A.N.: So I know the Virgin Queen imagery was strong during Sansa's coronation (which I LOVED) but I'm thinking…in my story, do I want Sansa to be Virgin Queen-esque, for her kingdom to be inherited, say, by her niece/nephew after a long and legendary reign? Or do I want her to find someone 'brave and gentle and strong', a ferocious feminist who respects her strength, to father her children, and marry her, for a little while (I'm giving you a huge hint here)? What do you think? Have Sansa foster her heir, the child of Jon or Larra, or have her own children?
I was really thirsting after Pod when I started this story, but now I'm wondering about the political implications to the story…I may have to consider another option…
I've also changed Larra's 'Targaryen' birth-name to Aella.
Valyrian Steel
04
Lost
Her aches and pains were forgotten as she flung herself at her uncle. Benjen.
The last time they had embraced, he had arrived late after a hard day's ride, flying down from the Wall: Grim Benjen with his long face and handsome nose, his rich solemn voice, her heroic uncle who had committed his life to a cause greater than his own, a ranger and hardy warrior.
Their hero - hers, and Jon's.
A rare visitor at Winterfell who had always treated them with kindness and respect: They had admired him with something close to idolatry, anticipated his visits, and regretted his return to the Wall, to the true North, ranging in the unknowable wilderness, back then only shaped in their minds by Old Nan's stories - and Benjen's… He had left out some crucial details…
Jon had followed their uncle's footsteps to the Wall, and beyond it; Larra had been bitterly heartbroken to be left behind, with no place in the world, left to look after her brothers - little had she known, then, that she too would follow in her uncle's footsteps, trudging all the way to the Wall and beyond it, dragging her stubborn, crippled brother.
Uncle Benjen.
He had been thought lost, lost beyond the Wall, lost to the true North, with no word, like so many hundreds of thousands of nameless, forgotten men who took the black, highborn and low alike lost to the ravaging blizzards of time and memory. Their pain, unknown, their sacrifice, unrewarded, ignored. Futile.
She had seen the true enemy. The winter of her family's warning. The entirety of Westeros knew it: Starks were always right in the end. Winter is coming, indeed.
They had endured the winter, and survived: But it chased at their heels like starving direwolves. They were an impossibility - two waiflike girls and a crippled boy, somehow they had survived the true North and its most horrific dangers - besides the dead, and the generals of the army of the night, chasms and glaciers and hidden fissures, mangy snowcats and the worst of the Free Folk… And here, another impossibility: Uncle Benjen, alive.
Or close enough to it.
She squeezed Benjen with her tired, thin body, as tight as she could, her heart breaking. Uncle Benjen. He didn't expect it; she wondered when he had last been embraced, by anyone, because he froze…and thawed, tucking his arms around, strong as tempered steel.
Slowly, almost as if he were ashamed, Benjen lowered his head, raising his blackened, heavy hands to drop his hood, and carefully unwound the cowl around his face, revealing high cheeks savaged by frostbite, dark eyes shadowed with grief, lips blue and cracked. His skin was paler than snow, with an unhealthy greenish-grey tint that might have reminded her of the Children…if she wasn't acquainted with rotting bodies, disintegrating skin…
Uncle Benjen was not dead…but he was not truly alive, either. Much as she and Meera and Bran and Hodor had been for however long they lingered beneath the great heart-tree. Halfway between death and life. They were closer to life than Uncle Benjen, she could see it…
Sadness filled her, replacing everything else.
Benjen was altered.
She glanced at her brother. Bran. The last time they had seen Benjen, the King had arrived at Winterfell to ask their father to become Hand of the King…had divided their family irrevocably. Benjen had flown down from the Wall, and taken Jon back with him. Father had taken their sisters south… Larra had been left behind, with three brothers - one overwhelmed, one wounded, and one wild… Larra had been a wild girl herself, her back a tangle of ruby ribbons from Queen Cersei, half-feral and furious; Bran had been a tiny broken boy, sweet-faced, kind and full of warmth. She remembered that boy…in this desolate place, Benjen must remember them so vividly it hurt; she knew her own memories shone as vibrantly as any of her paintings in comparison to the barren icy wastes of the North.
