gods. How stupid!” 

Arya sat on the bed and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, Lya.” 

She bent down to look her sister in the eye. “Not you, sister. You did nothing I wouldn’t have done.” I probably would have reacted much worse.  

“I’m mad at Robb and your mother.” The words seem to calm Arya somewhat. 

Arya looked at her then, surprised. “You aren’t mad at me?” 

“Not much. Gods, what were they thinking?” She kicked the bed leg with her foot then. “Old Walder got his toll. Two betrothals to a Great House? King in the North?” 

Arya looked at her and hugged her. Lyarra ruffled her hair. “I am unhappy with your temper, sweet sister. You must have better control of yourself. Syrio… Syrio taught you better than that.” 

Arya began to sob into her dress. “I know.” 

“It’s ok. It’s ok.” She laid her sister into the bed then, and then joined her. She rubbed her sister’s back as Arya cried silently. The tears dribbled down Lyarra’s shoulder and back. She didn’t speak any more to her sister, just held her. More time to talk when we’re out of this camp. 

Both fell asleep grasping their scabbards in their hands. Even in the room, she felt the fear. She wedged a chair against the door to prevent it being pushed open. 

She found her sleep that night was not dreamless. She was within the Crossroads Inn’s hall, just inside the main door. The benches and tables around her were utterly empty. The fireplace was crackling, bathing the room in warm light. 

A man sat on a stool in front of it, strumming a harp. Along its strings, a spider crawled across as they vibrated. He wore a hooded cloak that covered his form and obscured his face. The soft melody slowly played through the hall. His voice sung alongside it, slow and sad.

Jenny would dance with her ghosts…

She cleared her throat then, and he turned to regard her. There was a twinkle in the bard’s eye. 

“It’s good to see you at last.” His voice was … hot with something improper. 

She crossed her arms and frowned, causing him to reconsider. “Ah, you look like someone I knew once. My apologies, you resemble her quite strongly. We were to meet here.” His tone was wistful. 

“I get that quite often.” Even in my dreams I can’t escape my aunt’s shade.  

“Do you? It’s hard to live in someone’s shadow, is it not?” The man's voice was old and weary, stooped and bent, but the man before her was young in build and his back was straight. He wore a fine black tunic and breeches made of silk, and his boots were soft black leather. 

She found herself nodding at that. She sat beside him, on a stool of her own. 

“A song for you, fair maiden? Only a few coppers?” He put the flattery on a little too thick. 

“I prefer the quiet to be honest.” When people flattered her, it was a setup for later. She wasn’t fooled by it any more. 

He laughed. “One song of mine, and you be convinced.” 

She raised a brow at that, and he stilled. His fingers stopped plucking the strings of his harp. He stared at her now. Behind both of them, the fire crackled and burned a little brighter. 

He regarded her then, staring at her face. She saw nothing but the cowl and his shadowed face. “Trouble sleeping?” His voice was kind then, dropping the bardic mummery. 

“Most nights. I keep getting odd dreams.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Believe me, I know what that is like to be tormented by dreams.” The cowl shifted then, and the strings stirred under his fingers, but it was discordant, off-key. He set the harp down. The fire crackled behind them, eating through a thick log with ease. 

“You do?” She pursed her lips. 

He just nodded. “Things that were, things to be and things to never be, I am never certain. Even when I was, my doubt removed that for me later.” 

“I’d settle for ridding myself of the nightmares.” Her face was glum. 

“Wouldn’t we all?” His voice was tinged with melancholy. 

They sat there, staring at the flames in silence. Fingers of fire filled the fireplace before her. They reached and scraped at the brick around the brick hearth. 

He turned to her then. “I feel the urge to offer some unsolicited advice.” 

She rolled her eyes and looked at him. His cowl was pushed back, and she saw he was quite handsome, in a strange, otherworldly way. Pale skin and pale hair that glistened in the firelight. His eyes and face were covered in shadow from the firelight. She’d never seen the like before. 

His cowl was down, and she looked into those dark eyes. “Do not let your passions rule you. They will consume you. They did for me.” Between them the fire grew bigger, embers blowing into the wood floors above and below them. 

“Gee, Thanks.” He flinched. 

She winced in empathy. “Sorry. Got enough of that from my father.” Some of the planks within the inn began to offer fertile ground for the embers from the fire. They began to smoke. 

“Did you?” He seemed curious then, rejection forgotten. 

She looked at him and found him staring back. Those eyes - they were mesmerizing. They glinted and dwindled in the firelight. The fire roared and began to spit out smoke into the Inn, which floated up into rafters above. Embers followed the smoke. 

“He wanted us to be stoic and in control. I figured it was because of his siblings.” Her father had always known what to do, standing tall and clear, making the right decision. He never hesitated…

“Really? What happened to them?” Did he hesitate then? Did honor stop him? Mercy? 

“He said they were wild. Like wolves. It got them killed.” She took her time, pausing between each word. 

“I’m sorry.” He paused before he said it, and the words were laced with regret. 

“You didn’t do it. The Mad King and his son did.” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a simple, kind gesture. It was nice. She continued on. “Mad dragons, they say. The King, everybody knew he was crazy, but the prince? Nobody suspected he’d lose it.” 

“It is easier to judge than to be judged, I fear.” His tone and face were grave, almost like her father’s. His face was easier to see now - the Fire within the hearth was contained no longer, spilling out onto the floor around the fireplace. 

She looked at him then. “You do your share of judging, bard? Where are you lord?” She tried for a teasing tone, to lift them out of the dark spot of their prior talk. 

He smiled at her jest but didn’t laugh. Even that expression didn’t wipe the sadness from his face. “Nothing in particular now. But I was lord once. I gave it all away for love.” Now small flames arose from the planks beneath them and the rafters above them. Even speaking of something good, his voice was sad. 

She snorted, but then smiled. She thought of Domeric. She’d have done the same. “Must have been the right woman.” 

“Aye, she was. Fierce and pure. A blue winter rose with all her thorns.” 

She felt her blood still. “Who are you?” 

He turned to her. “Just a lost father. I think it’s time for you to go.” To their side, the fire had spread further, racing up the brick chimney and spreading across the floor. He began to pluck his harp once more as she stood.

“You could come with me.” The fire began to race along the floorboards and rafters. Cobwebs went up in flames and fell like burning embers across the floor. 

He just gave her a sad little smile. With the light of the flames, his eyes seemed to glow. “It was all worth it.” The flames were spreading to tables and benches now, all around the both of them. 

She backed away, reflexively. The iron in his voice unnerved her. No doubt, not even an inkling, jut total conviction. He continued onward. “We all are judged. Make sure you are not found wanting when the king comes.” 

Then the flames spread through the entire room, and she woke up in her room within the inn, besides her sister. She was sweating, and her breathing was rapid and fearful. 

It was just a dream. She sat on the bed and tried to calm herself. It was just a stupid dream. She sat there a long while, until exhaustion claimed her once again. 

Chapter Text

The meeting with Lord Bolton the next morning was cool and formal. The man seemed incapable of expressing emotion or exuding any warmth. Lyarra had merely asked for two fresh horses and enough food to get them to Riverrun. He had insisted on them taking guards along for the ride, despite the fact his host was short of good cavalry - barely a few hundred horse at most. He had offered nearly a hundred outriders. Lyarra wanted to travel fast, and didn’t want to deprive this army of its rare cavalrymen. Lord Bolton was amenable in the end. They had compromised on five men, led by a chosen man of his. One of Bolton’s best hunters, a man named Locke. 

Locke was a dashing fellow, with a beard and mustache running around his mouth. His only handicap on the way to becoming handsome was a deep scar running from the outside of his eye to his chin. He was courteous enough, but Arya was wary of him from the outset. Lyarra was too. His smiles were a bit too wide to be authentic. She had no idea what lay underneath his, but doubted it was particularly pleasant. His look reminded her of theon, but worse, which did nothing to put her at ease. 

But she could live with that for the brief journey along the river road. A week, at most. 

Their exit from the camp was overseen by Lord Bolton and his banquet table at the feast. They’d said their farewells to the Stark footmen the night before, before the feast - they had to return to guarding the ford.

Lord Bolton’s parting words had been directed to Locke. They were soft, but Lyarra overheard. “Take care of them both. See Lady Stark to her rightful place.” 

Locke had nodded, a slight smile on his face. “If we encounter difficulties?” 

Bolton’s mouth had twitched. “Do what you have to. You know how to manage?” 

Locke had just given a wide smile. “Well enough, my Lord.” Then they had split and Bolton had made his way over to her and Arya. 

His final words to her were brief. “We will send a raven to tell your brother of your arrival.” She thanked him, and they exchanged a stiff handshake. Lord Bolton’s grip was iron, and his pale eyes and motionless face gave no indication to his thoughts. 

Ser Aenys glowered at them and said nothing. Robert Glover wished them well. Ser Tallhart gave a stiff but formal goodbye. Elmar had merely waved with a bandaged hand, too scared to approach Arya. Then they were off, along the road. 

Lyarra had unveiled her pennon, and strung it from her new spear. Jeyne’s work from King’s Landing, and it flicker in the wind as they rode. A white direwolf head on a gray backing bordered by blue snowflakes.

It felt good to reveal that at last. 

On their first day on the road, Lyarra had revised her assessment of Locke and the Bolton men. All were sworn to the Dreadfort, and all were fairly well equipped for men at arms. They were favored by Lord Bolton quite clearly by the quality of their equipment. 

They jumped whenever the direwolves emerged from the trees beside them. They grumbled and cursed when they passed by and their horses panicked. As a result, Ghost and Nymeria kept their distance. Occasionally, Lyarra would see their eyes peeking out from the darkness of the woods. 

They were good soldiers - eyes constantly watching, scanning the terrain around them, their order and discipline the match for any Stark Guards. They hunted and foraged well enough. With the supplies they had, they ate to their fill each night. Her and Arya devoured each meal as if it were their last. Lyarra was thankful for hardtack and broth. She didn’t want to think about the weeks of her empty stomach heading north. The only problem was … they were riding through friendly territory. The Riverlords around them were Bannermen of Robb’s uncle and mother. The situation didn’t warrant such caution. Some caution, of course, but the Bolton men acted like they were wanted men.

She knew the risk was minimal. According to the men of Lord Bolton’s host, Tywin’s host was southward, hidden behind the walls of Harrenhal. The remnants of his son’s hosts had fled west to the Westerlands. Only a few garrisons and forgotten foraging parties remained of the Lannister presence in this region of the Riverlands. The former would seal up within their captured holdfasts and try to hold back the shifting tide. The latter would seek the nearest friendly Lannister territory, running south or west. They wouldn’t be riding in the heart of the Riverlands, down the Riverroad itself, between the two Northern armies. That was folly.

Overall, the caution displayed by them seemed to be paranoia … but Lyarra saw the glances of the smallfolk they passed by. They were fearful and cautious. The wolf pennant sometimes received cheers. Those died in their mouths when they saw the flayed man. The villagers and smallfolk had as little to do with them as possible after seeing them. They spoke only when spoken too and huddled into groups when they approached. The women and children ran away and shut their doors, and the menfolk always had tools near their hands. Not barred as weapons, but close enough the difference was just theater. 

She asked Locke about it. “Have the Lannisters reeved through here recently? Any attacks?” 

He smiled and shook his head to indicate no. “But that’s nothing you need to worry about.” He had a thick grin then, and it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Why are they afraid?” He had watched her then, with his twin beady pebbles. They reminded her of Meryn Trant’s eyes. 

“Just insolent peasants. Don’t fret about it.” His carefree manner had done nothing to put her concern at ease.

She had a feeling why the smallfolk distrusted them so. Arya and her had seen the wake of war down south, in the wake of the Lannister host. In the looted corpses, the burned holdfasts, the scavenged fields. It seemed wolves were little different to lions. Both savaged men regardless. 

Arya had been particularly quiet throughout the day, watching the Bolton men as they watched their surroundings. She hadn’t said a word, just watching them with eyes the color of the mail they both wore. 

She found Lyarra as they laid camp off the road and tugged on her wrist. “I don’t trust them.”

Lyarra had ruffled her hair. “They swore to get us to safety.” She tried to sound reassuring. She’d been in the capitol too long - it made her paranoid, seeing enemies everywhere. Even in the camp of her brother’s host, alongside her brother’s vassal’s sworn men. 

When Lyarra had awoken the next day, she found her sister's eyes to be bloodshot. She hadn’t slept. “Arya…” 

“Someone had to keep watch. I couldn’t…” Her nails were bloody, where they had dug into her palms to keep herself awake. 

She held her sister close and whispered into her hair. “Tonight, you sleep and I watch, ok?” Her sister had been through all she had. Arya was too young to go nights without sleep, and she had weathered their journey with resilience far beyond her years. But it had gotten to her too. Lyarra could spare a night’s rest for her sister’s peace of mind. 

That day, the wary stares of smallfolk had followed them, across brooks and creeks and through the farmlands of the holds around them. Her uneasiness never left her. The Bolton men laughed and joked, but it was off slightly. 

They stopped at an inn for a midday meal. The owner had been all proper, a balding man who hummed and hahhed as if they were Kings and Queens. It was basic fare - stew and bread. “No spices, ‘cause the war. My apologies, Milords. The fighting made all this very difficult.” 

One of the Bolton men had snorted at that. “The only thing you are fighting is your belly.” They all laughed, and he’d turned red in embarrassment and left the room. One of the Bolton men took the opportunity to grope the serving girl when she passed. She couldn’t have been older than Lyarra. 

Lyarra had turned to Locke, and he had just looked back at her with the same placid smile. Pig . He’d seen it all. He was daring her to do something. 

She tipped the girl a spare silver, hidden in her drink cup, and they rode onward. A pack of eight was safer than a pack of two. Alone, she would damn them all and ride off herself. But she had Arya to look after. Leaving Arya alone with them was not an option. She also wondered what the Bolton men would do when she wasn’t watching. Nothing pleasant. 

She didn’t sleep that night, as she had vowed to Arya, sharpening her dagger and sword, and doing whatever idle work with her hands to keep herself awake as the fire faded before her. Arya had been reassured by her watch, and fell asleep beside her, head buried in Nymeria’s fur. She exulted in the fire - it warmed her and gave her light to see. They’d gone often enough without one on their ride north as a pack of two. Ghost sat beside her, strangely regal in poise, red eyes open and watching. 

Locke sat across from the fire, drinking from a wineskin. He stared and gawked at her. Everybody else was asleep - he had first watch. His first words did startle her. “Think you are better than me, castle brat?” He slurred the words slightly, but they were discernible. She’d just fixed him with a stare and said nothing. 

“Bastard.” She’d raised a brow. He said the word as if it would make her fly into a mindless rage. It took more than that for her. Theon’s taunts had taught her the value of control … and well planned revenge later.

Her reply was icy. “You’ve lost your manners. I was wondering how long that would take.” 

He continued on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You preen and dance and they all still hate your guts anyway. You want me to bow and scrape and lick your boots, Lady Snow?” He spat with the last word, and it carried past the fire, almost onto her boots. 

“It would clean them.” His eyes had narrowed at that. 

“I’ve met a real bastard, just like the stories. Men fear him, and they follow him in the hundreds. He’s a better bastard than you.” 

“Glad you found someone to warm your heart… and bed.” 

That had brought him to his feet, face black with rage. She’d merely pointed her dagger in his direction and watched his torso. Ghost had growled, nice and slow, and Nymeria had stirred in her rest. Syrio had told her men moved their hips and shoulders first when they struck, long before their arms or legs moved. 

Then Locke laughed. “Oh, you’ve got a real tongue on you girl. But your daddy isn’t here to save you now. Your daddy’s dead.” 

She said nothing. Never show weakness in front of enemies. 

He sat back down. “Soon enough you’ll know. Soon enough.” 

She didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The watch had cycled through the rest of his men. None were particularly memorable or seemed more moral than their commander. Some had just leered at her through the firelight. 

The next day, her mind foggy, she watched the Boltons instead of their surroundings. Arya had never stopped watching them. Ghost and Nymeria ran off into the woods, as usual. 

During the ride, Lyarra rode up alongside her sister. “You’re thirsty. You should drink some water.” 

Arya had just stared at her puzzled. “I’m not thirsty.” 

Lyarra spoke again. “You’re thirsty.” 

Locke had halted then. His yelled refrain made his men chuckle. “You thirsty, bastard girl? I hear bastard blood runs nice and hot. I’m feeling so cold. Perhaps you could warm me right up?” 

Arya’s brow furrowed at that but Lyarra ignored the provocation. “Drink.” 

Arya drank her from her waterskin. Lyarra patted her shoulder. They rode onward making good time. 

Later, as Lyarra had expected, Arya stopped her horse. “I have to make water.” 

One of the Bolton men dismounted to follow her. Lyarra dismounted herself. “I’ll go with her.” 

The Bolton man laughed. “You shouldn’t worry. I wouldn’t peek. She’s only for little lord Elmar.” Arya had started towards him, fury in her eyes, but Lyarra stopped her with a hand. The Bolton men laughed and joked about knives and tables.

They wandered off into the woods, until they were out of earshot of the road. Lyarra watched the way they came. She spoke over her shoulder as her sister wandered a bit further. “You were right. Watches tonight. I’ll take the first one.” 

Her words were curt and whispered, but her sister heard. “Ok, Lya.”  

That night, thankfully, her watch didn’t overlap with Locke’s. She tried talking to the others but found them unwilling to converse. They were Locke’s through and through.

The next day they stopped after Locke’s horse collapsed after throwing a shoe. They hadn’t brought any spare horses, due to Lord Bolton’s shortage of horsemen in general. They sat around the beast and let it rest as the sun moved lazily across the sky. Lyarra cursed the delay. Ghost and Nymeria had wandered off earlier in the day and didn’t return. 

Locke hadn’t lost his smile, and he and the men japed and joked as if nothing had gone wrong at all. Arya and her sat to the side, letting their horses graze. Lyarra felt her frustrations overtake her better judgment.

Soon she found herself walking over against her good sense. “How’s the horse?” 

“Doing just fine.” He wore the same placid smile. He waved to the men around him. “We’ll be off soon.” 

“Why wait?” He and the men rose to their feet then. They stood up behind him, in a half circle, all with their eyes on her, none talking. She heard the trees and bushes rustle. 

“Well, the boys and I were discussing our orders, and you see…” His eyes went distant behind her, and he pointed behind her. “Do you see that?” He and his men stepped forward, close to her. 

Her hair stood on her neck, and her hand went for her sword. She turned to look, and noise exploded around her. 

She heard the sound of a knife being drawn, swords being loosed from scabbards, and the Bolton men moving.

Then she heard the twangs of a dozen bows and felt the flight of arrows as they flew past her. Some had come close enough she felt the wind of their passing on her skin. 

She turned to find Locke collapsed on his knees, knife in hand, arrows in his throat and chest. The rest of his men lay in a similar state, all dead or dying even with swords in hand. The Arrows had all come from the front - ahead of her. Locke’s eyes bored into hers, full of shock and rage. 

Her sword was in her hand before she knew it. She pulled the shield she had worn on her back, a gift from the archer who shot her at the ford and she looked for Arya and found her gone. Panic filled her. She was small enough she could crouch behind it and cover most of her body. 

A voice echoed from the trees. “We’d much prefer you alive and unharmed! We’ll shoot your toes if we have to!”

“Lya, don’t!” Arya’s voice was cut off mid-speech, then a man howled in pain. Wolves bite, idiot.   

Lyarra’s reply was clear. She dived behind a nearby tree and used it to conceal herself from the archers in the woodline. “If you harm my sister, I’ll gut you!”

The voice that shouted back now was older, a regal baritone. “We intend you and your sister no harm, Lady Snow.” It was faintly familiar. 

“And how do I know I can trust you?” 

“Would my word not suffice?” The voice was definitely coming from the far treeline. But she saw only green leaves and brown bark there. 

“It might if I knew who you were?” 

The bushes ruffled and a man stepped out. A bandage covered one of his eyes, and he was clad in fine plate and mail. His surcoat bore a split purple lighting bolt. He had a reddish beard and his face was one she knew. 

Lord Beric Dondarion addressed her. “Would my word suffice?” 

Arya was safe and unharmed, thank the gods. Lyarra found her among them. They hugged. Thoros of Myr raised a bandaged hand, and wore a sheepish expression. “A wolf, that one. Bit my hand without hesitation.” 

Arya had just smiled at him, blood on her teeth and lips. Thoros just shook his head. Lyarra did her best to clean her sister’s mouth. Arya squirmed as Lyarra fussed over her. 

She turned to regard Dondarrion and his men. He sat on a log beside her, Thoros at his side, and Edric Dayne right there with them both. It had been weeks since she had seen them last. A lifetime ago.  

The time had not been kind to either of them. All were muddied and dirty. Their mail and steel was sharp, but chipped and notched. Behind them stood their men and compatriots in a similar state. Some looked like smallfolk, wearing basic clothing and little armor. They went to work, stripping the dead Boltons of weapons and armor they could use themselves. They cut the sigils - flayed men - off with knives. Lyarra didn’t interfere. There were more of them than her and Arya. They were once again a pack of two. 

“I could ask what you are doing here, Lord Dondarrion.” Why you killed my brother's men. Why you haven’t killed me. 

Thoros replied for him. “Being a nuisance.” Dondarrion merely sighed and sat on a log facing her and her sister with a weariness beyond his years. 

Lyarra found her place on a stump across from him, Arya beside her. “The Mountain is likely many leagues south, with Lord Tywin’s host. They were headed south, towards Harrenhal.” 

“He is. But our mission has taken us here.” Lord Beric’s voice was grave, soft. It rumbled out, as if the lungs strained to produce it. 

“My father charged you with bringing him to justice.” Lyarra kept the grief from her face, but it infected her voice all the same. Anger too. Were they oathbreakers to defy her father’s command? Or did they only possess loyalty to the living? 

Lord Beric seemed to sense that anger. “He was a good man. We carried out his commands, and we have faced the Mountain several times.”

“If you faced him so many times, one of you should be dead.” Arya’s interjection sparked a few laughs without mirth. Thoros joined her. “Aye, he should.” 

Lord Beric didn’t even crack a smile, his expression strangely placid. He continued, “Your father charged us with protecting the people of this land and bringing him to justice. We do the former now. We protect the people, the smallfolk.” The men around Beric nodded with his words. Half were smallfolk themselves, it seemed. An easy vow to protect yourself. 

“The Lannisters and the Mountain reeved through this land - why are you killing my brother’s men who come to defend it?” And why are you talking to me or my sister instead of killing us? We are witnesses to your act. 

“They would not be your brother’s men if he knew what we knew.” Beric’s voice was firm. Edric nodded beside him, face older than his years. 

“They were hunters and riders. Speak plainly - what did they do?”

Thoros of Myr spoke then, putting down his ever-present wineskin. “They hunted.”

“What’d they hunt to draw you ire?”

Little Edric Dayne spoke, his voice quiet and older than his years. “Game that could talk.” Seven Hells. 

Thoros confirmed it. “Aye.” Their expressions were grave, and they said nothing more. Lyarra could fill in the gaps herself. 

Lyarra grimaced. “Fair enough, then. They didn’t strike me as the kind or pious type. But I wouldn’t make a habit of it.” 

Lord Beric’s sole eye fixed on her. “We strike only the guilty.” 

Lyarra snorted at that. “Everybody says that.” 

Arya spoke next, beside her. “Are you going to kill us?”

They were surprised by her frankness. Little Edric looked over at Lord Beric and Thoros, worried.

Beric turned to Thoros. They whispered for a moment. Tension filled the clearing and both Lyarra and Arya put their hands on their weapons. 

Lord Dondarion’s face was set as he said, simply, “No.” 

Arya sighed, and the tension bled out of her as she relaxed. Lyarra felt the same. “Then why talk to us?” 

Thoros took a deep swig, and then spoke. “I’ve seen things in the flames. You are important.” Lyarra wasn’t sure he was talking to her or Arya - his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Perhaps he was mad, or the wine had gotten to him. 

Either way, she burst into laughter, a mad cackle. Arya looked at her strangely. 

She wiped away her tears. “That’s rich. How much did you charge for that sort of thing in King’s Landing?” 

Lord Beric said nothing, and Thoros looked at her. The Drunkard priest’s face was pale. “You would not jest if you’d seen the same. The dead walking, the cold winter to come.” 

Lyarra paid his ramblings no mind. “Arya’s important, surely. But me?” A bastard? My father’s misplaced seed in the wrong woman? She stared at the dirt at her feet. It was better to laugh than cry. Arya just sat next to her and rested her head on Lyarra’s shoulder. 

Thoros’s voice was deadly serious. “The night is dark and full of terrors.” 

Lyarra turned away from the drunken heathen who spoke like a charlatan, and towards Lord Beric. “Why this? Surely you could serve elsewhere?” 

“Your father gave me this mission. He was a wise and just man. I will follow it until I can no longer. My men are happy to do the same.” Lord Beric’s voice was tinged with iron resolve. I won’t persuade him differently. She didn’t want to either. Not truly. They had kept their oaths better than me. 

Beside him, his squire, Edric pitched in. “It’s the right and honorable thing to do.” Lyarra just stared. Her father was honorable. Would it see this rabble killed too?

She sat there, lost in her thoughts and reminiscences for a long time. Arya and Edric went off to talk, both clearly bored with the lack of conversation. Sticks striking back and forth rang out behind her. Thoros and Beric sat across from her, silent, as she brooded over their words. 

Lord Beric spoke again, jolting her. “Do you have a mission from your father? The last task he gave you?” 

She reflexively looked at her sister, talking with Edric and animatedly showing a water dancer’s stance. They sparred with sticks, swinging and thrusting back and forth. 

“I do.” Her eyes went to Arya, but her hands… Her hand went to a pouch on her belt with a letter. A letter she hadn’t delivered. Her mind went somewhere else, a private place she had locked away to keep away the tears. To a sister held far away. Oh, Sansa. I’m so sorry. 

“Then you understand. Your father was a good man. I do not intend to abandon my word to him now that he has passed on. I’m sure you can relate.” He gazed at his hands. She found her own and put her head in them. 

Then he turned to her and his face turned sad. “I am sorry, my lady. I have something of yours.” 

She turned to face him. 

His hands rummaged around a bag, and he withdrew half of a handkerchief. It was once white, but now is stained brown and red. It had blue snowflakes embroidered along the edges that she had labored over for hours. Mud and Blood had not been kind to her handkerchief - it had been torn in half. She’d last seen it in the hands of Loras Tyrell. He asked for a favor and she gave it. That was weeks ago, it felt like an eternity. Her father had been alive, Robert had been king, and her biggest worries had been schemes and Sansa. 

She felt oddly detached when she took it. She felt numb. She’d sent him to his death. The seal, the letter, were all her father’s, but it was her doing.  

Her voice was flat. “How did it happen?” 

“He rode with us to Mummer's Ford. The Mountain knew we were coming. He and his men had laid in wait on both sides of the crossing and descended upon us in the ford. The Mountain drove his lance into my chest and threw me from my horse. Ser Loras was beside me - he swung his war axe and cut deep into the Mountain’s arm, up to the haft of the axe. The Mountain will never swing with two hands again. 

They fought around me, in the knee deep waters, fighting over my fallen body. He stood above me and fought them all off. He was young, he was brave, he was noble. He fought his way to Thoros with his bright red cloak and dragged me there, to safety. Then he went back, for his friends, for my men, and for others he would never get to know. Others rallied with him, and the Mountain and his men withdrew. Only then, after we were safe, did he fall. We were a hundred and twenty when we rode out. We were eighty after that battle. We would be far fewer without his sacrifice.” 

