Shout out to Denali Direwolf, StaleBiscuit and the guest for leaving such lovely reviews! Hope this chapter excites!

Also I own nothing, just having fun. Cheers!


It was a particularly bitter sort of cold when Brandon Stark chose to return home, though his boisterous laughter did bring a certain warmth back to Winterfell's halls once more. The keep was oddly cheery compared to its usual somberness; then again, perhaps that was less to do with Lord Brandon's return and far more to do with Robert Baratheon's long-awaited departure, as well as that of all northern guests. The excitement Lyanna's engagement stirred up had been, well, exciting initially (if one could overlook Lyanna's misery), but after weeks of entertaining, Sandor had grown tired and bored of the constant visitors in the training yard.

Robert parted from the Stark's household with one long, wistful glance over the keep, a brotherly embrace for Ned and something muttered in his ears to make the serious young man crack a faint grin. For his intended, he gave a kiss on the hand, lingering on her knuckles long enough for Lyanna—and, indeed, most of those watching the exchange—to know very well it wasn't her hands he wished to kiss.

And then he was gone, and no sooner had the man left than Brandon had come home, riding into the gates of Winterfell with his head held high and reins roped in one fist. Sandor had been there to greet him, along with the rest of the Stark family, and though he was greeted last, he received as warm a welcome as Benjen or Ned did.

"Sandor," Brandon exclaimed with a warm familiarity. He clapped the young boy on the shoulders, grinning widely. "Look at you! Taller every day, hmm?"

"Yes, and it's becoming a right nightmare trying to keep him dressed," Lyanna piped up behind them. Sandor kept his gaze on Brandon, allowing the man to take him under his arm and drag him in the direction of the training yard.

"Come! I need a good spar. Ned, Ben—you too!" But Ben declined in favor of learning about grumpkins or white walkers or whatever other mythical beast he was reading on today, and Lyanna wordlessly followed him.

"Another time, perhaps," Ned murmured, watching Lyanna and Ben, a slight frown on his face. "There is something I needs do…"

Brandon, a bit offended at their refusal, turned to his young friend with a deep sigh. "Just you and I then, Sandor."

"Scared, Lord Brandon?"

The heir tossed his head back and laughed, confidence and eagerness returned once more. "Cocky! You've grown some spine since I last saw you."

"I've grown some skill as well." They each donned their armor and blunted sword of choice. The yard was quiet for the time being, as Brandon had arrived midday, during the noon meal for most of the household. Though his stomach rumbled too, Sandor found the opportunity to spar with his idol too good to pass on.

Sandor and Brandon circled one another in the ring, twirling their swords, growing acquainted with the feel of a blade.

"So? No other excitement in Riverrun, but for the fight with—what's his name?"

Brandon barked a laugh at once at Sandor's question, shaking his head. "Petyr Baelish. Scrawny little green boy. You'd take him on easily, I've no doubt."

"What was he thinking, challenging you?"

Brandon squinted at his own blade, frowning at some slight in it he'd discovered, shifting the grip he had on his shield in the other hand. "Hmm? Oh. It was for the hand of Lady Catelyn. I can't say I blame him."

Sandor raised his eyebrows. "He wanted her hand? But that marriage would never be suitable…?"

Brandon just shrugged, uncaring. "Common sense has failed many green lads in love before. I left him a suitable reminder of his stupidity, though. Hopefully it will serve him well in the future."

"And what do you think of your betrothed?"

He glanced up from his sword, an odd smile of confusion and remembrance curling his lips. "Catelyn Tully? She's a pretty girl. Her father seems a wise man."

But Sandor shook his head. "No, what do you think of her? I mean, what's she like?"

"Like?" Brandon frowned fractionally. "I can't say I know."

"But…" Sandor pursed his mouth unhappily. "But don't you know anything about her? You spent so much time with her…?"

