"So much snow. Dreadful!" Despite having spent her entire life in the North, something quite contrary to comfort marked the general conduct of his cousin. Mother would claim it was the weak Southron blood running through her veins, inherited from Aunt Catelyn, which made her so. "My mare cannot possibly endure such conditions." Jon wondered that she didn't stamp her feet. In the cool glow of the previous night's storm remnants, she looked enchantingly pretty. The combined bloodlines of Stark and Tully expressed themselves with uncommon elegance in the being of one Marna Stark, eldest of Uncle Brandon's daughters. Pale against the backdrop, she might have utterly lost herself in the mists of the early hours were it not for the deep red of her hair, a beacon in its own right. Her eyes were blue, cold and cutting when their mistress was in a temper, as happened at that very moment, or gentle as a summer sky when in a pleasant mood. She was tall, matching Edwyle who was a full year older than her, but nevertheless as fine a beauty as anyone could ask for. Lady Catelyn could oft be heard saying her daughter had been blessed by the Maiden.
Grandfather had named her for his own mother, a woman of great sense whose untimely passing a couple of years past had greatly bereaved the family. Unlike their great-grandmother, however, his cousin understood her priorities as being somewhat different. Despite having been carefully instructed by Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin and showing a great deal of promise in precisely those activities which might be expected to dominate the time of a lady with the run of her own keep, Marna favoured songs and stories along with the occasional spot of embroidery. One could never accuse her of indolence, yet it remained very much a fact that when she could, she dedicated all her time to such pursuits. That no one took issue with it was both testament to her general conduct and, Jon suspected, her very fine appearance. Whether Marna herself was aware of it remained in doubt, though he expected she had some inkling at least.
Shaking himself, Jon stared into the expectant face of his kin. "We do not know that this foul weather will hold," he replied in as measured a voice as he could muster. "Aside from which, you shan't be needing your horse at the tourney. Unless, of course, you mean to compete."
Edwyle chuckled. "Not Marna, she'd rather I do the work." His sister turned on him with accusations of being ungallant. "Heavens forefend! 'Twas not a complaint; merely an observation. But do not worry, sister, you are no worse off than any of your kind."
"My kind? Ladies, you mean?" Her dignified expression would have served her better at the King's court. "I will have you know, it is counted an honour for the one who bestows the crown of flowers as well as for the one who receives it. The way I see it, I am aiding you in cultivating precisely the right reputation in the eyes of the realm."
"Even if I were to win, I do have another sister," her brother pointed out, mischief shining in his eyes.
Marna gasped. "You cannot give it to Arya. She'd probably try to eat it, that half-horse girl." She crossed her arms over her chest. Suffice to say she was a very different woman to their departed grandmother.
Brandon's eldest child laughed up his sleeve, presumably at his siblings' indignation. Jon, however, had another concern altogether. "Surely your sister has done naught to incur such contempt from you, Marni."
The second daughter and also second in beauty; Arya was, in her own right, a pretty girl, but her features had something more outwardly Northerner about them than her sister's. She resembled Lord Stark's heir rather than her mother. Her hair was dark, her eyes a strong blue, a shade deeper than Marna's. She was not quite as tall, but still tall for her age and would, in time, bloom into just as beautiful a young woman as her sister. Lord Stark had insisted she be named after his good-mother, though Uncle had at the time of her birth wished to name her after his own mother in deference to the child's colouring.
Lady Arya had been borne away to a better place when he was himself a boy of no more than eight years of age. Jon recalled but very poorly the cast of her features. Grandfather claimed at one point she was counted amongst the great beauties of the North and many a lord had wanted her for a bride. But she had chosen a fifth son and sunk slowly into obscurity, blighted by a distant husband unimpressed with either her polished appearance or her wifely efforts. She had, despite all obstacles, given the man two children; both girls. In his own memory, Lady Arya was a timid woman of faded quality with soft arms and warm hands. She never seemed to have much to say and preferred her bedchamber to any other place. He hadn't been able to see it then, but Jon got the sense she had been very unhappy for a long time. He would not wish his cousin to come to a like disposition on account of her older sister of all people.
"Is it not bad enough that I must deal with her incessant whining and pestering; must you jump in to defend her?" Marna locked her jaw tight, sign that her annoyance had increased tenfold, might be more.