If Benjen had changed, so had they.
She wondered if it hurt. If looking at them hurt, the same way looking at Benjen hurt - and the cramping worry deep in her belly, the slow dull ache that strengthened as she thought of Jon. Jon, fighting wildings in the rain by the abandoned windmill; Jon, outside the keep of wailing women… Why had he been wearing a wildling's furs at the tower, only to be back in black at the keep?
Did he know Benjen was still beyond the Wall?
Had Bran known?
Bran's eyes were dark, and they lingered curiously on Benjen's frostbitten face.
But Benjen's eyes lingered on Larra. He looked at her…the way she always remembered, whenever he visited Winterfell…as if it was the first and last time he would ever see her face, and had never seen anything he wanted to gaze upon more than her face…
She realised…in her face, he saw his sister. The sister he had lost, the sibling he had been closest to. Lyanna.
His sister. Her mother.
Their secret.
Ned's, and her mother's, and perhaps Uncle Benjen's, too.
Benjen had been barely Bran's age when the Rebellion began - Lyanna, only sixteen when she had died…giving birth to her twin children raised at Winterfell as her brother's bastards…
Benjen had not been wearing the black then. He had been…the Stark in Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell...
Benjen had been the Stark in Winterfell when Father returned from the Rebellion with twin babies… Lyanna's babies…
Every time he flew down from the Wall, Benjen sought out Jon and Larra. He always had a smile for her, always. He had always, from her earliest memory, held her face tenderly in his large, scarred hands, learning every curve and plane of her face.
She wondered how alike she was to her mother…her mother…
Benjen was the only person living who could tell her anything about her mother…and her father…
It explained why he had always been so kind to them, eager to learn even the most mundane details of their lives, smiling at Larra's paintings and embroidery and her bow, sparring with them in the yard - a seasoned Ranger of the Night's Watch playing with sparring-swords! Patient and implacable, that was her memory of Benjen, solemn as Father and kind, as troubled by his responsibilities to the Watch as Father was by his to the North…
If Benjen looked at her and saw Lyanna, then Larra looked at Benjen and saw Jon. Saw Father. It hurt, worse than any hunger. She was too exhausted to weep, but inside, she was in agony.
She disentangled herself from her uncle, stepping back, eyes burning as she gazed at him, overwhelmed by the memories that swept through her, searing like wildfire, warming her from the inside out.
"The last letter Jon wrote us said you'd been lost beyond the Wall," said Bran, in his new soft, careful voice. She remembered his easy laughter and quick chatter like a squirrel, teasing Arya and cooing to baby Rickon, talking with Summer before he had been named, before Bran had fallen…
That little boy was gone: So was the brooding, isolated young man Larra remembered as her twin: And this was not Uncle Benjen who visited Winterfell.
This was the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.
Grief and remorse flickered across Benjen's face, his jaw working as he fiddled clumsily with his gloves.
After a moment, he spoke hesitantly, his voice soft as Bran's but a thousand times more sorrowful. "I led a ranging party, deep into the North, to find White Walkers… They found us. A White Walker stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice…left me there to die, to turn… The Children found me, stopped the Walkers' magic from taking hold."
"How?" Meera breathed, gazing at Benjen with eyes glinting wetly in the firelight.
"The same way they made the Walkers in the first place," Benjen sighed, turning his sharp dark eyes on Bran. "You saw it yourself."
"Dragonglass," Bran said, shifting awkwardly in his sled, his expression pinched. "A shard of dragonglass, plunged into your heart."
They stared at Benjen, at his chest, buried beneath layers of wool and matted fur. The Children were likely gone from their world forever, but here a relic remained, an echo of their last act, lingering in the world, continuing their work.
"Why did they save you?" Meera asked, her face haunted, remembering Jojen. Jojen, whom they had abandoned, whose own sister had delivered him mercy in the snows as wights descended upon him, Jojen, whom the Children could not - would not - save, not when Bran's life was at risk as they fought to protect Jojen. Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven. The Children had not saved Jojen, but they had found Benjen dying in the snows far from the great heart-tree…
Benjen glanced at Larra. "To the Children, it was but yesterday they united with the First Men to stop the White Walkers…it was Brandon who raised the Wall, who built Winterfell, and it is his blood that runs through our veins," Benjen murmured; every Northman grew up on tales of Bran the Builder, high-borns and bastards alike. "Brandon wielded the magic of the Children to reinforce the Wall, to stop any White Walker or soldier they created from passing into the world of Men."
