;moony

Lyanna was taking a much-needed walk among the pavilions to ease her mind. For once, she was alone; even Yrsa remained in her tent under Lyanna’s orders. She needed to be alone.

Lyanna had slept little. Not from fear – she knew that feeling well enough and recognized its absence – but from a restless anticipation that would not settle. The kind that came before a hunt, or a storm, or a battle where too many things could go wrong.

She was halfway down the meadow when a single guard on horseback caught up to her.

“Lady Stark, His Grace, Prince Baelor, requests your presence.”

Lyanna stilled for a fraction of a moment. Of course, he does. She gave a nod, and the guard left as soon as he had arrived. She sighed and changed her course, instead walking towards Ashford Castle.

In the castle, morning had arrived quietly, but not peacefully. The corridors were already awake – servants moving quickly with lowered voices, distant footsteps echoing against stone, the faint clatter of arms being readied somewhere beyond the walls.

Another guard met her before the entrance and guided her to where Prince Baelor was waiting for her. As they walked, her thoughts moved ahead of her. Baelor did nothing without reason. If he had sent for her now, of all times, on the morning of the trial, then whatever weighed on him had not yet settled into certainty.

That alone was enough to trouble her.

The guard led her to a quieter wing of the castle, far removed from the growing noise below. When he pushed open the door and stepped aside, Lyanna entered without hesitation.

Prince Baelor Targaryen stood near a long table set beneath a tall, narrow window. His hands rested against the edge of the table, fingers spread slightly as though grounding himself in the solid wood.

For a moment, he did not notice her. Or perhaps he did, and simply did not turn. Baelor’s gaze was fixed on something laid out before him – though when Lyanna stepped closer, she saw it was nothing more than a map of the grounds, marked with small tokens. Seven on one side. Seven on the other.

“Your Grace,” she said.

Baelor looked up then. There was no surprise in his expression, only a quiet acknowledgment, as though her presence had been expected long before she entered the room.

“Lyanna,” he said, dispensing with formality as easily as he always had with her. “I thought we agreed to drop the formalities.”

She smiled a faint smile, “Baelor.”

Baelor studied her in silence, and Lyanna met his gaze without flinching. She had known him since she was a child, in those distant northern halls where her father had spoken of him not only as a prince, but as a man worth trusting.

“I thank you for coming,” he said.

“You summoned me,” she replied simply.

A faint breath of something – almost amusement – passed through his expression, but it did not linger. Baelor straightened slightly, though the motion lacked the finality it would have had if he were already decided.

“I find myself in need of counsel,” he said finally.

That gave her pause. Lyanna’s brow furrowed slightly, though not in surprise so much as quiet curiosity. Baelor Breakspear was not a man who sought guidance lightly. When he did, it was because the matter carried more than personal consequences.

“You have no shortage of wiser men to ask,” she said.

Baelor’s expression did not change, but something in his gaze sharpened slightly. “I did not come to them.”

Lyanna understood then that he did not want a courtier’s answer. He wanted the truth. She intertwined her hands.

“What is it you wish to know?” she asked.

Baelor did not look away from her. “Whether I should stand with Ser Duncan,” he said.

The words settled heavily in the space between them. Outside, a horn sounded faintly in the distance.

Lyanna turned her gaze briefly to the window, watching the shapes below grow clearer as the mist began to lift. She could see the movement of banners now, the gathering of men in armor, the slow forming of lines that would soon collide.

Ser Duncan’s cause was just; that much was plain. But justice and consequence were rarely the same thing. Baelor knew that better than most. Lyanna considered her answer carefully, though not because she doubted it. Only because she knew what it meant for him to ask.

When she spoke, her voice was steady. “You already know what you will do.” She turned to face him fully.

For a brief moment, something passed through his expression – something quieter, more human than the prince the realm saw.

“You give me too much credit,” he said.

“No,” Lyanna replied. “I give you just enough.”

Baelor exhaled slowly, as though releasing a weight he had been carrying since dawn.

“And you?” he asked. “What would you do in my place?”

Lyanna held his gaze.

“I am not in your place,” she said. “Thank the gods for that, I would not want to bear the responsibilities.

She then lowered her gaze for a moment before looking up at him. “But when it comes to the trial, I have already made my decision.”

Baelor’s attention sharpened at that. “You have?”

Lyanna nodded once.

“I will ride for Ser Duncan.”

The words were simple, but they carried no uncertainty.

For a moment, Baelor said nothing. He had expected her answer, perhaps, or something close to it. Yet hearing it spoken aloud – so plainly, without hesitation – stirred something deeper in him. Resolve, perhaps. Or the quiet recognition of a path already chosen.

“You do not fear what that may cost you?” he asked.

She had, gods know, she had thought about it more than once. It was the main reason why she slept so little. Lyanna wasn’t afraid of the trial; she was afraid of the consequences this trial could bring.

“I want to say that I do not,” she started. “But my mother taught me that it is not wise to lie. Especially to a prince.”

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards. Baelor caught that and sighed.

“A wise woman, your mother.” He breathed out a laugh. “And yet it was the first thing you did upon arriving at the Ashford Meadow. You lied.”

“I pray she will forgive me for that.”

The silence stretched across them. Baelor looked down at the table again – the divided tokens, the careful balance he had tried to maintain.

“How many knights does Ser Duncan have?” He asked at last.

“Five – Ser Humfrey Beesbury, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Steffon Fossoway, and I.” She replied. “He needs but one.”

His body moved then, a deep breath leaving his lungs as if weighing his options. Lyanna watched his movements as he slowly reached out, his fingers hovering over the pieces on the table.

Not yet choosing, but no longer standing still either.

She watched him in silence. Whatever he decided, she knew one thing with certainty: when the horns sounded, and the trial began, they might not stand on the same side of the field.

And for the first time since dawn, that thought settled heavily in her chest.

The tent was too still. Outside, Ashford Meadow stirred with life – voices, distant laughter that rang too sharp to be natural, the clatter of armor and hooves as men prepared themselves for what they would soon call justice. Inside, it felt different. Quieter. Like the breath held before something broke.

Lyanna stood in the center of it, arms slightly lifted as Ser Benjen fastened the last of the straps along her side. His movements were efficient, practiced, but there was stiffness to them, a sharpness that had nothing to do with the task itself.

He pulled the strap tighter than necessary. Lyanna did not comment.

He is still angry, of course, he is. The realization came without surprise.

She could still picture the moment he found out, how his expression had gone from confusion to disbelief, then something harder. He had not raised his voice. But Lyanna wished he had.

“You gave your word?” he had said, as if testing whether it could be true.

“I did.”

“To a hedge knight?”

“To a man who was wronged.”

That had been the end of it, at least in words. Feelings were a different matter.

Now, as he worked in silence, the tension lingered between them; close to fear, though he would never name it as such.

“Hold still,” Benjen muttered, though she had not moved.

Lyanna let her gaze drift instead, away from the knight, toward the darker corner of the tent where Yrsa lay. The direwolf watched everything.

The direwolf instincts lived sharp in her – silver-gray fur catching the dim light, amber eyes tracking every movement with quiet intensity. Her restlessness was evident in the way her tail flicked once, then stilled, then moved again.

Unease. Not fear. Yrsa did not know fear the way men did.

Lyanna met her gaze, holding it for a moment. You feel it too. The thought came without words, as natural as breath. Something in the air, perhaps, or something in her. She turned away before it could settle too deeply.

Benjen’s hands paused briefly at her shoulder, adjusting the fit of her armor with more care now, though his jaw remained set. “You spoke with him?” he asked after a moment, his tone quieter, but no less tight.

It did not need explanation.

Baelor Targaryen.

Lyanna inclined her head slightly. “I did.”

“And?”

She considered the question, though not for long.

“He is still undecided.”

Benjen huffed softly under his breath, though whether in agreement or skepticism, she could not tell. “I can only imagine.”

Lyanna hummed but said nothing else.

He continued. “Did you tell him? About your decision?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Lyanna swallowed. “I believe he fears for me.”

“And you still decided to ride.”

Lyanna turned her head just enough to look at him. “Yes.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression – frustration, certainly, but also something else. A question he would not ask. A doubt he would not voice.

Will you come back from this?

She did not give him the chance.

“This is not about the princes,” she said, her voice even. “This is about what is right and what is wrong, and which side we choose to take.”

Benjen held her gaze for a moment longer, searching for something she did not intend to give. Then he exhaled sharply and stepped back.

“I suppose you are right.” He muttered, though there was less bite in it now.

Lyanna allowed the faintest trace of a smile to touch her lips. “I always am, Ser Benjen. You ought to know that by now.”

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Outside, a horn sounded in the distance – short, not yet the call to begin, but close enough that it stirred something low in her chest. Anticipation. Not fear.

Never fear.

Her fingers flexed once at her sides, adjusting to the weight of the armor, the way it settled over her like something both foreign and familiar. It did not feel like a burden; it felt more like a decision.

Yrsa rose then, slow and deliberate, crossing the space between them with silent steps. She pressed briefly against Lyanna’s side, not hard enough to disturb the armor, but enough to be felt. Lyanna let her hand fall to the direwolf’s head, fingers threading briefly through thick fur. “You will stay here,” she murmured.

Yrsa listened. Of course, she would.

Benjen let out a short breath as he watched her, something almost like a laugh, though it did not quite reach it.

“Gods,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “You are calm as the southern wind, my lady. One would think you are merely preparing for a simple joust. Like the trial of seven is nothing.”

Lyanna did not answer immediately. Because it was not nothing, and she knew that.

Seven against seven. Princes, knights who had spent their lives preparing for moments like this. Blood would be spilled – much of it. Perhaps hers among it.

She knew all of that.

“Ser Benjen,” she started, slowly, catching the knight’s attention. “If, by any chance, something happens, please tell my father-”

“No.”

Lyanna raised her eyes to look at him and the anger behind his eyes.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he said. She watched his hands that lay by his sides. They were shaking. “You will tell your father everything yourself.”

Lyanna swallowed, then nodded. Perhaps, he was right.

Another horn sounded outside – longer this time. Lyanna reached for her sword, fastening it at her side with a practiced ease. The weight of it settled into place, familiar and certain.

Whatever comes, comes.

Yrsa huffed softly, pacing once before stopping again, her eyes fixed on Lyanna as if memorizing her. Benjen moved to the entrance of the tent, then paused, glancing back once more.

“Try not to make me regret helping you into that armor,” he said.

Lyanna met his gaze, something sharp and unyielding sparking briefly beneath the calm.

“Never.”

It was not reassurance. It was a promise.

And then, without another word, she stepped past him – out into the waiting light, where the field and its judgment lay ahead.

By the time Lyanna reached the field, the morning fog had already covered most of it. It seemed to linger, not wanting to retreat.

The champions stood gathered in uneasy lines, armor bright beneath the pale morning light, banners stirring restlessly overhead. There was no order to it yet, not the clean structure of a tourney, but something heavier, more deliberate. Men spoke in low voices, or not at all. All of them knew what this was.

Her eyes swept the line of knights on the opposite side – the three Kingsguard knights in their white armors, Prince Maekar, who looked even more imposing than ever, and Prince Daeron. Across the field, her eyes met Daeron’s pale lilac ones, and they shared a faint nod. She briefly wondered where the sixth knight was, but then her eyes moved towards Ser Duncan and his own champions.

Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, Lord Lyonel Baratheon… but that was it. Lyanna frowned. Where is Ser Steffon Fossoway?

Lyanna stepped forward without hesitation, the weight of her armor settling with each stride, the murmur of the crowd shifting as her presence registered. She felt their eyes – curious, disbelieving, some already dismissive.

She ignored them.

At the center of the field stood Duncan the Tall, broad-shouldered and unmistakable, though there was something strained in the way he held himself now. Around him, his chosen champions were too few. That much was clear.

Aerion Targaryen stood at the head of his own line, his presence sharp enough to draw the eye even among princes and knights. There was a restless edge to him, something coiled and waiting.

“And where are the rest?” Aerion’s voice carried easily across the field, cutting through the low hum of the crowd. There was mockery in it, but something else beneath – impatience, perhaps, or something closer to anticipation. “You stand short, Ser Duncan. Or have your friends abandoned you already?”

A flicker of movement drew Lyanna’s gaze – Steffon Fossoway moving among Aerion’s ranks on the other side of the field. It seems she had missed something, for she was certain Ser Duncan claimed that the Fossoway knight swore to ride with him. Lyanna felt something tighten faintly in her chest.

Ser Duncan did not move. Did not speak. He only watched, jaw set, as the man who had sworn to stand with him chose otherwise. Aerion’s smile sharpened.

“You see?” he continued, spreading his arms slightly as if to present the truth of it. “Even your knights know where the victory lies. You are three men short now. Shall we wait while you beg the rest of the field for courage?”

There was laughter then – uneasy from some, genuine from others. Duncan’s voice, when it came, was steady despite it.

“Ser Lyonel is knighting Raymun Fossoway,” he said, loud enough to carry. “He will stand with me.”

Lyanna glanced to the side, where Raymun Fossoway was kneeling in the mud with Lyonel standing over him and moving his sword in the all too familiar sequence.

Another murmur echoed over the crowd, louder this time. Surprise, perhaps. Interest. Aerion tilted his head slightly, considering that, though the edge did not leave him. “Then you are only two men short,” he said lightly. “Better. Though still not enough to save you.”

Lyanna stepped forward. The movement was small, but it cut through everything.

“I think,” she said, her voice clear, unhurried, “that he needs only one.”

The words carried further than she expected. Or perhaps the field had simply grown quiet enough to hear them. Duncan turned first, relief showing on his face as his gaze found hers. Lyanna suspected that he had already lost all hope when she didn’t arrive sooner. Others followed – heads turning, voices dropping, the weight of attention shifting in an instant.

Lyanna did not falter. She came to stand beside him, the distance closing with steady, deliberate steps, as if this had always been her place.

“I am taking Ser Duncan’s side,” she said.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then-

Aerion laughed.

It was sharp, disbelieving, the sound of something so unexpected it bordered on absurd. But it did not last. It broke too quickly, the humor draining from it as his gaze fixed fully on her.

“Is this a jest?” he demanded, though there was nothing amused left in his tone. His eyes moved over her, taking in the armor, the sword, the certainty in the way she stood. He then looked at Ser Duncan, who didn’t even seem surprised by her presence. This was already decided. Something in his expression shifted.

Confusion.

Anger.

Something else, harder to name.

He walked closer to them, his steps heavy and deliberate.

“You would ride in this?” he continued, his voice lower now, more dangerous for it. “You would throw yourself into the trial of seven – for him?” His gaze flicked briefly to Duncan, then back again, sharper than before. “A hedge knight you scarcely know?”

Lyanna met his gaze evenly.

“I am not riding for him,” she said. “I am riding for justice.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened.

“That is not your concern,” he snapped, the edge in his voice cutting clean now. “This is not some northern squabble to be settled with stubborn pride. Men will die here.”

“I am aware.”

“Are you?” The words came faster now, frustration breaking through the control he had held before. “Do you understand what this is? What are you placing yourself in the path of?”

Lyanna held his gaze, unflinching.

“Yes. And I’m ready to face it.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression – something that looked almost like disbelief, as if he could not quite reconcile what he was seeing with what he expected.

“You would risk your life,” he said, more quietly now, though the anger had not lessened, only changed shape. “For this.”

“I am risking my life for what is right.”

The words settled between them. Aerion stared at her, searching, as if there must be something beneath it – some other reason, some hidden motive that would make sense of it.

He found none.

“This is foolish,” he said at last, though there was less certainty in it now than there had been before. “Reckless. You-”

He stopped himself, something tightening in his expression, the words he might have said left unspoken. Lyanna tilted her head slightly.

“Does it trouble you?” she asked, her tone almost curious. “That I would stand against you?”

His eyes flashed.

“It does not trouble me,” he said sharply. “It insults me.”

There it was again – that flicker of something deeper, something that did not quite align with the words.

“You think,” he continued, the anger returning, easier to hold than whatever lay beneath it. “You think that now that you stand against me, I cannot win?”

“The gods will decide who is right and who is wrong.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. Aerion held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. Then, slowly, his expression smoothed – not calm, not entirely, but controlled once more.

“Very well,” he said at last, though the words carried a quiet edge. “If you wish to throw yourself into this, I will not stop you.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. “Just do not expect that I or anyone else will go easy on you.”

Lyanna inclined her head slightly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The lines were drawn. And this time, there was no laughter in the crowd – only the heavy, waiting silence before the storm.

The air grew heavy with anticipation as everyone waited for what was to come. Ser Duncan needed one last knight to fight for him, or all will be lost. As they all stayed seated atop their horses, Lyanna watched the imposing gate out of the corner of her eye. Waiting.

The field was wide and expectant beneath the heavy fog; every eye turned towards the space where the final champion should have stood. Lyanna sat atop her horse among Ser Duncan’s chosen few, the line uneven, incomplete in a way that felt impossible to ignore. She kept her posture straight, her expression steady, but the stillness had begun to settle into her limbs, heavier than any armor.

He will come. She told herself. But the thought no longer rang as certain as it had before.

From her left, Lord Lyonel shifted his weight in the saddle, the faint scrape of metal against metal loud in the quiet. She glanced at the Baratheon knight, who looked at her.

“Well, my lady,” he started, a faint grin on his lips. “If we end up not fighting in the end, at least you managed to shut up that pale, arrogant princeling with your presence here today.”

Lyanna wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t find the will to do it. If they end up not fighting today, it will only mean that Ser Duncan will be deemed guilty, and gods only know what kind of punishment he will face.

Lyanna let her gaze drift across the field, searching without quite admitting that she was searching. Every movement in the distance caught her attention, every figure that stepped forward only to veer away again.

Any moment now.

The wind stirred, tugging faintly at the edges of cloaks and banners, carrying with it the murmur of the crowd. They felt it too, she realized. The delay. The absence.

What if no one comes?

Her fingers tightened around the reins, the leather of her gloves creaking faintly. She did not look at the other knights, but she could feel it in them, the same creeping tension, the same unspoken question taking root.

Even Duncan had gone still. Till now, he had been talking relentlessly, trying to convince someone, anyone, to join him. But no one came.

“Are there no true knights among you?!” He shouted now, his voice reaching all the hidden corners of Ashford Meadow.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer as the seconds passed by. And then Lyanna heard it; the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the ground in rhythmic thumps getting closer to the field. And then the imposing wooden doors opened.

Heads turned towards the rider. It was hard to recognize him through the fog that seemed to thicken with each passing minute. As he rode closer, Lyanna’s eyes caught the black armor and the red dragon emblazoned on the front. The armor was familiar; she had seen it before.

Valarr? Though instantly, Lyanna knew how ridiculous the thought was. Valarr was sitting in the stand among other high lords and ladies, watching all this unfold. That only meant one thing.

He came.

Her eyes watched the rider as he stopped right beside Ser Duncan and removed his helm, the motion unhurried and deliberate. Baelor’s gaze moved over the gathered champions, over Duncan, and then fixed on the stand

“I will take Ser Duncan’s side.”

His voice carried easily, steady and unyielding, leaving no room for doubt, no space for refusal. A murmur broke from the crowd – not uncertain now, but sharp with surprise, with something closer to disbelief. This was not what they had expected. Not what anyone had expected.

Lyanna did not look at the crowd; her gaze remained on him, on the man she had spoken to not long before, who had listened, who had weighed, who had decided.

She watched how Prince Maekar urged his horse towards his brother; Lyanna could not hear what they said, but the youngest brother’s expression said it all.

Lyanna looked over at the knights standing beside her, the hope that reflected in their eyes.

They might have a chance at this.

They gathered in a loose circle upon their horses, the ground pressed flat beneath hooves, and waited. The noise of the crowd seemed farther here, dulled by the closeness of steel and breath and the quiet understanding that what came next would not resemble any tourney they had ever ridden in.

Lyanna sat tall in the saddle, reins held steady, her horse shifting restlessly beneath her. Around her, the others seemed to be calm, yet she knew very well that on the inside, the storm was raging.

At the center, Baelor Breakspear turned his mount slightly, his gaze moving over each of them in turn.

“We do not fight as seven men alone,” he said, his voice low but carrying easily within the circle. “If you break formation, you will be taken apart. Stay together where you can. Support one another. Do not chase glory – it will get you killed.”

There was no flourish to it. No attempt to inspire beyond what was necessary, only truth. Lyanna listened, her focus sharp, though part of her mind lingered elsewhere – on the weight of the lance in her hand, on the coming charge, on the knowledge that once it began, there would be no room left for thought at all.

“Choose your moments,” Baelor continued. “Strike where there is weakness, not where there is pride. And if you are unhorsed-”

He paused, just briefly.

“Get back on your feet quickly.”

A faint shift moved through the circle; acknowledgment, understanding, nerves held just beneath the surface. And then the silence was disturbed.

Lyanna’s head turned just in time to see Raymun Fossoway lean sharply over the side of his horse, retching into the mud below. It came without warning, violent enough that his whole frame shook with it.

Then it was Duncan’s turn. He made a strangled sound, as if trying to fight it, then failed just as thoroughly, turning his head and emptying his insides on the ground below.

Laughter broke through the tension, rough and immediate, cutting through the heaviness that had settled over them. Ser Humfrey Beesbury barked out a sharp laugh, the sound spreading quickly through the circle like a crack in stone.

“Green fucking boys!”

Lyanna wrinkled her nose faintly as she turned her gaze away from the sight, though she couldn’t help the grin that settled on her lips.

This was absurd, yet something in her chest eased, just a friction.

From her right, Ser Humfrey Hardyng let out a low chuckle, glancing in her direction.

“Look at that,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Even the lady has a stronger stomach than the lot of you.”

A few heads turned toward her, amusement flickering in their expressions now, the earlier tension softened, if only slightly. Raymun, who was positioned right on her other side, looked up at her, his face red from the shame.

“I-I am truly sorry, my lady.” He said apologetically.

The corner of Lyanna’s mouth twitched just faintly. “It’s alright, Ser Raymun, I have seen far worse.”

Humfrey Beesbury had ceased laughing and returned to the matters at hand. “What of the Kingsguard?”

“Take heart, Beesbury,” Baelor replied. “I will handle the Kingsguard. Their oath forbids them to harm a prince of the blood.”

“Is that honorable, Your Grace?”

“The gods will let us know.”

“Mother loved you best, huh?” Lyonel spoke, as all eyes turned to him. “Shame. No man fights so fierce as one neglected by his mother.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at the obvious jab towards the prince.

“Then I suppose you’ll fight twice as hard to make up for it.” She spoke, her sharp eyes turned towards the Laughing Storm. “I pray you do not disappoint then.”

There was a sound of barely suppressed laughter heard among their circle as she raised a solid eyebrow at the speechless Baratheon knight. Lyanna then turned her head towards Baelor and inclined her head a little.

The prince smiled before turning to address the rest of them. One final instruction.

“Be vigilant. Don’t die.”

That should be easy… right?

The air over the field trembled with the restless hunger of a crowd waiting for something terrible and magnificent to unfold. Lyanna Stark sat astride her horse, the leather reins creaking softly beneath her gloved fingers as the animal shifted and tossed its head beneath her. It felt wrong, almost unbearable, to remain so still when every instinct inside her urged movement. Across the field, the opposing seven formed a line of polished steel, dark armor, and bright cloaks stirred by the morning wind. Her gaze found him without effort.

Aerion Targaryen sat his horse like a man born to command it, silver hair catching what little light pierced the haze, his armor black as a starless pit. Even from across the field, there was something sharp in the set of his shoulders, something too taut to be discipline. Impatience, perhaps. Or fury held barely in check.

Lyanna’s fingers tightened slightly around the lance until she felt the wood press through the leather of her glove.

She forced her attention away, drawing in a slow breath that tasted of trampled grass, churned earth, horse-sweat, and anticipation. To her side, Ser Duncan adjusted his grip upon his own lance, his sheer size making the weapon appear smaller than it was. There was no fear in him that she could see, only a steady, stubborn resolve. Yet Lyanna knew better than to mistake stillness for courage untouched by fear. Deep down, she suspected he carried more of it than any of them combined and rode forward anyway.

Seven against seven, she reminded herself. Not a tourney tilt. No painted shields, no pretty cheers, no second chances waiting beyond the fall.

The signal came.

And the world surged forward.

Lyanna lowered her lance in one smooth, practiced motion, her body settling into the charge as if horse and rider had become a single creature. Beneath her, the animal surged forward, powerful muscles bunching and releasing, and the thunder of hooves swallowed the field until the crowd, the horns, even her own breath seemed to vanish beneath it. There was no room for hesitation now. Only speed, steel, and the narrowing distance between one life and another.

Her target came straight for her. Daeron was almost unrecognizable beneath helm and plate, stripped of the loose-limbed, wine-heavy ease she had come to associate with him. Armored from throat to spur, he looked more prince than drunkard now, though just before his visor fell, she caught the briefest flicker of uncertainty in his pale eyes. Lyanna remembered their conversation from the night before, remembered the terms she had offered him with such dry practicality. She fixed her gaze upon him and let everything else fall away – the angle of her lance, the rhythm of her horse, the timing of the strike – all of it narrowing to a single point.

The distance between them vanished in less than a heartbeat.

Then came the impact.

The force of it slammed through her arm and shoulder, hard enough to send a white burst of pain through her bones and blur the world for a split second. Wood splintered with a sharp crack. Her lance struck true enough to unseat him, though not as cleanly as she would have liked. Daeron reeled sideways, lost the saddle, and went down in a heavy tangle of limbs, armor, and flying mud.

Lyanna barely had time to register his fall before her own balance shifted violently beneath her.

Her horse screamed, veering as another rider clipped past too close and too fast. The world tilted. For one breathless instant, Lyanna fought it with everything she had – weight shifting, knees clamping, one hand tearing at the reins – but the momentum had already turned against her. The angle was lost.

The ground rose up hard to meet her.

Who would have thought that it would be Daeron Targaryen of all men who would unhorse Lyanna Stark for the first time in nearly four years?

Air fled her lungs in a sharp, unforgiving rush as she hit the earth, the impact rattling through bone and thought alike. For a moment, she could do nothing but lie there, staring up at a pale, spinning sky while noise crashed back in all at once – hooves, shouting, steel, the roar of thousands. And for one terrible heartbeat, she was no longer at Ashford. She was in the Vale again, fifteen years old and sprawled in the dirt, waiting for laughter, for pointing fingers, for that familiar southern contempt.

Up.

The command cut through the haze, cold and immediate, spoken in no voice but her own.

Lyanna rolled, forcing herself first onto one knee, then to her feet. Mud clung wet and cold to the side of her face, gritty between her teeth where she had bitten down too hard. Her hand found her sword without looking, fingers closing around the hilt as though it had been waiting there all along. Around her, the neat lines of the charge had shattered into chaos – horses running riderless with rolling eyes and flared nostrils, men struggling up from the churned ground, others lying still beneath torn banners and flattened grass.

This was where it truly began.

Steel met steel somewhere to her right, the sound ringing bright and vicious through the fog. A shout rose and was cut short. Another man cursed, the word torn away beneath the shriek of a frightened horse.

The first man to come at her was already dismounted, one of the Kingsguard, white armor streaked now with mud and grass. His sword rose high, his breath loud behind the slit of his helm, his movements rougher now that the clean order of the charge had broken apart. Lyanna met him without ceremony. Their blades clashed with a ringing force that jolted up her arm, rattled through her shoulder, and set her teeth on edge.

He pressed hard, testing her, trying to drive her back by strength alone. Too wide, she noted distantly, even as her body moved before thought could finish forming. She turned his strike aside and stepped in rather than away, closing the space he expected to keep. Their boots sank and slid in the mud. Her answering blow forced him back once, then again, and she heard the wet scrape of his greaves dragging through the churned earth.

Around them, the battle raged in broken fragments – no longer seven against seven in any neat sense, but a shifting storm of men finding and losing one another in the space of a breath. Somewhere behind her, a horse screamed and went down hard enough that she felt the thud through the soles of her boots. She caught sight of Ser Duncan from the corner of her eye, towering even on foot, driving forward with a relentless determination that made something tighten briefly in her chest. He looked impossible to stop, and yet terribly alone.