She held her favor in her hands. It stained her fingers, but that was fitting. “I got him killed.” The tears flowed freely. She wasn’t sure if they were in grief or guilt. The feeling ate away at her once more. 

Lord Beric looked at her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Nonsense. Men do what they will. We do what we can while we still live. He did. A shining example. We all remember him, even the ones who did not even see him fall.” A summer knight, fallen before the cold. 

They sat together in silence for a long while. Arya and Edric's sticks rang out behind her, and their men had finished looting the Bolton men. 

“You do not believe Thoros. You should.” 

“Why should I - he’s not even sober now?”

Thoros spoke after, the words weak. “No man would be after what I’ve seen.” 

Then Lord Beric whispered the next words. Lyarra had to strain to hear. “I died with Ser Loras.” 

“You did?” 

His words came out in a tumble as if he himself didn’t believe them.“The Mountain struck true, a foot of lance, hewn of ash and iron, buried into my ribs and nestled into my heart.” Beric opened his surcoat and lifted his mail. It was true - the wound was there, ugly and gaping, but it did not bleed. He should be dead, yet he talks to me as if his lungs were fresh.  

“The Mountain slayed me.” He spoke as if he was not a witness. He was shocked by it. Lyarra was floored. 

“Yet you stand here still.” 

“I do. Thoros brought me back.” 

Thoros butted in, voice hoarse. “I didn’t bring you back, the Lord of Light did. I’m just the lucky drunk who says the words.” 

Lord Beric turned to her again. “But we have delayed you enough. I would like to ask you a favor.” 

Lyarra smiled, glad to be back in the realm of the familiar, the mundane. The trading of favors, the schemes. After what she had just seen, she needed it. Elsewise she would think herself insane. I sh 

 “Ah, the catch for sparing my life. So much for your noble, chivalrous nature.” Her tone was light - she meant it as a light jape, not a biting insult. 

Lord Beric managed a wan smile. His fingers held a letter. “If you would deliver this to your brother. It’s a statement of intent. The Brotherhood without Banners only wish to make ourselves heard.” 

She grabbed it and placed it in a pouch beside the other letter of hers. “I shall deliver it.” 

Lord Beric stood and held out a hand. She clasped it. He seemed noble enough. He hadn’t spoken down to her, ignored her, or lied to her. Her standards had certainly dropped since King’s Landing. He gave her a curt nod, and Thoros didn’t meet her eyes, staring vaguely into the distance. 

Then she whistled, and their horses trotted over. Arya scrambled over to her side. “They are letting us go?” Her voice was incredulous. 

“They are.” She leaned down and whispered in her sister’s ear. “I intend to leave before they change their minds.” They were noble bandits, but still bandits. But they weren’t fighting her today. Frankly, that was good enough. Pick your battles. The Lannisters were trouble enough for now. 

Family awaited them at Riverrun. Moreso for Arya, but Lyarra would settle for any family. Their pack of two would soon swell. 

They rode off together, towards the setting sun, whose light danced across the clear waters of the brooks around them. 

Lyarra kept glancing back, half expecting the Brotherhood to chase her down. But no sounds of hooves or shouts followed them. 

Chapter Text

Lyarra had watched Arya standing up more in her stirrups with greater frequency as they neared Riverrun, trying to catch a glimpse of the castle. She was excited to return to family, and to see a castle she had never been to before. She would be happy to see her mother, brother, uncle, grandfather, and great uncle. Their direwolves trailed behind them, at a distance far enough not to spook the horses of their escort. 

Lyarra would be happy to see Robb. Her brother was her brother, regardless of what new crowns he wore. She loved him and envied him in equal measure. 

She always had. They’d grown up together, but as they had aged, their paths had diverged. Robb would be a lord. Her father had told her that harsh truth for her early. He would fight battles and rule Winterfell. Lyarra would marry a northern vassal of his (at best) and bear children. The world wasn’t fair. She wanted to rule Winterfell. Its walls always had a warm embrace ready for her when no one else did. But she buried that wish. It shamed her. Bastards inherited last. Wanting it seemed to be wishing ill fortune upon her siblings. 

Family was more important than a castle. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. They would approach their pack now. She thought of them before she approached. 

Uncle Edmure was a good man, but he tended to live in the shadow of the rest of his family. She’d never met the Blackfish or Lord Hoster Tully, and expected no warmth from either. Lady Stark’s reaction would be ignorance at best. They would not be happy to see Lyarra and so Edmure would be forced into awkward neutrality. She was bitter about that, but given what little family she actually had it was nothing to dwell on. She would take who and what she could get. It was just the way of things. The world wasn’t fair. 

As for Lady Stark, she tried to tell herself it would be fine, but Lyarra found her hands trembling in her saddle at the prospect. Cold and distant, at best. 

She’d never been to Riverrun in her life - she had never been south of the Neck before the trip south with her father. It wasn’t her castle or her blood’s castle.

When they finally reached Riverrun, it was a sight to behold even from their distance. It was a magnificent castle, a triangle bound by the crossing of the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers. The stone seemed to rise straight from the river itself, with a large tower at each corner, and red tile roofs just behind the walls. The only way in was a drawbridge over a canal that completed the total moat around the castle, spanned by a single drawbridge. Other than that, the only way into the castle was a long swim and then a steep climb. Around it, the land was muddy and partly burnt, with the stumps of trees obvious from even this distance. 

Their arrival brought a cloud of dust bearing towards them, as a gaggle of riders approached them. Tully men, by the fish on their red and blue pennants. Lyarra and Arya removed their helms.

They came to a halt a short distance from them on the road. “Who goes there?” Arya spoke first. “Arya Stark.” 

They looked her up and down, seeing nothing but her chainmail, breeches and a dirty face. The leader frowned. “That’s a nasty little lie, boy. Whom do you serve?” Lord Bolton’s raven didn’t arrive with a forewarning. Lyarra frowned at that.

“I’m a Stark you idiot!” Arya’s brow had furrowed and her face was turning purple. She spurred her horse forward. 

They ignored her, speaking to Lyarra instead. “And you, boy, who are you?” 

“Lyarra Snow, her half sister.” Apparently, her softer voice was enough to throw them into confusion. They sat on their horses and argued and argued until one of their number was sent away. Arya and Lyarra just sat there and waited. Arya fiddled with Needle nervously. Lyarra felt her hands clenching and stilled them by gripping the reins with a death grip.

He returned with another retinue of riders larger than the first patrol. All also bore Tully banners. Gods above, could they have least fetched a Northman who could recognize us. 

One fish stood out amongst the others, dyed a darker shade. The rider and horse wore gray armor, covering every inch, with the rippling red and blue cloak in his wake. She had thought it was Uncle Edmure, but his brooch was black instead of silver. 

He rode up and flipped up his visor to regard them both. His face was weathered, aged into craggy lines. His hair, from the top of his head to his bushy brows to his stumble, was all as gray as his armor. His deep blue eyes were familiar - her siblings, besides Arya, bore the same shade. 

From what she knew, Lord Hoster was old - far too old to ride out like this. This must be Arya’s great uncle, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. He was a hero of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and an anointed knight of fame even in the North. She had always wanted to meet him - Robb’s stories about him were fascinating. He looked at the two of them quizzically. 

He didn’t recognize them initially - he’d never met either of them, as he had held the Gates of the Moon in the Vale. Then he looked into her and Arya’s gray eyes. That held the key for him. Their father’s eyes. His eyes brightened slightly when he looked at Arya. 

“Niece?” His mouth moved in astonishment. 

“Nuncle!” Arya leaped from her horse and ran to her great uncle. He dismounted in a rush and lifted her into a hug. They held each other in a clumsy embrace, Arya’s feet dangling in the air, her captured mail clinking against his steel plate. 

Lyarra just held her reins and stirred in her saddle, trying not to stare. Envy was a wicked thing.  

Then he turned to her. His voice was gruff and weathered as his whiskers. “And who are you?” 

“Lyarra Snow, my lord.” His eyes widened ever so perceptibly. His brow furrowed. It wasn’t utterly hostile…but it wasn’t friendly. His lips pursed then and his eyes flickered over her face, inspecting her. Lyarra played with her reins, hoping she would pass this silent muster. 

Arya just stood there with her hands at her sides and tried not to fidget. “Uncle…” 

He held out a hand to silence Arya. He pursed his lips. “Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard girl, brought home with him after the Rebellion?” 

It was an honest question. It wasn’t particularly ill meant, if his face was anything to go by. It was ugly all the same. Her face flushed. Her existence was more than a stain of dishonor. She was more than that. She would…

She kept her courtesy. She didn’t trust her words so she just nodded. 

Arya decided to stand up for her, which made Lyarra’s heart grow warm. She kicked her uncle’s shin then, hitting nothing but greave. “Don’t call Lya a bastard.” Arya’s face was screwed up with a mixture of fury and pain from her outburst. Oh sister.  

Brynden Tully looked to Arya, surprised by her outburst, then back to Lyarra. He stared at Arya until her fury was replaced with anxiety as she began to chew her lip. He didn’t say anything to either of them. None spoke for a long time. What was there to really say? 

Then he cracked a wan smile. “The same fight in you as your brother. He’ll be relieved to see you. I expect you’ll both want to see him. I will take oyou there, and you can talk all at once. That will save you both the trouble of telling your tale twice.” He smiled at Arya and gave Lyarra a curt nod. So it is true. My brother commands here, a general. A King. She hadn’t been able to believe it. Her brother, a King? He was her age, a boy of fifteen. 

It made Arya a princess - the thought nearly made her chuckle by how much Arya would hate it - but she had no idea what it made her. She doubted it changed anything at all. 

They rode in silence through the tents and camps surrounding the castle. Arya fidgeted, impatient. Lyarra found herself nervous. Robb’s host looked to be vast, as large as Bolton's. There were certainly more horses in this camp. Men wander throught the tents, dressing in the liveries of riverlands houses, with plate, mail, and scale peeking through surcoats of bright colors. Northmen were distinguished by furs and thicker cloaks.

The host bore familiar northern banners of all types. Equal numbers of rivermen seemed to flock under their own banners. The Tully fish, the Blackwood Weirwood,  the Silver eagle of the Mallisters, the Red horse of the Brackens, the Twin Towers of the Freys. She frowned at the last. Dozens of others flocked around too, belonging to houses she couldn’t remember and had not really studied.  

Ghost and Nymeria sprinted ahead of them, and met Grey Wind in a tumble of fur, all snarls and growls full of fury but without any real bite. They nipped and rolled around in the dirt, Nymeria and Grey Wind working together to bring down their bigger brother. Then they all laid in the dirt and let their tongues hang out as they panted together. Tying down, they looked like the wolves in the winterfell crypts at the feet of her ancestors. 

Then, they made their way to Riverrun itself, and found themselves crossing its drawbridge and entering its holds. They dismounted and followed the Blackfish through the courtyard.  Lyarra found it all unfamiliar, red doors and strange halls. The stone was cool to the touch - nothing like Winterfell’s warm walls. She fidgeted with her belt and sword nervously. This was Lady Stark's home. Her hands began to tremble. 

Arya noticed. Of course she did. They’d been attached at the hip for weeks, relying on each other to survive. They’d learned everything about each other. Small quirks, and other odds and ends. 

She put her hand around Lyarra’s and squeezed. She looked at her sister and Arya gave her a reassuring smile. Lyarra ruffled her hair, but didn’t smile herself. 

They made their way to a solar. Inside, hands braced on the table, facing the doorway, was Robb. 

He had grown. His cloak was thick and broad, covering his muscular shoulders. He wore a doublet embroidered with the direwolf head. He’d grown a bit of beard - well, tried to. His face was old, eyes aged decades older than when they had last met. I probably look the same. His face was grave, lines forming on his face. But all of it was familiar, all of it was safe, and her eyes watered. 

His auburn hair was longer than she remembered, bordered by a crown. That crown was pulled from Old Nan’s legends - a circlet of bronze with nine iron longswords pointing up to the sky. The Crown of the North. It was not well fitted - probably a rush job by the smith - he had to push it back when he stood to see them. She felt a bit of snark fill her tongue, but that died when she saw the others in the room. 

Uncle Edmure looked like he had a few years ago. He had a more worried look about him but elsewise he was the same old Uncle she knew, but wearing mail and surcoat instead of a doublet. He was poised on Robb’s right, also bent over the map and carved wooden markers. 

On the other side of the Table was Lady Catelyn Stark. Lyarra looked away from her quickly. 

All three were huddled around the table. The Blackfish cleared his throat, and stepped to the side, clearing their view. They looked up at once. Lyarra was struck by how alike all three looked. The same Tully blue eyes, the same auburn hair. She was the stranger here.  Robb resembled them more than her or Arya. He shared his look with them. Arya kept her left hand from trembling with a death grip. The right shook regardless. She stared straight ahead at Robb. 

All three sets of eyes cycled through emotions: astonishment, then confusion, then relief. All stood there, staring, feet glued to the floor. 

Lady Stark was the first to speak. “Arya?” That broke the spell.

Daughter and mother ran to each other and settled into a firm, loving embrace. Arya was babbling and Lady Stark shushed her, arms closing around her like a vice. 

Robb was next. He ran to her and pulled her into a strong bear hug she returned in kind. She wrapped her hands around her brother and rested her head on his shoulder. He’d grown taller since they’d left Winterfell. She had too, oddly enough. 

Tears fell freely now from all involved. Tears of joy. For the first time in weeks, Lyarra felt safe. She held her brother as if he would turn into mist and fade away from her grasp if she lessened. 

After a warm, sweet eternity, the embrace was over. Robb went to Arya and bent to hug her as well. She bowled him over and they rolled on the ground, two wolf cubs. Lyarra smiled watching them. 

Then she looked up. Lady Stark stood across from her. Her eyes watched her and Lyarra braced herself. They investigated her. They were looking, frantically looking at Lyarra. Those eyes washed over her face, her hair, filled with tears and hope. But when they met her eyes, that emotion died and the tears froze. She wanted blue eyes instead of gray. She wanted Sansa. 

Lady Stark stared for a moment. 

The whole room watched the two of them, paralyzed. Arya and Robb stopped rolling on the floor. 

“Lady Stark.” Her words were clipped, and Lady Stark gave her a stiff nod. 

“Lady Snow.” Better than just calling me girl. They all made her way back to the table without saying anything more. 

Edmure gave her a small smile from his position at the table, but didn’t dare to do anything more. She met it with one of her own. The Blackfish pulled out a chair and sat beside his nephew. His eyes watered, but only a little bit. 

Soon Ayra and Robb had risen from their tousle, and made their way to the table and sat. Lyarra was last to sit, and did so beside Arya, facing Robb.

The Blackfish opened his mouth. “I think you two owe us a tale. Quite the tale.” Then he snorted. “Proved the Lannisters were quite the liars.” 

Arya looked at her, eyes questioning. Lyarra motioned to her sister to start. Arya jumped in, recounting literally everything from when they had first left Winterfell. She spared no detail. She spoke of Lyarra gifting her Needle. Lyarra had winced at that admission. Robb was unsurprised - she had told him, after all. Edmure looked intrigued and the Blackfish looked grumpy. That could have been his default expression, however. She did not know the man well enough to read him. Lady Stark's reaction remained a mystery … she didn’t dare to look. She could imagine concealed anger and displeasure well enough. 

The incident with Joffrey was recounted. Arya had made her out to be the hero, keeping Joffrey away from her. Robb had looked furious. The Blackfish and Edmure had given her a second glance. Lyarra felt nothing but anger at the memory. If only I had killed him then.

Then Arya had recounted their time in the capitol. Arya spoke of catching cats and her dancing lessons with Syrio. 

“Dancing lessons?” Lady Stark was incredulous. 

“Yes, water dancing.” The Blackfish’s eyes widened in surprise at that admission and he silently muttered Syrio’s name again before his eyes widened. Edmure and Robb both looked confused. Arya fidgeted for a moment before collecting herself. 

“With swords, mother.” Arya spoke with her chin up and head proud. Good, we should be past pretending now.

Catelyn had shaken her head, hands rubbing her temples, but said nothing in reproach. Edmure and Brynden had raised eyebrows at that. Robb had simply laughed. Then Arya had recounted their final day of practice with Syrio, and the fight with the Lannisters and Ser Meryn Trant. Arya was oddly pensive. “Lyarra and I escaped the Lannister men and the Kingsguard they sent to capture us.”

They sat in silence digesting that. Robb filled in the blanks first by looking to her. She nodded, and his eyes darted to Arya. Lyarra nodded again, and he sighed. She interjected then. “Syrio helped us, fighting off several Lannister men. He gave his life so we could escape.” 

Robb’s mouth was agape, Catelyn looked horrified, and the Blackfish looked … proud? Edmure just looked shocked. Edmure broke the silence. “Who fought off Trant?” 

“Lya killed him.” Arya’s voice was proud of that, and she looked at Lyarra with admiration as she said it. For some reason, Lyarra felt uneasy. 

Every eye fell upon her then and she felt herself wilting under those cool blue waves. “Truly?” Robb said. 

“Though I helped.” Lyarra looked at her sister and hugged her. She had helped more than she thinks. 

The Tullys each bore the look of their namesake fish - mouths agape in astonishment. Robb looked less shocked and more proud, sitting back in his chair with a slight smirk. She knew what he was thinking. I taught you, sister. She would have to disabuse him of that notion on the practice field. 

The Blackfish and his nephew had their eyes dart back and forth between them. Edmure spoke aloud, voice ponderous, “How?” 

Lyarra shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. “I got lucky.” Even now, thinking of it made her heart race. It had been far too close.

The eyes stayed on her and she wanted to crawl under the table. Instead, she described the fight the best she could. None of them were excessively squeamish. Even Lady Stark didn’t flinch at the description of the fight with her icy coutenance. Robb shook his head at that and smiled at her, a beaming, wide thing. “Guess practice paid off, sister.” Her heart fluttered at that. 

At that, the eyes shifted between them and Lyarra felt herself relax a bit. Brynden Tully spoke next. “Where did you learn to fight?” His tone was curious, and he looked at her with fresh eyes.  

Her voice was quiet. “In the Godswood. Books mostly. Robb helped.” She rubbed the back of her neck, sheepish. The Blackfish nodded at that, but said little. 

Edmure smiled at her, teeth gleaming. “Well, I’ll say it if nobody else will. Good work. That’s one less Kingsguard to deal with.” Even the Blackfish spared her a nod and a pleased look. Lyarra felt a thousand feet tall, a warmth spreading through her body. 

Lyarra took the time to change the subject. “While we were in the Capitol, I helped father with his investigation into the death of Lord Arryn.” 

At that, Lady Stark had refocused onto her, her tone accusing. “How did you know about that?” At that, Brynden and Edmure both echoed the question with their eyes. 

I snooped around Winterfell until I found out. “I figured out enough in Winterfell and went to father before we left.”

At that, Lady Stark’s eyes had widened. Father hadn’t told her? Why? 

At that, she had fallen silent. Evidentially, all present knew what Lady Stark knew. Lyarra had fidgeted with her hands. “Jon Arryn had been working closely with Stannis Baratheon in the weeks prior to his death. They were investigating something, but we didn’t know what. It was dangerous enough to get Lord Arryn killed and scared off Lord Stannis to Dragonstone.”

The Blackfish grimaced. "Stannis was not a Craven. It must have been serious."

At that, their attention caught on. Lady Stark spoke next. “Lysa sent me a letter saying that John Arryn had been poisoned.” 

“He had been, and it was made to look like an accident. Our suspicions were on the Queen.” Lady Stark glanced at her and nodded. 

“Are you sure?” Robb spoke next, blurting it out. 

“Yes. She tried the same with me. Arya and Ghost saved me from that one.” The room fell silent at that revelation. Robb looked furious, as did Edmure. Even Lady Stark mustered a concerned expression.

Lyarra ruffled her sister’s hair, and Arya looked slightly embarrassed. How do you like it, little sister? 

Brynden grimaced. “I presume your resemblance to your late aunt threatened her position.” Lyarra grimaced, but grudgingly nodded. She wiped the phantom taste of roast mutton from her lips with her sleeve.

“It took a long while, but we found out what Jon Arryn and Lord Stannis had suspected. King Robert had no trueborn children.”

That floored them. They sat back in their chairs and Edmure cursed. “Seven hells. Who’s the father?” 

“Jaime Lannister is their father.”

Everyone’s eyes, except for Arya’s, went wide at that. Bryden swore, Edmure cursed, and Lady Stark looked stunned. 

The Blackfish spoke. “Lord Stannis would be heir by all rights if this were true. Did you have proof of these claims?”

Lyarra had looked down to the table. “None I can present here. But there are historical Lannister and Baratheon matches. All the children born of those had the black hair and blue eyes.”

“All of the king’s…” Lyarra paused for a moment “… natural children all bore his black hair and blue eyes. Other than that, I have…”

Her eyes watered and she pulled the envelope from its pouch, bearing her father’s seal. She set it on the table gently, on top of the map. She took a moment to collect herself, remembering his strong hands passing it to her. When his firm eyes met hers and made her swear to deliver it. “We found out late, after father had been wounded by the Kingslayer. That was after the Imp was taken.” She stared at Lady Catelyn, who flinched.  

“When father found out …” Her voice broke and she took several deep breaths. Arya patted her back and held her hands. “He confronted the queen. I … crept after him and watched the conversation. I assume he confronted her.” 

Lady Stark's words were icy cold. “Why did you follow?”

“He had discovered it and did not tell me. I only realized it later. I wanted to know, to help him.” Tears fell down her cheeks, and she stared straight ahead, at the table. She didn’t dare to raise her eyes. Far too late.  

“Why would he confront the queen?” Edmure spoke.

Brynden stared down at the table, eyes distant. “The late King was never merciful to the children of his enemies. The Lannisters would know that best.” Nobody spoke about that. Nobody needed to be reminded of the fate of Targaryen children. Young Rhaenys and little baby Aegon. The Lannisters had done it, but the King had rewarded them with a royal marriage. 

Lyarra’s lips trembled and her cheeks were wet. Robb spoke for her, realizing the truth of it. “Father was honorable. He wanted to spare the children.” 

They sat there in horrified silence. 

Lady Stark jolted them out of their dour thoughts. “Ned would not risk our own children’s safety unless he was certain of success.” 

Lyarra shook her head. “I don’t know what made him so confident. The Lannisters outnumbered us in the capitol.” 

Robb pondered aloud. “Did he enlist the aid of any other nobles?” Lyarra shook her head.

The Blackfish snapped his fingers. “The goldcloaks outnumber every other force in the city combined. They lack any sort of discipline but have the numbers.” 

“And they serve whoever is the highest bidder.” Edmure continued that train of thought. “Petyr was the Master of Coin - he could ensure their loyalty.” So that’s what father met him about, the night before.  

It came back to her then, their last conversation. Don’t let me stop you. Oh, you won’t. 

“Petyr…” Lady Stark held her mouth in her hands. “Did he help you escape?”

Lyarra's face hardened. “The goldcloaks did nothing to help us. They worked with the Lannisters to butcher the household.” 

Lady Stark and Edmure sat back in shock. She spoke, her words slow. “That’s not possible. Petyr was helping us. He told me the dagger was Tyrion’s…”

“Helped because he’s an old friend , was it?” Lyarra couldn’t keep the venom out of her voice. She lashed out before it was proper. She covered her mouth with her hands and sat down. The rest of them sat back. “I shouldn’t have…” Her voice trailed off. 

Littlefinger’s boasts around the Red Keep were quite … lurid. He might have stopped claiming it around her father … but a quiet bastard girl in a corner heard all sorts of things. If father had heard his boasts, he would’ve killed him. Bragging about taking Lady Stark’s maidenhead, fighting a duel for her hand… killing her husband, the brother of the man who’d nearly killed him… Suddenly, it all started to fit together. Snow wiping off ice above a torrent of a stream. 

Lady Stark’s eyes grew hard. “Hold your tongue, girl.” 

Edmure and Robb looked between the two of them, torn but they weren’t going to intervene. Only father had ever dared, and he was gone. Arya looked equally confused and upset. 

“His boasts about your … former connection were not subtle.” Lyarra tried to keep her voice neutral and failed.

“What?” Lady Stark’s anger gave way to confusion. “What boasts?” 

Lyarra herself was shocked. How could she not know, if it were true? “That he’d taken you and your sister’s maidenhead.”

Lady Catelyn Tully-Stark’s eyes widened and her mouth whispered. Robb and Edmure both cursed. “Others take him.” “The fucking rat.” The Blackfish spoke clearly, his voice a growl. “I’ll fucking kill him.” 

The Blackfish put his head in his hands and buried his face in them. They sat in that uncomfortable silence. Lyarra clenched and unclenched her hands under the table. 

“That did not happen.” Lady Stark’s voice was firm. “This is just the type of bastard lie…” Her gaze on Lyarra was decidedly unfriendly. She won’t listen to me. She hates me. 

Lyarra turned to Arya. “Arya, did the goldcloaks help us?” She’ll listen to a voice she loves. 

Arya looked at her as if she were daft. “No, they fought us. They fought the guards. They tried to capture us, Lya.” 

Edmure stepped forward, trying to defuse the tension. “Perhaps he was captured, imprisoned?” 

Lyarra shook her head. She asked Arya again. “When … When we were outside the Sept of Baelor, was Littlefinger there?” 

“The short man with the pointy beard? He fought a duel about mother?” Arya was puzzled, but then voice grew icy. “He betrayed father?” 

Lyarra just nodded for both questions. At that, Lady Stark leaned back in her chair, mouth moving in mute shock. Edmure shared the same expression. 

Robb’s face was the image of fury. The Blackfish possessed the longest, weariest look Lyarra had ever seen. Arya fidgeted and looked around. Robb stood from his chair, nearly knocking it over, and paced back and forth furiously. 

“Why were you at the Sept of Baelor?” Robb spoke the question. Edmure nodded at the question.
 

Lyarra and Arya said nothing. Tears formed in Arya’s eyes, and Lyarra hugged her sister close as she began to sobb. Lady Stark moved over, to hold Arya from the other side, her hand smoothing her daughter’s hair. 

“Lya, why were you there?” Robb’s voice was hoarse now. 

Lyarra’s eyes moistened and her vision blurred before her. She felt a lump in her throat and didn’t trust herself. The Blackfish looked at Robb and shook his head. Edmure sat in his chair and stared into his hands. 

Edmure’s voice was filled with rage. “The … incestuous wretches murdered him in front of a holy Sept? Profaned the holy ground with their bloodshed?” 

Robb's voice was softer, filled with heartbreak. “You were there?” Her nod was the only answer she was brave enough to make. Robb’s eyes widened, and then he rushed over to hug her. She let him and they held each other close. He whispered apologies in her ear. 

After that, they sat together on the same side of the table. Robb called for wine. Lyarra took the opportunity to drink from her goblet in front of her. She drank first, and kept the pitcher by her. Remembering that day… It was not pleasant. They sat there together in mourning, drinking and saying little. 

Lyarra took the chance to drink cup after cup of wine and try not to remember. Robb took hers away after the fourth cup. Too stupid, too slow, too weak. 

After an eternity of silence, Robb eventually looked over the letter she had been given. Robb held up the seal of the letter. “This is addressed to Lord Stannis, not us.” 

“Father planned on sending us home by boat that day, before... it all went wrong. I was to deliver it on the way.” Then… she shuddered. 

“But, he was summoned to the throne room to swear homage to Joffrey. That was the last time I saw him.” Take care of you sisters. It was a knife to her heart. She had only half-fulfilled that oath. 

Arya pitched up to narrate their escape and exit through King’s Landing. Ser Barristan's mercy had won him favor around the table. Arya asked if he were here, or they had seen him. None of them had heard word of him. The fight at the gate had drawn muted sympathy and concern, but then Arya had leaped into their journey on the road. 

