The stalls carried with them the scent of adventure. Braavosi in their dour clothes, Tyroshi with their multicolored hair, and sun-tanned Dornish; merchants from all over the Seven Kingdoms and from across the Narrow Sea were here. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for many. For nobility or knights, the chance to win tens of thousands of gold dragons, likely enough to purchase an entire holdfast somewhere; for merchants and artisans, the opportunity to be patroned by hundreds of nobles from all over the Kingdoms.
Lyanna didn't have any coins on her, so she was limited to staring. Passing by a perfume stall from Lys made her head feel woozy; she instead stumbled away into a line of blacksmiths working their craft. The heat here was incredible, like she'd stepped inside an oven; masters hammered swords into shape, journeymen banged dents out of armor, and apprentices worked on horseshoes and nails.
The orchestra of steel reverberated in her bones, and Lyanna glanced at a near-complete set of tourney armor with longing. It was neither the prettiest nor fanciest set of armor she'd seen so far, but the honor and freedom it represented beckoned to her.
Curse Benjen! Curse that spoiled brat, leaving to Sothoryos— and without taking her as well! She wanted to go too! All the fun he must be having by now, slaying monsters and rescuing exotic princesses; the sea wind filling his lungs, skimming on sparkling sapphire waters… oh, that must surely be the life.
She sighed, passing by the suit of armor, weaving back towards the massive tent city. The fact that all these tents somehow fit within Harrenhall's half-melted but still functional walls spoke of its size. As she made her way back to the massive Northern contingent, though, her attention went to a commotion. Peeking out from behind a tent, she saw something that made her blood boil.
A young boy, with the sigil of Greywater Watch, was being mocked and repeatedly struck by three bigger boys; likely squires who thought they were better than everyone else. One had a visibly weaselly face, identifying them as a Frey. Which honestly did not improve her opinion of them at all.
If anything, it made it worse. They taunted the crannogman with his own spear, before the biggest boy kicked him in the ribs. Lyanna spied a tourney sword leaning against one of the tents. Thanking her luck, she picked it up and stepped towards them.
"Hey!" she shouted, gaining their attention. "Leave him alone!"
They turned; the other two sigils, a porcupine and a pitchfork, were unknown to her. The biggest and ugliest lug (an achievement, considering there was a Frey standing next to him) sneered at her.
"Or you'll do what? Piss off, princess."
Lyanna whipped forth the blade like a snake; the three squires flinched, being the cowards they were.
"He," Lyanna snapped, pointing the blade at the boy on the ground, "is my father's bannerman. And I'm telling you to leave him alone, or you'll regret it!"
"You don't even know how to use that," said the Frey.
Lyanna narrowed her eyes. "You want to test that?"
The big boy rolled his eyes and stepped close to Lyanna, his hand reaching out to snatch the sword from her. A tremendously stupid move, even if Lyanna didn't know how to use it like he'd claimed. Lyanna smacked his fingers, and he jerked back, looking at Lyanna with something like outrage and fear in his eyes.
"Should I knock your skull a bit, too?" Lyanna mocked. "Maybe knock off some of the dust inside?"
"You — you bitch," he said. "Come on. We're leaving."
"Cunts!" Lyanna called after them. She turned to the boy on the ground. He picked himself off the ground, wincing as he brushed his fingers against his face. He stared after where the three had left.
"They took my spear," he muttered.
"Oh," said Lyanna. "Shit."
"You're rather vulgar for the daughter of a Warden," said the crannogman. "But thank you. I'm glad for your help."
Lyanna snorted a bit. "Of course." She scowled. "I hate bullies."
But you'rea bully, she heard Benjen mock her in her mind, and she snorted again. Then she felt a bit sad. Was she not worth taking along? It could've been fun, the two of them, beholden to nothing but the rising sun and moon, being taken to wherever the wind blew. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed him.
"So, what's your name?" she asked.
"Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch," he said, and bowed stiffly. "Ow."
"Hey," she said. "Don't. Come on, I'll take you back to our tent and we'll get someone to look over you."
"It's not necessary—" he protested, but Lyanna wagged her finger in his face.
"Bup bup bup," she said. "I command it. Being the daughter of your liege lord and all."