The Kingsguard before her lunged again, anger creeping into the edges of his movements. Lyanna adjusted, breathing steady despite the ache spreading from her fall. She let him come, let him overcommit, and then moved. Her blade slipped past his guard, quick and precise, finding the opening for only a heartbeat before it vanished. He faltered, the strength leaving him in a rush she could almost feel through the steel.

Lyanna stepped back as he fell.

One less.

There was no triumph in it, only the hard, quiet acknowledgment of necessity. When she lifted her gaze again, it found silver.

Aerion Targaryen had been unhorsed as well, though nothing in the way he moved suggested disadvantage. If anything, he seemed more dangerous now, freed from the structure of the charge. His strikes were sharper, less restrained, the black of his armor cutting through the fog like a wound.

A movement at the edge of her vision snapped her back. Another opponent was closing in, forcing her to turn, to raise her sword once more. There was no space here for watching or wondering.

Only survival.

Their blades met harder this time, each impact carrying more weight than the last. Her arms began to feel the strain, muscles burning beneath mail and leather, but she held. The fight dragged on in a brutal rhythm, neither gaining clear ground, the kind of struggle that wore at focus as much as flesh.

End it.

The thought came sharp and insistent. She changed her angle, let her opponent believe for the briefest moment that he had found the advantage, and then broke it. Her strike came fast, decisive, merciless in its precision. He went down, and this time she did not step back so quickly.

Her breath came heavier now, the earlier clarity fraying at the edges. Each movement had begun to demand more of her. When she looked up again, the field had thinned, but what remained was uglier.

Everywhere she turned, the field offered some new assault upon the senses: the sour breath of exhausted men behind iron helms, the wet snap of broken leather straps, the dull, awful sound of bodies striking earth. Mud splattered her greaves and dried in streaks across her armor, only to be smeared fresh again by blood and rain-heavy mist. There was no clean place left to stand.

Somewhere ahead, a surge of movement caught her eye.

Ser Duncan.

He had driven forward and now stood locked with Aerion in a clash that was no longer measured, no longer controlled. It was brutal, close, ugly fighting – the kind that stripped away pride and left only breath, pain, and survival. Their armor ground together when they closed, steel shrieking against steel, both men slipping in the blood-slick mud and wrenching themselves upright by will alone.

Lyanna stilled for half a heartbeat.

He is going to kill him.

The realization came immediately – not as fear, not even as concern, but as fact. Duncan’s blows were relentless, each one forcing Aerion back, breaking through the prince’s skill by sheer, unyielding force. And still there was something in the way Aerion fought. He did not retreat. He did not yield. Even as he gave ground, he seemed to choose the damage rather than the disgrace.

Mad, she thought, though something uneasy stirred beneath her ribs as the word settled.

Then the battlefield shifted beside her. A presence cut through the chaos with sudden, heavy purpose. Maekar. He moved like a storm given human shape, his path direct and unforgiving – toward his son, toward the clash where Ser Duncan pressed Aerion down inch by inch. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt. Only intent.

But he was not unopposed.

Baelor Breakspear stepped into his path first, armor already marked by battle, yet his stance unshaken. Beside him, Lyonel Baratheon met the advance with a force that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. Lyanna watched it unfold in flashes – Maekar’s fury against Baelor’s control, Lyonel’s strength crashing into the prince’s momentum, sparks spitting briefly where blades struck too hard and too close. It was not a clean fight. It was desperate and necessary, each man knowing exactly what stood behind the other.

He will not stop, Lyanna realized, breath tightening slightly. Not for them. Not for anyone.

It was not quick, and it was not clean, but Maekar forced his way through. A blow here, a brutal shift there – relentless, driving forward inch by inch until the barrier broke. And then he came for her. There was no mistaking it; no one else stood between him and the path he sought.

Lyanna adjusted her grip on her sword. The weight of it suddenly felt very real in her hand. Her body ached now, each movement reminding her of the fall, the blows already taken, the strain building beneath the armor. But there was no space left to feel any of it.

Hold him.

The thought settled clearly in her head. Not to win. Not to stop him forever. Only to hold him back long enough. Give them time. This was Ser Duncan and Aerion’s fight, and no one had the right to interrupt it now.

Maekar did not slow as he closed the distance. His first strike came hard and direct, the kind meant to break through guard. Lyanna met it, and the impact shuddered through her arms, forcing her back half a step despite herself. The jolt rang up through her elbows into her teeth, and beneath the noise of the field, she heard her own breath leave her in a sharp, involuntary hiss.

Gods. He was stronger than any man she had faced that day – perhaps stronger than any man she had faced at all. There was no flourish in him, no wasted motion, no vanity. Only power, sharpened by urgency and something far more dangerous than anger. Fear, perhaps, though twisted into something harsher.

He struck again. And again.

Lyanna gave ground where she had to, turning blows rather than meeting them head-on, each parry tighter and more deliberate than the last. Her palms had begun to sweat inside her gloves, making the hilt feel slick beneath her grip, and the fall had left a deep ache spreading through her ribs with every breath. She could feel the edges of her control thinning, the strain building with every impact, but she refused to break.

He was not truly fighting her; she was merely in his way. A nuisance. A body between him and his son. Strangely, that made the task easier to understand. She did not have to beat him. She only had to remain where she stood.

She shifted her stance, angling herself to make him adjust, to make him spend even a fraction more time with each strike. It was a small thing – but small things mattered here. Seconds mattered. Somewhere behind her, Duncan still pressed forward.

Maekar’s next strike came faster, sharper. She turned it, barely, the edge skimming her guard close enough to jolt her balance. He saw it. Of course he did. The opening existed for less than a breath, and he took it before she could recover. The thrust came straight and unforgiving, driving forward with all the force of his momentum behind it. Lyanna moved to turn it aside-

But she was too slow.

Steel met resistance, then gave way.

For a split second, there was a strange, distant clarity as she felt the blade punch through her mail. At first, it was pressure more than pain, a brutal shock driven into her side. Everything narrowed. Then the pain came, bright and terrible – and vanished almost at once beneath the roar of blood in her ears and the fierce, stubborn surge of adrenaline.

The world rushed back in a flood of noise and movement, the wound reduced to a dull, distant awareness that could be ignored because it had to be ignored.

Not yet. The thought came sharp, almost defiant. She did not look down. She did not falter. If anything, something inside her stilled, focus narrowing to a single unbreakable line. That brief hesitation in her movements gave Maekar the chance to pull back. Before Lyanna had a chance to react, he was already moving, already pushing past her as if she were no longer an obstacle worth acknowledging. Someone else stepped into his path, and only then did Lyanna release a breath she had not realized she was holding.

She turned. Duncan and Aerion were still locked together near the center of the field, the struggle between them drawing the chaos inward as if the rest of the battle had begun to orbit around it. Lyanna took a step toward them. Then another.

The world felt strangely distant now, as though she moved through it rather than within it. Sound came muted and uneven, swallowed by the rush of blood in her ears. The wound in her side did not slow her. The warmth spreading beneath her armor registered only as an annoyance, something to be acknowledged later, when there was room for such things.

Later, she told herself with quiet certainty. It can matter later.

Everything had narrowed to motion and steel, to breath and instinct, to the relentless pull of one more step forward. Lyanna barely registered how close she had drawn to the heart of it. Only that the clash between Ser Duncan and Aerion had changed. It was no longer a duel, not even a fight in any clean, honorable sense.

Duncan drove him back again with a blow that rang loud enough to cut through the surrounding tumult. Aerion staggered, one boot sliding in the churned mud where his footing had once been sure. His black armor was scored and smeared, his movements no longer sharp but desperate, each strike carrying more fury than precision.

Lyanna slowed without meaning to. He cannot keep this up; something uneasy tightened low in her chest. He is losing. And still, Aerion did not yield. It struck her then, sharply, that he would rather be broken into the mud of this field than bend before it. The realization settled strangely within her, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

Fool, she thought.

Duncan’s next blow drove him to one knee. A ripple passed through the field. The kind of pause that gathered itself on the edge of an ending. Aerion remained there, breathing hard, head bowed just slightly. For a heartbeat, Lyanna thought he might rise again and throw himself into another futile clash.

Instead-

“I withdraw my accusations.”

He did not say I yield, but the meaning was plain enough. The words were not loud, yet they carried through the space around him as if the field itself had leaned in to hear.

The horn sounded next – one long, echoing note that seemed to still the very air, rolling across Ashford Meadow with a finality no man could mistake. Steel lowered. Strikes halted halfway through their arcs. The chaos unraveled slowly, in staggered pieces, as men realized they were no longer meant to kill one another.

It was over.

Lyanna stood where she was, breath coming slower now, the sudden absence of motion almost more disorienting than the battle itself. Around her, the field resolved into something recognizable again – men standing, kneeling, or lying far too still in the mud. She dragged off her helm with great effort and let it fall from her hand, barely hearing the dull sound it made when it struck the ground.

A murmur began to rise from the crowd. Not cheering – not yet. Something more uncertain, more shaken. They had expected spectacle, but they had been given something harsher. Her gaze flickered, almost without her consent, back to Aerion.

Aerion Targaryen remained where he had fallen, supported now only barely, his pride seeming to do more work than his strength. For a fleeting second, something in her stilled again. He yielded, she thought, as if testing the shape of it. She did not know what to make of that.

A shift in the air pulled her attention away – not toward victory, but toward something else entirely.

Baelor Targaryen had approached Ser Duncan, who stood with Raymun and Steely Pate supporting him from either side. They were speaking, but Lyanna could hardly hear them. That was wrong. She never had trouble hearing anything. She saw mouths moving, saw Duncan bend his head, saw Pate reach toward Baelor’s helm – yet the words came to her blurred and distant, as if carried through water.

She took one uncertain step closer and watched Ser Duncan sink to his knees before the prince. Raymun and Steely Pate moved in to help Baelor with his helm. She saw the hesitation in their eyes when they exchanged a look, and something inside her shifted, cold and foreboding.

She took another step, and at last the prince’s voice reached her ears. “…my brother’s mace, more like. He’s strong.”

The helm came free. Baelor froze where he stood. Slowly, he lifted his head, and his eyes met hers. But Lyanna doubted he truly saw her. His gaze had gone far away, emptied of its usual warmth and focus, as if some part of him had already stepped beyond the field. A terrible certainty crawled beneath her skin then: Prince Baelor had lost his sight before the helm had even been removed.

For a moment, Lyanna did not understand what she was seeing. It did not fit – his stillness, the slackness where strength had been, the impossible absence of movement from a man who had stood so unshaken only moments before.

And then he fell.

Ser Duncan was there at once, dropping to his knees beside him with a suddenness that spoke of something far deeper than exhaustion. His hands – so large, so steady in battle – seemed almost uncertain now as they moved to lift Baelor’s unmoving head.

Lyanna stepped forward without meaning to. The field felt altered, the air heavier, as though something had settled over it that no horn could disperse. The crowd quieted by degrees, the earlier murmur fading into a hush too stunned to be grief yet.

The prince of the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne. Gone in the mud of a trial meant to prove guilt or innocence.

Lyanna felt it then – not as thought, not as understanding, but as a shift somewhere deep within her. The weight of it came suddenly and immensely. This was not meant to happen. The realization arrived slowly, as if her mind resisted it even now. Trials were meant to decide. To end disputes.

But not like this.

Her grip loosened slightly on her sword. Only then did something else begin to creep in. Subtle at first – a heaviness, a warmth that did not quite belong. Lyanna frowned faintly, her breath catching as awareness returned in broken pieces, as if from a great distance. The world sharpened around the edges, details pressing in where before there had only been movement.

The field did not return to noise all at once. It came in pieces – low voices, shifting armor, the distant murmur of a crowd that did not yet know whether it had witnessed victory or tragedy. Lyanna stood among it, unmoving, as if the battle had simply forgotten to end around her. Her fingers still held her sword, though she could no longer remember when she had last needed it.

Something felt… off. Not wrong, exactly. Distant.

The sounds around her seemed muffled, as though she stood behind a wall of glass. Faces passed at the edges of her vision – knights removing helms, men turning toward Baelor’s fallen form, others looking to Ser Duncan, who had not yet risen from the mud.

Lyanna blinked slowly. Why is it so quiet? The thought came sluggishly, forcing its way through something thick and unyielding.

Someone was beside her then. She turned her head to acknowledge him, the motion slower than it should have been. Steely Pate. She knew him only barely – a few words exchanged after her first day in the lists, when her shield had needed mending, and he had agreed to see it done.

“Easy now, Lady Lyanna.” His expression was set in something that might have been concern, if not for the steadiness beneath it.

He looked at her – not at her face, not at the sword in her hand, but at her side. Lyanna followed his gaze as though it belonged to someone else.

“Oh,” she said, though the word came out softer than she intended. “That.”

It still did not feel like anything. Pate stopped in front of her, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading across her armor. “You’re hurt,” he said, and it was not a question.

Lyanna frowned faintly, as if considering it for the first time. “I suppose,” she answered after a moment, though even to her own ears it sounded distant. Uncertain. As if she spoke of something that had happened to someone else.

He did not waste time arguing.

“Hold still,” he said, already reaching for the fastening at her side. “Let me see it.”

A brief flicker of resistance moved through her – some instinctive tightening of pride or habit – but it faded almost as quickly as it came. It seemed easier to let him, easier to remain standing than to question why standing had become difficult. It does not hurt, so it cannot be bad.

Pate worked quickly, his movements practiced and efficient. The buckles came loose one by one, the pressure of the armor easing with each release. For a moment – just a moment – nothing changed.

Then the pressure shifted.

The first rush of blood was sudden and violent – far too much, far too fast – spilling free where the armor had held it in. It darkened the fabric beneath and spread across her side in a way that could no longer be ignored, no longer mistaken for anything but what it was.

Pate swore under his breath, his hands moving at once to press against the wound and stem the flow. “Gods-”

Lyanna stared down at it. This time, it did not feel distant. It did not feel like anything at all.

That is… me.

The thought came slowly, as if each piece of it had to be assembled by hand. The sight did not match the absence of pain, the absence of anything that should have accompanied such a wound. Her breath hitched – not sharply, not in panic, but unevenly, as though her body had forgotten how to keep its rhythm.

“I don’t-” she began, then stopped. She was not sure what she had meant to say.

A cough tore through her body, sudden and harsh, forcing her forward. Something hot spilled past her lips, thick and metallic, coating her tongue with copper. Blood.

Around them, movement shifted. A few surviving knights began to take notice – glances turning, voices lowering. One stepped closer, then another, drawn not by curiosity but by the unmistakable urgency in Pate’s voice.

“Get pressure on it,” someone ordered – Lyonel Baratheon, perhaps, his voice rougher now, stripped of laughter and jest. “Don’t just stand there-”

But Lyanna barely heard him. The world had begun to tilt again, more noticeably this time. Her vision blurred at the edges, sharpness dissolving into something softer and less certain. Colors shifted strangely – too bright, then too dim.

This is… not right.

Her hand moved almost without her command, hovering uncertainly near the wound as if she meant to touch it, to prove it was real. Pate caught her wrist before she could.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his grip firm despite the chaos around them. “Stay with me, my lady.”

Stay with him. Lyanna blinked, the words taking a moment to settle.

I am here, she wanted to say, but the thought did not quite reach her lips.

Across the field, a figure turned at the commotion.

Aerion Targaryen had been held upright by his squire, his own strength spent in the fight. But now there was nothing measured in him, nothing restrained. The moment Lyanna’s knees gave, the moment her body tipped forward, he moved.

It was not graceful. Not controlled. It was desperate.

He tore free of the hands that tried to steady him, stumbling once before forcing himself onward, heedless of the blood and mud already marking him, of the battle barely ended around them. His focus had narrowed to a single point.

Her.

Lyanna did not understand what she was seeing. The image reached her in fragments – silver hair disheveled and damp, black armor marred with mud, something sharp and unguarded in his expression that did not belong to the man she had watched these past few days.

He reached her just as the strength left her legs entirely.

Pate swore again as her weight shifted, as she sagged forward despite his grip. He barely had time to adjust before another set of arms was there. Aerion caught her before she could hit the ground.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Lyanna’s head lolled slightly, her vision struggling to focus, to make sense of the closeness and the unfamiliar weight of him beneath her. She could feel the tension in Aerion – not merely physical, but something deeper, tighter, like a wire drawn too far.

“Hold her,” Pate snapped, already pressing harder against the wound, his hands slick with blood. “Don’t let her slip-”

Steely Pate ignored the fact that this was Aerion Targaryen he was ordering about, a man who could have torn him to shreds with a single glance on any other day. In that moment, no one acknowledged rank or insult or old grievances. There was only the brutal fact that the trial might claim someone else before the field had finished settling.

Aerion did not answer. He did not need to. His grip tightened instead, one arm bracing her back, the other steadying her weight as if refusing – utterly refusing – to let her fall any farther. He held her like a drowning man clinging to the last scrap of wood in a black and merciless sea.

Lyanna tried to look at him through the haze. His face was too close, too sharp, his expression wrong in a way she could not place. There was no arrogance in it now. No cruelty. Only something raw and terrified beneath the blood and dirt.

He looks… The thought drifted, slipping through her grasp before it could finish.

Her fingers twitched weakly against his armor, leaving faint red streaks across the blackened steel. Then her hand dragged upward, past the edge of his gorget, smearing blood in its path. With a strength that startled even her – and, by the flicker in his eyes, him as well – Lyanna gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down until his ear was close to her lips.

“This is all… your fault.”

Her breathing grew more ragged with every word. As if those five words had drawn the last of her strength from her body. Perhaps they had.

Aerion leaned back slowly, wide eyes fixed on her face. Another cough tore through her, and another stream of blood slipped past her lips; a few dark droplets struck his cheek. Yet despite the hatred in her words, her face held nothing of it now. No scowl. No glare in those ice-cold eyes. She was too tired even for anger.

Lyanna drew in one more sharp breath. The world dimmed further, the edges of it pulling away, leaving only fragments behind – pressure at her side, voices too distant to follow, the strange, steady presence holding her upright.

Aerion barely managed to force her name past his lips before her body went limp in his arms. Her eyes closed, and the hand that had gripped the back of his neck slipped down, falling lifelessly against her chest.

As Lyanna’s body went slack, the sound came – low at first, almost swallowed by the murmuring field, then rising into something raw and aching. Yrsa’s howl cut through Ashford Meadow like a blade, long and mournful, a grief too wild to be contained. It was older than banners, older than oaths, a call that spoke of loss before it had even been named. For a moment, even the voices around faltered, as if they understood – instinctively, unwillingly – that whatever had just fallen was not meant to fall at all.

“This is all your fault.”

a/n: actually this was meant to be kind of like part one ending, and i was planning to take a little break after posting this chapter, since it ended on a little cliffhanger. but well, since i kinda took a break before posting it, then there won't be any breaks now (lucky you).

you will probably notice a little bit of a change in the writing style after this chapter (including this one), i've been trying to improve my writing and really pay attention to every little detail. let me know what you think <3

Lyanna stood in the shadow of the outer wall, where the torchlight from the castle gates did not quite reach her. Dark stone cooled slowly at her back, still holding the day’s heat, and the damp grass whispered beneath her boots whenever she shifted her weight. Yrsa lay half-hidden beside her, amber eyes glinting faintly in the gloom, her great head resting between her forepaws, but her ears pricked forward. Lyanna had dismissed Ser Benjen, claiming that there were matters she needed to attend to. The knight was hesitant at first, but agreed nonetheless, knowing that Yrsa would always be beside her to protect her if needed.

The tourney grounds beyond the castle had gone quiet hours ago. Where thousands had shouted and cheered by day, only the soft flap of unattended banners and the occasional restless whicker of a horse broke the silence now.

Lyanna did not move as she waited.

At last, the wooden doors, which were usually used by servants, creaked softly open.

Two figures, one small and the other taller, slipped through the door, careful as thieves. The first was quick and light on his feet. The second followed more reluctantly, taller but moving with the heavy caution of someone who suspected trouble in every shadow.

Lyanna watched them go without stirring. When they had crossed the stretch of grass and taken to the narrow path leading away from the castle, she pushed away from the wall and began to follow. She kept her distance easily. The night favored her, and the wind had begun to stir at last, carrying the smell of rain and wet earth across the meadow. Clouds drifted over the moon, plunging the path into deeper darkness.

Ahead of her, the two whispered in hurried voices, though the words carried only in fragments through the thickening air. Yrsa moved at her side without a sound, her massive paws scarcely bending the grass. At one point, the wolf lifted her nose toward the sky, sniffing the wind where lightning flickered faintly and silently behind the clouds.

Lyanna allowed them to walk for some time before she spoke.

“Your stealth would improve,” she said calmly into the darkness behind them, “if you remembered to watch your backs.”

The two figures started violently. One spun around at once, nearly tripping in his haste. The other froze where he stood. Lyanna stepped from the deeper shadow of the trees onto the path, the dim light catching the edge of her cloak and the pale shape of Yrsa beside her.

The wolf’s eyes gleamed first.

And then they caught the gleam of her own eyes as she drew her hood back, revealing her face.

For a moment, neither of the two princes spoke. The wind stirred again, brushing through the tall grass with a dry whisper as clouds swallowed the moon. Somewhere far off, thunder rolled low across the darkened fields.

Lyanna studied them both in the dim light.

“You think it is wise? Sneaking out in the middle of the night, considering the circumstances?” She said, her voice calm.

Egg opened his mouth as though to protest, then thought better of it. Beside him, Daeron shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. Lyanna let the silence stretch another heartbeat before she stepped forward onto the path.

“You are going to look for the hedge knight,” she said. It was not a question. Neither of them denied it.

“Then we are wasting time standing here,” She began walking again, passing them without ceremony. “Let’s go.”

The two hesitated for a second before hurrying to keep up, the narrow road carrying them away from the castle lights and deeper into the darkened meadow. The smell of rain had grown stronger now, the air thick and waiting, as though the sky might break at any moment. They walked in silence, though Lyanna knew that the two princes already had enough questions on the tip of their tongues.

After a short while, Lyanna slowed. “Egg,” she said over her shoulder. The boy looked up at once. “Walk ahead a little, I need to have a word with your brother.”

He hesitated, glancing between her and Daeron, clearly curious.

Lyanna’s tone did not change. “Take Yrsa with you.”

At the sound of her name, the direwolf rose smoothly from the shadows beside Lyanna and padded forward. Egg swallowed but managed a small nod, falling into step beside the great wolf as he moved several paces ahead along the path. Yrsa walked calmly at his side, her broad head level with his shoulder, pale eyes scanning the darkness.

Only when they had gained some distance did Lyanna turn slightly toward Daeron. “You owe me an explanation.”

They walked side by side now, their boots brushing through the grass along the edge of the road. For a time, she said nothing, letting the quiet press in around them. The wind tugged lightly at her cloak, and the first faint flicker of lightning pulsed far away behind the clouds.

She needed to gain understanding. Daeron's uttered statements remained attached to her consciousness, refusing to release their grip. She attempted to brush them aside, labeling them as nothing more than the incoherent mutterings of a drunken man, yet she couldn't shake the memory of his gaze directed toward her the moment he spoke to her.

At last, she spoke. “You said some things earlier. About a dream.”

Daeron’s steps faltered for half a heartbeat before he recovered.

“I say many things,” he muttered.

“Not like that.”

She remembered the expression in his eyes – as if he had finally glimpsed a flicker of light after a long period of darkness. It was the look of a man who had just found a piece of bread after months of starvation. The expression of someone who had started to see hope in this overly bleak world.

Her eyes moved to him then, sharp even in the dimness. “You said you dreamed of me. That I am here to save you all.”

Ahead of them, Egg’s small figure moved steadily down the path beside Yrsa, the wolf’s pale coat ghostlike in the darkness. Daeron rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the ground beneath his boots.

“It was just a dream,” he said after a moment.

Lyanna stopped walking. He took two more steps before realizing it and turned back to face her. The wind stirred harder now, bending the tall grass in slow waves across the meadow. Another distant rumble of thunder rolled through the night.

Lyanna looked at him steadily. “I’ve heard of you. Many might dismiss them as mere dreams, but I saw what others did not. A man who looks at me as if I am the only hope he has had in years would not call them just dreams,” she said.

A faint flash of lightning lit the clouds above them for a brief instant, silvering the edges of her face. Daeron held her gaze. He knew that once he let himself speak in that room, she wouldn’t let it go.

“You will tell me exactly what you saw.” Her gaze did not waver. “Every part of it.”

Daeron did not answer at once. The wind shifted across the meadow, carrying the damp scent of coming rain and the distant rustle of banners somewhere beyond the dark fields. Ahead of them, Egg and Yrsa had slowed, the boy clearly straining to listen without making it obvious. The direwolf paced beside him with the patient calm of a creature that knew the night belonged to her.

Lyanna watched Daeron in silence. He looked uneasy, she noted. More uneasy than a prince who had merely shared a drunken boast should have been. That alone troubled her.

“Well?” she said at last.

Daeron exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair as though the motion might scatter the memory.

“It wasn’t much of a dream,” he muttered. “Just nonsense. Too much wine and too little sleep.”

Lyanna did not move. Her grey eyes remained fixed on him, cool and unblinking. Daeron shifted under that gaze. Seven hells, he thought irritably. She stares like she means to peel the truth out of a man.

“You said,” Lyanna replied evenly, “that you dreamed of me.”

He glanced away toward the dark road ahead, where Egg’s small silhouette moved beside the pale bulk of the wolf.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “You were there. In a way.”

Lyanna waited. She was mildly confused but didn’t interrupt him. Daeron sighed as they resumed walking. “It started with dragons,” he said after a moment. The word seemed to linger oddly in the thick night air.

“Of course it did,” Lyanna said dryly.

Daeron gave a short laugh, though there was little humor in it.

“They were everywhere,” he continued, frowning slightly as he reached back into the memory. “Not the size they were in the old stories. Smaller, younger, maybe. But there was a handful of them.”

He paused, searching for the right shape of the image. “They were circling something.”

Lyanna’s brow creased faintly. “Who?”

“A wolf.”

Ahead of them, Egg slowed another step. Lyanna noticed that immediately.

“Egg,” she called calmly.

The boy straightened as if struck by lightning and hurried a few paces farther ahead beside Yrsa, whose ears flicked back briefly.

Lyanna returned her attention to Daeron. “A wolf,” she repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.”

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “At first I thought the dragons would tear it apart,” he said. “There were quite a lot of them, and the wolf stood alone.”

Lyanna felt Yrsa’s absence suddenly beside her, the familiar weight of the direwolf missing from her shadow.

“And?” she asked.

Daeron hesitated. “The strange part was that they didn’t attack it.” Lightning flickered again beyond the clouds, pale and distant. He slowly continued. “They circled it, flying closer and closer, breathing fire, snapping their jaws. But the wolf did not run.”

Lyanna could picture it now without meaning to – a grey shape standing its ground as flame wheeled above.

“What happened then?”

Daeron’s frown deepened. “That’s the part I don’t understand,” he said. He glanced at her briefly before looking away again.

“The wolf just… stood there,” he continued. Lyanna said nothing. “And then the dragons…” He shook his head slightly. “They stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“They landed on the ground.” Daeron’s voice lowered slightly as he tried to explain the feeling the dream had carried with it. “They weren’t fighting anymore. They were watching it.”

“Watching the wolf?”

“Yes.”

“And... what did the wolf do?” Lyanna asked. With each word that came from Daeron’s mouth, her confusion grew deeper, but she listened carefully anyway.

Daeron huffed softly. “That’s the part that made no sense.”

He looked at her again then, studying her face as if trying to match the woman beside him with the figure in his memory. “The wolf walked among them.”

Lyanna’s steps slowed slightly. “They didn’t attack?”

“No.” His frown deepened. “They moved aside.”

For a moment, the only sound they could hear was the wind and the distant roll of thunder creeping closer across the night. Lyanna considered the image in silence – a lone wolf among dragons. She almost scoffed at it. Dreams were foolish things, but something in her didn’t allow her to simply disregard them.

“And somehow,” Daeron finished quietly, “I knew the wolf was you.”

Lyanna looked at him sharply. “That is quite a leap for a dream.”

Daeron shrugged, though the motion lacked confidence.

“I don’t know why,” he admitted. “I just do.”

Ahead of them, Egg was whispering something to Yrsa as they walked, the boy’s nervous voice barely audible beneath the growing wind. Lyanna watched them for a moment. The wolf’s pale shape moved through the darkness like a drifting ghost, while behind them the sky rumbled again, louder this time.