"She is just a child, Marni," Edwyle cajoled, giving Jon a look. "As the elder sibling, you are supposed to lead by example. You know you are; she might not know any better, but you do." That seemed to do the trick. Marna softened and nodded her head. "As for the crown, I hear it shall be orange blossoms. Cousin Alarra is partial to orange blossoms." And Edwyle was partial to cousin Alarra.
No blame could possibly be placed upon poor Ned's shoulders on account of the lady. Very fine creature that she had been at three-and-ten, cousin Alarra was bound to have tremendously improved in the intervening years. If he were so minded himself, he might have tumbled head-first into love with the girl for the sake of her great beauty alone.
"Grandfather would never allow you to wed her. You might as well give up now; it shall save you a lot of grief," Marna pointed out smugly. Despite her taunting tone, the words held true. Grandfather's ambitions had never been a secret and there was naught to be gained by wedding Edwyle to Alarra. "Aside from which in her last letter she spoke very fondly of Prince Aegon." Edwyle's expression darkened.
Jon, sensing it might be best to tear the two apart ere their teasing turned to stronger sport still, called Edwyle away. "Marna's mare might not be up task, but our steeds should relish a challenge. What say you, Ned, shall we be off?" His success remained a small matter compared to his kin's continual discontent even as they abandoned Marna to her own devices. "You know Marni is prone to reading romantic inclinations where there are none; if I were you, I should not put much stock by her opinion in this."
"I wish I were half as confident as you." Ned sighed. Jon regarded him guardedly for a brief moment before patting his shoulder and telling him it might be best to unburden himself. "She is dear to me, I confess, and though I am yet uncertain where I stand with her, if I were given a choice, she would it."
"From your lips to the ears of the gods," Jon answered. He had no light to shed on his friend's predicament for he was not deep in grandfather's council on the matter of advantageous unions. Of course, Ned could always go against the wish of his betters. He would not point out as much, lest he be accused of planting ideas in his cousin's head. Nor was he, come to that, in Alarra's confidence. She did not count him for much though she had never been impolite to him either.
"Besides, the Prince has enough Southron ladies to capture his attention. What need has he of Alarra as well?" Ned went on. He might well have no need, Jon conceded, but Alarra was comely and sweet; hardly traits to spurn in a lady. And the Prince might well count the Dornish blood in her veins in the girl's favour. Ned chuckled. "Fie, for shame; you are supposed to be on my side."
"I am," he insisted. "That does not make the truth of her suitability any lesser. Should Aegon Targaryen take a shine to her, all the better for grandfather's plans. And should he not, some other Southron lord will. Doubtless, you future is being planned as well. Might be grandfather has settled on Alys Karstark for you after all." Edwyle indignant squawk had Jon grinning from ear to ear. "Nay? Well, I suppose there is always Marissa Mollen or Alys Holt."
"You might as well suggest Lady Dacey while you're at it, why don't you?" Jon pretended to consider the prospect, relieved that he had pulled Ned's attention from the matter of Alarra and the Prince. Meanwhile, his cousin made a despairing gesture before he hurried off in the general direction of the stables, yelling that he would be first saddled and out the gate. The challenge had been issued. Jon took off after Edwyle.
The stable-hands, hard at work, gave them little enough attention beyond grunting greetings as they passed by. The state of the stables indicated Uncle Brandon had left the lot of them with a few firm words of wisdom. Jon saddled his horse and mounted and within moments found himself carried out into the courtyard. Despite the previous bragging, Edwyle was the one to follow him. "Where shall we ride?" Jon questioned, feeling 'twas only appropriate to leave the decision to the other.
"The godswood will do." Ned spurred his steed on. Jon took the same road. "No sense in riding any further when we have no need to do so." They rode on.
Snow sat heavy on otherwise naked limbs, glittering in the faded sunlight with unexpected brilliance. Jon admired the sight as he and his cousin came to a halt, the beasts panting under them. The faint crackling of ice breaking underfoot accompanied each shift, no matter how minute. Edwyle breathed in audibly, lips curving into a wide smile. "I have a good feeling about this day." Jon produced a soft questioning noise in answer. "We shall see, I suppose."
