"You shouldn't say that."
"Why?"
"Because your father doesn't like it, you know that."
"But why?!"
"I don't know, sweetling. He just doesn't."
"Well, I don't care! He's mean, I don't like him!"
"Don't say that. He's the King. Our King."
"I don't care! I love you, not him! I love you more than he does! More than Rhaegar does! You're my mama, you are!"
"Don't shout, Aeryn. Please."
"I'm sorry."
"I wish I was your mama, my little dragon. More than anything."
281 AC, Harrenhal.
The boy was tall, taller than her, and mayhaps as tall as her father, but he was lanky. Thin, and spindly. Not brawny, not at all, not like Brandon, or even Ned, and yet he must have been of age with them, if she read his pale face well. Not that she could see much of it, of course, with that dark hood shadowing all but his pointy chin and thin lips.
It was when she noticed the garbs, black and scarlet, hiding away most of his skin the same as his cowl, that for a brief moment she believed him a Targaryen.
Lyanna dismissed the thought as fast as it came.
His hair, what spilled out of the hood, shone red – not Tully red, too red, an ugly red – in the morn light. And dragons' manes were silver, everyone knew.
But that was no matter, anyhow, she remembered herself, glaring at the sneer he wore.
"What business is it of yours?" She sneered right back, twice as fierce.
"This clearing is occupied." He spoke again, his voice smooth and his tone snooty, waving lazily at the grass and trees all around. "By me. You shall find another one for your silly games. Or better yet, search for something productive to do."
Her sneer twisted into a snarl. "Like watching clouds, you mean!? Can you not even see them, with that ridicoulous hood up your head?!"
The boy's thin lips thinned even more. "You should mind your tongue, girl, if you do not wish to run in some trouble for it."
"You just have to try, boy!" Lyanna took a fearless step, her hands balling into angry fists. "I'll send you and your trouble right back the dark, ghastly cave you came out of!"
He took none, but he stood straighter, and some part of her realized that he was, indeed, as tall as her father.
She'd send him running, like she'd done those other three southern pests, all the same.
It still managed giving her pause, though, what he said next.
"You know not the ills I can call upon you, girl." His head tilted, his mouth turning into shadows. "I am Aeryn Redwyrm, bastard son of King Aerys Targaryen."
Lyanna blinked and stood silent, for a moment, recalling her father's words of caution, and thinking about heeding them.
Then, she glimpsed the shade of a smirk, and hot blood scorched her veins.
"And I am Lyanna Stark," she howled, like the wolf she was. "Trueborn daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
It was his time, now, to stagger, and Lyanna briefly felt some savage satisfaction, until his scathing retort, faster than hers had come, swifly washed it all away.
"Why should I believe you, girl?" The pale bastard snorted, sparing her a glance but no more than that. "You act more the part of a common wench than of a highborn Lady."
Again, her blood pumped. Again, she snarled. "And you act more like-!"
"I can attest to her identity."
She was cut off, and when her head spun, sharply, and her glower with it, Lyanna was suddenly reminded that they weren't alone.
"I am Howland Reed," her short friend went on, not wilting, to his credit, under her glare. "Son of Edwyle Reed, bannerman to Lord Rickard Stark." He put a hand on her little brother's shoulder, who wasn't faring as well. "And he is Benjen Stark, Lord Stark's thirdborn son."
Go, Howie! She cheered in her mind, her scowl replaced by a savage grin. You're the best!
"So, now," She turned around, her arms crossed and her chin jutted, with all the gait this pompous half-dragon held in his voice. "It seems I truly am Lyanna Stark, yet who's here to say you are who you say you are, bastard?"
The bastard's lip curled. "My conduct, i'd say. Just like yours made me believe otherwise. I suppose I was mistaken, and I suppose what they say about the North is true."
Her grin was replaced by a scowl. "What do they say about the North!?"
"That its people are dour, ill-mannered, and uncivilized."
Unadulterated fury, at those words, flooded through her veins, cold like her home and fierce like her blood – how dares he! – andshe longed for nothing more than to pounce.
She would have, if it wasn't for Howland and little Benjen, and she could have, if the boy's eyes hadn't finally shown.
They pinned her in place, those two wicked things. Too bright and too scarlet to look purple. Too red not to seem bloody.
"Odd, really." He smirked, adding ugliness to the ugly picture he made. "If you were a touch more dour, and a touch less the others, it would even do you credit." The bastard bowed like he meant to insult her instead. "Lady Stark."
And before she could holler, or just find her words, he was gone, sauntering away like a dark cloud.
It passed easy, that afternoon, following that strange encounter.
Yet, even as she'd laughed, and smiled, and prepared her armour, the She-Wolf hadn't managed to keep her thoughts from straying. Most of those times, they'd ended with her feeling maliciously sorry for any who'd be saddled with one such as he.
Robert Baratheon was half-rotten, but that Aeryn Redwyrm was both that, and unbearably unsightly.
Lyanna Stark couldn't know, of course, that one day, soon, because of her choices and those of another, all that would stand between ruin, and herself, and her own blood, would be that pale bastard, that wingless dragon.
Bit of an appetizer, but this one's chapters will be shorter in general compared to those of my others fics. Kinda chilling.
Also, while Redwyrm will be the overall protagonist, the story won't be told from his POV, but rather from that of those around him. He's gonna be a bit of a dark/slippery one, so I like the idea of his character being shaped by others' perception of him, be they enemies or allies.