"The Children are gone," Larra murmured, Leif's sacrifice still too fresh a wound. She had spent months, years, training with Leif, with the Children, learning to dance as they did with their weapons of weirwood and dragonglass, learning their songs.
"But their songs are not," Benjen said, gazing meaningfully at Larra. "And magic is not gone from this world."
"But - oh," Larra breathed, staring at her uncle, her tired eyes widening with realisation. The Children had taught her their songs - their spells, their magic…
All magic was gone from the world…except dragons.
And those who rode them.
Valyrians.
An ancient race of Men whose blood was steeped in magic - kept pure for centuries in the very last of them, by the incestuous marriages of the Targaryen dynasty, wedding brother to sister for centuries to preserve the purity of their blood…their magical blood…
Blood that ran through Larra's veins - and Jon's…
They were the last of them.
The last of the Targaryens.
The last of an ancient race with magic flowing in her veins…a Targaryen with the blood of the First Men, the blood of Bran the Builder, who had wielded the magic of the Children against the Night King…
Leif had told her that strong magic protected Winterfell, magic that was lost to the world…except to her. And Jon.
They were children of the North, of ancient Valyria.
They were children of ice and fire.
And the song… The songs the Children had taught her, they were not just songs…they were spells, the magic of the Children, preserved in Larra's memory, just as the history of the world was preserved in Bran…
Bran was knowledge, now, living memory in a man's form… But Larra and Jon…they were magic made flesh…
The Three-Eyed Raven had tutored Bran… The Bloodraven was gone: But the Three-Eyed Raven lived on. Just as there was always a king, there was always a Three-Eyed Raven. No sooner had one breathed its last than the next took a gasp and plunged on.
The Children were gone - but they had passed on their knowledge to Larra the only way they knew how - in song.
Leif had made Larra memorise one particular song… She had called it Larra's song…she had called it a song of ice and fire…
Confronted with the horror that was the Night King and his army, it was an oddly comforting thought, realising that it was not only Bran that the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children wanted to get safely North to the great weirwood.
They had needed Larra, too.
Her time had not been wasted, deep beneath the tree.
She had been waiting, and watching, but she had also been learning - without ever knowing the significance of what she had learned, until now.
The Children were gone; but they had left their last, best hope for the future of Man with Larra…
With her, and with Jon. The same blood ran through his veins as hers. Northman, Valyrian: Stark, Targaryen.
Bran the Builder had stopped the Night King once.
They would again, for the last time.
They had to: There was no other option. How could they let him cover all the world in shadow?
Benjen nodded slowly, knowing she had understood him. He turned to Brandon, the last Stark child named for their legendary ancestor.
"You are the Three-Eyed Raven now," Benjen sighed sadly. "You must help Larra and Jon, in every way you can. The three of you…you are all the world of Man has left."
"I didn't have time to learn, I can't control anything!" Bran said plaintively, and there was something like amusement and sorrow glinting in Benjen's dark eyes.
"You must learn to. Before the Night King comes," Benjen told him gently. "One way or another, he will find his way into the world of Men. And when he does, you three shall be there, waiting for him. And you will be ready…" His eyes lingered on Larra, and in the firelight they glinted like a raven's. "You must be. You know what the Night King wants?"
"The end of all things," Larra spoke softly, her voice almost lost to the wind. Benjen nodded slowly.
"He intends to undo this world, the world of Men."
"But I don't understand…he was a man, once," Meera said, glancing at Bran for confirmation.
"The Children made him…" Benjen said sadly, his eyes lingering on Bran. "Only the Three-Eyed Raven had the knowledge to unmake him. Until you." He glanced from Brandon to Larra. "Three-Eyed Ravens throughout history have waited and watched, ensured that you found your way to the heart-tree."
"Me?" She glanced at Brandon, whose eyes were as solemn as they had been when the Bloodraven had told her the truth of her parentage.
