Howl of the Dragonwolves

by Elphaba818

9 years ago, the Mad Queen and the Queenslayer died and left their bastard twins grow up in the cold shadows of House Stark. Torrhen and Lyaella Snow know their parents never got the happy ending they deserved. Now they have the chance to change things. They'll ensure their parents win the game of thrones. Or they'll die trying. TIME TRAVEL AU! Co-Author: Longclaw 1-6 as of 2-22-21

30. The Last Wolf is a Dragon

Elphaba818:

Hey, everybody! We finally updated again! Sorry it took so long for Longclaw and I to finish this chapter, but we wanted to get everything just right before sharing it. A lot of stuff is about to go down, so you guys will NOT be disappointed, I promise you that!

Anyway, I know you guys are anxious to read this new update, so I'll wrap this up. Longclaw doesn't have any author's notes to share today, so go ahead and enjoy this new chapter! And please leave a nice review when you're done!

Happy Reading!

- Elphaba818

---

Chapter Thirty: The Last Wolf is a Dragon

Greyscale…

An illness so well known, so infamous… as well as its course — a hideous end. Madness. Eternal agony. So dangerous were the 'stone men' that they were cast into the corpse of Old Valyria, where not even the most wanted murderers and traitors dared go. Daenerys watched Ser Jorah cover up his blighted arm evidence of his death sentence. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

It was all she could say. Daenerys spared but a glance to look at Torrhen. Her only family, the boy she loved like a… like a son, he embraced her tightly, head buried in her shoulder as hot tears coursed down her skin.

He loved Ser Jorah as much as she did — as he had been her only protector, he was the only one who believed Torrhen from the beginning.

Something she wished she had done.

Jorah looked up at the sky, and then to her. "Don't be, Khaleesi." He sighed. "All I wanted was to serve you… to serve you and the Prince. Serve you I shall till the madness takes me, but it is best that I go." His eyes met hers, as hers welled with unshed tears. "Goodbye, Khaleesi."

What did she feel? What did Jorah's words elicit in her? He was her protector. Her betrayer. Her only confidant and ally for the longest time. Nothing but a mole and traitor for that entire time. But hadn't he proved his loyalty? To herself? To her kin?

Hearing his death sentence harkened Daenerys back to her youth, when she was nothing but a weak girl who curled up at night with her tears and her dreams of peace.

She wavered, but it wasn't her that cried out first. "No!" Dany's eyes flickered to Torrhen, staring out with unabashed emotion in his expression — it was characteristically him, but instead of anger or frustration there was nothing but heartbreak. "No! I won't let you die!"

Sighing, Ser Jorah shook his head. "It is for the best, my Prince."

Torrhen did not castigate the use of that term, merely shaking his head fiercely. "I won't let you give up! I forbid it!"

He tried to run to Jorah, but Daenerys acted before Ser Barristan or Daario could — wrapping her arms around him. Torrhen was sprouting like a weed, close to her size now, but she was insistent. "You mustn't, Torrhen. The sickness…" Part of her wished to hug Jorah too, but not with greyscale.

Such just made it all the more tragic.

"There is a cure, Queen Daenerys!" Torrhen begged, looking at her with frantic eyes. "There's a cure… at the Citadel! The Maesters can help him!"

"There is no cure for Greyscale, boy," Daario began.

Daenerys hushed him with a glare, flickering back to Torrhen. The utter certainty in his eyes. She bit her lip. The wishful thinking of a desperate child… a dragon, like her. Mayhaps she should trust him… it was Jorah's life. Daenerys looked back to Jorah. "You have no leave to walk away from your Queen or your Prince."

Resignation in his eyes, he gazed at the both of them. "Khaleesi… believe me when I tell you that this is for the best."

"Do not presume to." Her words were hollow though, still holding Torrhen.

"The Prince has Ser Barristan, and Lady Missandei. They love him as much as me, and you." He looked tenderly at Torrhen before looking back to her. "Khaleesi, you are strong enough to rule — you've proven yourself."

Her heart was beating out of her chest. "When I retake Westeros… when we do." She squeezed Torrhen's hand. "I want you by our sides." Kissing Torrhen's head, he gazed up at her, and Dany gave him a reassuring smile. "You swore an oath to Prince Torrhen… and pledged yourself to me. Swore your sword to me for the rest of your life." He stared at her, then nodded. "I command you to find this cure, be it at the Citadel or anywhere else in this world, I command you to find it, Ser Jorah Mormont." Daenerys could feel Torrhen's smile on her, and it truly meant everything in the world.

A soft smile of his own on his lips at the tender, motherly moment, Jorah eased himself to his knee. "I so swear, my Queen. My Prince." Daenerys smiled herself. It was all she could hope for.

"You're giving the boy false hope."

Sighing, Daenerys was too tired to truly listen to Daario's concerns. "I figured you'd be helping coordinate the khalasar's march to my lands." Vaes Dothrak was a flurry of activity, even after rounding up all the stampeded horses. Daenerys' orders were clear. Striking the entirety of the hundred thousand souls, marching for Meereen. Ser Barristan, with Jorah's absence especially felt here, would stick to Torrhen even if her blood had very much coopted his Dothraki creche as his very own bloodriders of sorts. Daario on the other hand…

"My Dothraki isn't as fluent as I'd like it to be," he replied, voice suave as it always was. "Besides, someone has to watch out for your best interests."

"Like telling me to get rid of Torrhen when he first started trying to gain my audience?" Sitting with a mug in hand, she looked up at him with a raised brow. "That turned out to be quite the mistake, don't you think?"

He stared at her. "Some child comes saying he's a Targaryen without any evidence, forgive me for being suspicious. He could've very easily been an assassin ready to put a dagger at your back — Selmy told me once of a kid that very nearly did the same at Astapor." Daenerys cocked her head at him, causing Daario to shrug. "Mayhaps it was a mistake, but only in hindsight."

She snorted. "That's the closest thing I'll get to an admission you were wrong out of you, isn't it?" Daenerys shook her head, though it wasn't a dismissive gesture. "Here, drink with me. Might as well." She poured him a cup of the fermented mare's milk. Her travels with Drogo had accustomed her to it, and Dany found she could use anyone's company after the few days she had. Someone who knew her better than the women of the Dosh Khaleen, who were rapidly becoming to her now what Doreah and Irri were so many years before.

Sniffing his cup, Daario took a sip and blanched — Daenerys found it rather amusing, but stifled her chuckle. She wasn't in the mood to be amused. "This stuff is consumable?" he asked.

Daenerys knocked it back with a gulp. It burned the throat moreso than wine or pear brandy, but she was used to it. "What do you think?"

"I mean for someone not part dragon." Daario nonetheless sipped it, trying not to quiver from the strong taste. "The Dothraki hate themselves if they drink this."

"The tough sellsword draws the line at powerful spirits. Mayhaps I should reassess my use of you." That was to tease him. She could use the distraction, given all that was happening.

He lowered the cup and gave her a grin. "You enjoy me far too much to do away with me, my Queen." She rolled her eyes. "Regardless, it is well that we found you, my Queen. Meereen is in need of you."

Lost in the chaos of both her claiming of the Khalasar and Torrhen's near demise in the midst of the stampede, Daenerys had near forgotten about the city. Eyes wide, she thought the worst. "Tell me, did…"

"The city holds, and is calm for as far as I know." She calmed, but her hairs still stood at the back of her neck. "Truth be told, I only know what was going on before Mormont, Selmy and I set off."

Damn. There was always a complication. "Who was in charge when I left?"

"The Unsullied commander, and Missandei." Dany nodded. She could trust them completely. "Oh, but the little dwarf was throwing his very little weight around, giving advice and all that. Sounded quite sure of himself."

"Tyrion Lannister you mean?" Daenerys sipped her drink. "Presumptuous of him, though based on what he's reported to have done in Westeros that may not be a bad thing."

Daario shook his head. "He knows Westeros, not Essos, and certainly not Slaver's Bay." I should make to rename that. It was high time that geography caught up to the current developments. "I worry he could lead the city into chaos," Daario said, taking a seat beside her, arm going over her shoulder and drawing her in. "Especially with the new guests."

Daenerys did not stop him, even as she looked at Daario quizzically. "What new guests?"

"Some fellow with the Golden Company wanting to see the boy… says they may want to pledge support to a 'Targaryen Bastard.'" He snorted. "Mayhaps he's a Blackfyre, how ironic would that be?"

She found she wouldn't care either way. "I'll have to make arrangements once I make it home, but is that all the guests?"

"No. Some Westerosi… Night's Watch, I think he was. Said he had some message for you from his commander, but refuses to tell anyone except you what it is."

The Night's Watch? What on earth could they want? Daenerys was beyond puzzled. "For someone to travel all the way here from Westeros," she finally said. "Then it must be important." Dany made up her mind. "We ride out first thing in the morning."

Daario chuckled. "You were always headstrong… one of the reasons you won my sword and heart." He leaned in and kissed her.

Dany pulled back. "Did I give you leave to kiss me?"

A shrug and a smirk. "I'm sure you need something to burn off stress, my Queen." He leaned in for another, only for Dany to rise.

Did she want this? Physically… mayhaps. Her blood ran hot, and especially now she could use a little relaxation — Daario was willing, and let her take the reins. Daenerys trusted no one to overpower her, even just in the bedchamber. Certainly she enjoyed carnal relations with Daario or he wouldn't have been her lover.

But Torrhen hated him, and truthfully she couldn't deny Daario earned it. Her only blood kin's treatment of Grey Worm seemed out of nowhere, but his and Daario's antagonistic relationship was logical. She frowned. It was getting on her nerves.

"My Queen?" His arrogance was gone. "If you don't wish for me, I can leave if you want?"

