Chapter Four

"Clasp your hands together and position them on your lap thusly." Lady Catelyn demonstrated the movement but what appeared so natural and graceful to the older woman felt clunky as Lyarra copied the action. "Straighten your back and tilt your head downwards. A little less, you seek to look demure but not submissive. Be willing to tilt your chin upwards when you need to make a point but don't do this too often. Arrogance will not be freely forgiven in a baseborn child."

The dark-haired girl grit her teeth together and complied to the order. However necessary Lady Catelyn believed these instructions to be, and in many cases, she truly couldn't find any reason for them, they were unpleasant to experience. Perhaps that was a lesson in and of its own though; her fortitude had certainly been strengthened by the constant litany of complaints and insults.

"Arrange your face into something more pleasant Lyarra. Smile, not so freely, but with an evident pleasure in your company," Catelyn sighed. "Try to look as you do after you perform some mischief or the other with Arya and seek not to be caught. That's better. Now relax your spine; you're too rigid."

An hour more of instruction on how to properly walk, prepare one's tea, hold a conversation, and gracefully deflect unpleasant queries followed. Lyarra was surprised to find that she held some measure of talent in forming polite dismissals; apparently all those years of blowing off the guards that believed a woman shouldn't be allowed to hold a weapon paid off. She was surprised when Lady Stark placed her tea down at the end of that particular lesson, signaling an end several hours early.

"Are we already done, Lady Stark?"

"No. The basics will need continued review until it's time for you to leave but there are other matters to address." Lady Catelyn stood up, brushed out her skirts and strided over to the cabinet. "The South expects its ladies to possess at least one talent to their name. Swordplay and hunting are not acceptable options; falconry is and you are skilled enough there but you need something more acceptable indoors. You will be learning to play an instrument."

"I am no great proficient but I have received instruction on all of the instruments here. Study each of them and select the one that feels most natural in your hands."

Lyarra obediently picked the closest one to her reach, the rebec, and tentatively applied the bow to its strings. The pear-shaped instrument released a screeching noise of protest and she hastily put it back down. The next instrument, the viol, invoked a similar reaction and she began to move away from the bow-related pieces. She thought the dulcimer made a pleasant ringing sound when its taut strings were hit by the wooden spoons and put it aside for further consideration. The flute made a whistling noise reminiscent of an owl's hoot and that made her giggle as she put it aside as well. The psaltery thrummed comfortingly beneath her fingers and Lyarra thought that this may end up her choice.

Then her hands touched the harp and Lyarra fell in love.

Fingertips brushed purposefully across the line of taut strings and a handful of high, clear notes sang through the air. She slowly plucked each one from upwards down, absorbing the subtle difference present in each note, and noting how the pitch deepened in movement. Selecting the first, second, and fourth strings, she pulled them in quick succession, allowed the notes to near-fade into the air, and then pressed down on the final string. The melody was simple, melancholy, and sweet. Lyarra was utterly delighted.

"I see you have made your selection," Lady Catelyn observed softly, an odd look to her. Lyarra looked up and flushed at the error of having made her pleasure so evident. Her stepmother did not seem to mind as her eyes softened in remembrance. "Your Aunt Lyanna had a marked preference for the harp as well. Mayhaps it is a Stark favorite then."

The dark-haired girl attempted to stay still in her seat. Lady Stark typically did not acknowledge her ties to House Stark or any of its members. She wondered if it was poor omen that the first one she could remember in many moon's time referenced an aunt who died so young.

"As you seem to have found your instrument, we will begin immediately." Lady Catelyn returned to her brisk yet polite manner as she changed her seat and took ahold of Lyarra's hands. "Use your thumb and the first three fingers of your hand and position them like this…"

The remainder of the morning passed too soon for Lyarra's taste. She soon familiarized herself with the mechanics of the instrument and began playing a short melody until it was to Lady Catelyn's satisfaction. There was a sense of pride blooming inside of her when it took two repeats alone to gain the strict woman's approval.

