281 AC
Lyanna 1
It was near the fall of dusk when the tents' set up were completed. The site was alive with the stink of evening meals in cook, and the warriors had scattered to make safe this patch her lord father had chosen for this night rest.
It was a few they had in this long return, this lands south of her homelands potent with smallfolk and abundance. But here north in approach to the lands of the Frey, the prosperity of the Tully had not been so scattered.
An unsurprising development, the lord of these lands was no generous heart. She had heard her father scorn the Frey aplenty, and the river-folks had not spoke of him in pleasant murmurs either.
Having languished in the comforts of the southerners for over a moon now, she too could not say she particularly liked this lord, who had refused the aid and methods of the river-paramount.
This was not to say her heart had swelled for the southerners. No, they were still an unpleasant folk, gossipers and liars who would relish at a person's misfortune, not to mention orchestrate it.
Her own reputation had been twisted after she had been crowned the queen of love and beauty.
The northern witch, they had called her, here to foul the prince's heart with her barbaric magics.
The words had been a source of anger when she had just arrived.
But she was frost-born, a child of the north. Harshness was something she was accustomed to, and though the whispers had irritated her upon her arrival, time had steeled her heart against them.
Now she felt nothing, and her face was calm.
Lyanna rode east towards the Green Fork, a stray stream had disconnected from the massive river, thus its tumble was just a few yards from their campsite. The men had long surveyed and deemed it safe for wonder.
She wanted the quiet, a moment to think over her life and the choices of tomorrow. Her own heart still ached at the thought, the mere vision of herself upon a bed of a man she felt no love for still a terror in the nights.
On the journey to the Tourney, she had wished the rumors about her betrothed were nothing but falsehoods— this was even with the telling silence her own brother had upon her voiced suspect of Robert's integrity— but such was not the case.
The gods had once again shown their indifference to her desires.
Yet Lyanna was not so willing to surrender her future. She would not endure the misery and disrespect that seemed to be her destiny.
She tugged at the reins of her horse, guiding it south of the western bank where she had spotted a river of wildflowers. It was not an uncommon sight, she had come to realize. Here, south of Westeros, the lands barely suffered the summer snows, making them more fertile and far more pleasant.
This was even more truer in the Riverlands and the Reach, where the abundance of crops and livestock was countless times that of the meagre harvest of the North.
It was not long until she reached her destination…
The river meadows stretched wide and far. From the dawn mountains to the plain horizons where the sun set with an amber shimmer. They made for a riveting scenery, more so with the southern gentle breeze swaying the pale flowers…yet there was also gold woven within this sea of precious things.
Back westward, where they had been a day before. The fields were red and purple, and the roads were loud with the sound of tumbling waters and roaring falls. The air was thick with the scent of dampened earth, and when the sun was at its peak, it was nice to the skin.
Here, the air carried a faint scent of tulips and daisies, and the stream flowed like a song that eased the heart. It was colder too, with the North so near that the evening chill lingered in the breeze.
It felt like Winterfell…like home— in the glasshouses where she had once asked her lord father to plant flowers for her, so she could wear them like the maidens in Old Nan's tales. He had refused, of course, and Lyanna had thrown a fit.
Her mother had calmed her, then explained the reason behind her father's refusal. Though she had sulked even after that, time had brought understanding— and a quiet shame.
But witnessing the splendid scene of wild beauty, she felt her desire rekindled.
The North was not to be her home for long, thus she wondered if here south a garden could be build for her. She doubted Robert would refuse. Though a halfwit, he did show some kind of affection for her.
Yet Lyanna did not think of her foolish betrothed when she imagined.
…jumping of the horse— and not forgetting to secure it near a grass field— she began to walk the meadows in dazed wonder until a perfect rest stone called to her.
There, she had sat and pulled from her bosom the missive the crown prince had sent. Countless times she had read it, and countless more her heart had fluttered. It fluttered all the same now, as she gazed upon his fine writing and sniffed his scent.
In the Tourney, when the king's madness had peaked, the prince had cornered her. Lyanna wondered if it was then where she had fallen for the Targaryen, or was it when he sang? It could not have been after he had crowned her, for then she had already been taken full.
She banished such thoughts, as the prince had said, theirs was a predestined merger.
Within the letter, there was little romance. It was a message…salvation, a way to not only find happiness but also to bring prosperity to the North. Such was her father's intention, she had reasoned; why else would he marry her and Brandon to Houses outside the North?
It mattered not.
"I'll have to trust in Rhaegar's plan." She said to the wind, and returned the missive to her breast.
For a while longer, she sat enjoying the view and the sensation until the crunch of footsteps on ground leaves sounded behind her. Lyanna did not start— not even at the caws of crows hastening north.
"You've strayed far from the camps, Lady Lyanna," came Marthew Tully's voice, deep yet soft in its resonance. It was the peculiar accent that gave him away, and even now she could not place where its flavor hailed from.
She turned to look at him, his face calm and his eyes like the glaciers further beyond the Wall. He had a charm to him, one that reminded her of Brandon if he was not so explosive. Though the Tully heir was taller…and with something else to his person.