Finally, she looked back at Daeron. “And this wolf was meant to save you all?”

Daeron grimaced faintly. “When you repeat it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Because it is.”

He could not argue with that. Yet the unease remained. Why her? He wondered. Of all the faces his wine-soaked mind might have conjured, why had it chosen the cold-eyed northern woman who walked beside him now?

Lyanna turned her gaze back to the road. “A wolf among dragons,” she said after a moment. Her voice held no belief in it. But neither did it dismiss the thought entirely.

Above them, lightning flickered again, brighter now. A breath later, the first cool drop of rain struck the dust on the road.

Lyanna remained where the road bent into the dark fields, watching the two princes grow smaller ahead of her until the night swallowed them completely. Only then did she move, stepping off the path to stand beneath a lone tree where the wind stirred the leaves in restless whispers. The first drops of rain began to fall in slow, scattered taps against the grass.

A wolf among dragons.

The words lingered in her mind like the fading echo of thunder.

She folded her arms, leaning her shoulder lightly against the rough bark, and tried to dismiss the thought as the foolishness it ought to be. Dreams were nothing but the mind’s wandering nonsense. Men filled them with meaning afterward because they could not bear the thought that the world moved without purpose.

Yet Daeron had not sounded like a man telling a drunken tale. He had sounded uncertain. Uneasy. Lyanna frowned slightly, staring out across the dark meadow where the faint lights of Ashford Castle flickered far behind her.

A wolf, he had said.

Her thoughts turned unwillingly toward Yrsa; she looked down at the animal who sat beside her. The direwolf’s gleaming eyes, her quiet patience, the effortless strength in her stride.

Then the dragons.

Lyanna let out a quiet breath. Dragons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries, even long after their flames had vanished from the world. The blood of House Targaryen still carried that weight, whether the princes themselves deserved it or not.

A wolf among dragons.

She pushed away from the tree, restless now, pacing a few slow steps through the wet grass as the rain thickened. If the wolf was meant to be her – as Daeron had claimed – then what nonsense was the rest meant to be? She had no interest in princes or prophecies, and less patience for riddles whispered by dreams.

And yet…

He had said the dragons did not attack. They had circled the wolf, watching it. Lyanna’s brow creased faintly.

Another drop of rain slid down the back of her neck, cool against her skin. She could almost see the dream as he had described it: fire wheeling overhead, wings beating against a black sky, and one grey shape standing unmoved beneath them.

Part of her scoffed at the image. But another part – quiet and stubborn – refused to let it go. Because the wolf had not run. That detail lingered most of all.

Lyanna had lived long enough among men to know that most creatures fled when dragons came. Wisdom, they called it. But the wolf had stayed, and somehow, in the dream, that had been enough. She shook her head faintly, as if to scatter the thought like mist.

“Dreams,” she muttered to the empty night.

Thunder rolled again above the dark fields, closer now, and the rain began to fall in earnest.

Still, as she turned back toward the road, the image followed her. A lone wolf standing beneath circling dragons – unafraid.

While navigating the various pavilions during her search for the two princes, Lyanna caught snippets of conversation emanating from the Fossoways' tent; the way Yrsa immediately showed heightened interest confirmed for Lyanna that she had found what she had been looking for.

She approached the entrance of the tent and pulled aside the flap to see Ser Duncan, the youngest Fossoway squire, Raymun, Daeron, and Egg deep in conversation. She arrived at the precise moment to hear Daeron’s plans for the trial.

“…I’ll do my best to look gallant in the first charge, but after that, well, perhaps you could strike me a nice blow to the side of the helm. Make it ring, but not too loud. My brothers have my measure when it comes to fighting and dancing and thinking and reading books, but none of them is half my equal at lying insensible in the mud.”

Lyanna arched an eyebrow as she took in the information. She was well aware that Maekar's firstborn was remarkably inept when it came to combat, renowned mostly for his excessive drinking and dreams, yet she hadn't anticipated the severity of his predicament. In Lyanna’s opinion, the young man merely required a bit of guidance and patience, things nobody seemed willing to spare for him.

“Forgive me,” Lyanna said as she stepped inside. “I did not mean to eavesdrop. But when a prince announces he intends to fall off his horse, it’s difficult not to listen.”

Inside the tent stood Ser Duncan, enormous and broad-shouldered, looking as though someone had just dropped a bucket of cold water over his head. Beside him was Ser Raymun Fossoway, who seemed almost equally startled by her sudden appearance. The young squire’s eyes flicked briefly toward the entrance as if to make sure she had truly come alone.

“Also, if the falling is indeed certain,” She shrugged. “You might consider staying off the horse altogether. It would spare everyone the spectacle.”

Prince Daeron groaned quietly from where he sat and rubbed a hand across his face.

“I should have known you would appear the moment my dignity was in danger,” he muttered. He breathed out a bitter laugh. “Your bite is as cold as the northern winds, my lady.”

Lyanna ignored the complaint as she untied the string of her cloak and let it slide off her shoulders. Egg brightened immediately when he saw her.

“Lady Lyanna,” he said. “You found us.”

“Yrsa found you, she gestured toward the massive wolf that entered the tent and settled next to Egg. “However, even without her, pinpointing you would have been simple; I merely needed to pursue the overpowering stench of strong wine.”

Her gaze settled upon the firstborn prince, who acted as if the insult hadn't registered. Nevertheless, Lyanna was certain he had caught every word distinctly. Raymun offered a brief, hesitant chuckle in response to her comment, yet his lightheartedness vanished swiftly as Daeron sent him a subtle glare.

Ser Duncan, meanwhile, looked profoundly uncomfortable.

Lyanna noticed the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his large hands clasping and unclasping at his belt as though he had suddenly forgotten what to do with them. She remembered their first meeting, when he had seemed equally unsure how to address a lady who didn’t count herself as one.

He cleared his throat.

“Lady Lyanna,” he said at last. “I did not realize you were – ah – looking for us.”

“I was,” Lyanna answered simply.

She stepped further into the tent, her gaze moving briefly over the small company. Dunk’s armor leaned against a wooden pole nearby, hastily cleaned but still showing imperfections. Raymun’s apple-red cloak was thrown across a chair. The place had the look of men trying to plan something dangerous with far too little time.

Ser Duncan seemed to realize she had come with a purpose.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

Lyanna studied him for a moment before answering. “You are in need of men to fight for you, is that correct?”

Dunk’s expression darkened slightly at that. “Correct.”

Raymun shifted beside him.

“We have a few already,” the Fossoway said carefully. “Though not as many as we might wish.”

Lyanna folded her arms. “I suspected as much.”

Ser Duncan frowned faintly, clearly trying to guess where the conversation was heading.

“Lady Lyanna…” he began, uncertain.

Lyanna spared him the effort. “That is why I came,” she said. “I intend to ride for you in the trial.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Raymun stared at her, blinking once, then again, as if making certain he had heard correctly. Ser Duncan’s reaction was slower but perhaps more dramatic. His eyes widened slightly, and the color crept up the back of his neck.

“Lady,” he said, sounding almost alarmed, “you need not-”

“I know perfectly well that I need not,” Lyanna interrupted calmly. “That was not the question.”

Dunk hesitated. “But the trial… it will be no simple joust. Men will die.”

“Men die every day,” she said, shrugging.

“Lady Lyanna,” Raymun said cautiously, “No one doubts your skill. The whole camp saw what you did in the lists. Unhorsing Prince Aerion was enough to silence most of the doubters, and the Tully knight as well.” He paused. “But this is another matter entirely.”

“If Prince Aerion intends to stand against Ser Duncan tomorrow,” She raised one eyebrow. “Then my presence will only make matters more… symmetrical.”

Daeron snorted softly from where he was sitting.

“Yes,” the prince murmured. “I imagine my brother will find that symmetry delightful.”

Lyanna observed Ser Duncan briefly, then shifted her gaze to Raymun. “Rumor has reached me regarding the renowned Fossoway cider,” she commented, lifting an eyebrow slightly. “Would you mind pouring a lady a cup?”

He paused, gazing at Lyanna, before managing a reply. “It would be my honor, my lady.”

Following this, he darted across to the far edge of the pavilion. At the same time, Lyanna pivoted to look squarely at the hedge knight. “Let me tell you a story, Ser Duncan.”

She moved by Ser Duncan and took a seat next to Daeron, positioning her back against the length of the table directly behind her. Raymun appeared, carrying a cup, and presented it to her with an extremely bright smile, a gesture she mirrored. After taking a sip, she made a pleased sound before proceeding.

“At the age of fifteen, I took part in my first joust. Lord Arryn was hosting a tournament in the Eyre to celebrate the arrival of his male heir. I arrived at the tourney in secret, entered the lists under a false name and house, and stepped forward to meet my very first opponent – a knight hailing from some house whose details I've forgotten and whose identity I prefer not to remember.”

“Allow me to venture a guess,” Daeron interjected. “You managed to throw him from his mount on the very first pass, earning widespread acclaim for your steadfast might and courage, and the truth of your identity – that you are in fact Lady Lyanna of House Stark – remained concealed.” He let out a soft laugh as he took a sip from his cup.

Lyanna pivoted her gaze, planting it firmly upon him. “No; his lance struck my shield, and I, unprepared for such raw power, was unseated from my steed, collapsing into a disorganized pile in the dirt.”

Daeron sputtered, the wine catching in his throat, initiating a fit of coughing. After he managed to regain composure, he rejoined the others, his expression a clear picture of disbelief directed at her.

“What?” Egg cried out. He had been utterly absorbed in the narrative, anticipating the cheerful conclusion, but Lyanna's revelation left him completely perplexed.

“My lack of experience, coupled with impulsiveness, was my downfall,” she admitted as she shrugged. “However, the physical impact wasn't the worst part; the aftermath was. As I tumbled, my helmet fell off, exposing to everyone who was beneath it all this time. I braced myself for condemnations of deceit, anticipating fierce outcries regarding my lies.”

A muscle twitched in her jaw as Lyanna gazed downward. “Instead, they laughed at me. Boisterous, arrogant laughter accompanied by fingers jabbing at me as they sneered. 'What does she imagine herself to be?' they remarked. I shall never forget when the knight who unseated me peered down and stated, 'Move aside, girl, lest your conceit be shattered before the day ends. Jousting is for men who grasp honor, not for daughters of the North playing at war.”

Lyanna’s eyes were still cast down, inspecting the floor. “Then he left, leaving me there for everyone to laugh at.”

She glanced up and regarded Ser Duncan. “After that day, I resolved that I would never let anyone unseat me. I practiced constantly, driving my father mad while Ser Benjen trained me.”

“And did you?” Egg butted in, excitement shining in his eyes. “Did you manage to keep that promise?”

Lyanna smiled as she leaned in. “Ever since that day, I have not fallen off a horse, not once.”

“Wow,” Egg breathed out, his eyes wide as saucers.

She leaned back and looked at the hedge knight. “You see, Ser Duncan, it may be that tomorrow my streak will be broken, and some lucky bastard will knock me off my horse in the middle of that chaos. But I will take my chances.”

The knight before her still stood stiff as a log, doubt marring his features. Lyanna could see the problem plainly enough. It was not the doubt of her skill. The whole camp had seen her ride; they had seen Prince Aerion thrown from the saddle by her lance, and the Tully knight after him. No, Ser Duncan feared the consequences that would follow if she ended up badly hurt.

For a moment, she said nothing. Her grey eyes moved across the tent – the dented armor resting against the pole, Raymun’s uncertain expression, Egg watching with barely disguised curiosity.

 Lyanna rolled her eyes and took a sip of the cider. “Alright, then let us take a different approach.”

She glanced to her right, where Daeron was sitting and watching her. “How many knights does Aerion have fighting for him?”

Daeron frowned, counting the men, “Me, my father, and three knights from Kingsguard.”

“That makes five, and Aerion needs one more, correct?” she asked.

“Correct.” Daeron nodded, confused about where she was going with this.

Then she let out a quiet breath.

“Well,” she said at last, her tone almost thoughtful, “that settles it.”

Ser Duncan frowned. “Settles what?”

Lyanna turned slightly, as though the decision had already been made in her mind.

“If you will not have me,” she said, “I shall simply offer my sword elsewhere.”

Raymun blinked. “Elsewhere?”

She met Dunk’s gaze again, calm as winter frost.

“Prince Aerion is missing one knight,” she continued. “If you refuse my help, I expect he will be very glad to have me.”

The effect was immediate. Raymun straightened as if struck. Egg’s eyes widened in alarm as his breath hitched in his throat. Even Daeron, who was slumped in the chair beside her, lifted his head at that.

Ser Duncan stared at her in disbelief. “You would ride for him?” he said.

Lyanna did not answer at once. Instead, she stood up and moved toward the open flap of the tent, letting her gaze drift briefly across the rows of pavilions beyond. Torches were beginning to flare to life as dusk settled over the camp, their light flickering against banners and polished helms.

Somewhere out there was Prince Aerion – proud, cruel, and very likely still furious about everything that had happened. She imagined his expression if she were to arrive at his door and offer to ride with him.

It would be… memorable, to say the least.

Behind her, Ser Duncan spoke again, more sharply this time.

“You cannot mean that.”

Lyanna turned back slowly. “Can I not?” she asked.

Dunk looked deeply troubled now. His brow furrowed, and his large hands curled slightly as if he wished to argue but could not quite find the words.

“You know what sort of man he is,” he said. This time more quietly.

“I do,” Lyanna replied.

“And still, you would stand beside him, against us?”

For a heartbeat, she held his gaze. There was just enough silence to make the thought sink in. Then she shrugged lightly.

“If those are the only terms offered to me,” she said, “I suppose I must.”

Raymun Fossoway muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Ser Duncan looked from Lyanna to the tent entrance and back again, clearly imagining the consequences. A Stark riding for Aerion Targaryen in a trial meant to judge his own actions… People would talk, and the talks would stretch across the Seven Kingdoms for days to come.

Lyanna watched the realization dawn across his face. Inside, she felt a small flicker of satisfaction. He was an honest man, Ser Duncan, but honest men could be terribly predictable.

At last, he let out a long breath.

“My lady,” he said slowly, “that is not what I wish.”

“Then what do you wish?”

“That you do not throw yourself into danger for my sake.”

Lyanna’s expression softened only slightly.

“Ser Duncan, you stood alone against princes because it was the right thing to do,” she said. “The least the rest of us can do is make certain you are not alone tomorrow.”

Dunk hesitated. Raymun leaned closer to him and murmured something too low for Lyanna to catch, though she saw the way the young Fossoway glanced nervously toward the tent flap – as if half-afraid Aerion himself might appear there at any moment.

At last, Ser Duncan looked back at her. “And if I said yes?” he asked quietly.

Lyanna allowed herself the faintest smile.

“Then I would ride for you tomorrow.”

For a moment after Lyanna’s last words, the tent held its breath.

The sounds of the tourney camp drifted faintly through the canvas walls – men calling to one another, the clatter of armor being stacked, the restless shifting of horses – but inside the Fossoway pavilion, no one spoke. The torch near the central pole flickered softly, casting wavering shadows across the small circle of faces.

Ser Duncan still looked as though he had been struck by a hammer of conflicting thoughts. His broad shoulders, which had seemed so rigid moments before, slowly eased as the meaning of her answer settled in.

“You mean it, then,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before. “You’ll ride with me.”

Lyanna gave a small nod. “If you’ll have me.”

The tension that had wound tight through the tent seemed to loosen all at once. Raymun Fossoway let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well,” he muttered, half to himself, “That is one less nightmare to worry about.”

He cast a glance toward Lyanna, and there was no uncertainty in it now – only a kind of cautious respect that had been growing ever since the day she had broken Prince Aerion’s seat in the lists.

Across the tent, Egg’s relief was far less restrained.

“I knew it!” The boy burst out, grinning as though the entire matter had been a wager he had just won. “You’ll see, Ser Duncan, we will have seven knights. And with Lady Lyanna riding for us-”

“Easy there,” Dunk said, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

The great hedge knight rubbed the back of his neck, still looking faintly overwhelmed by how the evening had unfolded. A few moments ago, he had been worrying whether he could gather enough champions to stand beside him in the morning. Now, a Stark of Winterfell – one who had already unhorsed Aerion Targaryen before half the Ashford Meadow – had pledged herself to his cause.

Daeron, who had been watching the exchange from his seat with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and exhaustion, let out a low chuckle.

“My brother will be furious when he hears of this,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Which alone may make tomorrow worth being sober.”

The remark drew a quiet laugh from Raymun, and even Dunk managed a faint smile. The mood inside the tent had changed completely. The air that had felt so heavy before now carried something steadier – something almost hopeful. They were still outnumbered by enemies with better names and richer banners. The trial ahead would be dangerous, perhaps deadly. But they were no longer alone.

Ser Duncan looked around the small gathering – the young prince, the nervous Fossoway squire, and the Stark woman who stood as calmly as if she had just agreed to ride in an ordinary tourney tilt.

At last, he nodded, more firmly this time.

“Then it’s settled,” he said.

And for the first time since the trial had been declared, the words did not sound like a sentence waiting to be carried out.

Though the quiet relief that had settled over the Fossoway tent lingered only a short while. Raymun had begun pacing slowly near the central pole, already muttering half-formed thoughts about the other champions they might gather before morning. Ser Duncan stood beside the rough wooden table, still looking thoughtful, as though he had not quite finished convincing himself that the Stark woman truly meant to ride beside him.

Lyanna remained near the tent entrance, one shoulder resting lightly against the support pole. Through the parted canvas, she could see the glow of torches spreading across the tourney grounds as night settled over the camp.

Behind her, Daeron Targaryen shifted into his chair. He had been watching her with an expression that suggested some private amusement had begun to grow in his mind. At last, he spoke.

“Tell me something, my lady,” Daeron said lazily, tilting his head toward her. “Did you truly mean what you said a moment ago?”

Lyanna glanced back at him.

“I have said several things in the past few minutes, my prince. You must be more specific.”

Daeron waved a hand vaguely. “The part where you threatened to ride for my brother.”

Raymun stopped pacing. Ser Duncan’s head came up at once. Egg looked between them, curious. Daeron leaned forward slightly in his chair, his lilac eyes sharpening despite the wine that lingered in his voice.

“If Ser Duncan had refused you,” he continued, “would you really have gone to Aerion and offered him your sword?”

For a heartbeat, Lyanna simply stared at him. Then she let out a short, incredulous scoff.

“Of course not.”

The answer came so quickly and with such open disbelief that the words seemed to hang in the air. Ser Duncan blinked. Raymun looked from her to Dunk as if trying to piece together what he had just heard.

Daeron’s mouth slowly curved into a grin. “I suspected as much.”

Lyanna pushed herself away from the pole and folded her arms.

“What sort of woman do you take me for?” she asked. “I may not have much fondness for rules, but I am not mad enough to swear myself to him.”

Raymun barked out a startled laugh. “Seven save us,” he muttered.

Across the tent, Ser Duncan was staring at her as though she had just revealed some clever trick he had not even realized he was part of.

“You mean-” he began slowly. “You weren’t truly going to-”

“Ride for Prince Aerion?” Lyanna finished for him.

Her grey eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.

“No.”

Ser Duncan ran a hand through his thick hair, looking thoroughly bewildered.

“But you said-”

“I said what I needed to say.”

Raymun began laughing properly now, the tension of the evening finally breaking loose.

“Well played, my lady,” the Fossoway squire said between chuckles. “I thought for certain we had just lost you to the enemy.”

Egg grinned broadly. “You tricked him!” the boy said, clearly delighted.

Ser Duncan still looked half-stunned. “You frightened the life out of me,” he admitted.

Lyanna’s expression softened just a little as she looked at him.

“That was rather the point,” she said.

Daeron chuckled from his seat, shaking his head.

“Remind me never to play cyvasse with a Stark,” he said. “You people fight like wolves and scheme like foxes.”

Lyanna shrugged lightly. “In the North, we simply call it getting what we want.”

The laughter that followed was quiet but genuine.

The talk inside the Fossoway tent had begun to quiet after Lyanna’s pledge to ride for Ser Duncan the Tall. What had started as an anxious debate had settled into something steadier. The fear had not vanished, but it had found shape.

Lyanna fastened the clasp of her grey cloak slowly, her fingers working the worn metal with practiced ease. The gesture gave her a moment to observe the others without drawing attention. The torchlight inside the tent threw long shadows against the canvas walls, making the space feel smaller than it truly was. So many men preparing for violence. And most of them pretended they did not fear it.

Behind her, Daeron Targaryen was still watching her.

Daeron had always considered himself a fair judge of people, though wine and reputation had convinced most men otherwise. Lyanna Stark troubled that confidence. She moved through the world with a sort of calm certainty he rarely saw outside seasoned warriors, yet she spoke with a bluntness that belonged more to northern halls than southern courts.

And, he thought with growing amusement, she seemed entirely unafraid of Targaryens.

Just as she reached the flap, Prince Daeron spoke again.

“My lady.”

Lyanna paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Daeron had straightened a little in his chair, watching her with a look that was more thoughtful than his usual lazy amusement.

“If tomorrow goes poorly,” he said, “it seems we may find ourselves riding against one another.”

The words drew Dunk’s attention at once. Raymun stopped talking mid-sentence. Lyanna studied the prince in silence for a moment.

She remembered their earlier talk about the dream well enough. The way Daeron had spoken then irritated her more than she had expected. Men who surrendered to fate before the fight had even begun were difficult for her to respect.

“Is that your intention?” she asked. “I was under the impression you meant to fall off your horse before the fighting began.”

Daeron grimaced faintly. Gods, he hated how plainly she said things. No delicate courtesies, no careful phrasing – just the truth laid out like a blade on a table.

“That was the intention,” he admitted. “But intentions have a way of betraying us.”

And my brother has a way of making certain I regret every one of them, he added silently. Aerion had always possessed an uncanny talent for turning even small matters into humiliation.

Lyanna watched him a moment longer.

Part of her felt a flicker of sympathy she had not expected. Daeron might be weak-willed and far too fond of wine, but he was still a man standing in the shadow of a brother like Aerion. That was not an easy place to live.

Still, sympathy had never stopped her from speaking plainly.

“Well,” she said slowly, stepping away from the entrance. “If it comes to that, I should like to know your preference.”

Daeron raised an eyebrow. “My preference?”

“Yes.”

She folded her arms, studying him with the calm practicality of someone discussing a matter of horseflesh rather than a prince’s dignity. The motion felt natural to her, though she had noticed it often made southern lords uneasy.

“I see two reasonable options,” she continued. Lyanna lifted one finger.

“The first is quick and simple. You ride at me, I lower my lance, and you are out of the saddle before you’ve time to regret it. The crowd will think it an honest tilt, and you may keep most of your pride.”

Ser Duncan felt a knot forming in his stomach as he listened. Somehow, the conversation had wandered far beyond his understanding again. One moment, they had been worrying about finding enough men for the trial, and now the Stark woman was calmly arranging how a prince might be unhorsed.

Raymun let out a short laugh despite himself. The idea of calmly arranging how a prince might be unhorsed was so absurd it bordered on brilliance.

Daeron tilted his head, intrigued. “And the second?”

Lyanna lifted another finger.

“The second is slower,” she said. “You hold your seat for a pass or two. Enough to make it look convincing. Then you take the fall on the third tilt.”

Egg’s eyes widened with fascination.

“That way,” Lyanna went on calmly, “no one will accuse you of cowardice, and you may still avoid being skewered by someone less charitable than I.”

For a heartbeat, the tent was silent. Then Daeron began to laugh. It started quietly, but the sound grew until he had to press a hand to his brow

“Seven save me,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “You plan my defeat with admirable thoroughness.”

Lyanna shrugged lightly. “I prefer efficiency.”

Ser Duncan watched the exchange with growing disbelief. They spoke of this like merchants bargaining over grain. And somehow that made him more uneasy than the thought of the trial itself.

“This is mad,” Ser Duncan muttered.

Lyanna glanced at him.

“If the prince truly wishes to avoid the fight, someone must see that he leaves the field with dignity.”

Raymun shook his head slowly, still smiling. “I have never heard a man offered such generous terms for being unhorsed.”

Daeron leaned back in his chair again, amusement lingering in his eyes as he watched the woman before him. Lyanna Stark was dangerous in ways his brother would never understand. She was dangerous, he realized – not in the way his brother was, with cruelty and pride, but in quieter ways. She saw things clearly and spoke them without hesitation.

“I shall consider your proposal carefully, my lady,” he said. “Though I must admit, I am tempted by the first option.”

Lyanna’s mouth curved faintly. “Very well.”

She turned again toward the tent flap, but before she could step outside, her gaze shifted toward the youngest prince, who had been watching the entire exchange with bright curiosity. She had suspected the truth about him almost from the moment they met. The disguise had been clever enough at first glance, but small things always gave people away.

Lyanna regarded him for a moment, her grey eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” she said.

Egg straightened a little. Lyanna tilted her head slightly, studying the boy with quiet amusement. “You remember the first day we met?” she asked him.

Egg nodded cautiously.

“When Ser Duncan introduced you to me, you called me ‘my lady’.”

Dunk frowned. “What’s strange about that?” he asked.

Lyanna looked at him. “Everything, Ser Duncan.”

She turned back to Egg; her lips pulled in a small grin.

“You were dressed like a squire,” she said calmly. “A dusty boy trailing after a hedge knight. Yet the first words out of your mouth were ‘my lady.’ Not ‘m’lady,’ not ‘milady,’ but the sort of careful address taught to boys raised in halls with marble floors and maesters.”

Egg’s ears had begun to redden as he slowly started to grasp the truth.

Lyanna continued, almost lazily. “And then there was the way you stood. Your back straight, your chin lifted just enough to meet a person’s eyes. Small things, perhaps… but not the habits of a stable boy.”

Raymun looked between them with growing interest. Ser Duncan’s brow creased as the realization slowly dawned. “You mean you knew?”

Lyanna shrugged lightly.

“Not precisely who he was,” she admitted. “But I knew he did not belong among the horses.”

She looked at Egg again, her expression softening slightly.

“A boy raised low learns to make himself smaller,” she said. “You never did.”

Egg stared at her, astonished, a mere whisper falling past his lips. “You… you knew the whole time?”

Lyanna gave the faintest smile.

“I suspected.”

Daeron chuckled from where he sat.

“It appears my family’s disguises are not as convincing as we like to believe.”

Ser Duncan rubbed the back of his neck again, looking faintly embarrassed. “I never noticed any of that.”

Lyanna glanced at him.

“That does not surprise me, Ser Duncan.”

Raymun laughed quietly at that, while Egg looked both impressed and slightly sheepish. At last, Lyanna pushed aside the tent flap.

“Well,” she said, stepping out into the torchlit night, “try not to get yourselves killed before morning. It would make my decision to join you look rather foolish.”

And with that, she stepped out into the darkness with Yrsa close on her heels.

Outside, the cool air carried the smell of horses and damp earth. Behind her, the men in the tent sat in thoughtful silence for a moment longer. Each of them, in their own way, was beginning to realize the same thing.

Lyanna Stark was not merely brave. She was clever – and that might prove far more dangerous in the morning than any lance.

a/n: i am sorry for the late update, but i had to start writing my term paper, and it's kicking my ass, so...

on a more positive note (or not), we have the trial of seven next chapter, and as you probably already guessed, it is going to be an absolute blast.

Lyanna walked the narrow path between them at an unhurried pace, her boots crunching over dry grass and scattered straw. The heat pressed against her grey wool dress, and sweat clung stubbornly at the back of her neck, though she gave no sign of it. Around her, the tourney’s markets had sprung to life: merchants shouting over one another, hawking bright ribbons, carved trinkets, polished daggers, sweetmeats dusted with sugar, and watered wine sloshing in clay cups. Laughter and argument drifted together into a restless hum that rolled through the pavilions like distant surf.

A few steps behind her walked Ser Benjen, steady and watchful, his hand resting near the pommel of his sword more from habit than need. He kept a respectful distance, close enough to reach her quickly, far enough to grant her the illusion of wandering alone. His gaze moved constantly – over the crowd, the knights’ tents, the men-at-arms leaning on spears beneath scraps of shade.

Yrsa leisurely padded at Lyanna’s side.