"You have performed more than adequately today. Keep the harp to yourself. It does no one good to keep it locked in my cabinet and it will allow you additional practice in your free time."

"Thank you," Lyarra said, for once genuinely filled with gratitude at the end of a lesson. "I truly do appreciate this."

Lady Stark nodded curtly and it was clear that she had reached the end of her sentiments for the day. The Snow child curtsied once more and turned to leave. As she was walking down the hall, her new treasure cradled to her chest, Lyarra saw a flash of crimson turn the corridor. Pretending to have missed it, she passed on to her room, aware of Sansa's eyes fastened to her. Lyarra didn't know how her sister felt at that moment but she did not attempt to speak to her and perhaps that was to be an answer of itself.

x

"Lord Tywin, please take a seat and eat your fill," Lord Wyman Manderly invited, ushering his eldest granddaughter, Wynafred, to his side. Her calm temperament and charming inquisitiveness would be his best chance to get some answers. "You must forgive me for the humble fare of my table. I had no prior warning of your visit, you see."

The Lord Lannister eyed the massive table almost groaning from the weight of the rich dishes- smoked beef, salted fish, marinated eel, date pudding, sugar-dusted cakes- and withheld a snort.

"I suppose my raven to Lord Stark must have been delayed then."

"Unfortunate business that! With the fair winds this past fortnight, I would have judged any raven capable of reaching White Harbor from Lannisport in three days time."

"A letter was sent to Lord Stark," Tywin replied coldly. "It is his business whether he chooses to alert his bannerman or not." The Manderly Lord bristled.

"Lord Tywin, have a serving of this mince pie. The herbs used for it have been grown in our own gardens," Wynafred interjected sweetly. "You must be famished from the long trip. Pray tell us of all of the Houses you have visited along the way."

"I have visited none," Tywin denied, "It has been a direct trip from Lannisport to White Harbor. My men and I will be leaving before daylight breaks tomorrow."

"You mustn't leave us before experiencing our hospitality in full, my Lord. It would be needlessly cruel to deprive my sister and I of our amusements in twittering after these guards of yours."

"My guards are not for a young lady's amusement, Lady Wynafred."

"I would disagree with you, my Lord. All handsome men are for the amusement of young ladies."

He scowled. "Nonetheless my business with Lord Stark is too important to prolong. My apologies for depriving you of the pleasure."

"I can hardly accept until I understand why my amusements are lost," Wynafred insisted. "Are you perchance negotiating a trade deal with the Starks?"

Aware of the inevitability of the news spreading throughout the North, Lord Tywin decided that he would provide some information in exchange for a peaceful meal. "There will certainly be a negotiation Lady Wynafred. I expect you will see my purchase when I leave from your harbor in a sennight."

Despite the brunette's gentle pestering, Tywin refused to indulge further and the dinner conversation moved to other topics. As Wynafred and Wyllas were coaxing details of the court out of the reticent Lannister, Lord Manderly's mind turned over the words already spoken.

'Any trade deal between the North and the Westerlands would have to include House Manderly at the table for the sheer convenience of trade by sea, if nothing else. It cannot be common goods then and there are no special goods sold by Winterfell. It may be politics but Ned avoids that viper's pit as much as possible. Lord Tywin claims to have sent a letter but if it was before his trip began, then he was in enough of a hurry to outpace ravens. Ned didn't have the time to alert me either. Then there's how he referred to the purchase. It sounded like a singular transaction… it couldn't be a person, could it?'

x

"Lyarra, can you come here? There are some matters that I need to speak to you about."

As there was only one subject that came to her mind, Lyarra was understandably apprehensive as she stepped into the Lord's solar. This room held its fair share of memories for her: the glass table where she and Robb had raced their marbles, a small library filled with family history that Father had awkwardly read aloud from, and a thick bear carpet with its glassy stare that had made fairytales for. She perched on a seat before the great wooden desk, ready to bolt at a moment's notice, and focusing dark violet eyes securely on the window to the glass gardens.

