Elphaba818:
Once again, both Longclaw and I are very, very sorry for the delay in getting this chapter finished and posted online. Normally I would say there no excuse aside from being busy for the reason why this chapter took so long, but this time, there IS a different reason!
Long story short, I suffered from a terrible injury at work back in June that resulted in a hand fracture. I PHYSICALLY COULDN'T WRITE OR TYPE WITHOUT BEING IN MIND NUMBING PAIN! My hand fracture actually isn't fully healed yet, and just typing this out write now is still causing me pain. Longclaw took over for writing the majority of this chapter once it became apparent to both of us that my hand isn't going to be ready to keep writing anytime soon but we didn't want to keep all of you waiting anymore. So thank him for his hard work! Were it not for my co-writer, this chapter probably wouldn't be available for at least another two months!
Longclaw doesn't have any author's notes today, so go ahead and enjoy the chapter!
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Dragon on the Rise
"Argh! C'mon, Crow Princess! This ain't that hard!"
"I'm… I'm not a princess… and I'm trying Munda, really…"
"Yeh just gotta block me strikes! Keep up that sword of yers and parry!"
"I am trying!"
"Aye? Well, try harder! Come at me!"
Tightening her grip around Dark Sister's hilt, Lyaella took a deep breath, paused momentarily as she sensed the usual tightness in her chest, then forced herself to dash forward.
Munda Giantsbane grinned as she twirled her axe through the air, dodging and parrying each of her clumsily blows with ease before going on the offensive. By now, Lyaella was more proficient in swordplay than she had been upon first arriving in the past over a year and a half ago, so she wasn't disarmed within seconds of her friend getting serious with their spar, but she wasn't good enough to be a real challenge, either. Especially not when her lungs were acting up again. It didn't take long for Munda to knock Dark Sister aside and point her axe at her throat.
"Ha! I win again, Dragon Girl! That's… what? Five in a row, now?"
Lyaella forced a smile as she slowly strolled over to her discarded sword. "Yes, I suppose so…"
"Yeh're too slow! Yeh've gotta improve yer speed!"
"Yes, I know, but it's hard… Your… Your lungs don't tighten when you spar, Munda… Mine do…"
Immediately, Munda's smug grin vanished, her brows furrowing in concern. "Are yeh feelin' bad again? D'yeh need one of yer Southern healers?"
Lyaella quickly shook her head. "No, no! I'll… I'll be fine, really. It's just a small flare up. If… If I rest for a few minutes, I'll feel better, I'm sure."
Munda didn't look fully convinced, and based on the familiar whines and low rumbles reverberating from Lyaella's self-appointed bodyguards for whenever she visited the Free Folk encampment, neither were they.
Sheathing her sword, Lyaella forced a smile on her face as she went over to where her dragon and her future father's direwolf had been sitting and watching their spar from off on the sidelines. "Sōnar, Ghost… I promise I'm not that bad yet. It's… It's just a little chest tightness, that's all… I'm not coughing or wheezing. Jon's running… running low on the tea remedy these days, so I have to endure this until I can't… If it gets worse, then I'll go to him, 'kay?"
Sōnar snorted disdainfully while Ghost nudged her hand. Neither of them appeared fully convinced, and to Lyaella's dismay, Munda didn't either.
"If yeh're not feelin' well, Dragon Girl, we should get yeh back to the Stag Princess's tent. We can keep goin' tomorrow."
"N-No, I'm fine, really… I wanna keep going."
"But—"
"Please, Munda… This is the only… the only time I get every day to come see Sōnar! I miss spending… spending time with her! We can stop the swordplay training if you want…! We can switch to archery! That'll be easier on me! Just… Just let me stay a little longer! Please!"
Munda's face twisted, then she finally sighed and moved to collect the bow and quiver she'd stashed by a nearby tree. "Fine, but if yeh get any worse, tell me right away. Papa made me promise to keep an eye on yeh while yeh're here. Said if I don't watch out for yer breathin' I'd be stuck watchin' Dryn everyday for a week…"
"Dryn?"
"Me younger brother. Just turned four, and a real hellion. The spearwives usually watch him and the other youngins', but if I don't watch out for yeh, I'll be stuck watchin' him. So don't go actin' tough if yeh start feelin' bad, got it?"
Lyaella grimaced as she took the offered bow and quiver. She wanted to nod and promise her friend she'd let her know right away if she did start feeling worse… but to do so would be a lie. She had to try forcing herself to tough this out as long as she could. She didn't feel all that bad yet, and due to how medical herbs were getting harder to come by in the North since Ramsay was ordering all supply chains around their war camp to stop so as to further weaken Jon's resistance, she needed to let this go for as long as she physically could. They needed to preserve whatever herb stock was left.
Ghost took that moment to nuzzle her side, his red eyes staring at her unblinkingly.
She forced a laugh. "Oh, don't worry, Ghostie," she giggled, scratching him behind the ears. "I'll take it easy, I promise." Besides, she didn't want to leave the Free Folk's encampment yet. Because doing so meant saying goodbye to Sōnar for the day, and she truly missed her dragon sister.
Due to the fact that Jon and Sansa's war camp was filling up with more and more Northerners daily, it was impossible for Sōnar to stay in the encampment with her. She had grown far too big this past year to simply stay hidden inside hers and Shireen's tent every day, as she was now officially the size of a small elephant. To ensure the rest of the North stayed ignorant to her presence, Sōnar was now forced to stay hidden in the middle of the Free Folk's campsite all the time, to which no other Northerners aside from Lyaella or Jon ever tried approaching.
Considering how the dragon protected them from the dead at Hardhome, none of the Free Folk had a problem hiding or feeding her. But as the months dragged on, it became apparent to everyone that Lyaella's presence was required daily to keep Sōnar's behavior in check. The bigger she grew, the hungrier Sōnar became, as she needed more food to stay sated. Adding that to the fact that she was now forbidden from flying entirely, Sōnar literally needed her little mistress to calm her down every day or else they all risked the dragon completely losing her temper.
Waiting until Munda moved to sit off to the side and pull out the papers she'd had tucked away in her furs to work on her own personal project, Lyaella nocked an arrow into place and took aim at a knot in a nearby tree. It surprised her just how much force was needed to keep the string yanked back, and upon feeling her chest constrict again from the pressure, she automatically released. To her dismay, the arrow didn't lodge into the knot. It didn't even make it to the tree at all, but rather soared in a downward arc and landed less than five feet away.
Ghost merely blinked at the failed attempt, but Sōnar grunted in annoyance, her crankiness all too apparent as great puffs of smoke expelled from her nostrils.
"Oh, don't be like that, Sōnar. It's… It's just a bad first attempt, that's all."
Her dragon sister growled, purposefully closing her eyes to avoid looking at her.
Lyaella sighed and set down the bow. "Sōnar… I know you're not… not happy being cooped up here everyday… I hate this too… But please try to be patient." She patted her neck, her voice soothing and calm despite her own physical discomfort. "It's only until… until Jon wins against Ramsay Snow. After that, we'll finally… finally head off to meet Daenerys Targaryen! Maybe we'll find Tory and Shadow, too! It'll just… It'll just be a little longer, that's all…"
Sōnar still didn't seem entirely pleased, but Lyaella's words did serve to calm her down a bit. She huffed a bit more in annoyance, but did rumble in complacency as she leaned into her touch. Lyaella smiled and gave her a quick hug before resuming her training.