The usual symphony of woodland noises followed them on their ride until they reached a small open area. Ordinarily, neither would have stopped at that particular spot, being as there was little of interest to be seen, however, when catching sight of blood tinted snow, it seemed an appropriate response. They dismounted as one by silent accord.
Jon stepped forth, with every intention of tackling any danger which might rear its head. "You're the faster rider," was the exact justification he gave. Ned was not; he very likely knew it, but seemed content to accept Jon's protection for the time being. The trail of blood ran across the white expanse, losing itself between some trees; it did not precisely seem freshly spilled. Jon's feet sank in the snow, breaking the red line as he crested the insignificant rise. In the next moment he checked his step. From behind him, Ned let out an exclamation.
"Wait; are those puppies?" Direwolf pups, no less, sniffing around a vaguely growling direwolf bitch that had been gored by the looks of it. Her eyes were not open in any event. Ned's hand grabbed at his shoulder. "Look at them; they'll die out here." Their eyes were not yet open. They could not possibly leave them to the mercy of the elements or roaming predators.
Grandfather could be persuaded, Jon allowed, to accept them. Mother could be worked upon as well. "Would Uncle be moved by their plight, do you think?" And then there was the bitch. Ned took it upon himself to make any and all necessary arrangements with his father. "Very well. We might be able to fit them in our saddlebags. But how do we move the mother?"
"We cannot possibly tie her to one of the horses; she is not in fit shape to walk, let alone run." Edwyle stepped past him, picking up two of the small creatures. The bitch made no movement, though Jon though her eye had opened just slightly. "Might be it would be kinder to end her suffering."
"Would that I could, but I've brought no weapons and neither have you." He cocked his head to the side. "We cannot hope to move her on our own and certainly may not carry the beast back without the use of a wain at the very least, so here is my suggestion: ride back to the keep and beg grandfather's leave to bring the direwolf litter along with this one." He nodded towards the bitch. "Meantime, I will remain here with them."
Ned considered him a brief moment ere he shook off his great cloak and threw it Jon's way. "That mother of theirs is at death's door. Use this to warm them."
Fingers clenching into the furred collar, Jon gave a perfunctory nod. He did not watch for Ned's riding, but turned to the puppies, gathering them one by one until five of them sat huddled together on the cloak, whimpering ever so softly. He kept one eye on them as he approached their mother. The she-wolf was growling in the back of her throat; her eyes were still closed. "I am trying to help," Jon spoke, making certain his voice was firm. He knelt by her and waited, watching to see whether she reacted in any way. At lengths, when she gave no indication of being aware of his presence, he dared touch a hand to her back, gently, probing even. The wounded creature made a curious noise, but neither moved nor opened her eyes. Jon continued to stroke her until she reached the previous volume, content that she seemed to accept his touch, if she did not altogether trust him.
Climbing back to his feet, he watched the pups for a moment, noting that more comfortable of the lot had begun playing amongst themselves. Might be there was hope. Jon turned and gazed at the undisturbed snows beyond until something caught his eye. He frowned. Whatever sun filtered through the branches 'twas nowhere near strong enough to create illusions.
The snow shifted; once, twice, thrice. Jon stepped forth gingerly. He watched the tony mound drift towards the protruding roots of a tree and then coming to a halt there. He reached the vicinity one heartbeat later and began digging. His toil was rather short and yielded quite the curious result. There was a sixth pup, all white, tinier than all its brethren and with eyes as red as fire. But the poor thing was mute, making not the least sound even when Jon's hands caught the ball of fur. Neither was there squirming. The poor beast was either frozen stiff, else too weak for aught but breathing. Taking pity on the pup, he gently placed it beneath his doublet after softly rubbing his hand up and down the tiny body. It twitched a few times ere it set to shivering.
Jon paced the small clearing to keep the bite of cold at bay. One hand supported the weight of his most recent rescued mite and slowly his fingers inched beneath the collar, gingerly scratching beneath the beast's minute chin, down a smooth-furred throat. "Take heart, you poor thing. I will not see you abandoned to the mercy of the elements. Neither you, nor your brothers." The pup settled his snot in that space betwixt throat and shoulder, small tongue licking against linen. "Well met." For whatever reason, in that moment, his heart told him that he had found something priceless.