“Lya had us disguise ourselves as goldcloaks. We slipped right through.” They had ridden past half a dozen patrols, most far enough off they had only had to wave. 

The Blackfish had smiled at that. “Clever.” 

Edmure was incredulous. “That worked?” Arya's face screwed up. 

Lyarra cut off Arya. “Too well. We were mistaken for messengers.” 

“We ran into the Imp!” Arya was less disheartened by that affair than Lyarra. She noticed Lady Stark wince. Arya asked the next part. “How did he escape? Lya said he was a prisoner with you, mother?” 

Arya’s mother shifted uncomfortably. Her uncle spoke instead. “Cat took the Imp to the Eyrie.” 

Lyarra nodded. It was closer than Winterfell and close enough to avoid pursuit from the Lannisters. That seemed logical enough. “Did he confess?” Silence was her answer. 

“He insisted on a trial by combat and his champion won.” The Blackfish’s face was grim. 

“You let him go?” Arya’s roar made everyone in the room wince. 

Both the Blackfish and Lady Stark had shifted uncomfortably. Arya’s mother spoke first. “Your aunt is not well. Widowhood has … harmed her. She was the regent in the Vale, and we went along with her decisions.” That was new information to Lyarra. Lyarra guessed that weakness - cowardice, really - had something to do with the lack of Vale banners in either host they had traveled through. Lady Arryn’s sister, brother and nephew fought while she hid in the Eyrie. Why had she not taken to fighting her husband’s murderers? 

Her opinion of Lady Arryn had sunk to all new lows. She didn’t have any ties of kinship to blind her there. She bit her lip and decided to venture on a sally. 

“I assume that’s why there are no Vale knights in either host?” Silence was her answer. That was answer enough. 

Arya put words on her sentiment. “She’s a craven, a coward.” 

Lady Stark made to speak after that. “My sister may come to her senses in time. We have sent ravens to her.” Lyarra doubted it. If the murder of her husband, goodbrother, and captivity of her nieces would not shake her, then nothing would. 

Edmure decided to keep the conversation going, shifting into greener pastures. “How did you get past the Imp?”

“His party - they looked to be hill tribes - confused us for messengers and took us to him.”

“Then he asked us questions. Bragged how he was appointed hand of the King by his father.” Lyarra kept her voice flat, emotionless. “When he rode for a closer look at us, I struck first.” 

Robb’s voice was a low growl. “Did you get him?” 

Lyarra snarled as she spoke. “I sliced up his face, and he fell from his horse. It got in the way before I could finish the job.” Lyarra listened to her own cold, detached voice and felt odd. “Then Arya and I bolted before his men could reach us. Nymeria and Ghost helped us escape after that.” 

Lyarra continued to speak. “Then we made our way north. We managed to avoid Tywin Lannister’s host on its way south, on the march towards Harrenhal.” She reflexively clenched her fists. If only she had had a bow.  

“Then we headed north and ran into Lord Bolton’s host.” Arya scowled at his name. Lyarra decided to postpone the tale of their feast for now. She met Robb’s eyes then. “He was supposed to send a raven ahead of us.” Robb raised his eyebrows in confusion and looked to their uncle. 

Edmure spoke then. “No such raven reached us. It must have been shot down.” Lyarra frowned. Unlikely . Something about that embedded itself in her mind, made her wary. 

The Blackfish interrupted her, voiced laced with quiet fury. “He sent you without escort?” 

Arya’s scowl darkened. “They were stupid. Now they’re dead.” Lyarra matched the expression herself and said nothing, reaching for the other letter in her cloak pouch. 

“We met Lord Beric and his merry band after they… relieved us of our escort. They let us go with a letter to you.” Robb’s face became very angry. Lyarra placed that letter next to the first on the table. 

“They swore the Bolton men had hunted smallfolk.” She shrugged. “I was content with myself and Arya’s release, which they wanted anyway.” 

“They were my sworn men, and they were killed by this… Brotherhood without Banners.” Robb’s face was angry. 

Edmure looked torn. “They claim to fight for the smallfolk. This is the first I’ve heard of them attacking any of our troops - they’ve attacked none of mine.”

The Blackfish grimaced. “That we can tell. How many were there in that band?” 

“Fifty? They set out from King’s Landing with a hundred fifty riders at most.” Lyarra grimaced. “They claimed they lost seventy fighting the Lannisters. More looked to be smallfolk than knights.”

The Blackfish stoked his chin, lost in thought. “Less than a thousand at most. A nuisance for us, at best. I think we’d best focus on the Lannisters for now.” 

Edmure gazed at his uncle with a mixed look. “If we have to deal with them at all.” 

“Edmure, they aren’t going to disappear into the streams and under the hedges when the war is over.” The Blackfish’s tone was wry, and biting. Edmure managed to not wilt under the man’s glare, but by the look on his face, his pride was smarting. 

Lady Stark had taken the opportunity to read the letter while the others bickered. She cleared her throat then. “Uncle, Edmure, I don’t think we will need to deal with them at all.” She passed the letter to Robb, whose eyes widened as he read it. 

He tossed the letter onto the table in front of his uncle and great uncle, who both leaned over to read it. Finally, Edmure passed the letter to her. 

Lyarra held it so both her and Arya could read it together. 

Dear Robb Stark, 

King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, 

I am Lord Beric Donndarion of the Brotherhood without Banners. Your Lord Father once dispatched me to bring justice to the Riverlands and shield those within from the reeving of the Mountain. 

I have continued this task with my company. We honor our oaths. We intend you and your men no harm, unless they harm the smallfolk of this region they claim to defend. 

If you are a just and righteous man, like your esteemed father was, I hope we can work to protect the many who have been unjustly attacked in this war. 

In The Light of R'hllor,

Beric Dondarrion

Lyarra pursed her lips as she read through it. Arya just looked bored as she read it. Robb was silent, looking at each person around the table.

The Blackfish spoke first. “He writes well for a bandit. He was a lord - a marcher, if my memory serves.” 

Edmure shrugged. “Given he fights the Lannisters, I’m content to let him continue.” 

Lady Stark thought the longest before speaking, her voice calm and thoughtful. “One less enemy to fight means this damned war is shortened.” 

Robb then looked to Arya. “He seemed nice. His squire was nicer than Lord Bolton’s stupid Frey boy.” Edmure laughed at that, and the Blackfish cracked a wry smile. 

Robb and Catelyn looked concerned. Another day, another battle. Then Robb looked at her, eyes inquiring. He wants my counsel. Warmth filled her heart. She thought of Lord Beric’s war wound and Loras Tyrell’s sacrifice. “They were strange bandits. They hate the Lannisters almost as much as we do and were oddly noble. Frankly, they seemed too small to concern yourself with for now.” 

Robb sighed. “I’ll send a letter conveying Lord Beric happy hunting, provided he sticks to Lannisters.” Then he rose from the table and adjusted his crown. “Enough of this for now. Sisters, you have traveled a long way. You must be exhausted and hungry.” 

Edmure stood. “Now, allow me to offer you both Riverrun’s famed hospitality.”

Lyarra looked at the clenched mouth of Lady Stark - poised and perfect, as if it were ice itself - and the grumpy face of the Blackfish. Famed hospitality, indeed.  

But a bed, a bath, and a warm meal could work wonders. They stood and shuffled out of the room, leaving the letter with her father’s seal on the table, unopened. The direwolf in the gray wax was snarling, teeth bared. 

Chapter Text

They had all swept into a private dining room for the rest of the night. She learned the true holder of Riverrun, Lord Hoster lay abed, dying. She’d offered sympathies to Edmure, but she privately was glad of that fact. Lyarra kept that relief to herself, ashamed. She doubted he would welcome the bastard of his wife’s husband taking shelter under his halls. One cold, judging Tully stare was enough in her life. 

Their meal had been pleasant. It had just been family, small and cozy. Even Arya and her being filthy hadn’t taken away from the fine evening. A feast to announce their arrival would be held the next night, of course. It would be a show of strength, and a way to embarrass their enemy. 

Robb and her had caught up and spoke of the war so far. Her brother… he was good, a terrific general. He had relieved Riverrun from siege and liberated the Riverlords, who had joined him. He had beat the Lannisters when they had two armies and he only had one. He had reversed even that disadvantage completely - Ser Jaime’s host had been shattered and only Lord Tywin remained in the field. Ser Jaime himself had been captured - at great cost, she had learned. 

Robb had to rush to try and save father, which had been the rationale behind the pact with the Freys. It had also limited him, leaving a good portion of North not mustered and left behind, kept from joining his host. Over the meal, She asked Robb an endless barrage of questions over every detail of the campaign so far. The Blackfish periodically interrupted with a point or reminder of something Robb had forgotten to mention, or simply to spare his great nephew from her incessant parade of questions. He needed to eat, too. 

They spoke back and forth of the events. Edmure remained strangely quiet throughout that, his face uncertain. She empathized with her uncle. He’d been beaten by the Lannisters outside this very castle and been a captive of the Lannisters before Robb’s victories had freed him. That fate was something she and Arya had narrowly avoided. He was probably intimidated by her brother, even though he was years younger, oddly enough. Privately, she shared the emotion. He wears a crown now. She could see its shadow falling over his face. 

Between the two of them, They had never quite solved the mystery of who was older. Father had always alleged Robb was the eldest, but the discrepancy was so small she could never be certain. Thinking her brother and de-facto twin was now a tried and tested battle commander was too crazy to believe, except that it was true.

She had changed the subject to Riverrun in general to give her brother a break, and Edmure and the Blackfish both spoke of how much they loved the fine fishing from the walls. Both possessed a love of their ancestral lands, and the hatred on their faces for the fact it was being despoiled by the Lannisters.

The Blackfish was gruff and dignified, but he didn’t demean or ignore her. He was courteous, if not kind, but she accepted it as enough. It could always be worse. She was content enough with cordial conversation as opposed to icy ignorance and silent glares. He’d asked about the state of King’s Landing and its defenses, and she had spoken what little she knew of that. 

Edmure had been kind and spoke to her with warmth alongside Robb, occasionally teasing or,  more rarely, asking a serious question. He and Robb both had made her feel warmer and lighter than she had since… since her father had been alive. 

None of them pressed her or Arya to talk about him or his passing. They all grieved, but Lyarra felt living free from the Lannister was revenge enough. But then she thought of Joffrey’s smile as her father lost his head, Cersei’s looks of utter loathing upon her, and Tyrion’s deceit and cold rage filled her. 

Lady Stark didn’t speak to her one bit, which she had expected. But she spoke constantly with Arya, content to smother her daughter with conversation. She didn’t glance at Lyarra once. That was a relief. 

Lyarra sat at the same table, alongside her sister and brother, and that was enough for now. The courses came and went and the conversation flowed, and each offered a toast.

Lady Stark toasted for the safety of her children. 

Edmure had toasted to the resilience of the Riverlands and lords. 

The Blackfish had toasted to victory over the Lannisters.

Robb had toasted to their lost father. 

Lyarra had toasted to Sansa. That had put tears in their faces and a solemn look in their eyes. May my sister have the strength she needs. 

Arya had toasted revenge on the Lannisters and Traitors. That had put a fire into every one of their eyes. 

After the night of fine fare, she and Arya had been escorted to Aunt Lysa’s old room. The guards had tried to take Lyarra to her own chambers but Arya had told them off with a firm face. They did not press it further, and Lyarra had hugged her sister for that. Maids had fetched water for a bath and other luxuries for the both of them. 

When they returned, they found dresses on their bed. Before Lady Stark and several maids rushed Arya off into an adjoining room. Arya had looked at Lyarra with pleading eyes and Lyarra had just smiled at her sister. Arya had made an obscene gesture as she was dragged off to be pampered and made to look like the little lady she was. 

Thankfully, no maids were sent to her. She didn’t bother to think about if it were an insult or if she had just been overlooked. She was content without it, dressing simply in a spare dress left out on her and Arya’s bed. It was simple, but it was clean, and so Lyarra did not complain about a change of clothes. Instead, she sat on the bed, cleaning her sword and dagger and listened to Arya in the adjoining room. 

“Arya, my poor girl, what happened to your hair?” 

A nervous pause. “I cut it.” 

“Seven above, Arya, why?” 

“Lya said they were looking for two girls, not a girl and a boy. I was disguised as a boy. Boys have short hair.” 

Lady Stark didn't respond to that. Arya spoke, oddly pleading. “It’ll grow back, mother. Don’t worry.” 

“It will, sweet daughter of mine.” 

It went on like that for a while. Lady Stark was warm and happy, talking constantly to Arya and fussing over every bit of her sister’s conduct. Arya, instead of fighting like usual, simply let her for the evening. Catelyn had brushed out her hair personally and styled her in the room. Lyarra left to find the armory instead of listening any further. Would her mother have done that?  

She looked for gambesons that would properly fit her and her sister. They’d need them underneath their mail. The mail had a nasty half of sitting heavy atop their clothing, chafing as they rode, and a good gambeson would help with that and add protection from lucky blows. 

She passed by Lady Stark in the hallway without comment and walked faster than normal until she was alone once more. 

Catelyn paced through Lysa’s old rooms, heart aflutter. Arya, alive and well. Her daughter was safe. It was a relief, a soothing balm to her wounded heart. Oh Ned, my dearest. One of ours is safe. She smiled with joy for now but she still had another to bring home. Oh Sansa, stay strong. We will free you. But having Arya home gave her hope. A fluttering, happy feeling in her chest. She’d sat and brushed her daughter’s hair over and over, content to touch her, to hug her, to kiss her. Too long had passed since she had last seen her, seen Bran, seen little Rickon. Soon, they would all be home, together once more. 

She walked the halls to Lysa’s old room, now Arya’s quarters, for now. Hers and another’s. Arya refused to leave her half-sister's side. They had slept together, side by side on the road and Arya refused to budge from that habit. Thankfully, only Arya was present for now. 

Arya was happy to be back, her uncharacteristic quiet, accepting silence spoke to that, but her eyes were never still, always scanning the room and doorways. As she had sat still as her hair was untangled, she’d had that damned sword in her hands. She would stir and shift, but her hands never clenched around Needle, as she called it. Even here, where it was safe, where she was surrounded by a host of her brother’s bannermen, she kept it at hand. Always. She’d taken it with her to the baths, Seven above. 

Arya ran her fingers across it, in her lap as she had brushed out her daughter’s hair. Her daughter had used it. Catelyn could read her anxious eyes and withdrawn silences. Arya was hiding something. She hadn’t bothered to hide the sword, so it must be something else. The maids starred as they went through their own work. 

She’d always been a loud one, her daughter, from squealing babe to screaming toddler to yelling girl. She was quiet now, dead quiet. She spoke little, and was content to be dressed and her hair unraveling from its form of a tangled rat’s nest. She was anxious now. It was the only time she quieted herself, chewing on that lip of hers.  

She looked at her daughter’s hands as she cleaned them. They were different. The calluses on them were to be expected - Arya climbed and played as much as she could before, and travel under disguise was not likely to remove them. There were new ones, though, all across her small, slight, pale hands. They were familiar to her, like Neds. Like from holding a sword.  

The dirt under the nails was to be expected, too. Catelyn had played all across the Riverlands, made mudpies with Lysa, Edmure and Petyr - damn him for his deceit - as a girl. She knew every color of mud from the banks, dirt from pasture and soil from the fields. This dirt was redder than any of those. It was blood. She clucked her tongue, until she saw the half moon scabs on the palm. She cleaned those under warm water, slowly. Arya didn’t wince once. 

She didn’t startle at blood either. Sansa would, but Arya never did. “You’re hurt, child.” 

“It’s nothing mother. Just some scabs.” Her daughter’s voice was quiet, a low murmur. 

“Hush. I’m going to bandage them and get an ointment from the maester.” 

“I’ll be fine mother.” Arya’s tone gained more of its old stubbornness. 

“You are to sit right here. I will get it and be right back.” 

She squirmed. “No, don’t go. Just stay.” Arya’s tone became all too familiar, the iron will she had fought against over and over. This time, it implored her to stay. 

“Arya, they’ll scar.” 

“That doesn’t matter. Just stay. I’ve done worse.” Arya stood stiller than ever, mouth sealed shut after her outburst. She chewed on her lower lip.  

Catelyn sighed. She smoothed Arya's hair with her own hands, scarred themselves from the attack on Bran. Who was she to judge? Then the words sunk in. 

I’ve done worse. Not seen. Done.  

Even now, freed from the grip of her own hands, Arya’s hands drifted to the sword. It all made sense now. Seven above, my daughter, a killer . It never should have come to this. Catelyn cursed the Lannisters for everything they had caused. Catelyn just hugged her daughter in a warm embrace, fearing if she let go she was lost. Arya jumped into the embrace with a desperate hunger. 

Arya had withstood it all, a girl of almost ten. A girl of ten. Catelyn shook her head, now. Arya had stayed silent around her, pensive. She was worried about saying, doing anything to disappoint her. 

She’d never be able to, even with this water dancing that would ruin any chance of a decent betrothal. Seven above, Ned, why encourage her folly? Soon enough, she would be a young lady and that activity would do nothing but bring ruin to her. Mocking glares, gazes, and rumors would leave her alone to her gray years.  

Catelyn knew her daughter’s gray eyes and stark look were the cause. Ned never spoke of his sister, Arya’s aunt, but Catelyn had met her - briefly. She was iron willed and certainly not a standard lady, even in those encounters. Arya had inherited her spine. 

Or my own, Catelyn mused. She could have gotten it all from me. Uncle Brynden never married, and Arya’s talk about betrothals mirrored his own. 

Now, with her daughter in hand, she’d never let Walder Frey get her claws on her daughter. She and Robb were bound by their word to him, for a betrothal. But Old Walder Frey was as well. Treacherous as he was, the man would break his word first in some act of betrayal, and they would be free of it all. They could even argue his levies march late to Riverrun was treason itself. Edmure might have prevailed against the Kingslayer if he had had another four thousand men.  

Catelyn would get the best match possible for her, for Robb. She wanted the best for her daughter. She wanted what she had received with Ned for her children. A loving husband and a nest of rambunctious children. Not some weaselly up-jumped toll collector’s son with Lannister in laws, living in her brother’s castle. 

Arya fidgeted and fussed, stirring her from her thoughts. but was silent as she worked, content to listen. Her daughter sunk into her embrace and smiled, content. Catelyn was content to simply treasure the moment for a long while. She left to grab a ribbon for Arya’s hair. Ointment too. She mused as she walked through the halls. 

Arya and her bastard sister had fought their way home. The girl named Snow stuck true to her Stark sister. Catelyn was thankful for that. But she found herself wishing Sansa had escaped with them. Two daughters would have been an even greater relief. One was already a miracle. Sansa was still trapped with the Lannisters. The girl’s toast had only reminded her of that. But she would take one daughter back all the same. Soon, my sweet Sansa. You’ll be home soon too. 

She retrieved her supplies and made her way back through the halls of Riverrun. When she returned, she heard their voices now, in the room. Arya and the girl’s. The words were indistinct, but she remembered that same throat making garbled coos long, long ago. 

The girl and Robb had slept in the same room, with the wet nurse Wylla. Ned had insisted on that, to make sure both received milk when they needed it. Their gurgles and laughter echoed from the room at all hours. They had only been split when the girl had taken sick. Catelyn had split them to protect her son. Her little baby breaths had gotten softer and softer. Robb had gotten sick with her, and yet Ned had worried himself sick above the girl’s cradle, his eyes and pain evident. 

She knew she had caused it. When Ned had ridden home with the babe, she couldn’t bear to look at her. She prayed at the Sept for the Gods to take her away, to somewhere else.

So she’d stayed up all night, sat next to the infants, praying over both and making two prayer wheels. She prayed for forgiveness, for redemption. She swore she would have the girl legitimized and would raise her as her own, if only she and Robb lived. She would be the Mother herself, a font of mercy. 

She tried. She honestly had. But she couldn’t keep her promise, her word. The girl had lived and ran alongside her own children, talking and walking beside them. Her children accepted the girl as their sibling, but Catelyn could never bring herself to be a mother to her. 

In her heart, she knew this war and the pox were the same. The Gods never forget vows. They punish those who break oaths. Their justice, their punishment, is absolute. 

In the present, Catelyn heard that bond of siblings, those words exchanged in a quick way, clipped and loving, as she approached. 

“Sit still, Arya. We need to get this fitted. Better if you have some armor that actually fits you.” The voice was faint but familiar, a little piece of Ned left behind. His child with another. 

The woman he had never named, the sole secret of their relationship. Rumors had been flung around about Ashara Dayne, a beautiful maiden from Dorne that Ned had danced with at Harrenhal. She’d asked about her, once. Ned’s eyes had clouded with a deep fury. It was the only time he had ever frightened her. His voice was quiet, yet deadly serious. The voice he pronounced sentences of criminals with. The voice of Lord Eddard. 

“She is my blood. That is all you need to know. And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.” 

She told and never heard the name again within Winterfell. Now she would never hear it - her dearest was dead, his secrets dead with him. 

It stung, even after all these years. She was not ignorant. Men had needs; she knew that. Camp followers followed armies for that reason. Even her dearest, honorable Ned had succumbed once. She could forgive that. She could forgive making sure the child was taken care of and safe, that was also permissible. Honorable, even. 

But he had brought the girl with him and named her daughter before all the north to see. He’d raised her along with Catelyn's own children, sat her on the high table, flaunted her to his bannermen. Her shame, her pain, and he had paraded the girl around before all without a trace of shame of his own. It cut deep, even now, years later. It had been too much. Whenever she glanced at the girl, she was reminded of the affair and her smiles died. She saw nothing of herself in the girl. Looking into those gray Stark eyes, that long Stark face, that brown stark hair, and all she saw was her Ned. She was reminded of his weakness, his sin, his failing. 

She felt fear, too, when she saw the girl, who looked so much like her father, more so than her own children. That fact was more important now with the truth about the Lannister children. A bannerman could marry her and use her claim over her Catelyn's children. Catelyn swore that would never happen.

“I am sitting still, Lya.” Lya. Lyarra Snow. He’d even named the girl after his own mother. Catelyn had meant it as a name for a third daughter. Instead it had been snatched by another woman’s child.

Instead, a girl nobody could deny was a Stark bore it, and walked alongside her children. She even looked like the previous bearer of her nickname, Lya. Lyanna. Her aunt. Like Arya. Her and Arya looked so much alike not a soul alive doubted they were sisters. 

Ned had loved her mother fiercely. Nothing she had said or done would convince him to send her away. She could never forgive that. Ned had sent the girl to Bear Island to ward for a year, after the Greyjoy Rebellion. The girl and Theon never got along. After a fairly vicious fight between the two of them that had ended with both bloody, Ned had done that, without her prompting. Catelyn had been content then, breathing easier, praying it was the end of her embarrassment. Instead, the girl had returned a year later, and Arya was the first to welcome her back. They had become inseparable after the fact. They had run around, playing with sticks and getting muddy together.  The girl seemed content to drag Arya through every unladylike activity Catelyn knew. They were together even now, putting on armor. Seven above, Mother, grant me patience.

She watched from the doorway Arya was sitting on the bed, squirming across from her sister. The girl was facing her sister, adjusting a gambeson. It was sized for a boy, and yet it was far too big for Arya. 

The girl was adjusting it for Arya, pinning and creasing the piece of armor. Arya giggled when her half-sister found her armpits, and the girl had ruffled her hair then bent down to kiss the top of Arya’s head. 

The movement reminded her so much of Ned that it hurt and her eyes watered. She closed them then, bearing the grief in silence. She opened them when she walked into the room. 

Arya noticed her first, and froze. She tugged on her half-sister’s sleeve of the gambeson the other girl was wearing, and the girl with the name Snow froze. 

Arya looked at her half-sister and said nothing. She looked worried. Snow’s hands started to tremble. 

She turned slowly to face Catelyn, her face pale. When she saw, she spoke to Arya. “I’ll let you speak with your mother.” Her voice was soft and she didn’t meet Catelyn’s eyes, instead staring at her boots. 

She started to walk out, her hands swaying slightly. 

Catelyn reached out to grab her forearm. The girl’s arm was shaking. The sword on her belt jangled. Her grip was tighter than she intended, so she loosened it. 

She waited, eyes on the girl's face until she looked up and met them. Catelyn tried to stuff down her sentiment. She had a duty to perform, as a lady. The girl had saved Arya from the clutches of the Lannisters. It was the least she could do. 

Her expression reminded her of her husband even then. A face carefully guarded, a purposely neutral face. But there was something underneath she couldn’t place. Those gray eyes met hers. So much like Ned’s. Would he have hugged her, congratulated her for getting Arya to safety? 

She could not. That was too much. She was too weak. 

She spoke instead. The words feel out, slow and courteous. It was the least she could do. “I wanted to thank you, Lady Snow. You’ve done me and my family a great service. I am in your debt.” 

The girl’s eyes flashed. Something simmered there, an ugly purple mix of fear and anger. Catelyn had seen the like before. 

The girl had a temper. Catelyn had seen it before. The last time it had been directed at her…

She had deserved it.

Sansa, several years younger than her older half-sister, had just started to sew and embroider under Septa Mordane, and Catelyn had praised and exhibited her daughter’s work to the whole castle with pride. She had hung pieces in the Grand Hall and called attention to the pieces. That had been the root of it all, she knew now. 

The girl - no, Lyarra - had offered her a dress soon after. Catelyn had thought it a sign of competition, proof of pride. I am better than yours - look at how much better it is. How old had the girl been? Arya’s age? Sansa had been younger and far less skilled at the time, barely older than Rickon. 

She had presented Catelyn with a dress embroidered with snowflakes. Catelyn had held it in her hands and inspected it. I am more northern, more Stark, than yours, my very name snow. Your daughter is a southern fish, a stranger in her own home.

Catelyn had refused it: She had plenty of her own. It was a fine make for a child, and the girl deserved the fruits of her labors. The girl had so little of her own to treasure. She tried to hand it back to the girl. She’d pushed it back into her hands, face insistent. “It’s yours.”  

They had pushed it back and forth for ages, the girl being stubborn as Ned, until Catelyn had lost her patience and let go of it, hoping the girl would catch it. Instead, it had slipped through small hands and fallen in the mud. 

The girl had lunged for her then, trampling her own work to get at her, like a wild beast. It had taken Jory and three other guards to drag her away, kicking and screaming all the while. Catelyn had stood frozen, watching the tears in those gray eyes. The tantrum had been worse than any of Arya’s, any of Robb’s. Not even Rickon with all his wild energy had even come close in his four years of trying. Ned had stormed out into the yard to find the scene then and went to calm the girl. 

She had realized all too late what the dress had been. It wasn’t just a dress. The guilt had consumed her. She picked it up and stared at it. She had looked closer and found the tiny blood stains around where the needle had worked. The girl hadn’t thought to use a thimble - she hadn’t even gone to the septa to learn. She had tried it herself, alone, laboring in silence to preserve the surprise. How many hours of pokes, of prods over her own fingers. Poor girl.  

She had the servants wash and return it to the girl’s room. She had spoken to Ned and told him not to punish the girl for her outburst. He’d been surprised by that. 

Then, she stood outside the girl’s door for seven nights, staring into the wood grain. Each night, She reached for the handle, to open it, to apologize. She prayed a litany asking for the Mother's mercy again and again. Each night, her hand had slipped away from it. Each night, she turned and walked away. For the first six nights, she’d prayed in the sept for strength the next night.

On the seventh, she’d simply prayed for forgiveness. Her heart had been too weak. After that, it was too late.