For a little while, no words were exchanged as Lyaella kept trying to properly shoot an arrow. While she never managed to get any of her arrows to lodge into the tree itself, she did eventually start getting her arrows to go out farther and farther with each attempt. It was slow progress, and Lyaella couldn't help feeling frustrated by it. Her normal swordplay training was slow, and she couldn't use a bow and arrow all that well. Torrhen could do these things easily, so why couldn't she?
"Yeh know, some people just aren't meant to be fighters, Dragon Girl. Why d'yeh push yerself like this? If yeh can't do it, there's no shame in it."
Resisting the urge to press her hand to her chest, Lyaella sighed and moved to collect the misfired arrows. "Because I have to learn. You… You don't understand how people… how people on this side of the Wall view Targaryens, Munda… I need to know how to defend myself… And especially now since the Night King and the dead are… are on the march…"
"Oh, aye. Aye, I can see yer point. At least when it comes to the dead."
"Do you… Do you have any advice for me? You… You shot arrows against the dead back at Hardhome."
Munda shrugged without looking up from the papers she'd been leafing through. "Aye, I did, but I only know how to shoot because Ygritte taught me. I dunno how to teach someone else how to do it."
"Ygritte? Who's that?"
All at once Munda tensed, her fingers immediately going still. "No one alive anymore, Dragon Girl…"
Lyaella blinked. "What…?"
"Yeh wanna know more about Ygritte? Ask King Crow." She shook her head. "Anyway, I need yer help in understandin' these funny pictures!" She waved her sheets of paper in the air, and Lyaella immediately recognized them as the simple worksheets she and Shireen had made up for Munda to practice so they could teach her how to read and write in the Common Tongue as they had taught Gilly. "We should head back so yeh and the Stag Princess can help me out. And yeh know, I've been more than patient in waitin' for yeh to fulfill yer promise to me."
"Promise?" Lyaella echoed, confused. "What promise?"
Munda snickered. "What d'yeh mean, 'what promise?' The one yeh made before all hell broke out at Hardhome. Yeh said yeh'd show me what type of instruments yeh Southerners have got down here that need pluckin' with strins' and are called 'liars.'"
"Oh! That's right, I did say that… Well, why don't you go get your… your ocarina and we'll go find Shireen? She's never… never heard Free Folk music before, so I'm sure she'd… she'd like to hear it. And we'll both help you with your studies."
"Fine, I'll grab it. Meet'cha at the border between campsites."
"All right, let's get going, Ghost… Goodbye, Sōnar. I'll be back tomorrow… Be good, 'kay?"
Peppering Sōnar's neck with farewell kisses, Lyaella waved Ghost to follow her as set off for the edge of the Free Folk encampment as Munda hurried back to her own tent. As she passed by a group of spearwives lugging pails of water towards a fair number of mammoths tied up near some tents, a flash of black curls and a pale face appeared in the corner of her eye. Lyaella squeaked and spun around. Despite how the Free Folk had nothing against her as they weren't involved in the politics surrounding Northerners hatred of Targaryens, it was too ingrained in her subconscious not to be wary of people in general. Was someone following her? Waiting for her to drop her guard?
But the only people behind her were the spearwives themselves, all whom had stopped to look at her curiously upon hearing her whimper.
"Yeh all right, lass?" One asked in concern. "Yeh look quite flushed."
Lyaella sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Murmuring a quick apology, she tugged the hood of her cloak back over her head before setting off again. She was rather embarrassed. No one had been following her. What had startled her was her own reflection in one of the water buckets, because even after several months of enduring this horrible disguise, she still wasn't used to seeing her appearance whenever she passed by a reflective surface. It was unnatural for her to grow accustomed to the fact that her hair wasn't its usual silver coloring anymore, but rather dyed pitch black.
And truth be told, Northerners in general didn't want to see her wandering around. Be it with silver hair or dark hair.
They exited the Free Folk encampment and entered the proper war camp for regular Northmen. Many eyes followed them as they breezed past the busy adults, though since Lyaella kept her hood up, it was mainly because people were throwing sneers at Munda. With her heavy furs and gruff appearance, it was obvious she was one of the Free Folk. Munda shot nasty scowls of her own, but Lyaella kept her chin bent as she scurried past. She didn't dare raise her head. She didn't want anyone here to look too closely at her. Especially not with all the rumors floating around. We're almost to Shireen's tent… Don't look up… Just keep walking… Don't look—
"My lady, Bear Island has sent as many men as we possibly can."
"I promised Lord Snow and Lady Sansa sixty-two men, Todrick. By my last count, only forty-three were in attendance at morning fast today. If Bear Island has deserters, then I must— oof!"
Lyaella squeaked as her shoulder knocked straight into a small figure directly to her right. Her head snapped up in horror as she met the surprised, yet harsh gaze of the only other child ruler in the campground aside from Shireen. And to her further horror, she felt her hood slip off again thanks to the collision.
"Lady Lyanna," she murmured, the hair rising on the back of her neck. All conversation in the immediate vicinity died the second people saw her. "My apologies…"
Despite being one of the Free Folk and not understanding the full concept as to why everyone was so immediately dumbfounded, Munda had enough brains to keep her mouth shut upon seeing the way people were staring at her. Especially since Lyanna Mormont was shocked silent, too. The small she-bear of Bear Island had died during the Long Night in Lyaella's world, so she had never personally met her, but upon their first introduction Lyaella had known that she was nothing at all like her. She was only one and ten, just a year older than herself, but she knew how to speak her mind and silence people plainly with little effort. Even Lady Sansa, something Lyaella hadn't ever done without raising her voice.
Personally, Lyaella would have loved to take the time to pull the Lady of Bear Island aside and politely request lessons in how to be so bold when speaking to others… but she was realistic enough to know that was only a fantasy. If her hair was its normal color, Lyanna Mormont would probably be spitting on her right now.
Sure enough, it took the small lady several seconds worth of blinking before she remembered herself and forced a nod. "No, no. It's all right. I was… I was caught up in conversation and wasn't looking."
"Mmm," Lyaella murmured, a fake smile spreading across her face. "That's all right… Sorry to disturb you."
And before anyone could say anything else, Lyaella gathered her skirts, made a quick curtsy, and then seized Munda's hand. She tugged her hood back on and whistled for Ghost to follow them as she hurried as fast as she could down the rows of tents. She had to get out of there immediately. She hated attention in general, but even though no one recognized her as a Targaryen and they weren't trying to hurt her or insult her, she still needed to get away from everyone. Thanks to her now black hair, too many rumors had been spreading amongst people lately. Rumors like—
"Still shocks me every time I see that girl."
"Aye, me too."
"Dunno why Lord Snow and Lady Sansa won't just come out and say it."
"Huh? Say what?"
"What d'yeh think? That their father had a second bastard before he died."
Lyaella tensed and ducked her head. She couldn't control the rumors that were spreading, but hearing the whispers themselves was never easy.
"Bah! Ned Stark was young and married to a woman he barely knew when he had Jon Snow. He always stayed true to his wife after that… No, there's no way that girl could be his…"
"But how can she not be? Look at her! With those hair and eyes, it's clear she's a Stark!"