Marthew continued, stepping closer to the horse, a rather pleasant scent drifting from him. "We've shadowcats in our lands, and with the darkness swiftly approaching, they'll grow bold."
She wanted to offer a sharp retort but held her tongue. Despite the Tullys hosting them, Lyanna had not spoken much with the heir. He was often away, tending to matters in the city and his family's holdings near Riverrun.
The little she knew of him came from his sisters, who praised him high and low, as if Lyanna were meant to wed him. Brandon wasn't particularly fond of the man, calling him an odd fellow, far too preoccupied with the matters of copper counters.
"Have you ever seen a shadowcat, Ser Marthew?" she asked instead, watching as he fondly rubbed the neck of her horse. It neighed softly, and he pulled an apple from the leather pouch at his right hip.
A rather bizarre thing, that.
"Aye," he nodded, though barely. "I've slain one as well." He gestured to his left hip, where his strange blade rested in its sheath.
The sun had fallen beyond the horizon, so Lyanna could not see the scabbard proper. Yet she had seen it plenty during their rides together and had long deemed it far too ordinary.
And it seemed it was. Scabbards cloaked with the hide of shadowcats were not so rare. Costly, but not rare.
Lyanna feigned interest, if only to delay the return to camp. "I've heard the knights of the Riverlands were a strong sort, yet to slay such a wild beast seems a tale fit for the epics."
Marthew chuckled, unbothered by her skepticism. "'Twas no great epic, my lady, much less a tale for the fires." He turned to face her. "It was a hunt, in the lands of Darry. They've had a problem with the vicious beasts, so we hunted them during a pass." He patted the horse one last time. "I had the honor of slaying one we'd already battered and wounded."
She wondered if he was being modest, but that thought soon fled as he beckoned her. "Come, I'll escort you back to the camps. Your family must be worried sick."
So she obliged, and the Tully walked beside her horse. For a time, they moved in silence, but as the tents came into view, she decided to be bold.
"Have you a maiden you fancy, Ser Marthew?"
She had expected him to startle at the question, yet he only hummed, considering. "I've a Dornish girl who migrated north from her home. She's kept my bed warm for a while, and I've yet to grow tired of her company."
Lyanna knew of the girl and had seen her often in the Tully Keep. She was the fair sort, resembling the wife of the prince if she had been a bit firmer…younger.
Catelyn had mentioned that many of the maidservants despised the foreign woman, and further explained it was because Marthew had not shown interest in any of them, despite their clear desire for his attention.
It was odd to her.
These southern customs did not match the practices of its natives. Here, base born were scorned, yet many of these ladies still desired for the attention of a man who would not even wed them after seeding them.
In the North, there was no such thing. The maidservants there did not hunger for the attention of her brothers; instead, they contented themselves with the interest of the guardsmen.
"A commoner woman? Do you intend to wed her?" She said as if such was news to her.
"Nay," he chuckled again. "In a kinder world, I suspect such would be possible. But our world isn't such a fairytale." He looked up at her, "What's provoked this curiosity, Lady Lyanna."
She bit her tongue and suppressed the impulse. Perhaps if Marthew had been more like Rhaegar, she might have confided her grievances to him.
But as she had suspected, he had the duty bound nature Brandon had, thus she knew he would not understand her reservations and desires.
Lyanna forced a smile. "I've heard that you've yet to be betrothed, and thought to suggest a few maidens from our winter lands who are still unspoken for." She lied smoothly, turning her head towards the approach of her lord father's men.
"Your heart is kind, my lady, though I'm afraid my father desires for me to marry west."
Lisa had spoken often about Lord Tully's desire to arrange a marriage with the Lions of Casterly. She had lamented it and even confided in Lyanna her longing to be with the scrawny boy who seemed utterly smitten with Catelyn.
Sometimes, she wondered if romance ever existed with so many unfortunate mergers happening about.
"The Lady Cersei? She's quite the beautiful one, is she not." Lyanna had not spoken or met her proper. Yet she seen her close, and the Lannister had been a pretty sight.
"Aye," Marthew agreed. "Though I wonder if her father would be so willing to offer her, given the recent developments."
They did not speak any further.
——————————
The day following their arrival, her father and the other lords had chosen to postpone their departure, deciding it would be best to extend the rest period.
Unlike them, Lyanna wanted to leave these wilds immediately and cross the Twin, this was even more so after she had extracted a promise to learn swordplay.
Her lord father allowed this fancy, even if he offered her no instructors.
This mattered little to her.
"…we should cease," so declared Howland, his forest eyes harsh upon the fallen form of Lyanna, his blunt sword trained at her face. "Pressing onward would only harm your growth, Lady Lyanna."
She huffed, her body aflame with aches afflicted when her dulled blade couldn't keep up with the crannogman's pace. "I thought you said you weren't good with a sword?" She spoke between breaths. Howland offered her a hand.
"You pat yourself too proudly." There was a smile in his jape. Lyanna took no offence. It had not even been a day since she started to exchange blows with Howland, and her martial prowess was self-taught from glimpses of Stark men exchanging blows in the yards of Winterfell.