The crannogman looked skeptical of her authority, but he apparently decided that going along with it all would be easier than the alternative. Or perhaps he was simply bewitched by her charm, who knew. She dragged him (gently) to their tent; inside, her Father and her two elder brothers were present. Father looked up, his eyes smoldering embers; they only regained their brief coolness when he realized Lyanna had dragged a guest inside.
"My Lord," Howland said, bowing.
"Lord Reed," said Father. "I trust my daughter has not caught you in her misadventures."
"The opposite, my Lord," said Howland. "She intervened when I was assaulted by three… perhaps they were drunks. In any case, I am grateful for her presence."
Father's eyes flickered to Lyanna, his previous anger somewhat muted now, replaced with a wary pride. Lyanna beamed at him, and the annoyance was immediately back. Damn it, Father was so hard to please.
"Can we find him a Maester?" Lyanna wondered aloud, because men were always so prideful when it came to admitting injury. "I think he's hurt."
"Brandon," said Father, "take our guest to a Maester, won't you?"
"Aye," said Brandon, picking himself off the chest he was sitting on.
"You'll come to the feast with us, right?" Lyanna called, as Brandon and Howland made to leave. The latter hesitated.
"I wouldn't dare infringe—"
"You would not be," said Father, cutting in before Lyanna could. "Any bannerman of mine is welcome at our table."
Howland considered that for a moment, before bowing his head. "As my Lord says. Thank you for your aid, Lady Lyanna."
"Just Lyanna," Lyanna grumbled, but Brandon and Howland had disappeared already. She turned instead to Father, whose lips thinned under his beard. She glanced to the side. Ned, the wet towel, just shrugged, leaving Lyanna to Father's tender mercies.
"You escaped," Father said.
Lyanna squirmed a bit.
"Again. When I have repeatedly asked you not to go anywhere without Martyn," Rickard said. Lyanna flinched as he smacked his desk with one hand. "I had thought to give you some reprieve, but you abused that trust, and Martyn's trust. Why, Lyanna?"
"It's stifling," Lyanna said. Father glared.
"It's unsafe," Father stressed. "If you ground the entirety of Harrenhal into a fine powder right now, you might find perhaps a single speck of honor; you witnessed yourself the scum that walk these grounds just then, according to Lord Reed. I'd not have bothered to debase myself by mingling with my lessers if not for my concern for your well being."
"But I'm fine," Lyanna said, knowing it wasn't a particularly strong defense.
"Because I am protecting you," Father said. "The direwolf on your breast protects you. Were you some common washerwoman, your fate would have been very different."
"…I could have fought them off?" Lyanna said, and Father sighed.
"You're not really improving your situation," Ned muttered. As if she didn't know that.
"Shut up, Ned."
"Did we not make a pact?" Father asked.
"That was not a pact," Lyanna said. "You all but ordered me to stay in my room! Then you said that I was allowed to go out to practice archery and swordsmanship, like I was supposed to be grateful to you that you police every aspect of my life!"
"It's for your own good," Father said wearily.
Lyanna internally debated for a moment if she should pull the ace up her sleeve. Spurred on by her frustration and anger, she curled her fingers into fists and spoke.
"I bet Benjen's happy right now—"
"BENJEN COULD BE DEAD RIGHT NOW!"
Father took a deep, shuddering breath. Lyanna stared, wide-eyed, as Father's hand brushed against his pocket; Lyanna knew what was inside without seeing, as Father went nowhere without that letter these days. Ned appeared to be doing his best impression of becoming furniture.
"If he is soon to return," said Father, "then you can be hardly sure of his happiness. Beasts and monsters from nightmares, where all manners of snarks and grumpkins stalk in the night. He is thirteen. Barely knows how to hunt, how to sail — and I refuse to believe that anyone would have taken him to Sothoryos of all places."
A long silence reigned, only interrupted by Father's nose flaring.
"He still hasn't been found?" Ned asked, hesitant in even speaking. "A Northman in the Free Cities is a rare sight on its own…"
"Perhaps this is all a twisted jest," Father muttered. "Some sick plan he devised to teach me a 'lesson.' Mayhaps he's still hiding somewhere in the North, running with the wolves while misdirecting me to the south."
"I could go look for him," Ned offered, and Father snorted.
"What do you know of searching for a man? Chances are you'll get yourself lost." Father sighed. "Brandon offered the same thing. I apologize, Ned. I shouldn't take my anger out on you."