"Targaryens have always had dragon-dreams…the Sight, borne of the magic in their blood," Benjen sighed softly. "Centuries ago, the Three-Eyed Raven gave Daenys the Dreamer a glimpse of the world as it would become…"
"Daenys the Dreamer? She was centuries before the Conquest," Larra whispered, remembering her histories. How many times had she read the stories to Arya? Stories…legends… People lost to the ravages of time…her ancestors…
"Twenty generations of Targaryens ago," Brandon said thoughtfully. "Your direct ancestor… That explains your dreams." Larra glanced sharply at Brandon. She had never told Bran about her dreams - only Jon, and Father, who had instructed Maester Luwin to teach her how to paint, and purge the horrific and exquisite images from her mind…
"The Three-Eyed Raven ensured the Targaryens sailed to Dragonstone, the last annex of the Valyrian Freehold," Benjen said. "Barely more than a decade after they made berth on Dragonstone, Valyria was lost to the Doom… Generations later, Aegon turned his eyes westward…a dynasty was forged in fire and blood…as it ended…and two tiny dragons were secreted away deep in Snow, until they were old and strong enough…" The tiny quirk of Benjen's lip was tragically ironic; he sounded far too lyrical not to be quoting someone - he sounded like Lord Bloodraven.
"Are we?" Larra asked her uncle.
Benjen's smile was awful.
"You must be."
They rested for only as long as the fire lasted. Bodies screaming their protest, Larra took to the sled while Meera climbed behind Benjen on the horse; their honour-guard of direwolves escorted them, ever southwards, fighting the storm. Brandon indicated by signals each time they needed to alter their course: He had ravens spying out the Night King's armies, knew when to evade and when to wait.
If it took days, Larra could not recall how many. They travelled in silence, but for Bran's directions and the grumblings of hungry direwolves, the boldest and best hunters disappearing, to return herding their rare prey for Benjen to butcher and prepare for them, wherever they could find some brief respite from the elements. The little red direwolf became bolder, a favourite, loping beside Larra and the sled, a constant companion.
Bran watched the snowy sky unseeingly, his eyes milky, nestled in his furs as they slipped over the snow, following Benjen's sure-footed horse. He was learning, preparing. Doing what he should still have been doing beneath the weirwood, had he not been so foolhardy… Had he not been so desperate to see their family again. Larra could not blame him, not entirely: He had seen her mother, after all…he saw them all. She wondered what he saw, whether he knew Sansa and Arya's fates, if Rickon and Osha had reached the Umbers, and how Robb's war was waging.
But she did not ask. Likely, Bran was not looking for their family: He had work to do. And he was no longer only Bran Stark: He was the Three-Eyed Raven.
The Bloodraven had told Larra, early on, that the man was lost to the myth: Bran would lose himself, for a good long while, as he learned his powers and indulged in them, and as time passed, he might forget where he belonged in the story… But he had every reason to fight his way back: They needed him. Not just his family…everyone. The world of Men needed Bran. He could not indulge in the past.
They headed South, toward the Wall…they were headed home.
Where else could they go?
Winterfell.
It made her stomach ache and her blood simmer with anger to think of her home, now, mired with so many hateful, pain-drenched memories, the ghosts of people she had loved, and left behind - the ones who had left her behind…
She had wondered very often what had become of Winterfell, of the smallfolk who had made it their home for generations; she wondered whether Winter Town was filling up, as it only ever did when the snows fell dozens of feet thick upon the moors. She could barely remember the last winter; Brandon had been the first of her siblings born in summer, it was all he had ever known until they breached the Wall and headed north toward the Land of Always Winter. But she remembered snow up to the ramparts, the dull hacking and creaking of the trees always planted in spring being felled, for winter firewood; she remembered a haze of smoke lingering above Winter Town like a blanket, firelight glinting like jewels in the grey winter days. She remembered cuddling with her Father, and sharing the great box-bed with Jon and Robb when they were so little it hadn't mattered, long before Rickon and Brandon, long before Theon had ever come to Winterfell…
The last time she had seen the great grove of weirwoods, Brandon had still been her brother, a hungry, irritable boy frustrated by his broken body while his active mind tormented him with visions and portents.