"I know she has nice teats and a face like the maiden made flesh," Brandon grinned roguishly at him, but Sandor knew the sourness pulling at his mouth wasn't from the aftertaste of Dornish wine. The act he was putting on only made Sandor more impatient.

"But what of her? Who she is?" Sandor couldn't withhold his incredulity. "How can you marry if you don't like her?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" he snapped, flashing from cold to hot the way only Brandon Stark was capable of. His scowl grew fierce and dark. The Wild Wolf, he was called, and everyone knew why. "All that my father is concerned with is if she is unwed, and if she is a Tully. Both are positive, so the rest is pointless." He shoved the blade back into his scabbard. "There is nothing else to say."

Sandor thought there was plenty left to say, but he knew better than to push Brandon when the man was upset like this. His body seemed taller and broader than ever, his mouth twisting unhappily as they sparred, even as he offered Sandor tips and encouragement.

"Good!" he shouted, when Sandor nearly clipped him in the arm. "Again, like that. But harder! Faster, Sandor!"

There was little doubt as to who the victor was at the end, but Sandor had always known Brandon would best him for the time being. Talented as he was, Sandor was no match for the broadly-built, fine swordsman Brandon was shaping into. Lord Stark liked to remind his eldest that he had a long way to go, but Sandor wondered if that was entirely truthful. Brandon had the strongest arm and stride he'd ever seen on one his age. It wasn't just impressive; it was inspiring.

Truth be told, if Sandor didn't like Brandon so well, he'd likely resent him instead, or at least envy him terribly. But Brandon was kind to him as he typically was, and Sandor had always had difficulty feeling anything but brotherly affection for him, the sort his own flesh and blood had never inspired in him, not that he could recall. Sometimes Sandor wondered what it would be like to be a real Stark, to have been born to brothers who wouldn't try and maim him, born to a father that would protect him, a sister who would…who would… Spy on him?

Sandor, sweating and panting from the match, looked out past the fence and into the trees, where the flickering hem of a dress could be seen through the trunks. Then there was a flash of inky-black hair down the back of a grey dress, mournful eyes gazing at him through the branches.

"Lyanna?" Brandon waved her over, confused at her slinking through the shadows. "What are you doing hiding in the trees? Father will have your head if he sees you in there. And to think, I hear you played the part of the lady quite well, despite your true nature," he teased with all the crassness custom to the pair, but Lyanna paid no mind to his words.

"I was waiting for your fighting to finish," she said quietly, locking eyes on Sandor. The boy's own gaze darted between her worried face and his own hands, gripping the hilt of his sword. Time passed, enough to tell Brandon that there was something going on, something he wasn't privy to just yet.

Not that Lyanna had any intention of filling her brother in on the secret, Sandor was certain.

"I wondered if I might steal Sandor, brother? Only for a while."

Sandor sucked in a deep breath, praying for Brandon to put up a fuss, to make some excuse, to keep him away from Lyanna and her secret. But Sandor was disappointed, for Brandon only shrugged and said, "If you must."He walked off to leave them on their own, Lyanna and Sandor, staring at each other with deep looks of apprehension and misgivings.

Scathing comments crawled up the back of Sandor's throat, but he kept them down, long enough for Lyanna to feel spurred into speaking.

"I'm sorry for cornering you like this, but you didn't seem to get any of my messages."

"I got them."

She blinked, not a little bit hurt at his curt honesty. "Oh," she said very quietly. "I see." She curled a stray tendril of hair behind her red-tipped ears, blushing slightly with embarrassment. Regret bubbled in his belly at his harsh words, but Sandor felt entirely out of his own skin when around Lyanna Stark anymore. Ever since two weeks past, ever since the night of the feast…

"We needs speak in private. Please, Sandor," she asked him urgently, softly. Men and young lads in training begin to emerge from the hall where they took their meal, some of them are headed to the weaponry racks, others to the fences, some to the armory. Sandor didn't have time to duck into the forest for a quick conversation with his oldest, closest friend.