"You forget Ned Stark's brothers."
"Brandon's been dead for years, and Benjen's been stuck at the Wall."
"That Brandon spurned Lady Dustin for Catelyn Tully all those years ago. He was always larger than life, charming the ladies. Wouldn't be too hard to believe he fathered a child off some smallfolk girl and never knew about it. If he did, that child obviously had children of their own… And you're daft in the head if you think men of the Watch don't sneak out to Mole's Town every chance they get. There's a brothel there for a reason."
She wanted desperately to tug her necklace and music box key out from the confines of her dress to fiddle around with and calm her nerves, but she didn't dare expose her dragon necklace. No one had guessed the truth about her being Jon's daughter beyond occasional japes people sent his way whenever they saw her clinging to him, but Lyaella worried someone would figure it out. And moreover… it was critical she didn't allow herself to grow accustomed to the North's overall curiosity and more or less polite indifference to her very existence. She wasn't stupid, after all.
While there were some lords and ladies like Lyanna Mormont in the camp whose House's had died out during the Long Night in the original timeline and Lyaella therefore had no idea how they'd react to her Targaryen blood, the ones she did know personally from her old world were only being respectful towards her right now because of her dyed hair. Growing up under her cruel relatives, these people always sneered and insulted her. More than once in the past few months had she come face-to-face with the younger version of a lowborn guard of House Hornwood who, during the Long Night memorial feast a few years prior to her and Torrhen's journey to the past, got drunk during the occasion and found her alone in Winterfell's courtyard that night when Torrhen was busy sneaking them treats from the kitchens. The man had gone ballistic at the sight of her alone in the snow and threw her against the courtyard wall, rambling in his drunken stupor that it was because the Queenslayer had pledged the North to the Mad Queen that his father died in King's Landing. Luckily Torrhen had returned before the man could injure her further than a few bad bruises, but her terror of his blinding rage following the incident never truly left her.
He hadn't been the first to strike her or Torrhen like that. Just the first to keep doing it until someone else intervened. And he certainly wasn't the last, either.
Torrhen had coped with it all by trying to fight back and shooting his mouth. It was one thing for him to do it when he was deliberately defending either himself or her from people's abuse, but Lyaella knew his way hadn't been the correct one. Whenever he tried to stand up for them, people would dismiss him or consider his behavior to be clear signs of his eventual descent into Targaryen madness. She had always been the shy, quieter one between the two of them, which was why it had fallen to her to keep her brother in check.
If Northerners ever insulted them or smacked them around, Lyaella made sure to calm Torrhen before his anger could get the better of him. It was torture in the worst way possible, but she had to. Torrhen didn't have the patience and restraint needed to see the wisdom in proving their fellow Northmen wrong. But she did, and it was necessary back then.
Of course, none of that was happening now and all this had hindered her ability to stand up for herself in general and stop being so shy, but she couldn't help it. It didn't matter how surreal it was for her to walk around in public and just have Northerners be mildly curious about her rather than full out hatred. She couldn't appreciate it, couldn't drop her guard.
That's why she sewed the hood onto her cloak. The time would come when her Targaryen heritage would be exposed. And when it did, she knew the only way she'd survive walking around outside like this again would be by using a hooded cloak to keep her hair hidden. So in the meantime, it was best if no one came to recognize her face.
After nodding to the Baratheon guards outside and entering her friends' tent with Munda and Ghost, Lyaella blinked in surprise when she saw what Shireen was up to. The Lady of the Stormlands had dragged her writing desk up to the edge of her bed, and various books were wide open and spread out haphazardly across the desk and fur blankets as she alternated between skimming the pages of them all every few seconds. Her head popped up quite eagerly upon hearing them enter. "Oh, Lyaella! I'm glad you're here. I was just thinking I'd have to come fetch you myself to get your help with this."
"My help? With what?"
Shireen suddenly twitched, her eyes flicking to Munda for a half second before returning to her. "You said before Maester Aemon gave you his old music box, right? You keep the key to it. I was hoping to see if you had any fresh parchment inside."
It took everything Lyaella had not to quirk her head in her puzzlement. Shireen knew very well Lyaella didn't keep any blank paper in the music box. She clearly wanted to go through it, but didn't want to outright say so in front of Munda. But why? There was nothing of importance inside that box — just her song lyrics and Maester Aemon's letters from Prince Rhaegar.
Still, there was no harm in the request. Shrugging absently, Lyaella fished her necklace out and tugged it off. It took her a moment to rummage through her things near her cot in the corner to find the present, and she slid the key into the lock.
Both Munda and Shireen were enchanted as the music played and the figures began dancing. "Woah… what kinda magic is this? I's never seen nothin' like it before."
"It's… It's called a music box, Munda… and to be honest, I hadn't either until Maester Aemon gave it to me… He said himself people hardly even make them anymore."
Munda tilted her head curiously. "Huh. Well anyway, where's that so-called instrument yeh promised to show me?"
Nodding politely to Shireen to go ahead and look through her music box papers as much as she wanted, Lyaella pulled out her lyre next. Passing it over to Munda to examine, she forced a smile on her face and resisted the urge to breathe more heavily. "Here it is. My lyre."
This time, Munda couldn't help but look skeptical. "This? This thin' here makes music? It's just a hunk o' wood. And strins' tied on."
"Really, Munda… It really does make music… Beautiful music!"
"Aye? Show me." She tossed her back her instrument, her brows raised in disbelief. "I wanna see."
Lyaella smiled and after brushing away a few books to make room, plopped down beside Shireen on her bed. Sucking in a deep breath for strength, she strummed her fingers across the strings.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts…"
On and on, she sang and played, regulating her breathing as much as she could… but even that wasn't enough to stop her from cutting herself off mid-phrase in the second verse.
"Lyaella!" Shireen exclaimed, both her and Munda's eyes widening as they saw how she pressed her hand against her chest and breathed deeply. "Are your lungs acting up again?"
Munda spun on her heel towards the tent flap. "I'm gettin' Papa. And King Crow." Ghost was quick to follow.
"N-No, don't."
"But Dragon Girl—!"
"It's… It's not that bad yet. We don't… We don't have to worry the adults about it. Especially when there's not enough tea stock left. Jon's gonna have to buy more soon…" Face undoubtedly going red, she tried to shorten her breaths, get more air into her lungs. "Unless… it gets worse… I've gotta… gotta endure this for now…" No, no, no! This could not be happening, but the lyre fell from her hands onto the ground as she pressed her hand over her chest. Trying to breathe but it only got worse.
"Get Lord Snow!" ordered Shireen. "And a healer! Anyone!" Munda nodded and darted off, practically scrambling to her feet as she did so. Shireen hurried to Lyaella's side, holding her. "Help will come, I promise."
Lyaella gasped out short, wheezing breaths, body filled with shame. "Why… why… why am I… so weak?" Ghost pushed at her, wrapping his body around her back protectively as he whimpered. Lyaella dug her hand into his fur, feeling it calm her racing heart even as her throat and lungs refused to ease.
"You have no control over your illness, just as I cannot control my scar," Shireen soothed. "Ser Davos told me that my mind is still sharp and my will strong. You must keep that." Her friend's voice dropped to a whisper. "There is too much to lose." Lyaella nodded just as she saw her father race in.