Whether by nature's magic or by the Children themselves, the weirwoods had grown in a perfect spiralling circle, and in their centre, the heart-tree, its carved face weeping ruby sap. In the gale, the boughs of the tree seemed to groan a lament to the Three-Eyed Raven they had lost, the leaves like bloody hand-prints whispering a sigh, greeting the new one.
It was this grove, in front of this very heart-tree, that Jon had sworn his oath to the Night's Watch.
They were close to the Wall, now - so close, Larra had been shocked when it suddenly appeared, in a break in the storm, the snows gentling just long enough to see the glimmering blue-white curtain cutting across the silver sky, imposing and awing.
They were so close to the Wall, they seemed to momentarily lose their dread of the storm chasing them. Meera climbed down off the horse, stretching her legs and groaning, plucking at the strings of her bow with chilled, stiff fingers. There were two snow-hares tucked into her belt, barely a speck of blood on their pristine fur: Meera caught Larra's eye, and they exchanged the briefest of looks before Meera started to dig a small pit to protect a fire, starting to prepare the rabbits for skinning. Larra stepped gratefully from the sled, taking a risk by unbuckling Shadow from the harness; they were both relieved, and Shadow shook herself thoroughly, padding off to the other direwolves as Larra turned to her uncle. He had climbed off his horse, and gazed sorrowfully at the Wall as the fog and snow cleared, giving them tempting glimpses.
Jon was beyond that absurd structure.
It was all that now protected them from the storm chasing at their heels.
She hoped it held.
The snow crunched softly beneath her feet, and the wind seemed to drop as she approached her uncle, leaving everything in breathless silence.
It didn't matter, truly, not now, but she couldn't help ask something that had been on the tip of her tongue since she had learned the truth.
"Did you know, all this time?" she asked softly. Benjen sighed, gazing sorrowfully at the Wall. It wasn't weeping today, as it had the days when she had approached it from the south with Jojen and Hodor and Meera and Summer: It looked glassy and impossibly solid, unyielding. Uninviting - she wondered how the Free Folk felt when they looked upon it. She knew some climbed over it, so desperate were they to escape the Night King's hordes…any life was better than that fate, even a life on their knees.
His dark eyes rested on her face, and Larra knew, before he ever said a word. "When we were children, I was as close with Lyanna as you were with Jon and Arya. I might've even been her favourite… We used to spar together in the godswood, though Father didn't like Lyanna to wield weapons… She was very good." His eyes twinkled as he gazed at Larra, at the pommel of Dark Sister glinting in the meagre winter light. "Harrenhall was the first time we had ever seen royalty, the famous Prince of Dragonstone… He was otherworldly. We read about them in our histories but to see a Targaryen, one of the Valyrians of legend, with his indigo eyes and his pale silver-gold hair… He was handsome, and frustrated - I remember thinking, he seemed to be wearing a mask to conceal his anger, as Brandon - my brother Brandon…as Brandon so often did, his smile carved in a handsome face as if he were made of stone."
Sometimes Father had spoken of the Rebellion - especially to her brothers, when they had been young enough to still glorify war and slept, dreaming of themselves as heroes listed alongside the likes of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Barristan the Bold… But she had never heard Benjen speak of it - he had been the Stark in Winterfell, after all, his father and brother - Brandon - murdered by the Mad King: But he had grown up with Lyanna at Winterfell while Father fostered at the Eyrie…
It seemed important not to interrupt, but Larra couldn't help wonder: Rumour had spread, after the Rebellion, that Rhaegar had secretly funded Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhall, hoping to amass the high lords of Westeros to settle the matter of his father's madness - and, perhaps, a regency. King Aerys had caught a whisper of sedition and insisted on attending the tourney: And history had been made. Instead of a regency to curb the Mad King's tyranny, Rhaegar had been diverted by a dark-haired, wild beauty from the North, sparking an ember that became a blaze of wildfire, setting alight a dynasty. One way or the other, the Mad King had been dethroned, but Larra couldn't help think, thousands of lives would not have been wasted had Rhaegar simply forged ahead, and taken direct rule from his father, and lived up to the potential everyone, decades later, was still bemoaning he never lived up to.