The direwolf moved through the press of people like a pale shadow given form, vast shoulders rolling beneath her thick coat. The heat did not seem to trouble her as it did the horses and men; her tongue lolled slightly as she walked, though her bright, amber-colored eyes remained sharp and restless. Those who noticed her stepped quickly aside. A murmur followed in the wolf’s wake, curious and uneasy in equal measure. Lyanna ignored them, as did Yrsa.

Lyanna slowed before a stall where a smith had laid out a neat row of dagger blades, their edges catching the sun in thin flashes of light. The iron smelled hot, even where it lay cooling on the cloth.

Behind her, the sounds of the tourney carried faintly across the meadow – the crack of lances shattering, the distant roar of a crowd greeting some victorious pass.

Yrsa lifted her head at the noise, ears pricking toward the lists.

Lyanna did not turn. But the corner of her mouth shifted ever so slightly, as though the sound had stirred something sharp and eager beneath the calm of her wandering.

It has been days since she was last challenged by Ser Grover Tully, who was greatly humiliated by her and her direwolf. She had not heard from him since. There were rumors that he had left the Ashford Meadow in a rush the following day. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was true.

Dragging her eyes away from the intricate daggers, her eyes swept over the people. Until they stopped at a certain individual. Her eyes widened.

“Ser Benjen, are my eyes playing tricks, or is what I'm observing precisely what you're observing as well?”

Sir Benjen cast a quick look toward Lyanna, then tracked the direction of her gaze; his look reflected precisely what was on hers. “Indeed not, my lady; I have a strong conviction that I am witnessing the same thing.”

Amidst the crowd stood the largest man Lyanna had the chance of observing. His stature towered above everyone, looming over like a shadow. Though the more Lyanna watched him, the more she discerned that the giant did not utilize his size to his benefit. His bearing was slumped, his shoulders drooped as if he wished to make himself less imposing.

“I must meet him.”

Before Ser Benjen had a chance to speak up, Lyanna was already well on her way. The knight could only let out a breath of vexation before quickly following in pursuit.

The sizable fellow had diverted his gaze, observing something different entirely, just as Lyanna drew near. She generally thought of herself as quite tall – that was true for virtually all folk from the North – yet for the first time, Lyanna experienced a feeling of being small.

“Aren’t you the tallest man I have ever laid my eyes on?” She remarked. The gentleman startled, clearly taken aback by the unsolicited greeting. He pivoted to face her, and Lyanna lifted an eyebrow in silent query. As his gaze finally settled upon her features, a spark of belated recognition ignited in his eyes.

“Lady Lyanna, what an honor-” He executed a rather clumsy curtsy, which Lyanna returned with a simple smile. Her gaze swept briefly over the bald boy standing next to him before she refocused her attention on the enormous man.

“Say, what is your name?” she asked.

“Ser Dunk- Duncan,” He cleared his throat. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

Lyanna offered a smile and reached out her hand. “It is a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ser Duncan the Tall.” She presented her hand, yet he merely fixed his gaze upon it for a brief moment. Noticing Ser Duncan's bewilderment, the boy administered a sharp kick to his shin, which promptly snapped him out of his daze.

“Oh, right-”

He took hold of her hand and softly pressed his lips to the back of it, prompting a tiny chuckle from Lyanna. “You're quite an atypical knight, Ser Duncan. I've truly never encountered someone quite like yourself.”

“I try not to be like everyone else.”

A grin spread across Lyanna's face. “That is a good thing, Ser Duncan.”

She directed another look toward the boy standing next to him, and Ser Duncan, noticing her gaze, quickly introduced him. “This is my squire, Egg.”

An arch of her eyebrow signaled her surprise at the peculiar name, yet she offered him a smile in return. “Nice to meet you, Egg.”

The boy beamed back at her. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

As the words escaped the boy’s mouth, Lyanna's smile froze, and her gaze briefly sharpened upon him. She took in his appearance from head to foot: the closely cropped hair, the tattered garments, and the dirty visage. Lyanna emitted a low, thoughtful sound before pivoting to face Ser Dunkan.

“Might I inquire, Sir Duncan,” she began, “Do your origins lie in the North, by any chance?”

He responded with a slight shake of his head, “Not precisely.” A slight flush came to his cheeks as he nervously rubbed the nape of his neck, unaccustomed to the focus of her gaze. “I come from the South.”

“Huh,” She mused. “Looks like we northerners have some competition.”

Sir Duncan offered her a smile, yet it faded swiftly as his gaze tracked the figure that strolled up from beyond Lyanna and took a position next to her. Egg’s expression contorted into fear upon recognizing that the wolf’s gigantic proportions were equivalent to his own. The beast was truly enormous.

Seeing the terror reflected in the youth's gaze, Lyanna interjected. “There's no need for concern; she's far less frightening than her appearance suggests. With individuals harboring no malice, she displays considerable docility. Feel free to approach and pet her, should you wish.”

Egg directed his anxious look her way, seemingly searching for any hint of trickery, yet encountering nothing but her benevolent expression. “Really?”

Lyanna nodded.

Egg shared a glance with Ser Duncan, then turned his gaze back to the massive wolf, his hand inching forward tentatively. Yrsa gave his quivering hand a thorough sniff before giving his palm a swipe with her tongue. A soft laugh escaped Egg as he said, “That tickles.”

He acclimated to the creature's immense scale and realized that it posed no threat to his safety in under a minute. Lyanna observed from the periphery with a mix of slight disbelief and mirth as Egg dashed about gleefully, with Yrsa trotting close behind him.

Ser Benejn edged nearer, his gaze fixed firmly on the unfolding spectacle, “One never would have guessed Yrsa possessed such a whimsical nature.”

“Indeed,” she affirmed, her surprise evident as she observed Yrsa’s energetic bouncing around the boy. Lyanna then shifted her gaze, quickly gauging the reactions of those nearby. Several onlookers regarded the scene with apprehension, nervous for the youngster interacting so freely with the massive beast. Others, however, started to become less rigid in their views, perceiving that perhaps the wolf presented no real threat.

Lyanna felt no anger at the possibility that Yrsa wouldn't be perceived as a threat. Her intention was not to instill dread in others. Lyanna certainly wasn't superior to any of those individuals, nor did she possess the authority to make them feel inferior to herself. Her heart went out to the common folk; she sought their esteem, not their terror.

But she knew a prince who might disagree with her.

As twilight descended, she bid farewell to Ser Duncan and Egg, navigating the throng of people. Ser Benjen proposed she seek rest for the evening, but Lyanna felt a strong urge to voice her disagreement. Earlier that day, as she went by a group of people, she had caught word of a puppet performance scheduled tonight, which she was quite keen to attend.

Ser Benjen sighed, “You have been to almost every puppet show before, my lady.”

“Indeed, but they always change. So, there are always different things to see.” Lyanna replied while making her way towards the tent.

“I never suspected you liked such things.”

“We don’t have them in North,” she shrugged. “It is nice to, for once, experience something new.”

The tent for the puppet show was already full when she arrived, leading her to remain outside. Though given her stature, which fell short of Ser Duncan's but surpassed most others present, she possessed an unobstructed vantage point of the stage even from the edge of the crowd. She sent Ser Benjen away, granting him the leeway to enjoy a few mugs of ale, fully aware that the puppets held little interest for him. Though he initially showed reluctance to part ways with her, she reassured him that Yrsa would be by her side and ready to offer protection should the situation demand it.

Lyanna found herself especially captivated by the dragon puppet. Its impressive size, coupled with its inky black scales and actual bursts of flame, was remarkable. The intricate craftsmanship earned her silent admiration and a mental round of applause for the talented individuals controlling it. At that precise moment, cutting through the joyful noise of the crowd, a familiar, unmistakable direwolf snarl reached her ears.

A sigh escaped her lips; she instinctively knew who was right behind her. Only a single individual possessed the ability to evoke such a strong reaction from her direwolf.

“Why is she not growling at anyone else, but me?”

Lyanna offered an eyeroll when his voice reached her ears. Through her peripheral vision, she registered Aerion moving closer, taking up a position to her left. She observed that he was intentionally maintaining space between them, all the while cautiously watching the wolf.

“Could it perhaps stem from the fact that she simply doesn't like you?” He let out a derisive sound, prompting Lyanna to pivot and meet his gaze, one eyebrow arched skeptically. “And do not even dare to claim universal popularity. As we are both aware, that assertion is untrue.”

Once more, her gaze fixed upon the dragon puppet positioned on the stage, its blast of flame eliciting gasps of wonder from the assembled crowd.

“Truly fascinating beings,” she remarked, her gaze fixed firmly upon the puppet. Aerion would have certainly overlooked the moment, had his attention not already been fixed upon her profile. He observed the precise way her eyes focused whenever the puppet expelled yet another burst of flame. “It's always been a desire of mine to witness such a creature firsthand.”

She then turned to meet his gaze as she spoke her next words. “How utterly foolish.”

A spark ignited in Aerion’s gaze. She was well aware of how delicate the subject of dragons remained for him. More than anyone else present, he harbored the deepest desire for the dragons to return to the Seven Kingdoms. Nevertheless, Lyanna's assertion held weight; clinging to such an expectation was simply imprudent.

The same ire she'd witnessed before was bubbling beneath his lilac eyes, poised for an outburst, until a burst of cheering from the crowd drew their focus instead. Upon the platform, a puppeteer, dressed as a knight, darted dynamically around the beast, brandishing her blade aloft.

Lyanna frowned, unease settling in the pit of her stomach. “You don’t think she will-”

However, before Lyanna could complete her intended utterance, the knight darted to the serpent's flank, driving the blade into its throat. A cascade of crimson paper scraps erupted from the gash, mimicking gore. Lyanna’s gasp caught, and instinctively, her palm shot up to cover her mouth before she could restrain the action.

The anticipated roar of cheers and applause dissipated into a silence so profound it hurt. Every gaze shifted to the spot where she stood, but their attention now zeroed in on the person positioned immediately to her left. Lyanna angled her head to observe his profile. Details were obscured, yet the tell-tale crimson rising on his neck and the discernible trembling of his hands at his sides were quite visible to her eyes.

Subsequently, he slowly turned to face her. It wasn't the sort of mortifying fury she had observed on the day she knocked him off his mount, nor was it the envy that had colored his expression during their meals. This was something Lyanna had not had a chance of seeing before. Yet, for once, this wrath wasn't aimed at her, nor did she bear the responsibility for its origin.

And then he spoke.

“If you truly meant what you said before, you, out of everyone, will understand.”

And then there was chaos.

Terror filled Lyanna’s gaze as Arion’s guards demolished the puppeteer’s tent, wrecking all in their destructive wake while the smallfolk scattered. Her impulse was to intervene, yet dread paralyzed Lyanna; she found herself unable to act. Suddenly, Lyanna Stark understood with a jolt that she actually had no desire to halt his actions, as a portion of her sympathized with his fury. Had someone publicly “slaughtered” a direwolf puppet before her, turning it into entertainment for the crowd, she would have committed far more grievous deeds. These creatures – dragons and direwolves – represented the emblems of their noble families. They were revered beasts, deeply cherished and held sacred.

Granted, dragons had unleashed devastation upon Westeros, yet parading the act of slaying one was hardly advisable. The puppeteers were aware that members of House Targaryen were attending the tournament; did they genuinely anticipate that the house members would remain entirely unconcerned while their ancestral symbol was executed publicly?

She was aware that remaining inert, like a mere post, offered no solution, yet what conceivable action lay open to her? To seize Aerion by the ear as one might an ill-behaved youngster and administer a forceful shaking to restore his judgment?

“If you truly meant what you said before, you, out of everyone, will understand.”

Aerion’s words echoed in her mind the instant she saw him seize the young woman responsible for the dragon’s supposed demise. Lyanna watched the girl’s desperate writhing within his grasp, and just when she prepared to intervene, he snapped her finger. The sharp crack, simultaneous with the girl's shriek, caused Lyanna to flinch back. Yet, before she could even process the event, a massive form shot past her and lunged at Aerion.

With a start, Lyanna realized that it was the hedge knight she had met earlier, Ser Duncan.

Yrsa let out a low whine, surveying the surroundings with a bewildered expression, emitting growls toward anyone venturing too close to Lyanna. The massive wolf was perplexed by her inaction while catastrophe engulfed everything in sight. Nevertheless, Lyanna found herself utterly incapable of taking any initiative. The sheer gravity of the circumstances pressed upon her, leaving her entirely paralyzed.

It felt as if her physical form occupied the space, yet her true self was absent. Merely an echo of her former self lingered, her thoughts fractured by an internal conflict; two sides, one right and the other wrong. Comprehension spanned both perspectives, yet the necessity of selecting one path remained absolute.

The surrounding reality seemed to shift violently, inclining and revolving, while everything external faded into an indistinct haste.

She felt Ser Benjen's grip on her arms as it tightened as he attempted to remove her, yet she remained steadfast. Ser Duncan was seized by Aerion's guards, with Aerion issuing a threat to smash his teeth in. Right as this command neared execution, a voice sliced through the assembled people. It was sharp yet resolute. Egg. However, Lyanna was well aware that the boy possessed depths far exceeding his outward presentation. Still, what she did not expect was for him to be a prince.

Lyanna wanted to laugh how, only a few short hours earlier, the supposed 'prince' had been chasing about with her direwolf, utterly carefree in his laughter, despite actually shouldering more duties than the entire group combined.

Once the commotion subsided and Ser Duncan had been forcibly removed by the guards, Aerion Targaryen remained by himself, standing in the tent's center. Blood marked his lip, his hair was a mess, and his gaze burned with suppressed fury. He lifted his chin and turned his stare toward her.

“If you truly meant what you said before, you, out of everyone, will understand.”

She wanted to. However, Lyanna was deeply displeased with the way events had turned sour. While she might have dismissed the destruction of the tent and even tolerated the broken puppets, harming the girl was the point at which Lyanna felt he had crossed an unforgivable boundary. It is possible to rebuild the tents, even puppets can be fashioned anew, and perhaps even the digit on the young woman's hand might mend, yet the former state will never be regained.

He advanced one step towards her, and she took one back in response. Something flashed before his eyes. Hurt? Could he even feel such a thing? Was there any room for sentiment when Lyanna perceived in him nothing but unadulterated, boiling fury? But despite that, she knew that there was. That deep down, he was like everyone else. But she couldn’t help but feel nothing but seething anger.

Ser Benjen’s voice cut through the silence; low and careful, “My lady, we must leave.”

In a measured progression, a frown creased her features. Her brows drew together, and her mouth contorted into a scowl. Her piercing gaze held him fast to his place, and Aerion Targaryen was left powerless to do anything but observe as fury consumed her. This rage was directed squarely at him.

Her body was encircled by arms, and on this occasion, she offered no resistance, permitting Ser Benjen to pull her away. Away from the destroyed tent, away from the spilled blood, and away from the prince whose conviction that he was acting correctly had yielded nothing but wreckage.

Lyanna didn’t sleep much that night. Flashes of ruined tent, broken puppets, and the horrid crunch of the girl's finger being broken took turns echoing in her mind. The obsessive heat didn’t help the matter at all.

Upon the ensuing morn, Ashford Meadow presented a changed visage. Vendors refrained from hawking their wares at volume; merriment had faded, along with any sounds of song or musical performance. A sparse handful attempted to elevate the spirits through tunes and dances, yet these efforts proved ephemeral. A somber pall hung over everything, prompting Lyanna to resolve upon dedicating the rest of her hours within the confines of her tent. This plan held until dusk descended, at which point she found herself situated within a study at Lord Ashford's castle, seated at a table with a goblet of wine before her and very distressed Baelor Targaryen pacing somewhere behind her.

The moment twilight descended, guards arrived bearing an official summons from Prince Baelor. Initially, the request perplexed her – his desire for a meeting was the least Lyanna expected – yet recalling the previous day's occurrences swiftly illuminated the matter. And so here they were.

Across the table from Lyanna, Baelor was restlessly moving back and forth. He'd been doing this for the last sixty minutes, she reckoned, posing inquiries and voicing his thoughts. She felt a touch of astonishment when he sought her perspective, and even more so when he genuinely weighed her views.

“What are your thoughts on this?” He asked, stopping to look at her.

She took a sip of the wine before placing the cup back on the table.

“In my estimation,” She remarked slowly. “Aerion's actions possessed a certain justification.” Seeing Baelor's skeptical look, she hastened to clarify. “Let me be clear: I do not endorse what he did. Nevertheless, I grasp the source of his fury. Were some puppeteers killed a direwolf puppet right in front of me purely for show, I suspect my own response would have been significantly more extreme.”

Her gaze lifted toward Baelor, catching a spark of comprehension in his look. She went on. “While his fury was completely justified, I cannot ignore what he did.” Lyanna then sighed as she leaned back into the chair. “If only he could curb that quick temper and take a moment to consider matters before leaping into conduct.”

“If only that were the case.” Baelor acknowledged with a nod, then let out a weary exhale. He proceeded to circle the table's edge and took a seat directly opposite her.

“It is important that you attend the meeting where we will determine the course of action for Ser Duncan. Alongside me, my brother, Aerion, and Lord Ashford.”

Lyanna frowned. “Your Grace, I am entirely uninvolved in this matter. I am simply a noblewoman who arrived with the intention of participating in the tourney.” She tilted her head to the side. “One might argue that gatherings such as this are quite inappropriate for someone of my station.”

“Given your impending role as the future Warden of the North, engaging in these kinds of discussions would undoubtedly prove beneficial for your development.” He said with a faint smile on his lips. “Furthermore, I want to confess that having your input is truly valuable to me, particularly during moments when I struggle with reaching a conclusion.”

Lyanna smiled. “I feel honored, Your Grace-”

“Baelor.” He interrupted. “I wish we would drop the formalities, since you asked me to do the same. Your father was my friend, as are you.”

At that instant, facing the man before her, Lyanna was struck by an unexpected wave of sorrow. Baelor was a good man. And she fully believed he would be a good king, yet therein lay the very source of her disquiet. This world has little value for what is pure, and eventually, all that is good and pure and right gets destroyed. A tightness formed in Lyanna's throat as the recognition dawned that her concern was entirely focused on his well-being.

Baelor’s voice brought her out from worrisome thoughts. “I saw your mother only once in my lifetime, it was on the day she married your father, she was only a few years older than you are now. I was invited to Winterfell to attend their wedding.” He spoke slowly, his voice soft. Lyanna grasped at his every word. “That day, when you took off your helm on that field, for a second, I thought that I was looking at her. You had that sharp look in your eyes that your mother had. Like you know far more than anyone else, like there is a deep knowledge hidden in your eyes.”

His gaze fell upon her, a gentle smile playing on his mouth. “You truly look exactly like your mother did in her youth.” He narrowed his eyes briefly. “Except for your smile. That is undeniably Brandon’s smile.”

Lyanna lowered her gaze to the table, a soft smile on her lips. “So, I have been told.”

A sudden rap at the entrance halted their activity. Lyanna pivoted on her chair, facing Ser Duncan, who was accompanied by a soldier and Egg… Aegon. Upon their initial encounter, she suspected the boy was playing tricks, yet realizing he was in fact royalty was something she hadn't anticipated.

She turned to face Baelor. “It appears my departure is due now.” With a slight bow of her head toward him, she turned to depart.

“The guards will escort you to the room; we will be there shortly,” Baelor said as he walked around the table to escort her out.

Lyanna acknowledged Ser Duncan with a slight nod. Then she did the same with the youngest prince. Pausing right at the doorway, she fixed her eyes on Balor. “To ensure there's no misunderstanding: I expect to have the liberty to voice my opinions during the assembly, and those contributions will carry weight.”

Baelor inclined his head. “Indeed. I give you my solemn promise that your every utterance shall be duly considered.”

“Thank you, Your-” She stopped herself before continuing, a small smile on her lips. “Baelor.”

Giving a slight acknowledgment, she exited the room and proceeded into the corridor, where Ser Benjen was already positioned, awaiting her arrival, with Yrsa seated right beside him.

“Ready to depart, my lady?” He inquired, prepared to leave, but Lyanna halted his movement.

“As a matter of fact, I plan to be present at the assembly.” She declared.

Ser Benjen lifted one eyebrow in question. “You are?”

Lyanna affirmed, “Prince Baelor personally summoned me.” She continued, “Besides, I see no cause to disagree with his summons.”

The guard leading Lyanna proceeded ahead, and she trailed behind. Ser Benejn and Yrsa not far behind them. Once they arrived, Lyanna concluded that this chamber surpassed the size of the dining area she had seen previously. A lengthy table dominated the center, positioned directly across from a massive, already blazing hearth. Seating circled the table, save for the front. The chair positioned centrally was unmistakably reserved for Prince Baelor, taking into consideration its sheer size compared to others.

Seating arrangements already accounted for three individuals. Lord Ashford held the position immediately to Prince Baelor's left, while Prince Maekar was situated on his right. Lyanna's gaze then drifted to the final occupied spot, positioned at the far right of the assembly, and a tightening of her jaw betrayed the strong feelings evoked by the person occupying it – the very catalyst for their gathering.

Aerion remained seated as if entirely unconcerned with any recent events. His bearing was utterly casual, even dismissive. The sole noise audible within the space was the steady, metronomic thud produced by Aerion crushing walnuts using the hilt of his blade. He briefly raised his gaze to acknowledge her presence with an air of tedium, yet she perceived a swift, involuntary second look flicking across his features the moment he registered that she was the one positioned near the doorway.

His chewing ceased instantly, his posture becoming rigid. Lyanna observed the swift mental calculation taking place within him, evaluating every potential justification for her arrival. Before he could utter a word, his father interjected with the question first.

“What brings you here, Lady Lyanna?”

Lyanna was taken aback by the surprising lack of crispness in Maekar's tone when he addressed her. She had, in fact, observed this subtle shift during some earlier evening meals. It appeared the preconceived negative notions he initially held toward her had diminished. Then again, could it be that his brother was responsible for altering his perspective? Regardless, Lyanna felt relieved.

Clasping her hands together directly in front of her, she paused before replying, her gaze fixed upon him. “It was Prince Baelor who summoned me to attend this meeting.”

A brief choked sound emanated from the vicinity of the extended dining surface, specifically near where Lord Ashford was seated on the left. His eyes flickered quickly between Prince Maekar and the woman present. “Such discussions are unsuitable for delicate ears. Issues of this nature ought to remain within the purview of the male sex.”

Aerion, poised to bring his blade down for a second blow to shatter the walnut, halted abruptly, his gaze sharply turning toward the lord. In unison, Prince Maekar's head and Lyanna’s both pivoted to face the same direction.

Observing the trio of gazes intently fixed upon him, Lord Ashford shifted awkwardly upon his chair. Lyanna could readily discern the source of her own ire and dissatisfaction. However, what truly caught her attention were the responses elicited from Prince Maekar and Aerion.

Maekar clenched his fingers in a fist. “You insolent-”

But a voice belonging to his own brother cut him off. “I am sure that Lord Ashford only jested.”

Lyanna turned her head to acknowledge Baelor, who now stood on her left. “We, men, occasionally face a significant requirement for soothing companionship. It's not feasible to delegate every concern solely to our domain. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Ashford?"

Baelor offered his hand out to Lyanna, catching her gaze, as she accepted it. While Lord Ashford rushed over to present his apologies, Baelor steered her towards her assigned spot, the other head of the table. To Lyanna's annoyance, this position placed her right next to Lord Ashford and directly across from Aerion. Nevertheless, she sat down and lifted her gaze to look across the expansive furniture. Over the preceding few evenings, she had consistently found herself arranged in this exact seating pattern opposite Aerion, although the distance separating them this time was significantly greater.

Lord Ashford continued to mumble incoherent apologies as Baelor settled into a seat near the center, but a sharp glance from Lyanna coupled with a low growl from Yrsa silenced him immediately. She swayed her head. It was surprising to discover just how conceited southern lords could be and how much they clearly required a firm lesson.

Lyanna pivoted, presenting her back to Lord Ashford and deliberately avoiding Aerion’s intense scrutiny as he attempted to lock eyes with her. The sudden, loud thumping started again when her gaze refused to connect with his. With an exasperated roll of her eyes, she shifted her glance down to the direwolf resting near her boots, who was intently observing every twitch and shift in the room.

Soon after that, guards brought Ser Duncan into the room.

“T-trial by combat. That is my right.” He uttered, his sight sweeping over each person present in the chamber. For a moment, his look lingered upon Lyanna and her wolf companion, after which he swallowed and directed his attention back towards Prince Baelor.

“I refuse.” Was Aerion’s answer. Lyanna glanced at him as Maekar directed an incredulous look his way.

“You cannot refuse.”

Lyanna then spoke up, her eyes finally finding Aerion’s. “Any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand as such.” She raised a daring eyebrow. “Unless you withdraw your claim, my prince?”

And there they sat, face to face yet again, the familiar skirmish that typically erupts between them recommencing its rhythm. Lilac depths and frigid grey met in a collision that was both stunning and perilous – a true test of wills. The atmosphere in the space became heavy and hard to breathe, a strain so tangible Lyanna could almost taste the weight of it.

Just when she thought she had won this, Aerion spoke, “A trial of seven.”

Lyanna’s features gave away her bewilderment; her brow knitted together. She inwardly reprimanded herself for allowing her lack of understanding to show so clearly, especially as she noticed the self-satisfied expression Aerion wore while proceeding. “That is my right, I do believe.”

“What the fuck is a trial of seven?”

Baelor sighed as he looked from Aerion to Ser Duncan, who was just as confused. “It is another form of trial by combat. Ancient. Seldom invoked. It came across the Narrow Sea with the Andals and their seven gods.”

Lyanna had never heard of such trial, but then again, in the North, they prayed to the old gods and none of that seven gods’ nonsense.

Maekar shrugged. “Well, if it was the Andals…”

“I-I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Ser Duncan asked, looking at Maekar, then at Baelor. “The old man was never much for praying. What-what is a trial of seven?”

“The Andals believed that if seven champions fought, the gods, being thus honored, would be more likely to intervene and see the guilty party punished.”

Lyanna reclined in her seat, thoroughly exhausted by the preceding events, as Maekar addressed Aerion with a stern tone. From the side of her vision, she kept tabs on Aerion, who kept crushing the walnuts even as he engaged his father in conversation. Since he was somewhat absorbed, it afforded her a rare opportunity to examine him closely.

The wound on his lip had been treated, and the blood was wiped away. Yet no salve could touch the expression perpetually etched upon his features. The same expression he wore when he was in the presence of anybody who wasn’t worth his time. Which was most of the time. It was as if the rest of humanity constituted nothing more than grime upon the surface of his immaculate footwear, something he was eager to wipe away.

Lyanna had already arrived at this conclusion before; he possessed striking good looks: the pallid, silver hair, eyes the color of lilac, and those unmistakable Valyrian characteristics – all marred, however, by an unyielding frown that spoiled the overall effect.

Lyanna turned her gaze away, fixing it instead upon Ser Duncan, who stood positioned before the assembled company, his imposing frame appearing even more stooped, as if he were desperately endeavoring to diminish his considerable presence. A difficult feat, certainly, for a man of his towering stature.

She caught a glimpse from the side as Aerion brought the pommel of his blade down once more, yet this time his strike went amiss, sending the walnut bouncing and sliding right across the tabletop in her direction.

The room resonated with the sharp crack of a palm striking timber, startling Lord Ashford from his seated position and prompting everyone else to direct their gaze toward the source. The instant the walnut made contact with her outstretched hand upon the tabletop, she brought it down with force, halting its movement abruptly. Her head began a measured rotation, ceasing only when her intensely hostile stare locked onto Aerion.

He swallowed, then gestured toward the walnut, indicating for her to return it to him. She responded by elevating a single eyebrow while rotating the spherical shell between her fingers. Their exchange contained brief motions, yet the thinly veiled mockery, emanating predominantly from Lyanna, was perceptible even without any actual spoken words.

Placing it upon the surface of the table, she simultaneously extended her free hand toward a concealed pocket within her dress, retrieving a dagger. While clearly diminutive compared to Aerion's blade, the dagger surpassed the size of any typical table knife and possessed a more substantial heft.

Lyanna held Aerion's gaze firmly and, with a solid thump, drove the pommel of her dagger downwards, cracking the shell open. Only then did her eyes shift to examine the nut, retrieving the consumable pieces within.

A faint but annoyed mumble from Maekar across the table brought a slight smile to her lips. “Oh, Seven hells…”

Lyanna turned her gaze to Baelor, noting his attentive look. “Do proceed, Your Grace.”

