This is my first story, people. Try not to rip it to shreds, if you can.
I hope you enjoy it.
Lysara
The early years were despair and a most dense malaise.
Had she once again been another member of the audience, Lysara would've realized she was doing nothing but wasting time, time that could have been better spent reliving that once fading joy of youth. Or planning for the trials ahead. Instead, it was given to that bottomless chasm that was grief, an action that only served to expand its appetite.
Coping was simply too bothersome and she saw no point to it. After all, she was likely going to be dead soon, in some way or another. Would it be an axe, a girl wondered, or the all too familiar classic that was rape followed by the subsequent letting of blood from the throat. There simply was no avoiding it, given the precise circumstances of her birth.
Lysara was born into the great game, and play it or not, she was most certainly a piece. And just like that old game with the black and white squares, she was ultimately expendable, sacrificed so some invisible master may earn an advantage. This childhood of what should have been glee and was instead filled with worried parents would soon be gone, swallowed up by the great mists of time.
And understanding that, perhaps, was what precipitated the change in her demeanor.
Being flung from one world to the next had never quite been in any of her plans, and the dreams that she'd had depicting this very scenario had never accurately told the tale of the loss and pain that came with a new life in a new world. Being played or used by some being so beyond her scope it was practically eldritch in its existence was not something that could be stopped.
But being played or used by some human, some mortal?
Lysara Stark was five years old when she swore that she would be damned if that was allowed to happen.
Torrhen
Being reborn into some strange quasi-medieval world had decidedly not been at the top of Torrhen's list of things he wanted happening to him. Finding a girlfriend? Sure. Finishing a game of Monopoly? Why not. Suddenly gaining the ability to walk on his own legs and burning the wheelchair he spent most of his time in? Most certainly.
Waking up with blurry eyes and an uncooperative body was terrifying, but thankfully sleep was always open to him, a respite from the reality of a relatively older mind in a baby's body. As such, he did not have much in the way of treasured memories. Only sensations remained. Hot sun and gentle breeze. Warm cloth and freezing cold.
Early recollections consisted of large figures and crisp frost. Those once unknowable strangers slowly turned into acquaintances, as much as a child could have acquaintances. The most common visitor aside from what he eventually recognized as a milkmaid was a man with long brown hair and indecipherable eyes of dark grey.
As he grew older, and rational thought returned, so did the ability to process information and draw conclusions. The central of these, of course, was the realization that if Torrhen had had less strict parents, this new life would not be nearly as tough. The sheer irony of the damned thing made him giggle bleakly. He had not been allowed to watch the show, for fear of improper influences, and now he was living in it. Names such as Stark and Baratheon were well known even to those severely uninterested in the topic. Of course, that interest was no longer one that could be cultivated voluntarily, transitioning as it did into a fact of this new life.
Loss and misery routinely returned in times of quiet isolation, tormenting him with visions and fading memories of another time. Coming and going, they drifted before him, dancing away from grasping and desperate hands. Regret, they would whisper. Frailty. Weakness.
And that was what banished the spirits for the last time. He had his regrets and knew of his frailty. Those were simply facts of life. As natural as breathing. Nothing could be done about it, and to attempt to do as much was a fool's prerogative.
But weakness? That was the infirmity that came with all humans, regardless of creed, race, or origin. The best thing about it, of course, was that, unlike the rest, it could be purged and disposed of. A task which was made doubly important what with the sheer madness of this new world.
And after all, a bastard was born with ambitions above his rightful station.
Lysara
It did not take her long to realize that her father's supposed bastard was far more capable than any child at his age had any right to be. Admittedly she was barely a few months older than him but no matter how naturally prodigious the child was, he simply had no right in asking questions about the ways of ruling and, most impossibly of all, understanding the answers.
Learning more about him was her most urgent goal, apart from fully integrating herself with the family. Those early years of mental absence had caused a large rift between her and the rest, a fact she worked very hard at mending. That task, however, was one that she could perform with a relative ease, with the main source of trouble coming from her mother's understandable but somewhat frustrating need to anxiously hover at Lysara's shoulder throughout the day. The situation was made worse by the fact that any time she tried to make conversation with Torrhen, her mother would gently change the subject or ward her away through some method or another. Given that the only common interaction of any value she had with the object of her interest was at shared mealtimes, Catelyn Stark was remarkably successful in this approach indeed.
And so, she made use of the only option available to her.
She watched.
She watched a little child ask question after question, and when that was done spend veritable hours in the library, poring over dusty and ill-managed tomes from the deepest recesses of Winterfell's impressive library. She watched him at their mealtimes, unflinchingly polite to his father's wife in a manner that simply did not belong on a child, a fact she knew did not go unnoticed by their father and her mother. She watched as the boy's treatment progressively worsened, what with the general sickliness of Lord Eddard's first trueborn son, Robb.
Most importantly of all, she watched as flickering torches illuminated hidden depths in deep purple eyes.
A different name, different mind, and most worrying of all, different eyes.
