i.

Lyanna scowled at her oldest brother, trying to reach the roses he held high up. "This is not amusing," she said, jumping as high as her small body allowed. "You are so mean!"

"There, there, little she-wolf," her brother cajoled. "In about ten years' time you shall be tall enough to get your flowers." He thought of it as a jest, but to Lyanna it was not. "Oh look, here comes mother. Why don't you tell her of your grievances?"

"I will." And she would have, except that Robyn Forrester did not need to be told much of what went on to understand the situation.

"Young lord Brandon, what is the meaning of this?" the woman questioned, nearing her child. She placed her arms protectively around her daughter and pulled her into the heavy folds of her skirts. "Have you taken such great a fancy to those roses?"

The young man smirked and threw the roses at their feet.

ii.

"I do not like this," Rickard said, "there is too much danger in such a scheme. I say we face the King's army directly. They cannot last in a Northerner winter." Alanna Flint deferred to the judgement of her husband, but her mind was to her own son, riding in the wolfswood. "Maester Walys, find another way."

"We could always give in to the King's demand," the maester said, though without conviction. Aerys Targaryen was a petty ruler. Such men would not see kindly any sort of attempt at reconciliation.

"And kill all of our people?" That won't do." Rickard stood to his feet. "Then it is war." He turned to his bedridden wife, "My lady, I leave Winterfell in your capable hands and that of Maester Walys. Robyn shall help."

"My lord," Alanna answered curtly. "Make speed and win."

He nodded his head. "Let us away, maester. We should not tax my poor lady wife so much."

iii.

Carefully balancing the two cups she carried, Lyanna tried her best not to trip over the uneven floors. She certainly did not understand why it had been demanded of her to sit inside and wait upon Lady Stark, but as a bastard daughter she had little choice. Even more so when her mother made the demand. A double sentence, that.

"Lyanna Snow," the sickly lady lying in bed addressed her, "where is my Ned off to?"

"Last I saw him he was tending Ser Patrek," came her swift reply. It wouldn't do to test the woman's patience.

Her own mother beckoned her over and took one of the cups. "Here, my lady, have a drink."

It would forever elude her how her mother could stand their position, but it was not her place to speak. It never had been. So she kept her silence and kept hoping for better. Perhaps soon.

iv.

She snuck around the darkened hallway, careful not to make a sound. Benjen trailed behind her, sleep-filled eyes still not functioning properly. "Don't fall, stupid," she hissed at him, making to grab his hand. "Look, there they are."

Lord Stark's two true-born sons conversed quietly. Brandon was still holding onto his sword. Lyanna, using the shadows to mask both herself and the yawning Benjen from sight, crept closer to them so as to better hear what went on.

"He won't suspect a thing if I keep away from him, Ned," Brandon was saying. "By the time this is over he'll be glad to have me there on the battlefield with him. I cannot stay here and hide with the woman and children."

"Father gave his orders," the younger one reminded the older.

"Just saddle my horse."

Lyanna looked at Benjen. "He'll follow our lord father into battle."

Benjen shrugged. "I would too."

v.

Swords clashed together in an angry rhythm, pulsing with malice and thirst for blood. There was no escaping the sharp edges or the brutal attacks. Brandon cursed his own folly at having ignored the wisdom of his elders.

He struck true through one of the enemies, but two other came to replace the fallen one. His hand was tired, his strength almost gone. He brought up his sword to parry a coming blow, but as soon as he did so, from out of nowhere, an arrow struck. His chainmail, thin as it was, could not stop it.

Brandon looked down.

Another arrow came.

He fell to his knees, the ground rough, cold and hard.

One last burst shot through him, enabling the heir of Winterfell to bring his sword up one more time.

And then he was heir no more.

The head of Brandon Stark rolled to the ground.

vi.

Tywin Lannister held the severed head out of its box. Truly, the resemblance to Lord Stark was striking. "So this was his heir?" A young boy, too young to have been called to the battlefield by his father. Well, perhaps it was better that he'd been given a death of his own choice.