Lord Whent, Rhaegar, Aerys, Elia, Lyanna… What a bloody mess.
"Ned teased her for weeping when Prince Rhaegar sang… He had a handsome voice. I couldn't help but see him, when you stood in front of the feasters to sing before King Robert. You have the same gift…he mesmerised everyone, even those who had no time for songs… I laughed when Lyanna upturned her wine over Ned's head… She hummed Rhaegar's song for months, after - I don't think she even knew she was doing it… When the squires attacked Howland Reed, Lyanna had the idea to put them in their places; I helped her piece together a suit of armour from bits and pieces we found around the Northern lords' camp outside Harrenhall…I cheered my sister on when the Knight of the Laughing Tree championed in the lists… Only Ned and I knew who it was, of course. That night after the feast, Lyanna seemed…thrilled, excited, more vibrant than I had ever seen her…she whispered to me that Prince Rhaegar had found her out. I'd heard about the Mad King; I worried she'd be burned alive before the melee next-morning… Rhaegar told his father that they'd found the mystery-knight's shield, nothing more… Snow was starting to fall as we walked to our tents, everyone complaining of the cold - her laughter echoed through the camp; it was like a summer's day to us, so used to real winters… I still remember the snow melting in her braids, threaded with tiny white day-bells to match her silver-grey velvet gown… They'd spoken for hours, Lyanna told me, her and Rhaegar, nestled away in the overgrown godswood… They spoke long enough to fall in love…
"The next morning, a squire found me, and asked me whether Lyanna had a favourite flower; I told him it was the winter rose… Lyanna had always admired them: Striking because of their simplicity, and unyielding. They endured the harshest winters, buried beneath the snows, and came back time and again… I remember you braiding them into your hair as she used to, for feasts… When Rhaegar crowned Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty, the roses were still crisp with frost, they seemed to glimmer like crushed glass… She wove those flowers into her hair for days before the blooms withered…we had returned to Winterfell by then, and the first of Rhaegar's letters arrived. By rider - never by raven; and delivered right into Lyanna's hand - they would wait for her in the godswood…"
"He sent letters to my mother?" Lyanna breathed, something fluttering in her chest. "What happened to them?" Benjen glanced at her, his eyes so cunning.
"When she ran away to meet Rhaegar at Harrenhall, she took the letters with her," he said, wincing apologetically, as Larra's heart sank. "She didn't want Father to think less of her."
"Less of her?!"
"Rhaegar was still married to Elia Martell, after all; and Lyanna was betrothed to Robert, though she had no fondness for him," Benjen sighed, and Larra noticed that his breath didn't fog in front of him as hers did.
"But…Bran saw them married by the High Septon, in front of a heart-tree," Lyanna frowned. "Did she suspect Rhaegar might not wed her?"
In all her life, she could not recall a single occasion when her father had ever spoken poorly of Prince Rhaegar, not ever…because he was her father. Hers, and Jon's. Ned's brother by the laws of Men and gods, though no-one knew it.
"In spite of what others have believed since the Rebellion, Rhaegar was a man of honour," Benjen said, his expression solemn; and it said a lot, that Benjen Stark had said it. As if Ned Stark himself was reassuring Larra that her father by blood had been as good a man as Ned himself, who was the very best of them. She knew it, in her heart: Ned was irrefutably the bravest, most loyal, most honourable man she would ever know. And that was a devastating thought.
"But he wrecked everything."
"Coaxing Lyanna to run away was ill-advised, perhaps…but Lyanna knew our father: He was stubborn as an aurochs, and had already pledged her hand to the Lord of Storm's End, though everyone knew Robert had already fathered a bastard, and we all suspected he would never be loyal to her."
"Your father wouldn't yield even to the heir of the Iron Throne?" Benjen's eyes lit up with irony, his smile brief but almost impish.