She knew how to swing, but her form was crude.
"And you're too humble." He pulled her up, strength rich in his arms despite the frailty of his body. On her feet, her eyes were two fingers above his, it was no wonder the crown prince mistook her for the knight.
Then again the paint on her fingertips hadn't helped.
Still, she found no regret in the deceit, not when the mad king would have had her friend's head lopped off untrialled. Rhaegar had seen her fear, and played incompetent even at his father's belittlement.
Or so he'd told her. Lyanna found it easy to believe him, his face lacked the dishonesty prominent in most southerners.
"I've talked to my lord father," she stated so sudden, a struggle on her hands as she tried to sheath her sword. The crannogman showed her how, and only familiarity stopped her from feeling shame at her ignorance. "He agreed to our continued bouts during the ride back North."
Keen, Howland lifted a single brow in question. She frowned at him, but he did not relent, "Yet we'd only be allowed to do so away from the southerners eyes, at least until we crossed the Twins." She admitted.
"Why feel the need to hide that fact?" He asked her, eyes squinted. She found his face harsh in the absence of the meek mask he wore so naturally.
Lyanna turned her gaze westward, rose edging on her ears, "I tire of the southern customs denying me freedom."
All he did was nod, eyes so free of judgment rich in her elder siblings. He never reminded her of her birth or the duty of which it came with. It was why she enjoyed his company more than the southern ladies her father pushed her to consort with.
Lyanna could never do it, not when all they talked about were things so dull and smearing gossip.
The Reed heir turned towards the water skins perched on the rest stone ways from the flower-field, his green-scaled leather vest catching blinding shimmers with each step he took. She had never seen him free of it, and its catching nature meant he never showed with the rest of their retinue for the tourney here south.
She moved with him, a few steps behind as she gave attention to her aches and the brush of the soft wind so cool.
He took one of the skins and passed another her way; his hands, hard with calluses and cut wounds yet to scar. Lyanna's own were delicate with middling roughness, birthed by reins of the mounts she rode so daily. With the blade lessons they'd grow in hardness, and maybe then her father would stop dismissing her.
She turned to the other person in the field; her younger brother Benjen was lashing freely against the log, padded with cotton and leather. His lessons with the sword had yet to begin, set to start when they made it back to Winterfell. Thus, his movements were clumsy, close to fatal, but his sword was a mere stick.
She smiled gently, her eyes the color of weeping skies fogging with fondness at the sight. Of all her brothers she liked Benjen the most, ever so loyal and boisterous and caring.
The others were cold like the northern frost, their emotions lost to the honour of House Stark.
Beside her, Howland drank the entire skin. Lyanna was not so parched. Their bout was short and lacked strains; the crannogman was light with her, so fearful of causing injury despite her disregard.
For a moment, they had settled into a comfortable silence. Lyanna enjoyed it with her eyes fixed upon her brother and her mind lost in the cloud of joyous memories. She felt the journey here south was blurred, all those weeks on the roads she barely had any significant moments save for the days of the tourney where her mind was fattened with them.
Mayhaps there was charm in these southern traditions, she decided.
Yet her mood was quickly turned foul when she remembered the people who called these lands home. It made her wonder how Ned had been able to deal with them since the men were little different.
She supposed it was a matter of balance. The north had hard lands but honest people, while the south was beautiful yet overflowing with dishonest folks.
"That man you've returned with in the evening. You should stay far from him," Howland suddenly said.
Lyanna frowned, "You mean Marthew? Why?"
The Tully heir did not seem a foul person. More than that, he was pleasant… generous. He had gifted her family wagons of grain, livestock, and preserved fruits as thanks for the betrothal between his sister and her brother.
It was a gifting separate from his family, meaning it was all of his own generosity.
"He knows things he shouldn't, and has a tendency of cloaking foulness with benevolence." The crannogman tried, a bit forceful. "He's…not an honest person, my lady."
She frowned further, "Few of the southerners are, Howland." She turned and looked at him, "Besides, I've only ever spoken to him once. Yesterday."
"And what did he say?"
There was something wrong with her friend, Lyanna decided. And although she found his suspicion annoying, she still obliged him.
"He found me here and told me to scurry, lest the shadowcats made a meal of me." Howland looked at her, expecting more. She sighed. "He then fed my mount an apple, and escorted me back to camp."
She turned to her brother again. "He's an odd man, I'll not begrudge you that, but that's all there is to him. Allow him some patience, then judge him properly."
Howland hummed, his face losing its sharpness.
Lyanna wondered what had provoked such suspicion in the crannogman. She didn't ask, though, deeming the reason inconsequential to herself. The Reed heir deserved his secrets, and she had no intention of hounding him for them.
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The Saint: This one's for Kumar_1534. Unfortunately the muse has been great on this fic. I might end up rewriting. But take heart, I've a new ASOIAF fic written and uploaded on my Pa-treon . com / BoombaTheSaint. Chapter one is available for all members (free membership included). 3 extra chapters for subscribers. Big apologies for anyone who might be attached to this story, though know that it's not cancelled.