Now, her heart might be strong enough. It might not. But now? It was definitely too late. The stream was bone dry; years of drought had seen to it. It had been the last time the girl had shown her any emotion at all. 

In the present, Lady Snow tugged her arm free. 

Her words were spat out with a vehemence. “I didn’t do it for your family. I did it for mine .” They were filled with a deep, bitter loathing. But that wasn’t all - the words had a sadness, a melancholy to them as well. 

Then Lyarra Snow was off, striding through the halls as quickly as she could. Catelyn watched her go. Catelyn had seen her eyes glisten before she turned. Too Late.

When she turned to face Arya, her daughter looked at her. Her face was sad. She spoke as if thinking aloud, trying to solve a puzzle in her head. “Lya’s hands never trembled when she fought…”

Catelyn’s heart thudded then. Too Late. Too Late. 

She approached her daughter then and sat beside her on the bed. It was the first time the two of them had been truly alone since Winterfell. 

She reached out to hug her daughter with one arm, to bring her close, but Arya shifted over on the bed, closer to the edge, away from her embrace. They sat there a long time, the space between them. 

Arya chewed on her lip before she spoke. “Is it true?” 

Catelyn spoke carefully. “Is what true?” 

Arya chewed on her lip more, refusing to look at her. “I’m betrothed? They must have lied. It can’t be. I’m too young. I’m nine. It was a mean trick. Right, mother?”

Her heart stilled. They had gone through Lord Bolton’s host. She had heard of the Frey betrothal through there. If so, she cursed the man. She would have told it gently, kindly to Arya. Catelyn knew how Arya would take it from her. From a stranger, the Gods only knew how she had reacted. 

She turned Catelyn, her eyes brimming with hope. Catelyn held her tight and whispered into her ear. “I’m so sorry, my daughter.” 

Arya froze under her embrace. Catelyn pulled herself back and went to smooth the girl’s hair. Arya squirmed away out from under her hand. Her brow furrowed and her face was hard. 

“You and Robb traded me as toll for a bridge!” She yelled it, her volume raising surprisingly high for her small size. Her daughter’s cheeks were hot and red with anger. This was the Arya she knew, not the demure girl who’d let her brush her hair. 

Catelyn scolded her “Arya! Do not lose your temper.” Then, she softened her tone. “We thought the Lannisters had you, your sister, and your father.” 

“That does not make it any better!” Arya’s eyes were teary and her lip trembled. 

“It was the only way we could save you.” 

“I DIDN’T NEED ANY SAVING!” Arya was screaming now, her eyes furious. She ran at Catelyn and beat her little fists into her legs and chest. 

They were directionless, and did little damage, but each one was a dagger to the heart. Catelyn kept her voice level and stern. She grabbed her daughter’s hands and held her as she squirmed in her grip. She began to cry as well. “I am sorry, Arya. But you forget yourself. You are a lady. You will be betrothed one day, to someone you deserve.”

Arya froze at that, and those gray eyes stared at her, full of fury and hurt. She looked… She looked just like her half-sister. The eyes of a bastard girl. Too late .

“Never! I never wanted that. You and father did! I never did. Never, never, never. I hate you!” Catelyn let go of her daughter out of shock, and Arya bolted down the hallway, out of the room, sprinting like the Stranger was behind her. 

Catelyn collapsed on the bed and wept, her heart rending itself within her. Oh Daughter…

The wind blew through the open window, in a single repeated refrain. Too late. Too late. Too late. 

Lyarra found herself wandering. She had stormed off in such a fury she had no idea where she had ended up. She’d run off, her hands trembling, before she balled them into fists to stop it. She’d been afraid of what’d she say, what’d she do. Her temper had never brought her anything good. 

She roamed the halls of Riverrun aimlessly, stewing in her thoughts. 

Eventually, she followed the sound of frogs croaking and birds chirping to a doorway that led into Riverrun’s godswood. It was empty at this hour, and seemed cramped within the walls of Riverrun compared to Winterfell’s sprawling godswood, but it would serve. 

She found her way to the heart tree within and sat on her knees. Normally, when she felt hurt or sad, she’d run to the Godswood and her father would find her there, staring at the reflection beside the pools. 

He’d never say anything to comfort her. Words were wind. He’d sit beside her and hold her close sometimes. Other times, he would rub her shoulders and back with a hand or bony knuckle. Rarely, when she was mad as well as sad, he would simply sit beside her and keep her company until she calmed. 

He’d never held her own formidable temper against her. He’d simply called it wolf’s blood. His siblings had it, and she did. He’d never had a temper like hers. She’d asked him about it, why she had it when he did not. Her father had gotten a faraway look in his eyes and said nothing. That had made her cry more.

She wished he were here now. But that would never happen. He’d never sit beside her again. She felt the ache in her heart and her tears flowed freely as she sobbed. She wished Robb were here. 

He was not as good as father at soothing her. But he knew how to, at least. But Robb was busy as a King, planning campaigns and meeting bannermen. Arya was with her mother, and that was no place of comfort now. Betrothed to the Freys…

That made her weep for her sister. Her strong, willful sister. She deserved so much better than a twentieth son, and a Frey to boot. 

Bran and Rickon were in Winterfell, and Ghost. Ghost was off in the woods. Ghost would never submit to being inside castle walls after the Red Keep. Ghost was far away for now. 

She had never felt more alone in her life. Hollow and alone. A bastard girl without a mother. Without a father. She sat there, alone in her misery, and wept until the ground beneath her was muddy, wallowing in grief. Over what she had lost and what she had never had. 

She found herself sliding into sleep under the tree soon after, and when she woke, the sky was black and lit only by a fine net of stars. 

Chapter Text

Robb summoned her the next day. A harried looking guard awoke her in the early hours of the morning. Lyarra let Arya slumber on. Their bed was undisturbed - both had slept on the floor under blankets. They found the bed was too soft, too comfortable after weeks of sleeping on dirt. It felt like she was falling into a gaping maw when she laid in it. Lyarra walked to her brother’s solar and made her way inside. 

He was sitting in front of his table, a map laid out before him… with an unfolded letter left on top of the table. He sat back in his seat, head in his hands, crown lying by his feet. It had fallen off, and it slowly rolled towards her feet.

Lyarra shut the door before she did anything else. Then, She slowly walked towards her brother. Around him, carved wooden pieces lay scattered around the table, some set on the floor. Lion and wolf pieces laid scattered across the floor. Only a singular stag lay on the table, facing Lyarra. 

Her brother’s face is pale and drawn, his cheeks sunken and eyes staring into the far distance. His eyes were wet. She made her way to his side and watched him. She scooped up the crown on the way and set it on the table.  

The seal of the letter laid out on the table faced her - a direwolf signet. She knew the letter. She carried it for weeks across leagues. 

“Robb?” Her voice was soft - softer than her usual tone, kinder. Like Sansa’s. 

Sansa was the best of them at being comforting. She was the kindest, sweetest of them by far. She knew just what other people were feeling. She was the best at nurturing someone, making them feel whole and happy with a few simple words. 

It made her insults bite deeper when she was upset. She quickly smothered the thought of her sister, lost and alone in King’s Landing. 

She had a brother to look after for now. 

“Read it.” His voice was hoarse.

It was not the voice of King Robb. It was her brother’s voice. 

“As you command, m’lord.” The joke felt awkward. Robb didn’t react to her impression of smallfolk. She was out of her depth. Robb was the cheery one, cajoling and fixing everything. Robb had always had the better jokes. She… she was the sullen one that brooded and caused the problems. She wasn’t very good at comforting people, except Arya. 

She picked up the letter. The words within flowed smoothly, richly, forming spirals and strong straight lines all in tandem, effortlessly. The lines were crisp and well written from a hand she had loved. A Hand who would never write again. 

She held the letter away from her so her tears wouldn’t wet the page.  

It was an invitation to the Lord of Dragonstone to come and take his crown. More than that, it was proof that her father had trusted her. For all her quiet doubts, her private fears, in the end, he had trusted her. Trusted her to carry a letter of his private, desperate treason. He had trusted her the most, to carry this letter to Lord - no, King - Stannis. 

She set the letter down on the table and stared at it one more. The Stag piece lay on Dragonstone, implacable. 

“I can’t do it, Lya. I tried, every day, to keep my face up and look like I know what’s going on…But I don’t really control anything at all. The only time I feel control is when I’m ahorse, lance and sword in hand, fighting. Only then do I really feel in control. Otherwise I feel like this.” He gestured with an empty palm, waving the hand around. 

She sat next to him and took his limp hand. She had no idea what to say. That I felt the same way? She wasn’t any good at it. So she went to the familiar. Told her brother her own troubles, as she had dozens of times before. 

“Ghost went half mad with me in King’s Landing. We were both caged. All the plotting, the lying. I… I had no idea what was going on. I had no power, Robb. I was lost. So many people, all with their own schemes, their own interests… Wheels within wheels. Whenever I felt close, something new came to the fore. Each time, it reminded me I didn’t know anything at all.” 

He looked at her now, eyes weary. She shared the same weary look. She recognized the shades of her father’s eyes then, and realized what had sculpted him into the man he had been. He had been of the same age as they were when winter came for him. 

“I tried. I did everything I could. I called the banners, I marched south, I kept them all in line, favoring none like father always said…I accepted a deal with the Freys for my own hand. For Arya’s hand, even if it made my teeth grind. I fought three battles, I caught the kingslayer and half a dozen lesser Lannisters. I freed uncle Edmure and relieved Riverrun and even then…I still lost him.”

She squeezed his hand when he fell silent and spoke to him, her voice strangely distant and emotionless. 

“You were in Riverrun, there was nothing you could do. I was there. So was Arya. We were sitting right there, outside the Sept. I watched them do it, Joffrey calling for his head, Ser Ilyn when he pulled Ice from its scabbard, and Janos Slynt when he lifted Father’s head to the crowd.” 

Robb sat still for a long time. “And now…I wear a crown myself. Wearing that only spits on Father’s legacy.” He pointed to the letter with a shaking hand. 

“What’s done is done, Robb.” It came out harsher than she intended. Her brother winced, and she left his grip and moved her hand on his shoulder. 

“You could not have known. I did not, and I carried that damn letter here.” She hated that letter. It was her father’s last act, and it had gotten him killed. And now it had filled Robb with doubt, crippled his confidence. 

“I should have known better. Father was honorable. He was just. He didn’t need a crown. He would never have…” proclaimed himself king . She could finish Robb’s words herself even if he could not. His voice trailed off into a quiet sob. 

Robb hadn’t proclaimed himself either. His men had. But that difference had ended when he took the crown from their hands and placed it on his head.

Her next words were not planned. “I don’t think we knew him as well as you think.” 

He looked at her then, scandalized. Angry. 

“I watched him lie, Robb. He lied in front of that crowd. He spoke lies and deceit about treason, about him lusting after the throne, about him killing Robert. I don’t think honor drove our father at all.”

Robb’s face darkened at her words, and his fists clenched. His face reddened, yet she spoke on. 

She held up her hands to mollify him. “He was good at it, Robb. I almost believed him and I knew it was false. But it wasn’t his honor that drove him to do that. I think it was love.”

“They had Sansa.” His voice had returned to the same, defeated tone. 

“They still do.” It was a crushing feeling, to know someone they loved was beyond their reach, in peril. 

“I have to make it public, Lya. I have to. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what he would’ve done.”

“No. You won’t do anything of the sort. Your men made you king. They can just as easily unmake you. Refusing it would do nothing but provoke their wrath. You cannot afford that.”

He looked at her confused. “They followed father…”

“They did. Now they follow you. Not Stannis. You don’t owe him anything. He left, Robb. He and Lady Arryn both. They fled and ran from the Capitol and let father and the rest of us stumble into the nest of vipers they found. They knew the danger and let him die. Even now, the man father swore his loyalty to sits in his castle, on his island, and broods. He declares for no one, not even himself. He sits and waits as you fight and die.”

“He’s the rightful king of the seven kingdoms. Father would not lie about that.” 

“Aye, he is. But that means nothing. Declaring for him doesn’t change anything. We still are fighting the Lannisters, and maybe even his younger brother. Neither of them will reward you for your honorable declaration. They might win, and then it will mean treason and death for all of us.” 

“But if he wins…” 

“If. And if he does, we can hand him that letter and show him father died for his claim. And if that isn’t enough, you give him me as a hostage. Then you kneel and go home.”

“Lya, that’s…” 

She put her hands on his shoulders. “I want us to survive, Robb. I want us to live. If a crown is the price of that - whether you wear it or toss it aside - then it’s a price we should be willing to pay.”

He looked at her. 

“You aren’t alone in this, Robb. You can trust the family beside you. Me, Arya, Edmure, the Blackfish, and” … It pained her, even that brief mention … “your mother.”

He laughed then. “There’s your trademark grimace.” Then he sobered up and looked at her. “Has she…” He knew. Her brother alway knew. They all did. It wasn’t a secret. It never was. 

“Don’t worry about it. You have bigger game to hunt.”

“Lya, I…”

Her response was harsh. “Don’t trouble yourself.” 

She sat on the table, in front of him. “Letters are words, and words are wind. If Lord Stannis stirs from his blasted island, then this letter matters. He may not.” He could sit there until the end of time , She thought. He’s sat there for months already.  

“Right now, we have other things to worry about.” She sat beside her brother, her hand running across the network of swords on his crown. They were black cast iron, colored like the night sky. 

Robb looked at her. “Lord Tywin?” 

“No, other worries. Chiefly, Lord Bolton.”  Her arms were crossed across her chest. 

That brought him back. He stared at her, confused. “Lord Bolton is my bannerman. He commands my foot. What are you talking about?” 

She looked into Robb’s blue marbled eyes then, and saw nothing but confusion. She saw no worry or suspicion in those Tully eyes so unlike her own. She saw Sansa, guileless and obsessed with romance. That terrified her more than any suspicion of her own. “He’s up to something, Robb.” 

“He led my men into battle for me and fought Lord Tywin. He’s done everything I asked of him.” Not again. 

“Listen to me, Robb. You spent the last few months fighting a war. You did quite well. I spent the last few months ferreting out plots and schemes in King’s Landing. I was surrounded by liars and cheats. Trust me.” 

“Believe me, I had to give the Greatjon a lesson in manners, but the rest of them are just as loyal as he is now.” His eyes were twinkling and honest. 

“They’re loyal because you are winning, Robb. If that starts to change, if they see weakness,  they’ll pounce.” 

Robb stared into her eyes, before giving a long sigh. “Fine. What is he up to?” 

She had no idea. “I don’t know for certain.” 

“Others above, you just suspected something? Lya, the man frightens me too but he’s done nothing to warrant suspicion. He’s asked nothing of me except for command.” 

She chewed on her finger and mumbled it. “Nothing but command.” How many lords would have asked for that honor? Several, no doubt. Robb looked at her, lost in thought as well. 

The thought crystalized. “When Arya and I met his host, there were four lords there. Him, Ser Aenys Frey, Ser Tallhart, and Robett Glover. I saw the banners of a half-dozen other lords, but none of them, or their sons were present.” 

That sobered up Robb. “What about Lord Hornwood and Lord Cerwyn?” 

Lyarra shrugged. “Lost, dead or captured, I don’t know.” She focused her glare on Robb. “It’s too convenient.” 

Robb looked grave, eyes far into the distance. “War is war. Men die.” Lyarra could see his shoulders sag with guilt.

“I am aware, brother. But I fear if we leave Lord Bolton alone, he’ll soon be the only lord left in his host.” If there were no other lords, the whole host would be his rather than Robb’s. 

“He needs to be watched.” Lest he get any ideas.

Robb stroked his chin. “What do you suggest?” 

“Have someone else take over, someone you can trust.” 

“I can’t remove him from command without cause.” Robb looked torn at that dilemma.

Lyarra raised her brows. “You’re king, Robb.”

Robb sighed. “I can’t, Lya.”

She looked down at her feet. Robb lifted her chin with a finger. “I trust you, but I can’t remove him just yet. I need a reason other than blind suspicion.” 

She kicked the table but turned back to Robb. “Send someone to his host to watch him. Someone to be your eyes and ears and to take command lest he try anything.” 

Robb smiled at her. “I could send you, sweet sister.” 

He could. Her, ferreting out plots, then commanding a host of her own… It was a dream. But she would have to maneuver around Lord Bolton. She doubted any of the other Lords would listen to her, particularly the Freys. A bastard girl, commanding an army of her own? Maybe if she were a boy, and a decade older. 

“I don’t think that will work, Robb.” She met his eyes. 

“I’m king. If I command it…” 

“Robb, they won’t listen to me. You are trueborn, our father’s son and heir. They barely listened to you before you started winning battles. I’m just Ned Stark’s bastard daughter. They see me as a marriage prospect, if they see anything at all.” The words boiled at her throat as she spat them out. Her fist clenched. 

Robb’s eyes were pained, but he knew just as well that she did. 

She pursed her lips. “Send the Blackfish.” 

Robb shook his head. “I won’t - he’s my eyes and ears. He’s too valuable as a leader of outriders.” Those skills were not needed to hold the keep of Riverrun. 

His gaze shifted to the map, ever so slightly. “You’re planning something and you need him.” 

He stared at her for a moment, shocked. His face made that gaping, fish out of water, Tully expression she had learned from Sansa and Edmure. “Is it that obvious?” 

Gotcha . She smiled. “Only to me. I know you too well. Are you going to tell me?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. 

He looked at his feet. “I was not planning to.” 

“Then don’t.” She smirked at him, playfully hitting him on the shoulder. “Going to use your royal prerogative?” 

“Shut up.” He was smiling. 

She turned back to the table. “Regardless, send someone to watch him. One of your lords who is important enough that Bolton will have to include him on war councils. Preferably an observant one.” 

Robb looked at her quizzically. “How can I justify that?” 

Lyarra frowned, and stared at the map. “Send a riverlord. Say he needs a local to aid his knowledge of the terrain. Or send one with a complement of heavy horse to reinforce him, he needs it.”

“Aye that could work. I would send a Darry or Whent, but…” Robb frowned. “They all fell in the fighting.” 

Lyarra frowned. “Anyone who hates the Lannisters more than us?” 

At that, Robb looked up and snapped his fingers. “Lord Karstark. He lost two of his sons to the Kingslayer. He’s been… difficult.” He probably wanted to break into the Lannister’s cell and strangle the Kingslayer with his own guts. Lyarra could hardly blame him. 

Lyarra winced. “Which of them?” The Karstarks were a distant, cadet branch of the Starks. But they were distant enough that Lyarra had worried about a betrothal to one of them. Three sons. She was saddened by their loss. They had fought over her favor in the training yard at Winterfell when they had last visited. All three were good fighters. It was a shame - she had wanted to beat the winner into the dirt after. None had managed to win that scrap, though. Theon and Robb had ganged up on the winner, Eddard. He had been too tired to resist. 

“Eddard and Torrhen. Harrion marched with their foot.”

“He wasn’t at the feast with Lord Bolton.” Harrion was the very opposite of shy. The heir to the Karhold would have approached her here without a doubt. He did so before, at Winterfell, trying to get her plastered and help her to her room afterwards. He was a canny one, more subtle than most of the other prospects. He was absent, which meant captured. And if it was as a result of Lord Bolton’s commands … She could work with that. She played with a strand of hair as she thought it over. 

Robb looked at her. “You are plotting something.”

She looked at him with annoyance. “Lord Rickard would work well. He could have his share of Lannister blood and hopefully rescue his son. I could…”

She stopped herself short. No, I shouldn’t sully his conscience. Robb raised a brow and gestured. “Go on.” 

Lyarra sighed. “Well, I could imply Lord Bolton’s leadership may be responsible for his son’s capture…” Robb’s eyes widened. “... giving him little reason to trust his new commander and making him look for any whiff of treason to depose him.” 

Robb looked flabbergasted. “You’d lie?” 

Lyarra looked at him, flabbergasted. “I would not lie, Robb. It is not some foul scheme - Lord Bolton let his army into a battle and his son was captured as a result. I am just pointing out the cause and effect.” 

“That does not seem much different.” 

“It will work. Either way, you will get an extra pair of eyes on good Lord Bolton, and the Karstarks have plenty of heavy horse to reinforce them.” 

Robb looked at her and mused aloud. “The capitol changed you, dear sister.” 

She glared at him before spitting out a response. “Of course it did. I had to watch him die. I watched them butcher our guards and servants. I… I…” Her temper died down and she shuddered. “I had to leave her behind.” 

Robb sighed. “I didn’t mean…” 

Lyarra rubbed her face. Robb just stepped forward and they hugged each other. “I’m sorry.” 

Her eyes watered. He was strong just like father. “No, thank you for listening, Robb.” 

Robb looked at her. “No, thank you, sister. We’ll get her back. We’ll get her back.” 

She let go after a good long while. They stood there, watching each other. Robb picked up the crown and placed it on his head. He did look regal, oddly enough. She pushed the crown back on her forehead to where it sat properly. He stared cross-eyed at her finger as she did it. 

Then she stepped back. A King. Her brother, the king. She looked at him and smiled even as her eyes watered. “Father would be proud.”

He looked at her and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “He’d be proud of you too.” 

“It’s good to see you.” 

He smiled. “Now, was there anything else you wanted to discuss, sister?” His voice was haughty and far too overdone, like a herald. 

She didn’t want to spoil the moment with mention of Freys. “Later. I would like to eat something before the day begins. And … I need to check on Arya.” 

His eyes were concerned. “I’ll follow. I do want how she is doing. And see what she’s learned from you.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, as the student of my student, I’d be negligent if I did not.” 

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. “We will see, brother mine.” She walked backward with a smile on her face. “I’ll tell Lord Karstark.” 

“Lyarra, I’ll give the order…” Robb sounded faintly annoyed but there was a firm nature to his voice. 

She raised both hands to placate him. “I’ll just give him advance warning. All informal. Plant the seed and you can give the order, since you are such a big king. Don’t declare yourself emperor when I’m gone.” 

He smiled at that. Lyarra took heart in that as left the room and strode through the corridors. 

Arya was still asleep when she returned from breaking her fast. 

She picked her armor for the next encounter carefully. She dressed simply in a wool dress with boots and her sword belt. On her route through the yard, she caught Ghost, Nymeria and Grey Wind fighting, snarling and biting at each other. A few men at arms watched from a safe distance, taking bets and chanting their favorite’s name. Only the lack of blood convinced her they were playing together, the snarls and growls were so fierce. With a whistle, they split apart and Ghost padded off. Ghost followed by her side, content and panting. Grey wind and her had played throughout the night in the woods, if the brambles attached to her coat were any indication. Those took too long to brush out. Sansa was best at combing through the direwolf fur - Lady had always managed to look dignified, even when the other direwolves looked like the nightmarish wild beasts they were. 

She walked through the castle and made her way through the gates of Riverrun into the Northern camp, and walked until she found the tents under the black banner with white starburst. The Karstark segment of camp. She walked to the biggest, grandest tent within, and made her way through the flap. 

Lord Karstark was awake, sitting on his bed. She’d met the lord before, a tall, genial man with a wild beard and hair, combed and styled with whale oil. She had thought him half a wildling for his furs the first time he had visited Winterfell. Grief had ruined him. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, red veins standing out like wine stains. His white beard and long hair were bedraggled and amess. He hadn’t had time to comb it, or he didn’t care enough to. She stared past her and gave no indication he had seen her. 

“Lord Rickard, I wanted to come to give you my condolences.” She clasped her hands in front of herself and tried to look demure. Her arms rubbed against the pommel of her sword. 

He looked up at her. “Lady Snow?” 

“Yes, my lord.”

He studied her face then, his own a mixture of grief and wrath. “Why come to me?” 

“I… know what it’s like.” Her own eyes watered and she felt more wretched than ever. Even dead, her father couldn’t escape intrigues. 

He nodded, his own eyes lost in memories like hers. “I was there. I watched those boys from when their mother whelped them to when they bore steel in their hands. I watched the Kingslayer cut Eddard’s head off and slit the throat of Torrhen. Bastard. Kingslayer. Even now, he jokes and japes about them to his guards.” That concerned her. Either the guards talked too much or Lord Karstark had an inside man. He continued speaking, his voice thick with emotion and spraying spittle. “I’ll kill him. I’ll choke him until he turns blue or cut his head off myself. And your brother keeps him prisoner, locked in a tower cell with a feather bed.” He gave a rueful laugh without a hint of mirth. Even feet away, Lyarra could feel the hatred, the spite, radiating off him. 

“My own King is protecting him. My bloody vengeance frozen like ice. All I can do is sit and grieve.”  He stared at her then, and his eyes were hard. 

“And he sends his sister to treat with me. You won’t convince me of the virtue of mercy any more than his southron, heathen mother did.” 

She took a deep breath. “I won’t try to convince you of it at all. You could never convince me not to gut the queen and her hellspawn.”

He looked at her then, and they regarded each other for a moment and saw the same fire. He nodded. “Then why have you come?” 

“To convince you to wait.” 

He leaned back in his chair. “Why should I?” 

She sat on a stool in the tent. “My brother needs the kingslayer until his sister is free and safe in our hands.” 

“He should not trade him, even for the girl.” She glared at him for that imposition. He met it and continued. “I know the girl, Sansa is a sweet and kind thing. But she won’t lead armies against us or wield a sword half as well as the Kingslayer.” His eyes flickered to her own blade. She chose not to say anything about that for now. Neither did he, oddly enough. It seems we both know when to pick our battles. 

She dared to say the unthinkable. “Would you trade him for one of your dead sons?” 

“Would I? Would I?” He stood up and paced back and forth, gesturing with his arms angrily, his hair only growing wilder by the exertion. “They are dead, and that trade is a cruel fantasy.” His hand pointed to her and she remained stoic. He got her point, if his anger was an indication. 

She nodded. “I did not mean to cause you any more grief than you have suffered. I want blood as much as you.” If Sansa was free, his head would be on a stake outside the camp. I’d do it myself. “We will get our blood price, Lord Karstark.” 

His pacing grew frantic, and his hands were a curled fist and accusing fingers. “Will we? What if your brother agrees to peace with the Lannister twats? If he releases the Kingslayer to them then what will my vengeance be worth?” He would be yelling, but his voice was too hoarse. Peace is a fool’s errand with the Lannisters. 

“I doubt very much we will make peace with my father’s murderers.” She stood and walked over to him. Her voice was a low growl now as she whispered into his ear. “But people die all the time in peace. Hunting accidents, poison, northern bandits. So many ways for errant Lannisters to meet their ends.” 

His eyes widened under her whispers. “You’d do that? What of honor? What would your father say?” What would he say? Would he scold me? Refuse to speak of it? 

But he couldn’t say anything any more. His ghost could still judge, though, and she flinched slightly. “I value my family surviving far more. I wouldn’t rest until justice was done, for my kin … and yours.” She looked up at him as she spoke. 

His eyes were wider than anything else from the steel in her tone. Then he chuckled, very slightly. “Even after all that, you would still be more honorable than the Bolton bastard, at least.” Good, He’s starting to see it my way. 

She tried to see it as a complement. “But we are kin, Lord Karstark. Distant, but still bound by bonds of blood, are we not?” 

She sat back down and he did as well. “Aye, we are.” 

He poured a glass of Arbor Gold for himself … and one for her. “You are the closest my brother can come to trust. He needs you for something.” 

He looked at her quizzically and motioned her to continue. She kept her voice a whisper as he leaned in. “My brother has become curious about the Battle of the Green Fork. Lord Bolton commanded there, did he not?” A nod. “Was Harion captured then?” His face darkened. Another nod. Lyarra leaned closer. “Many other notable lords were killed or captured. I found it … odd.” 

Lord Karstark looked at her. “Surely…” She was losing him. She was a bastard girl, she would know nothing of battle. 