"I have training," he said, a bit helpless and apologetic now, and glad of the reprieve.

But Lyanna takes his arm and leads him away a bit instead. "I was worried…about your reaction…"

"I was surprised." Sandor's body was utterly stiff, his shoulders squared defensively. "I wasn't expecting that…"

"No, I suppose you weren't…" Lyanna tried smiling and failed spectacularly. Her voice quavered minutely, the sound swallowed almost entirely in the cold air.

"You won't tell anyone, will you? It won't happen again, I swear it…"

Sandor shook his head before she'd finished speaking. "I won't tell a soul."

"I… Thank you, Sandor. You…you mean a great deal to me." She rang her hands against her belly, twisting them nervously. "I hope I can still call you friend."

He blinked, startled. Had she really thought he wouldn't? "Of course you can." Sandor frowned deeply. "I was surprised, that's all. I don't… We're still friends, Lya." It's the use of her moniker that grants him the sight of her smile, he knew so. Still, whatever the reason, it was nice to see all the same.

"Friends?" Lyanna said the word with a hopeful, relieved smile. There was a sheen to her eyes, a glossy gaze that made his heart clench in sympathy, and made him feel even worse about avoiding her for weeks now.

"Friends," he agreed firmly, and turned back to recommence his training for the day.

But she called after him. "Will you come with us, then? To the tourney?"

Sandor thought of the collective invitation Lord Whent had sent to the major houses of Westeros, the one Lord Stark had offered for Sandor to attend with the Stark children. The tournament would be taking place in a month's time at Harrenhal, and many lordlings and knights were riding out to compete for what was said should be a remarkable prize.

Sandor nodded firmly at her, unable to withhold his grin at the thought of it. To see a real tourney.

Lyanna smiled back at him, the hopeful glimmer flourished and grew into a sparkle. "To Harrenhal, then!" she toasted, walking back in the direction of the keep.

"Aye," Sandor murmured to himself, though she didn't hear him. "To Harrenhal."


It seemed a terrible waste to Sandor, that such a beautiful castle was cursed for any owner who occupied it. For the holdings were vast and green, and the soil dark and moist. Winter was over, many were saying, though such things hardly held true in the north, where the cold remained and the snow dusted the ground every few weeks.

One would hardly know it was winter in the land of Harrenhal, though. The weather was warmer, the air sweet and pleasant on the tongue. Although he missed Winterfell quite dearly, Sandor had no hardship confessing that he enjoyed the journey south very much. Whether it was the brighter skies which lifted the solemn spirits, or the freedom from Lord Stark's careful, all-knowing gaze, something had changed between the five companions to make them all lighter and carefree. Even Ned—the quiet wolf, Lyanna called him—laughed and smiled some at Brandon's japes and Lyanna's banter.

Sandor had been right about the prize's worth, for it was a small fortune Lord Whent was offering. And because of that, the lands surrounding Harrenhal were packed with guests who had travelled from all over Westeros, pitched tents scattered over the plains as frequently as fallen leaves. Sandor and his companions were hardly the first visitors to arrive, but they were blessedly not the last either. Brandon found them a spot near the tourney, which had been reserved specially for the major houses of Westeros.

"The royal family will remain indoors, of course. But it's not like to be pleasant in there anyways. Too many stiff-necked lords and their preening ladies for my taste." Brandon muttered to himself, collapsed in one of the chairs that had been brought down from the castle. Only Lyanna was granted a chamber inside the castle, owing to that of her being a lady and needing privacy—if not from her brothers, than from Sandor himself. Lyanna hadn't been too pleased about being relocated, by herself no less, but she had borne it with grace and thanked their host for his generosity and consideration.

The tent Lord Stark had sent with his sons was a fine one, a larger one compared to those belonging to the green knights and common visitors who stayed on the holdings with them. Their retinue pitched tents around them, circling them and making certain the heir of Winterfell was well protected.

"So how long is the tourney?"

