A/N: I don't own anything, but I do ask for any feedback you'd like to offer. Thanks for the read!
I – The Days Beginning
I recall the day an enchantment was placed on me. Or at least that's what I took it to be. Yes, a spell of sorts, for it wasn't muttered. I heard it…in my own thoughts. Perhaps it was a revelation, an oracle of what was to come, though I would forget about it sometime after, being the child I was then. I wouldn't be able to previse its meaning until after much time had already passed.
The memory is faint, but I can still look back and remember the sky that day. It was so opaque, resembling the hardening of iron as it cools after being cast from the fire, swirling and dark. A storm's distant rumble echoed far beyond. I wasn't afraid of storms, but my youngest brother was, his tiny hands clenching at my skirts as I stood at a hall window outside of the nursery. The cold and frost seemed all the more bitter that day, even within the safe confines of Winterfell, and I could almost see the breath leave my lips.
That day a prisoner and a child had been taken from a failed attempt to cross south of the Wall. Whispers from the servants confirmed that the Night's Watch had intercepted the pair who had been separate from the main wildling onslaught. The lower undertones spoke of a witch of the wild, as if to speak of her aloud was to invoke her fury, regardless of the ropes and chains that now bound her. Watching through the window, I could see the woman, though she looked to be no more witch than she did lady, tattered skins wrapped about her body and hair in knotted dreads. I saw my father and elder brothers meet with the men from the Night's Watch who held her and the babe captive and heard a slew of inaudible words, though I recognized the baritone of my father's voice echo throughout the courtyard.
The woman stood eerily still throughout the exchange, not like other wildlings I've seen captured who thrash about like wild beasts in captivity. The stillness struck me oddly, a coat of uneasiness settling into my core as shifted to take a better look at her. She wore a smile, not untwisted, as if the truth in the situation was hers solely to comprehend. As if we were pawns playing a game only she understood the rules to. And she was winning.
Suddenly, with a twist of her head, our eyes locked and I felt a frozen burning within them pierce me. My small body tensed and twisted, the muscles going stiff as I staggered back from the window, as if just having had a swift blow dealt to me. Yet, the gaze never broke nor wavered in the subsequent moments that passed, seconds seeming as years. And then I heard a whisper.
"You shall be consumed by a dragon," the thin voice spoke softly, hollow and callous. Yet, I recognized the tune. The voice was my own, speaking with sound only I could hear. My condemnation was repeated over and over as a fading murmur as the snow beyond began to fall.
The witch's gaze was finally broken as the men below assembled and started their march to the hills just beyond the outer gates of Winterfell, to a place I wished to know little of. As much as I often enjoyed roaming the grounds of my home and the forest beyond, there was a place I dared not enter, whose inhabitants likely lingered in another world, whose voices could still be heard in the wind. There was no place for me there. I stayed still, fastened to my spot at the window, even as my brother was taken back to the nursery, his shallow whimpering in the servant's arms resonating through the hall, even as the winter's air crept up my arms and chilled my cheeks, did I not look away. Not until I heard the faint scream in the distance did I shut my eyes and turn. Not until I knew her head rolled and she was no more did I run back to my chamber.
But not until I slept, did the words cease to reverberate mutely in my mind. Consumed by a dragon. I would be consumed by a dragon. But there are no dragons in the north, I thought, only wolves and wildings and Starks. And in my childish mind did I brush off those words as imagination, but never did I previse the truth that would soon be at my doorstep. That night I dreamt of fire.
It wouldn't be until seven years later that the subject of dragons was once again brought to mind, but instead of an old witch's prophecy, it came in the form of a sigil – the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. By then the winter had calmed and carriages with knights and banner men bearing the red dragon against black came to the gates of Winterfell. A raven had arrived a few fortnights ago bearing news that Lord Jon Connington rode from King's Landing on his way to Winterfell, but as to why, it did not say.
Rumors held that King Aerys II, in his madness, thought war to usurp the throne was brewing and was summoning all the high lords of the seven realms to court to testify. Others, that the Princess Elia of Dorne was dying and a search for a new bride for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was imminent since no living heirs had been yielded from their union. Yet, even as far reaching as rumors can be, one has to concede that there can always be found a grain of truth in each.
Yet, as the convoy was permitted entrance, an air of restlessness settled amid its party, breeding an uneasy feeling among the residents of Winterfell. Amidst those, one who felt particularly troubled with the arrival was Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. As he stepped out of his home and made his way to greet the group, he was struck by the silent wariness carried by the men. He had known well in advance of the oncoming arrival, but it failed to prepare him for the look he found in Lord Connington's eyes as they greeted each other at the gate.
