They don't understand. They . . . they'll never understand. I love him, I swear I love him.
But this . . . it's all too much. Too much for me to handle alone.
A cry pierces the air, but it's not mine . . . not mine . . . The bittersweet scent of rust and salt fills my nose, flooding my senses.
Pain. It's surrounding me, suffocating the life out of me. There's no escaping it.
There's no hope. Not any more.
Maybe, just maybe, there never was . . .
Distantly, I hear the sound of a door opening and the smell of roses fills the air.
. . . }{ . . .
Two Years Earlier
281 a.c.
I rush out of my tent, grinning brighter than the sun setting in the land beyond my reach. After quickly taking in the sight of all the knights and squires and tourney handlers hustling about the grounds, I round the tent and quickly get lost in the buzzing activity. My eyes absorb as much detail as possible, eager to tell Nan a couple stories of my own.
A sound drifts to my ear, scuffling and painful grunts from behind another tent. Frowning, I step towards the tent, listening as voices reach my ear, insults filling the air. I round the tent and take in the horrible scene—three boys, none past their fifteenth name day, surround a small, young man, kicking his stomach and pounding their fist against his back.
I move to aid the poor man, but my eye catches a bundle of wooden tourney swords resting against the tent. I grab for the largest one and lunge for the young terrors. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" I roar, swinging the sword and catching the nearest boy in the back of the neck. He wails, clutching his welt and backing away, his friends following suit. They all wear the sigil of their houses, or the ones they are squires to, but I'm too preoccupied giving them a good beating to recognize each individual sigil.
I swing the sword again, aiming for the second boy, but the lot of them scatter and I drop the wooden weapon, rubbing my sore arm—while wooden, the sword had a lot of weight to it. I approach the man, who stands and gives me a dull stare.
"Are you all right?"
He nods silently. "They didn't hurt me much, milady."
I laugh. "I'm no lady, good Ser."
He shakes his head grimly. "And I'm no knight, milady."
I sigh. "I guess we all have our flaws." I notice a few cuts and visible bruises on his face and exposed arms. "Come with me; my brothers will hear of this injustice."
The young man's lips thin and his brow furrows. "I—"
"I will drag you to the tent if you refuse, Ser."
"My name is Howland Reed," he grits out.
I smile. "Pleased to meet you, though the circumstances are rather horrid. My name is—"
"I know who you are, Lady Stark," he interrupts. Realizing his mistake, he quickly continues, "They call you the she-wolf."
I laugh again. "Yes, I suppose they do. Come with me back to my lair and we shall see what we can do about those wounds."
He takes my outstretched hand and I guide him back to my tent. I push him onto an open chair and quickly clean his cuts, binding them in spare linen. I'm asking him about how he happened upon the boys when the flap of my tent is pulled open and three boys step inside. One, the oldest of them and quite the bigger build than the other two, looks at me, nursing a boy's hand, shaking his head as though I'm a child caught doing something naughty.
"Well, look at what the little wolf dragged in," Brandon Stark chuckles. "Who is your friend, dear sister?"
"His name is Howland Reed." I introduce him to my brothers, but it's Ned who catches his attention, silently brooding in the corner behind Benjen and Bran. "He is accompanying us to tonight's feast."
Howland drags his eyes from my brothers and watches me carefully. "I am not expected to—"
"Oh, hush. You will sit with my brothers and I. Gods know I need someone to confide in when they set about their torture of conversation." I grin. "Besides, you're a highborn. You are expected at the feast and you will accompany my brothers and I."
"I do not have proper clothing."
"I'll find you suitable garments," Benjen volunteers.
I beam, triumphant. "There, no more excuses. You are coming, and that's the last I'll hear of it."
At the feast in the grand hall of Harrenhal, Howland Reed drinks and eats with the Starks of Winterfell. Of all my brothers, Ned is the one Howland remains close to, both of them whispering words of friendship for most of the night. I have to endure the torture of my two other brothers, who tease and poke at me endlessly.
A single voice calls attention from across the room. It's soft—melodic, even. Our eyes all travel to the front of the hall, where a man dressed in the blood red cloak of the Royal House Targaryen stands beside a musician holding an instrument. My breath catches in my throat—he's beautiful, his hair the color of the moon and his form large, rippled with muscle and covered with black armor.
"In honor of our host, I have been asked to share a song," he says, his voice carrying across the hall. His audience responds with polite applause, encouraging him to begin. Once the first sweet words of his lullaby reach my ears, I am completely taken under his spell—my eyes focus solely on him and the way his lips form around the words I cannot comprehend, but somehow feel deep within me. I can't tell you what he sings about—whether the song is about love or some other matter entirely—but what I know, right here and now, is that the tune is soft and sad, like love that was lost or dreams that have failed. I watch as he finishes the final verse and bows his head politely to his adoring crowd, many women touching a handkerchief to their eyes.
I blink, snapping out of my daze and reaching a hand to my own cheek, which is surprisingly wet with tears. I wipe my eyes and try to compose myself before anyone notices that I wept along with the other women, without knowing why.