His face was frantic. "Lya!" While he wouldn't shove Shireen to the side, the Stag Princess did grant him priority and pulled back — allowing Jon to embrace Lyaella, instantly warming her. "Gods, what's happened to you?" He sounded in agony for her.
"Just… wheezes… I'll… be fine…" Lyaella tried to smile at him, but the effect was likely ridiculous given her labored breaths and likely pale face — bordering on blue. "Don't… waste the herbs…"
"Are you mad? We need to treat you!" Another figure stumbled in, Lyaella recognizing the maester from Bear Island. The one Lyanna Mormont brought with her. "Do something!" Jon shouted at him.
Looking harried, the maester carried a leather satchel which he set on the ground, kneeling next to Jon and Lyaella. "My Lord, the herbs you've brought have run out, unfortunately. May the gods not condemn me for this, but there's only one treatment I can give until we either take Winterfell or retreat to another keep."
"Just do something," pleaded her father, voice desperate as she continued to suffer. If she wasn't in agony, Lyaella would've been filled with love at how concerned her father was. At how much he cared.
All of that disappeared as her eyes caught the sight of the owl's blood concoction. There was no mistaking it, the tonic that was the stuff of her nightmares. "No!" Her screech sounded worse due to her condition, but Lyaella didn't care. "I won't! You… You can't make me!"
"Lya, please calm down," begged her father.
"No!" She gasped. She wriggled. She fought against his hold, anything to get away. "Mons… Monsters! No!" Lyaella, unable to see anything but her fear and an overwhelming sense of betrayal, noticed a flash of red hair from the tent flap as her aunt sought to see what was happening. "You!" Her mind wasn't right, clouded by pain and terror. "It's… It's your fault! You're doing this!"
Sansa seemed utterly stunned, while Jon gripped her tighter in his embrace. "Is there any other way?"
"I'm sorry, my Lord. I have nothing else."
"Get out! Get… Get that… monster away!" There was something feral inside Lyaella, something she didn't fully understand. At a distance, she could faintly hear a shriek from Sōnar. Biting her lip, Sansa just left. "Don't, please don't…"
Her father's face was contorted in anguish. "Just do it, maester."
"No! No!" But the concoction was soon poured in her throat, scorching it. The Maester had added something to it, making it less unpleasant but the horrible memories dulled that effect. Made Lyaella thrash, scream, even try to claw the maester and Jon. But her father held her through it all. Comforting her, whispering in her ear. Even laying kisses on her forehead.
And it was over. Lyaella felt like vomiting and usually she would after being force fed the owl's blood, but this time her stomach held. Mayhaps the maester had anticipated that… whatever the case, her breathing seemed to lessen. To return to, if not normal, then something close enough that she could feel her lungs not being ripped apart. Her throat unclenching. Enough so her father could draw a blanket over her and kiss her brow.
She knew not how long had passed before he squeezed her hand. "I'm going to get you some warm soup, Lya." Jon smiled down at her and was thus off. Leaving her alone with Ghost — serving as a second pillow she could cuddle up against — and Shireen.
"Thank the gods you're alright."
Lyaella grimaced. "I'd rather die than drink that poison again."
"It saved you." The Princess shuffled her feet. "Mayhaps the maester from your time was just trying to torture you. This maester made it more palatable."
She had a point, not that Lyaella wanted to admit it. "Whatever." She pulled the blanket tighter over her, still feeling weak. "At least it's over." Shireen looked like she wanted to say something else. "What?"
A sigh. "Lya… I think you were being rather unfair towards Sansa, all things considered."
That was unexpected. "Shireen…"
"You know she had nothing to do with the owl's blood, right?"
"Maybe right now, but I can't know that of my own timeline." Her mind was clearer now, no longer distracted from the pain or terror. "It's just hard sometimes, given how I grew up with her around. What she did and what she represented."
She sat next to Lya, squeezing her hand. "Sansa hasn't done anything towards you or Jon in this timeline yet. Mayhaps you need to stop judging her for the things she did do in her world."
"I'm trying," Lya murmured, unable to speak loudly. Her lungs still ached a bit, and she felt so tired. "I've honestly tried to give Sansa some benefit of the doubt… but it's hard." She closed her eyes. "I'm a Northerner, Shireen. That means I look at this from a Northerner's logic. I cannot be sure when she became the woman who hurt me growing up, and even when I do interact with her she's an anomaly. Nice to Jon one moment then arguing with him, seeming kind like she never was when I grew up but then I see her staring out into space with a scowl on her lips… I can't understand her and that scares me."
"I understand." Shireen laid down next to Lyaella, the two friends hugging each other. It helped, especially with the warmth.
From her pause, Lyaella figured Shireen was letting her speak. She appreciated it. "When she's alone or in private with Lady Brienne, myself, and sometimes Jon, I notice Sansa appears to be very quiet. Almost like she's sad."
"Considering what I know of her husband, can you blame her?"
"No." Lyaella bit her lip. "I've never seen her that way before. It's those times I feel the most empathy for her, and want to mayhaps bury my past… but then when she's with the other Northern lords and ladies, Sansa acts just like I'm used to seeing her act as the Queen of the North — haughty, entitled, and one who snaps at every slight. Real or imagined. Ugh…" she clutched her head and winced. "Both of those are so far apart that it's hard to realize what is really her and what isn't. Which would win out over the other or is it already too late."
"Has she approached you in any way?"
"Sometimes… mostly she's the latter personality, but I can see some emotion in her. I try to avoid her as much as I can."
"I think that it's your dragon that disconcerts her." Lyaella stared at Shireen. "House Targaryen and House Stark aren't on the best of terms."
"I know… but how do I proceed?"
A shrug. "Just talk to her, alone. One-on-one without anyone else. I think that's the only way to reach her. The real Sansa Stark."
Leaning her head back, Lyaella realized that Shireen was probably right — however much she didn't desire to take the advice.
A frown of worry and not a little annoyance crossed the face of Lady Missandei as she breezed into the chambers. Her feet delicate upon the stone floor — making no sound, much like the wavy folds of her blue dress. The hunched figure that so ired her didn't notice she was sneaking up on him till she swatted the very tips of his closely cropped curly hair. He tensed, glancing up.
Missandei smirked. "It is a miracle, he has risen from his desk to glance up at those around him."
Grey Worm groaned as he rolled his shoulders — stretching his aching muscles. "My duties cannot escape me, Missandei of Naath…"
"Uh-uh, in the Common Tongue," she stated in a sing-song voice. Greatly enjoying teasing him. "You must learn for when we finally sail for Westeros. That accent cannot be helped I fear, but at least we can make your speech presentable."
"I no translator… like you?" He gazed at her expectantly, as if a small boy visiting a tutor.
Shaking her head, she swatted at his short hair again. "Nice try, Grey Worm. Common Tongue only or I shall not speak with you."
"Please now, is that truly necessary?"
She held her head high — quite over the top in that regard — and didn't answer him.
"This is ridiculous."
Missandei crossed her arms over her chest, trying not to laugh at how amusing this all was.
"Missandei of Naath, stop this at once."