She cut him off. “When my sister and I walked through, Lord Bolton’s men were unbloodied.” Not completely, but the rest of the host had suffered worse in the fighting. 

Lord Karstark looked at her strangely, then thought about it. His hand stroked his matted beard. “Cravens. Cowards.” 

“We worry about their valor … and loyalty.” At that, his eyes widened and his mouth gaped. “We would send you … to be my brother’s eyes and ears.”  

“What of his Tully relations?” He needs them for a campaign he would not tell me about. Telling Lord Karstark that would not win him over. 

“They are southerners - they do not know Lord Bolton as well as you.” The Karhold bordered the Dreadfort and its lands. Karlon Stark had been settled there for a reason, long ago. None wanted a return of the Red Kings who flayed their neighbors. 

He leaned back and drank his wine. She sipped hers to be polite as he thought. 

He fixed her with a canny glance. “You and your brother seem eager to get me away from the Kingslayer.” 

She tried to look surprised. “That is a fair point. Trading the Kingslayer for my sister is a poor trade, as you yourself know. He is a valuable hostage, and it is unlikely you will have your revenge for a long while. But you can have something else.” Her reassurances met an implacable stare. 

He looked at her. “The Lannister boys? The squires?” Seven Hells, they were Arya’s age. He wants vengeance more than I thought. 

She shook her head. “No, your own son. Lord Tywin’s host has fled to Harrenhal, and taken their prisoners with them. Lord Bolton’s host is at the crossroads. You moving to that host would place it closer to your son - you may be able to rescue him. He may provide you with more insight … into Lord Bolton’s leadership as well.” 

He looked at her, thoughtful. It hadn’t occurred to him. He downed his goblet and sat, elbows on knees, contemplating it.

She sipped her wine. She had nearly finished the cup before Lord Karstark spoke again. “I’ll do it.” 

She stood to leave. “Thank you, Lord Karstark. My brother will announce it later as a reinforcement to Lord Bolton’s host.” 

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. “You’ve got too much of the old man in you.”

She turned to see him, gaze curious. “My father?” 

He smiled, white teeth matching his hair and beard. “No, you’ve got his look, though. No, his father. My namesake. You have his cunning. Must be the bastard blood bringing it out in you.” Her grandfather had died in King's Landing. Like her uncle. Like her father. 

She inclined her head. “Thank you, Lord Karstark. I wish you luck.” 

“And I you, Lady Snow.” He looked down at his feet, lost in grief once more. 

Then pushed her way through the tent flap and blinked in the sunlight, Ghost lay waiting in the grass outside. She rose to follow her as she walked back to the keep through the camp. 

The Hall of Riverrun was hot and fiery with the amount of bodies packed within. They were jammed together, tight onto benches and tables. Trenchers and cups stacked onto each other, crammed onto every bit of table room. The heat of their broths, the roasted meats, the fire roaring in the hearth, it all scorched and warmed every inch of the hall. 

All around her, feast goers' elbows clashed and jostled like spears and swords, all fighting for room, for poise. Room to breathe, Room to eat, Room to live. She held her own amongst her own table of bodyguards and prospective suitors. 

Riverrun was a smaller castle than Winterfell. It had a great hall that was immense, but even it struggled to contain the innumerable horde that had descended within, and that was just the highest ranking lords and the pick of their retinues. Their energy, their celebration cascaded off the walls and flowed through the mass of men and women all speaking and cheering. 

They were here to welcome the return of their princess. The sister of their liege. 

None would be the least enthusiastic celebrator at the news. It was an easy way to win favor with her brother, and the girl. Favor for marriage. Winning over the girl made winning over her brother easier. She knew it, and her sister's periodic glance was just as worried and anxious. Wide, frightened eyes under a mop of short dark hair just like hers. 

She was right to be worried. There were Freys here, even at her own table. They celebrated her return and prospective marriage to her kin. Distant Kin, who received distant cheers. 

In comparison, all the others roared at Arya’s entrance to the hall. Of course they did. They all wanted the girl for their kin, so they all cheered louder and sought to win favor through volume. They saw her as a glory to win. Lyarra hated it all then, the pageantry, the show. They would all try to dance with Arya before the night was out. 

She would get offers, too, from those who wanted a marriage in hand rather than a half-decade betrothal. Or those who were cautious enough to avoid attracting the enmity of the Freys and use her as a proxy for her sister. She already felt the eyes on her. She hated it all: the feast, the performative toasts, the drunken songs, the damned noise. Most of all, she hated her assigned place. 

She sat amongst the bodyguards of her brother. That had not surprised her one bit, but Arya had turned red when they were split apart. Only Lyarra’s feigned indifference and shrug had kept her from making a scene. Arya, Robb, Lady Stark, and all the Tullys sat up top, at the high table, the table of the King’s family. My brother’s family and I am not placed among them. 

Even that insult was better than before. It was a higher honor than sitting with the mountain clans. 

She was in a Tully castle. Of course she would not sit near that high table. What had she done to earn that honor? Nothing that the circumstances of her birth would not drown out. 

She sat on the edge of the bench. Dacey Mormont sat beside her, all smiles and happiness. It was good to see her. She was the only other woman on the bench, at the table at all, and Lyarra took comfort in her presence. 

It had been years since they had seen each other. That didn’t prevent Dacey’s crushing hug when they reunited. Lyarra felt her feet leave the floor ever so slightly - Dacey was a tall, lanky woman. Taller than her and stronger by far. 

Lyarra had been sent to Bear Island for nearly a year when she was no older than Arya. She had thought it a punishment. Instead, it had been one of the best years of her life. Dacey and the Mormont clan, her sisters and mother, had all treated her warmly. She didn’t have to hide her interest in swordplay or anything else. Dacey had gotten a morningstar for one of her name days - one she had used to give Lyarra plenty of bruises in the sparring yard. 

Dacey had hugged her tight and whispered into her ear. “The practice fields, tomorrow at dawn.” 

Lyarra had smiled wider than ever. “Deal.”

It was good to see her. She could not say the same of the rest. 

She knew most of them. They were all of age with her brother and herself, young northmen of renown. She’d met most of them on annual councils when their fathers had dragged them to Winterfell. They’d started to arrive when she was six. They all came for the same reason. She’d known most of them as threats to avoid, confront, or ignore. 

Robb’s guards were a notable bunch as they sat and jostled at the bench. There was Smalljon Umber who stood as tall as his father, Patrek Mallister of Seaguard, Ser Wendel Manderly with his walrus mustache, the sullen Roddy Dustin with his perpetual frown and whipcord thin Robin Flint. There were Rivermen too, like Lucas Blackwood and a few others she did not know.  There were five Freys whose names she had forgotten before they had even left her sight. 

One was a Ser Perwyn and a squire Olyvar. Or was Olyvar the Ser and Perwyn the squire? She wasn’t certain of that - both were barely older than her. She really didn’t need a reason to avoid them, as both guarded her brother even now, standing behind his chair. They were his main conversational companions tonight. 

The last of the guards was the one she knew best. Theon Greyjoy. He hadn’t bothered to greet her and they’d contented themselves with mutual ignorance … and positions at the opposite corners of the table. 

Lyarra had thought the institution of this royal guard good sense. Keep them at hand where they can win glory … and where they could be a hostage if their family turned. The absences struck her, however. 

None of Robb’s guards wore the sigil of Hornwood, Karstark or Bolton. Of the former two houses, death in battle had claimed three young men instead of her brother - the Kingslayer, even in defeat, was a vicious foe. The Bolton absence only reminded her of what she had lost, and Lord Bolton possessed no other trueborn sons. He had a bastard, brought back recently to the Dreadfort, but Lyarra had never met him. 

She knew the seating was not Robb’s plan - his look of dismay had been obvious to her. As had Edmure’s. The Blackfish was a military man who had never planned a feast in his life, but even he looked … torn? He was hard to read. Lyarra knew the culprit behind the plan. 

She clenched her fists and looked, and Lady Catelyn had looked … contrite? Lyarra looked away quickly before she made a scene of her brother and sister’s celebration. She swallowed her anger and brooded instead. It was an old habit of hers. 

But the High table only had six seats. One, the seat of the Lord of Riverrun, lay empty. Lord Hoster was too sick to attend. The other five had been occupied. They had not had a use for more in a long, long time. 

Arya had merely looked up to her, pain evident in her features. Lyarra had given her a gentle shove towards her assigned place. 

Lyarra had just grit her teeth and sat amongst her brother’s protectors. It was her role anyway. She’d managed to keep her temper in check by biting her tongue and downing her goblet when she could not. 

Her table had asked questions of her and her sister’s journey and Lyarra told what she could when the hall quieted enough for her voice to be heard. Arya had given the abridged version in a speech to the entire hall. It was the only time they had been quiet. Arya had not been subtle about how her sister had helped her in her tale. Of that, Lyarra was thankful. They both had been applauded and toasted to half a dozen times. 

Lyarra had been content to look over the hall, speak when spoken to, and enjoy her drinks. 

She’d had a few already. They’d flowed freely, and she’d matched Dacey drink for drink until her head had started to drift around a bit. Then Dacey had slid her tankard off the table with a wry smile and concerned eyes. Lyarra had just given her an annoyed glance. After that, she had drunk water pulled from the well. 

Even inebriated, she could see the high table was very quiet. Arya didn’t speak to Robb or her mother one bit. Instead, she spoke heavily to the Blackfish. At least, until he left the feast early, and then she spoke to her uncle Edmure. Lady Stark had sat there, her skin pale as the moon, and watched her daughter. Lyarra held no illusions as to what subject had clammed up conversation there. And who could be blamed. 

Periodically, Lyarra felt her watery blue eyes fall on her, and she did nothing but meet it with cold ignorance. She was done being diplomatic there. She’d lost too much to pretend anymore. 

As the courses passed, she ate and drank and listened to conversations at the table. She ate nearly everything served in front of her, save for the course of roast mutton. Each of Robb’s guards bragged about their heroism at the Whispering Wood or the Battle of the Camps. They were good stories, but each tried to one up the others. Dacey intervened when they got too fantastical, and kept them from anything too outlandish. 

Then, the Greatjon had stood and shouted for the dances to begin, and Lyarra had seen her chance. She slid back against the wall, behind Dacey, and then made her way to the exit doors. 

She slipped through them just as the music and singing began, before any lords took her for a dance partner. She just wanted to sleep and rest. She wandered through the halls and contented herself with not tripping over her own feet. 

Until she wasn’t alone in the halls. She turned, hand on her dagger, and found herself face to face with a man she’d never met. He wore a red doublet and cape, with the gauntleted fist of the glovers on both. Despite looking to be of age with her father, his brown hair was fighting a losing battle against gray. His beard had already lost it entirely. 

His eyes were wide and bloodshot, pupils dilated and veins glistening red. His lips were small things, wilted as if cut, and his mouth was open wide in astonishment, a black cavern. He was missing teeth and his face was lined with scars. He looked … broken. 

His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Gods, you look just like her.” Another admirer of my long-passed aunt. 

The annoyance filled her, and yet she inclined her head politely in greeting. “Who? My aunt?” 

His eyes were even wider, then. He stumbled on his feet, and stared at her. “No. Your mother.” 

Her breathing grew rapid, a flutter of short exhalations. Her face flushed with surprise and she felt her heart race. She stumbled out the words, quickly, before the opportunity slipped between her fingers. She was desperate, latching onto this one chance like a drowning man reaching for shore. She wanted to know, needed to know. She hungered for it, a deeper desire than any other. 

Breathing was difficult, and speaking was even harder, yet she pushed out the words with raw desperation. “You knew her? Tell me, Tell me.” She reached out to grab his hands, his arms, but he jerked away, stumbling backwards. 

At that, he looked around, over his shoulder and through the halls. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much.” 

She reached out, grabbed his arm. It was scarred too, she noticed, and missing two fingers - ring and pinky. “Please, you must.” 

His face was filled with anguish, his eyes looking sadder than anything else in the world. His voice was quiet, softer than anything, but the words were death blow to her hopes, her heart. “I am so very sorry. I must have confused you with someone else, please forgive me, my lady.” 

Then he slipped through her fingers and was off, away down the halls. He ran away, and Lyarra collapsed to her knees. Her eyes watered, and her hands shook yet again. She pounded the ground in frustration with her fist. She tightened her hands around the dagger on the belt, clenching and unclenching for comfort. 

She felt the tears on her cheeks, but then they fell onto the red tully carpet. Then she wiped them away and stood. Never show weakness in front of enemies. Sobbing in the halls was unseemly. She wouldn’t let this night get to her. 

She was wandering again through the halls, past tapestries and carvings showing the history of a house she had no blood connection with. She was dreadfully, hopelessly lost. She might have looped around the castle again, but she had no idea. Riverrun was an unfamiliar maze to her. 

She took a staircase up, into a tower. Stupid. She found herself on the battlements, overlooking the river and camps. Around her, and across the river, little fires flickered amongst the tents. Above the water so clear it reflected the sky of stars above like a mirror, little stars moved among it - fireflies. 

The sound of merriment was present even there, too. Her father had always said that a lord should feast with his people. He’d always donated a few casks of ale or wine to Winertown when the castle feasted. Robb had followed his example. Loud cries ran up from the camps from inebriated throats. 

The wind blew and the crisp night air soothed her for a moment. She closed her eyes and let it sink into her skin. 

Between the cries, she heard grunts and heavy breathing further down the wall. The Blackfish leaned on a crenellation, his body molding into that inky darkness. His face was visible over the top, lit by torchlight. His reddish-gray hair was not lit at all, leaving his face to look like it floated in the air. She heard the sound of liquid flowing and then splashing far on the surface of the river below them. 

Lyarra turned away quickly to give the man privacy, her boots unfortunately scuffing across the stone. 

The Blackfish finished and turned. “No use turning away now, you saw the worst of it.” His belt jangled and he relaced his breeches. “You will be fine as long as you don’t make a song about a floppy fish, like that fucking bard did.” 

She turned back to face him. She stumbled over to her own spot to lean. Her boots and feet scuffed across the floor with each of her steps. Another crenellation lay between them: a healthy distance.

They stood there, wind whispering into their ears. Crickets chirped and few fireflies buzzed past as she gazed into the chill night. “My nephew is a slow boy and he lacks sense sometimes. But he means well. I can pull up a chair for you when we return.” 

“He had nothing to do with it.” The words were out before she could think about them.

The blackfish gave a sharp intake of breath. “Your sister’s a fierce one. Only one sentence to your mother and brother. Said she wouldn’t speak until the table was filled.” 

“No doubt she is dancing with every boy and lord in there now.” Was she hating every minute of it? Or was she enjoying it, the celebration of her escape? Being the center of attention? 

Arya carried Needle into the hall. Lyarra had contented herself with just a dagger. But Arya… she’d refused to lose her grip on the blade. What her dance partners thought of that would be telling. 

The Blackfish sighed, and his voice bore the full weight of his years. “The younger ones are always the troublesome ones. Arya… Lysa…” He snorted in amusement. “Me. It’s the nature of it all. The eldest have to be the model children, but the rest of us break ourselves trying to escape the shadow, the convention.” 

Lyarra’s words turned wistful. “Sansa would love it all. The feast, the pageantry, the dancing…” She had to keep herself from sobbing, but one escaped regardless.

“I… She wasn’t there. They had her. I couldn’t…” Her mumblings were incomplete, product of a mind slowed by drink. Why else would she confess to a stranger? 

“You got one of my nieces out of there. And yourself. That’s more than anyone expected.” The voice was softer than she expected coming from that gruff face. 

She felt her insides untangle and then the words just began to spill out heedless of her better judgment. “I left her with him. He tried to gut Arya for hitting him on the head. He’s mad, a sadist. I should’ve charged in, rescued her. Like her stories. I could’ve done more. I could’ve done more.” The tears came quickly now, fat with guilt and grief. 

She felt his gaze on her, keen but not harsh. “We all think that, in war. Seven above, I have. If the Warrior had made me a little faster, a little stronger…” 

She looked up into those blue tully eyes and saw a piece of Robb there. The Blackfish continued. “But it goes nowhere. Trust me, I know.” 

They sat there, bugs flying among them, moths immolating themselves on the torches. Then he spoke. “I was a young knight in the Stepstones. Ancient times, now. I was older than even your brother, and Ser Barristan the Bold was younger than Edmure. 

“It was early days in the Stepstones. A few of the bastard sellswords had captured a few of our scouts. They were all rivermen, men I knew well. I’d squired with a few, shared cups with others. Ser Robert Piper, Willy Smallwood, and Ser Jeffrey Waters. All good men. They had them all on their horses under a large elm tree. We could only see their banners and silhouettes in the rising sun. They looked like they were awaiting a meeting with us. But they were tied to the branches of the tree above them. Nooses, of thin silk, too small to see from a distance. 

“The sellswords had their archers and crossbowmen all around the elm, hidden amongst the trees. Outriders, too, further behind. The perfect ambush.” 

Lyarra looked at him. “Did they survive?” 

The Blackfish looked at her. “They knew it was an ambush, but the cravens had cut out their tongues. They had tried to yell anyway, and were gagged so we heard nothing. Their arms were bound and their lance points removed. But they still had their legs, and spurs. They used them, and their horses ran to us without riders. That gave us our warning.” 

The Blackfish turned to her, voice grave. “I was a good outrider. I would’ve been one of them that day, if my horse had not thrown a shoe the night before. Every night since, I pray I would still have the courage to do the same as those men.”

Their eyes met, and those orbs of tully blue carried nothing but sadness. “Sometimes, war swallows us, and the ones we love, up whether we wish it or not. We couldn’t save those men, but they saved us with their sacrifice. That’s little comfort now, but what matters is the choice.” 

She stared at her hands. “The choice?” His voice was a question. 

“Whether to use our spurs, or not. Not all have the strength too.” He gave a weary, shuddering sigh. “You did. You have to give up something you love to truly sacrifice for victory.” His voice broke and his eyes watered. His cheeks glistened. “We Tully’s know that best of all. Our lands are always the battlefield. Nothing remains untouched by the wars here.” 

“I didn’t give her up.” Lyarra’s voice raised in anger, and her fists clenched. “I would never.” 

“I’m sure you think so. I did, once, when I was younger. But how many men stood between you and her?” He fixed her with a piercing glance. “Not all of us can be Ser Barristan the Bold at Duskendale. You weren’t. You left with who you could. You made the right choice, hard as it was too.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.” Lyarra met those blue eyes and saw understanding there. 

“No, it doesn’t. The right choice doesn’t always feel right. But you can’t solve all your problems with swords. Your uncle, my niece’s former betrothed … he rushed in. He was a bold one. Good fighter, too. Cat loved the Boy. I knew he was nothing but trouble. But she really did love him. It got him killed, left her with your father. He was more pragmatic. I’m glad she married him.” 

“I’m not.” Lyarra hiccupped after she spoke. I shouldn’t have said that.

The Blackfish’s face blackened but then he sighed yet again. “His choices were no easier than yours or mine. She’s a good woman.” 

No. She's no good at all. Lyarra wanted to scream it, to shout it for the heavens, but instead, she said nothing. 

The Blackfish noticed that silence, of course. He didn’t say anything about it. “Your uncle had the rashness, the wildness. I worry about that, whether that wolf’s blood will rear its head in my nephew and doom us all.” 

Lyarra sighed. “Robb’s winning. We’re winning. We’ll save her.” 

“She’s safe for now. If she has any of my niece in her, she’s got an iron core. Who knows, she might outlive us all.” 

They returned to moody silence, Lyarra thought as she looked up, into the stars above. “You have your father’s look.”

“I know.” She felt nothing, just hollowness at the words. How many times had she heard that she had the Stark look? She wished her mother had left more of herself in her, that she might be able to figure out where she came from.

“He was a good man. True to Cat. It makes me wonder…” He fixed her with a stare, studying her face.  

“Wonder what?” She felt slightly uncomfortable by the look he gave. 

He shook his head. “Demons of the past. Nothing to trouble yourself with, just the musings of an old man.” He grimaced. “They’ll send a search party if we stay absent too long. Time to return to the feast, Lady Snow.” 

She pushed off the wall on shaky legs. She walked slowly back towards the tower with slow, careful steps, coming close to the torchlight. She took a deep breath. The Blackfish strode beside her. He seemed about as drunk as she was. 

“Time indeed.” She wiped her eyes and walked back down the staircase. She could handle a few dances. She steeled herself before she took another step forward. 

“Don’t look so glum about it. Every hot-blooded boy in there will ask you, I’m certain. You got your aunt’s looks.”

“That’s the problem.” 

He laughed. “Not much of a problem, take it from me.”

“And you would know?” 

He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve been running from maidens all my life. Why did you think I went to war?” 

That made her smile. “I’ll make sure to send a few your way.” He tried to muster a stern glare, but his lips just smiled back. “I know you and Edmure try your best, but I have a lot more experience than either of you in that game, girl.” 

They made their way to the hall, stumbling and managing to keep their feet. 

The Blackfish was right. She’d sent Dacey after the blackfish … but he’d sent every boy who’d squired with him.

He’d been a knight for thirty years. He’d had no shortage of squires. Most of them had been decent enough dance partners. 

But Arya had put them both to shame, danced through the hall over and over again. With a new knight or page or warrior twirling her around. She had even managed to smile through most of it, though that might have been the drinks. 

When she collapsed into bed beside Arya, hours later, exhausted and half-blind with drink, both her and her sister had worn smiles on their faces. 

Chapter Text

Lyarra awoke to a gray sky just before sunrise. Arya woke soon after with a start, but calmed with Lyarra’s touch. Then they made their way to the armory, with Arya skipping along. 

Her memories of the previous night were a dull, throbbing ache in her head from drink, and a dry mouth. Halfway through her dances at the grand feast, Uncle Edmure had asked her for a dance.

He was as deep into his cups as she was, slurring his words. “I hear talk of a match tomorrow. The she-wolf and the she-bear.”

Lyarra had raised an eyebrow, but Edmure continued. “I do intend to evaluate the protector of my niece. Also, I have money on the line with my Uncle. If you lose to the Mormont girl - Dacey, was it? I will be displeased.” 

She glared at him, stepping on his foot and he laughed. “In the interests of fair play, the pick of the armory is yours. We have a few old suits from my boyhood and some from … the fallen.” That sobered his face for a moment, memories of men he no doubt knew. 

She looked flabbergasted. “Really?” 

“I can’t have you dressed like some common footpad, or worse, some Lannister castoff’s rags. You are my guest.” Then he smiled, white teeth standing out across his face. “I do expect a good showing for it.” 

She hugged him, and Edmure Tully had turned red as his hair before they returned to proper standards of propriety. 

In the present, she clad herself in armor for the first real time while trying to nurse her headache. Arya acted as her squire, running around with armor half giddy with excitement - it was her first time around armor too. But they’d both watched their father, Robb, and the Winterfell guard garb themselves to figure out enough. Lyarra had her memories with the Mormonts for the remainder. The guards outside the armory peeked in periodically with the racket to make sure they hadn’t damaged anything. 

She put on a jerkin, tunic and breeches, hiding her hair under a cloth cap. 

Then came her boots. After that, a gambeson with long sleeves over her chest and thighs, and thick quilted pants as well. Mail could block cuts and blows, but having padding underneath could turn it from a broken bone to a thick bruise. The thick layers of cloth thicker than a quilt covered her limbs, chest and legs. They kept her quite warm and she tested her range of movement. There were some fur trimmings to this one - a piece of northern flair. 

Then came the mail - she found leggings and a hauberk that actually fit, which was a pleasant change. Soon only her head was left unclad in gray steel rings. The Helmet was a simple job - gray steel, without adornment, a sallet helmet with a simple visor that flipped up and down, leaving a slit to see through. It went on over a coif that went up to her chin - she lacked a gorget that fit her for the matching helmet. 

Finally, after that, a coat of brigandine that ran from her shoulders to her thighs above the mail. It had been blue - once, but now was battered and stained into a dull gray with the periodic brown stain. It wasn’t pretty, but it fit and didn’t display the sigils of another house that could be insulted by a bastard girl wearing the garb of their dead. 

She wore no surcoat for the training match - she didn’t have a sigil to show, and wearing the Stark one would be … ill advised. She was comfortable here, but it wasn’t Winterfell. She would be wise to cater to her Tully hosts. 

Frankly, it all fit much better than her looted goldcloak mail and helm, which she and Arya deposited into the armory in exchange. The hauberk was a bit too large, but the belt held it in place close enough. The coif fit fairly well. 

Of course, it weighed more than she expected. After weeks of riding in mail, its weight had become familiar on her shoulders and along her hips where the belt held it in place. She would tire faster with armor on, but it was far better than getting the extra bruises.

When she was complete (with Arya’s help) she found herself grinning under the steel helmet. She was happy, but there was a nervous jolt in her stomach. You wore armor for a reason. Even if it was collecting bruises from friends. 

Her sister grinned back. She looked down at Arya. “How do I look, sister?” 

Arya answered by clanging her visor shut with a spare spear haft. Lyarra just laughed. “You’ll get your chance, sweet sister. If we can find mail that fits you.” 

Arya was simpler to clad - mail and gameson made for a little lording was easy enough to find - most likely made for Lord Edmure, decades ago. Lyarra looked for a good helm for her sister and found nothing that fit. She tried several helms, but they were so large she could spin them around Arya’s head with a flick of her fingers. 

Until they found a small helm in the back of the armory, buried under several other helmets and a thick cloth covered in dust. It was a half helm, but bore a metal plate off the nasal guard that covered the face. Scale mail fell from the rim, covering the sides and back of the head. But what stood out most to Lyarra was the perfect embroidery over the scale mail and the cloth above the metal, made into the shapes of jumping trout over blue waters. That, and the wicker wheel placed on top of the helmet that fell off as she lifted it, with seven tiny figures laying upon it. 

It fit Arya perfectly, slid onto the girl’s head without issue. Arya’s gray eyes peeked through the two holes and crinkled with mirth. After that, Lyarra found her sister a Stark surcoat, and then she looked like a proper footman, mail, helm, and all. Only a few feet shorter and a far skinner than normal. 

“Ready, squire?” Arya just spun in circles as if her new armor were a dress. Lyarra’s smile died as her sister spun, giggling. 

Arya noticed and sat still, gazing up at her face. “What?”

“Nothing. You just looked like Sansa trying on a new gown.” 

Arya’s head fell, and her face was glum. She took off her helmet and Lyarra could see her chewing her lip. 

“Do you think she’s alright?” 

Lyarra couldn’t bring herself to lie. “I hope so. She was always better at courtesies than either of us.” Court was full of them, and Sansa had glided through courtiers with ease. 

Arya nodded. “She was nice and obedient. Nobody would hurt her if she did what they wanted, Lya.” Her face grew determined. “We’ll get her back.” 

Lyarra knelt to meet her sister at eye level. “We will.” They hugged then, their mail and steel clinking together. 

Then she strode out of Riverrun’s armory and into the yard muddy from a midnight rain. It was triangular construction under the cloudy morning sky, bound by thick stone walls pocketed with windows and doorways. A covered wooden walkway surrounded the second story, supported by beams driven into the yard below. The wooden railings and pillars split cold stone walkways from the mud of the training field. 

The yard and the balconies were sparsely populated this early in the morning, consisting mostly of Robb’s bodyguards, Robb himself, who smiled and waved at her and Arya, and Edmure, who made a funny face that Arya scowled at. Oddly enough, even the Blackfish was present, though he stood alone, eyes keenly watching the yard. 

The muddy center of it was empty, no matches or practice going on. They are all waiting for me and Dacey. She wouldn’t disappoint. They regarded both of them as a curiosity, no doubt. 

