CHAPTER ONE

Alyra

Once, she could remember the scent of incense and perfume, the lilt of harp, the soft singing of a muse, and sweet burgeoning fruit on her lips. She had been young and the memories were exotic, colorful, and past. They had fled under the cover of night and sailed far away, as far away as they could get. No longer did their coin purchase amenities or luxuries. Instead, they had to work, put a hoe to the earth and thank God that they had escaped with their lives and their family. She began to forget, clinging to the last memories of the estate her parents once owned, they legacy gone like smoke over water. They were poor now, but they were alive.

"Hide!" her mother cried, taking both Alyra and Vaeron into the bedroom. She lifted the floorboards and ushered the children into the small pantry that was filled with sacks of grain. She slammed it shut and with a soft scraping noise, a carpet was pulled over where they hid. Each footstep thundered above them, causing dirt and dust to seep through the floorboards.

"We don't have anything of value," her father's voice sounded strained, still tinged by the Lyseni accent he'd tried so hard to overcome.

Glass crashed and object clattered loudly to the floor. Alyra clung to her brother Vaeron, her fingers growing sore as they quaked beneath the floorboards. Nothing like this had happened to them before. Not since they had left Lys some three years ago. She wanted to cry, bury her face into her mother's shoulder, but it was too dangerous. Instead, Alyra turned to Vaeron and pushed her face into his collar, sniffling quietly as she tried to control herself. They already had to deal with the people in the village. It'd taken more than a year for them to not give their family strange stares. The northerners of Westeros were suspicious of outsiders, especially the fair haired and violet eyed Lysene.

"You're from Lys aren't you? Bought this farm with quite a bit of land a few years ago… Where's the rest of your hoard?" this voice was unfamiliar, but harsh and raucous.

"We spent what money we had to purchase land. If you want money I have some silver stags, but-" her father was scrambling, trying to find the coin purse he kept stashed in the nightstand by his bed.

"I'm not looking for a few fucking silvers. I know you have gold," the man barked.

"I don't. What money we had went into the farm," their father protested weakly.

"What fucking good are you?" his words were followed by their mother's shrill scream and a thump.

Alyra's blood ran cold as she and Vaeron froze, uncertain of what was conspiring above them. At eight and thirteen, Vaeron was the only one who had even an inkling of what had just happened.

"Now where is it? Or do I have to kill you too?" he grunted.

"We don't have anything, please… Jaeherys…" mother sounded as if she were weeping.

"Fuck," the man grumbled. "I'll make what use I can out of you then. Get over here."

And Alyra and Vaeron sat there, huddled together as their mother was brutalized, raped, and consequently murdered. They waited hours, hours after the man's footsteps had receded. Vaeron had popped the pantry door open and peered into the darkness. Alyra was about to follow him when he shook his head. "Stay there," he muttered, scurrying into the house to light a candle. She didn't want to wait, she wanted to see what was happening, but obediently remained.

It felt like ages until Vaeron returned, a small chest tucked under his arm. "He didn't find it," her brother muttered, handing it to Alyra. The chest held the last possession their family had to their name. Alyra and Vaeron had no idea what was in it, for their mother had always worn the necklace that would unlock it. Her words had been 'When the time is right, we will unlock it. Not before or else God will be upset with us.' Vaeron continued the idea and stashed it in the pantry where it would be safe.

Alyra didn't see the bodies of her parents. Vaeron had buried them out by the weirwood, the crying face weeping tears of bloody sap. She had always found a strange solace in the weirwood on their farm, even if her family did not follow the Old Gods. The northerners prayed to them and from time to time, Alyra did in secret, knowing that Vaeron would not approve. They were to belong to the Red God, R'hllor, but he had not saved her parents and as long as she prayed to the heart tree, life did not seem to bad. At least, not until the tax collectors came. They were both merely children and it was difficult to continue the amount of work that four people had once done.

