The even stitches stood neatly in front of Lyanna's eyes. She fingered the material, lightly pulling on it to make sure that her work would hold. She held it up and admired it in the light. A small satisfied smile graces her lips. It looked as good as new.

Lyarra looked up from her own mending to inspect her daughter's work. "A fine hand you have," her mother observed. "I cannot even see that it had been torn. I daresay you shan't ever need to throw your dresses out before they are too faded to wear."

Economy was a good ally, Lyanna judged silently. "Only because I was taught so well," she replied, without an ounce of artfulness. Sewing was a necessary skill and as no work could possibly be shameful, Lyanna was more than happy to do her part.

"Flattery," her mother clucked her tongue, though her eyes shone with mirth. "Don't think it will get you out of patching up Brandon's other shirt though."

"It never even crossed my mind." She wished Brandon would stop magically acquiring a new hole through his shirt every other day. "Mother, the truth is I wish to speak to father about a subject I daren't broach with him with much ease."

Then older woman sighed. "I think I know what you wish to speak to him of. Lyanna, your father had made up his mind. It would be wise to leave it be."

Lyanna threw her mother a cross look. "Do I not deserve at least some say? If father is bent of Robert Baratheon the he may wed the man himself. If he shan't then he had best remember that it is not he who will be sharing a home with the man but I."

"Oh, child. What do you not like about the boy? He is a good friend to your brother, of high birth and fortune. He is a good match." Lyarra seemed very sure of those words. And Lyanna supposed that taking into account only the words her mother had put forth it was a good match.

"Mother, I do not ask on groundless reasons that the match be reconsidered. Indeed I find no fault with Robert Baratheon's lineage or the coffers of his house. I find fault with the man himself." Her parent must have seen something in her eyes for she let her sewing fall to her lap.

"Has he done something to insult you during his visit?" There was actual worry on Lyarra's face. It was the natural reaction of any mother, Lyanna supposed, and, as she did not wish to upset her mother unduly, Lyanna decided against giving too many details.

"Pray have a look at Moyra's babe, when you get the chance," Lyanna requested, knowing it would be clearly understood.

"Lyanna, you don't think," her mother gasped.

"I know," she replied simply. "You need only look at the babe, mother, and you shall see for yourself."

"I shall look into it," was the promise received.

Lyanna would have said more, but just at that moment maester Walys entered the room. "My lady," he addressed her mother, "it is finally over. The last of our ill had gone to the gods. We are safe."

"Thanked be the god," Lyarra said. "Maester Walys, is the midwife still in the keep?"

"Aye, my lady. Shall I send for her?" he questioned, a surprised look on his face. As he should be, considering her mother had been declared barren after being delivered of her youngest child. Benjen had apparently not been an easy child to birth.

"Do so, master," the Lady of Winterfell agreed.

"Lady Lyanna," Walys called to her. Lyanna looked up from her work. "You father wishes to have a word with you. The lord expects you in his solar as soon as possible."

Which meant that she was to sit up and follow the good maester. Lyanna nodded towards her mother and away she went. When they were in the hallway, unable to help herself, she stopped him and leaning in whispering her question to the old man. "Is there any news from King's Landing?"

Some would call her callous and unfeeling, but Lyanna was aware that only drastic measures could work in her favour. She held her breath and waited. Maester Walys nodded his head. "It seems that only Her Grace the Princess caught the damnable illness, as I have said before. Maester Pycelle has confirmed the heath of the others."

"Praised be the gods," Lyanna breathed out in relief. "And Her Grace?"

"She survived, according to the Grand Maester and she is likely to live a long life to her grief." That was a strange answer. Lyanna's gaze became questioning. The maester sighed. "The fever worked strangely upon her mind. It left her a shadow of her former self. Pycelle went as far as to say that she is barren besides."

Undoubtedly the news had reached other ears as well. Lyanna thanked the man. "Why does my father wish to see me, maester? Do you think I may have a new horse?" Her old mare had broken a leg and had to be put out. Lyanna had been severely punished for riding her recklessly. It was a lesson she was not likely to forget soon.

"I know not, my lady. I was simply instructed to take you to him." The old man was lying to her, Lyanna was certain. She knew very well, as well as any other person in the keep, that her father made no decision unless Maester Walys was somewhere close by to have suggested it. She let it be however. It was not the time to say anything against him. She would need his help.

"As you say, maester." She followed him down the hall, counting the steps one by one. She tried to recall how many there had been the last time. She could not remember though. Lyanna took a deep breath as they reached the doors. Maester Walys opened one of them and entered. Lyanna was just one step behind.

"There you are, daughter. Come here and explain to me the meaning of this," Rickard beckoned her over, holding up a slip of paper. "Mayhap you shall make me understand why it is you have taken it upon yourself to write to your aunt."

"Aunt Branda invited me to attend Lord Whent's tourney as her companion. Since mother shan't take me and she claims I must be in the care of an older woman, I thought it natural to accept the sensible invitation of my aunt." She tried to deliver the explanation in a voice that did not tremble. It would be so very well if her father accepted.

"Lyanna, we have discussed this. You will not attend. I know what you mean with this." He gave her an angry look. "Why will you not listen?"

"Because I know I can do far better," she could not help but answer. "Father, the Stark were kings in the North. If I must be bartered for position and wealth, then I insist it be to the highest possible position that I shall ascend. You say you wish for us to mingle with the great houses of the South. Which house is greater than the ruling house?"

"You forget I am negotiating with Lord Baratheon already," the man pointed out.

"I am not asking that you stop, father. Pray allow me to try at least." He looked ready to interrupt, but Lyanna begged to be heard. "Hear me out, father. Allow me to the tourney in the company of my aunt. If I fail to attract a suitor of a higher position, then, on my honour, I shall wed Robert Baratheon and be a good wife to him, without saying a word of complaint."

"An interesting notion," the maester broke it, as if it had just occurred to him.

"Or do you think I am not good enough?" Lyanna asked without minding the other man. It was her father she wanted to charm. Maester Walys, she knew, had already realised her aim since she began speaking.

"What words are those? You have the blood of kings in your veins. Of course you are good enough," Rickard Stark allowed.

"The girl is right, my lord. It hurts no one to allow her this. If she fails, she shall do as you say. If she does not, your grandson shall one day sit the throne." What greater honour was there? Lyanna gazed at her father's face, trying to guess his thoughts. He had to agree or she would run off on her own.

"But if you fail," Rickard insisted, "you shall wed the Baratheon heir not in two years time, but in one."

Well, at least he had agreed. Lyanna agreed with her most serious mien. Anyone was better than Robert as far as Lyanna was concerned. He was lucky she hadn't knocked all his teeth out. Mayhap she should have told Ned about what his dearest friend had done. "I am grateful to you, father." She gave him her most charming smile.