Dacey Mormont was already present, helmet tucked under an arm, learning against a wood beam, boots stuck in the mud already. She wore a flowing green wool surcoat. Under, she bore armor underneath a thick layer of mail everywhere alongside plate pauldrons and gorget, and a mace stuck in her belt and shield by her feet. The shield and surcoat both boasted a black bear standing on its hind legs and roaring. “Took you long enough.” 

“Good to see you too.” Dacey’s response was a wry grin and a hug that cracked Lyarra’s spine. The Mormont hug was still as fierce as the first day she’d been dropped off on their Isle. She had spared there and collected more bruises of her own. 

Arya was more cautious, just looking up at her with a mixture of suspicion and awe. She came up to Dacey’s hip. “You fight beside Robb?” 

“When we have to.” Arya just stared. 

Lyarra smiled. “Arya, meet Dacey Mormont. Dacey, meet Arya Stark.” 

Dacey bowed and knelt to meet Arya at eye level. She looked over Arya’s kit, tightening a few straps, before reaching for Needle. Arya stiffened but relaxed after Dacey hesitated. 

“Interesting sword. Where’d you get it?” Dacey held it in one hand, gently. Her hand overran the grip onto the blade as she inspected it. 

Arya looked to Lyarra. “Lya gave Needle to me.” Dacey laughed. 

“Did she?” Dacey raised an eyebrow and looked to Lyarra. “An interesting name day gift. Lyanna is just old enough to have a mace at home. Maybe, once I’ve knocked your sister into the dirt, I can see your Needle in action.” 

Lyarra shook her head. “Don’t be too confident you’ll be out of the mud.” 

Arya looked back and forth, as if scarcely believing they were real, as Dacey handed her back Needle. 

Lyarra coughed. “I do believe we have a match?” 

“We do.” They strapped on their shields and strode to the center of the yard. Dacey slid on a big greathelm that covered her friendly face. 

“Her mother won’t thank you for that gift. She was nervous enough letting King Robb out to fight.” Dacey’s voice fell from the Mormont below to a whisper. 

“It kept her alive.” Lyarra's voice was cool. “There was no fondness there to lose.” 

Dacey rolled her shoulders, a disguised shrug. The plates clicked as she did so. “Just letting you know.”  

The mud was slippery and stuck to their boots. Puddles littered the training yard amongst muddy ground sprinkled with sand, which was stronger around the edges of the yard where less feet had trampled it. However, most of it was mud. Lyarra gave a look and found they had an audience. 

Lyarra had a fresh blunted tourney sword, edges blunted for safety, and Dacey… 

Dacey just pulled out her one handed mace, a steel rod with a metal cap on the end. It was blunt enough already. Her memories of it hitting her were not friendly. 

Robb and her had always fought with swords or sticks, the occasional broomstick. They were easier to smuggle out of Winterfell. Lyarra’s first encounter with maces, axes, and hammers had been on Bear Island. It hadn’t gone well, and she had learned what mud tasted like out of pride and stubbornness. 

She’d been overconfident and earned her bruises from Alysane and Lyra. Dacey’s mace had hit her on the head hard enough once she’d woken up on the ground, even with a helm and coif. After that, they took it easier on her and she’d learned the valuable lesson to not stand under falling maces. Those matches had ended when she was sent back to Winterfell, so she was rusty. 

They stood across from each other, separated by ten paces, staring each other down. It was a chilly morning, but not enough to shiver. Lyarra shivered anyway.  Those on the balconies and in the yard quieted down to watch. 

Dacey was taller than her by half a head at least. She was muscular - all the Mormonts were. She outmassed Lyarra for certain. She was a woman grown, nearly six years older than Lyarra. Her limbs were lanky and long, giving her even more impressive reach.

Lyarra had grown since the last matches a few years ago. But there was still a gap. She was leaner and quicker, but not by much. Bulk muscle provided speed to Dacey too.  She was lighter, and on this mud, thick sticky clumps that already stuck to her boots, that might matter enough to be an advantage. 

Their armament was similar - Lyarra held her bastard sword in two hands facing Dacey. She left her shield strapped to her back. It was heavy and trying to block Dacey’s swings head on would be a losing battle of strength. She also had a dulled dagger on her belt. 

Dacey had a heater shield on her left arm and a mace in her mailed right fist. The haft rested on her shoulder. “Ready, Snow ?” 

The Mormonts all fought dirty. Every last one, even little Lyanna. They’d taunt, they’d goad, they’d punch, they’d strike first. Then they’d shatter your bones with a hug and drink you under the table before beating you into the mud. Just enough to get you hungover before the next bout. Their mother had taught them that.

She was there, watching from the balcony, old stern face. “If you fight, you fight to win. Honor is for knights, and you’ll never be one, like us.” 

She did not drink a drop last night . Lyarra had, and the headache was just about starting. Dacey’s helmet cocked to the side, and Lyarra knew she was smiling under the greathelm. 

She just sighed and rushed forward, lunging at Dacey’s arm. Dacey twisted and caught it on her shield. She hadn’t even moved the mace from her shoulder. 

Dacey lashed out with the shield, punching with it. Lyarra caught it on her arm and grunted. 

She dropped her blade, and tried to swing it across Dacey’s legs, under the shield. She caught under one knee and Dacey tilted…slightly.

Before rushing into her, shield first. Lyarra felt her feet leave the ground. 

She landed on her back and scrambled backwards, still managing to hold onto her sword with one hand. The other scrabbled away alongside her legs to escape from the blow she knew was coming. 

The mace landed right between her scrambling legs, and sent a small clod of mud flying into the air. 

Lyarra lashed out with her boot with a kick into Dacey’s mace arm, hitting the elbow and causing her to drop it. Then she swung her sword with one hand. It thudded off Dacey’s helmet with a plong and rebounded back into the ground. 

Dacey shook her head, then lunged forward, mail curling into a fist. 

Wrestling with her in the mud was a bad idea. Dacey could hug while sparring, too. It was even more unpleasant then. Lyarra managed to put her sword point between them but it only slid across Dacey’s mail without landing a real blow. 

Lyarra’s foot saved her again, managing to kick Dacey’s leg on a fluke and knock her face first into the mud. 

Lyarra took the opportunity to scramble onto her feet. Dacey was lifting herself up, mud falling off the front of her helm. 

Lyarra took the opportunity to swing into her back with both hands. Dacey grunted when it hit and fell back into the mud. Lyarra swung again, hitting her on the back once again. 

Dacey twisted on the ground, bringing her shield up and blocking. Lyarra swung down again, snarling. 

She hacked away at the shield, chipping it and knocking some paint off, before Dacey tilted it and knocked the sword off into the dirt. Lyarra had put too much effort into the swing and slid forward with it, stepping closer to Dacey to keep her balance. 

Under the shield, Dacey’s knee nearly reached her chin. Lyarra grunted and pushed forward. Better to rush into a blow than away from it.   

Now it was her turn to be kicked, right in the chest. Hard. She felt the breath leave her lungs and she gasped, stumbling back. 

The old bruise from the archer burned with fresh pain. She’d told Dacey that story last night. Stupid.  

Dacey stood up and grabbed her mace as they caught their breath with short, sharp ugly gasps. 

They were back where they’d started the fight. “Enjoying bathing in the mud, Dace?” Dace the Mace, Aly calls her. 

Dacey grunted and clanged her mace on her shield. Clang clang clang. 

Lyarra raised her sword. This time, they both kept their footing. Dacey swung the mace with a wide swipe, then brought it back the same way. Lyarra leapt back on the first and stabbed after the second had wooshed past. Dacey caught it with the rim of her shield, sending it into empty air to her side, and swinging her mace down. It was too far to hit her head. She’s going for my arm. 

She tried to bring back her sword in time, but it moved too slow. The mace head descended and landed flat on the top of her right hand. 

She yelped in pain. Then she did something foolish. She pushed the blade to the side, into Dacey’s right side, trying to knock her over. Dacey stumbled for a bit before bashed outward with her shield. 

It hit Lyarra in the chin, but she pushed forward against it with her body, back foot slipping in the mud. 

Dacey held her ground, pushing back into Lyarra, letting the bastard sword bite into her ribs, trusting in her mail. 

Her mace was lifted above her head again. It began to fall and Lyarra jumped to the side. 

Dacey stumbled forward with her swing, and Lyarra fell into a frenzy. She laid half a dozen cuts and blows onto her friend’s back. Dacey fell to her knees. Lyarra found her voice, taunting as her friend slid in the mud. “Yield?” 

“Fuck you, Snow.” Dacey was up and turned before she was finished talking. 

“You were resting there. Getting tired?” Lyarra tried goading her opponent. “How did the ground taste earlier?” 

Dacey’s helm cocked, and a small bit of mud fell from a breath hole in the bottom of it. “That’s funny. You can tell me.”

Then the mace and shield were upon her, and Lyarra was scrambling to block them. She could only pick one, and choose the mace. The shield thudded into her ribs, her blade caught the haft of that damned mace again and again, from different angles, deflecting it and catching it before it struck her. Each block rattled her arms before another did the shame. Dacey’s shield pushed her with repeated shoves, back and back and back. 

Lyarra tried to tilt the blade, stab or slash through a gap, but the mace was shorter and found itself in position faster. Dacey used the shoves of the shields to keep her on her toes. It was on its way to block or launch another attack before she could land a serious blow. 

Then Lyarra just decided to lash out with her fist and hilt, punching up into Dacey’s helm. The mace found her shoulder and she fell to the side after, moving with the blow. She swung as she fell, and caught Dacey’s shoulder without the shield, digging into the mail with the blunt edge. 

They halted for a moment, both resting in the newfound distance. Above them, the galleries were silent, and Lyarra felt the eyes on them both. Her right hand was beginning to ache and throb, and her shoulder was screaming from the mace strike. Dacey’s back probably doesn’t feel much better.  

Dacey rushed her once more, but this time, Lyarra swung her sword and found Dacey’s shield in the way once more. Her sword bit into the side rim and Dacey tried to push her sword down with it. Pushing it aside so her mace could land a blow on her head. 

Lyarra let the mace fall and hopped back, then grabbed Dacey’s mace from where it rested on the top of her own shield. Dacey stumbled forward, off balance from the lack of Lyarra’s resistance to her strike and shove. 

Dacey leaned back, trying to catch her balance. Lyarra pounced, her right hand letting go of her sword. She jumped forward with all her weight as she grasped along her belt with a mailed fist. Her sword fell into the dirt behind the both of them. 

Lyarra fell forward, on top of her off balance friend, with all her weight. 

Dacey fell backwards into the mud, roaring as she landed on her wounded back, her shield and mace trapped between the both of them. She was swinging the mace, but Lyarra held on with a clasped mailed hand, feeling the edges of the mace imprint deeper into her hand with each wild swing. 

Eventually, Dacey just roared and flung the mace from her hand. Lyarra had a hand on her dagger and drew it out, moving her other hand to remove Dacey’s greathelm…

And the empty mailed fist punched up and met her helm, then coif, then forehead. Her vision swam and she tilted, ever so slightly off Dacey’s shield. Her left hand caught on Dacey’s helm and lifted, slowly, fighting against the straps. Her hand slid along it from the mod caked on the front, the mud smearing. Lyarra cursed. “Others take you. Just sit still. It’s over.” 

Dacey laughed wildly, still kicking and shifting her weight. “It’s not over yet, snow!” 

Then Lyarra had her dagger out and pushed it towards Dacey’s eye slit. Dacey’s empty mailed hand intercepted it and grabbed the blunt blade. They pushed back and forth there, westling over the blade. 

Lyarra leaned with most of her body weight to push it forward. 

Dacey took the opportunity to flip her onto her back into the mud, to the side. Dacey rolled with her. Lyarra felt her friend’s weight on top of her leg and her dagger arm begin to sink into the mud. 

Her other hand, still scrabbling at Dacey’s helmet, left herself open. 

The rim of Dacey’s shield slammed into her stomach, then into her arm. 

The first knocked the breath out of her, the second… The second made her arm go limp and dangle. Lyarra fought to free her arm with the dagger, even letting go of it, but Dacey’s arm shifted to her wrist and pushed it into the mud.

Dacey’s shield arm took the opportunity to introduce itself to Lyarra’s face and helmet, over and over again. The rim crashed repeatedly into her head, sinking her helm further into the sticky mud. 

Lyarra pushed with her left arm, trying to push her friend off her, but had no luck other than pushing her helmet away. She lashed out with her free leg, and the mud caked on it’s foot just caused her kicks to slide off instead of landing hard. 

Her left arm managed to knock off her friend's helm, however. Dacey’s eyes and bridge of her nose, stared down at her, the rest of her head covered by her coif. 

She took her left hand scrambled for her dagger lost in the mud, but it was her final move.

Dacey found it before her, and flipped up the visor of her helm, exposing her face. Lyarra stared down the blade of her own dagger and then the smiling eyes of her friend. “Yield, Lyarra.”

She fell limp. “I yield.”  It was over. 

Dacey lifted herself up and then offered a muddy hand to Lyarra, who took it to stand. 

In the walkways above, there were some murmurs and talking. Robb had vanished somewhere, but several of his guards had stayed. The bodyguards cheered for Dacey. Several offered their favors to Dacey - muddy rags - for the next bout, putting on ladylike voices. Dacey gave them an obscene gesture, and then they all laughed together. 

Edmure bore a grin. She made her way under his spot, alongside a pillar. His voice was hushed. “Thank you. I quite fleeced Ser Perwyn.” 

Lyarra frowned up at him. “I lost.” 

“Yes. He bet you would go down in the first dozen blows.” 

She shook her head. “Any advice?” 

Edmure’s face sobered. “Take your time. Rushing doomed the Kingslayer… and myself.”

Lyarra looked at him. “You are too harsh. The Kingslayer was much more foolish.” 

Edmure looked at her and gave a wan smile. “I hope for redemption nonetheless.”

She found the Blackfish watching her with an appraising eye, hand on his chin. He gave her a curt nod when she met his eyes. Was that in Approval or Acknowledgement? She did not know the man well enough to tell. 

Lyarra just went to collect her scattered weapons, and picked up Dacey’s mace while she was at it. She wiped them off with a rag before sheathing her own. Dacey was leaning on the railing, helm and coif off, panting. Stray black hairs spilled from her cloth cap and she held a wineskin in her hand. 

Arya was cautiously watching her from the pillar beside her, eyes still wide with surprise. 

Lyarra slid off her own helmet and sat on the railing beside Dacey, leaning on a post. She took her mace with her left arm and winced - it was the shoulder Lyarra had hit. “Good match. You did good for being out of practice.” 

Lyarra massaged her own shoulder. “Not completely.” 

“Yeah, but your only match is Robb. He’s good, but not that good.” Lyarra gave her a glare. 

Dacey smiled at her protective annoyance. “He’s a handsome one, a good man and a great King. Also helps that he’s a good general. But master swordsman? Not yet.” 

Lyarra sighed. “It was leaning into the dagger thrust, wasn’t it.”

“That and trying to wrestle me. I’m bigger. You know how it would go before we started. You have tried before.” 

“I was so close…” 

Dacey’s look sobered her. “Don’t rush it. You were trading blows just fine. Wait for your opening.” 

Lyarra cracked her neck. “Best of three?” 

Dacey turned to her, eyes flickering past Lyarra. She smiled. “If you’re still up for it after.” 

Lyarra turned, and found herself staring at a warrior garbed in full armor with his visor down. He was flanked by two others, also dressed in armor and bearing the twin towers of the Freys. 

His brigandine was brown and ruddy, boiled leather hiding rigid steel plates that covered his chest and thighs. On top of it, a silver plate gorget and shoulders gleamed, freshly polished. Beneath it, he wore mail all along his body with plate boots. His arms were covered in plate gauntlets up to the shoulder. 

A fur mantle graced his shoulders, and a wool cloak trailed behind him. But the helm told her everything.

The black iron crown embossed around the helm above the visor, and the face staring at hers after the visor was tilted up by a gauntlet. 

Robb smiled. “Thanks for softening her up, Dacey.” My brother, the warrior in full plate. 

He turned that intoxicating smile over to her. “Fancy another spar, sister mine?” 

Arya stood between the two of them eyes wider than ever. Her eyes were pleading with Lyarra. She wanted to watch this. Badly. 

Lyarra’s kept her voice low. “How would you look if I knocked your ass into the mud in front of your bannermen, sweet brother? It wouldn’t be proper.”

Robb smiled. “It’s in front of my bodyguard. They have knocked me into the mud themselves enough to not be shocked.” 

Dacey interrupted. “We’ve all watched our King make manure in the woods. It cannot be any worse than that.” 

Robb looked faintly annoyed at that, and the Freys behind him laughed. He continued on, nonplussed. “And that’s …” His blue tully eyes glimmered. “... if you can.” 

Arya’s eyes bored into hers. “Lya… please. Knock Robb into the mud. Please.” They all laughed at that. 

Lyarra turned to her sister. “A favor for my loyal squire. I don’t know…” 

Arya poked her with a dinner knife she pulled from her sleeve, smirking on her features. They all laughed at that, even the Freys behind Robb. He kept all the likable Freys nearby. Good. 

Lyarra set her face, nodded, and got ready to beat the breaks off her brother. Lyarra lowered her visor, picked up her sword, and strode into the muddy yard once more. “You asked for it, sweet younger brother.” 

Robb followed her. “I’m quite certain I’m older.” His tone was haughty. They had never quite figured that mystery out, and Father had refused to tell. It didn’t matter one bit for inheritance or anything else, but her and Robb argued for pride and bragging rights alone. 

“We’ll see, brother of mine.” 

“Live steel?” Robb questioned. He reached for a sharp edge. Even his guards seemed surprised. 

Lyarra’s eyes widened. “You are the king. We cannot risk it.” 

Robb smiled. “You love me too much sweet sister, I will be fine.” 

“No.” Her voice was insistent. If she hurt him… she’d never forgive herself. 

Robb’s eyes took on a weariness beyond his years. His mouth formed a line and nodded. “Fair enough.” 

They both stood in the mud now, in the center of the yard. Robb had his blunted longsword in his right and a heater shield strapped to his left. His squire, an Olvar Frey who looked to be older than both of them, helped him strap on his shield. 

They both were armored well, but Robb had more on his limbs, plate instead of her mail, and a shield on his arm. He’ll tire faster keeping both shield and sword up.  

Arya offered her a shield, but Lyarra waved it off. She’d fight with her sword alone. She needed to keep her endurance. 

Robb was stronger than her and taller - he had grown since they’d seen each other. She had as well, but not nearly as much. He had a longer reach… with the same sword. Her bastard sword with a hand and half grip was longer than his one handed longsword now. Even with it, their reach was similar. Lyarra knew she was quicker, by far. With two hands and a longer sword, it would swing faster, get into position faster and stronger. She would need that edge. 

Her and Robb had sparred for years. When Lyarra thought of swordfighting and pictured an opponent, an image of Robb popped into her head. They’d fought in the godswood or the wolfwood, in remote corners. They’d used blunted steel and pads Robb and her had smuggled out, slowly, in many trips and stashed elsewhere.  They knew each other’s movements and blocks well - too well. He knows everything I do.  

Robb fought more opponents in Winterfell’s sparring yards. She had watched the same bouts herself, but could not participate. There was a big gap there. 

He would have certainly trained with his new bodyguards. But how hard would they truly go on him? They had family who sought favor just as well. Privately, she had done the same, holding back. Without his help and aid, she would have never learned to fight.

He’d been in battle - in the thick of it, according to his guards. The Kingslayer had rushed him down at the Whispering Wood, but Robb had never directly crossed blades with him. She’d fought a kingsguard. But she’d also grown thin from a journey. 

Lyarra decided she wouldn’t hold back this time. Not one bit. Not to prevent bruises and questions, like old. Her brother was charging into battle now. He needed a real deal, not a charade to build confidence. She’d fight dirty. 

Like a Lannister , a voice in her head whispered. Like a bastard . 

But she had tricks he didn’t know either. He had not trained with Syrio. Water Dancing was far different from the knight’s art of the sword she had learned from books and Robb. It liked jabs and thrusts, and narrowing yourself as a target instead of relying on pads or armor. 

Arya and Olvar stepped away to the side of the arena. She sat on the railing with her legs crossed as he leaned on it near her. Arya glared at Olvar’s surcoat dubiously when he tried to talk to her. 

She saluted Robb with her blade like Syrio did, held in front with a flourish. 

Robb slammed his blade on his shield marked with a direwolf. He loved doing that. 

Lyarra rushed him before his sword was still bouncing off the shield, launching a flurry of swings. She focused on his head for now.

Robb blocked with his own blade, but the shield interfered with his process - he couldn’t raise it fully to block them or else block his sight completely and leave himself blind. 

Clangs and clashes of metal and grunts filled the yard. Her and Robb were the only ones who made any sound. 

Lyarra was trying to see where he could see. His visor was thin, but he had clear views of most of her swings from above and the sides. She tried to swing up and he just managed to block it with his shield as a matter of luck. He didn’t see that one. He doesn’t see blows from below.   

She shifted into a water dancing stance, going for thrusts towards his legs and feet, lowering her shoulders and stabbing out again and again. He kept his distance for a brief while, moving more cautiously and leaning forward to keep his sight on her attacks. 

He launched his own attacks - a series of swings aimed at her own head. 

She grabbed her sword with her fist, halfway up the blade, and used the hand to keep control of her blade as she blocked those. Her sword stayed far above her head. Robb’s shield was left alone. Take the bait, brother.  

Then Robb pushed her back with his shield, and Lyarra felt herself slide in the mud. Perfect.   

She dug in her front foot and waited. Lyarra let go of her sword with her left hand.

Robb loved to swing straight down from above his head after he bashed with the shield, aiming for the crown of his own opponent’s head. He did that now, sword descending towards her head. 

She slid with her left foot, twisted her body to present her side towards her brother instead. His sword slid past her helm, stopping at the level of her waist. Robb stumbled forward, only slightly. 

He ran into her mailed left hand, which slammed into his gut, and then grabbed his sword arm at the elbow, working her grip up his arm to his bicep. His arm and sword flailed, but never left her grasp. His sword was behind her and unable to be directed into her. 

They wrestled back and forth, and she let her brother move her around, both moving in circles. She kept her grip on his sword arm. His shield arm hammered into her left shoulder and side periodically, but she grit her teeth and kept holding onto him. 

She just swung her right arm and the sword it held into the side of his head. That drew a vicious shove from Robb’s body in general, which she took with a grunt.

Her fingers kept their grip. She would have to be quick. 

Her sword pushed past Robb’s head to his other side after he ducked, until it rested on her left shoulder and her elbow stood in front of her head.

She swung towards Robb’s far side. He blocked with his shield, but she kept the motion going, and slid her left leg behind his own. He dropped his sword and tried to grab onto her with his right hand. 

Then she dropped her sword, and her right hand palmed her brother’s helm on the front, pushing forward while she hooked her left leg behind his right leg. 

Robb fell backwards as her right hand pushed him over her leg, tripping him. His own legs kicked the air before he landed in the mud with his shield. 

She fell on top of him, her knee landing on his stomach near the hip. Her left hand punched his groin, left open after he fell. Robb cursed profusely. “Others take you…” 

Lyarra’s right arm went for her dagger at her waist as her brother fell. She fell on top of him, landing on his shield, pinning one arm to his body. The other punched her side repeatedly. Hard. She cursed as well. “Ass!”

Her own left hand rung his helmet a few times before grabbing his visor. Her right hand was ready, dagger in hand. 

Then it was over. “Yield.” 

Robb’s surprised blue eyes stared up at her own behind her visor and sweaty auburn locks stuck to his forehead. 

Robb’s brow furrowed. He was thinking of ways to escape this. He shifted under her, trying to dislodge her. They warred there, silently before he grew still. “I yield.” He spat the words out. Nobody likes losing.  

It was the first time they’d fought in armor. She sheathed her dagger and stood up with a groan. 

Her right ribs and side ached like she had fallen on them. Repeatedly. Robb just lay on the ground, groaning softly and holding where her knee and fist had found his stomach and manhood.

She held out her hands for Robb to lift himself out of the mud. He slapped them away initially. 

“Gods, Lya. Down there?”

“Get up. You can wallow later.” He did. She helped him up, and he leaned on her. 

They began to hobble over to the side. “Did you try that on Trant?” 

The reminder halted her in the tracks. She stood there, silent, breathing quicker than she should have. Then she realized how silent the yard was. 

Lyarra looked up and found Lady Stark staring down at her from a balcony. Lady Stark looked away quickly and walked away, her shoes echoing on the wood as she walked away, face neutral. 

Lyarra walked to the side of the yard. Her and Robb collapsed next to a wood pillar and both leaned on it, shoulder to shoulder. She flicked up her visor as they sat there, both panting. 

Then she trudged over to the next pillar and slid down it, facing her brother. 

The yard resolved back into idle conversation, and a few of Robb’s bodyguards left or entered the center to spar themselves. 

Robb’s squire was on him in an instant. “Your grace, are you alright?” His face was flushed and worried. 

Robb’s tired smile seemed to only increase his anxiety. “I am fine. Could you fetch us some wine?” 

The boy ran off, kicking up clods of mud and running between bouts. He was older than Robb, for certain, by at least a few years. 

Yet her brother was older nonetheless. The crown he bore had aged him. His forehead was creased and his face was beginning to line. He’s beginning to look like father. 

They sat there in silence, watching the yard for a moment. 

Dacey was working with Arya, sparring with her. She was being gentle, Lyarra knew. Pulling her blows and moving slowly. They were alone, for a brief moment. His other Frey guard was talking with the other a short distance away. 

Robb spoke first. “What did I do to warrant you walloping me like that?” He was joking.

“I think you know what you did.” Lyarra had her gaze on Arya, water dancing and trying to get around Dacey’s shield. 

Robb followed and winced. He grimaced and said nothing. 

“I checked the rosters. Four thousand men.” Lyarra gave her brother a pointed glance. “Two betrothals for four thousand men who should have marched to Uncle Edmure anyway.” 

Robb just gave an exacerbated sigh. “I know, Lya.” 

“There were other options. Theon has a sister, does he not? The Martells have a girl your age. They both would have given you more spears and swords.” 

Robb’s voice took on a harsher cast. “I know, Lyarra. But I have given my word.” 

She pursed her lips. “You have.” 

“Father kept his word. I will keep mine.” Lyarra could not disagree with the sentiment. Honor and oaths had value. Without your word, none could trust you. Who would swear fealty to a king like that? Who would follow him, ally with him, when he could turn on you in an instant? Abandoning honor would make them no better than the Lannisters. 

Lords followed Lord Tywin. But only out of fear. The lord of Lannister inspired little love.  “Would father have given a promise to Old Walder? He’s quite comfortable going back on his word.”

“Gods above Lya, I would rather fight in the ring again than talk about this. I’m done discussing it.” Who else had brought it up? 

She held her tongue. It was Robb the king who spoke last, not her brother. He returned with a wry smile. “And if you are so desperate to discuss my marriage, maybe we should discuss yours?” 

Lyarra fell silent, and chewed her lip.  She had fought against betrothal tooth and nail. 

Father, of course, had waited. She had no idea why. Lady Stark wanted her gone so she could entertain offers for Sansa. It was custom to betrothe the oldest daughter first. He had gotten some generous offers from minor northern nobles and inquiries from some others. The canniest had sent their sons to stumble into her when they visited and win her themselves. 

Within her, love fought pride and duty fought desire. Robb had charged into battle for her and her sisters. Twice, risking his life and limb for them. Sansa was a captive in King’s Landing. Her cage may be gilded, but it was a cage no less. Lyarra would do anything to free her. In the end, love and duty won. 

She was almost a woman grown, and yet unpromised. Robb was right. 