Alyra was eleven when Vaeron went to Karhold to get a job as a soldier. The money he earned was almost always paid back to the Karstarks, but it kept them afloat. But with Alyra the only one managing the farm, she had to cut down the size that she tended and resort to hunting as she sold all their grain for coin. It was difficult work, but she was able to make her own clothes and blankets from the furs and leathers. She got so good at it, that she began sewing items for locals in the village that would commission her. The butcher, Edmon, was fond of the fur hemmed cloaks she crafted and fancied himself one. The baker's wife wanted a dress of rabbit fur for the festival coming up in a fortnight.

Between her trapping and bow skills, Alyra brought home enough game to fill her belly and paired it with carrots and beets that she grew. Often, she'd trade for potatoes and garlic or onions. The leery attitude of the villagers fled when their parents had been killed and Alyra and Vaeron were forced to support themselves. They sold sections of the farm until only a few acres remained. Often, her brother wasn't home, leaving Alyra on her own, on a small farm bordered by the forest and governed by a heart tree. The village was about an hour's ride away and those that had bought her land only came to till it every other day.

That afternoon was rainy, pittering down on her head as she ushered the plow horse forward. She was an old, weathered thing that had seen better days. When they'd first bought her, five years ago, she had been in her prime, but with each moon gone, the horse looked even more pitiful. Alyra felt bad riding the mare into town, but it took too long to go it by foot and she often had to bring wares that required the wagon. Pinching her copper groats, she thought she'd be able to afford a horse by next year so she could put old Daisy into retirement.

Putting Daisy in the old, dilapidated barn, Alyra hung her cloak in the mudroom and kicked off her filthy boots. Bathtubs belonged to wealthy people and the most Alyra had was a basin she could fill with hot water before using a rag to clean herself. She never minded, infusing the water the marigold, lavender, and sage, all native plants in the long summer. There was a lot of work that needed to be done before the winter came. She'd need another horse, she'd need to cut down some trees for lumber, and she'd need to repair the house and barn. Stores for winter were a joke and she was contemplating giving up the farm completely just so that she could live outside of Karhold where there would be more need for hunters and tailors, seeing those were the only two skills she possessed.

After lighting the cookfire, Alyra trailed over to a bookcase, an uncommon item in a lowborn's house. The books were from Lys, which her father liked to fancy were from Old Valyria. Mother used to say that they'd named Alyra after Valyria, where their people were from originally. Given the pale silver hair and violet eyes all of her family had possessed, they certainly had the blood of Old Valyria, a trait that had been staunched out in Westeros after the Usurper took the throne. Behind closed doors, father would mutter about what an awful man King Robert Baratheon was and how he ordered the murders of Targaryen babies.

She had only just started a stew when there was a heavy thump against the front door. Alyra's head whipped up, her braid smacking against her back as she froze as if in the sights of an Other. She rarely barred the door, no one aside from her brother ever came to visit her. After a moment of silence, she wondered if she had just been imagining things and if a peel of thunder had startled her. Clearing her throat, she trailed into the main bedroom, lighting the single oil lamp that she owned.

Alyra set it down on the nightstand and waved the match out. Lightning illuminated the darkening room and a shadow fell across her back. The night is dark and full of terrors, the words smacked into her and when she turned, her heart stopped. A man was standing in the doorway, hulking, dripping wet, and not Vaeron. She scrambled back, her calves hitting the frame of the bed, sending her onto the hay mattress with a thump.

"I thought I killed all the fucking Lyseni here," the man growled, his face unfamiliar, but his voice causing Alyra to shudder. He took a menacing step forward, peeling off his wet coat to reveal a sword at his waist. The only weapon in the house aside from a rusted kitchen knife was her bow and she'd left it by the door with her boots.

"I-I have coin if you want it," Alyra's mouth was dry and the words rasped out with difficulty.

"Imagine what King Robert would pay if I said you were Daenerys Targaryen. Wouldn't even be able to tell the difference, I think," he took another step.

"Please don't kill me," Alyra whimpered, hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"I won't," he said, the light of the lamp revealing a pock marked face, deep rivets on his cheeks. "Not until I've had some fun with you. They say Lys is a place of pleasure, where the best pillow houses exist. So girl, perhaps I won't kill you if you can pleasure me."