Baelor snapped out of whatever daze he was in and cleared his throat as he looked back at Ser Duncan. “Right, well-” He frowned, trying to recall the topic of their previous conversation. “Aerion is within rights. We have no choice. A trial of seven must be held at dawn.”

Lyanna picked out a piece of a nut and offered it to Yrsa, who raised her head and accepted the piece, though the displeasure was evident on her face as she was expecting something better than a piece of a nut.

Before her, Ser Duncan’s confused voice echoed across the room. “What does this mean? That I must fight seven men?”

Even though Lyanna never heard about such trial, she understood that it wasn’t supposed to be one man against seven.

“No, Ser Duncan, it must be seven against seven.” She said as she chewed on the last piece of nut.

A stray walnut rolled over the tabletop, and Lyanna snatched it to prevent it from hitting the ground. She was certain this time it was not accidental; her gaze lifted to Aerion, who, seemingly oblivious, continued to hammer down with the pommel of his weapon.

Thump.

Thump.

Baelor nodded his head, ignoring the rhythmic thumping coming from both sides of the table, and continued. “Quite right. You must find six other knights to fight beside you.”

“But I have no one else!”

“If a cause is just, good men will fight for it. If not, it will be because you are guilty.” Aerion said, shrugging.

Her gaze followed the further, almost improbable, sinking of Ser Duncan's shoulders. In her peripheral vision, she caught Maekar rising from his seat, physically pulling Aerion away from his own chair; she observed them moving a short distance from the table, engaging in low, private conversation. The majority of the exchange, however, appeared to be Maekar sternly addressing his misbehaving son.

“Can I go now?” Ser Duncan spoke up. His voice was void of any hope he had upon entering the room.

Baelor nodded. “Seek your champions, Ser Duncan.”

Lyanna let out a breath, settling back in her seat while chewing a piece of a nut.

She found herself uncomfortably positioned, grasping the merits of both perspectives. While she comprehended Aerion's fury concerning the flagrant disregard for his house's emblem, she simultaneously disapproved of his choice of such extreme measures to punish the young woman.

Furthermore, Lyanna grasped the rationale behind Ser Duncan's actions. One of the most important rules for any knight involves protecting the innocent. Ser Duncan upheld this principle perfectly, even though one might quibble about the girl's actual innocence, given her disrespectful actions towards the sigil of House Targaryen. Nevertheless, Lyanna figured that element was likely overlooked by most observers.

However commendable Ser Duncan's deeds were, his method of execution was flawed. Essentially, his conduct mirrored Aerion's by allowing his feelings to dominate the situation.

They were both wrong, and they were both right, leaving Lyanna genuinely curious as to how the gods will judge this trial.

Lord Ashford's sudden rising broke Lyanna's reverie. He hurried past her seat, his gaze fixed entirely on the direwolf calmly slumbering near her feet. Lyanna observed the lord's hasty exit with an amused expression and a slight upturn of her lips as he vanished down the corridor.

Rising from her seat, with the clear purpose of departing, she found her exit blocked as two people entered the room and moved toward the assembled members of House Targaryen; one of the newcomers was familiar to her, but the second one was a stranger.

Egg was unrecognizable, outfitted in his new attire; crimson and black, the symbolic House Targaryen colors. Observing the small lad positioned amongst his assembled kin, she determined he appeared wholly unsuited to the setting. The divergence wasn't solely attributable to his closely cropped hair. His entire demeanor failed to align with what was expected of a Targaryen. Dressed in the sigil of House Targaryen, he struck her as more of an imposter than he had when clad in simple peasant wear.

After concluding her observation of Egg, Lyanna's gaze shifted towards the second person present. Initially, she felt a sense of unfamiliarity, but that impression quickly dissipated. It dawned on her that this was the very inebriated man her group had crossed paths with at an inn, situated merely a day's travel from Ashford Meadow. Subsequently, she recalled the whispers circulating in recent days about the disappearance of Prince Maekar's two sons, and everything began to fall into place.

Thus stood Daeron, the eldest son of Prince Maekar, whose days were spent chasing fortune within the confines of wine goblets. As Lyanna took in his appearance, she conceded that he truly presented a wretched sight. He didn’t have the characteristic fair hair of the Targaryens; his own was more the hue of gold and fell to his shoulders. Beneath his eyes were pronounced shadows, suggesting days devoid of any sleep, and his general demeanor spoke of profound unhappiness. He gave the impression of someone compelled to be present, dragged unwillingly to this place. A notion that was, quite likely, accurate.

While she was examining him, Daeron's gaze drifted idly across the room until, by chance, it landed upon her. The instant his vision settled on her form, his eyes widened sharply, resembling the reaction of someone encountering a sight long familiar yet believed lost to them forever.

“You,” he exhaled, instantly commanding the focus of everyone in the vicinity. Lyanna, acting on pure reflex, straightened her posture, bracing herself for an unknown confrontation. “I have dreamed of you.”

Lyanna remained rooted where she stood near the table, one hand tightly grasping the wood's rim. She managed to swallow as her gaze darted momentarily from Baelor to Maekar, then to Aerion, only to notice that all three pairs of eyes were fixed on Daerion. However, what she perceived wasn't bewilderment, but rather an air of weariness about them.

Her eyes snapped back at Daerion, who now moved closer to her. “I-I beg your pardon, my prince?”

She found herself absolutely paralyzed where she stood. Despite strong internal promptings to shift her position, nothing happened. It felt as though Daeron's brief utterance had cast some kind of enchantment over her, effectively tethering her immovably to that precise location.

Sensing the peculiar mood, Yrsa rose from her resting spot and approached Lyanna, her fur making slight contact with the fabric of her gown. Daerion noticed this shift and paused his gradual approach; his gaze locked onto the direwolf.

A deranged chuckle escaped him. His laughter mirrored that of someone who had just grasped that the ghosts hunting him weren't mere figments of his imagination but were, in fact, real. He looked relieved. He continued his advance toward her, paying no heed to Yrsa's cautionary snarl, as if certain she wouldn't inflict harm unless there was a justifiable cause.

Lyanna gasped as his hands grasped her forearms with surprising strength she didn’t quite expect he possessed, his pale lilac eyes fixed entirely on her.

“You are here to save us.” He said, his eyes shining with hope. “You are here to save us all.”

Whispers had reached her ears concerning Prince Maekar's firstborn and his visions of the future. Every attempt she made to learn more was met with deflection, with folks suggesting it was simply a pretext he used to mask his heavy drinking. Yet, gazing into those pale, lilac eyes radiating such certainty and hope, Lyanna found herself questioning if they were just fabrications.

Her gaze met those eyes, windows to experiences beyond human comprehension. They were eyes that had witnessed an abundance of death and destruction. Yet, in their depths, she perceived reverence as if she had hung the moon and stars in the skies.

“Daeron!”

Maekar’s rough tone jolted them from their stupor. Daerion suddenly let go of her as if he had burned himself and moved away. As soon as his grip loosened, Lyanna staggered, her back bumping against the table's side. She immediately placed a hand over her chest, feeling the frantic thumping of her heart beneath her palm. From the edge of her vision, she noticed Aerion approaching, but she lifted her free hand, halting him right where he stood. Her gaze, which had previously been fixed on the wooden floor, lifted and settled upon Daeron’s features.

As though the gravity of his actions had just dawned upon him, he began to utter his regrets. “Oh, gods, I am so sorry. My apologies, Lady Lyanna, I- I truly had no intention-”

“Pardon my son's behavior, lady,” Maekar interjected; his tone grew gentle, addressing her, yet hardened immediately as his gaze shifted to the boy. “This day hasn’t been particularly favorable to him, you see.”

“His life has not been particularly favorable to him,” Aerion grumbled, fixing his older sibling with a sharp look.

Lyanna's palm remained firmly planted over her chest; a singular certainty occupied her mind. She needed to leave this room and fast.

“With your permission, Your Grace,” she stated, elevating her chin and pivoting to face Baelor. Her tone betrayed no tremor, betraying no hint of disruption caused by Daeron's recent behavior. “The hour is late, and I find myself compelled to depart.”

“Of course, shall my guards escort you out?” He asked, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. I am sure I will find the way out.”

With a swift nod to each person present, her gaze briefly settled on Daerion before she made her exit from the chamber, escaping the increasingly oppressive atmosphere that intensified with the arrival of additional members of House Targaryen.

Lyanna proceeded past Ser Benjen, who was positioned just outside the room. The knight watched her retreat, a look of puzzlement on his face, clearly uninformed about the events that had transpired within the chamber. Once outside, Lyanna took a deep, necessary breath. Placing one hand on the chill stone surface of the outer wall of the castle, she let the sharp, nocturnal air fill her lungs.

“Did something happen, my lady?”

Lyanna returned the worried gaze of the knight but remained silent. She couldn't quite pinpoint what had caused such a strong jolt of alarm in her. Daeron was a drunk, and that meant that his muttering was hardly worthy of serious consideration. But then there was the fact that he knew her name. Though she quickly dismissed that thought, suspecting that Egg probably told him everything about her.

“You are here to save us all.”

The last time Lyanna assessed her role, she certainly wasn’t a savior. Her intention in coming here was solely to join the tournament, unhorse a few arrogant knights, and depart just as discreetly as she arrived. She aimed to remain anonymous, unseated by no one, and her true identity carefully concealed.

She already failed that on her first day.

It dawned on her that the moment events began to veer off course, abandoning Ashford Meadow was the correct move. She ought to have packed her belongings and her escort and departed immediately. Perhaps, with a bit of fortune, she might have encountered another tourney where a fresh attempt could be made, this time under complete anonymity.

Lyanna could only lay the fault at her own door. Her compulsion to establish a point outweighed any sensible judgment she possessed. And eventually it led to a disaster. She couldn’t possibly be at fault regarding the difficult situation Ser Duncan now faced. Nevertheless, she was present, and her testimony counted. Despite every inclination to remain uninvolved, Lyanna Stark found herself entangled in this predicament, and regardless of her preference, she must act.

There was only one question: which side will she take?

a/n: things are starting to get really serious...

I only just remembered that I haven't asked if people want to be added to the taglist, so if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, feel free to leave a comment

The evening meals had lost their edge of tension, yet an indefinable air persisted, one Lyanna couldn't quite place. It felt as though they were anticipating some event that would abruptly shatter the current stability. Following the first supper, Prince Maekar appeared noticeably less frosty and withdrawn. Furthermore, he refrained from voicing his disapproval regarding her father's judgment concerning her prospects, which Lyanna interpreted positively.

Baelor spoke with her the most, recounting his bond with her father and the battles they had fought together. While her father had previously told these very stories to her, hearing them once more through another's viewpoint proved invigorating.

Regarding Aerion, he maintained his characteristic demeanor, leveling a harsh gaze at Lyanna from the other side of the table, and his scowl sharpened significantly once Prince Valarr decided to strike a conversation with her. Which he did a lot.

At a certain moment, Lyanna entertained the notion that his actions were a calculated move, intended solely to vex his cousin. It was almost as if he were declaring, “If she remains unobtainable to me, then she shall be unobtainable to you as well.” This realization marked the moment Lyanna finally grasped the peculiar tension that had been pervading the air.

Possessiveness.

Lyanna made a stunning first impression, nearly bringing the future heir to the Iron Throne to his knees. Valarr was captivated by her looks, her power, and the sheer nerve she displayed challenging someone like Aerion. Baelor's subsequent intervention, discussing the prospect of a union between them, filled him with elation, a feeling utterly shattered when Lyanna revealed her impending position as the future Warden of the North.

Valarr could assert that he would prefer seeing her next to him, but then that would be untrue. Lyanna Stark belonged in the North. She was North. She was the essence of the wilderness and power that seemed to surround the region.

Lyanna Stark possessed the ferocity of the most brutal storms, and Valarr Targaryen was utterly and profoundly captivated by her. This intense adoration was precisely why he relished every moment in her company and engaged in conversation with her. And of course, to provoke his cousin’s ire.

Valarr was as certain as Lyanna that the subject of the betrothal had been raised. Although unvoiced, the private discussions between Baelor and Maekar on the matter must have occurred innumerable times. If not Valarr, then it must be someone else. The prospect of forging a union between the North and the South was overwhelmingly appealing; it represented a near singular occasion that the Targaryen’s were certainly determined not to forgo.

And Lyanna was not overly happy about that prospect.

Following her first joust where she successfully unhorsed Aerion, the process of getting ready for any future challenges became significantly simpler. She was now free to practice openly alongside Ser Benjen, avoiding any need for explanations, and could move about in her full amor without the requirement of keeping her helmet on. While observers still watched, the nature of their gazes had shifted. Women and younger lads conveyed respect and awe; a few fellow knights shared the same sentiment. However, some expressions were tinged with envy or outright skepticism. Furthermore, there remained individuals who viewed her very act of donning armor, let alone competing in the joust, as a profound dishonor.

Following her victory over Aerion, Lyanna assumed the role of Lady Gwin's champion, taking over the position. Lady Gwin had maintained five champions who protected her claim as the Queen of Love and Beauty ever since the beginning of the tourney. When any of these champions were defeated, the victor would immediately assume that champion's spot and continue to uphold her title.

Lyanna proceeded toward the field, clad completely in her armor except for her helm. The tent designated for her was already set up, conveniently situated immediately adjacent to the one intended for Prince Valarr. Upon inquiring about this arrangement with Benjen, he responded only with a shrug, offering no words, though she noticed a subtle smile playing on his mouth.

As she prepared to step beneath the archway and onto the field a voice halted her progression.

“Lady Stark.”

Lyanna stopped her movement and pivoted to give recognition to the individual addressing her. The instant she did, she found herself directly before Lord Ashford and Lady Gwin. She dipped her head.

“Lord Ashford, to what have I owned the pleasure?”

“My daughter insisted that she personally bestows you with the honor she prepared since you are one of her champions.”

Lord Ashford signaled to his daughter, and she advanced, holding a piece of orange silk. Lyanna had already observed before that each knight who protected her position displayed an orange silk bound around their upper arms.

As Lyanna towered over her, Lady Gwin offered a hesitant smile, tilting her head back slightly. “Lady Stark, I felt I simply must present this to you myself. It would be a profound honor if you would act as my defender today.” With that, she held out her arm, presenting the piece of orange silk.

Lyanna took it with smile. “The honor is all mine, my lady.”

Just as Lord Ashford was preparing to depart, Gwin introduced a change of agenda, moving one step nearer. “Might I accompany you on your way to the field?”

Lyanna arched one of her eyebrows as her gaze landed upon Lord Ashford, who immediately began to stammer. Upon receiving a sharp glance from Gwin, he fell silent. Lyanna observed the entire exchange, a grin playing on her lips.

“Of course you can, my lady. I will be honored.”

Gwin cast a swift look in her father's direction, then signaled for them to proceed forward. And so, they did, with Lord Ashford trailing from behind.

“Your feat the other day, Lady Stark, in besting Prince Aerion in the joust, was truly courageous. I simply could not look away. While many of the other noblewomen murmured that it is unseemly for a lady even to contemplate wearing armor, let alone compete in a tilt, I disagreed with them. I find your actions to be remarkably bold...”

Gwin kept up a constant stream of conversation throughout their walk. Lyanna interjected with brief, polite remarks now and then, merely to avoid causing offense to the girl, but soon she felt as if her ear might actually detach from the sheer amount of chatter. Upon arriving at her tent on the grounds, Lady Gwin pivoted to face her again.

“I wish you all the luck, Lady Stark and I hope you will win this tourney.”

“Those are kind words; I pray I won’t disappoint you.”

She then bowed, a little deeper than she usually did. Not because it was demanded of her, it really wasn’t, but because she felt the need to. Before her father guided her toward the designated viewing stand, Lady Gwin favored her one final smile.

“So far lady Gwin has not personally escorted any knight to the field.”

From right beside her, a smooth tone arose, and Lyanna was certain of the speaker's identity without needing to look. This sound had graced her ears on practically a daily basis during their evening meals. A faint smile played at the edge of Lyanna's lips as her gaze met Prince Valarr's.

“Well, I will have you know that I am not any knight.”

Her eyes met his and the prince tilted his head.

“No, you are not.”

His gaze flickered to the spot where Lady Gwin had vanished before speaking again. “Though it seemed like she was quite captivated by you.”

A chuckle escaped Lyanna’s mouth before she managed to suppress it. Her gaze flickered toward Valarr, a playful spark lighting up her eyes. “Poor Lord Ashford, I imagine. I have a hunch that Lady Gwin is bound to be anything but an easygoing lady.”

A shared burst of laughter erupted between the two of them, abruptly cut short by the sound of a horn signaling an imminent challenge directed at either of them.

“May I offer assistance with that?” Prince Valarr gestured toward her hand, where she was still tightly gripping the favor.

Lyanna glanced at her hand before nodding.

“Yes please.”

Valarr neatly bound the bright orange fabric around Lyanna's upper left arm. After securing the knot, Lyanna offered him a smile of gratitude and proceeded toward her tent which was only a few steps away from Prince Valarr’s. Ser Benjen was already waiting for her.

“Ser Grover Tully, of House Tully.”

The arena erupted in cheers as the herald’s voice boomed and the figure made his entrance. He stopped for a moment in front of the main viewing stand where sat Prince Baelor alongside his brother, Lord Ashford, Lady Gwin, and, on this particular occasion, Aerion as well.

As soon as Lyanna stepped foot onto the field with Lady Gwin, she registered his gaze fixed upon her. The intensity of his stare felt scorching, yet she resolutely avoided acknowledging him. She was determined not to grant him the pleasure of knowing she was aware of his presence.

Lyanna's gaze tracked the Tully knight moving past the tents; he gave no heed to the other knights. With her and Valarr’s tents being the final two, Lyanna could already surmise his destination before he even arrived there.

He stopped his horse right before her. He tapped his lance against her shield that now instead of poorly drawn twin towers of House Frey held the sigil of House Stark. Ser Grover looked down at her with sneer.

“It is time I show this lady that the jousting field is no place for a woman.”

Even as an ovation erupted, the spoken words directed to her were entirely missed by the crowd. Those words were exclusively intended for her perception and only her. She surmised that if the smallfolk had caught what he said, their enthusiastic applause surely would have diminished.

Lyanna let out a solitary, unimpressed sniffle, observing Ser Grover Tully canter across the expanse of the field. Her gaze then shifted to her left, where Prince Valarr's eyes were already fixed upon her. From his expression alone, she knew that he had heard Ser Grover’s words.

“Show him the essence of a true knight, my lady.” he declared, his eyes shining with determination. Lyanna inclined her head with a small upturn of her lips.

In an instant, Ser Benjen was beside her, guiding her mount forward. Lyanna swung up onto the horse, grasped her helmet that Ser Benjen gave her and positioned it squarely upon her head. She secured the shield with her left arm and leveled the lance in her right, then rode to the end of the list.

Lyanna Stark felt no apprehension. Numerous hostile knights had sought to best her purely because of her superior skill. Of course, at the time, they were unaware that a woman was the one defeating them; they only perceived a highly proficient knight as their opponent.

Now the feeling of bitterness deepened its hold. Everyone was eager to demonstrate and establish that a woman's presence was unwelcome on the lists.

She breathed in a deep breath and lowered her visor.

You have done it thousands of times, Lyanna. What is one more knight full of pride and righteousness. You can take him.

A blast from the horn sounded, and the steed powerfully sprang ahead. One lance. Lyanna resolved internally. She will only need one lance to unhorse her opponent. The man before her wasn't Aerion; this wasn't someone inclined to bend the rules for personal gain. Ser Grover lacked that character.

He was full of himself, yes. But not that stupid to endanger his reputation.

Lyanna’s eyes scanned the knight’s movements for something suspicious, but she found none just as she suspected. This is going to be easy.

And it was. The instant the lances impacted the opposing shields, they shattered, sending splinters everywhere. Lyanna felt the usual powerful surge that almost dislodged her from the steed, yet she maintained a firm grip. The same outcome wasn't in store for Ser Grover Tully, though, who dramatically fell from his mount with a resounding crash.

A roar of cheers and clapping erupted from the crowd. Faces tilted in agreement, fingers directing toward her with clear admiration. While she'd be hesitant to confess it, Lyanna relished this sensation. The fact that, despite it being an unusual sight for a female presence, she commanded their respect and enthusiasm, nonetheless.

Reversing her steed's direction, she pressed it forward slightly toward the spot where Ser Grover remained prone. Lyanna removed her helmet and dismounted.

“Congratulations, my lady.” Ser Benjen said as he took the reins of her horse alongside her helm in his hands.

However, Lyanna kept her gaze fixed upon her opponent. She took a moment to observe the surrounding crowd's excited shouts before advancing toward him. The instant she entered his field of vision; his eyes instantly locked onto her. Ser Grover Tully was panting heavily; outwardly, he didn't appear seriously hurt, perhaps only suffering from a minor bout of headache.

She leaned down a little, her hand out, offering him help to get up.

“You fought well, my lord.”

A brief moment his gaze followed her hand, and a stony expression settled on his face. The scornful grin materialized afterward. Lyanna had been subjected to numerous forms of affront directed squarely at her presence. However, this particular instance surpassed all others.

Ser Grover Tully watched her for a solid minute as the crowd held their breaths. Lyanna watched as his face twisted and before she could react, he spat at her, a sharp, deliberate flick of contempt, as though the very sight of her soured his mouth. Most of the spit landed on her outstretched hand and she was glad of the armor covering it. Some even reached her chest plate.

A collective intake of breath reverberated across the expanse as everyone observed the blatant affront. Lyanna remained unmoved; there was no sign of revulsion, no jerking away in distaste on her part. Her only action was to pull herself up straighter, her expression firm, as she brushed her hand against the side of her armor. A muscle in her jaw twitched.

Ungrateful twat.

She dismissed him without a second look, simply turning and walking away. Only after her back was to him did Lyanna register a shift in the air behind her; surmising that perhaps Sir Grover had finally managed to stand, she ignored it. Her focus then shifted to the crowd, whose shouts were not directed at Sir Grover for his offense, as Lyanna suspected, but rather aimed at her to capture her notice. Frowning, Lyanna's gaze fixed on the spot where, across the expanse of the field, Prince Valarr was indicating something over her shoulder with an expression of stark dread.

Lyanna heard her name being shouted by someone far away. From the viewing stand maybe? She perceived the collective inhale of the assembled crowd. And then came the all too familiar sound of a blade slicing through the air.

At the last possible second, she pivoted, narrowly dodging the menacing blade that had come perilously close to decapitating her. She lurched sideways, causing Ser Grover to overcommit; his sword slicing through empty space. Lyanna detected the fury blazing in his gaze as he regained his balance and prepared to strike once more.

“You, bitch. You think you can just waltz in here and think you are better than anyone else.”

With another swing of his blade, he came at her, and Lyanna just managed to sidestep the strike. His actions were unrefined, yet those awkward attacks carried sufficient force to inflict grave injury should any of them connect. Following the third downward cut, Lyanna decided she would no longer dodge. Grasping her own blade, she drew it from its sheath. Instead of sidestepping the upcoming strike, she countered it with comparable strength.

He came at her hard and fast, blade ringing as it struck hers, the sound carrying sharp across the field, where moments before, they had ridden. She gave ground once, twice, boots slipping in the trampled dirt, then turned his strength aside with a jolt that shuddered up her arm. Their swords bit and slid in quick succession, each clash sending dull sparks into the afternoon air, until the space between them was filled with nothing but breath, mud, and the relentless grind of steel against steel.

He was quicker than she allowed for. His blade slipped past her guard with a hiss of steel and kissed her right cheek in passing – not deep, but enough. She felt it a heartbeat later: the sting first, sharp and hot, then the slow warmth as blood welled and began to trail down her cheek and along her jaw.

It startled her more than the pain itself.

Her tongue caught the copper tang as it reached the corner of her mouth, and something in her stilled, then hardened. The world narrowed to him alone. The noise of the field faded; the banners and watching lords ceased to matter. There was only the rhythm of his breathing, the rise of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his sword arm.

When she moved again it was without hesitation. She did not circle now, nor test his guard. She drove at him. Steel crashed against steel with a force that jarred his stance, forcing him back step by step through the mud. Her strikes came faster, heavier, wild and relentless – each one meant to batter through his defense rather than slip around it. Where before she had measured him, now she pressed him, giving him no room to recover, no breath to gather.

The blood ran warm along her cheek, yet she made no move to wipe it. At some point amidst the assault, the tightly woven long plait of her hair had come undone. She puffed at a stray strand obscuring her vision as the remainder cascaded like dark seas over her pale metallic armor.

After a few more blows he outplayed at last, anger lending weight but not sense to his swing, and she slipped it aside with a sharp twist that left his balance wanting. Her return came low and hard as she lifted her leg and kicked him across his chest, sending him stumbling back until his heel slipped in the mud. He went down with a wet thud, armor striking earth, breath driven from him as he landed flat upon his back.

She was over him in a heartbeat, boots sinking as she stepped into his shadow, the point of her sword held steady above his throat. For a moment she did not move, the steel hovering there, as though weighing the space between threat and deed – and then she drove it down.

Not for the throat. Gods no, she wasn’t a monster.

The blade punched through the gap at his vambrace and bit deep into the ground beneath, pinning his forearm fast to the sodden earth. He gave a strangled cry, the sound lost beneath the sudden roar of the crowd, and strained uselessly as the steel held him there, caught and conquered in the mud of the lists.

Lyanna’s breath was ragged as the rage finally subsided and she could hear what happened around her. The heat was getting the best of her as she stumbled but quickly regained herself. Her cheek still stung, the blood now trickling down her jaw and neck and seeping into the armor.

Ser Grover Tully breathed out another cry as he tried to pull his arm but only did more damage as the blade cut even deeper into his skin. But he was not her problem anymore.

Lyanna's gaze, as unyielding as stone and lethal in its intensity, deliberately traversed the viewing area where every pair of eyes reflected worry and distress, all focused upon her. The majority of the assembled lords instinctively shrank back onto their benches as her look encompassed them. However, the Targaryen’s remained an exception. Prince Baelor leaned forward, perched right on the verge of his seat, while Prince Maekar maintained a facade of inscrutability, though the undeniable approval in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.

Aerion, on the other hand, occupied a different location than where Lyanna had last placed him visually. He stood erect, positioned right at the very edge of the railing. Her look of sheer malice paused on him for just an instant before continuing its sweep. During that fleeting moment, she noticed the slight movement as Aerion’s throat bobbed, an observation that inexplicably provided her with a feeling of cruel delight. Good, you have every right to fear me.

Her gaze relentlessly bore down upon the assembled nobles, causing them to visibly shake where they sat. It was a stare of an individual calculating potential danger. She monitored them, almost issuing a challenge. ‘So? Who amongst you fancies a turn now?’

It was about time they took her seriously. She wasn't some mere lady who casually donned steel one morning and tossed her bonnet into the fray. She was Lyanna Stark, and it was about time they feared her.

With one last look around, she walked away. Traversing the expanse of the field where Ser Benjen and Prince Valarr stood shoulder-to-shoulder, with Yrsa standing in the middle. Lyanna could only conjecture the immense difficulty the direwolf faced in maintaining its stance while she was engaged in combat with Ser Grover.

“Ser Benjen, would you mind acquiring my sword?” She asked as she stopped beside him.

The knight was already on the move. “Gladly, my lady.”

Lyanna watched as Ser Benjen crossed the field with Yrsa, to Lyanna's astonishment, following in his wake. She lifted one brow but remained silent. One couldn't fathom the inner workings of that animal’s mind.

“My lady,” One of her guards spoke up, offering her a leather flask, which she gladly accepted.

When she unscrewed it and drank the disappointment was evident on her face. She was expecting something stronger than water.

“Thank you, Jonel,” she stated, returning the flask to the guard. “However, should I come back from the field resembling this state again next time, I expect you to have supplied something considerably more stronger in there.”

Jonel inclined his head with a small smile. “As you wish, my lady.”

She turned to watch Ser Benjen when Valarr spoke up, his tone full of worry. “Are you alright, my lady?”

“You hold such a low opinion of me, my prince?” Her query was delivered while side-eyeing the prince. An unmistakable sharpness colored her tone, one she hadn't managed to fully tame, not at this stage. The pounding of blood in her head remained notably intense.