Not one to quibble, he trusted his gut-instinct to sufficiently read the reliability of these beasts. If it could be achieved, he would have it that all were saved and later they might decide what might be done about the fear creatures. Though, assuming the gods had endowed them with at least a figment of gratitude, they would easily become lifelong faithful companions. Did not the legends of old speak about long dead kings whose armies boasted great direwolves? That had to mean in some measure they could be tamed and took to humans.
Come to think of it, Jon thought he had seen just such a carving deep into the dark of the crypts. It had been long ago, when he'd been a young boy. He'd been playing with Ned, the two of them exploring what was in their minds a land shrouded in mystery. By the glow of a thin candle, he'd seen the large figure of a man with spear in hand, and alongside him a creature with fur and fangs. To think he'd not recalled it until that very moment. Perhaps he ought to climb down into the sea of blackness once more and gaze upon the stone slabs. He might even learn which of the Stark kings had borne a live replica of their coat of arms with them into battle and what his fate had made of it.
The thought pleased him enough that he'd begun making plans. Such was the span if his attention, that deep in thought he missed the crunch of crushed snow and was much surprised to have the small clearing invaded. Jon flinched and glared, adopting a querulous mien and uncompromising stance.
Was there to be no guarding against danger? His eyes met his mother's. "Why have you come?"
She'd ridden her mare not in the way of a Northerner, but side-saddle in place, which for her was most unusual. His lady mother frowned down at him from atop her horse. "Young Ned brought word you've found a feral beast in the throes of agony. What have you there?" She dismounted and neared, a soft gasp upon her lips. Kneeling by the injured direwolf, his mother inspected the bloody gapes with a great deal of patience, but did not offer any opinion as to the survival chances of the beast. "It seems she has fallen asleep."
"Might be never to wake again," Jon added. "Think you beast or man gave her those wounds?"
The woman shook her head. "I cannot tell from their shape." She tilted her head to the side so as to better glimpse the injuries. "But 'tis a wonder for one such as her to have come so close to human settlements. Direwolves have not been seen this side of the wall for many lives of men. My own mother claimed they had all fled into the white wilds beyond the Wall for fear of the hunters."
"How curious." The Lord of Winterfell held out the full cup towards her. "And the maester remains hopeful, you say?"
Lyanna took her father's offering. "So he claims." She brought up the cup and drank deep, the spiced wine playing in sweet notes upon her tongue. A tangy aftertaste followed.
Her father frowned. "You disagree?" In the glow of the firelight, what she knew to be flat greys in his beard caught a curious sheen, oscillating between tones of rust and pale gold. It lent him a strange look, much at odds with her memory of him, almost to such a point that she marvelled the hands of time might bring about such change. His expressions, however, carried the same distinct sharpness which had haunted her childhood years.
"The wounds are grievous, my lord," Lyanna answered without hesitation. "Should the beast survive this ordeal, I know not that she will fully recuperate. Beyond having been gored, the legs suffered tremendous strain and heavy lacerations."
His eyes fixed her. "You do not think it the work of other wild beasts then."
"Not unless their taste for torture has grown with the onset of winter. Lord father, I fear 'tis the work of Wildlings. Their lack of skill has seen the beast chased and maimed. I cannot think they have caught her too long past, for her offspring are along. This must therefore mean they have somehow escaped the watchers on the Wall."
"Their numbers have been dwindling, after all," the man sighed. "Very well, let it be that Jon travels to the Wall on his lord's business. Then he may leave with no interference from Brandon and no further need to wait until his departure."
"I would go with my son, my lord." There was precious little change in her father's expression at those words. Somehow, she suspected he'd been expecting her to speak just so. Lyanna hastened to bring forth her arguments, but ere she could utter one sound more, the lord waved his hand dismissively.
"That would be most unwise, dear heart," he pointed out in gentle, but nevertheless firm, tones. "Your presence is bound to frustrate proceedings unduly. And 'tis the Wall your son rides to, not some other lord's keep."