Gods, she was just tired of it all. Wanted to be just Dany, as it was when she was with Viserys in their youth, to be at peace — even if only in her bedchamber. Alas, that was never to be, even with Torrhen who needed guidance and strength in a mother figure such as herself.

Looking at Daario over her shoulder, mayhaps the closest she could get to peace was to be properly sated. "Alright." She shrugged, walking to the sleeping quarters in the Khaleesi's tent. "Are you coming or not?" He chuckled and followed.

Something to clear her mind of her troubles, if only for a little while.

---

Gods, where had the time gone?

It seemed like just yesterday that the white as snow hatchling was so little that she could fit in the crook of Lyaella's arm, curled into a ball and alternately defiant to the world or supremely terrified of it. And yet that yesterday was by the vagaries of magic and the gods to be far to the future, while the present was simultaneously both the past and an enigmatic new future…

Avoiding the headache in which discussing the metaphysical would elicit in her, Lyaella instead tied the reins of her horse to a distant tree branch and trudged through the snow towards where Sōnar rested. Wild animals would be a threat, but Ghost — whom had accompanied her — would protect the dear mare, scared as the latter was of her dragon.

Lyaella would never be fearful of the profoundly silly spirit of her bonded dragon, but could understand why others would be.

The snow — which had begun to melt a bit from several weeks before — completely disappeared as she approached Sōnar's impromptu lair formed out of a hollow in the ground surrounded by a few fallen trees. All was blackened, especially the various skeletons of forest creatures her dragon feasted on. Lyaella could only chuckle upon seeing her dragon, lazily munching on a deer leg. Clicking her tongue, Lyaella giggled again when Sōnar lifted up her neck and trilled at the sight of her. Dropping the leg and ambling over.

"Hi, Sōnar… oof…" The size of a… well, much larger than a large bull, Sōnar didn't know her own strength and nearly shoved Lyaella to the ground with the powerful nudge of her snout. Didn't stop the dragon from unleashing her slobbering tongue and bathing Lya's face with licks. "Sōnar, stop… enough…" Her giggles belied her enjoyment, especially as Sōnar trilled and rumbled the whole time.

It was a wholesome moment, but like every rare such moment in her life, it had to be cut short.

"Sōnar." Her voice was firm, and even fallen on her back with the dragon looming over her, Sōnar listened. Drawing back her long neck and simply waiting for Lyaella to get up. Brushing off the ash from her fur cloak and sighing. "Sōnar, you have to stay here tomorrow." When the dragon made to whimper, Lyaella shook her head. "I will call you if you're needed, but otherwise stay here."

Two ice blue eyes stared at her, and Lya merely hugged her bonded dragon's snout. The only one she felt a closer connection to was Torrhen… and young Wisp before she was taken away… No, she would not cry. Not this time.

"You have to trust me, Sōnar. You're too important to me and too intimidating to expose just yet." Everything in her life, and the fate of those around her, had taught Lyaella the importance of secrets. Of the danger of the truth.

From her croon, Sōnar understood it too.

The ride back from the clearing, Ghost leading the way, was an uneventful one. The moon was just slightly larger than a half-moon, so would be full in less than a week. Not the best omen but certainly not a bad one going into the battle. Lyaella remembered that Torrhen scoffed on such things, but she never tempted fate. Dark nights with no moon or a shrouded moon were always the dangerous ones. Heralding something ominous, painful.

"Mi'Lady," said one of the men as she climbed off the horse upon reaching camp. He reached for the reins as Lya climbed down.

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Ser."

He chuckled. "Tis no ser, mi'Lady."

"Still, thank you nonetheless." He had the surcoat of a Mormont — they were respectful, the house of Bear Island that had been wiped out in her time. I saved Shireen… I can save Lyanna too. They hadn't interacted much as she would've liked, but after the coming battle Lyaella would change that.

Yet again did her heart start beating. The Battle of the Bastards, something she'd never forget from the books she'd read. It was shrouded in mystery, Southerners wishing to gloss over it in favor of their own petty squabbles while Sansa's tame maesters liked to opine on her 'tactical and strategic genius' while her own father's contributions were limited to 'he brought three thousand Wildlings and fought like mad in the thick of the fighting.' Granted, Jon had brought those Wildlings, but they were a much larger force. The Northern Houses were also more considerable, the Ryswells, Dustins, and some of the Mountain Clans alongside Mormont, Mazin, and Hornwood that Lyaella remembered burned into her brain from years of reading the same texts over and over.

They were still outnumbered, but much less so. All that was left were the Knights of the Vale. Boots slushing through some recent snowmelt, Lyaella wondered where in seven hells they were. Did something shift the sands of time? Did she cause them not to show up? Gods, Lya hoped not, but there was still time.

Yes, still plenty of time.

Her destination was the command tent, in which her father was hopefully still pouring over the various maps of the area in his obsessive, brooding demeanor. Hopefully he'd let her sit in, and they could talk. Lya didn't trust herself fully to badger confidently, but mayhaps a subtle nudging of her father into the right direction to avoid what Torrhen always used to say were the big mistakes of the original Battle of the Bastards.

Lyaella wasn't one for battles, but she was a good listener. She remembered his various points, and would see what her father's strategy was. Besides, Shireen wasn't here yet. A good development, for that would require the hour of the wolf to pass before it was even attempted.

A light still illuminating the inside of the command tent, Lyaella found her father still inside as expected. But from the muffled… well, not so muffled, voices coming from inside, he wasn't alone… "You think he's going to fall into your trap, he won't." She stiffened at the sound of her aunt's voice, and Sansa was agitated. Filled with emotion, something rare from her past but the times she was at the receiving end of it stuck to her mind. "He's the one who lays traps."

Her father replied, his tone both tired and annoyed. "He's overconfident."

"He plays with people," Sansa shot back. Were they talking about Ramsay Bolton? "He's far better at it than you, he's been doing it all his life."

Lyaella rolled her eyes. Typical Queen Sansa, arrogant to the extreme. Thinking she was better than everyone else, the smartest, the prettiest, the most adept at anything. Something all her aunts and uncle shared.

From his reply, her father must've thought something similar. "And what have I been doing all my life, playing with broomsticks? I've fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton…"

"You don't know him!"

A pregnant pause. Lyaella waited for her father to reply, but thinking on it… Her aunt made a reasonable point. Neither she nor her father knew about Ramsay Bolton, what he was like or how he thought. What are you getting at, Queen Sansa? She was riveted. "Alright, what do we do? How do we get Rickon back?" Uncle Rickon…

What Sansa said made Lyaella's jaw drop. "We don't." No… no… "He's already a dead man, even if he's alive at the moment or not."

Reacting if struck, Lyaella looked away. Was her aunt… condemning her uncle to death? They were blood — nothing should be stopping them from trying to save Rickon. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives… Wasn't that the common saying of House Stark? Her blood boiled. There had been a chance for her aunt to have been saved like Shireen said but it seemed that that chance had slipped away…

Her father and aunt hadn't stopped arguing. "Well what should I do differently?!"

"I don't know, I don't know anything about battles…" Sansa proclaimed. "Just don't do what he wants you to do." Lyaella snorted. That's the best advice you can give? From the derision in her father's voice, he felt the same, to which Sansa simply began to yell. "If you had asked me before then I would've told you not to attack till we had more men!"

"This is all we have! We've pleaded with every house that would take us…"

"It's still not enough!"

"It's what we have, Sansa!" Gods, her aunt was so stubborn. Some things apparently never changed. "Battles have been won against greater odds."

Expecting her aunt to scream again, instead there was a silence. A tense silence. One that even Lyaella outside the tent felt as a gust of bitterly cold wind from north of the Wall. As if the temperature simply dropped. "If Ramsay wins," Sansa murmured, her voice a mix of grit and… barely stomached agony. "I'm not going back there alive, do you understand me?"

'Do you know what rape means, Lya?' Her anger and indignancy at Sansa lessened, dropped in the midst of what she had come to know about her aunt that neither she nor Torrhen were ever allowed to while growing up. "I won't let him touch you again," her father replied, the same powerful promise he gave Lyaella. Promises that he kept, even if it meant exposing himself to peril. "I'll protect you, I promise."

But unlike Lya, who felt his promises as a balm to her worried, battered heart, Sansa reacted as if recoiling away. "No one can protect me." Again that same tone, bitter and resigned. "No one can protect anyone."

The Stark tents were all pitched together, so when Lyaella saw Sansa storm out of Jon's, the redhead only needed to march across the way to enter her own. She waited, but her father didn't follow. Almost did she brush aside everything that happen and go into the tent with her father, but Lyaella hesitated. So many unanswered questions — her aunt's actions, the malice or lack thereof behind them.

Lyaella wanted so badly to simply hate her, to expose her… to destroy her, and yet something compelled her to head to the tent of her aunt. Unlike before, after the parlay, it was unbidden. But the result was the same. Sansa wasn't crying, but she may as well have been when Lyaella pushed open the tent flap without being granted entry.

A pale and trembling Sansa looked up, her eyes narrowing even if there was no life behind them. "Lady Lyaella… you are impertinent…"

"'He's already a dead man.'" Acting boldly from the beginning, it feeling both so out of place and as if this was always her deep down, Lyaella drew confidence from how Sansa's eyes widened. "He's your brother, and yet you already think him dead in your mind."

If she was left stunned, Sansa rallied quickly. "You don't understand…"

"I understand blood, and kin. I'd risk my life for my brother no matter what, yet you think yours worthy to condemn to death?"

"Do you think I want my brother to die?!" Sansa screamed back, rising. As had been true all Lya's life, her aunt towered over her, even if she were closer in age to Lyaella now than to her future self. This time, Lyaella wouldn't be forced to cower. "You've met Ramsay, you know he won't let him live."

She crossed her arms. "You think me a stupid child, but don't treat me as one. Do me the respect of explaining it to me."