"You know Northmen better than to have to ask that," he chuckled. "No, it was foolish of them to act in secrecy: But it was Brandon - my brother Brandon - who ruined whatever future Lyanna and Rhaegar had planned…a rider appeared, perhaps he had even crossed paths with Brandon and his friends on their way to King's Landing - asking Father for his blessing, and his support. Rhaegar couldn't trust the Southern lords, not with the King's Master of Whisperers - but the Northmen are a different breed, and Rhaegar knew it. They are loyal to their own; and they respect a strong woman who takes control of her fate… Rhaegar and Lyanna both hoped Father would unite the North behind Rhaegar's claim as Regent for his father; they wrote that Elia Martell would be retired to Dorne for her health, her children dividing their time between Sunspear and King's Landing, while Rhaegar and Lyanna began their family…"
"They wrote your father about this?" Larra asked, marvelling. "He knew they were wed?"
"The rider delivered the letter into my father's hand, bearing the seals of Rhaegar - and of Lyanna… She had joined the Stark direwolf in a single ouroboros with a dragon, a winter rose inside it with her initials… He'd had the wax seal made for her before they met at Harrenhall… Princess of Dragonstone, she had signed the letter… Brandon only heard that Lyanna had disappeared with Rhaegar and flew into one of his rages; I'd never seen my father shocked. Before he knew it, Brandon had taken to the Kingsroad… The rest we know; but my father knew Rhaegar had acted honourably toward Lyanna, had wed her, before witnesses - his most trusted friends and protectors, the High Septon… When Brandon was imprisoned, and the Mad King summoned Father, he went south to King's Landing, hoping to speak to Queen Rhaella about Rhaegar's marriage to Lyanna…that the Starks were not enemies to the Crown, but that they were bound by marriage, perhaps the only allies the Targaryens had left after King Aerys' behaviour…"
"He never spoke to the Queen, did he?" Lyanna guessed sadly. In her mind, Rickard Stark looked very much like Father, grim and deeply loving, and fearful every waking moment for his children's happiness and their futures, and the safety and happiness of his people.
Benjen stared sadly at her; he didn't have to answer. They all knew what had happened next. Rhaegar, ensconced in the Tower of Joy with Lyanna, might never have known about Brandon and Rickard's arrests until it was too late, and the Rebellion had ignited across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire.
"What happened to the letter?" Lyanna asked. It was important: A letter, written by Rhaegar, bearing Lyanna's new seal, and her title, in the possession of the Warden of the North… It was proof…proof of her lineage, proof she and Jon were not bastards.
It didn't matter to her that, by blood and by law, she and Jon had a greater claim to the Iron Throne than anyone living.
All she wanted in that moment was to shove that letter under Lady Catelyn's nose, and see the horror dawn in her eyes as she realised she had punished her husband for being the most honourable man in living memory, that she had despised innocent children born higher than any of her own - that she had been needlessly cruel to those who had posed no threat to her son's inheritance, for their own was far more illustrious… She wanted Lady Catelyn to know she had never deserved Ned Stark: And that the woman who had always had Ned's heart was his only sister, who had died tragically young, holding his hand as her babies mewled for her.
Perhaps she wanted Lady Catelyn to beg her forgiveness, for years of mistreatment, hatred and coldness.
All Larra had ever wanted was a mother. Once upon a time, she had hoped it might be Lady Catelyn: If she had so much as stroked her hair or kissed a cut on her finger, Larra would have been hers, absolutely.
Unkindness left its mark: And Larra wanted the satisfaction of seeing Lady Catelyn Tully brought low by the dreadful, exhilarating truth - that Ned Stark was a better man than even his own family had ever known… Larra had thought her opinion of Ned Stark could never get any better: She had been proven wrong.
"My father took it with him to King's Landing, as proof," Benjen sighed, his eyes shuttered. For the briefest moment, Larra realised that they had both experienced the same, brutal thing: Their fathers had both been summoned to King's Landing, and murdered as traitors. They had both been left behind at Winterfell to look after the North while their brothers went off to war…
"I wonder if Queen Rhaella ever saw it," Larra sighed, her breath gusting before her in a great plume.
She should know better, after years with the Three-Eyed Raven, than to dwell on the past. The ink is dry… But what if…?
It was human-nature to wonder what things might have been like…to regret that they would have been better than they were…
There was no changing it, though; as the Bloodraven had said, the ink was dry.
It did not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live.
Larra glanced at her uncle. "Was she beautiful?"