"The celebrations will go on for ten days. Seven for the competition." Ned wiped his face clean of the sweat and dirt he had accumulated over the course of their journey. He sighed in contentment when he felt he'd done a satisfactory job, letting the droplets roll off his jaw and catch on the fresh, clean tunic he donned.

"And five days for the jousting!" Brandon reminded them, shaking his hair free of water, sending a brief shower of rain onto Sandor and Benjen's heads, who had been sitting next to him on their pallets.

"Five days for jousting? So long?" Ben asked skeptically.

"Have you seen the crowd gathered at the gates? I suspect we'll be weeding out the first round all day the first day, and the second as well, most like. Won't be 'til the third we see anything interesting." Brandon flexed his arms boldly, grinning at his brothers. "Anyone care to place their bets?"

"No one wants to lose money on you, brother," Ned muttered, but it was accompanied with a flicker of a grin. Brandon landed a blow on his shoulder nonetheless.

"Gods. Being with Baratheon all day has made you such a shit. Talking back to your big brother?"

"I'd hardly call being practical 'talking back.' Would you, Ben?"

Without warning, without any signal at all, the flap of their tent swung open, leaving all the boys inside gaping.

"Lyanna!" Brandon shouted, utterly scandalized, for it was none other than the sister of the Stark boys marching inside. "What were you thinking? We could have been naked as our nameday!"

"And what a terrible sight that would've been." She stepped inside with a brisk stride, her determination undeterred by their shock. She turned around to look back at the entrance and, like the others, found it to be empty. With her head poked outside the tent, she began motioning to someone the rest of them couldn't see. Her voice could be heard faintly, trying ardently to coax someone. "Come on, this way… It's alright."

"Lyanna? Who is it?"

Lyanna didn't answer, but reached out to carefully take a boy by the arm and guide him inside. At least, Sandor thought it was a boy…. He was such a scrawny thing, he looked more like a beanpole than a human. Besides that, his nose seemed broken, and so spouted blood down his face rather profusely. He also bore a limp in his right ankle, causing him to lean heavily on Lyanna—though he looked embarrassed to do so.

"This is Lord Howland of House Reed," Lyanna declared proudly, helping him onto a pallet. Brandon made a sound of recognition, while Ben and Ned just nodded politely at him.

"Lord Howland, this is my eldest brother, Brandon. We call him the wild wolf. And that's Ned, there; he's the quiet wolf. And the little twigs are Benjen Stark and Sandor Clegane. Ben's the pup." Lyanna's gaze drifted over to Sandor's, over the head of Howland Reed, who was nodding and murmuring greetings to all of them.

"Sandor Clegane is the most loyal friend I have," she said quietly, almost to herself, momentarily distracted from the task at hand. "He's…rather like a faithful pup, perhaps. A hound."

"A hound!" Brandon thundered, looking to Sandor gleefully. "Gods! That's what he is, isn't it? Not quite a wolf—but close enough to it!"

"A hound? What's so fierce about a hound?" Sandor frowned up at them, arms folded resolutely. At the same time, Benjen was making sounds of earnest protest—I'm older than Sandor! He should be the pup!

"Ah, but no one's scrawnier than you, little brother," Brandon said fondly, reaching out to ruffle Ben's hair, only to receive a swat and a scowl for the efforts.

The lady in the room grew impatient with their antics. "Hand me that water please, Brandon?" Lyanna huffed at everyone as she began peeling back layers of cloth from Howland Reed's body, doubly irritated when Brandon handed her the bowl filled with the water they had all used to wash themselves. "Fresh water, please! By the gods!"

The heir of the north rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, stepping over to the supply of water they kept while Lyanna dabbed at a particularly bad scrape on Howland's elbow, wincing with him out of sympathy. She began her story in hushed tones. "I was coming down to visit you lot, when I heard shouting not far from here. These three young squires, as green as this bloody grass, were beating Lord Howland half to death! And then, to make things worse, I recognized his banner right away; I knew he was one of our bannermen. They were beating a man of the north! That's absolutely disgraceful!"