Not relenting, she began to stroll towards the window, dress billowing along the floor.
"Ugh…" he groaned. "Fine, I speak Common Tongue only."
Turning around, her face exploded into a warm smile and torrent of giggles, taking in his put out face. "There, was that so hard, Grey Worm?" As he grumbled again, she giggled some more and took a seat across from him at the desk. "Now, what has gotten you in such a grumpy mood this fine morning… and actually doing clerical work instead of being out and about?" He'd long-since healed from his injuries in the ambush — the one where Torrhen finally was accepted into the pyramid. "Is your wound acting up again?" she asked, concerned.
"No, my Lady," he replied, rubbing his temples. "Matter of… city, since Queen go."
"Ah…" Not a day went by that Missandei worried of Daenerys and Torrhen. Trapped out in the wilderness gods' knew where. Barristan, Jorah, and Daario were the best, but the two could still be dead in a field somewhere. Mother and son — since that's what they in all but direct blood relations were. Missandei saw it long ago and knew that Daenerys finally grasped it with Torrhen and Drogon in the Fighting Pits.
But the work of ruling the city of Meereen was immediate, and she had to shove aside her worries to act as a proper administrator. She envied Daenerys' steadfastness. If she were a Queen, she would've gone mad with stress long ago. "Harpy quiet," Grey Worm said. "Too quiet… me think."
"I think," she corrected him, but nodded. "These are not the types to simply lay down their arms. They're planning something." Being the house slave of many a master had very well acquainted Missandei with their arrogance and sense of entitlement. While some like Hizdahr really only cared about enriching themselves and thus knuckled under to whomever was the strongest, the rest… "They'd sooner die than accept anything other than the slave system."
"Need… more men… Golden Company man say willing to fight for Queen?"
"Fight for Torrhen more likely, but since he's Daenerys' only heir then that is a distinction without a difference." Missandei stood. "Tyrion Lannister has invited us to a council session, for he told me of a plan that will secure a peace, or at least a truce."
"You trust… short man?"
She sighed. "Not truly, but he seems sincere." Missandei reached for Grey Worm's hand, not missing the slight warmth she felt coursing from her fingertips up her arm at his touch — nor the sparkle of life in his usually steely gaze when their eyes met. One she mirrored. "Let us head to the council chambers." He only nodded.
The mid-afternoon sun was still high in the sky as they made their way towards the council chambers. Grey Worm had graciously offered his arm for Missandei, and she took it with a smile. Far from the stoic, emotionless machine that the Good Masters advertised the Unsullied to be, underneath was a rather charming, sheepish man. Perhaps getting to slowly know that side of him was another unlikely miracle of Missandei's life.
"My Lady."
Just outside the council chambers, Missandei turned as she noticed one of their guests walking towards them. "Ser Cotter, will you be joining us today?"
Cotter Pyke had finally gotten some decent clothes for the Essosi weather, though they were still in all black befitting his station. "No, the Night's Watch doesn't interfere in the Realms of Men, just guard it."
"I see." Missandei still didn't truly understand the institution. "So what is it you want?"
He shifted his feet. "Just askin' if there's any word of Queen Daenerys." Cotter fished the still sealed dispatch out of his pocket. "The Lord Commander would skin me alive if I returned without giving her this."
"I'm sorry, but her whereabouts are still unknown." She sighed, detangling her hand from Grey Worm's arm. "If you desire to head back home, Ser Cotter, mayhaps you can leave the letter with me." Missandei extended her hand. "I shall forward it to the Queen when she returns."
He shook his head. "I cannot do that."
Missandei frowned. "I am the Queen's friend, handmaiden, and chief translator and Mistress of Ceremonies. There is no other she trusts more…"
"I'm sorry, my Lady, but orders are orders. The Lord Commander Jon Snow instructed me to deliver this letter to Queen Daenerys Targareyn, for her eyes only. I'm bound by oath, so forgive me for continuing to wait." He held up his hands. "It is with all respect to you, Lady Missandei." With that, Cotter bowed and made his exit.
When he was gone, Grey Worm snorted. "Strange little man."
"The men of the Night's Watch have great dedication to their vows… or at least he does."
"What… so big that he need speak Queen?"
A shrug. "I cannot be sure, but we will find out when she returns." If she returned… no, when. Missandei would be confident. "Let's just go inside."
As expected Tyrion was there, as was the eunuch Lord Varys. Both were important figures from Westeros and it should've been a huge boon to have their loyalty. Missandei thought that too, though a lifetime of experience taught her that too much of a good thing was usually too good to be true — Barristan had been glorious for their Queen. Mayhaps these two were pushing Daenerys' luck.
Hizdahr had arrived in his usual finery, and he was speaking to their other honored guest — Allard Marcus of the Golden Company, just whom Missandei wished to see. "Alright then," she announced as she and Grey Worm stood in their places around the table. "Let us begin." Before Tyrion spoke, she cut him off. "First thing's first, glad you could join us, Captain Marcus."
The soldier bowed. "Think not of it, my Lady."
"Have you come to a decision of the council's offer to purchase the services of the Golden Company?"
"Have we decided on such an offer?" Tyrion asked, his brow raised.
She would not disclose the worrying situation in front of a guest, frowning at Tyrion that she did, but a response came to her mind. "Our Queen wishes to invade Westeros and reclaim her birthright. The presence of twenty-thousand elite soldiers trained in the Westerosi style of fighting would be most welcome in this venture."
"Agreed," Tyrion mused. "I am just uncertain of the price."
"Unfortunately," Marcus cut in, "That is something only our Grand Captain, Ser Harry Strickland, can formalize. I have already informed him of what I have seen here, and what you told me."
Missandei's brow rose. "You told him already?" That came from Hizdahr. No one looked happy at that decision, least of all Missandei. A breach of protocol, for sure.
Marcus seemed to notice this, and at least had the decency to appear apologetic about it. "Such was… necessary, given that I have already exceeded the timeframe I was allotted by my superiors to be here. However, I have come to the belief that Torrhen Snow is a blood relation of Daenerys Targaryen in some manner."
"When did you come to this?" Tyrion asked. "It is what we have been telling you."
"The scene in the Fighting Pits was adequate evidence, but I wasn't sure if he would be the Dragon Queen's heir or not. My company has had a… rocky history with the trueborn Targaryen line." An understatement if there ever was one, based on what Missandei knew of the history of her friend's house. "Nevertheless, though, Ser Harry will be journeying to Meereen forthwith."
That was surprising. "With his entire force?" she piped up, trying to hide her excitement at the thought of twenty-thousand crack troops.
But her hopes were somewhat dashed. "Three-thousand horsemen. The rest will remain in Qohor until an actual contract is signed — which Harry will only do if he can confirm to his liking that Torrhen is in fact a bastard Targaryen, and that he's not some prisoner of your Queen."
"He is not," Missandei insisted.
"He wishes to see that for himself, as do I." Marcus sighed. "He also instructed me to tell you that he is willing to order the Golden Company to fight your Queen and sack the city if she holds Torrhen hostage, given he is whom we seek."
There was a deathly silence. "Is that a threat, Captain?" Missandei said, her voice dark and menacing.