“Maybe we should.” Her voice was a whispered admission, staring at her hands. She chewed on her lip. 

Robb’s surprise was clear. He had a raised brow. “You’ve changed.” 

“We both have, Robb. Or should I say your grace?” He nodded and didn’t say a word. “Make sure when you and your mother sell me off, make it worth it.” Her voice was cold. She would do anything for family. Anything to free Sansa from a cage. Even if it meant entering one herself. 

“This is war, Robb. We can’t use half measures. Even if you have to truss me into a corset and send me somewhere, I’ll do it.” Lyarra turned to look at the marshaling yard, filled with dozens of witnesses. Her betrothal chances were unlikely to get any better after these bouts. She gestured at it all. “That’s why I fought like that.” She did not know if she would ever be able to do it again. 

Robb gave a suffering sigh. “I absorbed that lesson. My bones still feel it.” 

“I fought hard because I am not sure anyone else would.” 

“Going to cut my face and chastise my guards next? Say I should get new ones?”  She laughed. It made her ribs move and they shifted into hacking coughs. 

Olyvar came back with a wineskin for Robb. Only one. Robb took it and gave it to her first. 

Olyvar had the decency to wince. “I’ll get another.” He ran off. 

“Is he loyal and true?” 

Robb snorted. “You going to lecture me on chivalry next?” She shrugged. “He and his brother are.” 

She couldn’t hide her eyebrows raising. “Really? You do know he’s a Frey.” 

“He is.” Robb looked at her and his face darkened. “What would you know about honor, anyway? You’re…” He caught himself, but she knew what he was going to say. 

Her own glare got decidedly less friendly. “Finish the sentence, Robb.” 

He looked stricken. “I did not mean it. I am sorry.” 

She just looked away and didn’t say anything. She watched the Smalljon fight Patrek Mallister. Mallister was using a spear to keep the Smalljon away from him. She watched the result of that matchup with a wary eye. After the spear broke, it was over. 

Arya was sparring with Dacey, being taught where to strike an opponent in armor. She lashed out with Needle, darting in and out. Dacey held her off with her shield and deft dodges, but slowed herself enough for Arya to land a few blows. 

“I’m glad you have good fighters with you. They all seem loyal and true. But they are close for a reason. Like Theon is.” 

Robb’s eyebrow raised. “For drinking games?” 

“Don’t jest. They are there to ensure the loyalty of others, too.” 

Robb’s face took on a different cast. Grim and cold. “Not here.” 

“Just don’t forget it, Robb.”

Robb’s eyes found Arya in the yard. “She won’t speak to me.” 

Lyarra said nothing for a short while, watching Arya dance and move back and forth. “Do you blame her?” 

“She won’t speak to mother either, on account of her negotiating it. In her words to mother, I ‘traded her as a toll for a bridge.’ ” He winced as he said it. 

“She say anything to you?” 

“She was … less charitable with me. ‘Robb, others take your stupid crown. I’m not a Yunkish bed warmer. Go away.’ ” Lyarra winced at that. Betrothals, to her, were a dreaded eventuality. One day, she knew she would give in and would have to marry. Arya seemed convinced she could win that fight and run off into the woods. She said nothing and Robb continued. “I am convinced she will come to accept it, but mother is less sure.” 

“She won’t.” Lyarra interjected. “We met little Elmar. She was not taken by him.” 

Robb frowned, but motioned for her to continue. Arya has not told him anything, and likely will not.

Lyarra would. He needed to know. “Lord Bolton introduced him at dinner and sprung the news on us mid-meal.” 

Robb cursed. “Others take him.” 

Lyarra sighed before continuing. “She stabbed his hand and stuck it to the table. He’ll live.” 

Robb winced. “That does not bode well.” 

Lyarra met his eyes with a harsh glare. “It does not. I did what I could. Offered weregild of blood.” 

Robb looked shocked. “How…”

“Ser Aenys realized that taking it in front of half the northern levies was a bad idea. It was resolved. He does not like me.”

“Gods, what a mess.” Robb put his head in his hands. “I did what I had to. You were all in danger.” 

Lyarra felt the urge to comfort him at that moment. She shuffled over, wincing the whole way, and rested on the same pillar, shoulder to shoulder. “We were. Old Lord Frey got his toll for it. He got two marriages with a great house without an ounce of risk.” 

“No risk?” Robb was incredulous. 

“Are you married to his family? Did you stick it into one of his daughters?” 

“Lya!” Robb scolded, turning red. 

“I know where you go in Wintertown with Theon, brother.” The world isn’t fair. Thankfully, Robb went rarely enough. If he made another Snow… She would beat him far worse than she had today. 

“All Old Walter has is a promise. A promise nobody could prove, and something he could weasel out of if he needed to.” Lyarra’s voice was bitter. Old Walder Frey was canny for certain. He knew the power he had held and used it to extract what oaths he could from the more honorable. Everyone paid his toll, no matter how exorbitant. 

Robb looked at her with some confusion written across his face. “And what would you have done, sweet sister?” 

“Started chopping trees the first day, making ladders. Prepared for an attempt to storm.” 

“Time was of the essence.” 

“He would have lost, regardless. He knew it as well as you. You have to be harsh.” She sat there, imagining it. Preparing the ladders, organizing the men. That command, that authority that was so close but that she would never touch. “Then I would have called Lord Walder’s bluff.” 

Robb looked at her as if she were a wildling. “He still would have gotten something.” 

Lyarra sighed. “He would have gotten something. Less.” 

“Mother negotiated it far better than I ever could have. I could accept it or find some other way.” Robb’s eyes were off in the distance. “But I couldn’t chance it to a storm. I needed to cross, Lya. I had to.” 

Now it was her turn to look defeated. “Hard choices cut deep. I know, Robb.”

“Sansa?” One word was enough to send her head back into the pillar and make her eyes water. She squeezed them shut and said nothing. Robb could read her well enough to understand. He did not press, and Lyarra was thankful. She knew she was a hypocrite pressing him on his decisions without opening up herself to the same questions. 

Olyvar Frey returned with another wineskin. She gave him a smile. “Thank you.” She could be gracious, even if he was a Frey. He blushed and mumbled something before running off. 

Robb gave a shuddering sigh and stood. “After supper, we have an assembly planned. For the Kingslayer. I want you there. We will wrangle the truth from him there. We have been left in the dark too long.” 

She nodded, slightly giddy at the trust. “Thank you, brother.” 

He seemed surprised by that. “You earned it.” 

He walked off, slightly limping. Lyarra smirked at that. 

Until something very tall plunged her world into shadow. 

“How about another round, Lya?” Dacey asked, a wicked grin on her face as she loomed over Lyarra. 

“Where is Arya?” Lyarra took a swig from the wineskin, letting it dribble out onto her chin as she drank it. What a marriage prospect I’ll be. The genteel lady. 

“Fighting with Lyra.” Lyarra stood up, slowly, and looked over. Arya was losing, but slowly, to another Mormont girl wielding a blunted axe.

“We watch until they are done, then we go.” 

Dacey smiled as they watched their younger sisters fight. “Deal.” 

The Great Halls of Riverrun echoed with the whispers of Robb’s closest advisors. The Greatjon, the Mormonts, Riverlords and Northmen all. All except Lord Karstark, for obvious reasons. They had been invited to witness this confrontation, and sat amongst the benches. Lyarra found herself amongst them, near enough to see the rest of her kin. 

Robb sat in a simple seat of wood, placed in a position of prominence. His mother stood behind him, her hands resting on the seat and her sleeves dangling upon the wooden seat. Arya was an anonymous face in the crowd, hidden behind the bulk of the Blackfish and the Greatjon. 

They fell silent when the doors swung open and a dozen Tully men-at-arms brought forth the Kingslayer. It was a long walk to her brother’s place, and Lyarra watched as they walked the long path. 

Roughly. He dragged his heels periodically, having some joy in making them tug him periodically, before walking normally and making them stumble. Sometimes, they repaid him in kind, forcing him to trip over spear shafts and boot heels. Each attempt the Kingslayer pirouetted and rebalanced his toes to keep himself upright. Even in leg irons and chains, he still had a dancer’s grace. 

His hair was unkempt and his face marred by a beard, but he was cleaner than Lyarra expected. It glistened in the torchlight. He looked well-groomed with the new beard. It looked somewhat like her father’s in the patches of darkness. It galled her.

He was a noble captive. As much as Lyarra may wish he was thrown into the Oubliette, he was afforded certain privileges. He had a bed, bath, and food. They had not let him near a knife, razor, or even a chicken bone. A kingsguard could do much with anything sharp. The Kingslayer, doubly so. Lyarra only approved of the cell because it was in the tower and the Kingslayer might stumble off the balcony. 

His captivity had not eroded him in any aspect. He walked with his back straight and his face pulled into a smirk and grimace all the same, as if this appearance were beneath him. 

The Lion, even in defeat, had his pride. 

Jaime Lannister spoke first, his voice clear above the room in the hall. “I doubt this is a social occasion. Did my father capture another of your dear relatives? Embarrassed you in another battle?” He rattled his chains as he spoke, playing with them as if they were gold bracelets. His eyes stayed focused on Robb and Lady Stark, barely passing over the crowd. 

She and Arya had found themselves small figures in a crowd, dwarfed by the Vassals around them. 

Lyarra watched Robb’s face turn to a grimace. This was going to be a patience-testing affair. He held his tongue. 

The Kingslayer’s gaze shifted above him. “Do you want me to wear a jester's motley? Befoul myself for your amusement? I am the inferior Lannister in that regard. I am much better looking…” He paused and gave an eye-watering smirk. “Is that why you kept me, Lady Stark? I do not blame you letting him go and keeping me. I’m available for those lonely nights, should you desire it.” 

Lady Stark gave a curt reply. “No, I think not. We know of your midnight … habits.”

Jaime Lannister’s mouth caught itself open, before he laughed and beamed. “Ah, I see, you have brought me to share stories of my grand exploits. I must insist, my brother is far better at it than I.” His smirk smiled and he gestured around the room with some theatricality. 

Lyarra watched with pursed lips and clenched fists. It struck her then, obvious now. He was more than a sword. 

He was charming, and good looking. That, and his name, had carried him far and high. Here, in the south, at court, it had won him admirers - Lyarra doubted the Lannisters had any true friends. What a charming smile and joke couldn’t do, gold could make all the difference.  The North was different. A dazzling smile did not keep you warm through winter. You couldn’t eat all the gold in the world. The Kingslayer was charming, pretty, and certainly fit the image of a dashing southron knight. The cold did not care for knights. Neither did Lyarra, by now. 

Robb cut him off there. “We need no stories, Kingslayer. Only confession.” The vassals around the room murmured in agreement. 

Those green eyes narrowed and the smirk faltered. “Anything in particular?” 

At that, the chamber stilled. The Greatjon cut silence with his particular brand of levity. “Sisterfucking.” That brought a few isolated laughs. 

The smirk faded. The eyes widened ever so slightly. His mouth gaped, ever so slightly. It was true. Her relief at that small admission was palpable. Her father had been right, and her guess was not some fancy.  The Kingslayer looked shocked, if only for a moment before his countenance returned. “Is that common up North? With the cold winters, it must be hard to get out much. Is that how you make do?”

That was greeted with a chorus of stony silence and glares that could skin deer. He seeks to irritate rather than convince. Good. 

Lady Mormont spoke clearly in the cavernous room, a voice that matched her strong form. “Do you deny it?” 

“Deny what? My sister is the fairest maiden in the land? I do not.” Then his infamous smile returned, beaming across the table. “But I am Kingsguard, and I would never dare infringe my vows.” His smirk widened at the grumbles brought. 

The Greatjon began to laugh raucously. “Kingslayer, having any honor?” He was joined by others. 

Jaime Lannister’s cheeks colored red at that, and he grimaced. “You seek to bring me here and make me confess to a crime I have not committed? I must confess, the Stark hospitality is not what I remember. Perhaps I will have to repay that debt.” 

Lord Mallister spoke next. “Threats? You do not know your place, Kingslayer.” 

“Oh, I am well aware of my place. Yours is within a cell at Casterly Rock. It’s only a matter of time.” His smile never faltered, despite his voice gaining a fresh chill. 

Robb’s hand tightening around his sword hilt, and Grey Wind snarled, a guttural sound Lyarra could feel through the floorboards. “We can grant you a similar arrangement if you so wish.”  

“I am quite content.” The Kingslayer waved his hand in mock concern. “So what if I did sleep with my darling sister? I doubt it would change this room’s sterling opinion of me.” 

Robb narrowed his eyes. “You admit it.” 

"Why should I tell you anything? I hear daily my dear sister has perished, been flayed, or rather it was my father. As you could imagine, it can be quite distressing to lack the truth." 

Robb frowned, as did his mother. Both looked to each other with a short glance that contained an entire conversation, then Robb looked in the eyes of his vassals. "Will you give it?"

The Kingslayer smiled, his green eyes glowing as he did so. "Of course." He spoke as if it was obvious. "I will repay truth with truth, if you give it to me." 

Lyarra contemplated the deal. If he confessed ... some trivial facts were nothing. He was a prisoner still. Robb looked to her in turn and she nodded. 

Robb looked down at the Kingslayer, Grey Wind's glare beside his own. But it was his mother who spoke. "What do you wish to know, Kingslayer?" 

"Do my kin yet live?" 

"Which of them?" Robb's voice was even. 

"My sister, brother and father." 

Lady Stark answered him. "They live, all three. Though your brother has been wounded."

The Kingslayer's expression darkened. "If that was a consequence of his captivity..." 

"It was not." Lady Stark's eyes stayed fixed on the Kingslayer. 

"Anything more, Kingslayer?" Robb asked, his voice tight.

He shook his head. "Ask your question, boy."

"Cersei Lannister's children are yours, in blood, the product of incest." 

He paused in thought, his blond hair obscuring his eyes as he looked down, then he looked up with the biggest grin Lyarra had seen. “I admit it, before all the gods and men.”

The room went silent as the grave. The Greatjon recoiled back in shock. The Mormonts’s brows raised high. Even the Freys looked disgusted at a display of lechery their patriarch had not attempted. 

The Kingslayer did not skip a beat. “The Targaryens married brother to sister? Why not Lannister to Lannister?” His face shone with glee as he spoke, as if a weight had been lifted. 

Lord Blackwood mumbled something in response. “Only when they had dragons did they do such deeds. They should have stopped after they lost them.”

The Kingslayer continued on, unabated by the rising murmurs. “My own father married his cousin, as did your grandfather. What difference does any of it all make?” 

Lady Stark's voice cooled with her next question, rage subdued behind her icy voice. "As for your next question, Kingslayer?" 

"Have Robert's brother's taken the field?" He cocked his head as he asked, as if he did not expect to be given another question. 

Lady Stark answered yet again. "Both have raised hosts to oppose your ... son. Lord Stannis waits on Dragonstone and Lord Renly has made cause with the Tyrells." 

Jaime Lannister's brow furrowed as he heard the questions and his grin slipped into a involuntary frown. Then, he gazed up at Robb and his crown and smiled. "They come for you next most likely, Boy." 

Wendel Manderly spoke, his jowls moving as he spoke "The Gods are just, as is our cause, Kingslayer." 

"Kingslayer, Kingslayer, Kingslayer. And such a king he was! To Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name." He made a mock toast, his chains clinking as he did so, his mocking smile returned."

"He could have saved me a great deal of trouble if he'd wiped out your family, boy. Pity my father has not taken your head yet. Maybe we will burn you, like your Uncle died. Would you like to know what Aerys did to him, truly?" 

Lady Tully interrupted his prideful declarations, her voice raw. “You have made a fresh Aerys, a mad boy already turning to wanton butchery. The Gods will grant us justice…” A chorus of shouts joined her, cries for vengeance and blood. 

The Lion of Lannister stood defiant and shouted above them all. “And you wish to judge me? How do I compare to your late Eddard? I am fair fairer, far faster, though those were no contest. I live and he rots. I think the gods, both old and new, favor me, my lady.” His smile glimmered with those pink lips, glistening with spittle. 

Lyarra spoke aloud, her temper flaring. “You honorless cur.” His gaze fell to her, one voice among many. She saw his pupils straight on her. 

Lyarra stared at those eyes, and he looked out at her. His gaze became uneasy for a moment. “Ah, Lord Eddard’s misplaced seed, the bastard spawn. You think we did not know why you came to the capitol, you wastrel?” 

He continued on, unabashed, everyone in the room too stunned by his prior admissions to intervene. “The good, honorable Ned Stark knew what he was doing, bringing his late sister’s doppelganger to court, just like Little Lord Renley and his Tyrell trollop.”

He pointed at her with a finger, his eyes gleaming and teeth shining bright. “I will give your dead father credit. He had just enough sense to try, but not enough to commit. You were close enough to haunt our dear dead King Robert. Sent him out chasing ghosts, fucking boars and hunting whores. My enchanting sister was quite sidelined from his usual … efforts.”

“I don’t know if I should curse or thank you. Cersei was worried sick about you. Night after night of crying, of plotting. I had to console her constantly. But then she would get all worried sick and ban me from her bed. You had to ruin that for me, you little whore.” At that, outrage spread through the hall, slowly, at the admission of it all, the disregard for all that was normal, or right. 

“Your family is no better than mine. We are all ambitious schemers in the end. At least I am an honest about what I am. You Starks and Snows would hide in your blasted honor, shrouding your bloody hands. You would see my siblings, my nieces and nephews dead for your father’s blasted honor.” It was the accusation, that her father’s vassals were child killers, that threw the hall into a clamor of violent threats, all directed to the Kingslayer. 

Lyarra blinked, collecting herself. “You started this war when you attacked my father in the street, you incestuous moron.” He moved towards her, before his chains held him back. 

Lady Stark glanced over to Lyarra, their eyes meeting for just a moment before she spoke.  “You started this war when you welcoming my family’s hospitality when you pushed my little son from a tower. An innocent child!” 

That grew gasps. The fall was no secret, as was the condition of her brother. The Kingslayer’s eyes narrowed before he continued. “He was small enough. Not innocent, though. He was spying on us.” The wistfulness in his tone left no doubt who us referred to.  

“To protect your shameful, unnatural secret you crippled a boy!” Maege Mormont roared, her eyes wide with shock. 

He shrugged, his voice completely at ease. “I did not cripple him, the fall did. Blame the Gods for that, if you wish.”  

That set the room aflame with rage. A chant began to descend across the room. “Justice, justice, justice.” It grew and built, drowning out all conversation. Hands drifted to hilts and men stepped forward. 

With a raise of her brother’s hand, the room fell silent. His voice descended like icy clouds from a mountaintop. “My sister remains in captivity. I will not doom her alongside my father. He will keep, waiting for justice, when she is free.”

He turned his glare from the Kingslayer’s form to the men sworn to him across the room. “You have all witnessed this truth, have you not?” The Kingslayer made to speak, but the guards jostled him before he could interrupt. 

The room united in a chorus of nods and affirmations. “Then spread this tale, this truth to all you can tell. LEt the wickedness of our foes grant us resolve as we pursue justice.” 

The cry of justice overtook the hall, building once more from an ocean of throats. “Justice, Justice, Justice!” The Greatjon bellowed out above them all. “The sisterfucker’s a much catchier tale than kingslayer.” 

Jaime Lannister laughed as the chant died off. “By all means, spread it far and wide. It matters not. Truth you will call it, but to every other subject of the realm, it is foul rumor.” 

The guards bowled him over, knocking him to his knees, then onto his nose, it cracked and bled across the stone. He yelled on regardless, his voice carrying through the hall.

“This brief northern victory will melt like your snows. It will be slander, boy, when my father wins this little war and mounts your head next to your fathers. He’ll do the same for your mother, too. Everyone in this hall will be dead and buried, witnesses to nothing.” The Kingslayer laughed, a grim smile on his face. “That day cannot come soon enough.” 

He continued to yell as the guards dragged him from the hall by his chains. “You think any of this will matter, boy? When my father wins this war and teaches you the rains of castamere, it will matter not one bit what was heard here.”

Lyarra stood frozen and felt stared at her boots. The light dusting of snow there had melted into a puddle on the floor. The vassals shuffled out, dismissed by her brother, and he followed them. She sat in the hall, staring at the rafter beams. 

Under the torchlight, Lyarra made her way to her room sore, bruised and battered. But she was grinning and bore a cloth sack over her shoulder. Her body ached carrying or dragging it behind her, but she had refused to be parted with the armor. Her armor. 

The armor was hers, to keep. She had never had armor before. Uncle Edmure’s gift. One he had given with a beaming smile. She had nearly bowled him over with her hug. Even the Blackfish had scraped together a few words of grudging praise. Even if he looked like he would get sick from giving them.

She left it in her room, placed out to clean and maintain later. It glimmered in the light, and she just stared at it all. 

Getting it, and herself, clean took longer than she thought. She dressed simply in a wool dress. Then she made her way to Robb’s council. 

Slowly. She was limping a bit from the sparring. Robb’s bodyguards had sought to avenge his loss themselves. She’d given and taken blows in equal measure. 

Dacey and the Smalljon were on guard outside the solar. Lyarra heard muted yelling within. 

Dacey gave her a smirk that Lyarra ignored as she passed through the doorway into the solar. At least I won one bout. Robb was mid sentence. “... leaves. I decided it alone.”

Robb and his mother were already present. Both were red-faced and hoarse from yelling. That stopped when she entered. Both took deep breaths and turned to view her as she entered. She curtsied to both as she entered. 

“Lady Snow.” “Lya.”

She made her way over to the far side of the table, passing behind Robb. She found a place in the middle where they stood on opposite ends of the table and looked over it. 

Wooden pieces lay scattered across the table. Each represented an army. A Kraken on the Iron Islands, A pair of wolves at Riverrun and the Ruby Ford, a pair of lions at Harrenhal and Lannisport. A single stag stood alone on Dragonstone. Several Stags frolicked with flowers at Highgarden. A solitary Eagle lay perched at the Eyrie. A Speared Sun stood lazy at Sunspear. 

She studied the table. The North was bare of armies. Something nagged at the back of her head but disappeared before a thought could snatch it. She contented herself to stare at the map and say little. Robb and his mother kept an awkward silence. They had been arguing about her, most likely. What to do with me.  

Lyarra had wondered about that herself. She would love to stay with her brother, by his side and protect him, fight beside him. Be with him when he broke into King’s Landing and freed Sansa. But that wasn’t likely. Dacey and the Mormonts were the only women in Robb’s host. His bastard sister fighting his battles for him? That would be scandalous. And Arya would never be allowed to join them - it was far too risky. Lyarra was surprised enough that Lady Stark had even tagged along with the army. In the end, Robb had plenty of good swords. One more would not change the war. Not that she did not want to fight beside him. 

Lyarra wouldn’t march with the host. She could be tolerated here in Riverrun but she would not be begrudged with anything important so long as Lady Stark was nearby. Uncle Edmure could only do so much, as he had his own lords to please without having to deal with a bastard niece. Robb would march out once again, and she would be left alone in these unfamiliar walls, left ignored once more. 

She hadn’t thought much of where she would go. She was more worried about what they would do with Arya. If they sent her to the Twins to ward with the family she would marry… Lyarra shuddered at the thought. Lyarra would stick with her sister. Arya needed someone to look after her, no matter where she went. Arya would not complain about her wearing a sword, at least. 

The Blackfish entered with Uncle Edmure shortly afterwards and took place along the table. 

Robb finally broke the silence and started the council. “Mother, have we heard from Aunt Lysa?” 

Lady Stark shook her head. “I have sent pleas, but none have returned.” 

Lyarra’s eyes went to the Eyrie and the solitary falcon left there. Her opinion of Lysa Arryn was steadily decreasing to the level of common pond scum and below even Freys. She got us into this mess with her note about her husband.  

If she thinks she can hide in the Eyrie and outlast this winter, she is wrong. The Casterlies had had an impregnable fortress and even that did not outlast the Lannisters. The Lannisters would claw their way inside the Eyrie however they could. If Lady Arryn’s vassals didn’t do the job first. 

A widow regent for her sickly son as lord paramount? It was not a strong position. One could only fight off marriage offers from vassals for so long. Lyarra knew that reality faced her soon enough. Only her bastard status, ‘scandalous’ habits, and weak claim prevented any more. 

Lyarra left her comments unsaid. She couldn’t speak freely here, as much as she wanted to. She grimaced but didn’t say a word. Lysa Arryn was kin to everyone in the room to save her. Insulting her would do nothing but turn the room against her. 

Lyarra found eyes on her. Lady Stark’s eyes. They were studying her. She let them and turned back to stare at the map. 

The Blackfish spoke next. “I am familiar with the Vale Lords. They held your father in great esteem. I could rouse some of them to our cause - Lord Yohn Royce would be with us for certain.” 

Edmure gestured and spoke without much conviction. “We could offer marriages but scarce little else to tempt the rest.” 

Lady Stark spoke aloud. “If we do that, we would feed disorder against Lysa and her son. We would put them at risk.” Her tone was icy and scathing to her uncle and brother. “I will not leave my sister to be preyed upon by her own bannermen.” 

At that, they fell silent once more. 

Edmure spoke again. “What of the Martells? They carry little love for the Lannisters and were independent once.” That could work.  

The Blackfish gave voice to Lyarra’s own thoughts. “They are kingdoms distant from us. By land, they would have to march alone through two kingdoms, and by sea they would leave themselves exposed. I doubt they would be useful for now.” They could draw away the Lannisters, but with Storm’s End and the Reach already hostile, there was scarcely any reason for the Lannisters to actually fight them yet. 

Lady Stark spoke clearly. “They did not rouse themselves for Princess Elia. They will not rouse themselves for Ned.” 

Lyarra decided to risk her own words. “What of the Tyrells? Ser Loras joined the hunt for the Mountain and fell in battle. They have a fresh grudge for the Lannisters.” 

“Where did you learn of this?” The Blackfish’s gaze was on her.

“The knight of flowers, dead?” Edmure looked shocked. 

“The Brotherhood told me.” She pulled out a bloody ripped handkerchief and set it softly on the table. She tried to keep her face impassive. 

Robb looked at her handkerchief and then back at her without a word. His gaze was questioning. What were you up to, sister? She shook her head. 

Lady Stark spoke softly. “They have declared for Renly, according to Raven. They are lost to us.” 

Lyarra frowned. “His men aided Arya and I’s escape. They might be willing to work with the King in the North.” 

The Blackfish stroked the whiskers on his chin. “They might.” 

Robb spoke softly. “Who should treat with him?” They all stood in silence for a moment. Robb looked at her. “Lya?” 

They all stared at her. Lyarra swallowed before shaking her head. 

Lady Stark spoke for her. “That would be an insult. To send a … natural child, a girl of fifteen… It would not serve.” 

Lyarra gave Lady Stark a sideward glance looking for malice, or another outburst, but found only neutral eyes. She’s thinking logically regarding me.  

Robb’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. 

Lyarra spoke too. “I agree. It should be… someone more seasoned.” And trueborn, but that went unsaid. Lord Renly smiled too easily, and Lyarra barely knew what he was planning in King’s Landing. She would get played if sent to speak, she was certain. 

Robb would not spare the Blackfish, and Edmure no doubt would be left behind to hold Riverrun. Lyarra found herself gazing at Lady Stark. 

Their eyes met and Lyarra prevented herself from flinching. Old habits die hard. 

Those eyes gazed at her with something other than disdain. They weren’t warm, but rather something cool and practical sat there. She hadn’t expected any love, but she could live with cool regard. It was better than being shunned. 

Lyarra spoke aloud. “He had a habit of partying well. Theon could treat with him. They might bond over carousing.” 