Lyanna huffed and scowled to herself at the memory, busying herself with washing the crusted blood off of Howland's face with the water Brandon had given her. Once mumbling and rolling his eyes sourly, Brandon was now equally incised, and he too was glowering at Howland's cuts, at the insult they represented to House Stark and all its men.

"What did you do then?" asked Sandor. At once, Lyanna grew a bit sheepish, carefully directing her attention to Lord Howland's nose.

"I…well, I did what any good woman would do." Lyanna blustered, apologizing quietly when Howland winced unexpectedly, flinching at the unintentional pain she inflicted on his battered face. "I told them that was my father's man, and spied a tourney sword on the ground—one of theirs, I suspect—and I, well…"

"Lyanna!" said Ned, utterly aghast. "You didn't!"

"I did," said Lyanna, a bit more proud and bolder in the face of her brothers' disbelief. "You would've done the same!"

Brandon grunted. "He's a man. You're supposed to be a lady, remember?" He shook his head, long hair sweeping his shoulders as he did.

She stiffened then, her nose turned upwards. "I hardly see how that matters when it comes to plain decency."

"It matters," Ned interrupted, "because you're to be wed to Lord Baratheon come next year. What do you suppose he'd think if he heard you were beating squires with swords and escorting men back to your tent?"

"A right sight more than what I thought when I found out about his bastard daughter," she snapped, rounding on him with a fierce bite in her words. Her grey eyes glowed with a devastating storm in the making, a power swirling there that Sandor had no interest in unleashing nor enduring.

They fell silent, watching brother and sister with trepidation. Sandor had heard rumors pertaining to the existence of a little girl living in the Eyrie, fathered by Robert himself. But he hadn't dared bring the matter up to Lyanna, not when she had appeared to be clueless on the matter. Apparently he'd been misled; Sandor suspected she'd known about little Mya Stone all along.

It was Benjen who spoke next, straight and skinny Ben with his big ears and his quiet speculation. "Will you be coming to the feast tonight, Lord Howland?"

The crannogman shook his head at once, earnest in his denial. "No, no… No, I will eat with my men. We're camped not far from here, I can walk quite well there."

"You won't come?" Lyanna looked dismayed. "But the feast is for all Houses attending the Tourney! Surely you must attend."

Her genuine disappointment seemed to affect Howland, for he blushed and paused and grew uncertain with his decision at once. "I—well…"

"You must come," Lyanna pressed, seeing her advantage. "Oh, please come! Come and sit with our family."

"N-no, my lady, you do honor me too much…."

"You might as well say yes," said Brandon in a bored drawl. "She's downright insufferable when she doesn't get her way."

Howland's beady eyes of doubt and self-consciousness darted between the four spectacular wolves of Winterfell, taking in even Sandor's presence on occasion. He faltered in his conviction, and then let it fall away into dust altogether. "Very well. I…I would be honored to sit with yourselves, my lords, my lady."

Lyanna made a sound of delight and Brandon clapped his hands, rubbing them briskly. "Then it's settled: you'll clean yourself up, Lord Howland, and join House Stark at the welcome feast tonight. And from there…" He grinned, feral and fleeting in its anticipating nature. "Then…we fight."


The Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was an unusually beautiful man.

The son of King Aerys II sat at the head of the table, with his pretty wife at his side and his goblet full of the finest wine and his plate loaded with braised lamb and green beans in a creamy sauce and boiled potatoes topped with melted aged cheese. Though his host had spared no expense on the tourney, and certainly not on Rhaegar Targaryen's plate, the young prince seemed less concerned with the bountiful meal, and more so with the conversation he had engaged in with Lord Whent himself.