"None needed, Father."
It was then that Brandon returned. He sensed the mood by the second step he'd taken inside the tent, and froze. He glanced at everyone's faces; Father did not bother returning his look.
"The feast will commence soon," said Brandon. "I've left Howland Reed with a Maester, he should be joining us once he gets his salves."
"Good," said Father, and stood. "Then let us go. Try not to look at the King, if he's present."
"Why not?" Lyanna asked, and Father's face darkened.
"Because he's a paranoid fool. Come."
As they made their way to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, Father was joined by a number of Northern lords, turning their group ever larger. At the entrance to the hall, Lyanna found themselves joined by Howland, who had apparently snuck in there quietly and not raised his voice to be noticed.
"Ned, this is Howland Reed," Lyanna said. "Why didn't you say something, Howland?"
The boy — and she should really stop referring to him as such, he was likely older than she was — shrugged uncomfortably. Ned gave a slight smile and greeted him politely. In a rather rude fashion, if you asked her, Howland seemed grateful that Ned was not as extroverted as Lyanna was. The entire Northern contingent was given a long table to themselves — an impressive feat, considering the sheer numbers — and Lyanna sandwiched herself between Brandon and Howland. As she did so, she was reminded of Benjen and his ridiculous naming schemes once more.
"I was led to believe you had another sibling?" Lyanna heard Howland say to Ned, his voice low and hesitant.
"He… is missing," Ned said, just as quietly. Lyanna decided to ignore their conversation, and instead turned to the food that was being served. There must have been hundreds of servants all moving about in this single hall, and yet the food was slow to come; there were simply too many invited guests.
"Lord Stark," said a Northman, an Umber judging by their size, "won't you take the first piece of pheasant?"
Father amicably agreed, no sign of his earlier turbulence present on his face. As he carved up the roast, to loud cheers by the Northmen, Lyanna stared at her empty plate. Brandon, from beside her, dumped some chicken and beans onto her plate, and poured some wine into her goblet.
"Are you feeling okay?" Brandon asked, and once again Lyanna was reminded of her missing sibling. Brandon seemed to notice it too, and his hands stilled briefly, before resuming their work, tearing off chunks of bread and lathering them with butter. "I suppose not."
"I miss him," Lyanna said.
"I miss him too," said Brandon. "I wonder what he's doing now."
"Not — this," Lyanna said, gesturing. "Not getting trapped with hundreds of stinking knights and pigs in silk."
Brandon snorted. "Aye. He's like to be having some fun by now. He'll have hunted his own food, cooked it himself, and he'll be sleeping with the stars watching over him. Can't say I'm not jealous."
"You'll take me hunting, right?" Lyanna said, and Brandon raised an eyebrow. "When we get back to Winterfell."
"Perhaps, perhaps. I'd rather Father didn't take my head," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so that Father, on the opposite side of Brandon, wouldn't hear. "So if you managed to simply sneak out and follow us, giving us no choice but to take you in lest we leave you alone in the Wolfswood, we might arrange something."
"Coward," Lyanna said, smiling. "Neither you nor Ned won't stand up to him."
Brandon chuckled. "Oh, sister, you don't know how he can be. You're his little princess and believe it or not, he spoils you more than the rest of us combined."
Lyanna made a noise to show what she thought of that, then shoveled some beans into her mouth. She glanced at the head table. The King wasn't there, it seemed; a good thing, judging by Father's reaction to his mention. But aside from the Kingsguard, in their brilliant white cloaks and armor (they must replace it often, it must get dirty so quickly) was a silver-haired man. Lithe, graceful, and tall even sitting down, he was perhaps the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
"Does my little sister have a crush on someone?" Brandon asked idly, and Lyanna turned pink.
"Shut up!"
"I hear he's an accomplished harpist and singer," Brandon said, a lazy grin on his face. "I wonder if you'll remain a wild wolf then, or if you'll swoon and weep like all the other ladies of the realm."
Lyanna poked Brandon with her fork, eliciting a surprised yelp. As she descended into the more familiar banter, thoughts of Benjen faded away from the forefront of her mind. The Prince's singing was, as Brandon reported, very pretty.
She didn't cry, though. Brandon was just a liar.