Robb shook his head. “Theon will go to Pyke to treat with his father.” 

Lyarra blinked. She had not expected that. She opened her mouth in surprise. She would never weep seeing the ass end of Theon Greyjoy, but sending him to Pyke was bold. Bold in a bad way. He was a hostage . 

Uncle Edmure and the Blackfish were not surprised by this. However, Lady Stark wore an identical look of surprise. 

\

She spoke first with less diplomacy. “No Robb. He is a hostage!” Lady Stark opened her mouth to speak. Lyarra turned to Lady Stark, expecting to argue with her as soon as she began to speak. Instead, she found herself nodding along. “I would sooner you sent someone else to Pyke and kept Theon close to you.”

Lady Stark mirrored her own evident surprise to have them both agree on something. They both turned to find Robb’s face troubled. Edmure hid a smile under his palm at the situation, and Lyarra glared at him. The Blackfish frowned but said nothing. 

Robb spoke aloud. “Theon is Balon’s son and heir. Who better to treat with him than his own blood?” 

Catelyn spoke. “Lord Mallister. Stevron Frey. Tytos Blackwood. Anyone… but not Theon.” 

Lyarra felt slightly weary agreeing with Lady Stark. But she was right, and Lyarra nodded with her counsel. Theon was … untrustworthy, and had no love of her. Or any of the Starks save Robb. Theon was a lecher and not worth the boots he filled. She and him had never gotten along, save when Starks were present, when they both presented a thin veneer of good charm regarding the other. 

Lyarra had learned at age six that trusting Theon - he was ten, fresh from the Iron Islands - was a fool’s errand. A few hours in a locked closet had terrified her beyond her wits. She got out eventually, but she had never liked dark, enclosed spaces afterwards. Theon had been unrepentant until she had ambushed him at the top of some stairs. A quick push and tumble down the stone later, and she had beaten him bloody until the guards had found them both and dragged them before her lord father. 

After that, they had only insults for each other, for nearly a decade. She’d figured out after flowering that Theon … liked touching maids. He had not dared to try out of fear of her and her father, but he leered nonetheless on parts he claimed were too small to notice anyway. She had started carrying around a dagger with his name on it. Just in case. 

Robb’s words jolted her out of her memories. “Theon’s fought bravely. He saved Bran from those wildlings in the wolfswood. We need his father’s ships.” 

Robb’s face was set, kingly. His mother was not making him see sense. “Robb, I know he is your friend, but he is a hostage. Has been for half his life. Send someone else. Releasing him should be the last step.” He could betray us easily enough. He and his father both. They have no love of us, except for you dear brother.  

Her attempt went about as well. “I’m sending Theon. He is like a brother to me.” Robb’s face was set, and Lyarra just frowned. She had seen that look on father. Robb wouldn’t be budged. 

Brynden spoke in agreement with Robb. “Whoever we send, the Ironborn are tough fighters. They fought hard in the Rebellion.” His craggy face was in agreement. 

Edmure spoke aloud. “They had wanted to be independent before. It is why they rebelled in the first place. Why wouldn’t they take our offer?” He looked hopeful. Lyarra knew when to cut her losses. She just crossed her arms. 

“What of Lord Stannis?” She spoked, changing the subject. Arguing more would do little else than breed ill will. 

The Blackfish grimaced. “He’s capable enough, but he’s declared for no one and done nothing yet.” 

Edmure nodded. “I heard nothing out of Maidenpool. No ship has left Dragonstone for weeks, not even traders.”

Lyarra’s scowl deepened. Her father had trusted him enough to make him king, and yet Lord Stannis had done nothing. Privately, she cursed him. Lady Lysa had the excuse of a sickly son and murdered husband. Lord Stannis had fled without any of the same. But that left them stewing in silence yet again. 

Lady Stark broke it. "Riverrun was under siege weeks ago. I will not leave my daughter here.”

Her voice was firm. Lyarra agreed, but kept her expression neutral and wary. 

Edmure spoke. “I can watch over her, Cat. She’ll be safe behind these walls. I’ll die before any harm comes to her.” Lyarra felt her temper rising. Arya should be here, to give a voice to where she would be sent. 

Robb seemed lost in thought, his face curiously placid. “I have faith in you, Uncle, but the Twins are further away from the Lannisters. And the House Arya will marry into.” Lyarra felt a spike of pain behind her eyes and began to take deep, calming breaths. 

Lady Stark spoke next. “Robb, I understand it may be difficult to choose a Frey girl …”

Edmure coughed and spoke with a smirk. “Given there are so many…” 

Lady Stark spoke over him, scolding look in her eyes. “…and Arya may help in choosing but I will not send Arya to that den of weasels until we have no other choice. I will not give the Freys any early ideas.” Lyarra clenched her fists and stared at the table. 

Robb and Lady Stark’s argument faded into background chatter, while Edmure made catty comments about Frey Honor and the Blackfish just continued to scowl. She thought of Ghost, of summer snows, of home, anything to calm herself. Losing her temper would be unwise. 

It was futile. 

She was yelling herself hoarse before she knew what she was saying. “I WILL NOT LET ARYA BE TAKEN THERE.” 

She had hit the table and sent the wooden pieces flying off it. Her knuckles gave a small, firm twinge and ache she disregarded. Instead she waved them to point at Robb wildly. 

That brought the table to silence. Total, utter silence.  

Lyarra continued to let it all out. “I can tolerate you letting that pervert with dreams of glory run off to his family of rapers and raiders. I can tolerate Arya being sent away from the frontline like she is some damsel. I can even tolerate the Frey marriage to keep their swords.”

Lyarra fixed her brother with a firm stare, her finger poking his chest. “But I will be dead and buried before I see Arya sent to the Twins. Ever. I won’t give that slimy weasel anything more of …” she paused then, stepping back, “…your house and my family. I’ll take her anywhere else, but never to the Twins.”

Robb wasn’t surprised by her outburst, weathering it with good charm. He was actually smirking. He was looking past her, to his mother. He raised a brow. “You see, mother? Arya has the perfect escort and protector to take her home.”

Lyarra stood there, slack jawed and stunned. She fell back into the table and used her hands to keep herself up. Her eyes watered. Of course. Of course. How could I be so stupid? None of them liked the Freys. 

Why did she think she left manipulation and politics behind in King’s Landing? Robb, her ever clever brother, had baited that trap to prove her loyalty. To show she would look after Arya. 

As if it needed to be proven. He was sending her a good distance - North, no doubt to Winterfell. Arya was young and would need someone to watch over her during the journey Someone of unimpeachable loyalty, who would not be convinced to let her loose to her betrothed house. 

Did Dacey ask me to spar because Robb wanted me to? Did he lose on purpose? All of a sudden, doubts about motives had filled her. All except her own. 

She looked around the table. Both Edmure and the Blackfish were smiling at her outburst. Edmure’s eyes looked sympathetic and pained. We can bond over shared hatreds of the Frey’s some other time. 

Lady Stark looked shocked, less from the content of her outburst but by her own son. Her gaze watered slightly, and her lip quivered but she said nothing. 

Lyarra looked at her brother last. He was smiling, and stepped forward to hug her. “I knew…” 

She pushed him back. 

That wiped the smirk off his face. He put a hand to his mouth and gazed at her with faint surprise. Her voice was a low growl. “I am not some pawn to play with, brother.” 

“Lya…” His eyes widened. 

She glared at him. “If you want me to do something, or you doubt my commitment to my siblings, you can say so.” 

Horror overtook his features and his mouth gaped. His arms moved to reach out for her. She left her own at her side. 

“I apologize for pushing you. I am just exhausted of intrigue.” Her eyes frosted over. She couldn’t cry now. She would break into pieces and look to her brother for comfort. 

But he was her king now. 

His eyes widened. “I only meant to…” They flickered to his mother. Of course. He wanted to prove it to someone else. It was noble, in a fashion. Lady Stark just sat there staring between them with a muted expression, not having budged from her side of the table. Lyarra couldn’t read her beyond mute shock. She had no idea if Robb’s scheme had worked. 

She turned away, holding onto the table for strength. “I don’t doubt you meant well, Robb.” Her voice was a whisper. “You intend to send me and Arya to Winterfell, I assume?” 

Robb looked to be in pain. “Yes, and…” She raised her hand and he stopped. 

“To Seaguard and then by boat to Torrhen’s Square. I am along to make sure we do not get waylaid and end up at the Twins. We would leave soon, no doubt?” 

“Yes. But Lya…” 

She gave a long, exhausted sigh before speaking next. “Thank you for your trust. I would like to rest now. I am quite tired, and I will need to prepare for the journey. By your leave, your grace.” 

Robb just stared at her with weary, old eyes. “You may.” He looked as sad as she felt. The others just stared on as mute observers. 

She gave a curtsy before leaving. She kept her chin up through the doorway, the halls, and her room. She laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a long while.

Lyarra sighed as she finished filling her saddlebags. Arya busied herself beside them. It was to be a small party, a dozen men alongside them. Lyarra and Arya both wore what armor they had gathered. It was time to bid farewell to Riverrun, and their family. 

Lady Stark fussed over Arya’s hair, straightening it over and over with her hands, while the Blackfish spoke to her about fighting with lances. 

Lyarra gave Edmure a firm hug. “Thank you. For the armor.” 

Edmure smiled back, hands on her shoulders. “You will have better luck with it than me. For me, it’s useless.” 

Lyarra creased her brow. “How so?” 

“Armor only attracts suitors for me - hides my ugly face and makes me look gallant. For you, it should scare them off.” At that jape, she laughed alongside him. 

He gave her a firm pat on her shoulder and then made his way over to Arya. 

She turned back to adjusting the straps of her saddle before she heard a cough behind her. She turned around … right into her brother’s hug. Sighing, she returned it. 

He mumbled into her ear. “I wish we had not fought. I did not mean…” 

Lyarra bit back her tongue. She would not - could not - leave without reconciliation. Not like last time. She would not let her possible last moments with her brother be an argument. 

“You were trying your best. I do not belong here, Robb.” His auburn locks brushed her forehead as she whispered. They were nestled, heads on each other’s shoulders. 

He patted her back. “You do, always. You have a space wherever I am. You always will.” 

They merely held each other for a long while. Then they pulled back, arms on each other’s shoulders. 

“Go North. Watch over Bran, Rickon, Arya. Keep them safe.” She smiled at the thought of seeing Bran and Rickon again. Then she grew grave. 

“Bring Sansa home to us. Then finish them off, Robb. For father.” His own eyes grew sharp and he nodded, swallowing. 

Robb cocked a small grin. “I will. Keep Winterfell warm for me.”

“I intend to, Robb.” Lyarra looked to her sister, chuckling and wrestling with her great uncle as her mother fussed over preparations she had obsessed over already. “I will give her a life before she’s sent off to some fat Frey.” It was a promise she intended to keep. 

Robb grimaced but nodded. “As for yourself…” Lyarra grinned widely. “I would like some nieces and nephews. See what you can do about that.”

Robb frowned. “I’ll keep my oath.”

Lyarra squeezed his shoulder. “Do it soon and give nothing for Lord Walder to weasel his way out of. He sinks or swims with us. Make certain he knows that.” 

Robb’s face just grimaced. He was holding his tongue, too. 

She smiled. “You have your pick of the litter. Do it, soon. It’s wise and keeps you from … doing something foolish.” At that, her face grew grave. She wanted Stark nephews and nieces, not rivers or snows. 

Robb’s eyes widened. “Lya, I would never… I would not.” His brow furrowed with his words. He was clenching his fists and staring at her feet.

She just gave the saddest smile she knew and squeezed his shoulder. His eyes met hers, and she spoke softly. “You would not? Robb, father did.” For all his duty, all his honor, all his loyalty, Ned Stark had made a bastard. What hope did her young brother have? That crushed Robb to hear, she knew. But it was true. How else would she stand there? Her father had ridden to war once, and brought home another woman's babe to his wife. 

“But enough of that. I will write.” Lyarra made to put a foot in her stirrup, but felt her brother’s hand on her shoulder. 

He was nervous. She could feel his heartbeat through the gloves. “There is … one other matter.” 

He swallowed and handed her a piece of paper. A decree, with the Stark seal stamped at the bottom and his signature. It folded open in her hands and she read it. He watched her as she read it, his eyes keen and watched her race across the parchment and begin to water. 

“Truly?” She choked out the words, barely able to speak. She would have collapsed, but he held her up in a tight, warm hug. She held the paper with a tight pinch, terrified of damaging it or it’s precious words. 

“It had been a long time coming. What good is being king if I can’t help my sister?” 

“Robb… I…” She was melting, her knees weak but he just held her up, held her in a firm embrace. 

Her voice was a hoarse whisper laden with emotion. “Thank you, Thank you.” A muted, whispered refrain repeated into his ear. 

“Father should have done it long ago.” 

In the tight grip of her hands, Lyarra Stark held the firmest proof that her brother loved her like a sister. The one thing she had always wanted for herself was hers. 

She was a Snow no longer - she was a Stark now and always.

Chapter Text

They were traveling North. Lyarra was half giddy with the note she held. Legitimized. I’m legitimized. 

Kings could legitimize bastards. Robb had been acclaimed King. Robb had legitimized her. It was so simple, yet it was finally here. 

She had always wanted it, and now she had it. She was a Stark. It filled her with a strange, sobering pride. She found herself staring at the piece of parchment under the firelight, rereading the same words over and over lest she forget them, night after night, as if she scarcely believed it was real. Arya had read it herself and just hugged her after. She knew how much it meant to her.

They rode north along forest trails and through backcountry roads north to Seaguard. They would ride there, then arrange passage north, by boat to Winterfell. To home. Her home, now and forever. It filled her with a sense of joy and warmth. 

Of course, the journey north was not to be entirely perfect. That had to do with their company. It was better than the Bolton men, at least. They had half a dozen Stark guardsmen with them, but she knew and trusted those men. Arya knew each of their names. They were good men, boasting superficial wounds, which qualified them for this light duty to escort them North. Arya made sure to ask how they had won their scars. They weren’t an issue at all. They’d refused to let her and Arya participate in the nightly watches, taking offense at her offer. “We will be dead and buried before we let noble ladies waste their sleep for us lot.”

Chiefly, all of Lyarra’s concern rested with their other traveling companion. 

Theon Greyjoy had made himself scarce with their arrival at Riverrun. He’d avoided most of the pangentry, content to fuck whores somewhere in the woods. Lyarra hadn’t complained one bit about that - the less she saw of his face, the better as far as she was concerned. They’d stayed apart, practicing mutual avoidance they had both mastered at Winterfell. 

They managed to keep that silence for three days from Riverrun. Ghost was a blessing when she slept beside Lyarra - Theon was terrified of the direwolves. But they were both traveling north with a small party. Inevitably, they would have to talk to each other. The time came when they settled down for the night before a fire. Ghost had wandered off that night. 

When he shuffled across from her and Arya, he wore a big grin. He was also going home, across the sea to Pyke on the Iron Islands. As her brother’s envoy to his father. 

He’d been a hostage since he was a boy, a bit older than her. He’d come home with her father and befriended her brother. And only her brother. He’d never been to the Islands since. 

But he was her brother’s envoy. She swallowed her pride and tried to forget their private hatred. Hopefully the presence of Arya would keep things civil. 

“Hello, Lady Snow, Princess Arya.”

She spoke softly. “Hello, Theon.” 

“It’s Crown Prince Theon.” He preened like a peacock. 

“Hello, Crown Prince Theon.” 

He frowned. “You’ve changed your attitude.” 

She simply looked at him with a lidded eyes. This wasn’t the time for childhood feuds. Robb needed all the allies he could get. If it took Theon’s homeland of raiders and rebels to win, it was a price she could stomach. But they didn’t have to send Theon. Gods above, he was a hostage. Releasing him should have been the last step, not the first. 

But perhaps the Lord Reaper of Pyke would take it as a sign of goodwill. She’d do her duty to her house - a warmth overcame her then - and stomach Theon Greyjoy for the journey. After Seaguard, they would travel on separate boats, she’d decided. It wouldn’t do any good to arrive with one of them dead. 

Theon leaned back, face bright with glee. “You finally realize who I am. The Prince of Pyke! A Kraken.” 

She’d just nodded politely. You’ve lived at Winterfell longer than you lived at Pyke. You have not seen the ocean since you were younger than Arya. His smile widened and he adopted his old tone, taking her silence for agreement. “It’s strange to see you meek as a kitten.” The tone she hated, all full of pride and hatred.  

Arya’s eyes widened slightly and she looked between the two of them. So he wasn’t going to let her presence stop the spat. He has gotten bolder. That provoked a small narrowing of the eyes from her. “It’s been a long while, Prince.” 

“It has. The capitol had tamed you.” His eyes were not friendly. They moved up and down her body. She kept her breathing steady. 

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” He moved closer to her, next to her. He was sitting next to her now. 

He leaned to whisper in her ear. “I could warm you.” His hand stroked her chin. Her own knocked it away. 

“No.” She turned to look at him, glare apparent. Her hand had gone to the dagger out of habit. She scooted away from him. 

Theon’s mocking smile turned to frown. “Guarding your virtue harder now since you have a stark cunny?” His head cocked as he smiled with malice. 

Arya’s mouth gaped and she got up. “Don’t talk like that.” Her hand was on Needle’s hilt, ready to draw. Theon laughed at her display. A cold, mocking laugh. 

He had not placed his hand on his own hilt. Overconfident. 

Lyarra stilled her sister with a look. “Go for a walk, Arya.” She put on a tired smile. Just a few more days. 

“No.” Her brow was furrowed and she chewed her lip. “He should never talk like that.” 

“Prince Theon should not.” Lyarra stared at Theon with bitter loathing, to which he only smiled. “But go for a walk. Take one of the guards.” 

“Lya…” 

“Go. I can handle him. I do not need your table manners here.” It was the closest she had ever gotten to rebuking Arya, and her sister’s face went hard as stone. Arya stormed off, two of the guards going with her. 

Lyarra sighed and let her head droop. Just four more days. Then she would hopefully never see Theon Greyjoy ever again. 

Theon snapped his fingers. “I know why you are playing hard to get! You finally realize I am more important than you. How important I am.” 

“I did it to be kind, Prince. I know the concept escapes you.” 

“Kind? Kind ? Now?” His face twisted into race and upset. 

“You are going home, like I. The journey should be joyful.” Lyarra gave a deep sigh and stared into the fire. “We aren’t children anymore. We should not squabble any longer.” 

“Me a child? I am a man grown. You’re the child. At least you were. Now…” Theon pursed his lips and looked her up and down, clucking his tongue. She glared at him.  

“I don’t want to fight Theon.” Lyarra sighed. She just wanted home back. 

Theon’s smile grew, a cruel thin line across his face. Triumph glistened behind his eyes. He is going to pounce. That realization sobered her. It is too late for bridges. I would do the same in his shoes. “I did not expect you to make it back. Thought we would find you used up and dead in some ditch somewhere.”

She sighed before launching her own sally. “We rarely get what we want.” 

Theon’s smile grew wider, he leaned over in the firelight, leering. “About that. I wondered how?” 

“It was simple really. I walked and rode.” She mimed both with her hands and fingers, as if he were daft. 

“Oh, not that.” His smile took on a malicious glint. “How many lion cocks did you have to suck to escape your cell?”

Her brow furrowed and she saw red. “Less than you. The Kingslayer enjoy you polishing his sword in the woods?” 

He reached out to grab her. Too slow. He contented himself with blocking her path and pointed to the sword on her belt. “That’s gotten lost from the armory. I should take it back. You’ll get hurt playing at being a knight. You’d do better as a whore.”

“Does it ever tire you?” She kept her voice barbed, biting. 

“What?”

“Playing the whore?” At that, his eyes bulged and she shuffled back before him. 

He lunged at her and grabbed her by the wrist. His grip was tight enough it hurt. Her dagger tip ever so slightly rested on his belly. 

He smiled “Oh, I bet your heart is just racing just thinking of my gifts. Bastard blood runs hot, so they say. Maybe I will honor you someday. ”

“Let me go.” He did not, his hand growing tiger. 

“Forgetting you lady’s courtesies, aren’t you?”

“I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. She slid the dagger forward. His face went grave. 

“I fought and fucked my way south.” At that, he released her hand and slid back. 

“I reckon my brother did the fighting and you the fucking.” She kept the dagger in her hands firm and tried not to let it tremble. 

“I ought to hit you, teach you the manners your father could not.” He kept his distance now, eyes on her knife. 

She sat back, eyes on his torso, looking for sudden movements. “You could not hit anything greyjoy.” 

He boasted, his spittle landing on her face. “I hit every target, with arrow or seed. Reckon I should try with you?”

“I reckon you should try your luck elsewhere. Your homeland has goats, does it not?” 

He scoffed. “I’m not some Dornishman. Plenty of women smarter than you in my homeland to try out.” She rolled her eyes. 

“They will line up to fuck me, the Prince of Pyke.” This again. He stood, looming above her, his hands on his hips and his chest thrust forward with pride. 

She sighed and said nothing, pulling her knees closer to herself and holding them. Hopefully he would take her silence as a concession and leave her alone. He had in the past. 

“Your father’s dead, and Robb’s tired of your company so quickly. Better marry quick, Lyarra Snow. Bastard.” That brought her to her feet, and she wiped away the tears from her face. Do not show weakness in front of enemies. 

She glared at him with nothing but raw hatred, fists clenched, brow furrowed. “I have a decree saying otherwise, Greyjoy.” Her words were hollow sounding, even to her. 

“Yes, a piece of paper that says otherwise. Your brother means well with it, but we all know who you are. Everybody in the North knows what you are. Except you. You know nothing, Lyarra Snow .” Theon’s smirk grew and grew as he stood across from her, enjoying every moment. 

He waited before continuing, to make sure she was looking at him, staring into those eyes filled with hurt and pain. “Eddard Stark's sole mistake.” Lyarra felt the rage building behind her, black and heavy. Her fists clenched and her breath grew hot.  

Theon had tried to goad her before. He wanted fights he could win, where she did not think and rushed in, and brawn mattered more than anything. She preferred surprise and ambushes, guile. Fighting fair was for boys with the brawn to afford it. 

But now…She thought of Robb, of the war. They needed the Iron Islands. She thought of those windblown rocks, the thousands of swords, the longships that could sack Lannisport again. 

It did nothing to cool herself. 

She thought of Winterfell’s warm walls, Old Nan’s tales, and Ghost’s fur. Deep breaths, in and out. She turned to leave, to find Arya. His words followed her. “Proof your father was human after all. Where are you going?” 

“Finding Ghost.” She hurled the words over her shoulder as she turned to leave. 

“No, I think you are going someplace to whack your sword against a tree. As if that could save you.” He was following her, walking behind her at a casual pace. His voice echoed through the trees behind her. 

“It has, you cretin.” She was walking through the trees now, deeper in the woods. She heard the sound of steel hitting a tree up ahead and followed the sound. 

“You need a husband, not a sword. Robb won’t tell you that, but I will.” 

She turned to fix Theon with a glare of hatred. “Go away, Greyjoy. Bother someone else.” He stood ten paces behind her, bordered by two firs. 

“I’m not without mercy. You could be mine.” His face was clear in the moonlight. His white teeth glistened and his face was handsome. To her, the smile could never be anything but hideous. 

Lyarra spat at his feet. Theon cackled and slapped his knees. “You whore, too stubborn and stupid to see it. I am the best you could get.”  

A bundle of bushes pushed aside and Arya pushed out, Needle in her hand. “Shut up! You’re stupid!” Lyarra glared at her sister, and gestured for her to leave. Arya shook her head and stared. 

Theon turned to Arya. Silence reigned in those short moments, as he stroked his chin with a hand. Then his eyes glistened and Lyarra’s heart fell. He is growing too bold.  

“One of these days, you’ll be pushed in a wedding dress, Arya … Frey.” Theon’s smirk only grew at the last word. Lyarra’s fists clenched at that. Never . 

“Never!” Arya cried, rushing forward. Lyarra grabbed her by the scruff of her brynie and pulled her back as Needle swung through the air carried by pinwheeling arms.  

“You’ll break an oath? Like your father did?” Theon pointed to Lyarra with a deep smirk.  

Lyarra held her sister close in a firm hold, hug and hold all at once. Keeping Arya from doing something Lyarra wanted to do herself was difficult, and felt her blood running hot. Arya struggled firmly, trying to hit Theon with Needle. 

“It falls on your brother to see you both wed. I almost feel bad for him.” That loosened her tongue. 

Lyarra glared back at Theon before speaking. “I’m so glad I have so many brothers and sisters to see wed.” Theon’s face darkened and began to turn violet. 

His voice was harsh and unkind. “Poor quality ones. The bastard, the cripple, the wet rat, the toddler. Such wonderful catches.” Too good for you. Lyarra thought. 

“You know who you remind me of, Theon?” She spoke slowly. 

“Who?” He said so warily, uncertain if she was surrendering or continuing their spat. 

“King Robert. A good-for-nothing drunk and whoremonger. An overgrown child… and a cuckold.” 

Theon turned crimson red. “You she-bitch. How often did you have to sheath his fat sword?” Spittle came from his mouth as he snarled at her. 

Arya squirmed in Lyarra’s grip. Lyarra whispered into her ears, trying to calm her. Arya’s gaze on Theon was murderous… as was her own. Theon laughed at his own jape. 

“Speaking of good lord Robert with the horns and the Lannisters who grew them…” Lyarra turned and looked him straight in the eye. “They seemed very good at trimming the tentacles of your family tree. Has there been a living Greyjoy that hasn’t been beaten?” He flinched at the reminder. She had always used his dead brothers as a jape. Only now she could understand the hurt that appeared in those eyes after she spoke. 

Theon’s next words washed away any regret she might have had. “You lowborn sow. Your mother was a whore.” He always defaults to my mother when he runs out of ideas. 

“I think you favor that bow of yours because Robb couldn’t beat you at it. Is there anything else he isn’t better than you at?” That brought him low. He stared at his feet before stalking off. She could see the tears in his eyes and twisted the knife. “And he’s five years younger than you!”

He shouted over his shoulder as he left. “You think you are something, bastard, but you are just another cunt for your betters. One of these days, your blood will run too hot and you will thank me!” His mocking laughter went through the trees as he stalked back through the trees. 

Lyarra held Arya in that clearing until her sister stopped struggling. After that, Lyarra released her. Arya took a few steps before turning to Lyarra. 

Arya spoke slowly, “I hate him. He should never talk like that. Ever!” She hissed out the words behind clenched teeth. 

Lyarra sighed. “Words are Wind. We need his father’s swords.” 

Arya looked at her, and an understanding passed between them. “How long…” She sheathed Needle and Lyarra began to relax. 

“Since he came. He’s always been …” Lyarra meant to say mean at heart, but instead said “...broken.”

She and Arya sat there in the little clearing they found, each sitting down in the dirt. Best to let him drink and slumber off before going back. 

Arya spoke. “He would never say that if …” father was around. The end of that sentence went unsaid. 

WE need to think about something else and brood elsewhere. “I know. Let’s practice water dancing.” 

Lyarra stood and snapped two sticks from the tree. Arya took one, a scowl on her face. “I know what Robb and mother promised the Freys. But I didn’t promise anything.” Then, Arya’s face grew set and implacable. “I won’t.” 

Lyarra walked a few paces away before turning. Her sister’s eyes were worried. “Lya… you won’t let them. Right?” 

Lyarra knelt to meet those eyes square on. “I will do everything in my power.”  

Arya nodded, and took up a stance so much like Syrio’s, it hurt to see. But Lyarra smiled. 

Soon the clearing resounded only with the crack of sticks, back and forth. They fought hard before returning to the fire and falling asleep there, insults forgotten.