"She was," Benjen answered softly, his dark eyes flicking over her face. "You look so like her, it hurts. You and Jon look more like Lyanna than you do Rhaegar, but he is there, in your faces, sometimes. I've seen it. The shape of your eyes, your hands aren't Lyanna's. They are all Rhaegar; I remember his nimble fingers plucking the lyre as he sang… I see him more in Jon's nature; he's excellent at killing - and hates it. Rhaegar never liked war. He liked singing, and he liked reading - like you. But your mother…Lyanna was fierce, and good, and she was gentle and kind. She loved flowers and dancing, and Old Nan's stories, and galloping over the moors, exploring the wolfswood. She was sweet to Hodor and liked to tease me, but she was protective, too. A she-wolf…like you."
"We've had very different lives," Larra said softly. She had never fallen in love: Her mother's love had destroyed a dynasty.
"Yes," Benjen agreed. "I can tell you, as the one who knew her best… Lyanna would be so proud of the woman you've become - of the man Jon has become."
"Was it really worth it? All the horror, the death…"
"Were you worth it?" Benjen asked softly, stepping closer, to cup her face in his hand. His eyes were solemn; hers burned. "Always. Absolutely." His smile was pained.
"Why…why did Father never tell us?"
"You don't know how hard I battled to take you and Jon to a holdfast, and raise you," Benjen sighed, his eyes grief-stricken. "Ned returned from Dorne with you and Jon… I knew. How could I not? Ned told me it was he who had vowed to Lyanna you would always be safe, protected from Robert Baratheon, from everyone…"
Larra's eyes burned, caught up in the dream of growing up with Jon and Benjen in some small, warm holdfast, just the three of them, happy and content and loved. "We would've been happy."
"We wouldn't have ended up here," Benjen said quietly. "And here is where we were both always meant to be."
"Are you coming with us?" Larra asked; she hoped so, but knew, in the pit of her stomach, that the magic steeped through his body would prevent him passing the Wall.
"You know I can't," Benjen said softly, his smile sorrowful. "But I still fight for the living. And I will fight, for as long as I can."
"Thank you for telling me about her. About my mother."
"I wish I had more time to tell you about her. I wish you'd known her… You're so much like her, Larra," Benjen said, cupping her face, gazing at her. Looking upon Lyanna, one last time.
He leaned forward, pressing a cold kiss to her forehead.
"Thank you, Benjen." Her eyes burned, filling with tears: His black eyes glinted and he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing calmly, before pressing something into her palm. He gazed at her one last time, before turning to his horse.
Benjen galloped away, as if he could not bear to spend one moment longer with them - with her, with the ghost of his sister reborn.
He tore himself away, as if knowing he might never leave if he let himself gaze at her any longer.
Benjen missed his sister, had had no-one to talk about her to for decades; and had no time, now, to talk to her only daughter about her, the one person in the world who desperately wanted to hear about her.
Did it really matter?
Larra was who she was, because of Ned Stark - because of Benjen, even. Because of growing up a bastard of the North, with a twin-brother she loved, and siblings she had adored and envied in equal measure. Did it matter what her mother had been like, when Larra knew herself to be tireless, kind, gentle, resilient, brave, stubborn, protective, talented, educated and sometimes charming? She was who she was: And those who had known and loved Lyanna had told her that her mother would be proud of her. Lyanna was dead, and most who had known her too: Larra was herself. She was Larra Snow. Her blood did not change who she was, not when she had fought so hard to become this person.
Soon, Benjen was a speck far in the distance, flickering amongst the snowflakes and concealed by the fog - and then, gone.
Larra wiped her face, and eventually turned toward the heart-tree, where Bran lay, eyes milky-white, hand splayed against the bone-white bark of the tree-trunk. Communing with the weirwood, with the world's memories.
She shared a small meal with Meera by the fire: Meera didn't ask after Benjen, or comment on Larra's tear-stained face. They sat beside each other, sharing what little warmth they had, waiting for Brandon to free himself from the heart-tree.
"Where do we go from here?" Meera asked softly, her eyes turned toward the Wall.
"To Jon."
A.N.: Can I whine for a second about the unfairness that we didn't get Henry Cavill's Geralt as our Rhaegar?