Waiting for the next condescending comment, ones Lya was so familiar with, surprisingly it didn't come. Sansa merely sighed and folded her hands together. "Ramsay… I do not know how you've grown up or who raised you, but whomever you think is the worst person you've ever met is still not as evil as Ramsay Snow." Lya's brow rose at the thought of it. "Ramsay… he's cruel, he's vain, he's completely without conscience or guilt, but the worst part is he likes to play games with people."

"What sort of games?"

Biting her lip, Sansa looked away. "He… things like hope, or friendship, or kindness he has no grasp of other than how to use it against another." She gulped. "A friend from childhood — Theon — he told me that once, Ramsay 'freed' him from captivity and let him go with only a horse, had men chase him and try to use him for pleasure, only to kill them with arrows as a gesture to save him."

"And what is evil about that?"

Sansa looked at her hollowly. "Pretending to be a good samaritan, he simply led Theon back to his cell… and weeks of further torture. Hope, kindness, all were simply ends to cause pain and terror."

Lyaella's expression softened. "And you think that is what he's doing with your brother, Rickon." Her Uncle Rickon… was that how he died? Killed by Ramsay Snow in some sort of sick game? It didn't make sense. Her tome of A Song of Ice and Fire claimed that her uncle died prior to the battle… How could Ramsay have killed him with a game?

"Yes." A tear formed on Sansa's face, and for once her aunt looked… human. "I've seen it happen, hope showing its face only to be extinguished, destroying just a little bit more of you in the process. This time the stakes are larger, that in which is at risk of being destroyed being everything." She began to pace, her dress brushing the ground. "Rickon is dead, because that is the only way Ramsay will ever end this. He is both a threat to Bolton control of Winterfell and a means to destroy Jon and I before a battle is even fought."

"That doesn't justify abandoning him. We could try and save him…!"

"It won't work, he's too smart." Lyaella knew irrational fears, but Sansa seemed completely rational in her thinking. "He expects that, expects us to do whatever it is to save him. We cannot play into that."

Lya took a step forward. "I heard your conversation with my f… with Lord Snow." Gods, that was a close catch. Lya wouldn't be distracted from something that was… a long time coming. "Why do you hate your family? Why do you have contempt for them?!" If she sounded shrill… gods help her there was so much to pour out. "You want your own brother dead!" She was shaking. "Is it because you want Winterfell for yourself?"

Nostrils flaring, Sansa was clear enraged. "How dare you make that accusation."

"It's true," Lyaella shot back. "Why else not speak of the Knights of the Vale?"

The accusation was made, the truth out. Sansa went as pale as a ghost, confirming everything. Everything she knew of Sansa, everything she could gather… it was clear her aunt had hidden the truth about the Knights of the Vale from her father. Gods, it all made sense now, all but the motive. Only a few weeks ago Lya would've believed every sort of vile speculation and assumption of her aunt. How cruel and power hungry she was, eager to betray Jon to seize control… but now there was an alternative.

If that was the case, now was the time she could see it. "How did you know about that? Did Brienne tell you?"

"Never mind how I know. That's not important." It would be too complicated to explain any sort of half-truths for how she knew this. It was far easier to simply brush it aside in favor of staying on topic. "With them you outnumber Ramsay, why not tell Jon?"

Sansa sat, staring at the fire. "Everything I've done… I've said, Ramsay's always three steps ahead, seeing everything. Ready to torture me." A small smile curled on her face. "Now it is I that is one step ahead."

Malicious, but not towards Jon. "But you didn't tell your brother."

"It only works if Jon acts as Jon does. Ramsay will be the one lured into my little game."

A high stakes game… if it wasn't her father at risk, Lyaella would be impressed. "Will he?"

"He's not going to budge, but Ramsay probably knows that. His plan likely involves Rickon… that's why I must believe him dead." The smile faded, the tears returning. "If you've ever known loss, Lyaella, you'd understand."

Oh, she knew loss. Mayhaps that was why Lyaella went to her aunt and for the first time, reached out to squeeze her hand. A show of affection, however slight. Sansa looked at her, a softness in her expression that was also completely new. Oh, how the four nameday old child would've wanted to see that from her aunt, before she stopped hoping and accepted the state of affairs. "If he were to make free of Ramsay…?"

"I cannot afford to hope again, Lyaella." She looked away again. "In that case he wins, and I cannot let him beat me. Not again."

Sighing, Lyaella squeezed Sansa's hand one more time. "I pray you find peace one day, Lady Stark."

"Peace is not something I have known in a long time, but I hope your prayers are more powerful than mine," was Sansa's reply.

Hit with the bitter nighttime cold as soon as the tent flap swished shut, Lyaella's knees buckled — overwhelmed by the weight of it all that only the greatest fortitude shown in her young life so far put off until now. Truly, had she ever spent as much time alone with her aunt ever before? Not that Lyaella could remember, for usually there was always someone else present. Torrhen or a servant or guard.

Queen Sansa was often alone, but never alone with anyone — let alone one of them. There was always… something that stopped her. Blocked any attempt at a personal connection, Lyaella never understanding what in spite of her silent speculation and Torrhen's very loud speculation after the fact. Yet it seemed to make sense, as much as her still inexperienced mind could piece together.

Was her aunt — both her aunt and yet not her aunt at the same time, given the madness that surrounded Lya's relation to her blood kin after Kinvara's magic sent her back to this time — simply too afraid of any sort of emotional connection? Lyaella still didn't grasp fully what Ramsay Bolton could've done. Mayhaps she never wanted to know the exact truth, but both from Sansa's reactions to her comments at Castle Black and the utterly revolting, terrifying air that Ramsay gave off during their earlier parlay did make it clear that Sansa had experienced something beyond the pale.

Something that made Lya feel sad for her.

Gods, she wished Torrhen were here. To see their aunt as she was — yes, this was not the aunt they grew up with. The bitterly cold monster. Yes, she was cold, but the monster hadn't formed yet… Instead, Lyaella saw much of herself in her aunt. Sad, alone, fearful of the world and desperate to find a way to end the torment and pain.

Dangerous, but also an opportunity…

"Lya!" A harsh whisper pulled her out of her musings. "Lya, is that you!"

Lyaella blinked, focusing through the moonlight to find… Shireen. "Oh, thank gods. Where were you?"

The Baratheon Princess emerged from the void, carrying two packs. "Apologies… had to wait for my guards to fall asleep."

That made sense. "Alright… let's do this then."

"I'm still skeptical about the merits of this."

"So am I," Lyaella winced. "But do we have a choice?" Shireen had no response to that.

---

He opened his eyes. He was no longer in the midst of the Great Grass Sea. Instead, he stood in the middle of a snow-covered courtyard he knew all too well. Though the people around him were quite unfamiliar. Instead of dozens of guards strolling about donned in leather armor bearing a snarling direwolf, the soldiers here wore a sigil of a flayed man, and the smallfolk kept their heads down and tried not to draw attention to themselves. Very different from the smallfolk he knew from the future who would go about their days carefree and happy unless they were focusing on himself or his sister.

Torrhen couldn't help but grin. Winterfell. Back in the era when it had been ruled by the Bolton's. It had worked. He was back in the North via greensight again. And he came this time on purpose.

It surprised Torrhen how war-torn the castle looked compared to the calm keep he'd known while growing up in the future, but he didn't allow himself the time to stop and absorb the details of how everything looked and quickly took off. He had to get to Rickon immediately, and thank the seven heavens his friend had told him in passing he was locked up in the kennels of all places. He wasn't the best at using greensight after all and this was the first time he'd ever managed to go into a vision on purpose. He had no idea how long he could keep sustaining it. Moreover, the kennels was probably the only place in Winterfell that would be easy for him to bust Rickon out from.

Phasing through a handful of guards who were conversing with a dark-haired man with a twisted sneer — was that the so-called Ramsay Snow? — Torrhen trudged unnoticed directly to the kennel entrance. Pausing only to check if no adults were inside, he quickly slipped in.

"Rickon!" He hissed, darting over to the barred off pens. "Rickon, it's me, Torrhen! Where are you?!"

A moment passed, but then a low whimper came from the cage at the far end of the line. "Ugh… Torrhen…?"

"Rickon!" He cheered. "Hey, it's me!"

Rickon looked like a mess. His auburn curls were even more tangled and dirtier than they had been the last time they saw each other, and he was shivering violently in his all but thread-bare wildling furs as he curled up in a ball in the back corner. Even so, the boy blinked repeatedly when he saw him there, and did his best to sit up.

"Torrhen…? Where did you—? How did you—? What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you, of course. Sit tight and I'll bust you out. Where's Shaggydog?"

"Over there," Rickon murmured, nodding to another pen two cages down, but his incredulous stare had yet to fade. "What d'you mean? There's no way out, and I've tried everything. The bars are too strong. You'd have to break them to get me out, and that'll make too much noise. Ramsay and his men would be in here in seconds!"

"Nope, there's another way, Rickon. Believe it!"

"What're you…?"

Waving away his friends' perplexity, Torrhen strolled over to the stone wall he and Lyaella knew all too well in the future. Kneeling down on all fours, he found the same cranny the two of them used all the time and reached inside. He held his breath, mentally praying the spare key was there. In the name of the Old God's, the Seven, and the Lord of Light, please let the Bolton's not know about the extra key to the kennel pens. Let it still be hidden in this little hole and not elsewhere…

His fingers fumbled around for a few moments… and then they brushed against something solid.

Torrhen's face split into a beaming grin. "Ha! I knew it!" He cheered, hopping back up. Sure enough, the familiar brass key was in his palm, shinier than he knew it be in the future, but still it was here.

Rickon was still as puzzled as ever. "Torrhen…?"