Sandor and the Starks, along with Howland Reed who had decided to come after all, were seated relatively close to the prince, close enough that Sandor could make out the sheen to Rhaegar's long white hair, the purple glimmer in his gaze. Sandor knew, from stories shared by Brandon and Ned, that the prince was no fool when it came to swordplay, nor should he be underestimated. (Ned had already warned Brandon, who was enrolled in the tourney and preparing to compete against him). He knew Rhaegar Targaryen took his training seriously enough. And yet, looking at him now, he felt struck by how overwhelmingly fragile this man looked, with his cheekbones and his long-fingered hands cradling the knife and fork with care. Sandor had been told once that Rhaegar was fond of music and reading and other learnt natures; now, at the welcoming feast by Lord Whent's generosity, he found it easy to believe.

Across the table, Brandon was discussing with Robert and Ned, the curious event wherein Ser Jaime Lannister became a member of the Kingsguard earlier this evening, only to be missing from the feast mere hours later.

"It's the king, gone and sent him away to King's Landing. The little Lannister twerp wanted to stay and fight but King Aerys ordered him back, to go watch over his queen and newborn son."

"Prince Viserys," Brandon murmured distractedly, nodding to himself at Robert's explanation. The Lord of House Baratheon had left his seat to come join the Starks mid-meal, something Sandor was sure to be frowned upon, yet the boisterous lord had shown little concern for politics thus far.

"It's a wonder," said Robert slowly, chewing his meat and looking up to the high table with speculation, "why he would send a knight in his service away from his side when…"

When it's the King who looks so terribly ill. Sandor could hear the unspoken words as well as any of them, he suspected; it did not take a maester to see the old king's failing health. Whilst at one end of the table, Rhaegar sat regal and beautiful and everything princely, Aerys II took his seat as far from his son as possible, scowling at everyone and everything and eating his meal in silence. The king's hair hung limp and brittle, and what was luxuriously beautiful for Rhaegar Targaryen was hideously decrepit on his father.

Ned barely spared the king a glance, keeping his eyes respectfully downwards at his plate. "His Grace has many fine knights to protect him. He doesn't need some green boy throwing his lance around like a fool." There certainly were a fine array of knights to choose from, men who left Sandor feeling a bit awestruck in their presence. Selmy, Whent, Hightower and Dayne, to name a few. At least three could be seen at the king's side at all times, staring out from behind his chair and glowering down over the people in their magnificent cloaks of white velvet.

Robert snorted, all but inhaling his sour wine in one toss of his wrist. The cup fell onto the table with a heavy thud of his fist, a satisfied grunt escaping his lips. "Enough talk of Lannister shits. Tell me: how many men do you suppose will be crushed under my fierce strength tomorrow?" And his eyes glittered in anticipation, failing to catch Brandon rolling his own eyes beside him.

Lyanna, spying Brandon's sour face, smiled a bit, which poor Robert then mistook to be encouragement for his ego.

"Ah, my lovely lady. Will you attend the Tourney, and watch me crush foolish greenboys with my bare hands tomorrow? It won't be for faint of heart."

Lyanna at once stiffened, though she masked it with a perfectly sad smile. "I will be among the people, watching you and cheering for you always, my lord. Though I fear what should happen if you and my brother fight one another; I hate to think I might be torn so."

Sandor wanted to laugh at her pretty simpering, but he bit his tongue for Lyanna's sake. Somehow, by some will of the gods, Robert had thus far bought all of Lyanna Stark's sweet lies, staring at her with eyes so struck with awe, Sandor wondered if when he looked at her, he saw the bright woman she was or the goddess she was not.

"Nonsense!" said Robert, clapping Brandon firmly on the shoulder. "Brandon will be jousting. We won't cross paths but for the winner's circle."

Lyanna frowned. "You won't joust, my lord?"

But Robert scoffed, shaking his head with surprising humility. "No. Never had a taste for it really. Give me a hammer and a field of men, and I'll crack skulls 'til there's none left but mine!"