"The facts do no escape me, lord father. But this is my son, we speak of, and if I would join him. Naught might be harmed by my presence, for the truth shan't change whatever my location; but mu own heart would be much eased to know Jon near me." Lyanna did not imagine he understood the burden parting was to a mother's heart. And why should he, when in his old age he remained very much surrounded by his children and grandchildren? "Do say you will not oppose my will, lord father."
"I don't imagine you would obey even if I should," Rickard grunted. "You are certain I cannot persuade you to join your brother at the tourney instead?"
"Indeed, nay; Brandon should resent it beyond measure." Despite their tiffs, Lyanna did not truly take joy in causing him discomfort. Her enduring stay in their father's home had been a thing born out of necessity, not desire. "If my suspicions prove correct in this matter, it is a good opportunity to learn more what goes on beyond the Wall."
"The same thing that has been going on for many a generation now, I imagine," Rickard answered. Lyanna frowned. "There are times when I fear it is your hope to discover some hidden horrors beyond the Wall. But, Lya, Nan's stories are mere old wives' tales. Should you seek to uncover some ancient dread, you are bound to be disappointed."
"That is not so, my lord," Lyanna protested. "'Twould be relief indeed to learn all fears of that nature are unfounded. But it would grieve me beyond measure to have overlooked the possibility, now that there is a sign. Wildlings but rarely hunt direwolves in such fashion; 'tis not their preferred form of sacrifice. It was in one of Lord Commander Caswell's writings. And Lord Commander Rodrik Flint repeats much of the same in his own chronicle. He would be in a position to know, having sought to become the king of all Wildlings."
"The Wildlings clans are nigh upon numbered. Who is to say these men have made note of half the customs present in their ranks? The truth of the matter is that some Wildlings have been most cooperative. And some we have no knowledge of." Her father paused, thought a moment, then added, "In your haste to reach those sought-after answers, recall that our own familiarity with these people is scant, partly because they happen to be immoral savages who do not merit our attention."
Lyanna could not argue against that conclusion. Long had their ancestors written of the many ills the Wildlings had visited upon the inhabitants of the kingdoms. In point of fact, their perfidy stretched long into the forgotten past, stealing and slaughtering whenever they managed to get past the guard of the Wall. The enmity betwixt what must had once been a single people could not be understated. And yet, surely it was worthwhile to dig into the extant connexions, however faint they might be, in order that the greater threat might be averted. And if those wild heathens had the answers she sought, Lyanna would not hesitate to listen.
"Nevertheless, lord father, I must see with my own eyes however little there is to see." Stern obstinacy threaded the words. Her imperative met something of indulgence and understanding in the gaze of the man who raised her.
"I shan't stand in your way," he promised. Then a brief smile twisted his lips ever so slightly. It was gone in the blink of an eye. "Your lady mother gifted you this tenacity and now, more than ever, you remind me of her. Though, she would have long since been in the saddle; I suppose I may congratulate myself for teaching you some patience."
"Likely enough she would have long since reached the Wall," Lyanna commented in the ensuing silence, vague amusement warming her gaze and voice. Mother would have believed her.
Or might be not. What she recalled of the good lady were her smiles and stories and the wolfsblood running strong in her veins. But as to her attitudes, that she had to admit, upon further consideration, that she knew too little of to have formed an accurate image of where she'd have stood on the matter of her daughter's plans and the ultimate carrying out of saic schemes. Did the potential fate of the world, when balanced against mere convention, weigh more? After all, convention might well cover most cases one was bound to meet within their lifetime, but it in no way accounted for the mysterious and unexpected.
Lyanna had gone against every lesson ever taught to her, against decorum, good breeding and the basic tenets of morality. She had gone against her own wished and hopes, branding herself nigh upon unlovable in the eyes of anyone to whom any of the conventional rules mattered. The self-immolation of her reputation, though conceived of in a not entirely accurate manner, had not been unexpected. What had taken her aback was the reaction of her own family to the situation.
Admittedly, her actions strained the bonds between a fair few houses, though as time would prove the damage had not been irreparable. Brandon's anger, however, remained as alive as it had ever been from the moment he uncovered the truth to their latest encounter. Somehow, whatever love he'd held for her developed into pure spite. Ned had taken the whole affair in strides, content to allow he was disappointed in her letting down the match their father had worked towards but in time reconciled himself to the situation. Benjen, the one brother most intimately aware of the details in her plan, much like Brandon, never quite looked at her the same way, though his nature pushed towards interminable needling as opposed to outright conflict. Father himself had not said a thing to her. Ultimately then, though she herself might see worth in her actions, was it entirely conceivable her mother would have agreed? The reactions garnered thus far suggested she too would take issue with her method if not the mission itself.