He turned back to his friend, waving the key happily. "Thank all the god's you know we became friends, Rickon. Without me, you'd be doomed."

Rickon was flabbergasted, his wide eyes fixated on the key. "What the—? That's the—! How did you know that was there?! I didn't even know!"

Torrhen only grinned. "It's a secret. I'll never tell."

"Screw that! I deserve an explanation on how you know a secret about Winterfell that even I didn't know! Who — Who are you?!"

He shook his head and approached Shaggydog's cage. "Sorry, Rickon. I can't tell you that. All you need to know is that I'm your friend, and I wanna make sure you live tomorrow. Now, sit tight. I'll bust you and Shaggy out."

But Rickon would not be dissuaded. "No!" He snarled, glaring stonily as he grasped onto the kennel bars with both hands. "You tell me right here, right now who the hell you are, Torrhen Snow, and how in seven hell's you know a secret about my family's keep!"

Torrhen scowled as he unlocked the direwolf's pen. The wolf trotted out, nuzzling up against his side to express his gratitude. "We don't have time for this. Now, hush up! D'you want everyone—?"

"Tell me! Or I won't tell you about—!"

"Keep shouting like that, Lord Stark, and I'll assume you wish to die now rather than tomorrow."

Torrhen's breath hitched. He didn't recognize that overly pleasant voice, but judging by how Rickon suddenly froze and went white, he had a fairly good guess as to who it was.

"Shaggydog, back in the cage!" He hissed.

The wolf snarled, clearly against that order.

"Shaggy! Do as Torrhen says! Get back in the pen! Now!" Rickon ordered.

Shaggydog growled, but reluctantly followed his master's orders and trudged back inside. Torrhen didn't dare fully close the cage door again, but he shut it enough to make it appear locked at first glance. If the worst happened, it was better to keep at least this pen unlocked so at least one of them would escape tonight.

Moments later, the dark-haired man with the vicious sneer appeared in the open doorway. "You do know you will be dying tomorrow, don't you, Lord Stark? Are you calling out to put in your request for how you wish to die?"

His piercing eyes twinkled with cruelty as he casually strolled inside, and Torrhen couldn't help but feel rather relieved he was nothing but a ghost to this man as he phased through him on his way to Rickon's cell, oblivious to his presence. And to his further relief, he didn't notice that Shaggydog's cage door was opened just the slightest crack.

Rickon however was sweating profusely, and Torrhen could tell it took all his uncle's willpower to not instinctively crawl back from the bars to distance himself from his new visitor. "Lord Ramsay…"

"If you're wishing for something as simple as a quick hanging, that won't be happening. No, no. Far too quick, and not nearly grand enough for the last trueborn son of the great Ned Stark. Beheading won't be it either. It wouldn't suffice for my beloved wife and your bastard brother. I have something far better in store for you, little lord."

Torrhen stared. So this was indeed Ramsay Snow. He truly was insane, judging by how gleeful his grin was as he mused over his future uncle's death. He remembered the details of Rickon's death all too well from the story of the famous Battle for the Bastards in the tome in the future. Ramsay played a game with his future father to expose him alone in the middle of the battlefield by having his uncle run to him while being pursued by arrows. Just when it seemed like his father would rescue him, Ramsay shot him clean through the heart. And then his father stood alone all in the middle of the battlefield as the conflict began.

Torrhen's blood boiled with pure dragon fire at the very memory of the first time he read about his uncle's death in his history book in the future. That was not going to happen. Not again. He did not travel back in time to allow this lunatic to murder his uncle like that in a sick game.

Rickon was all but oblivious to his musings however and thickly gulped. "Am I… Am I to be fed to your hounds then, my lord…? Like you promised you'd do in that letter you sent to my brother?"

Ramsay grinned. "That was just a taunt for your bastard brother, but come to think of it… perhaps I should add them in for the fun I plan for tomorrow. Having them chasing you while I shoot—"

With a roar, Torrhen ripped open the cage door to Shaggydog's pen. Shaggydog didn't need any prompting, and quick as a flash he pounced on Ramsay.

Ramsay roared in pain as Shaggydog clawed and bit at him, but before the wolf could get more than a few bites and slashes in, two Bolton guards appeared in the kennel entryway. Torrhen flew at them, dropping the spare key in his haste as he prepared to shove them back outside, but it was no use. His ghostly self had no effect on them as they scrambled inside to assist Ramsay.

Rickon gasped. "Shaggy! Behind you!"

Luckily, Shaggydog listened to his young master and avoided their blades when they tried to strike him. He leapt off Ramsay, snarling madly with his hackles raised as he bounded forward. The guards yelped and cowered away against the back most wall.

For a long moment, all was silent in the kennel aside from Shaggydog's snarls and Ramsay's pained groans as he applied pressure against the vicious, bloody claw marks now etched against the right side of his face… but then loud shouting and the pounding of footsteps growing louder just outside snapped everyone back to reality.

Sparing a fleeting look back at Rickon, Shaggydog snarled one last time at Ramsay and the guards, then lunged forward toward the exit. He bent his head towards the ground as he ran, but didn't dare break his stride.

Rickon jolted, as did the invisible Torrhen. "Shaggy! Where are you going?! Don't leave me here!"

"Stupid mutt! You're a fucking direwolf! Don't abandon your master!" Torrhen shouted.

It was no use, Shaggydog was already gone, and they could hear the startled yelps and screams from everyone outside as the wolf made his escape.

Despite the pain from his injuries, Ramsay forced himself to laugh as he got back to his feet. "So much for loyalty from your great companion, little lord. I'd say your last hope is gone."

Rickon didn't even acknowledge him. He just stared in frozen despair at the empty archway leading outside.

Even Torrhen was speechless. As soon as the guards led Ramsay back out again to take him to the maester for his injuries, he lunged to the ground, searching desperately for the spare key as he babbled his disbelief. "What the fuck…? Why would Shaggydog…? You treat your direwolf well, don't you, Rickon?"

"Of course I do! I don't… I don't understand! Why would Shaggy just… just abandon me like that?!"

"Don't ask me! He's your direwolf, after all…! Fuck it all! Where's the key?!"

"You lost it?! You drop the key after only freeing my selfish wolf out of his pen?! You drop it before freeing me?!"

"Hey, you were the one who started yelling before, Rickon! If you'd just kept your mouth shut, Ramsay wouldn't have come in, and if he hadn't come in, I wouldn't have gotten startled and—!"

A sudden, unexpected jolt rammed into Torrhen's body, and his eyes went wide. Oh, no…

"Torrhen," Rickon exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Torrhen gulped, pressing a hand to his chest. "It's — It's happening again! I think I'm outta time! I'm getting pulled back to reality!"

"What?! No!"

"I-I-I can't control this part, Rickon! I don't know what—!" Another jolt, stronger this time. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I couldn't save you!"

Rickon shook his head, his face frantic as he lunged to the cage bars, reaching out towards him desperately. "Wait, wait please! You need to know, Torrhen! I think I've seen your—!"

A third jolt, and then everything in Torrhen's vision vanished in a burst of white light.

---

She drummed her fingers against her knee.

"Lyaella, please don't do that. It's making me anxious."

"Oh, okay, Shireen…"

She stilled her fingers… only to start tapping the toe of her boot.

"Don't do that either, Dragon Girl! Yeh're gonna wake up Dryn, here!"

"Sorry, Munda…"

She stopped her tapping… but then began biting her lip.

"Lyaella!"

"Knock it off, Crow Princess!"

Lyaella squeaked as she jumped in her chair. "S-Sorry! I'm sorry! I… I can't help it… I'm scared about tomorrow…"

The girls were all sitting inside Shireen's private tent. With all the battle meetings for the night finally done, all that was left for anyone to do was get a good night's sleep before tomorrow's big battle. Munda had apparently been tasked by Tormund to watch over her baby brother for the night since he and the other men would be up late handling all the last minute war preparations, so she'd literally dragged her half-asleep little brother with her to their tent so she could spend the night with them instead rather than staying in the Free Folk's grounds. The little tyke was like a miniature copy of Tormund. Chubby cheeks, thick curls as red as his fathers' and Munda's, and from the split second Lyaella had seen of them before he curled up against Ghost and dozed off again as soon as he Munda tucked him in with some of Shireen's extra blankets, had eyes as blue as the sky on a perfect winter day.

Shireen sighed. "I know you are, Lyaella. I am too, but getting all nervous like this isn't going to help, you know."

"Aye, she's right, Dragon Girl. Gettin' all wound up now ain't gonna do yeh any good," Munda agreed. "All it's gonna do is make yeh even more of a nervous wreck than yeh already are."

From his perch in the corner, Lyaella saw Ghost bob his head as though he too agreed with her friends. Were it not for the fact he was being the snuggle buddy of little Dryn right now, she suspected her future father's wolf would trot over and nuzzle her to help her calm down.

"Well, I don't know what else to do right now but worry… What if things go wrong? What if—?"

A sudden yell from outside cut her off, followed by several more yells and cries of surprise. The children whipped around and Ghost's head instantly snapped up. Little Dryn was so tuckered out though that he barely noticed Ghost's alarm. He just whimpered and curled up tighter into his blankets while snuggling closer to the direwolf.

"Bloody hell…! What's all the screamin' about?!"

"I'm not sure, but we should probably — Wait, Lyaella—!"

"Ghost, stay here. Watch over Dryn."

Lyaella ignored Shireen's cries and shoved the tent flaps out of her way as she scrambled outside. Whatever was going on right now was definitely not part of the history she remembered from her history book in the future. Despite her murky recollections of the battle itself, one thing she did know was that as far as Jon's war camp was concerned, nothing of note happened the night before it took place. Had her words to Ramsay at the parley caused some sort of sneak attack to happen right before the civil war? If so, she should have kept her mouth shut like her future father had warned her.