“Never.”

Ser Benjen finally arrived at the struggling knight, who remained trapped on the ground. Yet, before he reached for her blade, he hesitated, turning his gaze toward Yrsa. The direwolf advanced with deliberate, unhurried steps, much like a predator closing in on its prey. Ser Grover managed to lift his head, observing the massive wolf as it drew nearer. It was at this precise moment that Lyanna became aware of the woeful cries.

“No, stop! I beg you, please-” he thrashed from his prone position, every struggle only driving Lyanna’s blade further into his arm. His gaze locked onto hers across the field, yet Lyanna remained silent.

As Yrsa’s considerable bulk settled upon him, her paws pinning his chest, his vocalizations escalated further. Lyanna observed with a chilling sense of fulfillment as the direwolf positioned its muzzle so close it almost brushed his face. She revealed her fangs, emitting a deep guttural sound that resonated through the very earth below them.

Ser Benjen stood aside and watched, so did Lyanna. She heard prince Valarr take a sharp inhale as he took in the scene that unfolded before him. Ser Grover’s please, turned to quiet wails as Yrsa’s saliva dripped from her mouth on his face. Lyanna smiled.

Casting one final look about her surroundings, she emitted a piercing whistle through her teeth. Ser Benjen drew the blade, releasing Ser Grover's arm, and only once the knight had turned his back did Yrsa descend from Ser Grover’s form and leisurely followed after Ser Benjen, her tail wagging from side to side.

Drawing her blade back, Lyanna returned it to its sheath. She then departed the arena without offering so much as a look toward the still-prone Tully champion whose cries echoed behind her, captivating the attention of all present. Even those assembled from House Targaryen, who remained utterly dumbfounded by her exit.

Once Lyanna was inside her tent, she sent Ser Benjen and her accompanying guards away, stating a need for some solitude. While Ser Benjen typically assisted her with removing her armor, on this occasion, she insisted on handling the task independently.

Lyanna simmered with rage. She stalked back and forth within the confines of her tent, her footfalls resounding heavily. Lyanna couldn't quite pinpoint the source of this intense agitation. Ser Grover Tully had been insufferably conceited, and the consequences he faced were entirely fitting. Lyanna maintains a strict policy of seeing every matter through to completion. Should anyone inflict an injury upon her, she invariably exacts retribution, often magnified tenfold.

Pausing before the mirror, she examined the image staring back. The cut upon her right cheek hadn't ceased its flow. Some of the blood, now dried, let a red mark down her face and neck. Was this the reason why she was so mad? That he made her bleed? Lyanna had received many injuries in her lifetime. Many people had made her bleed before, yet none of those instances had stirred such intense agitation within her.

Her gaze then drifted across to the opposing side of her face, finding a matching scar on her left cheek, albeit this one was much older. This distinct cut, positioned just beneath her left cheekbone, had essentially transformed into her personal signature. It was an aspect of herself she actually took pride in, despite the profoundly senseless origin story of that mark.

Lyanna let out a breathy sound. She hoped that this one won’t scar as much as the previous one did. One mark on her face was enough. She shifted her gaze toward the area where Yrsa habitually positioned herself on the mattress, observing Lyanna with palpable concern gleaming within her golden-brown irises.

Turning her gaze once more toward her reflection, she began to shed her armor. Piece by piece, the weighty steel clattered away, granting her relief with each breath, until only her pants and a length of white linen covering her chest remained.

As the occasion arose for her very first suit of armor to be crafted, Lyanna faced a decision: opt for a masculine design or one tailored for females. However, she understood that selecting women's armor would immediately reveal her identity to anyone who observed her clad in the metal. For this reason, Lyanna opted for the male set. While it was somewhat reduced in size compared to a standard male design, its advantage was that once worn, it effectively concealed the fact that it hid a woman’s body inside.

However, donning male armor introduced what Lyanna nicknamed the 'chest issue'. The natural gifts she received at birth were quite generous and these advantages, it seemed, only increased as she matured; these two specific features being her heigh and her breast size. The breastplate designated for male knights offered no accommodation for female anatomy. Consequently, she was forced into the routine of binding her chest whenever she wore her armor. While this task was indeed bothersome and exhausting, the subsequent sense of liberation upon unwrapping the bindings was unparalleled.

She advanced to the table situated immediately next to the mirror, upon which a basin of fresh water and a clean cloth had been set out in anticipation of her needs. This preparation was undoubtedly the handiwork of one of her guards, done prior to her very arrival at the encampment.

She dipped the cloth in the bowl and started cleaning the dried-up blood from her neck, scrubbing it with practiced effort. As she finished cleaning her neck and advanced toward her chin, a deep growl from Yrsa diverted her focus.

Lyanna caught sight of the direwolf, its gaze locked onto the opening of her tent. She pivoted her head toward the entrance, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny. If it were Ser Benjen or any of her guards, Yrsa would not react like that.

She watched the shadow of a figure right outside; Lyanna harbored a strong feeling about this visitor's identity. Pressing her lips together, she pivoted back toward the mirror, continuing to scrub away the crimson stains.

“Either you come inside or cease your lurking about lady’s tent like some pervert and leave.”

There was a shuffling heard from outside and then the tent’s flap opened. Lyanna’s premonitions proved correct as she observed his silhouette materialize in the reflection. The individual possessed the all too recognizable fair blonde hair and piercing lilac eyes; these features first surveyed the tent's interior before focusing their gaze upon her.

A pleased smirk played on Lyanna's lips as she observed the slight widening of his eyes upon glimpsing her scantily clad figure. Their gazes locked in the mirroring surface when an interrogative arch lifted in one of her eyebrows.

“What is it now? Have you not laid eyes on half naked woman before.” Lyanna feigned sympathy. “I almost feel pity for you.”

Actually, she wasn't completely bare. Her trousers remained in place, and her bust was firmly wrapped, concealing her most valued virtues. His gaze merely had a chance to take in a slightly larger expanse of her shoulders and midriff than social norms permitted. So what of it?

Aerion let out a derisive sound, his gaze drifting toward the massive wolf whose eyes remained intently focused on him, her teeth bared. He instantly recalled in his mind the moment this animal was inches away from tearing up Ser Grover’s face. “Tell your beast to calm down.”

The instant the term 'beast' was uttered, Yrsa's jaws clamped shut with an audible snap, and a menacing growl erupted, causing Aerion to start involuntarily. He managed to regain his composure quite swiftly, wishing desperately that his momentary recoil had gone unnoticed by Lyanna, but her ever-watchful eyes still perceived it. She hid her smile as she submerged the rag into the basin, washing away the crimson residue, and then clenched her fist firmly to squeeze out the excess water.

“I don’t control her. If she doesn’t like you, there is nothing I can do to fix it.”

A mocking smile graced her lips as she directed it toward him, then commenced cleansing the injury. She drew a soft, sharp sound through her teeth as the cloth met her skin.

“It was impressive, what you did there to Ser Grover.”

Lyanna stilled her motions. She pivoted, presenting her full self toward him while pretending astonishment.

“Is that a compliment you're offering?” Her brow knitted together, her gaze directed downward. “Perhaps Ser Grover did manage to strike my head and I've forgotten?”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“From you? Yes.”

Aerion glanced away, only for his gaze to return to her moments later. She perceived the considerable effort he exerted to keep his focus solely on her face, a detail that mildly shocked her, giving his character.

“Well, for your information, Lady Stark I do enjoy a good fight.”

“Nonsense, it's the ensuing carnage that appeals to you,” She retorted swiftly. “A lack of conflict bores you utterly. When all parties adhere strictly to the rules, you find it tiresome. Only once the first drop of blood has been spilled does your true enthusiasm emerge.”

Lyanna faced the mirror and finished cleaning the wound. “You cannot help it.” She said. “Blood thrills you. So does chaos and people who doesn’t play by the rules.”

“You think you know me-”

“What brings you here?” Lyanna queried, tossing the rag into the basin, causing water to fly out in all directions as she spun around to confront him. Her arms folded across her torso, eliciting a slight grimace as she inadvertently pressed too firmly against the bindings on her chest.

“What prompts this visit now? Considering your revolting behavior throughout the meals, characterized solely by intimidation and baseless accusations, why present yourself at this moment as the very model of benevolence?”

Aerion offered a grin while glancing down at the rug and then just shrugged. “During meals, it was simply impossible for me to resist. You made things too simple for me with how you cozied up to my cousin.”

Lyanna's gaze sharpened, becoming a narrowed line as she observed him. With measured pace, she advanced towards him, every footfall intentional and precise. Reaching him directly, Lyanna inclined her head, her eyes thoroughly scanning his features; assessing, weighing, much like a commander formulating the next tactical maneuver for engagement.

A distinct expression settled upon his features: his jaw was tight, his eyes took on a sharper glint, and a noticeable vein on his neck pulsed slightly. Lyanna registered that this was the identical look he displayed whenever she found humor in Valarr's remarks, or when she responded positively to his thoughtful actions.

He was jealous.

A broad smile spread over Lyanna’s face. “You know, for someone with such confidence and arrogance, you are remarkably easy to read.”

Aerion stepped half a foot closer to her, their chests almost touching. “Is that so? And what discoveries have you made?”

“It’s envy that festers within you. You are jealous of your own cousin. You resent the fact that despite our planned betrothal never happening, I still enjoy his company more that yours. Her tone softened to a mere breath. “You cannot stand it.”

Aerion let out a low, menacing chuckle. “Jealousy? There's no need for such a thing when I'm certain you’ll never belong to him. He will never have you.”

“And you will?”

“The betrothal is there. Though never voiced aloud, it's been brought up on multiple occasions behind closed doors.”

Lyanna gazed intently at him. “You possess absolutely no comprehension of what you are getting yourself into.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

From her peripheral vision, she watched his hand nearing dangerously close to her exposed side. A sudden, deep rumble startled him, causing his hand to withdraw abruptly from her figure. Aerion looked down, seeing the direwolf positioned right next to her side, its jaws menacingly exposed. He had not perceived the instant she jumped down from the bed and walked forward.

Aerion was compelled to take a backward step. Throughout the entire exchange, Lyanna's gaze remained fixed upon Aerion's face, a look of smug contentment playing on her lips.

“I don’t think you do.”

Lyanna presented her back to him while moving closer to her chest to select a dress. She retrieved a dark grey garment, one that complemented Yrsa's dark coat, and placed it upon her bedspread. Casting a look over her shoulder, she noted that Yrsa remained seated, closely observing all of Aerion's actions. She positioned herself like a wall, shielding Lyanna from him.

With her back still facing him, Lyanna began to undo the white linen wrappings from her torso, removing them one section at a time. After setting the fabric onto her bed, she lifted her dress over her head. Prior to smoothing her skirt, she also slipped off her trousers, already sensing perspiration gathering on her skin.

Throughout the entire moment, Lyanna was keenly aware of Aerion's gaze fixed upon her uncovered flesh. She could sense precisely where his eyes travelled, tracing a path from her bare shoulders down her sides, and across her back. Despite being fully clothed, the sensation of warmth from his look persisted.

Throwing the pants on the bed, she finally smoothed down the skirt. Just as her fingers began to work at the laces fastened on her back, a thought crossed her mind.

Lyanna spun around, taking a brief moment to study Aerion, before progressing toward the man who remained perfectly immobile, like a statue, situated in the very center of her tent. She reached out tenderly, stroking Yrsa's fur as she moved past the wolf, and then paused directly in front of him.

“Since you are here, make yourself useful.” She spun around, pushing her dark hair back with one hand “Lace me up, please.”

It was not a plead, nor request. Her delivery left him with absolutely no alternative other than to adhere to her will. It was a demand.

Lyanna remained motionless for a solid second, her back still facing him, as Aerion made no move. There was a moment when she fully expected him to simply turn around and walk away. Right as Lyanna prepared to withdraw, she sensed his fingertips make contact with her back.

What stunned Lyanna was the precision he displayed; his fingers navigated the fastenings at her back, gradually pulling them taut. These were measured, intentional motions, quite out of character for him. In fact, Lyanna had genuinely questioned if he even possessed such qualities. Clearly, her assumption was incorrect.

Lyanna remained motionless, her breathing steady, her fingers lightly spinning the ends of her hair while Aerion worked at the fastenings. He appears remarkably adept with the laces, I wonder how many of them he had undone. The remark was already on her lips, and she was about to say it when she bit her tongue. For an unknown cause, she found herself unable to utter it.

His hand suddenly jerked, causing the lace to constrict uncomfortably tight. Noticing her sharp intake of breath, he immediately stopped his movements. Lyanna shut her eyes, chastising herself internally for the involuntary response. After a short moment, his fingers moved back to the lace, eased the tension slightly, and then resumed his work.

Lyanna perceived the moment he was finished, when she no longer had to keep the dress upright with her hand. She glanced down and smoothed her palms over the front of her bodice. She still felt his touch, a lingering warmth where his fingers lingered on the final piece of lace.

She slowly turned around and faced him. His expression betrayed no hint of his thoughts; should there have been any visible trace earlier, he had masked it before she could meet his gaze.

“Thank you.”

No attitude, no teasing. Just a simple ‘thank you’. He angled his head, his gaze settling upon the old scar on her left cheek – a precise, narrow line situated just beneath the prominence of her cheekbone.

He fixed his gaze upon the scar, holding it steady for a full minute, much as he had done the very first time he truly observed her from across the expansive dining table. Yet, one must recall, this was Aerion Targaryen, the man branded as 'unhinged.' It was plausible that physical trauma – blood, lacerations, disfigurement, and injuries, big or small – constituted the entirety of his interest.

His hand was already ascending to touch her cheek when a fresh, guttural sound from Yrsa halted his progress. Aerion flicked his gaze toward the direwolf and expelled a puff of air through his nostrils in frustration. This gesture brought a comparison to Lyanna’s mind: it reminded her of a dragon, with the only absent feature being visible smoke wafting from his nostrils.

Lyanna suppressed the grin that was attempting to surface, instead lifting just one eyebrow as his gaze settled back upon her features.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“Would you believe if I said that I got it when sparring with a wild northern boar as big as a mule?”

Her gaze followed the slight expansion of his pupils, catching a brief, untamed spark within the violet depths of his eyes. “Really?”

A broad grin spread across Lyanna's features. “Not quite. Though you really should have witnessed your own expression.”

A soft laugh escaped her as his features crumpled, then morphed and anger flared across his face. Lyanna pivoted, her skirt brushing briefly against his legs and moved toward the table, where she lifted the pitcher and filled a cup with wine.

“This is the explanation I give any inquirer, yet you remain the sole recipient of the revelation that this explanation is a falsehood,” she stated, taking a sip of her wine. “You appeared so captured by it, I worried you'd demand the details of that spar. However, my powers of invention are, regrettably, not that good.”

Aerion shook his head slowly, still plagued by regret for having trusted her, and adjusted his position slightly. Yrsa maintained her close watch; her amber eyes fixed upon him. “So, enlighten me. What is the actual truth?”

Lyanna raised her cup to take another sip of wine, her gaze fixed upon the tent's fabric. “I was thirteen. I illicitly left my chambers, where I was confined to studying my family’s history. I was utterly listless, and the household guards were occupied in the castle’s courtyard, honing their archery skills; all I yearned for was to observe their practice. In my haste to slip away, I rushed out so eagerly that I failed to see I was obstructing a firing line. Suddenly, I was sprawling on the earth, a streak of crimson tracing a path down my face, soaking my gown, punctuated by a chorus of alarmed cries around me.”

Her focus broke as her eyes returned to Aerion. “Afterward, the maester stitched the wound, and my father gave me a much-earned beating, while my mother confined me to my chamber for the ensuing four weeks, mandating I study not just the history of the Starks, but the Mormonts too.” A frowned as she glanced downward a shadow of smile on her lips. “If memory serves me right, they even installed a new bolt on my door that could only be latched and unlatched from the outside.”

Meeting Aerion's gaze, Lyanna lifted her eyes and gave a slight shrug while serving herself more wine. Aerion chuckled, a soft sound that Lyanna was quite surprised to hear. He quickly checked on Yrsa to assure himself she wasn't about to cause trouble, before casually approaching Lyanna's position.

“It appears you were a rather unruly child,” Aerion remarked, pausing his steps and resting his hip against the table, his arms folded across his chest. “A real handful, indeed.”

“Yes, well I blame it on the mix of Sark and Mormont blood.” She shrugged. “They should have seen it coming.”

Aerion remained silent once more, simply observing her. By now, Lyanna had grown accustomed to these short spans of quiet between them. This time, however, she witnessed him engaging in a genuine exchange, devoid of any insults, witty comebacks, or derision. Nevertheless, the intense fury dwelling inside him persisted, seemingly unquenchable. At times, he permitted this seething anger to show, while on other occasions, he kept it concealed. Yet, it never truly vanished. It remained perpetually near the surface.

Lyanna felt appreciative of witnessing a different facet of his personality, yet she had an inkling this glimpse won’t endure. She noticed the tranquility and reason within him steadily surrendering to his typical arrogance. Before long, this period of serenity was bound to be shattered.

Aerion broke the quietude, observing his surroundings. “Has House Stark fallen on sad days that providing a proper pavilion is now beyond their means?”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. There it is. She refilled her wine cup. “For this trip, I prioritized swiftness over comfort. I left Winterfell with only my knight, five men-at-arms from my household, and just one wagon. That was the extent of it. Having servants along would merely delay our progress.”

“And what of lady’s comfort?” Aerion leaned closer to her, grinning.

“The lady spent months on horseback sleeping in inns some worse than others, drank stale ale and bathed in rivers. She can survive the absence of her servants if it will ensure that the company will move faster.”

Lyanna met his gaze, her own eyes brimming with matching defiance. Just as Aerion prepared to speak, the canvas flap parted, revealing Ser Benjen. The knight paused immediately upon entering, his attention snagged by the sight of the visitor.

Lyanna's gaze immediately darted to Benjen, then swung over to Aerion, observing the prince critically appraising her knight from head to toe. Following this assessment, the prince let out a breath and redirected his attention to address Lyanna.

“This must be my signal to depart.” Having already pivoted to exit, he momentarily paused. Aerion deliberately turned back to face her again, advancing a short distance in her direction. Yrsa emitted a low growl upon the sudden action, but this time, he paid her no mind.

Aerion grasped her hand, slowly bringing it toward his lips, and bestowed a tender kiss upon her knuckles. His gaze remained locked onto hers, maintaining that potent eye contact as if challenging her to react. Yet she offered no resistance.

“My lady,” Aerion asserted, returning to an upright posture and angling his head, his characteristic smirk firmly in place. It was only once he had left the tent and put some space between them that Lyanna finally permitted herself to exhale.

Upon watching Aerion vanish beyond the tent's openings, Ser Benejn's gaze snapped back to her, his brow arching in a questioning manner. Just as he seemed poised to speak, Lyanna forestalled him with an uplifted hand.

“Don’t,” She swayed her head, while closing her eyes. “The words you intend to utter are unwelcome to my ears.”

Directing her attention to the table situated on her left, she rested both open hands flat upon its top. Lowering her head, she let out a profound, lengthy exhalation. The residual warmth from where Aerion had closed his hand around hers remained perceptible on her skin. This sensation of heat appeared to permeate beyond and settle deep into her bones. It was an unfamiliar sensation for someone who had grown accustomed to the frigid cold.

The exchange between her and Aerion spanned no more than thirty minutes, yet it seemed to stretch out over several days. Though Lyanna had no actual combat experience, this encounter with him carried the weight of one.

It was akin to a massive, brutal, blood-soaked battle, and all they were doing was talking.

a/n: the tensionnnn...

also, i apologize for the late update, been dealing with massive headaches these past few days and literally couldn't do anything.

next chapter will be more like a filler, cuz nothing much will be happening, but the chapter after that one... oh boy... ya'all are not ready for what i have in store...

Positioned in front of her pavilion, she watched her guards unfurling the banners; the sigil of direwolf’s head dancing in the air currents. Had she adhered to her original strategy, the inhabitants of Ashford Meadow would remain utterly oblivious to her identity, nor would their eyes ever be drawn to the distinguishing sigil of House Stark; nevertheless, this was the reality before her.

Her gaze meticulously followed each passerby as she proceeded among the vibrant pavilions, with Ser Benjen trailing in her wake. The remaining members of her personal guard were stationed near her encampment. Despite the now general awareness of her identity, Lyanna harbored reservations about allowing her direwolf to wander around. Consequently, she directed Yrsa to stay within the tent, which was a source of clear annoyance for the creature. But she obeyed, nonetheless.

Lyanna had fully anticipated receiving glares from the folk of Ashford Meadow, stemming from her deception regarding her true identity and lineage. To her utter astonishment, however, the reactions she encountered were those of reverence and high commendation. Aerion appeared to have seriously incensed the common folk with his recent conduct, and Lyanna was confident that any proficient knight would have noticed the unjust treatment he subjected against her as well.

She tried not to stray away from the simple commoner act she performed dutifully before the smallfolk found out her real name. She mingled with people, joined in on their conversations, sat beside the commonfolk when watching the puppeteers and readily accepting invitations to dance when some lower lord asked her.

Lyanna Stark was no princess; she didn’t have any court appearances she had to keep up with, because it was simply not asked from her. Nor did she had to pretend to be a lady she so clearly was not. Even though she hailed from the esteemed House Stark, those dwelling in the South seldom paid much heed to the affairs of those from the North. And vice versa.

Lyanna paused in front of a smaller tent where a merchant offered tiny creations he had whittled from timber. She smiled as she looked upon the beautiful and intricate things. The aged craftsman displayed each piece he had fashioned, delving into the particulars of his methods as Lyanna paid close attention, a pleasant expression gracing her features.

The sound of approaching hooves brought their exchange to an abrupt halt, and Lyanna promptly pivoted her gaze to observe several Targaryen royal guards advancing in their direction. She observed the throng of people yielding a clear path for the riders until they finally drew to a stop directly in front of her.

With his hand resting on his blade, Ser Benjen stepped forward, shielding her of possible dangers.

“There's no need to worry, Ser Benjen, I truly believe they pose no danger.” She rested a hand upon his shoulder and he visibly relaxed.

“To whom do I owe this delightful honor?” Lyanna inquired, advancing to stand alongside her knight.

“Lady Stark, Prince Baelor has extended an invitation for you to dine with him and his family this evening.”

A low hum fell past her lips as she glanced at Benjen. Candidly speaking, she had already anticipated that Prince Baelor would eventually seek a private meeting with her. However, what she hadn't foreseen was being asked to join the entire family for supper, which certainly included Prince Aerion as well.

Addressing the royal guards, she greeted them with an affable smile. “Please inform His Grace that I would be truly pleased to join him and his family for the evening meal.”

The guard nodded. “I shall deliver the message right this instant. Good day, Lady Stark.”

“And good day to you too.”

Once the guards were gone Ser Benjen turned to face her. “Is that smart, my lady?”

“Oh, certainly not,” Lyanna contemplated, a subtle smile gracing her features, the well-known perilous spark alight within her gaze. “However, rest assured, Ser Benjen, that dinner will be an absolute delight for me to be present at.”

“Only if you’ll allow me to accompany you, my lady.”

Lyanna smiled at him. “But of course, Ser Benjen. What would I do without you by my side?”

“Thrive, conquer, make all of Westeros kneel before you.”

Lyanna leveled an unimpressed gaze upon Ser Benjen, yet this expression swiftly transitioned as her eyes drifted off, fixed somewhere far away with a feeling of longing.

“That would be quite pleasant, wouldn’t it.”

“Careful my lady, your Aegon the Conqueror is showing.”

With a gentle tap of her hand against the knight's breastplate, Lyanna elicited shared laughter from them both. Then she let out a breath and pivoted back toward the merchant with whom she'd been conversing just as the royal guards interrupted them.

“If you'll pardon me, Ser Benjen, but I must attend to a gentleman who requires my full focus. I remain quite curious as to the technique behind his carving work and am keen to discover it.”

She walked toward the aged gentleman who appeared to have already accepted the thought that she won’t be coming back. Yet a radiant grin spread across his tight skin when she stood before him once more.

From early on, Lyanna's father had instilled in her the principle of maintaining self-regard equal to that of others. Regardless of station, they were all inhabitants of the same land, sharing a common tongue. Certain individuals were fortunate enough to be born as lords and ladies, while others as knights or servants. A select few even drew lot to be born as kings and princes.

The North was unpredictable. The long winters proved to be both severe and relentless. It is possible that Lyanna's own birth during the long winter instilled in her a deep consideration for those less fortunate throughout their time on this earth.

Lyanna Stark was taught compassion towards her people. And there will come a day when she will be responsible for the people in the North and it will be her task to ensure that they are well situated.

Such duty was placed on her shoulders, and every day the burden of it became heavier and heavier.

As twilight descended, splashing the skies with vibrant shades of pink and crimson, Lyanna Stark walked onward to Lord Ashford's castle where the Targaryen family was currently lodged for the tourney. Two of her personal guards remained to watch over her encampment, while the remaining three, beside Ser Benjen, escorted her.

“My lady, are you certain it was a good idea to bring her along?” Benjen murmured, his gaze fastened upon the direwolf that remained steadfast beside Lyanna's right side.

Lyanna's gaze shifted over to Yrsa, who appeared quite satisfied at the prospect of finally being free from the limited space of her tent. She then directed her eyes back toward the knight.

“I would be an utter fool if I walked into the dragon’s den alone.”

“But you have me, my lady.”

A sorrowful grin graced Lyanna's lips as she looked toward him. “Ser Benjen, I mean no offense, but Yrsa is worth ten of you.”

Lyanna suspected her knight might be offended by what she'd said, yet he merely offered a concurring smile. “That she is.”

Benjen found no cause to be offended by her statement, acknowledging the truth in her assertion. Yrsa was an utterly dedicated creature, steadfast in her loyalty. Should any harm befall Lady Lyanna, Yrsa would instantly savage any individual who dared lay a hand upon her.

Once they approached the castle, the guards led them up and through the many hallways. Initially, Lyanna couldn't comprehend the reason of the gazes directed at their company from servants and other guards alike. That is until Yrsa emitted a soft whimper, at which point comprehension dawned upon her.

In the North, all the other lords and ladies, their servants and guards were used to seeing the huge direwolf always trailing from behind her. And so, Lyanna herself got used to not explaining the situation and her presence. However, here in the South, people weren't as informed or used to having a massive wolf roaming the hallways.

At last, the royal guards paused before the doorway of a chamber and proclaimed their presence.

“Lady Lyanna Stark, of House Stark, and Ser Benjen Cassel.”

Before stepping inside, Lyanna shared a final look with Benjen, then asserted her posture. Taking a deliberate, deep inhalation, she elevated her chin with the proud bearing her mother had though her and entered the room.

The chamber offered a satisfactory area, noticeably less grand than the grand hall at Winterfell where they usually had their meals. In the center of the room stood a sturdy table crafted from oak, with every seat occupied save one. Positioned at the upper end, directly across from her, sat Prince Baelor Targaryen; to his right sat his brother, Maekar, and to Maekar’s left sat his son and bane of Lyanna’s existence – Aerion Targaryen.

To Baelor's right sat his son, Valarr, yet the seat adjacent to him stood vacant. It was clearly reserved for her. However, it only then dawned on Lyanna that they weren't actually seated; rather, they were on their feet, awaiting her to take a seat. Typically, it was only accustomed to stand when a king enters a room, but this seemingly minor gesture greatly increased her regard for the family,

Prince Baelor gestured toward the vacant seat and was about to speak when his mouth slacked as his gaze locked onto something behind her. Lyanna observed as every member of the assembled family froze in their respective places around the table.

“What in the Seven hells…” Prince Maekar muttered.

Lyanna maintained an air of innocence as she glanced back, her gaze immediately locking onto Yrsa who entered the space with an unhurried gait, halting directly beside her owner. A smile touched Lyanna's lips as she petted her head, before turning her attention back to the visibly distraught company situated around the table.

“Oh, I hope you do not mind that I brought her with me. She was confined in my tent these past days, and I thought that it would be nice to allow her to stretch her legs.”

Lyanna summoned sweet and completely innocent smile on her face. Prince Baelor cleared his throat.

“Is that-”

“A direwolf? Yes, yes, it is.” She glanced down at Yrsa before looking back at the prince. She noticed that they had yet to move a muscle and frowned in fake disappointment. “I can send her away if it pleases you. My guards will take her back to my pavilion.”