"I never had an appreciation for the hammer, until I saw Robert wield one," says Ned conversationally. He glanced over at his friend, nodding to him in compliment, "He makes short work of a sparring match."

The man in questions smiled, nearly feral. "I almost pity those green shits waiting outside," he muttered, and Brandon went to say something when there was a frantic hushing sound drifting across the hall.

The Crown Prince! everyone seemed to be saying to one another, in awe and excitement. The Crown Prince!

Sandor turned his attention back to Rhaegar Targaryen who, lo and behold, had risen to his feet, with the finest instrument Sandor had ever lain eyes on in his hands.

"My lords and ladies! I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I. Our wonderful host, Lord Whent, could have arranged no finer a meal than the one laid out before us all. What a fine way to welcome the spring!" Everyone cheered, and toasts to Rhaegar and Walter Whent went up in the air, very few cheering for their own king. Aerys scowled down at everyone until they fell silent, as though oddly abashed at their display of love for the Crown Prince.

"I hope you will not mind if I play you a song this night, as thanks to our gracious host, and to honor of my beautiful wife, Princess Elia, and of course, for love of my father, our king, whom we do serve and love until his dying day." Rhaegar raised his tankard, and the rest of the room joined him in drinking from whichever nectar topped their cup. And then he sat down, smiling quietly at the tiny dark-haired beauty seated next to him, and laid his harp on his knee.

And then he began to play.

Sandor was no proficient at musical things. He lacked the tutelage to know what made a song sound sweet, and the only lyrics he could recall were bawdy ones exchanged in the training yard. His dance with Lyanna was one of his only encounters with proper dancing, let alone with a highborn lady, and so he truly knew nothing in regards to song and dance. Yet there was something moving about Rhaegar's song, something haunted and forlorn.

Even Sandor, in all his inexperience, could see that.

Shortly into the song, Sandor found himself looking about, mindful of the reactions around him. Lords and ladies alike were awestruck, with soft eyes and dazed stares. All seemed to fall in love with their Crown Prince in that moment (save for King Aerys II, who—if anything—grew angrier and surlier by the second). Sandor went to nudge Lyanna, seated next to him, when he spotted the look of her young, doe-eyed face, breathless and besotted and weeping silent tears.

Sandor felt his eyes widen. Lyanna seemed oblivious to his startle; in fact, she was oblivious to the rest of the world around her. Reflexively he cast his gaze to Brandon, looking to share in his shock, but the Lord of Winterfell's eldest son was too busy staring across the room at something. Someone, Sandor realized, glancing over his shoulder to see a very beautiful woman smiling coyly at Brandon, with as much rapt focus as Brandon had.

Benjen eventually caught sight of his sister's tear-stained cheeks, and a look of boyish glee lit up his face. With a wicked grin and when the song had ended, he leaned over to her and made sniffling sounds, whispering, "Gods, that's beautiful. Hand me your handkerchief, won't you, Lya?"

Brandon coughed into his fist and even Ned bit back a smile. Robert, Sandor saw with a pleased hum, was staring silently at his betrothed, baffled and nearly hurt by the profuse show of admiration.

As for Lyanna, the lady of the north seemed to think only a moment on the consequences before seizing the cup she had only just raised in the air in a toast, and promptly upended it atop her youngest brother's head. Brandon and Robert, joined in the amusement of the jape, howled with laughter, while Ned looked on with a scolding eye and Ben glowered from under his sopping curls.

Women, Sandor thought to himself, a bit unkindly, are so fickle.

It felt like only yesterday that he was leaving the feast for Lyanna's engagement, sneaking out in search of the bride-to-be and the bear-lady she had left with. He remembered with stark clarity, how he had followed a pair of wet footprints into the heart of the godswood, whereupon he spied the two ladies with long hair embracing one another—not as sisters-in-arms—but with warmth and tenderness, gentle touches, quiet giggles, and a long soft, kiss.

Lyanna Stark seemed to have a love for all things—and all people—beautiful.