But to Lyaella's relief, there was no sign of danger out in the campgrounds. People were flocking to one particular area and seemed surprised and confused by something, but no one was rushing to grab weapons or screaming war cries as they rushed to defend themselves. How very curious…

Her two friends were right on her heels. "Lyaella! Lyaella, what's going on?!"

"Aye! Are we bein' attacked?!"

"I-I-I don't know, but I don't think it's Ramsay. Let's go see."

Shireen seemed apprehensive, but Munda immediately calmed and nodded earnestly. Jutting out her chin she waved the others to follow her as she led the way. Lyaella moved to follow, but Shireen tugged on the hem of her cloak.

"Lyaella, what's going on? You didn't tell me anything about there being some sort of… well, whatever this is tonight. Why didn't you say anything?"

"As far as I know, nothing happened tonight before the battle in my world, Shireen. I'm as clueless as you are, I swear."

Shireen blinked, but slowly let go of her cloak so they could follow their Free Folk friend.

Everyone was crowding around the entrance to Jon and Sansa's private tent, murmuring amongst themselves. The children had to shove their way past countless adults to get to the front, but even so no one spared them a second glance or even tried stepping aside so they too could see what was happening. Lyaella personally thought this was very rude of their fellow onlookers… until she squeezed past the last soldier and saw what all the commotion was. She went rigid, her eyes going impossibly wide.

Jon and Sansa were at the entrance of their tent while their closest advisors surrounded them, but for once the two were all but oblivious to the actions of everyone else. They were crouched on their knees in the cold snow as they petted and ran their fingers through the thick, tangled black fur of a rather large and dirty direwolf that looked so much like another direwolf she'd known almost all her life.

Lyaella sucked in a breath, her heart leaping with hope. "Shadow…?" she breathed.

Shireen and Munda gaped at her.

"Wait, Lyaella—?"

"Shadow? Isn't that what yeh said yer—?"

"Shadow!" Lyaella cried, her smile threatening to split her face as she broke into a run. "It's you! Shadow!"

All eyes snapped to her as she sprinted, half-crying half-laughing, towards the black direwolf being greeted by Jon and Sansa. For the first time, Lyaella didn't spare her father or aunt a second glance. Shadow was here! He was here, in the war camp! Which meant Torrhen was here, too!

"Shadow! Shadow, I missed you! It's me, Lyaella! Where have you been, and how's Tory been since—?"

Jon's arm suddenly shot out, blocking her before she could tackle the direwolf in her attempted hug. "Don't, Lyaella."

"What? But, Jon! Jon, this is—!"

But Jon shook his head. "This isn't your brother's direwolf, Lyaella. This… This is our brother Rickon's direwolf. Shaggydog."

Lyaella blinked, and quickly looked back at the beast in question. Up until now, the black wolf had been facing Jon and Sansa as they petted him, but upon her sudden arrival it turned to give her a questioning look. The moment she saw its eyes, Lyaella's joy plummeted. Jon was right, it really wasn't Shadow. Although its fur was just as thick and the exact same shade of black as her brother's wolf, Shadow had red eyes which he'd inherited from Ghost. This wolf's eyes were coal black.

Oh, that was embarrassing. But by blood this wolf was Shadow's uncle so of course they might share features.

Shaggydog cocked his head at her, seemingly curious, then leaned forward a bit to sniff at her dress. Lyaella blinked, but before she could do anything the wolf's tail suddenly started wagging frenziedly as he pressed up against her so hard, she squeaked and fell backward.

"Shaggydog! Stop that!" Sansa cried, quickly trying to push the wolf away. "That's rude!"

The onlookers murmured curiously as Lyaella struggled to stand from the snow drift. In the back of her mind, she processed that more of them were wondering once again if she truly was an unknown Stark bastard upon seeing how the direwolf reacted to her, but for once she paid little mind to their musings. Shaggydog had her full, undivided attention as he shoved his head against her back and started pressing against her again so hard, she was forced to move several paces to keep from falling over a second time.

"Oi! Stop that, boy!" Jon ordered, quickly seizing a fistful of fur.

But Shaggydog would not be dissuaded. He growled furiously as he struggled against Jon's grip. He was desperate to reach her, but Lyaella only backed away in alarm, cowering against her equally puzzled friends.

"Bloody hell, Crow Girl… Are yeh hidin' meat on yeh or somethin'?" Munda blurted out, her eyes wide.

She shook her head frantically. "N-No! No, of course not!"

Shireen could only stare. "But then why is it—?"

She was cut off by the wolf suddenly dropping from its jaws something so small, no one had even noticed it until now in order to throw back its head and nip at Jon's hand. Not hard enough to harm, just enough to startle him. And it worked. No sooner had Jon released him did Shaggydog scoop up the small object again and pounced on Lyaella.

She squealed, but Shaggydog didn't harm her. Instead, he dropped at her feet the small item and sat back on his haunches, tail still wagging as he panted restlessly.

Lyaella blinked and scooped it up. It was a key. A brass key, to be exact… one which she knew quite well from the future.

"What's that?" Sansa demanded, she and Jon hurrying to her side. "What do you have there?"

Lyaella ignored her. Her mind was whirling as she stared wide-eyed at the familiar key. How was this possible? If Shaggydog was still alive right now and had brought her the kennel key, that meant things had changed completely from how they went in the original timeline. But how? And why? Had her little monologue to Ramsay the other day truly caused such a major change in the timeline to allow her future uncle's direwolf to escape with this key? Moreover, why did Shaggydog seem determined to bring this key to her, specifically? She'd never met him before, be it in the present or the future? Why was he so attached to her?

It wasn't until a familiar hand entered her line of sight to pluck the key from her grasp that she snapped back to reality. "Hey!" She cried, yanking it back just before Jon could take it from her.

"What is that, Lyaella? I just want to see."

"It's a key," she murmured, holding it up so everyone could take a look. "It's… It's the key to the Winterfell kennels."

Her father looked confused. "Are you sure?"

"How could she know?" Queen Sansa's voice wasn't accusatory, but she did look skeptical. "It looks like just an ordinary key."

Lya opened her mouth to speak, only to think better of it. She's right, how would I know?

"I mean… it could be the key to the kennel?" Jon said, scratching his temple.

The kennels wouldn't be a place just anyone would know. Only someone who both grew up in Winterfell and spent time actually caring for and tending to the dogs of the keep would know about the place and the shape of the keys. Her father must've because his chambers were next to the kennels. Lyaella and Torrhen knew it because they were the ones that tended to Shadow and Sōnar, both of whom lived in the kennels and were neglected by the kennelmaster and other servants. Sansa, whose direwolf likely stayed with her when it was alive, wouldn't know — and connected to that, Lyaella wouldn't be one who would know unless she confirmed that she grew up or at least visited Winterfell.

She wasn't about to admit that now. "I mean, where else would Ramsay keep Shaggydog? In the kitchens?"

"She's got a point, King Crow," Tormund shrugged.

"Suppose so," Jon replied, and for her part Sansa merely nodded.

Her aunt was being reasonable… mayhaps thanks to their conversation, or as Lyaella noted before she wasn't too far gone yet. Good, because the wheels were turning in Lya's head about yet another thing she could change. Fixing fate, restoring someone lost to her future and altering everything going forward. "If Shaggydog was in the kennels then your brother must be too."

Sansa tensed. "Ramsay held Theon there… I think Lyaella is right." She covered her face with her hands. "Poor Rickon."

"It doesn't have to stay this way." Both her father and aunt stared at her. "We can go in and save him. A small force can sneak in, get him out, and mayhaps cause some chaos among Ramsay's soldiers…"

"That would be too dangerous a gamble," Jon replied, shaking his head. "Ramsay would have his guard up for something like that since he did it to Stannis…"

"Alright." She held up her hands. "Forget the sabotage and focus on getting Rickon out."

"How would you even get in?" Sansa asked.

Before Lyaella could reply with her half-truth suggestions, cloaking herself with enough smoke to avoid uncomfortable truths, Jon interjected. "We could disguise some guards to look like smallfolk to walk in through the main gate." Thank you, Father. "It'd be dangerous, though. Very dangerous… I'd have to go myself. I couldn't ask anyone to risk their lives in this, especially when it's our brother in danger. And I know the easiest way to reach the kennels without drawing attention. It'd have to be me."

Yipping, Shaggydog's tail wagged on the snowy ground. Lyaella beamed up at him. She knew the Winterfell courtyard like the back of her hand, so technically she could do this, too. But they didn't need to know that, not when she couldn't explain it with only vague half-truths.

"Jon." Sansa shook her head. "Don't you find this all to be odd?"

"How so?"

"I mean… Shaggydog just escapes from Ramsay's custody, the bonded wolf to his best hostage, with the key to the damned kennels. I mean… do we even know that Rickon's there?"

Lyaella frowned. "It's common sense, where else would he keep them? You said it yourself that Theon Greyjoy was in the kennels."

Sansa sighed. "Alright, that's fair, Lyaella. But Ramsay… this is something he would do. Lure us in to simply slaughter us. Rickon's probably dead right now and he's trying to get our best men inside to ambush — mayhaps even you yourself, Jon."

Trying to be reasonable, Lyaella could understand why her aunt was paranoid and overly cautious, especially after their talk. But still, it frustrated her. "We have a duty to take any chance to save Rickon Stark. We should take it!"

"We have a duty to beat Ramsay and win the day. We can't afford distractions and obvious traps." Sansa looked at Jon, silently pleading just as Lyaella was doing.

Eyes flickering between the two of them, Jon hung his head. "We're already at enough of a disadvantage as it is. I'm sorry, Lya, but my sister is right. This is a sort of trick he would pull, and our army is too small for me to blunder right into an ambush."

"But Jon—!"