But Baelor was quick to intervene. “It won’t be necessary; it is quite alright. It’s just…” He glanced at his brother whose eyes were yet to leave the animal. “It caught us off guard, my lady.”

“I’m used to it, Your Grace.” Lyanna smiled.

Once snapped out of the daze, Baelor motioned towards the empty chair beside his son. “Please, take a seat.”

Lyanna shared a knowing glance with Ser Benjen, who took up his post alongside the wall behind her chair, the picture of a loyal man-at-arms, before making her way to the unoccupied seat. The instant her fingers brushed the chair's backrest, Prince Valarr materialized beside her, swiftly drawing the chair out for her.

“Allow me, my lady.”

Lyanna regarded him, taken aback by his swift move. However, the initial astonishment quickly transformed into a gentle grin. “Why thank you, my prince.”

Just now, when standing so close, Lyanna noticed his mismatched eyes. One strikingly blue like the skies on a clear day, the other warm hazel. Her breath caught in her throat as she grasped how simple it was to become absorbed in his gaze.

No man had managed to catch her off guards so effortlessly as Prince Valarr did, and he was merely looking at her. Lyanna took great satisfaction in asserting that even though marriage to a nobleman was an inevitability for her, she had never, even for a single moment, allowed her composure to falter in the presence of a handsome lord. But now she found herself experiencing the overwhelming sensation one might expect from those utterly frivolous ladies of the court who inevitably made their way to the training fields just to lose their composure over knights and princes engaged in combat.

Setting aside every reservation and personal dignity, Lyanna Stark was compelled to acknowledge that Valarr Targaryen had utterly usurped her understanding of what was right and what was wrong.

Someone cleared their throat within the chamber and Lyanna was forced to blink. She settled herself into the seat with a smile playing on her lips though deep inside she was utterly confused while trying to get her gather her thoughts. What in the name of old gods and new just happened? The others promptly took their places thereafter.

Prince Valarr offered to fill her cup with wine, an invitation she happily accepted with a smile. Should she manage to survive this entire dinner successfully, being completely sober was definitely not a part of her plan. She offered Valarr her gratitude with a smile and then took a sip.

Once they all sat down, the servants arrived with food.

From the moment Lyanna stepped into the chamber, she made a concerted effort to avoid looking at Aerion. However, with him now positioned directly across from her, resisting the urge to look his way proved considerably challenging.

A profound sneer was fixed upon his features, appearing as though cemented there, for it remained utterly unmoving, not even for a second. His gaze never detached itself from hers, not for the briefest moment, while his fingers toyed with a blade, spinning it idly. Lyanna surmised this display was calculated to frighten her, yet he possessed far too little capability to instill even the slightest measure of dread within her spirit.

Gazing intently into his eyes, she flashed that mischievous, victorious grin which instantly brought back every event from earlier in the day. Following that, she shifted her gaze away, directing it toward Prince Baelor, who had begun speaking. However, prior to fully turning, she noticed the tense hold he maintained on the knife.

“Lady Stark-”

“Lyanna. Please, call me Lyanna. All my father’s friends do.” She smiled at him and he returned the smile.

“As you wish.” He cleared his throat. “It was quite an unexpected surprise to see you on the field today. Particularly when we didn’t even receive any news of your arrival.”

“I hope you can forgive me for the untruths I told. However, you need to see my perspective, Your Grace – the lists for the joust are considered an unsuitable place for a woman, or so the opinion goes.” A smile remained fixed on her lips. “Without those fabrications, participation for me would have been out of the question.”

Baelor hummed and took a sip from his cup. “You are quite right on that Lady-”

Lyanna briefly narrowed her eyes, and the prince corrected himself with a smile. “Lyanna.”

He then continued. “Frankly, your skill was exceptionally striking to me. Having attended numerous tourneys and entered the lists myself, I can confidently state that I've never witnessed such a high level of expertise before. It was genuinely extraordinary.”

“You flatter me, Your Grace.” Lyanna let out a polite laugh.

“She cheated.”

The moment the voice cut through the fleeting quiet, everyone froze. Lyanna observed Maekar’s hand, poised to lift his cup to his mouth, freeze in position, his intense gaze fixed accusingly upon Aerion’s profile.

Slowly Lyanna turned her head to face him.

“I beg your pardon, my prince.”

Aerion scoffed, words like venom pouring past his lips. “You cheated. It is not allowed to evade the lance by ducking out of the way.”

“Aerion!” Maekar’s rough, unyielding tone cut through the air, though it held little sway over the young man.

Lyanna offered a smile that was far too sweet to be genuine. She slid her dish aside, setting her arms upon the table’s surface as she edged closer.

“Yes, it is not allowed. But it is allowed in situation when your opponent’s lance is aiming straight at your visor. Which, as far as my knowledge goes is also not allowed.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think I did not notice, my prince, how you deliberately tilted your lance up. Once. Twice. Then the third time, as if testing if you will be able to rise it high enough to pierce it through my skull.”

The silence was deafening punctuated solely by the snap and hiss of embers in the fireplace and the occasional, profound exhalation from Yrsa, situated out of sight behind Lyanna's seat. Lyanna's cheerful countenance vanished, replaced by a grimace rivaling Aerion's own scowl. Meanwhile, Aerion's visage offered no clue as to his thoughts. Could he truly believe Lyanna hadn't grasped his objective? Was his perception so utterly flawed?

“Pardon me, Your Grace, as I admit my deceit,” Lyanna stated, addressing Baelor, yet her gaze remained fixed upon Aerion. “I intentionally dodged the lance; this action contravenes the regulations and is deemed unfair.” She lowered her head slightly, directing her look toward Baelor. “The fault is mine, and should it be necessary, I shall withdraw from further competition.”

“Nonsense,”

Maekar delared, much to her astonishment. His goblet had finally found his lips, and he drank deeply. “It would be a finer world if every knight possessed the honesty to acknowledge their failures.” His gaze remained fixed upon the tabletop, yet it was obvious to every person present precisely who that pointed comment was intended for.

“I agree with my brother,” Baelor stated. “You have permission to continue to enter the lists, should that be your desire. Though, there is the matter of the rules that the loser forfeits all their coin, their armor, and their mount to the victor.”

Aerion's gaze shot upwards abruptly, fastening upon his uncle with palpable fury in his expression. Just as he prepared to voice his thoughts, a single glance from his father silenced him instantly.

A smile graced Lyanna's lips as she acknowledged Baelor, shifting her gaze then to Aerion before her. The prospect of utterly dismantling the young prince filled her with immense satisfaction. To witness his mortification consume him entirely was something she keenly anticipated. He was already forced to surrender his first steed to Ser Hymphry Hardyng, and now Lyanna possessed an opportunity to strip him bare.

“It is very kind of you, Your Grace. But I have armor of my own, as well as horse and gold. Let the prince keep his armor, his gold, his horse, and his pride. I have no need of it.”

She smiled at him. Not because his uncle and his father had taken her side in the end, but because she had bested him in every way possible. Not only on the field before hundreds of people, but in private too, with only his family as witnesses.

The remainder of the meal proceeded in a considerably more cheerful vein. Aerion had resolved to abstain from speech entirely, directing only menacing glances and looks seething with anger and wrath, primarily focused on Lyanna. However, she refused to concede ground to his intimidation. Instead, she maintained cheerful discussions with Baelor and Valarr, sometimes including Maekar in the exchange as well.

At one point she felt a moist nudge of Yrsa’s snout pressing into her side, begging for some kind of attention or scarp of food from the table. Lyanna swiftly surveyed the opposite side of the table; Baelor was thoroughly engaged in discussion with Maekar, with Valarr paying extremely close attention, whereas Aerion was consumed with fixing menacing glares upon the portion of lamb resting before him.

After accessing the surroundings and making sure it is safe, Lyanna sliced a piece of lamb and subtly moved her hand under the tabletop, where Yrsa had managed to wedge her sizable frame between the chairs occupied by Lyanna and Valarr. A grin spread across her face as the direwolf lapped its mouth, her amber eyes looking up at her, asking for more. Unbeknownst to Lyanna, however, her little display hadn't gone completely unnoticed.

With a final smile directed toward her companion, Lyanna tilted her chin up to concentrate on the ongoing discussions. However, the instant her gaze traveled upward, she froze, met by the sight of two mismatched eyes observing her with evident mirth.

Lyanna experienced the sensation of a prey animal frozen in an open expanse as predators closed in around her. Oh, the irony. Swiftly, she concealed her astonishment, brought a slender finger to her mouth in a gesture for silence, and offered a knowing smile and a wink.

Valarr returned her smile with a nod. His gaze shifted downward to where Yrsa was now resting. The prince took a quick look at her. “May I?”

Initially, Lyanna failed to comprehend his intent, a look of bewilderment creasing her forehead, yet a quick look at his extended hand brought understanding. “Oh, of course.”

Lyanna observed the subtle shake in the prince’s hand as he slowly brought it down to stroke Yrsa’s coat. The slight trembling ceased only once he was certain the animal wouldn't bite at his fingertips. She noted the tenderness with which he massaged near her ear, eliciting a soft, contented whine from Yrsa.

“She’s beautiful,” Valarr murmured, burying his hand deep into her coat. His gaze then lifted to meet hers, and Lyanna felt her breath catch as those striking eyes met hers, once again, her composer slipping through her fingers, abandoning her completely. “As is her owner.”

The serene atmosphere was shattered by the sharp sound of metal striking the wooden table. Lyanna and Valarr instantly separated, both immediately directing their gazes toward the source of the disruption – or perhaps, the one responsible for it. Baelor and Maekar also ceased their exchange

Aerion's intense stare was fixed across the table, yet, contrary to Lyanna's expectation, it wasn't directed at her; instead, it bore down upon the prince seated next to her. She observed the pair, her gaze shifting rapidly between the two figures, catching the unspoken dispute unfolding between them.

Lyanna knitted her brow, directing her gaze toward Baelor, who had likewise sensed the strained air. He shared an exchange of glances with Maekar, a silent communication Lyanna couldn't quite decipher, which then prompted heavy exhalation from the youngest brother.

“Seven hells…” he muttered, causing the frown on Lyanna’s face to deepen.

Baelor then interjected. “If you will excuse me and my brother, we have something to discuss. Continue, we will be back shortly.”

With that they both exited the chamber, leaving Lyanna alone between two dragons. One calm and collected, the other untamed and perilous. And then here was she, a lone wolf resting in the midst of the dragon’s lair. How charming.

Valarr was the first to speak. “Excuse my cousin, lady, he has no shame whatsoever, nor compassion… or any sensible characteristic that would make him tolerable.”

Aerion let out a scoff, choosing instead to remain silent. He settled further into his seat, his gaze fixed upon Lyanna's left flank. Lyanna caught a fleeting glimpse that Yrsa had repositioned herself to her opposite side, situated so closely that her head nearly aligned with Lyanna's own, given her size.

Lyanna observed as his gaze swept across the direwolf, as if he were sizing her up. As if on cue a deep and menacing growl emanated from within the direwolf, and Yrsa bared her teeth. Showing off multiple, sharp, bright white canines, capable of severing a man's head if needed.

She watched how Aerion’s hard stone expression faltered once he set his eyes on the teeth. Lyanna smiled.

“I advise to not look into her eyes,” Lyanna said, baring her own teeth. “She smells fear.”

Aerion shifted in his seat, his vision sliding between the massive wolf and Lyanna. He met her stare briefly, then let out a derisive sound.

“I am not afraid of that beast.”

Lyanna settled back in her seat, bringing her wine glass to her lips for a taste. The sweet fluid sent a pleasant warmth across her tongue. “Don’t call her beast. She will take offense,” she stated, her tone descending into a threatening murmur. “And she won’t care if you are a prince or not. To her, meat is meat, regardless from which castle it has descended from.”

“Are you threatening me? A prince?”

“And what if I am?”

A tense silence hung about the table, thick enough to cut with a knife, as they locked eyes in a silent confrontation. Neither of them showed any inclination to yield, resembling a deadlock between equally stubborn foes battling for authority.

Lyanna pursed her lips, resting her forearms flat upon the table's surface. “I will be just – your self-assurance is something I find respectable. However, your fundamental flaw, my prince, lies in your inability to recognize limits. And that is your biggest issue.”

Aerion abruptly shifted his posture, leaning forward, a threatening grin spreading across his countenance. “And what are you going to do about it, Lady Stark?”

Lyanna settled back into her seat, maintaining a composed and tranquil demeanor. Her gaze drifted briefly to her right, finding Valarr still seated there, watching the unfolding exchange with evident delight. Following that brief survey, her attention swung back to the prince positioned in front of her.

“Yrsa, you know what to do.”

The direwolf ran its tongue across its mouth, its pointed teeth briefly visible once more before it vanished beneath the massive wooden table. She observed as the self-satisfied expression on Aerion’s face gradually evaporated, much like wispy smoke.

“What do you think you’re-”

The instant his voice turned to silence, Lyanna lifted her gaze. Terror caused his eyes to widen considerably, and his body froze in place. His grip remained firmly on his cup, not daring to shift even a single finger, as his free hand clenched the edge of the table with significant force.

She took a sip of the wine as a pleased hum escaped her as her gaze drifted languidly across the space. Valarr, appearing somewhat bewildered, edged closer. “What precisely is going on here?”

Lyanna glanced at him before looking at Aerion’s frigid body.

“Well, let’s just say that in this very moment, Yrsa holds the power of prince Aerion’s entire bloodline in her jaws.” Valarr's eyes broadened significantly, his gaze fastening upon his cousin, clear delight sparkling within them.

Lyanna went on, “Moreover, should he make one wrong move, Yrsa will guarantee that Aerion can bid farewell to any future descendants and the possibility of ever satisfying a woman, at least in that manner.”

Another shared glance passed between her and Valarr, leading to a silent burst of chuckles from them both. At that precise moment, the entrance doors swung inward, admitting Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, who then resumed their seats.

“Excuse us for such delay,” Baelor stated, his gaze sweeping across the table, momentarily settling upon Aerion’s rigid posture. “Is there some kind of issue?”

Lyanna offered the prince a pleasant expression while drawing a bowl of grapes nearer. “Everything is perfectly alright, Your Grace.”

Popping a single grape into her mouth, her gaze drifted back to the prince situated opposite her. Inspecting his eyes closely, a momentary gleam caught her attention. This wasn't the typical ire or intense anger simmering beneath his composure; instead, it was something else entirely, carrying a quality of fragility, akin to sheer helplessness.

He was begging her to release him.

And, oh how much Lyanna Stark liked when men begged.

Her hand descended beneath the table's surface, concealed from view, and she swiftly snapped her fingers. Lyanna observed as Aerion's form collapsed somewhat in his seat, with sweat visibly forming on his brow, meaning that Yrsa had let him go. Maekar cast a peculiar glance toward his offspring but subsequently dismissed it with an eyeroll and turned his attention towards his brother.

The direwolf appeared by her side once again. She stroked the animal’s head, slipping it another piece of meat from her plate, softly uttering “good girl” as the animal settled itself upon the floor.

Valarr, after witnessing this leaned in to whisper, “Could you by any chance lend her to me for a while, my lady? I would find her assistance exceedingly valuable whenever I encounter difficulties concerning my cousin.”

Lyanna hid her smile behind her hand as she and the Young Prince conspired against Aerion, chuckling lowly.

This didn’t go unnoticed by Baelor.

“Lyanna, tell me how is your father fairing? I hope the North do not keep him too busy.”

Lyanna smiled at the prince. “Not particularly, Your Grace. Though my father did want to attend this tourney, but some urgent matters came up and he could not. He sent me because he knew that I would not want to miss this tourney. He sends his apologies for not being able to make it himself and sends his regards to you, Your Grace.”

Baelor nodded his head with a smile. “Thank you. Though I wished I could speak with him in person, there are some important matters to discuss after all.”

A subtle crease formed on her forehead. However, she didn't need to ponder for long what these topics of conversation would involve. There was a finite amount of material for two noblemen, both with eligible, yet unmarried, offspring of suitable age, to deliberate upon. She directed a look toward Valarr on her right, and judging by his bearing, he seemed equally aware of the situation.

Lifting her cup, poised to take a sip of the wine, Lyanna discovered with a pang of letdown that it was empty, setting it back on the surface with a soft sigh. Seeing this, Prince Valarr immediately seized the pitcher and, without a word, filled up her cup. She observed, however, that the amount now exceeded what it had held previously.

Thank the gods.

She glanced at him and mouthed ‘thank you’ before taking a long sip.

“And your mother? Is she well?” Baelor pressed further, his eyes focused on his plate. Therefore, he completely missed the fleeting shadow that crossed her features just as her hand paused in motion. Aerion, however, observed it instantly. In fact, since his eyes remained locked onto Lyanna throughout the whole dinner, he was the sole witness to that subtle expression.

Clearing her throat, she maintained an impeccably set expression, leading Aerion to question his own perception. “It appears the reach of gossip isn't as extensive as I had presumed.” Noticing his look of puzzlement on Baelor’s face, Lyanna offered further explanation, resting her forearms upon the tabletop.

“My mother died. Has to be almost four summers since she’s gone, I believe.”

She caught the moment Baelor regretted ever asking this question.

“Gods be good, Lady Lyanna, you have my deepest sympathies.”

The delicate nature of the subject was apparent to everyone at the table, given how deeply it had impacted her; she even let Baelor use the title 'lady' without correcting him as she did previously.

He continued, his voice softer now. “It was hard for you and your father, I can only image. If you do not mind me asking, was it a sickness?”

A melancholy expression crossed Lyanna's lips, failing to touch her eyes. “Perhaps 'illness' is the term you can use. It's a condition common to all women when their moment arrives,” she asserted, lifting her eyes to meet Baelor's. “Childbirth.”

A realization washed over those around the table, somehow making the silence even heavier, yet Lyanna pressed on. “My mother once told me that childbirth is woman’s war, and the bed is her battlefield. She waged this battle just as any woman of House Mormont would, fiercely, with every bit of strength she possessed, but regrettably… on this occasion, the battle was not won.”

Baelor inclined his head, a gesture conveying both respect and sorry, which Lyanna appreciated. “May the Seven grant her piece.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She continued. “Though in the midst of grief we were granted a speck of light. Even though my mother perished, the child survived. A son; Rickon Stark.”

“Oh, thank the Seven, so the Starks will have an heir, after all.” Maekar spoke up as he took a sip from his goblet.

Lyanna's fingers hesitated just before grasping her own cup, freezing in their ascent as her gaze fixed upon the prince.

“I- I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

Maekar turned his gaze toward Lyanna prior to articulating his thought. “It is known to everyone that each lord requires an heir to carry on their lineage.”

“Yes, I am very well informed about it, but my father already had an heir, Your Grace.”

Maekar scoffed.

The palpable change in the mood and the very feel of the surrounding air was immediately apparent to all present. Things grew tight and heavy, so dense one might imagine slicing through it with a dull blade. Aerion subtly adjusted his seating, his attention now firmly fixed on the dialogue unfolding, particularly as Lyanna's hard gaze settled upon the two Princes, with an emphasis that leaned heavily toward the youngest of the two brothers.

She drew in a sharp breath. “Just seven days following my mother's passing, my father, in the presence of every lord from the Northern Houses, declared me his heir and successor. Upon his death all his titles will befall on me, and I will become the Warden of the North.”

Maekar's eyes shot over to her as soon as she concluded, an expression of disbelief etched onto his features. He immediately shifted his focus to his brother, seeking confirmation of an equally stunned reaction to this disclosure. However, his anticipation waned upon noticing the slight grin playing on his brother's mouth.

“As long as I have known him, Brandon Stark had always frowned upon customs.” Baelor remarked with a laugh. “His choice, therefore, causes me absolutely no surprise. I suppose seeing you in that jousting field should have been my first sign.”

Across the table, Baelor locked gazes with her. “I fully believe the North will prosper under your rule; there is no question in my mind.” He lifted his goblet for a toast, and Lyanna reciprocated, a slight smile gracing her lips. Even Valarr, and somewhat unexpectedly, Aerion, joined them in drinking. Maekar, however, did not.

“Surely you jest, brother,” he shot a furious glare at his brother. “Placing a woman in charge of an entire region? Preposterous.” He sneered, yet Baelor completely ignored him.

Lyanna offered a smile as her gaze settled upon the direwolf at her side. “It's my observation that we folk from the North tend towards the superstitious. We believe that every event unfolds due to some underlying purpose. That very day, after my lord father announced before the assembled lords that I was to be his heir, we rode out beyond Winterfell's fortifications for a bit of privacy. Just as we were preparing to head back, we stumbled upon her.”

Her head angled as her gaze fell upon Yrsa, and she gently stroked her muzzle. “A direwolf cub, abandoned by the roadside. We scoured the vicinity yet located no sign of its mother or siblings. It was as though the little creature just appeared there, anticipating our passage.”

Lyanna raised her head and looked at Baelor. “Naturally, I considered it to be luck. However, my father did not. To him, it was a sign. A sign from the old gods that he had made the right decision of naming me his heir.”

A slight furrow creased her brow, which soon softened into a smile as her eyes traveled downward towards the surface of the table. “And truth be told, the direwolf’s had been considered extinct. Not a single one had been sighed across the whole North for thousands of years and then one suddenly appeared. As if dropped from the heavens, as though the gods themselves had placed her right there.”

The entire duration Lyanna remained unaware of the gaze Aerion directed towards her. His focus was fixed on her features, clinging to every syllable that left her mouth like a sinking man to a boat. For quite some period Aerion himself had longed for some miracle to occur. He had prayed to the gods so the unhatched dragon eggs still kept at Dragonstone would finally hatch. So, the dragons would return to their world once again. Listening to how Lyanna described the direwolf that miraculously appeared out of nowhere kindled a certain hop in Aerion. Perhaps…

Baelor broke into a smile, casting a look toward his brother. “There you have it, brother, your answer. It appears fate itself has rendered the verdict.” His gaze settled upon her. “I hold firm in my conviction that if any woman possesses the fortitude for the responsibilities of the North, it is Lady Lyanna. Today you confirmed for numerous observers that customs are merely that – customs. And with sufficient courage, one can indeed redefine them.”

A reciprocal smile passed between Baelor and Lyanna, while Maekar remained silent, his expression sour as he nursed his cup. Baelor adjusted his seating in the chair and then proceeded. “However, this recent disclosure has caused me to revise certain initial strategies I had formulated concerning you, my lady.”

“And what would those… strategies be, Your Grace?” Lyanna inquired, even while a strong feeling suggested she had already known the answer. Her gaze flickered momentarily toward Valarr, whose posture gave a subtle shift in his seat.

“A proposition of marriage,” Baelor stated. Lyanna's eyes blinked in a slow manner, her features revealing nothing as she absorbed his words. “Joining the southern realms with the North would yield considerable benefits. And surely, there's no superior method for achieving this than by arranging a betrothal between the Lady of Winterfell and the future heir to the Iron Throne.”

His gaze landed upon Valarr, who remained perfectly still next to Lyanna. Is this the reason why she was seated right next to him at the start of the dinner?

Lyanna actually wouldn't have taken issue with the situation. Prince Valarr presented perhaps the most suitable match for her. He possessed kindness, commanded respect from the people and undeniably, he was quite handsome. Those striking, mismatched eyes persistently occupied her thoughts. Given her standing as a lord’s daughter, Lyanna was fully aware that this juncture in her life was inevitable.

But there was only one but…

“It is a great honor that you hold such a high opinion of me, Your Grace. Likewise, I would be truly delighted to become your wife, Prince Valarr.” The young Prince pivoted his head, his gaze locking onto hers, which made it difficult for Lyanna to articulate what she intended to say next.

She compelled her eyes to shift, finding the prince Baelor's own distinct, mismatched stare. “However, should this union occur, I'd be obligated to depart from Winterfell and reside with my lord husband. Considering my position as my father's successor and the next Warden of the North, I'm concerned that scenario simply wouldn't be feasible.”

Baelor inclined his head, conveying his complete grasping of the circumstances. “Indeed, my lady, your assessment is accurate. Consequently, it pains me to concede that this proposed union is unsuitable for our side.”

Lyanna was certain she witnessed a visible drop in Valarr's shoulders, his whole bearing slumping in the seat as he extended a hand for his cup, his grip visibly clenching around it. Though fully aware such an action wouldn't be considered appropriate, she genuinely couldn't stand the sight of that handsome face falling into sadness.

Extending her hand over the gap separating them, she took hold of his hand resting on his thigh and squeezed it to offer him comfort.

He startled upon her touch, nearly spilling his drink while his head jerked in her direction. The instant their gazes locked, Lyanna produced a look of apology, her eyes growing gentle as she further tightened her grip on his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

Valarr's gaze dropped to their clasped hands, then lifted once more. Lyanna could read the words he meant to say from his eyes alone. ‘I understand’.

Just then, as if summoned, Aerion concluded the quiet. “With all this discussion concerning the ideal pairing and intended spouses-” his vision locked onto her as Lyanna diverted her stare from Valarr, directing it towards him instead. A familiar, perilous spark ignited anew within his profound violet irises. “We may as well bring this to a close and settle upon a more suitable arrangement. Given that everyone is present.”

Lyanna's gaze shifted to Baelor, whose consistent, attentive stare fixed upon Aerion caused a subtle reaction within her as the quiet persisted. Her focus darted from Baelor to Maekar, who, having been rebuffed by his brother earlier, chose complete non-participation in the ongoing conversation, and finally settled on Valarr, whose expression toward Aerion was one of evident displeasure.

Yrsa too shifted where she sat on Lyanna’s left, as if sensing the unease coming from her owner.

Given that Aerion was the second son of the fourth son, his prospects of ascending to the Iron Throne were exceedingly remote, bordering on the impossible. Consequently, his marital choice held little consequence regarding geographical relocation; marrying a noblewoman from Dorne, the Vale, or the North would make no inherent difference. In instances like the one involving Lyanna, where her continued residence at her ancestral seat was deemed absolutely critical, any ensuing union would necessitate Aerion himself to relocate to his wife's residence.

And, Lyanna figured, Maekar would be pleased to see his son departing rather than arriving. And what better manner to achieve that than marrying him to Lyanna Stark and sending him off to the North.

Lyanna was pulled from her spiraling thoughts concerning countless scenarios by a comforting pressure on her hand. She shifted her focus away from the dinner table, where she had been intently staring, to meet the gentle and calming look in Prince Valarr's eyes.

And at that precise instant, Lyanna Stark understood she'd relinquish all possessions if only afforded the chance to eternally observe those captivating eyes. However, the real question was whether she would follow through with it. Renouncing her standing as an heir just to marry Valarr. In matters of arranged marriages, securing an agreement satisfactory to all parties involved was a rarity. Lyanna had heard of unhappy betrothals that only turned out to be more disastrous as time went on and she always feared to end up in one too.

Lyanna Stark was at crossroads.

Either she surrenders her claim to inheritance, letting down her father and abandoning the ambition of demonstrating female leadership, and weds Valarr, a man who would worship the ground she walks on; or she retains her status, achieves all her aspirations, and marries Aerion Targaryen – the man who attempted to murder her and likely harbors the same desire still.

However, prior to sinking further into the chasm she suspected she might never escape, Lyanna deliberately pulled her fingers from the prince's hold. She then cleared her throat and pushed her chair back, ensuring all eyes within the space immediately turned toward her.

“Excuse my interruption, Your Grace, but my departure is due. I offer my sincere thanks for the invitation; the dinner was magnificent and the companionship equally delightful.” A pleasant expression settled upon her features. She truly had no desire to remain for the remaining portion of the meal, during which Baelor intended to orchestrate the impending union between herself and Aerion. Nevertheless, Lyanna suspected that he would proceed with his plans regardless of her presence.

Aerion directed his gaze from Baelor over to her; a self-satisfied grin plastered across his features. “But we didn’t even get to the best part, yet lady. There are so many matters yet to be discussed.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at the prince. She smiled at him. “I am sure those matters can be discussed another time.”

“Indeed,” Baelor said, sitting straight in his chair. “I await with anticipation to see you on the field again, Lady Lyanna.”

“So am I, Your Grace.”

With a downward tilt of her head, she started to depart when a hand grasped hers. Prince Valarr stood up from where he sat, raising her hand and gently kissing the back of it. “Have a good night, my lady.”