"I did not think he was that awful, sister," Benjen says, his teasing voice breaking through my thoughts. I turn to him, and upon noticing his wide grin and smug eyes, promptly empty my wine glass over his head. His smile is washed away, replaced with shock and anger.
My lips curve upwards in a satisfied smile. Ned chastises me while Brandon holds back his own laughter. I roll my eyes as Ned scolds me, letting them wander back to the front of the room where the singing man, now surrounded by admirers, looks back at me. I take in a surprised gasp as his dark, lilac eyes pierce into mine, as though reading deeper than my outward appearances—as though touching my soul. His face is angular, but soft and inviting, his eyes are strong but kind. I notice a glimmer of amusement pass through his expression, but it is gone as soon as it came.
Ned calls for my attention, and I force my gaze away from the man I now identify as the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His stunning features and musical talent are obvious indicators to his person, traits well-known around the realm by young women who fancy him the handsomest knight there ever was.
I mutely listen to Ned scold and emphasize on the importance of honor and dignity while representing the family, which we are during this week-long tourney without father present. My eyes wander past my brother and find a familiar face—one of the pudgy boys who assaulted Howland earlier serves a knight whose banner boasted a pitchfork. Ned must've realize I'm no longer listening to him, for he follows my line of sight and comes upon the boy I'm currently glaring at, murder evident in my eyes.
"Excuse me, dear brother. That squire has an appointment with the end of my sword." I move to stand and march off, but Ned grasps my arm tightly.
"You will do no such thing. Not here, Lya." He forces me to sit back in my chair. "Remember, dignity and honor."
"He shall die with neither, dear brother," I seethe.
Brandon hears the last bit of my proclamation and joins in on staring at the boy. "Is that the little arse who tortured our friend here?"
Howland glances up from his dinner plate, and settles his eyes on the squire for a brief moment before removing them once more, anger seeping into his pupils. "Aye, that's him."
Benjen looks up from his goblet. "I have some decent armor you could borrow, Howland, should you want to defend your honor and teach the little bastards something."
Howland doesn't reply.
"I also have a fine horse. Ask for either and you shall have them."
Howland picks at a piece of bread, his head deep in thought.
I look about the room. "I don't see either of the other two."
"One is serving the twin towers. I think the other is serving an animal of some sort, but I cannot see from this distance," Howland replies softly, having already spotted them when we first entered the hall.
I find House Frey and spot the little monster indeed serving a knight under the banner of the two towers. It's a few minutes before I find the last boy, the one serving the porcupine. I name each of the three houses, "Haigh, Blount, and Frey."
"The way you say it," Benjen comments, "it almost sounds like a death sentence."
"It could be," I smile sweetly.
My brothers laugh—all except Ned, who launches into another speech about how a proper lady should act. When he will realize I am no real lady, I'll never know. After listening to my brother drone on about the smallest of details for several minutes, I politely excuse myself and exit the hall.
As I weave through the crowd, I distantly hear a brother of the Night's Watch attempting to recruit a group of young knights and I can't help but bitterly think the Wall could use three dishonorable squires. I'm at the door, stepping out of the hall and into the night to return to my tent, when a hand catches my wrist. I turn suddenly, fully expecting my brother's dearest friend and my betrothed, Robert Baratheon, to be standing behind me, drunker than every other man in the room.
To my surprise, my hand is being held by a man with a mane of white hair and beautiful lilac eyes. I gasp, instinctively tugging my hand out of his grasp. His thumb and forefinger close around my fingertips before I can completely escape his hold. I watch as he leans over, placing a soft kiss on the back of my hand.
"Will you give me the pleasure of knowing your name, milady?" his hums, his voice like a caress. His lips tickle my skin, moving along my hand as he speaks.
I nearly stumble over my own words before successfully forcing out, "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, Your Grace."
"Ah," he gasps in recognition. "The wolf maiden."
I nod lamely, unable to say anything intelligent or witty.
"I've heard stories of your beauty," he says, his other hand gently cupping mine. "They did not disappoint."
"Thank you, Your Grace." I don't know why, but I happen to glance over his shoulder and notice the piercing glare of a woman sitting beside the King himself. Her eyes flicker to my hand, held by both of the Prince's. A look of despair draws over Princess Elia's face and I suddenly remember her husband has his lips pressed against my skin. I gently pull my hand from his hold. "Excuse me, Your Grace. I must retire now."
"Of course. Sleep well, my lady."
"Good night, Your Grace." I give him my best curtsy, which Bran teases is a worse sight than a horse juggling a fool's toys. I take a few steps back before quietly turning and quickly leaving the hall.
The Prince just spoke to me! He kissed my hand! I shiver in delight and hurry to my tent, grinning at the men standing guard outside. They don't return my smile, as they normally don't. Men of the North are harden by the winter and cold as the snow—they never smile. My handmaiden helps me change and I sink into my bed, dreaming of a male with hair silver as the moonlight and eyes dark as a raven's feather.