"It's late, Lyaella. We all need to get some sleep. You and the other Free Folk children will be riding back to Castle Black at first light before the battle, after all."

"Indeed. And Ser Davos has advised that you join them, Lady Shireen. All the troops in the Stormlands army will completely understand considering what happened to your mother."

Nodding at his sister's words, Jon offered a sad smile and squeezed her shoulder affectionately before waving away the crowd. Nodding for them to return to Shireen's tent, he motioned for Sansa to follow him before disappearing again inside their own.

Lyaella didn't move, though. She was as still as a statue after what had just happened… but her mind was not blank.

Munda scowled, kicking her boot at a snow clump. "Argh, fuckin' Southerners… Too scared of some pansy to even try rescuin' their own blood?"

She clutched the key even tighter, shaking with fury.

Even Shireen was annoyed. "I don't believe it. Truly, I don't. I mean, they know what Ramsay is like, and they're still willing to leave their little brother there? They won't even try to save him?"

She clenched her teeth, grinding hard.

"I can't believe Pappa ain't sayin' nothin'. Were this me, Dryn, or Yerrah caught by Thenn's, he'd be chargin' in with his axe already. He'd stop at nothin' to get us out were we the one's caught…"

She squeezed her eyes shut, silently willing her anger to subside—

"My father would've done that for me, too. He wasn't always the most affectionate type, but he would've torn apart Winterfell with his bare hands if I were the one Ramsay had captured…"

Lyaella whipped around, and Shireen and Munda both jumped when they saw the red rage burning in her stormy gray eyes. "Obviously House Stark isn't nearly as honorable as they believe themselves to be."

And with that she spun on her heel and marched off, but not in the direction of Shireen's private tent.

Exchanging looks of alarm, Shireen and Munda scrambled after her. "Lyaella! Lyaella, what are you doing?"

"Aye, Crow Girl! Where the bloody hell are yeh—?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Shireen?" Lyaella hissed, marching straight towards a trio of horses tied up near a spare supply wagon. "I'm doing the right thing, which means doing what needs to be done. And that should make it fairly obvious as to where I'm going, Munda."

Munda gaped, but Shireen paled. "Lyaella, you don't mean—?"

"If Jon and Lady Bolster won't do anything to change the future for the better when a miracle lands right in our laps, then I will." Lyaella shuffled through the supplies in the back of the cart, fumbling around until she found a well-worn saddle and reins. Approaching the first horse, she started tacking him up. "I'm going to Winterfell, and I'm getting Rickon out. I would do it for Torrhen were it him in his place right now."

Munda gaped at her, shaking her head in disbelief. "Yeh're mad. That's why yer Southern people wanna kill yeh fer yer real hair color, aye? Madness? Well, they're right about yeh bein' mad. Yeh are. Mad. Off yer rocker, mad."

"This isn't madness, Munda. This is doing what no one else is willing to do." The horse whinnied as she struggled to strap the saddle in place, but a few kind pats quieted it down. "I will do what is right, even if Lady Bolster has convinced Jon that it's impossible."

"But Lyaella—!"

"I might not be very brave when it comes to standing up for myself, Shireen, nor am I all that smart, but I care and will do what needs to be done for the people I love. I still hate Lady Bolster, but Jon… he'll lose Rickon tomorrow if I don't do this. I'm just changing the future for the better."

All was silent aside from the whistling wind for a few moments as she continued preparing her horse, but then Shireen let out a lengthy sigh. "Well, good thing there's a large cart here, then." She rolled back the sleeves of her wool cloak and climbed into the back, rummaging about until she found the proper hitching harness. "Best get that saddle off, Lya. You won't be needing it."

Lyaella gaped. "What?"

"I'm not letting you go alone. I'm going with you."

Munda grinned. "Aye, me too."

"N-No, absolutely not! I — I can't ask either of you to—!"

"Yeh ain't askin', Dragon Girl. We're offerin'."

Shireen nodded. "That's right. And moreover, do you honestly think you can just walk into Winterfell and rescue Rickon Stark alone, without any help at all?"

"Well… I know it won't be easy, but—"

"Easy? That is stupidity. Plain and simple. You're going to need help, Lyaella. That's a fact."

Lyaella bit her lip, fiddling with her necklace and music box key. She wasn't entirely comfortable dragging her two friends with her in this scheme, but she couldn't deny that Shireen had a point. She knew Winterfell like the back of her hand, but getting Rickon out safely would be a lot easier if she had help. But even so…

Munda seemed to read the conflict in her eyes and scowled. "Yeh don't wanna brin' us? Fine. But I'm gonna shout out for the whole camp to hear me what yeh're doin' the second yeh're outta sight. I's already lost Yerrah. I ain't losin' yeh too just 'cause yeh're bein' daft."

"Munda!"

Shireen jutted her chin. "We're coming with you, Lyaella. End of story."

A long moment passed before Lyaella sighed in resignation. "Alright. But you both do what I say, when I say it. No arguments. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Aye, whatever yeh say, Crow Princess."

"Don't call me that, Munda. Now, follow me."

"Huh?"

"What? But Crow Girl, I thought we were—"

"I need to grab a few more supplies anyway, but if you're both coming too, then we need to go back to your tent, Shireen. You two need hooded cloaks, and you both need to change. You're too overdressed, Shireen, and Munda you need to get out of those Free Folk furs."

Her friends were puzzled, but they reluctantly followed her back to camp. After finding Shireen and Munda two threadbare hooded cloaks and the two plainest dresses in Shireen's trunk for them to wear, Lyaella gathered her own supplies from her trunk. It was pure luck that Ghost had also dozed off with little Dryn while they collected their things. Had her father's direwolf still been awake and alert while they gathered their gear, he would have howled at the moon waking the whole camp to stop them.

Before returning to the cart, she also — to her friends' bafflement — had the three of them grab a trio of discarded wooden buckets left unattended near a half-frozen wooden tub. Dumping the buckets, Dark Sister, a spare hooded cloak for Rickon, and two long cords of thin leather in the back of the wagon, she scooped up a handful of snow and began drenching it all over her dress and cloak.

Munda gaped. "What the bloody hell are yeh doin'?"

"Dirtying up. If this plan is going to work, we need to pass ourselves off as regular smallfolk children. Northern smallfolk children wear threadbare, simple clothes. Dirty simple clothes. And Shireen? I… I don't mean to be rude, but you're going to have to find some muck and slather it all over your face, especially on the right side. You need to hide your greyscale scars."

Understanding her logic, Shireen and Munda followed her lead. "And what about the buckets?" Shireen asked, fisting through some particularly grimy slush and dousing it all over her face. "What are they for?"

"Water buckets. We're going to enter the Winterfell courtyard pretending we're there to fetch water. That's our excuse for getting in."

They nodded, and by the time the camp watchmen began nodding off at their posts, they were ready and quickly set off.

Lyaella passed Shireen the reins as she tugged off her cloak and rooted through the pockets. "Keep following this snowy trail for about a quarter mile," she ordered, fishing out her sewing kit. "By then you'll see Winterfell in the distance."

Measuring out both pieces of leather, she used Dark Sister's blade to cut approximately the amounts she needed and hurriedly threaded a needle. She worked swiftly, not caring if her stitches were neat. All that mattered was that both of these mini projects would hold together for at least a good solid hour. She finished in record time too, as she finished just as the lights of the castle appeared in the distance.

Turning to Munda, she swiped her friends' axe from where it lay by her feet and inserted it into the small pouch of the first makeshift over-the-shoulder holster she'd made. "Here. Sling this on over your shoulders, so the axe is hanging behind you. Keep your cloak on the whole time, and the guards won't see it."

Munda blinked. "That's… clever. Very clever. Why d'yeh think yeh're dumb, Dragon Girl? Yeh're really smart."

Lyaella sheepishly shrugged and tugged Dark Sister's makeshift holster over her head. "It's not all that impressive, really. Shoulder holsters aren't all that practical since it's hard to get weapons out quickly. If it weren't for the fact we're trying to be sneaky, I'd have grabbed us normal weapon belts. Still, as stupid as I am, I'm not brainless enough to go into Winterfell without a weapon." She slipped back on her cloak and tucked the extra one for Rickon under her arm inside. Munda followed suit. They looked a little lumpier compared to Shireen, but it was passable. Only a rather observant onlooker would suspect they weren't bundled up in extra furs underneath.

Shireen groaned. "Then I guess that makes me the stupidest one between us. I didn't think to grab any weapons back at camp…"

Munda stared at her, incredulous. "Wow… I thought yer Southern people called yeh a princess or somethin', Stag Girl? Yeh might know a lot 'bout history and can read and write, but yeh ain't got a lick of common sense. Here," she passed her a small hunting knife tucked away in her dress pocket. "It ain't much, but better than nothin.'"

"Oh, thank you, Munda."

"Forget the flowery words. Thank me by usin' yer brain for common sense from now on. I'll even give yeh some pointers on how to protect yerself with that blade if yeh want. Yeh'd make a piss poor Southern queen if yeh don't got the brains to know yeh should always carry somethin' yeh can protect yerself with."

Shireen made a face, but Lyaella cut her off before she could say anything. "Munda, I intend no offense, but please try to not to talk too much while we do this. Your accent and speaking pattern is very… distinctive. People will immediately know you're Free Folk if they hear you."

"What? But I—"

"'No arguments,' remember? You agreed to that."

Munda shot her a glare, but she didn't get the chance to respond. They were officially at the edge of Wintertown.

Tying the horse at a hitching post by the first hut at the far edge of simple village, the girls climbed out from the back of the wagon. Pulling up the hoods of their cloaks, they collected their empty buckets and quietly made their way across town towards the castle.