Jolted out of her reverie, Lyanna caught the tail end of a question and blinked in confusion at her sire. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"
"I was asking whether you should like to choose the men that are to travel with you, or if you will leave that to me." When she failed to respond, he added, "Of course, some of the men will be making the journey with Brandon, as you well know."
"Surely your knowledge is greater than mine, lord father. Please choose according to your own will. I am certain I shall be happy with whatever force is mustered. Ought we bring the lord commander a number of our imprisoned? A sign of goodwill," she suggested, knowing just how much old Jeor Mormont relished visits in his domain. It could do no harm to sweetened his disposition with further numbers for his strength.
She bade her father a good night ere retreating for her own chambers. Once hallway up the steps leading towards that particular destination, she heard the sound of her name and turned, instinctively tensing as she recognised the voice. The good septon stood at the foot of the stairs, a small silver flask in his hand.
"My lady, would you be so kind as to come down a moment, won't you?" septon Chayle urged, his expression laden with something Lyanna could only term worry. Obeying the request, she dismounted the stairs one by one and followed the man into his own little solar.
Within moments she was presented with a tiny bit of parchment, clearly a message come by raven. Curious and perplexed alike, she took up the rolled paper and unravelled it. "This is meant for my father, surely," she commented once the shock of that first impression the words evoked washed over her.
"With respect, my lady, Lord Stark would naturally wish his eldest son to pursue the matter. He is, after all, good-brother to the widow, is he not?" Lyanna nodded. "And what is more, the man accused of seducing Lady Lysa is none other than Lord Baelish, with whom your brother has already clashed swords."
"I see." The man feared lest Brandon's ire mount itself into an early attack on the conspirators and ruin any chance of unravelling their ruse. If, naturally, the accusations therein held any water, And they might not, in the end. "But I remain uncertain as to why you've reached out to me."
"The lord's heir might well be closest to Sir Elbert, but you know the man as well. And the maester and myself though that, as woman, your chance of obtaining the truth is far greater." His eyes pleaded for understanding.
"You mean of course that I am mother to a bastard child." She smiled without any bitterness. "I see your point, good septon. But Lysa I did not like in my youth and the feeling was mutual. Still, better I than Brandon, I suppose. Does Elbert know of the situation?"
"Not a thing. Young maester Colemon wrote to us in desperation." That, she supposed, made things a lot easier. "May we respond that we are willing to aid."
"Indeed, I believe that would be best. If indeed Lord Baelish is the father, then I expect he will wish to see the infant sooner or later. It would do us therefore no good to hasten upon Lady Lysa's welcome. Which is just as well since Sir Elbert will be attending the tourney and I will be journeying North." Lyanna paused, calculating the length of time it would take if she forfeited a full guard. The roads were safe enough, she supposed. And she could hasten forth from the Wall once she'd ensured all was well with Jon. "What is the flask for?"
"Maester Colemon sent it. He believes it to contain the remnants of tears of Lys. One of lady Lysa's servant women attempted to get rid of it." A likely explanation. "Maester Luwin has agreed to look into it."
They parted ways after agreeing Lyanna would write from the Wall once she sent off for her journey to the Vale.
For her own part, Lyanna did not quite know what to make of the missive. She had never liked Lysa Tully, though they'd been of an age and thrown together upon the occasion of her sister's wedding. That aside, did she believe the woman capable of cold-blooded murder? Lyanna could not be certain. Lysa had not been best pleased to wed old Jon Arryn, despite the dignified position it would offer her and the kindness the man did her. But at the same time, she had never evinced a violent disposition to the best of Lyanna's knowledge.
Still, if indeed she had poisoned her erstwhile husband, then it stood to reason she expected a substantial gain. And yet Lord Arryn's decline had been many a year in the making. Lyanna sighed. Poisons were not best known to her. She feared the only way to ascertain what had happened was to go to the source itself.