"No," Marcus replied, more conciliatory. "Just making it clear that the Golden Company is only seeking this contract due to the presence of Torrhen Snow in the line of succession. As long as your claims relate to the truth, then we both have the same mutual interest that can bind us in alliance."
Eyeing each of the councilors, Missandei nodded and found it proper to speak her last. "You may go, Captain Marcus. It is time for the council to discuss this matter properly."
"Of course." The Golden Company commander bowed. "Until next time, then." Two Unsullied guards escorted him out.
Missandei took the opportunity to sigh and cover her face with her hands. "How can we explain that Torrhen wishes not to seek the Iron Throne at all? Or even legitimize himself?"
"We say nothing of the sort," Tyrion replied. "Those matters are best reserved for after the Throne is won and Westeros pledges itself to Daenerys."
"I would agree, but there is the complication that Torrhen is not one to keep his feelings hidden." Hizdahr winced. "He can't even look at Grey Worm here without an expression of murderous rage, be it an open flame or a simmering coal." Missandei spared a look at Grey Worm, who had retreated back to his stoic expression. Neither of them could explain Torrhen's dislike either, especially since he and Missandei were so taken with each other.
Sipping at a goblet he had next to him, Tyrion rolled his shoulders. "Varys, my good man, is there anything you have heard about our beloved bastard Blackfyre that you haven't shared with all of us? I mean, your little birds still flutter about and whisper songs in your ear, no?"
Varys pursed his lips. "It is odd, some of what they tell me. None bear tales of where he came from, or where he was born. From what I have been told from you that know him, he was raised in the North, but there is no information of what Northern house he holds blood of, nor which Targaryen line he is descended. If I didn't know better, I would think that he merely appeared out of thin air in Meereen."
Tyrion snorted. "Well, that's preposterous. I mean, even the dragons came from somewhere."
Missandei ignored the comment, eyes falling on Varys. "So is there no manner of proof you can deliver about his origins? In which we can convince the Golden Company." One moment of Dany's love for him and they would believe she bore him no ill will.
"We don't need that," Hizdahr interrupted. "See him associate with Drogon and they'll believe he's a Targaryen." That… was a good point. "But if the boy starts screaming like a madman that he doesn't want the crown?"
"You know very well that isn't his fault," Missandei countered. "Torrhen has grown up mistreated, as well as enduring the shaking sickness untreated for years. His temper is not his fault, and I am certain with Queen Daenerys' love and proper treatment he will emerge a well-adjusted young Prince." She saw it in him, the brightness, conscientiousness, and most of all the love and devotion to Daenerys. "We doubted his identity and sincerity for the longest time, especially the Queen, but that is now at an end."
Grey Worm looked at her with agreement, while the rest were merely different degrees of skeptical. "As good a plan as any, I think," Tyrion stated, raising his goblet. "Now all we need to do is wait for them to arrive."
"Yes, we do." Hopefully soon.
"Welcome back."
No one was speaking to her but herself, a muffled murmur under her breath. Low enough so none of her companions could hear her, lest they think her mad like those of her own time always claimed she'd end up as. Lyaella was always mindful of it — literally a matter of survival during her childhood, her homeland being filled with those who potentially desired everlasting fame from killing the future Second Mad Queen.
But the sight before her was simply so surreal. The castle she'd been raised in for the first nine years of her life. Winterfell. Both intimately familiar and yet totally alien.
She didn't know what to think, to be honest.
"So, this is where you grew up?"
Though Shireen spoke to her from her own horse, Lyaella didn't turn to meet her friend's gaze. Her stare remaining fixed on the walls of Winterfell. "Aye."
"Any different than the one you remembered?"
To this she did turn her head. "Winterfell is likely the oldest castle in the Realm, so it can never change much." Shireen nodded. "That being said, I never imagined it could ever be this… gutted." She had to squint to see the details in the distance, but she could see a mix of collapsed walls, scaffolds, and hasty repairs of a castle that had been fought over in recent memory. Something that she never recalled, the Winterfell Lyaella had grown up in had been fully repaired as if at peace for centuries. Was that one of the reasons that Lady Sansa was dealing with famine? Having paid for repairs rather than corn and meat for the people?
Her eyes frittered to Sansa, who was silent and staring at Winterfell just as she had been a moment earlier. What are you thinking, Queen Sansa? What are you thinking of?
"Theon Greyjoy sacked it, then the Boltons burned it down trying to reclaim it," she heard Shireen explain. "The keep has been through a lot, and I hope we won't end up forced to besiege it." The Baratheon Princess hung her head. "Lost time we cannot afford."
"No, we cannot."
"Princess." Lyaella looked behind her, seeing her father trot up on his horse. In his full armor and with the direwolf cloak Sansa made him billowing behind, he looked like a pure warrior. Gods, how she wished Torrhen was here — he would've loved this. "I still wish you had left Lya behind at camp." His lips twisted with worry for her.
Lyaella looked away, both annoyed at his insistence and touched at his obvious care for her — a father's love, gods it felt wonderful. "She should be here, Lord Snow," Shireen insisted.
"Tormund kept both his children at camp… and I would believe you should wait there too."
"Would you let Lyanna Mormont remain at camp, Lord Snow?" Jon said nothing. "Lyaella should be here for the same reasons."
As Lyaella looked back up to Jon, her father biting his lip, eyes peeled to the hill where a group of horsemen were cresting it, flying banners of the flayed man. House Bolton — a boogeyman extinct in her time but very much alive here. She could tell he was nervous for her. "Fine, but Lya…" he whispered to her, tone harsh and leaving no room to disagree. "You will stay quiet and not say anything. No matter what happens."
"Jon, is that necessary…?" She wanted to get a feeling of this Ramsay Snow. If he really was the monster as Sansa said he was, mayhaps this would be a good chance to get insight into how this broken woman turned into the monster that raised her.
"Stop," he snapped, making her jump in the saddle of her horse. "I am serious. You will stay behind Sansa and Shireen and not move even an inch. Do you understand?"
Taking the seriousness — and pleading — of his tone, Lyaella merely nodded. "Alright."
His expression softened. "Good." Jon reached out to squeeze her hand and walked his horse beside Sansa, while Lyaella guided herself behind them just as the rival horsemen were approaching. "You don't have to be here," she heard him murmur to Sansa.
Sansa's voice was cold, but not directed at any of them. "Yes, I do." she spoke in a short, clipped response. The daughter of Lord Eddard Stark sat on her horse so still and so straight, as though she'd been carved from ice itself. Lyaella could see that regardless of her resolve, her aunt was trembling, her eyes constantly yet surreptitiously flickering about pretty much everywhere. Great fear in her, something she had never seen before. As if she was on the verge of… something.
Gathered among the Stark banners were the four of them — Jon, Sansa, Lyaella, and Shireen — alongside the other Northern Lords. Lady Lyanna and Lady Barbary. Lord Ryswell and Ser Larence Snow of Hornwood. Tormund and Sigorn of the Thenns for the wildlings. And Ser Davos to round it all out, all guarded by a half-dozen Stark guards, Lady Brienne, and Podrick. The opposing horsemen were all men, gruff and hard… except for the man at the head. He had thick dark hair and dark eyes like almost all Northerners, but he bore a malevolent smirk, one that immediately made Lyaella's skin crawl.