"Wouldn't it have been better to bring the wagon a bit closer?" Shireen muttered. "I mean, we need to fill these up while we're inside to keep up this charade. They're going to be heavy, Lyaella. It'll be hard lugging these all the way across town again, so we'll be slow. We'll have to get out fast once we've got Rickon with us."

Lyaella shook her head. "If any guards are looking out towards Wintertown right now, they see us walking through town with buckets. For all they know, they think we're girls from town who simply need water from the well."

"They'll still be heavy, Crow Girl, and we're gonna be slow."

"Don't worry, Munda. We'll leave the buckets once we're out of sight behind some huts and then we'll be able to move faster." Lyaella looked to Shireen and lowered her voice so only she could hear. "I purposely had us enter Wintertown from the darkest viewpoint from the ramparts. Even by torchlight, it's almost impossible to fully see someone entering or leaving the town from the castle walls unless you know the trick in where to keep an eye out for movement. The Bolton guards won't know those tricks."

Shireen raised a brow, and then nodded in acceptance.

They were approaching the main gate now, and saw the Bolton guards on duty standing on either side.

Shireen and Munda both faltered in their step, momentarily unsure of themselves. They were children, but the world had shaped the two of them to always be confident and sure of themselves no matter the circumstances. To act meek and scared of everything was not something either of them were accustomed to. They froze out of uncertainty, not knowing how to portray themselves appropriately.

But to be wary and fearful of other people in general was all but second nature for Lyaella. She bumped both their shoulders with her own, pretending to trip. "Eyes down!" She hissed, bowing her head. "We're little girls, and we're terrified to be doing this errand for our parents in the village! Don't talk, and don't look up until we're inside!"

They hastily obliged, ducking their chins as they followed her. The Bolton soldiers looked exhausted by the late hour. One was leaning back against the castle wall and had his head drooping as he teetered at the edge between staying awake and dozing off, while the other repeatedly shook his head and swung his arms back and forth to keep moving and alert. Being children, they were of little interest to the night guards and they strolled through the open gate without a second glance…

…until a throaty cough unexpectedly erupted from Lyaella's throat.

The half-asleep guard's head shot dazedly rose at the noise, while the one hopping back and forth glanced back over his shoulder distractedly. "Ugh! Stay home if you're sick, girl! There's a battle tomorrow, Lord Ramsay will flay us alive if the men get sick and can't fight!"

Lyaella swallowed and pressed her hand to her chest. "S-Sorry…" she squeaked, ignoring the looks of alarm that suddenly flashed across her friends' faces. "We'll be quick…"

Not waiting for a reply, she waved for Shireen and Munda to follow and walked as normally as she could further into the castle courtyard.

Shireen tugged on her cloak sleeve. "Lyaella, are your lungs—?"

"Not now, Shireen."

"But Crow Girl—!"

"No talking, Munda! I'm… I'm fine!"

Shireen and Munda exchanged worried looks after her slight pause between her words, but Lyaella just pressed her hand firmer to her chest and continued along. She was fine, really. It was just a minor flare up, nothing more. And even if it wasn't, they had to ignore it for now. They had five minutes to fill their pails, dart into the kennels, free Rickon, and get out. Not a second more. She was capable of keeping herself together for five minutes until they got back to the wagon. She knew she was.

It was lucky the courtyard well was situated only a few yards away from the castle kennels, so the girls wasted no time in heading straight there. But despite her logical mind telling her to keep her chin bent and not draw attention to herself, Lyaella couldn't help how her eyes darted about in shock as she took in the overall appearance of Winterfell in the present. Bolton guards marched about the grounds as they handled last minute preparations for the great battle at dawn, and the smallfolk still awake at this hour did their best to stay small and out of the way, afraid of attracting their notice. Flimsy repairs that had been underway to fix the damage the castle had sustained from either the Greyjoy or Bolton takeover over the course of the War of the Five Kings were now being hurriedly attended to so as to not allow the Stark loyalists tomorrow the opportunity to breach the keep.

But what truly sickened Lyaella and made her nearly gag was the heavy cross situated in the center of the grounds. That definitely did not exist in the Winterfell she'd grown up in the future. No one in her timeline ever dared to flay a middle-aged man so much that his corpse no longer had any recognizable skin attached…

Shireen went white when she saw it. "R'hollor save us…"

"Don't — Don't look at it," Lyaella croaked, swallowing thickly not from her breathing, but rather her nauseousness. "Just keep moving."

Munda looked rather green, but she nodded and nudged Shireen pointedly to keep going.

They reached the well without any problems, no one giving any of them a second glance. Setting her bucket down on the well itself, she signaled for Shireen to do the same and reached into her pocket for the spare kennel key. "Munda, fill up the buckets and act as… as lookout. Shireen and I will go in. If… If anyone comes over, knock one of the buckets over as… loudly as you can."

The redhead huffed, annoyed to be assigned such an unexciting task, but seized the end of the well rope and worked to tie it around the handle of her own empty bucket. Smiling in gratitude, Lyaella waved Shireen to stay close before taking a quick peek around to make sure no one was watching them, then darted through the open archway entrance of the Winterfell kennels.

It was just as cold and dark amongst the pens as she remembered them to be in the future. Every shadow jumped at even the slightest movement. Every tiptoed step echoed no matter how quietly one walked. Bran the Builder really should've just been honest with everyone and admitted to the world that the kennels were simply Winterfell's secondary, official prison. The official one was in the castle dungeons, but the kennels themselves were a prison too. A prison for animals or anyone whom the current lord of the keep saw no differently than an animal to be kept in chains.

She and Shireen peered between the bars in the first few cells, but upon finding no one inside, Lyaella started biting her lip. "Hello…?" She whispered, hesitant. "Is… Is anyone here?"

"Rickon Stark…?" Shireen added, moving further down row to peer into another cage. "If you're here, please say something!"

A few seconds passed, but then a shadow moved from the cage at the very end of the row. "Huh…? What's going…?"

Hope swelled in Lyaella's chest, and she beelined to the pen bars. Sitting against the back wall of the tiny cell was a boy around her age with dirty auburn curls and dressed in Free Folk furs. He was rubbing his teary eyes as he tried to wake up, but Lyaella knew she didn't need to check to see if they were the Stark gray or not. She remembered the statue for Rickon Stark in the crypts in her world, and this boy's face was identical to the one carved in stone.

"It's you…" she murmured, a smile spreading across her face as she gazed upon the uncle she'd never met. "It's really you…"

Shaking off his sleepiness, Rickon finally looked over her and Shireen fully for the first time before blinking in surprise. "What the…? Who're you two? Did Tor—? I-I-I mean, did, uh, Ramsay send you in here? He — He doesn't blame me for Shaggydog's escape, does he?! I didn't let him out, I swear! And I didn't order him to claw his face either!"

She blinked at his panic, but Shireen was unperturbed. "What? No, no of course not. We don't know what you're talking about. And of course we weren't sent by Ramsay. Why in the world would that madman send children like us in here to talk to you?"

"Then… who are you two? Are you greenseer ghosts, too?"

Lyaella was baffled. "Greenseer ghosts? What… What are you talking about?"

But Rickon didn't explain himself. If anything, the momentary glimpse of hope in his face died at her words. "Oh, I see. Never mind. But still, who are you two? How'd you get in here?"

Her smile returned as she willed her breathlessness back. "You're… You're Rickon Stark, r-right?" She asked.

"Aye…?"

"It's nice to… meet you. My name is Lyaella… Lyaella Snow. And this is Shireen B-Baratheon… daughter of Stannis Baratheon. We know your… y-your older brother, Jon Snow."

"And your sister, Sansa," Shireen added.

Rickon went rigid, his eyes going impossibly wide. "W-What? You… You're—?"

"Shaggydog escaped with… with the kennel key when he ran off. He brought it t-to… to the war camp," Lyaella explained. "That's why we're… we're here. We've come to s-set you… set you free."

Tugging the extra cloak out from under her own, she passed it to her Shireen before fumbling between the bars to feel around for the pen's lock. While there were torches lighting the kennels, the absolute bare minimal were lit, making it impossible to see everything clearly.

Rickon rose to his feet, eyes wide. "Wait… you're here to free me? And you said your name is Lyaella? Lyaella Snow?"

"Hey, I'm here too, you know," Shireen snipped, nose crinkling at the lack of appreciation from the Stark boy. "And we have another friend outside too. Munda Giantsbane of the Wildlings. She's keeping watch for us."

Rickon only spared her a half-second glance. "Shut it, Doe."

"'Doe?'" Shireen bristled.

"You're a Baratheon, right? Your House sigil is a stag? You expect me to believe you of all people can save me?" Rickon snorted. "Sissy Doe, you look like you can barely lace up your boots without begging your servants for help!"

"What?! How dare you!"

He snickered. "Maybe 'Prissy Doe' is better, Queenie. Whatever, just be quiet. I'll get to you later." Ignoring Shireen, he turned back to Lyaella. "You were at the parley the other day, weren't you? With Jon and Sansa? You're the one who called out Ramsay about still having issues being a bastard even though he's legitimized."

"Yes, that was me. B-But please… be quiet or else—"

"I knew it! You're Torrhen's twin sister, aren't you?"

Lyaella froze, her mind going blank. The world could have ended in that moment and she wouldn't have even noticed. Swallowing thickly, she slowly raised her head to look her future uncle straight in the eye. "W-What…? What did you say?"

"You are, aren't you? The twin sister of Torrhen Snow? He's told me about you. We're friends."

She dropped the key, clinging to the kennel cage bars with both hands. "T-Torrhen? You… You know him? H-How?" She wheezed, frantic. "Is he… here too? Has he been Ramsay's p-prisoner all… this time? W-Where is he?"

Shireen jabbed her sharply with her elbow. "Lyaella, there's no time! We have to go!"

"N-No, Shireen! He's my… my brother! If he's h-here, I have to—!"