Though clean-shaven and red-haired with a look not unlike that of his youth, Lord Connington's brow appeared to carry a heavier burden than would be suitable for a man his age. Likewise, the lines framing his mouth and eyes had grown deeper with age, but by far, the most telling were his eyes. The sea blue of his eyes, once sharp and vigorous had adopted the squally haze of a learned fisherman used to tempestuous waters.
"Lord Connington. Winterfell is yours," said with a bow, an inquisitive eye cast at the younger man. "I hope you and your company find the accommodations to your liking."
"Lord Stark, after riding so long, a bed of hay would be to my liking," the younger lord dismounted his horse and sauntered over to the taller man, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "But to be very honest, I doubt we'll be afforded the time to enjoy our stay. I come with news from King's Landing and a personal invitation from the Crown Prince himself, but let us talk inside, in private."
And with a nod the two men, followed by the rest of the convoy, quietly retreated into the warm halls of the castle, the disquiet tangible between them at what news and answers would be exchanged in the privacy of Lord Rickard's study.
And by and by, did the maiden-wolf appear from her hiding place amongst the rooftops, a spy in her own home, curious to know the purpose of such an extensive journey. It stuck her odd that such an imperative visit, at least indicated by the raven's letter, was so few and for such a brief time. If ever urgency there were, why stay only until tomorrow? Surely, the principal news took longer than that to discuss.
A landing on the stone steps exhumed nothing save a soft thud as the she-wolf retreated towards the safe havens of the Godswood to think. There she could sit by the weirwood tree and reflect on the recent events. Silently as a beast on the hunt, she weaved through the outer foliage towards an opening not far from the center, making note to not get her cloak caught in the branches. Reaching the center of the clearing, a sense of stillness met her, for the land here was sacred, ever protected by the spirits of the wood.
A breath she released, slow and careful, the corners of her lips shaping the smile that played on her features. No matter the number of visits, to look upon the weirwood was to look upon the very essence of the Godswood, of beauty and nature. As a child the face of the tree and its crying visage had frightened her. It wasn't until the day her mother passed did she run here alone, fears cast aside, crying and begging the gods to not take her. That day the crying face of the weirwood lost its horror and she found instead a place of tranquility. Although her prayers had not been answered, the peace she had sought was found, and from that day on she visited the weirwood to find that calm again.
Today, Lyanna Stark, Lady of Winterfell, had awoken with a sense of foreboding, and all morning it could not be placed until the sight of the convoy's banners. Red dragons rearing three heads struck a sense of uneasiness with her. That and her suspicions brought her here, to the weirwood, to sit on the stones at the tree's base in silence and contemplate.
Intuition bade her to not trust the southerners, for too many tales have been sung of their wicked ways and deceitfulness. The mere thought of King's Landing conjured a wave of unsettling sickness. They said it was dirty, that the city reeked of decay due to the rotting corpses that King Aerys II had mounted on the city walls to warn anyone who dared threaten the Iron Throne. She inwardly flinched at the thought of the mad man. If ever there was a king unfit to rule, rule he did. She had never been to the south, but the accounts of it were enough to make her glad of the fact.
But what could the king want with her father? She could be nearly certain that Brandon, her elder brother, hadn't made trouble enough for the king to demand an audience with their father. Somber faces alike the ones that entered their gate couldn't possibly bring with them any favorable news either she supposed. And what invitation did Prince Rhaegar extend to her family? Suspicions flew about her mind, the calm of the wood unaccommodating.
It wasn't until she heard the rustle of foliage not far did she return from her musings. There, at the edge of the clearing stood her younger brother, Benjen, who looked diffident to the thought of coming nearer to the weirwood. A brief smile played upon her lips as she rose. Although already near coming of age, Benjen maintained a fear of the weirwood, though he endeavored not to show it. Only once she was within a reasonable distant did he speak.
"I thought you might be here. Father requests all of us gather at his study as soon as possible. He didn't entail for what, but his appearance suggested something important," his boyish voice cracked as he began his retreat back to the castle grounds after hearing her hum in acknowledgement. She looked to the sky to find the sun on the horizon, surprised at the hours that had escaped her notice so easily. She wondered if dinner's feast was to be held in the great hall to accommodate for the guests and if any minstrels had been summoned for entertainment. She had always been fond of music, though it was often lacking in the halls of Winterfell.
At last they reached the study entrance, finding Brandon and Eddard already waiting. Ned stood stoic as always, unlike Brandon who shot her an irritated glance in exasperation.