Alyra knew the man would kill her either way, he just wanted to shame her further. Her memories slipped back to the earliest she owned from her childhood. The incense, the perfume, the marble steps and winking gemstones. She barely realized that he was now in front of her, death looming above her as the wickering of the lantern was magnified by the storm outside.

"Just kill me," Alyra decided, taking back the words she had just spoken.

"Changed your mind already? I think not," he shoved her against the bed, fingers tightening around her throat. His other massive hand tore her leather jerkin, exposing her chest. Alyra laid there, accepting her fate. What if she had left the farm sooner, would the next poor family have met the same fate? What had happened to those who owned the farm before them. "This is my favorite haunt," he told her, fingers scrabbling against her soft creamy skin. Alyra felt nothing, just a cold emptiness as she imagined what her mother had experienced just five years ago. "Before your family came here it was another family. I fucked the mother and her toddler. Made her husband watch. You know why I keep coming back? Because this house belonged to my father. The land remembers and it always has remembered me. Everytime I return, it welcomes me with a new victim."

He was shoved up her skirt and was unlacing his breeches. Her head lolled to the side, accepting the fate as she stared into the light of the lanturn. Why had he forsaken her? Was it because she prayed to the Old Gods too? Had R'hllor been displeased with her? Fire. Her lavender eyes widened at the sight of the lamp and as the man was above to take her, she grabbed it, with all the strength in her, shattered it over his head. The oil exploded and in a fury the existing fire took like wildfire. Even with his damp clothing, the fire clung to the oil and Alyra laid there as the oil fell over her face and chest, catching on her as well.

He began screaming, the scent of burning flesh jarring her from where she laid. He'd fallen to the ground, trying to put the fire out, but with the oil on his skin and clothes, it continued to eat at him. The man was not the only thing affected by the fire. The bed had caught and so had the floorboards. Alyra stood up and leapt over him, trundling across the room to grab clothes that hadn't been ruined. His cries became less human, eventually overwhelmed by the popping of the fire that had consumed the bedroom.

She ran out the front door, half of the house on fire, into the rain before she realized she had left the most precious thing inside. Throwing the clothes to the ground, she sprinted back in, darting under a beam that had fallen and was being eaten by fire. She felt the heat against her skin, singing her clothes and hair, but her determination pushed her. The entire pantry was writhing in flames, her fingers becoming raw as she heaved up the trapdoor with great effort. The ornate chest was hidden beneath a sack of grain, now burnt and soot. Beneath, the black chest glinted madly in the fire.

It took her a good time, but she made it back out of the house, realizing that the entirety of her home had been consumed by it. When she glanced down, her clothes and hair had been smote off her, but aside from where she had been trying to open the door and scraped her fingers, she remained unscathed. Standing naked in the rain, she picked up the bundle of clothes and her bow that she had left on the ground, trotting over to the barn. Only then did everything hit her, all that she had lost. Alyra sniffled and curled up on a bale of hay, clutching the obsidian chest tight to her.

She noticed a second horse, a horse that had likely belonged to the man that had intended on raping and killing her. He had gotten what he deserved. Apparently, he had done it many times before, preying on those who bought the land when the spoils were ripe. Staring up at the horse, she saw the white sunburst of the Karstarks. No, it can't be. How could one of the Karstarks' men be this? Vaeron was a Karstark man and he would never do anything so disgusting. What if there were more like him at Karhold?

After an hour, she put on the damp clothes and inspected the horse that she supposed was now hers. She picked through the saddlebags and found a heavy purse filled with silver dragons. She wondered how many people he had robbed and murdered to get all that money. Taking the knife on the saddle, she cut away the Karstark symbols and discarded them.

"Karter! Karter, where the fuck did ye go? Holy shit!"

No… No, not another man, she thought, beginning to shake like a leaf. She couldn't remain there. She opened the stall that held Daisy, hoping that the horse would prove to be a good distraction and maybe the horse would find someone who could take care of her for the rest of her days. Slapping Daisy's hindquarter, the old mare cried and bolted, startled out of the barn. Alyra mounted the unfamiliar horse and dug the heels of her boots into its flank. Where would she go? Anywhere but here.