"Is this about my mark Father?" The dark-haired girl broke the silence first when minutes ticked by without a word from him. She looked towards the grey-lined man sitting across from her, noticing the solemn way he regarded her. It disturbed her to think that he was looking at her as though it would be the last time he would see her. "Father?"

Ned Stark stirred at her voice. "Yes. May I see it once more?"

She wordlessly proffered her arm. On her wrist was the roaring lion, prideful and menacing in one heartbeat and strong and beautiful the next. Of the dragon shadow that it cast, she knew not. "Do you know what the dragon part of it means Father?"

It was the one part that puzzled her most. Why would Starks deserve retribution for a fallen dragon when they fought to bring down the Targaryen dynasty?

"I have my own suspicions on the matter," her father replied. "In truth, Lyarra, I don't think it's House Stark that's receiving reparations from House Lannister."

"Then who could it be?" Lyarra's heart started beating more rapidly. "My mother…?"

Would he tell her the truth at last? Would she finally learn the other half of her heritage? She had once or twice believed it to be a whore but the common folk's suffering never compelled a mark!

Her father looked down, as though ashamed to meet her eyes. Was it due to their shade? The violet that was entirely uncommon throughout Westeros and unheard of in the North?

"Before I was promised to Catelyn in my brother's stead, I travelled to a Tourney in Harrenhal," Ned began. "I met a young noblewoman there by the name of Ashara Dayne. She is- she was one of the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Her brother was Arthur Dayne-"

"-the Sword of the Morning!" Lyarra gasped out, awed. But then who had not heard of Arthur Dayne? He was one of the most respected knights in all of Westeros, beloved even after the Rebellion, the greatest swordsman of the Kingsguard and… and the man her father killed.

The dark-haired girl stared blankly forward. There could be no manner of expression to give credence to the sheer confusion and horror pooling in her belly. Her father noticed.

"The man I slew to retrieve your Aunt Lyanna's body." Her father reached out a hand to clasp hers and squeezed it tightly, even as she flinched. "Too many good men died in that war, Lyarra. From both sides of the battle."

"I understand," Lyarra managed to say. She was not sure if she did, not truly, but she could remember Ser Oswell Whent, who had also died that day. He was Lady Catelyn's second cousin but he had fought for the Targaryen's, even as the Riverlands declared for Robert Baratheon.

"No, you do not," Lord Stark responded gently. "And I pray that you never have cause to. Ser Arthur died and I carried his body and sword, Dawn, to Starfall, the ancestral castle of House Dayne."

She nodded numbly. Lyarra had little knowledge of the noble houses of Westeros, though she could recite the description of Dawn by rote. An ancestral greatsword as pale as milkglass and as strong as Valyrian steel, claimed to have been forged from the heart of a fallen star and wielded by worthy knights of House Dayne for thousands of years.

'Worthy knights like Ser Arthur Dayne… my uncle was Arthur Dayne!'

This would have been the greatest moment of her life if she hadn't known of his death. Her father relentlessly continued. "When I arrived there, I met Ashara. We spoke briefly and when I left, she threw her body from the Palestone Tower of the castle. Her body was washed away by the waves."

"She killed herself?" Lyarra body grew cold in grief and hot in fury. "Why? Why would she do that? Didn't she want to keep me? Didn't she fight for me?"

"Do not judge her too harshly, Lyarra. Ashara was a strong woman but she was exhausted from childbirth and grieved by her brother's death. She had lost her maidenhead and I… I was unable to restore her honor." Ned spoke near silently. "She took to the only escape she believed left to her."

"That's not enough of a reason!" Lyarra snapped back. 'Is my mother from one of Sansa's tragic love stories that she couldn't bear to live without her shining knight? I would never have thrown my life away for any man! I would have stayed- I would have taken care of my daughter…'

"Lyarra!" The sharpness of Lord Stark's voice made her jerk backwards and blink back her tears. She hadn't even known that she half off of her seat already. "I do not want to hear you ever speak of Lady Ashara like this! You have never experienced the pain that she had; you cannot judge her for that which you believe you would have had the strength to do."