Even before he spoke a single word, Lyaella knew this was a man to fear. Ramsay Bolton, the bastard of the Dreadfort. The name that Northern children spoke of as a demon that would haunt their nightmares.
"My beloved wife," Ramsay finally said, eyes settling on Sansa. "I've missed you terribly." He bowed in the saddle to Jon. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton to me safely." Almost manic in his enjoyment of this moment, Ramsay looked at each member of the opposing party, an eye falling on Lyaella but not lingering long.
She shivered nonetheless, trying to shrink to as small as possible.
Jon didn't falter. "State your terms, Lord Bolton," he replied coldly.
"Alright." Ramsay smirked. "Dismount and kneel before me as the rightful Lord of Winterfell, and I will so generously grant clemency to all of you traitors. I am a man of mercy after all." The grin never vanished. "Oh, and I shall be wanting my wife back."
Lady Dustin snorted. "Is that all, Ramsay? Least your father knew how to get to the point."
"Ah, Aunt Barbrey. My brother spoke so highly of you before he died… like a dog." If looks could kill, Lyaella figured Lady Dustin's would've felled a mammoth. "Also, I shall spare the life of your youngest brother."
"How do we know you have him?" Sansa asked.
Motioning behind him, Ramsay guided forward a horse mounted by one of his guards. Lyaella had only noticed the large saddlebag behind him in passing, but as trotted forward she noticed it wasn't a bag, but a small boy straddled prone on the back of the saddle with a hood over his head. Reaching out with a gloved hand, Ramsay drew back the hood to reveal…
"Rickon!" Sansa gasped, her facade breaking for just the barest of moments.
Rickon? Her Uncle Rickon, killed while still young? Lyaella saw an unkempt boy with light auburn curls, gagged and with eyes wide in fear.
Her father was trembling, face firm in an icy determination. "Let him go."
"Unh unh…" Ramsay drew a knife and held it to Rickon's throat. Lyaella nearly jumped in her seat. "You know what you have to do." He pulled back the knife and snapped his fingers for the guard to lead his horse back. The frightened boy stared miserably out at all of them, his gaze lingering on Jon and Sansa. "Just get on your knee and swear allegiance to me. I'll even find a nice keep for little Shireen Baratheon to live out the rest of her days."
Shireen, who had been silent next to Lyaella the whole time, urged her horse a few steps forward. "Your terms are rejected, Lord Bolton."
The wicked grin widened. "I was hoping you'd say that." He pointed off into the distance, to something again overlooked before but now Lyaella couldn't take her eyes off of it. Feeling a sick churn in the pit of her stomach. "After all this is done, Princess, your Queenly mother can have some company. I've saved a space."
Displayed atop the hill was a large cross inverted into an X. Strapped upside down — the distance thankfully obscuring the detail — was a flayed corpse. Unrecognizable, but proclaimed by Lord Ramsay to be that of Selyse Baratheon.
Lyaella didn't like the frigid woman but such a fate… Gods, she didn't deserve this. Please, don't vomit. She felt physically ill, but didn't wish to look weak.
Shireen looked at the line between losing all blood in her cheeks and screaming in anger. "You monster!"
"Shame we didn't find Stannis' body, Ned," he remarked to another man with the sun of House Karstark on his surcoat. "Hopefully the foxes and buzzards picked it apart."
Shireen drew a dagger and was about to advance on them. "I'll kill you all!" Davos quickly grabbed the reins of her horse, holding her back.
"Ah, feisty." Ramsay chuckled. "Mayhaps I won't kill you. Keep you around for when my dear wife bores me."
While Davos was having a devil of a time trying to restrain Shireen from doing something rash. Lyaella focused her attention on Sansa. She was icy, but Lyaella had seen such an expression in the mirror so many times growing up. A forced composure, exposed by an ever so slight tremble, or the pain radiating in one's eyes. Sansa was trying hard to hold herself together in the face of this Ramsay. For the first time in her life, Lyaella felt sympathy for her aunt.
It was a strange feeling. Feeling any sort of sympathy for her cruelest aunt was something she never expected to experience.
"Enough of this, Ramsay," Jon spoke, cutting off whomever was speaking — Lyaella wasn't really paying attention until her father interrupted. "Let us spare the bloodshed. You and me, a fight to decide the battle like the old way… let your men witness that you would be willing to actually fight for them."
Cocking his head with a frown, Ramsay then chuckled again. "He's good," he said to another of his men. "Very good — I've heard of your skill with a blade, Snow. I don't know if I could win against you, but I do know my army can beat yours. I have six-thousand men. How many do you have? Two-thirds of that at best? Most being Wildling savages. I like my odds against that."
"You'd do better to accept his offer," Sansa said in her icy demeanor, sounding like Queen Sansa in that moment. "Least then you'd get a clean death."
"Ah, don't be foolish, my beloved wife." He wiggled his finger. "You and your dishonorable Watch-deserter bastard brother were fools to attempt to wage this war against me. If this continues, I will be forced to personally deliver Rickon's head to you in a basket, wrapped up in his direwolf's pelt." Jon didn't react to this, nor did Sansa… Lyaella shivered, biting her lip in fear for the uncle she never knew. But then Ramsay spoke again. "I'll even throw in your bloodstained wedding dress as a bonus."
He beamed, happy at his statement. His allies however… it seemed a bit too far for them, the way they averted their eyes. For Jon's allies, what he said was lost on Lyaella, but from the reaction it was horrible. Jon's nostrils flared, Barbrey clenched her fists, Lady Lyanna hissed. Rickon, from where he was watching everything on Ramsay's side, growled through his gag…
But it was her aunt that replied. Eyes narrowing once more, Sansa looked Ramsay straight in the eye. "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton." Urging her horse around, she galloped away. Lyaella stared back at her retreating form, unable to know what to think.
A sudden chuckle — a dark chuckle that would leave one feeling the same chill at Hardhome — drew Lyaella's attention back to Ramsay. "You are all fine men." Giggles left the current Lord of Winterfell. "My hounds will love to feast on you. I haven't fed them in seven days. They are… quite ravenous."
Her fists clenched at her sides. Lyaella's childhood had been hellish, but this sort of evil monster she and Torrhen had been sheltered from. Before, perhaps she would've cowered away, but her father's death had forged a harder Lyaella.
Ramsay continued without break. "Or perhaps I should do as I promised in my letter to you, bastard. Do you remember? How I'll make sure you'll watch as my dogs devour Rickon's body first, then skin the flesh off all your Wildlings next." Tormund snorted, while the image of poor Munda being flayed alive after what happened to her sister only stoked the fire building in Lyaella's body. "This'll be the fun part, how I'll cut your eyelids off so you can see myself and every man in my army take our turns with Sansa. Watch the hope dwindle out from your eyes after I kill everyone you care about. You'll beg for death, I'm sure of it." He shrugged. "But let's see how long before you turn into what poor Theon Greyjoy ended up. Barely fit to be a worm."
Given the tenor of this conversation, the line straddled between seriousness and morbid horror, what Lyaella did would even confuse her. She laughed. A girlish giggle, mocking in the way the youths of Winterfell would do upon her. Directed at Ramsay, for this was all just… "Are you aware of how ridiculous you sound now, Lord Ramsay?"
