Lyanna Stark was born in the last throes of a long winter. Though the snow was fierce when she took her first breath, within a few months spring had come even to the North, and when the child opened her eyes for the first time, the winter roses bloomed.
Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra rejoiced in their wonder of a daughter. Their sons, the brash five year old Brandon and Eddard, who was still quiet at the age of four, would soon leave Winterfell to be fostered in some other home. But Lyanna would stay and occupy her parents' time and thoughts. And occupy them, she did. In her early years, Lynna proved to be just as rough and headstrong as her brother.
"She'll never marry," Lyarra complained one night to her husband as they sat in their chambers, her fingers working furiously along another mud stained, torn dress of Lyanna's. "She will end up as some wilding, eating dirt and wearing deer skins for clothes."
"She's just a girl," Rickard sighed, rubbing his temples. "She'll grow."
"Too headstrong," Lyarra murmured. "Too much wolfblood."
"Enough of this." Rickard commanded sternly. Lyarra went silent, the only sounds were the soft shifting of threads. Then, looking to the fire that blazed softly, she said, "Oh, but she'll never be pretty. I can see it, she'll never be a beauty."
"She's a Stark." Rickard assured her. "She will be all the beauty of Winter and more."