There was an uncustomary fierceness to his tone, a pain-filled anger that her father rarely showed, that silenced her. Did he truly care for her mother that much? Did he love her?

'Of course he did,' Lyarra reminded herself. 'This was something you always knew. A lord does not raise his bastard alongside his trueborn children unless he truly loved her mother.'

The servants had whispered of it, the bannerman had debated over it, Lady Catelyn had pained herself for it… and this was proof that Lord Stark had loved her mother. Her Father said that they had met before he was promised to Lady Catelyn. If so, would he have married her if given the freedom? Would Lyarra have been a trueborn daughter instead of a bastard?

It was an enticing thought but one quickly rejected. She wouldn't have had any of her half-siblings if Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully did not marry.

Instead she moved her thoughts in another direction. "Can you tell me about Lady Ashara?"

Lord Stark hesitated. "Another day, Lyarra. We must speak of your soulmark first."

Dissatisfied, yet she nodded obediently. "Ser Arthur knighted one man alone during his time in the Kingsguard- his squire, Jaime Lannister. I am sure he came to regret that decision when the knight he trained betrayed the Kingsguard to kill King Aerys."

"Then this mark is for reparations from House Lannister to House Dayne because Ser Jaime killed… a Targaryen?" Lyanna furrowed her brow. "This sounds rather distantly linked, does it not, Father?"

"Perhaps but Ser Arthur was the Silver Prince's closest friend," Lord Stark replied. "And I cannot think of any great wrong that House Lannister caused us."

Lyarra nodded absently. So lost was she in the mark on her wrist that she overlooked the restless way Eddard Stark drummed his fingers across the table. "Is this all that you wanted to share Father?"

"No. I wanted to pass on a warning to you," Lord Stark paused to collect his thoughts. "The Lannisters… are not necessarily kind people, Lyarra. History has not painted them well."

She inclined her head in agreement. "My soulmate is an oathbreaker."

Ned Stark winced. "If there is any man worth breaking an oath over it would be Aerys Targaryen."

"There are children who fell to their blades as well. I promise to remain honorable regardless of my husband's name."

"I know that you will be but there's something I would wish for you take with you. A raven bred by Maester Luwin to fly directly and true to House Tully. You must send it out the moment that you feel yourself in danger, Lyarra. Promise me this."

A shiver ran up her spine. "I- Surely you don't think I'll need it, Father?"

"For all of my differences with Lord Tywin, I do not believe him to be a kinslayer," Lord Stark answered honestly. "And your mark will afford you greater protections than any raven can. However, it would do my heart some good to have this option available to you. You may claim it as a mere pet."

'Exactly where am I going that Father believes such falsehoods to be warranted…?'

x

Her sibling's packing left a lot to be desired.

"I don't think that I'll need this many furs in the Westerlands." Lyarra looked bemused as she shifted through her leather satchel. This bag was to hold her personal necessities on the road south and it was already bulging at the seams. Her finger brushed past something sharp and she winced. "Where did you get all of these knives?"

"From the kitchen!" Arya chirped back. "Hide them under your bindings, won't you? The Cook will be very cross if he learns that I borrowed them."

The dark-haired girl sucked on the bead of blood welling at her fingertip dubiously. "There are a dozen blades here. I can't possibly need this many."

"You can never have too much pointy steel, Lyarra," Arya insisted. "Who knows when they'll come in handy against those shifty lions?"

"A stabbing is a terrible omen for marriage," Robb chided. "What are all of these rags for?"

Lyarra looked at the handful of torn strips of cloth and felt her mouth twitch. "My monthly bleedings."

"What are those?" Bran piped up as Robb practically threw the rags away. He was sitting cross-legged on her bed, copying down passages from the books that she had withdrawn. Some contained knowledge about the Westerlands that she intended to memorize but most were references to herbs and such.