Best to think of a likely reason to be travelling that way then. Lyanna had reached the stairs yet again. She took a good look around her, hoping her ascension would remain undisturbed. Pleased to see a deserted corridor, she allowed herself the relief of quick paces up the stairs, coming at once to a fitting motive. There was always aunt Branda and her husband in the Stormlands. It would bring her a bit closer to danger, but she should be well away from harm.
After all, Lyanna had been wondering for some time what she would give her life over to once Jon no longer had need of her guidance. She could not remain in her girlhood home past her lord father's death and she did not think it the least bit charitable to invade Ned's dwelling. She had neither recourse to the Faith, nor the desire to wed. That left her with Aunt Branda alone on whom she might count for aid.
And so, she would have solved more than one dilemma with one single journey. That ought to speak well of her foresight at least. Pleased with herself, Lyanna rounded a corner and brought herself face to face with a wide-eyed Arya. The girl jumped when she saw her and Lyanna herself barely suppressed the urge to do likewise. "And what might you be doing up and about at this late hour?" she questioned her niece?
Arya shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing guiltily away. "I wanted to see the wolves," the child admitted after a moment's hesitation.
"A good thing I caught you when I did then. What did Maester Luwin say about that?" Amusement crept in her voice at the last moment. Fortunately, Arya was far too contrite to take notice.
"That I shouldn't." Pouting, the girl looked up. "But I just want to see them for a moment. And then I shall go back to bed. I swear."
Lyanna made a show of mulling the proposition. "Should you stay no longer than a moment, I suppose we can keep this as our little secret. Mind that your father does not learn of it either." Brandon had been much displeased when it was decided the direwolves were to remain in Winterfell and he had been nigh upon incensed when Lyanna chose to keep them in her chamber, citing the danger of it. But to her mind, if the poor mother and her little mites were to die, they might as well spend their last days in comfort.
She brought her niece to the door and made a small shushing sound when noting the girl's open mouth. "Quiet now, lest we be caught." The door was pushed open and tiny mewling sounds at once filled her ears. Lyanna chuckled at the sight of little balls of fur rolling around in the straw. Ushering her visitor within, she shut the door in their wake. "Do not go near the mother. The pups are safe enough."
The direwolf bitch had been fed a tiny amount of milk of the poppy to dull her pain and Lyanna herself had struggled to further aid her in ingesting honey-sweetened milk. Once she was well enough, it was to be sopped bread, to curb her wildness and taste for blood. Lyanna imagined the attempt to be futile as wolves were by nature wild and bloodthirsty. Still, father would lift those restrictions in time, should she survive.
"I wish father would let me have one," Arya said, hugging a squirming pup to her chest. "It is so unfair that we won't listen."
"Wolves are dangerous creatures and your father is only trying to protect you," Lyanna pointed out gently. "Perhaps in time he will change his mind and allow you to choose one for your own."
"Not father. Once he makes his mind up there's no changing it." There was true remorse in the girl's voice and Lyanna suspected she was quite correct in her assessment. Brandon was as stubborn as a mule, might be even more so than she herself was. What comfort could she possibly give the child?
"One day you shall be mistress of your own home and may surround yourself with as many pets as your heart desires." Poor consolation when the girl wanted a pup at that exact moment, but she could not go against her parents.
"But I would have to wed for that." Arya's tone spoke of scandalised outrage. "Why should I have to when I do not wish to?"
"You may feel differently when the time comes." The words did not seem to find their target, for Arya waved a hand dismissively. Lyanna shook her head. "You shan't forever feel the way you do now."
"You did not wed," the girl pointed out.
"I did not. But that does not mean you ought to follow my example." To explain to a child that she would have wed one man in particular if given the choice could not be accomplished unless she was willing to acquaint her with details she was far too young to learn.
"We are missing one." Lyanna counted their pups over once more. She could have sworn all six had followed along in their mother's wake. A full moon turn into caring for and feeding them, they were well used to tangling their nimble bodies around her legs and usually very willing to follow even without the she-wolf's guidance. Though even their mother seemed to have resigned herself to the new life provided to her, albeit no one save Lyanna could near her without fear of a fierce growl and barred fangs in answer. She had yet to attack a single soul, thankfully. Frelthred was proving to be an exemplary lap dog of great dimensions; Lyanna had no compunction about calling her such when the she-wolf happily laid her head in her lap, gently plucking bits of meat from betwixt her fingers.