"Where were you? We were looking everywhere! I'd thought for sure you'd have been in the stables or off riding. Imagine my surprise when I find all the horses accounted for. Luckily, Benjen seems to have enough sense as to your whereabouts, it's been torture waiting all day to hear what news the king's men have brought," his irritation evident in his near brotherly exclamation. It irked her how little Brandon really knew of her habits, not that she needed him to.
"Apparently, you didn't look hard enough," she shot back a playfully vexed stare.
He rolled his eyes at her as he stepped forward, knocking on the heavy, wooden door, and, upon hearing their father's permission to enter, stepped inside. Lyanna had always been fond of the study; it smelt of leather and parchment. The candle lighting afforded them enough vision to see their father standing at his desk towards the back of the chamber, leafing through parchment and books intently. Upon noticing their approach, Lord Rickard smiled gently, the age in his face and brow becoming accentuated by the shadows cast. He waited to speak until they were all at attention.
"My children," a heavy sigh passed through his lips, although his burden seemed no more the lighter. "I haven't much news of interest to report for your ears, but this is what I will tell you. Brandon, Lord Hoster Tully and I have discussed the final arrangements for your marriage to his daughter, Catelyn. Her mother seems to be making a full recovery from the spring fever she caught and it has been decided that it will take place as soon as she is well again."
Brandon smiled at the news, a courteous smile, but not as true as he would like the world to believe. Lyanna knew her brother better than he her. She knew that he was content to marry, but that his desires would venture farther than the likes of Catelyn Tully, no matter how beautiful, kind, and generous she may be and that saddened her.
"Father, you speak of her as if I have yet to meet the girl. Allow House Tully all the time they require to gather their affairs into order," his charming smile coated and laced his words with surety, but it did not deter Lord Stark from his knowing gaze.
"Right. I also have a second betrothal proposal, sent to me by Robert Baratheon," Lyanna felt a sudden sinking in her chest. "He has asked for your hand in marriage and, after much thought, I have agreed."
Numbness crept upon the maiden then, unlike any she'd previously felt. Not only had she been promised in marriage, she had been promised to Robert Baratheon. She thought him a fool for pursuing her when she had made it abundantly clear that she held a particularly strong distaste for the man. She could feel the color drain from her face at the mere thought of him, but as fast as it drained did her eyes flare with anger. Consenting to a marriage with Robert was worse than being condemned to a life as a stable maid. At least there she would've been in contact with intelligent creatures. If her father recognized the distain readily apparent in her demeanor, he didn't acknowledge it and continued. Besides, there was no room for argument. If it were to be disputed, it would have to be settled by different means and on a basis other than her abhorrence for Robert. She would have to plan closely if she was to solve this dilemma.
"Lastly, a tournament is to be held at Harrenhal by Lord Whent, in honor of his daughter, in two fortnights. They say it is to span the length of ten days, so I bid you to prepare well."
At this, all three of his children gaped, expressions stunned and enthusiastic at the prospect of attending the tourney, especially one of this scale. Lyanna could almost taste Brandon's excitement at the thought of sparring and jousting. She felt nearly jealous at the thought of not being able to participate in the festivities herself. She, Brandon, and Benjen used to play spare with branches in the Godswood as children. That is until one day Benjen fell in the pool by the weirwood, being distracted by his fear of it, and Nan found out. Eddard, though skilled in brawling himself, never played with her in that manner, but would intently sit and watch.
"We're all going?" Brandon nearly yelled out, taking a step towards Lord Stark who quietly chuckled at his children's enthusiasm.
"Yes, the invitation was extended to all members of House Stark. That is, if all of you wish to attend," the old wolf grinned. "Then go now and have your duties done and belongings packed, for we leave the day after morrow at sunrise."
No sooner did he utter the words than did all four children return with a thanks and turn to rush out, eager to prepare for the upcoming tournament.
"Lyanna, I have one more word with you, child," Lord Stark called out again before she could slip out the door. Slowly, she turned, half wondering what her father could've possibly wanted to wait until they were alone to speak to her about, and half still planning the trip and stay in Harrenhal. It wasn't until she recognized the reprimanding look in his eyes that she gave him her full attention. "In the future, I would prefer it if you didn't spy on incoming visitors from our rooftops."
The sudden flush to her cheeks at the embarrassment of being caught resulted in a nervous laugh from the wolf-maiden who had been so sure she hadn't been spotted. There was little point in arguing with Lord Rickard Stark, whose sharp perception she had inherited. So with an ensuing apology and curtsy, did she excuse herself to retire for the night to prepare and dream of the adventure ahead.