She could see how mortified her father was, eyes wide and in fear for her identity being revealed — she had certainly disobeyed his instructions but Lyaella couldn't help her utter hysterics. They baffled him, baffled everyone… seven hells they baffled her as well, Lyaella flushed pink from all the attention on herself even as she laughed.
Ramsay's brow rose. "And who are you supposed to be?" If he was startled by her laughs, it was gone and his composure returned. "Jon Snow, have you been holding out a daughter of yours?"
Normally Lyaella would've sputtered and been afraid, but her travels with her father had stiffened her spine. It took everything in her to face down Ramsay Bolton. "I am Lyaella Snow."
He guffawed. "A Snow with a Snow, how fucking rich. Eddard Stark's dishonor continued in his son." This drew laughs from Ramsay's allies as well.
She shook her head. "Wrong, I am no Stark. Ned Stark's blood runs not in my veins." A half-truth, for sure. "But that is of no consequence, Ramsay Snow. For you in fact are a ridiculous worm not worthy of anything in your life."
For the monster that tortured her aunt and just threatened to do far worse to her father, he seemed… rather nonplussed. "Alright, girl. I'm curious." He folded his arms, looking rather amused. "Tell me how I am a 'ridiculous worm' as you put it."
Lyaella was more than glad — far from being embarrassed and wanting to ride right after Sansa as she would've done, something inside her was filled with a pride in her thoughts. A desire to dominate, to lord over such scum as Ramsay Snow.
Was this her dragonblood? Her mother and grandfather's fire in her veins?
"I am baseborn, as is Lord Snow. We've been mocked and insulted and treated like dirt, but the world owes us nothing. Jon Snow and I, we've crawled to where we are without any help and even being kicked down along the way. I take no shame in it, but am proud of it." She gestured to her father, whose worry for her was mixed with… pride himself? "Jon Snow is proud to be Ned Stark's blood, regardless of his birth. It is something to be proud of… but you are not proud." A laugh. "I mean, you throw that insult left and right despite how you were supposedly legitimized by the baseborn boy sitting on the Iron Throne now."
In spite of how grim the situation was, everyone on her side from Lyanna Mormont to Lady Dustin to Tormund were eyeing her with impressed expressions. Even Umber and Karstark on Ramsay's side looked like they respected her — awkwardly but still. Rickon stared at her with wide eyes, his head cocked curiously. Her father still seemed fearful, while Ramsay's smirk had faded into something… unreadable.
Lyaella only smiled sweetly. "Between the three of us, who is the one that seems to be the most ill at ease with being baseborn? Not I, and certainly not Lord Snow."
There was a long silence, Ramsay's face blank as everyone watched him. There was… calculation behind those eyes as they stared at Lyaella, the same way he had watched Sansa earlier. It sent a shiver through Lyaella, as if she was being watched like a piece of meat ready to be devoured and torn apart. Finally, Ramsay simply grabbed the reins and turned his horse around. The others of his party following suit.
Once they disappeared over the crest of the hill, Jon guided their own party to the north, Lyaella following close alongside him. They rode for several minutes before he finally spoke. "That was foolish, Lyaella. Now he'll be looking for you."
Casting her eyes at the ground as they rode, Lyaella bit her lip. "My apologies fa… Jon." He truly sounded like an irate father in that moment to her - protective and caring for her, even if he was in the midst of scolding her for her misdeeds. She couldn't be mad at him for that, even if she didn't understand what she supposedly did.
Sighing, Jon just cracked the reins, urging their horses faster. "We'll discuss it more when we reach camp." The two of them galloped on in silence until they reached the designated meeting point, where their cavalry guard of Hornwood and Dustin horsemen waited. "Where is Sansa?"
Sure enough, Lyaella couldn't find her aunt anywhere. Hopefully dead. She willed away the dark thought. However much she hated 'Queen Sansa,' this Sansa wasn't her yet.
"Off in the thicket, mi'Lord," one of them called, pointing to a small trail leading off to the north. "By the creek."
Her father mumbled some words that Lyaella only heard angry soldiers use… alright, Lady Arya used them once. "She knows she's supposed to stay here." He furrowed his brows. "Lyaella, go get her."
She bristled, surprised. "Me?"
"Aye, you. I think mayhaps your words upset her… plus whatever is still causing tension between you two we cannot afford — or at least I don't want to afford it. Go." His words made no room for argument.
Glaring at him, Lyaella nevertheless relented. "Yes, Lord Snow." Alright, he didn't truly deserve that she figured as she rode off into the thicket after Sansa, but she was irked. "Stupid Queen Sansa, why did you have to show up?" While dodging branches and watching little rodents scurry through the brush, Lyaella reflected on the fact that she and Jon and Shireen could've been in Meereen by now with her mother and mayhaps even Torrhen…
The sound of sobs stilled her thoughts. "Whoa, whoa…" she urged the horse, pulling the reins so that the mare would slow to a simple walk. Her ears peeled for the sobbing.
A flash of fire-red hair alerted her to Sansa. She had stopped her horse right at the banks of the river, it slightly iced over at the edge but for the most part free-flowing in a gentle rush. And there she sat astride her stallion, hunched over with her face buried in her hands. The cries were muffled, but Lyaella noticed the telltale movement of her shoulders. The labored breaths.
Her aunt, the most steadfast and put together person in the entire North — never once breaking stride from her regal, if almost arrogant demeanor the entire time she had known her — was crying. Sobbing. Uncontrolled in emotion that she couldn't even bare to maintain any sort of composure. To Lyaella it was… disconcerting to say the least.
Unsure of what to say, eventually she cleared her throat. "La… Lady Sansa?"
Sansa stiffened, nearly jumped in her saddle. Hastily doing something with her back turned to her, finally Sansa guided the horse about to face Lyaella. "Lady Lyaella," she croaked. Her tears were wiped away but the telltale signs of crying were there. Reddened cheeks, bloodshot eyes, puffy face. Gods, was this the same woman that ruled the North with an iron fist?
That tormented her and Torrhen their entire lives as if they were hated prisoners? She looked like her, no doubt, but in that moment…
"I'm sorry, I just needed some time… some fresh air."
"Your brother wants you back, says it's too dangerous out here." Something safe to say, given the circumstances.
Nodding, Sansa spurred her horse forward. Next to Lyaella's as they went up the trail. Lyaella not making a sound while the only noise out of Sansa was an errant sniffle. Until her aunt — but not her aunt — finally broke the silence. "I didn't want to worry Jon."
"If it wasn't you, he'd worry over something."
A snort, followed by a slight smile. "Yes, that's Jon alright. Always brooding." Lyaella shared the smile. This gentle, tender moment. This was what she always wanted from an aunt — thought an aunt should be.
"Why were you crying?" Gods help her, why did Lya say that? From the tense silence out of the once calmed woman, mayhaps she made a mistake. "I'm sorry…"
"No, it's fine." Sansa sniffled again. "Perhaps it's better if I speak on it or so, clear my mind." She looked at Lya with those blue eyes. For the first time she knew them, they held only kindness. "It was just a lot to deal with, seeing that monster again."
Lyaella nodded. "I know, he was evil." A sigh. "I hope Jon kills him."
"That we can agree on." They rode the rest of the way up the trail in silence, nothing else needing to be said.
No tension between them.