Torrhen
The history of Westeros was simply fascinating in every last detail. Even disregarding the fact that wars here were fought over a period of millennia, they had dragons! Not simply as a part of folklore or religious mythology. But actual, living dragons that brought forth the Valyrian Freehold and the eventual conquest that forced all of Westeros under the Dragon's remit. Those great beasts of conquest were all dead now, thanks to the foolishness and greed of men who claimed to be inherently superior simply thanks to some wholly diluted heritage.
The concept of marrying within the family to preserve and better serve the lineage was no foreign concept to Torrhen, who could vaguely recall others in another land doing the same. But to claim inherent superiority based on wholly diluted blood was an act of supreme genius. After all, it kept them on the throne for some three centuries. And kept the populace under the boot of an uncaring despot. Half of which was done without dragons to protect Targaryen interests. And while it would have been staggering beyond belief to truly watch a dragon soar, any opportunity to do so was long gone, and those great beasts of fire and blood no longer roamed the skies. And never again would.
A keen and almost childlike curiosity in the history of this new world aside, Torrhen's life was entirely satisfactory. Training in the yard was a relatively new occurrence that came with the natural progression of time. The beginning of his martial training simply consisted of carrying about an assortment of items from one location to another, as well as building stamina by following every last command of the ruthless whisker-puller, Ser Rodrik Cassel.
Lord Stark was a largely distant father, who seemed to focus the majority of his available energies on his daughter, Lysara, in doing his utmost to invoke some hint of joy or even regard from the girl. Torrhen did not grudge her the attention but also understood that the infirmity that she seemed to be born with would likely remain for the remainder of her life. That seemed to be the natural state of things.
Lady Catelyn was distant much in the same way as her husband, but unlike Lord Stark, her distance and subsequent coldness were entirely voluntary. Had Lysara been born a healthy girl, and Robb a healthy boy, that could've been mitigated and eventually resolved with a bilateral agreement of mutual ignorance. As it were, the situation meant that Lady Stark grew ever angered at his presence, her bitterness, and fear resulting in increased dehumanization and vitriol. A fact that brought Torrhen no small amusement. A deficient daughter and a sickly son when compared to a fit and obviously intelligent bastard was a bitter cup to drink from.
That was how life went, and that was how it was readily accepted.
And then, it all shifted on its axis.
Morning meals usually consisted of the family breaking their fast on the likes bread, cheese, and fruit preserves. Torrhen would sit on the far side of the table next to his father while Robb sat on Lady Catelyn's lap, being fed whatever little amounts he was able to eat. Lysara would sit next to her mother, drinking little and eating less. Her dreadfully thin frame would often shake and quiver in the morning cold, wrapped up as she was in a multitude of furs. Whenever she ate, she did so at mother's stubborn insistence, and even then, it was merely the act of going through the motions, with no interest or investment in her surroundings whatsoever.
On this day, Lysara was unusually late for the first meal of the day. This by itself was not particularly uncommon, given her general lethargy, but it really was past the expected time when she finally did show up to the hall, walking right up to her place at the table and began to nibble hungrily at her food. The stunned silence at the table was only punctured by Robb letting out a practised wail. Catelyn hurriedly readjusted his position on her lap and tiredly began cooing at the child to calm him down once more. While Torrhen had expected his father to fall over himself in questioning Lysara and enquiring after her health, he instead remained quiet and continued to work away at his food. A frigid calm fell over the table, with both Lord and Lady Stark choosing to keep quiet and not disrupt this newfound dynamic.
Over the next few weeks, there could be found a marked change in the demeanor of all those who resided and worked in Winterfell. From the lowest servant to the highest lord, all were delighted at the new Lysara, that pale winter rose who seemed for so long to be simple or as some whispered, cursed. Those were not the eyes of children, they muttered in dark corners and lit corridors. Too clear, and yet far too old. All ridiculous supposition.
If they did not say the same of Torrhen's eyes, what credibility did that afford them? None, whatsoever.
Lysara
Her suspicions were confirmed on a day some two months after Sansa's birth. They had all been sitting at dinner, sharing a thick venison stew when she heard something from her supposed half-brother that nearly caused her to choke.
"...is removed and the affairs and issues of the land are managed by a group of lords from all over Westeros. That way, there can be no chance of a bad king who simply wants to waste his time frittering away taxes. Maester Luwin said that the Valyrians had the same system, that of the forty families."
Her father seemed amused, his lips gently curving up at edges.
"And what would you call this system of yours? Valyria?"
Lysara saw that Torrhen nearly scoffed at that, before shutting his mouth upon realizing the consequences of such. A moment's pause later, and he spoke again, this time much slower.
"Of course not. If I had to give it a name, I would likely call it..." he paused and looked down at his serving. She turned away, focusing on her own food. The conversation had been interesting at first but was likely now going to fall away, with Torrhen sinking deep into his thoughts as he was wont to do. She reached for a glass of water a brought it to her lips.
"I would call it a republic."
Water spurted out from the cup as she choked on and coughed out the water in her mouth. A serving girl rushed forward to wipe away the mess even as Catelyn grasped Lysara's shoulder and worriedly began asking for assurances of continued good health.
All of this was ignored in favour of a word already spoken.
Republic.
Republic.
And that was when she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
She was not alone.