Another throaty cough from her own mouth cut her off. And it was a loud one. One loud enough to echo noisily off the stone walls of the small enclosure.

The children went rigid. A few tense seconds passed, and then—

"Oi, you there! What the fuck was that racket?!"

A loud clatter and splash erupted from outside.

Quick as a flash, Shireen snatched up the kennel key, shoved Lyaella aside, and thrust it into the lock. "We need to go! Now!"

"B-But Torrhen—!"

"He's not here, I swear!" Rickon hissed, darting out of the pen the second the door was open. Grabbing the extra cloak, he threw it on and pulled on the hood as far down as he could. "I know him, but he's not actually here. And he's not inside the keep, either."

"What? I… I don't—"

"I'll explain later! Let's just go!"

Lyaella bit her lip, but allowed herself to be dragged by Shireen back to the entrance. She was bursting to ask Rickon more about how he knew her brother, but she had no choice but to take his word. If they didn't leave immediately , they were going to be Ramsay's prisoners for sure. She could only pray he was telling the truth about Torrhen not being held captive. She'd never forgive herself if he was here and she'd been forced to leave without him.

Outside, both she and Shireen did their best to stand in front of Rickon to keep him out of sight as they approached Munda. Luckily for them, Munda had filled up two of the buckets while they were inside and was in the process of untying the third one which she'd knocked over as their alarm signal from the well rope to have it be filled up again, too. The half-asleep guards from the gate had abandoned their post upon overhearing Lyaella's coughing lapse and were tiredly marching up to her. Lyaella, Shireen, and Rickon all hurried to join her.

Still urging Rickon to stay back and keep his head down, Lyaella and Shireen each grabbed a bucket before turning to the guards. "We're sorry," Shireen murmured, pretending to shrink back meekly. "We didn't mean to be loud."

The guard that had been dozing off at his post barely nodded, but the other one growled, annoyed. "If you're done being pests, then get moving! We're busy fortifying the keep for tomorrow!"

"Y-Yes, we know…" Lyaella panted, her face scrunching up as her chest suddenly tightened. She pressed her free hand to her chest, trying to ease the discomfort. "We're… We're leaving now…"

Nodding to her followers, she heaved the bucket up and began trudging through the snow back to the main gate. Despite their slow pace due to the weight of the pails, no one stopped them or looked at them twice. The fourth addition to their little group appeared to go unnoticed by all the adults wandering about. Lyaella couldn't help but smile. No one suspected anything. They were going to be—

She stepped down on a spot of black ice, all but invisible in the dark, and slipped and skidded everywhere. The water in her bucket doused all over her from head to toe, and a series of hoarse, breathless coughs escaped from her unintentionally.

The Bolton guards turned back to them. "For fuck's sake! Can't you three try being a little qui— Wait a minute, who's that hiding—?"

With a snarl, Munda dropped her own pail, yanked out her axe hidden behind her, and swung violently at the approaching guard. He screamed, blood spewing everywhere as the blade lodged into his shin.

Chaos erupted all over the courtyard. As the smallfolk stared and pressed back and out of the way, Bolton men everywhere dropped whatever they'd been doing to circle around the children.

"C'mon, yeh dolts!" Munda shouted, sprinting headfirst to the gates. "Move it!"

Shireen and Rickon lingered back though, as they saw how badly Lyaella was struggling to right herself from the ice patch while dealing with her wheezing. Lyaella shivered from the icy water as more breathless coughs escaped her, but she did her best to follow her best friend and future uncle as they dashed to the gates. But it was no use. While Munda made it outside with little effort, her slowness due to her condition had caused herself, Shireen, and Rickon to get cut off from main gate by the guards. Munda paused only for a moment to throw an apologetic look over her shoulder at them, but kept running. Lyaella didn't really blame her for leaving. They were outnumbered considerably, and they were only children. She hoped her Free Folk friend made it back to the war camp safely.

Two men chased after Munda, but the others focused on the three of them, each of them shouting questions about who they were and exclaiming their recognition upon getting a good look at Rickon. "Dammit, we're trapped!" He hissed, his head spinning everywhere.

Shireen shuddered. "What do we do, Lyaella?!"

Lyaella coughed heavily as her head swiveled around. They'd never make it to the main gate, not with how many guards had blocked them off. Their only chance was to run somewhere where the guards wouldn't catch them, or at least let them hide long enough to buy them time to come up with a proper escape plan. But where could they go?

Then she spotted it. The perfect hiding place. And better yet, none of the Bolton men had thought to block off the entryway. She sucked in a breath and shoved Shireen and Rickon forward. "T-That way! Go…! Into the c-crypts!"

Rickon's head snapped to her, his mouth falling open, but there was no time to lose. Ignoring his confusion, Lyaella pushed the two of them towards the stone archway and descending stairs, her chest growing tighter with every step. Shireen grabbed her hand to try dragging her along since her wheezing made her so slow, but Lyaella was getting dazed and didn't expect to be grabbed like that. The sudden pull made her trip over one of the discarded water buckets, and her slipped out from her friends' as she fell to the ground, soaked even further with the freezing water.

Shireen gasped as the majority of the guards closed in on her as she shivered and wheezed on the ground. "Lyaella!"

"J-Just go! Go!"

Shireen hesitated, but Rickon saw three of the men approaching them and yanked her harshly down the stairs. Within moments they were out of sight.

The other guards yanked Lyaella roughly to her feet, but despite her situation and trouble breathing, she couldn't help but sigh in relief. The three guards chasing Shireen and Rickon right now would never catch them. The Starks crypts were a maze, a dark maze that had so many nooks and crannies to hide in that unless you grew up in Winterfell and visited them often, you would never be able to find someone hiding down there unless they wanted to be found. Rickon was a Stark. He knew the crypts just as well as she did. So long as Shireen stayed with him, he'd hide them away and they'd never be found until after the battle tomorrow was over. They were going to be okay. They were going to survive. Even if she wasn't.

The sound of a door slamming open from somewhere on the upper walkways snapped her out of her thoughts. "What is going on out here?!"

"My lord! The Stark boy escaped!"

"What?!"

"Some children snuck in and busted him out. One got away, but we chased the boy and another down into the crypts, so we'll find him soon. We caught this one, though."

Lyaella rasped breathlessly between her wet shivers as Ramsay Bolton descended from the wooden stairs and approached her. She was dead. She knew she was dead. She didn't understand everything Queen Sansa told her regarding her abusive husband, but she knew full well that she was going to die. She was surprised however to see rather painful-looking claw marks across his face that were smothered in a rather goopy paste that smelled strongly of herbs. Rickon mentioned something about Shaggydog clawing at him when the wolf escaped. He certainly scarred him up well.

Ramsay's eyes twinkled as he looked her over. "You. I know you. You're the little brat who was with the Stark bastard at the parley."

She said nothing, more focused on controlling her breathing.

"You thought you could make a fool out of me by insulting me, and then by stealing the guest of honor of my greatest game ever tomorrow out from under my nose?"

She swallowed, both from fear and to fight urge to let out another wheezing cough.

An evil smile played on his lips, his eyes dancing with delight. "I think it'll be fun showing you just what a huge mistake you made today, little girl. Tell me, do you like hounds?"

Lyaella didn't answer him and instead looked down. To speak at all meant risking seeing her wheeze.

Ramsay didn't like being ignored, though. Quick as a flash, he motioned for the men restraining her to let her go and seized her roughly by her wet hair, forcing her to look up. She shrieked and coughed in pain.

"I said, 'do you like—?!' Wait, what's this…?"

Lyaella blinked. A second ago, Ramsay had been cruel and smirking maliciously. Now, though? He was staring at the wet tendrils of her hair he had clasped in his fist, brows furrowed in confusion.

Even the rest of the onlookers shared her bewilderment as he swished his fingers back and forth around her hair in his hand. What he was looking at was a mystery to everyone… until he squeezed out some of the water to reveal the black dye mixed in, exposing the true silvery color hidden away.

Ramsay's whole face lit up. Immediately, Lyaella started struggling, not caring that it made her wheeze and pant for breath. No! No, no, no! No, this could not be happening! There was no way that Ramsay Bolton of all people could—!

His grasp tightened on her hair, and he dragged by it towards the Winterfell stables. Lyaella cried and coughed in pain, tripping over her feet repeatedly. She wanted to scream at him to let her go, but she couldn't find the words from how badly her lungs were acting up. All she could do was force herself to keep her breathing regulated and try to stay upright.

He dragged her to a water trough for the horses, and without warning, seized her by the scruff of her neck and plunged her headfirst in the water. Panic overtook her, and she screamed, water filling her lungs and making breathing impossible. Her body thrashed in her panic, but Ramsay was undeterred and yanked his hands roughly through her hair, washing away the black dye. When he was done he finally let her up, letting her fall back into the snow rather roughly. Lyaella didn't care. She coughed and coughed as she spat out the water. Her already weak lungs were even weaker thanks to nearly drowning from this madman. Every raspy breath she made felt like a miracle to breathe in.

It was only when she heard the gasps of the onlooking crowd as well as the guffaw of laughter from Ramsay that she looked back up. Ramsay's already cruel smirk had turned even more mocking in his surprised delight. "Oh, this is even better!" He gasped, clutching his stomach as he kept laughing. "I don't believe it! You… You're a Targaryen! A bastard Targaryen! And you're with the Stark bastard and my wife!"

Lyaella trembled.

Ramsay shook his head, and she could see in his eyes that his twisted mind was already at work as he absorbed this new detail. "Change of plans, then. Hounds aren't going to be enough for you, little girl. Oh, no, no, no… House Bolton needs to make an example out of you. I'm the new Warden of the North after all, and I must show the whole North exactly what they want to see done to Targaryen's, of all people."