Her babes, full of giddy excitement and mischief as they learned their way through their new world, took more to Jon, who oft played with them, chasing the little pack in mock-hunts and being chased himself in return. He would even allow the yapping and nipping to fell him into cold snows until he was crawling over with snow-laden paws. One would think they were his very own children, the way he coddled them. Lyanna found herself admiring the sight of their play when she took the wolf-mother out and about to exercise her legs, which somewhat healed at lengths managed her weigh for short periods of time. It would be long before she ran, however.
Sitting upon the stump of a felled tree, Lyanna once more found herself watching her son. Frelthred lay at her feet, head resting upon her knees, eyes closed. She was not yet sleeping, but it was not a long way off. They'd been walking near the heart tree to pass the time until all was made ready for their setting off. Ser Rodrick had selected a dozen men to make up the travel party and they were yet gearing up. Gage, the cook, had helpfully directed a couple of servants to pack up foodstuff that would keep on their journey and the horses were still being checked over, doubtless under the watchful gaze of Hullen.
Brandon and his lady wife, along with their children, had already departed for the tourney, which made preparations for her own journey all the easier. There would be no one to ask questions and demand answers of her, no one to quarrel with over her decisions and certainly no one to attempt stopping her. Her only worry was that Benjen insisted on coming along, but then he was a brother of the Watch and she supposed he'd lingered at Winterfell long enough. That and the men father sent to the Wall needed to be watched over by a black brother.
Steering her thoughts from that unfortunate direction, Lyanna tangled her fingers in Frelthread's grey and silver furs, enjoying the softness against her palm. "Such beautiful colouring you have," she spoke to the beast, thinking of her honey-gold eyes and their remarkable shape. Many of her pups had inherited the same colouring, though two stood out as remarkably different. The first was a pitch-black pup whose fine fur ran like smooth silk against any stroke; his eyes were a vibrant green. The second had equally fine white dawn, but his eyes were a curious shade of red, a sure sign the poor creature was an albino. Jon had taken to calling him Ghost.
The roaming band of four-legged mites came to a halt before her along with Jon who was heaving, short of breath. "You are done?" she questioned, looking up into his eyes filled with glee. 'Twas almost as though he were a child once more. "Some, sit by me." She tugged upon her cloak, revealing a stretch of smooth wood.
Jon submitted, his less than graceful movements influenced by the puppies tugging on his cloak and nipping at his fine boots. One of the braver ones fair climbed atop his foot, tail swishing in joyful arcs. Their mother momentarily opened her eyes, regarding them briefly ere she stretched open her maw in a long yawn, longue rolling out in indolent fashion. She was not the least bit bothered by the noise and agitation all about her, to the point where two of her offspring burrowing into her side left her altogether unmoved.
"How long until all is in readiness?" Jon asked after a brief silence, partly distracted by the game he enacted with the tiny direwolf still perched upon his booted foot, lifting the creature up and down in a simulation very near the motion of a ship cresting waves. Up and down he went, all growls and yips. Sooner or later, they would all of them sound ever as threatening as their mother. For the time being they straddled the fine line betwixt lovable juvenile direwolves and fully grown beasts.
"Not long now," Lyanna assured her son. "Much of the needful materials had been long since prepared, but the foodstuff had to wait. As soon as the fresh bread is done, we may head off." The prisoners would benefit from a humble meal of hard cheese and black bread, but for the guardsmen and themselves there would be smoked sausage and other meats, along with the cheese and fine white bread. Long had it been since she'd subsisted on such fare; half a lifetime at that.
It would be something of an adventure, considering she was not the least bit used to long travel and interminable rides. On short distances, she remained formidable in a saddle. It remained to be seen how the greater length of road would treat her. She expected, at least, that the wolves would make for interesting company, though Frelthred would likely not go on the hunt. Her poor legs could not withstand such effort. Might be upon the return journey, once more time had passed and the wounds were better healed. That should prove quite the sight, unless Lyanna was much mistaken.