"Proof that the Gods favor men," Robb told him. "Do you truly want to bring a sword with you?"

"I would feel better if I was armed," Lyarra replied. They exchanged a brief look of understanding, her elder brother having been the only one she shared their Father's warnings with. "Now that I think about it, these knives are wonderful Arya. Let's bundle them up in some leather strips though."

Arya beamed smugly at her praise. She was soon flitting about the messy room, extracting anything capable of securing kitchen knives. It was startling to find how many things she truly owned when they were all strewn across her small abode. Not that Lyarra should have expected any less when three of her siblings decided to help her pack.

'I'm never going to see this room again.' Lyarra blinked rapidly to keep her eyes dry. This may be the smallest, most distant room within the family wing but it was still a Stark room. 'Bran will never sneak into my bed during storms. Arya will never storm in here after fighting with Sansa. Robb will never hide bottles of Arbor Gold under my bed.'

"I need to step out for a minute," she said aloud. "I would like to have a quick ride to clear my head."

Her siblings waved her off, each engrossed in their own tasks. As Lyarra stepped outside, her last sight was of Robb tossing aside her most flimsy sleepwear. Honestly, did he think she would be wearing a fur coat to bed in the southern summer heat?

'I'm going to miss him being stupidly protective,' Lyarra thought fondly. Growing up, she had judged his actions unwarranted but the knowledge that Theon apparently had a crush of some sort on her, and that Robb of all people had noticed it before her… she would miss an older brother's protection. 'It's for the best though. Robb is an unblooded boy grown on stories of glory and valor and the Kingslayer survived two wars.'

Things were moving too quickly. Yesterday her father warned her about her future husband's house. Right now, her siblings were packing up the essentials for her trip southwards. And just this morning, Lady Catelyn had dismissed her lessons in favor of talking about marital duties. Marital duties! Lyarra had choked on her tea and that had been the highlight of the morning.

It wasn't that she was unaware of the mechanics of the process. There were farm animals aplenty in Winterfell and Theon's boasts, though likely stretched, had some grain of truth in them. She was also aware that Ser Jaime was the eldest son of Lord Lannister and that she would be expected to provide an heir. And she wasn't entirely ignorant of the fact that men of that age typically had… er, needs but it had all been inapplicable to her. At least until Lady Catelyn clinically reviewed it all.

Lady Stark had even remarked, in the most painfully neutral tone possible, that her husband would be incapable of sharing another woman's bed since the mark materialized. This did nothing to comfort her; if he had mistresses on the side, there would be someone else willing to deal with those needs.

Lyarra inwardly fumed. Her home, her family, her independence, her dreams, and now her maidenhead? What would Ser Jaime Lannister be losing from this marriage business?

Rather than spend more time than necessary brooding over her losses, Lyarra kitted out Frostbite and took him out for a ride. She was barely out of the gates before her legs pressed to the steed's sides, pushing him into a gallop that blew her braid in the wind and drew an honest laugh from her lips.

Instead of the forest, she expertly guided him to the open fields, through lanes dividing fields of ripened wheat, not yet grown enough for harvest. A sea of grain spun past her, blurring into a dash of pale yellow, as Frostbite leapt over the occasional wooden stake marking the fields apart. At near the ten minute mark, she felt some faltering in Frostbite's pace and slowed it down to a fast trot. It still allowed the cool breeze to whip past her face and turn her curls into a veritable nest of tangles.

The fields were near empty in the midsummer sun and the grain low enough that she immediately spotted the splotch of red on the horizon. Slowing Frostbite down once more to a steady walk, to preserve the strength needed for a quick getaway, Lyarra approached without much concern. These were Lord Stark's lands and this party must have passed more than one group of guards by now.

The rich crimson of their coats did not bring to mind any particular House but the golden lion did. One quick glance at her wrist and Lyarra was promptly turning Frostbite around. Six knights led by a stern, white-whiskered man with the most ornate stitching she had seen yet. It appeared that her future good-father had arrived.

'As if this day couldn't get any worse too…'