"Give it to its rightful owner," he ordered, throwing the head back in the small carved box. "Lord Stark shouldn't leave this world without seeing his son for the last time."

The sentinel nodded his head and obediently went to fulfil the task.

From his comfortable seat, the King looked up from his maps. "I've heard he has another son as it is."

"Aye, by his second wife." Tywin could already guess the line of thought his King was entertaining.

"Then shall we allow the man to see that one too? It would be too cruel otherwise."

vii.

"My lady, I am begging you, have mercy," Robyn cried softly. "You cannot intend to give me such a choice. I pray you wouldn't."

Alanna Flint fixed her with a hard stare. "Are you daft? Did you not understand my meaning? Choose now."

The sobbing mother fell to the floor in supplication. "Don't, don't," she repeated, clutching her two children, her tears falling upon both. Benjen has started bowling soon after their mother, but Lyanna bit into her lip to keep from crying. She could feel the blood trickling down, yet she kept biting.

"Very well then, I shall choose for you," Lady Stark said, recognising that she wouldn't be getting an answer to her question from the bastards' mother. "Take the boy."

Ser Patrek Glover reached out for Benjen. Robyn jumped to her feet and tried to stop him but the only thing that earned her was a shove from the man. "My lady Forrester, I have to," he said, taking the sobbing child away.

Ned Stark followed them.

And her mother too sprinted after them once she had regained her bearings.

viii.

Robyn dragged her daughter in her wake, holding onto her hand tightly. Lyanna tried not to stare at her mother's bruised face. It was too grotesque a sight and she had no more tears to give. Not after Benjen had been taken away.

Oh, she'd understood. She had. The reason why mother could not choose, the reason for which Lady Stark chose Benjen. She herself had no value.

"Where are we going, mother?" she questioned lightly.

"Not far," Robyn replied, her voice atremble.

It was to the crypts that she was taken. Lyanna followed her mother down into the darkness, holding onto her hand, pushing her small frame into the full skirts. It was too dark. "Come," Lady Forrester urged, "this way, my sweet child."

She found a safe spot behind one of the older raised graves and ushered her there. Kneeling, the mother spoke so, "Be not afraid, I shall come to you every day and when the danger is past, we shall leave this place together."

ix.

Rickard coughed out blood, splattering it to the ground. His feverish, nearly broken mind hardly recognised his home. But it had to be Winterfell. It was too familiar.

"On your knees, traitor," a guard growled, pushing him down. And down he went, much too weak to even fight the humiliation.

All his people had been gathered in the yard. His lady wife had been dragged out of her bed and two men supported her wane frame. Alanna Flint, however, looked as proud as ever, a defiant touch even in her last hours.

But where was Robyn? Sweet Robyn. He missed her.

He realised too late that the question had left his lips out loud. Only when Tywin raised his head up was his mistake clear to him. "Who, traitor?"

Lord Bolton stepped in. "Lady Robyn Forrester. The mother of his bastards. My men are still searching for her."

"Find her, and her child. They should all go with the Stranger together."

x.

The sword pierced through flesh and sinew, laying claim to the life of the man working atop the woman. Rhaegar pulled the weapon back and dragged the soldier away from his prey. He needn't have bothered. She was already dead.

Kneeling down, he looked at the slashed throat. The poor woman had bled out long before he ever got to her.

The sound of cloth rustling caught his attention. He stood to his feet and craned his neck to better look around. Another rustle followed.

He guided himself after the sound and neared one of the older looking stone constructions. Rhaegar bent over it.

A child stared wide-eyed at him, mouth slightly parted. Instinctively he looked at her hand, pressed to her shoulder area. Dark crimson stained it.

"Waters, are you going to stay down there forever?" he heard Arthur call out to him.

Rhaegar gazed away from the child for but a moment.