A smile dawned on Lyanna's face; she perceived that familiar internal warmth rekindling once more. However, this time, she possessed the fortitude to overcome it. She offered him a smile and then curtsied.

“And you, Your Grace.”

Without a backward look, she exited the chamber, Yrsa and Ser Benjen following closely.

Only when she was inside the secure space of her own tent, Lyanna let out a long breath; her mind was reeling as she struggled to process the barrage of recent events.

What sort of predicament had she landed herself in this time?

a/n: i just love women who can put arrogant men in their rightful places

The young woman stood amidst the smallfolk, observing as yet another knight tumbled into a messy pile within the thick mire. Living in the North occasionally afforded certain advantages. One such benefit was the ability for her to journey South and mingle with the smallfolk, who would remain entirely unaware that the young lady strolling beside them was, in fact, the eldest daughter of Brandon Star, the Warden of the North.

However, on this occasion, her anonymity was a deliberate strategy, formulated during her journey toward Ashford Meadow. The small contingent of her personal guards and the loyal knight Ser Benjen Cassel were fully aware of her scheme and dutifully followed her plan. Upon her arrival into Ashford Meadow, there were no elaborate proclamations, nor were the insignia of the direwolf's head displayed upon the banners nowhere near her pavilion. Just a lady from a lesser house who arrived to see the tourney.

That is what she made them think.

A soft touch took hold of her arm, yet Lyanna remained composed. Even prior to looking, she recognized the individual. Ser Benjen Cassel was a sworn knight to her family. The Cassel lineage had faithfully served House Stark across many generations; he was unquestionably the one person Lyanna would entrust with her very existence.

She allowed him to pull her away from the masses of people aside to some quieter spot.

“Well, how did it go?” enquired Lyanna, keen to learn of Benjen's success.

A grin spread across his face, acknowledging her keenness. “Your thirst for battle rivals anything I witnessed from you, my lady. The last time I perceived that look into your eyes was when you competed in that tourney in Vales, fully two years hence.”

Lyanna's brow furrowed, and she lightly tapped his chest. “You truly delight in mocking me, Ser Benjen.”

A low laugh escaped the man. Benjen had known Lyanna since she was but a child. Following the passing of his father, Ser Rodric, who held the post of master-at-arms at Winterfell, Benjen assumed his late father's role and responsibilities, pledging his very existence to protect the Lady of Winterfell.

Lyanna was only four and ten when she asked her father to teach her to master the sword like their master of arms did. Benjen’s father taught her a lot, but a sickness took his life far too soon. Following this, the responsibility fell to Benjen to continue her training, but a day still needs to come when he will successfully disarm her in a duel. She always managed to outsmart him.

“I talked to the master of games and entered the list under the name of Benjen Cassel of house Frey.”

Lyanna grimaced, wrinkling her nose as if she'd just downed a foul-tasting gulp of ale. “Did it really have to be House Frey? Couldn't you have picked a different, more respectable family name?”

“You said so yourself, the house needs to be well known in order for you to get the first choice in selecting your opponent.” Benjen shrugged. “House Fray was the first thing that popped into my head.”

Lyanna countered his statement with an unwavering, expressionless gaze.

“Are you sure that it wasn’t because of Lord Stevron Fray’s eldest daughter that caught your eye during the feast we attended last year?”

She raised a lone eyebrow as Benjen's face flushed a deep rose and he bowed his head before her. “Guilty, my lady.”

Lyanna breathed out an exasperated sigh as she looked around them.

“Fine, let it be House Fray. It matters very little. I need this pretense for but a moment so I can enter the field and challenge my opponents.”

Benjen watched the young woman. “Why can’t you just join the lists with your real name?”

“Because being a woman dictates my presence everywhere I go, Ser Benjen. A tourney ground simply isn't suitable for someone of my station, as some would claim.” Lyanna held the knight's gaze intently. “My objective is to foster underestimation. An unknown knight hailing from House Fray taking on nobility – that kind of mismatch fuels arrogance and pride in the higher-born. He'll convince himself the victory is already his, setting him up for the surprise when I unhorse him.”

Benjen arched a brow. “And you have absolute certainty you will overcome your opponent?”

Lyanna shook her head, a sigh in the motion. “Do you know me at all, Ser Benjen? Of all people, you ought to be convinced of my capability to succeed.”

The noble knight and his fair companion locked gazes, a wordless dare hanging between them. Eventually, Benjen yielded.

“Fine,” He pointed a finger at her. “However, it is essential you comprehend that should any misfortune befall you, I shall be the one held accountable by your father.”

Lyanna's brow furrowed in a playful expression as she brushed the finger from her face. “Ser Benjen, your etiquette seems to have deserted you; such discourse is hardly appropriate when addressing a lady.”

Benjen chuckled, guiding Lyanna in the direction of the assembled throng where yet another jouster had unhorsed his opponent, their triumph marked by soaring yells and whoops. He shouldered his way through the spectators, making for the timber barrier so Lyanna might have an unimpeded sightline of the field.

While Benjen was away, the young woman had taken the time to survey her environment. Her gaze swept once more across the viewing gallery where Prince Baelor Targaryen, the King's Hand and heir to the Iron Throne was sitting alongside Lord Ashford and Lady Gwin and other lords and ladies. However, this time, she observed the vacant seat next to Baelor – the spot where his younger brother was expected to be seated.

Lyanna was aware that Baelor Targaryen shared a long-standing friendship with her father. Her childhood was filled with tales of Baelor Breakspear and the campaigns he and Brandon Stark undertook side-by-side. Consequently, witnessing the very person she'd heard so much about, right before her felt like meeting an old friend. Lyanna briefly remembered her father's parting advice: to ensure she was gracious and hospitable toward the House of the Dragon, and to convey his best wishes to Prince Baelor.

Her mind was miles away when Benjen tapped her arm. “Got any idea which opponent you'll face first? Who's going to be the unfortunate knight?”

Just as Lyanna was about to reply, the arrival of a knight onto the grounds captured her focus. Her gaze meticulously examined the elaborate craftsmanship of his armor. The crimson dragon emblem on his shield provided a striking counterpoint to the completely dark plating encasing him from top to bottom. Furthermore, the helm itself was shaped like a dragon's head, uniformly black, adorned with fiery plumes tipped in red.

“Aerion Brightflame, of House Targaryen.” The voice of the herald, amplified across the expanse, silenced the common folk assembled, awed by the sheer weight of prestige that accompanied the mere utterance of that name.

So, this was the prince she had heard so much about. Even in the North rumors from the South spread like wildfire. From passing travelers and merchants, Lyanna heard stories about the unfortunate princes of House Targaryen. Prince Baelor’s sons were praised, Prince Maekar’s sons on the other hand… not so much. One constantly searched for his luck in wine cups, the other was so useless he was sent to Citadel to be a maester. The youngest… well Lyanna didn’t know much about him, but she knew a lot about the one who galloped across the field right before her eyes.

Of all the Targaryen’s, Aerion may have been the maddest of them all. He perceived anyone beneath him as utterly insignificant, worthless, and undeserving of a moment of his attention. His ego was a thing to behold – near as large as Casterly Rock and twice as immovable. Lyanna Stark observed him closely, noting his bearing. It possessed a flawless quality suitable for royalty, yet the underlying truth was universally acknowledged: beneath the surface resided pure evil.

The assembled throng held their collective breath as Aerion Targaryen and Ser Humfrey Hardyng spurred their mounts towards one another. Aerion managed to deftly evade the initial thrust of the lance, shifting his body just enough to avoid impact.

However, as the second pass commenced, Lyanna’s attention fixed upon Aerion’s lance and the angle at which he held it. A crease formed on her brow. It was aimed far too low.

Before the crowd managed to grasp what was happening, Aerion’s lance found its mark in the horse’s neck. Lyanna watched how the horse fell sideways, screaming, trapping the riders’ legs underneath its weight. She could swear she heard the bones in his leg shatter.

And then the crowd erupted into uproar. Every corner of Ashford Meadow was alive with clamor; people surged onto the field, elbowing and shoving in the crush. Her gaze fixed upon the knights clad in gleaming white armor, making their way onto the field to manage the surging crowd. Kingsguard, no doubt. Just as Ser Benjen prepared to pull her clear of the throng, she permitted herself one final glance at the triumphant individual.

Aerion Targaryen was mounted upon his steed, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. Were it not for his repulsive character, Lyanna might have even found him handsome.

After Benjen managed to pull her a greater distance from the open ground, he let out a long sigh. “By the Seven, what a massacre.” He was looking at the suffering horse from afar and the puddle of blood that slowly appeared underneath it.

Without uttering a word, Lyanna watched as a man slowly traversed the open space, making his way past the assembled group, a poleaxe held loosely in his grasp. She maintained her fixed gaze even as the fellow dispatched the suffering creature, ending its pain. Having observed numerous executions carried out by her father over the years, this specific scene held no novelty for Lyanna Stark.

“You have yet to answer my question, my lady,” Benjen declared, facing her after the initial surprise had subsided.

Lyanna caught his eye for a swift second, then immediately looked back out across the open ground. “Which question was that again?”

“Who do you plan to challenge?”

This notion had crossed Lyanna's mind. She'd contemplated figures such as Ser Lyonel Baratheon, known to some as the Laughing Storm, or perhaps Leo Tyrell, or even the Young Prince Valarr Targaryen. However, witnessing the events unfold on the battlefield just moments prior brought about a total shift in her considerations.

“Him.”

Benjen, his attention fixed upon the Kingsguard who were occupied with controlling the throng, failed to observe the direction of Lyanna's gaze.

“‘Him’ who?”

Lyanna’s eyes, though, never left the blonde-haired prince who still sat atop his horse.

“Him.”

Benjen finally pulled his gaze from the Kingsguard and tracked her line of sight.

“Absolutely not!”

Lyanna met him with a look before turning to depart. Benjen trailed behind her.

“Lady, surely you jest; did you witness his assault upon that poor steed? That was no simple mishap. His intent was clear to injure the animal.”

Lyanna spun around suddenly, nearly making Benjen collide with her. “Do you imagine I'm unaware of that? Ser Benjen, I fully grasp his intentions, and that very fact is precisely why I need to challenge him.”

“But-”

Benjen opened his mouth to object, yet she silenced him with a gesture.

“This isn't the place,” she remarked, briefly surveying the area, noticing the inquisitive stares aimed at them, and then beckoned the knight to follow. “Our discussion will resume inside my tent.”

Benjen let out a breath, then inclined his head, and the pair proceeded in the direction of her tent.

Having retreated into the relative privacy of her own tent, Lyanna let loose a sigh of reprieve. Her quarters, while certainly not opulent, offered all the basic requirements a lady would expect: a bed, a trunk for her belongings and attire, narrow table, and a mirror. The exterior of her enclosure was fashioned from a plain grey fabric, deliberately chosen to avoid drawing undue notice. Furthermore, she had specifically directed her guards to limit their standing watch around her tent, instructing them to only maintain a visible presence once evening arrived.

She wished to avoid being conspicuous.

Upon entering her tent, Lyanna immediately went straight to her bed, where her closest friend and most trusted confidante lay quietly asleep, stretched out on the bedding.

Yrsa. Her direwolf.

Yrsa came into Lyanna’s life unexpectantly, like all things. It was after Lyanna’s mother died and her father, before all the other lords of the North, named Lyanna his successor with the understanding that upon his demise, she would assume the mantle of Warden of the North. Seeking respite from the weighty expectations imposed by the other lords, that day Lyanna and her father rode beyond the walls of Winterfell. They were trekking through the woods when they saw her. A lone pup struggling by the side of the road, dark-furred with a mixture of black and grey tones. However, it was the pup's eyes, luminous like solidified sunlight, that utterly captivated Lyanna.

Lyanna considered the event fortunate. Her father, on the other hand, perceived it as a sign from the old gods. Direwolves had not graced the North for thousands of years, and the probability of encountering one precisely on the day Brandon designated his daughter as his successor seemed remote. Yet here they are.

Following that moment, Yrsa stood as the single individual Lyanna placed absolute faith in. The large wolf trailed her movements constantly, remaining mere steps to the rear, acting as her guardian. Regardless of any command spoken, the direwolf remained steadfastly at her side.

That is why Lyanna knew that once she sets for Ashford Meadow there will be no chance that Yrsa will stay in Winterfell.

Navigating Westeros proved quite a feat, especially with a direwolf trailing the group. However, Yrsa possessed sharp intelligence, and she grasped the necessity for her owner to maintain a low profile. Yrsa chose to travel exclusively under the cloak of darkness, minimizing the likelihood of anyone spotting the enormous creature. Each subsequent morning when Lyanna arose at their lodging for the night, her direwolf would already be sitting outside, concealed within the shade of the surrounding foliage, waiting for her.

Getting her into the Ashford Meadow, however, proved somewhat difficult, as the festivities maintained their intensity even under the cloak of darkness. Considerable forethought and intricate plotting were required to get the direwolf into her tented accommodation. Lyanna was fairly certain that should any inebriated individual happen to glimpse the creature; their account would be dismissed as ramblings anyway.

A direwolf? Here? What nonsense.

Kneeling near the edge of her bed, Lyanna smoothed Yrsa’s dark coat, her lips touching her brow in a gentle caress. Rising then, she moved to the nearby table, where a wine pitcher stood ready for her attention. From it, she filled two goblets, extending one toward Benjen, who politely refused with a negative nod. She understood that his displeasure remained following her disclosure, and she braced internally for his inevitable rebuke.

Lyanna downed a significant amount of the wine, managing to swallow before letting out a breath and turning her gaze toward her sworn protector.

“Alright, I am ready.”

Benjen remained still, simply observing her. After the moment of silence, he exhaled.

“It's clear to me that absolutely nothing I express will alter your current mindset. Truthfully, even if I were to physically restrain you and post guards at every single opening of this enclosure, you will still be able to somehow escape.”

Lyanna’s countenance betrayed her admiration for his astute conclusions. She raised her glass for another swallow of wine, remaining quiet as she observed the knight.

“I need to know. Why him?”

Lyanna let the wine linger on her palate, her eyes drifting off somewhere far away. Indeed, that's a fine query. Why him?

“I am intrigued,” she responded. “I kept my eyes fixed on him throughout, and I simply couldn't avoid feeling captivated. I've encountered narratives concerning him, whispers. A considerable number assert that he is the maddest of them all. Honestly, today simply validated that he holds nothing in life sacred. It’s obvious he’s never tasted defeat and has no plans to start now. He thinks himself a dragon for fucks sake.”

Lyanna let out a long, slow breath, her gaze fixed intently upon the knight. Benjen fidgeted slightly, clearly unsettled by the fierce and perilous expression mirrored in his lady’s eyes.

“I intend to stop this. The dragon ought to fall and he will feel the wolf’s jaws snap around his throat. And he won’t even see what is coming for him until it is too late.”

It was usual for a knight to be anxious when facing the prospect of being gravely wounded during the jousting. Particularly when facing a knight such as Aerion Targaryen.

Lyanna Stark might assert that she was composed and serious. Her thoughts centered on one matter and one matter only. Never drifting to endless possibilities of what might transpire on that field. But if there was one thing her mother Arya Mormont taught her daughter was that a lady should never speak falsehoods. And this principle Lyanna treasured the most.

Rooted to the spot within her tent, she stood while Ser Benjen secured the fastenings on her armor. Her plate offered no flashy display or reason for admiration. This plainness was by design, intended to avoid drawing undue attention. Just like everything else.

For the lists she wore plain northern plate, the sort made for endurance rather than display. The steel was unadorned and matte, left dull so it would not catch the sun or draw the eye, its edges darkened with age and use. There was no etching upon the breast, no chased wolves or winter roses – only the faint scars of past blows and careful repairs.

The shape of the armor was spare and practical, built to blunt a lance and nothing more, giving no hint at the body beneath it. In helm and harness alike, the wearer might have been any knight riding to the lists, for there was nothing in its make that spoke of softness, nor of womanhood – only of cold steel and colder lands.

Having checked the fastenings for the fifth time, Ser Benjen took a step back to observe her. The familiar expression of apprehension he adopted whenever she was about to enter the lists was already there. That permanent crease etched between his eyebrows that gave away his concern. Significantly preceding her in years, he had been privileged to witness the young lady mature into an exceptional woman destined, one day, to lead the North.

Although just eight and ten, the manner her mind operated made her appear considerably older. It has been nearly four summers since the Lady of Winterfell, Arya Mormont, passed, leaving a mourning husband, a daughter, and a son who miraculously survived the birth. The very same one who took Arya’s life.

From that point forward, Lyanna understood the considerable expectations placed upon her to maintain the facade. But she was also acutely aware that upon her father's demise, the entire burden of duty would devolve entirely upon her. Consequently, this realization fueled her training regimen: with each sunrise and every moment that ticked by her capabilities increased.

The North was certainly not a place for the faint of heart; the region was untamed, unforgiving, and offered no quarter to anyone unable to withstand its severity. She diligently honed her skills with the explicit goal of one day shouldering the full extent of the required duties, ensuring that their weight would not cause her to hesitate.

“How do I look?” she inquired, her gaze fixed upon the knight standing before her.

She observed the subtle upward curve at the edge of his mouth.

“Like someone who is ready to take down a dragon.”

Lyanna mirrored his expression. She was ready.

She stepped towards her bed where Yrsa laid, sprawled across the mattress. The massive wolf roused its head to meet Lyanna's gaze as she dropped to her knees, bringing herself to the animal’s level. She gazed into the profound, amber irises while her gauntleted hand sought purchase within the thick coat.

“Wish me luck, girl.”

Lyanna leaned in and pressed her forehead against hers, closing her eyes and murmuring a prayer to the old gods. A soft, drawn-out sound of distress emanated from the direwolf, prompting a deep exhalation from her. Lyanna sensed the creature's apprehension; the wolf's unease was palpable, vibrating within her own awareness.

“Do not worry about me.” She leaned back and looked upon the creature before her. “I never lose, and I am not planning to change that.”

Kissing the wolf's brow, she rose to her feet. She pivoted toward Benjen, who stood ready with her helmet. He assisted her in putting it on, meticulously arranging her dark locks beneath the metal casing. Once he confirmed every strand was secured, Benjen let out a breath.

“Are you ready, my lady?”

With a sharp nod from her they walked out of her pavilion where her horse was already waiting for her.

It was now or never.

Upon Lyanna's arrival at the grounds, she harbored doubts as to whether Aerion would even be permitted to compete following his antics from the previous day. However, Ser Benjen confirmed his presence. It was stipulated, though, that in light of his dishonest conduct, Ser Humphry Harding would receive Aerion's mount as compensation for the harm he sustained.

Serves him right.

“Ser Benjen Cassel, from House Fray.” the herald's voice boomed across the jousting ground just as Lyanna guided her mount toward the viewing stand occupied by the nobility.

The smallfolk roared their approval, a familiar scene for any champion who entered the lists. The specifics of the challenge or the combatants mattered little to the majority; their objective was simply to enjoy the spectacle and voice their support.

Lyanna allowed a small, derisive sound to escape her. If only those surrounding her weren't so completely oblivious, it would have been quite simple for them to note that the supposed knight of House Fray displayed rather unimpressive sigil of the two towers, one that resembled the work of a child.

Although Ser Benjen possessed respectable fighting skills, his artistic talents were woefully lacking. Since he was the one to decide on House Fray to be the house under which Lyanna will fight, she decreed that the duty of painting the house emblem onto her shield would also fall upon him. This assignment was evidently not to his liking.

A similar observation could be made regarding the master of the games, who had watched Benjen Cassel enter the lists just the preceding day. However, instead of being mounted, he was now positioned on the sidelines of the field, watching. The intricacies held no interest for any of them; their sole purpose for being present was to witness a single knight's defeat and the triumph of the other. That was the beauty of jousting.

Pausing in front of the viewing stand, she tilted her head skyward. Prince Baelor Targaryen occupied his usual central spot, yet Lyanna observed that his brother, Maekar, was present today as well.

With a dip of her head as a sign of respect, Lyanna proceeded, guiding her mount toward the southern boundary of the field. She noticed the cautious gaze Baelor Targaryen cast in her direction. His eyes were narrowed just slightly, and a furrow creased his brow. Lyanna hoped intensely that any inkling he had regarding who she truly was would not solidify before she managed to throw her intended opponent from his saddle.

She rode past the tent of other knights, current champions. Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Leo Tyrell and others. She briefly hesitated before the Young Prince’s tent. Valarr Targaryen was sitting in the chair before his tent, his eyes ever watchful. He leaned forward a bit considering his possible opponent.

A wry grin played on Lyanna's lips beneath her helmet. Not today, Young Prince. She advanced steadily until drawing rein directly in front of Aerion's tent. His pavilion looked very similar to his cousins, featuring black and crimson draperies fastened to posts adorned with intricate carvings resembling a dragon’s head.

She heard the instant the great mass of people went quiet. It was the very second her mount halted, its gaze fixed upon Aerion's pavilion. A wave of low, indistinct sounds settled upon the grounds as everyone held their breaths. Aerion remained entirely out of sight. Given the events of the prior day, Lyanna felt certain that no individual would contemplate challenging him, a sentiment Aerion himself probably shared.

She gripped her lance and tapped the end of it against the imposing black shield. Shortly thereafter, he emerged from the tent openings. He presented himself, radiating arrogance, his initial look of shock fleetingly replaced by one of self-satisfaction.

Despite the visor obscuring his view of her eyes, Lyanna kept her gaze locked upon him as she dragged the point of her lance across the crimson, three-headed dragon emblazoned on his shield. Then, she wheeled her steed around and charged across the ground to assume her designated position.

Fixing her shield, she kept her gaze lowered until the roar of the crowd hit her ears, a sudden, overwhelming sound. Lyanna initially supposed the commotion was due to the prince making his entrance onto the arena, but upon lifting her head and sweeping a look across the common folk assembled near the barriers, she realized every eye was fixed on her, and the entire ovation was directed her way.

Despite acknowledging that confronting Aerion Targaryen was ill-advised considering yesterday's events, they simultaneously recognized the inherent courage in undertaking such a challenge.

Lyanna drew her sight away from the crowd and looked upon her opponent. She had to admit that observing him from a distance hadn’t conveyed the same sense of threat as standing directly before him now did. From this vantage point, he appeared considerably more dangerous and unpredictable. But she could still behold his every motion and every intention.

Her fingers clamped down more firmly on the handle of her shield, and simultaneously, her right hand squeezed the lance tighter. Having assumed their stances, the instant the horn's sound reached her ears, Lyanna Stark let out a faint exhalation through her lips and spurred forward.

The steady power of the steed resonated right through to her soles, accompanied by the brisk air whipping against her face. Were it feasible, she'd bottle this sensation and get drunk on it whenever the desire struck. Though perilous, it provided an incredible thrill. It was simultaneously reckless and magnificent.

With the lance point drawing rapidly nearer, Lyanna braced herself in the stirrups, determined to remain mounted. Observing the incoming thrust, she perceived its trajectory was flawed. It wasn't aimed at her horse though, for Aerion surely wouldn't repeat the same mistake twice.

The lance's subtle upward inclination registered in her vision, once and then a second time, much like a trial run to gauge his capability. Initially, her assumption was that his target was her neck, a clear violation of jousting rules, but the subsequent movement of the lance inclining higher confirmed her revised understanding: his intent was to strike directly at her face, precisely where the visor gap was.

A sigh of annoyance puffed from her, accompanied by a subdued growl, nearly lost amidst the clatter of hooves and the roar of the crowd.  Dodging the menacing lance became her only recourse. This action wasn't one celebrated for its gallantry; however, the alternative – a lance impaling her head – was certainly less appealing.

Indeed, Lyanna proved correct. As the distance between them narrowed to just a foot or two, Aerion finally raised his lance, planning to pierce right through her visor and into her very skull. Yet, Lyanna exhibited greater swiftness. Exhaling sharply, she directed her lance toward his shield. Just as the tip of his weapon neared her eyes with perilous proximity, she shifted her entire upper torso backward, pressing her spine flat against her mount. From this position, Lyanna observed his lance whistle past, missing her visor by mere inches.

Had she been a mere second slower, Aerion Targaryen's lance would have pierced her skull outright. Upon collision, she felt her own lance shatter against his shield, and glancing back, she observed Aerion's lance fall from his grasp. He had braced for the strike, pouring all his might into that thrust, never anticipating she would evade it.

With a strained sound, Lyanna straightened herself up, letting the splintered lance fall onto the earth. Once she reached the opposing side, she tightened the reins to maneuver her steed into place; Benjen was instantaneously alongside her, equipped with a replacement lance. Her free hand snatched it up, her gaze unswervingly fixed upon her opponent, who was now rebalancing himself in his saddle as a fresh lance was being handed to him.

Lyanna adjusted herself upon her mount and pressed her heels against the animal’s flanks to hasten its pace.

Will he really attempt to do it again?

Lyanna was unacquainted with the prince, leaving her completely unaware of the sheer idiocy involved in his repeated attempts at underhanded tactics throughout the joust. First, he struck the horse; then aimed at the opponent’s visor. What further outrageous acts did Lyanna have to anticipate? Will he discard his lance only to draw a blade and seek to run her through with it? Or perhaps resort to a morningstar? Such a brutal instrument would be perfectly fitting for a prince of his character.

However, this time the lance remained perfectly steady. It neither dipped to target her steed nor was it elevated toward her visor or throat defenses. Instead, it rested motionless across his embrace, directed squarely at her shield, precisely as it was supposed to.

A feeling of disquiet settled over Lyanna. The situation had escalated, reaching the point where the beast abandoned its deceptive maneuvers, opting instead to play by the rules. She had anticipated a further ploy, some action that would stain his standing as a knight. This disciplined approach was something she hadn't foreseen.

As the gap narrowed, Lyanna found herself cornered when an idea struck her. Could this be another of his deceptive maneuvers? He had witnessed how easily she sidestepped his initial strike, an evasion she certainly couldn't boast about. Following such an action, an opponent would naturally anticipate a repeat in the performance.

However, this time around, he intends to uphold his honor as a knight and adhere strictly to the regulations.

A faint, dry laugh escaped Lyanna. This is it.

All the instructions Ser Benjen had imparted into her about the art of the joust flashed back through her memory. Techniques for positioning her shield and lance, where best to channel her power, and precisely how much to shift her weight to the side.

“Most knights pull the shield towards them when the lance hit, because the strength of the opponent presses it back into them.”

Lyanna was standing in the courtyard in the Winterfell, shield strapped to her arm as Ser Benjen talked and moved the shield to right positions.

“But what you must do is meet it with equal power. The moment the lance closes in your shield, pull it back from your body outwards and push the lance away from you. Your opponent will not expect it and with the push from your own lance, he will lose control and, if luck is on your side, even fall down.”

Benjen pulled the shield away from her body, showing the right position. “One requires a great strength to accomplish this, to pull the lance away from your body. But with the right training, I suppose we can get this done.”

Up to this point, Lyanna had refrained from employing this maneuver in any of the competitions she entered. Her prior adversaries proved less formidable, rendering such a smart technique excessive.

However, this was far from an ordinary knight. This was Aerion Targaryen, a person utterly devoid of any sense of honor. Lyanna even questioned whether his immense arrogance left any room within him for such a thing as honor.

Her gaze remained fixed upon him right up to that final instant, meticulously logging his actions for any hint of deceitfulness, all while maintaining an unwavering, direct aim with her own lance toward the crimson, three-headed dragon emblazoned upon his shield.

As the collision occurred, Lyanna channeled every ounce of her power into her left arm, shoving the shield away, all while simultaneously thrusting her own lance against the opponent's shield. For a fleeting moment, her entire awareness was consumed by the intense tension in her muscles and the eruption of flying splinters. Yet this sensation paled into insignificance when she registered the crucial fact that she remained securely seated atop her mount.

Lyanna wheeled her steed back, anticipating seeing Aerion still mounted, but imagine her astonishment then, when she saw the horse cantering across the field, while its rider lay in a crumpled mass on the ground amidst the dirt. Shards and fragments of shattered lances dotted the earth close by him.

An absolute, soundless pause descended, feeling as though the flow of time had utterly ceased. Then, in the blink of an eye, a clamor erupted: shouts, weeping, and jubilant cries surged forth from the mass of smallfolk. Individuals bounced excitedly, flailing their arms in the air. A few embraced one another tightly, while others remained rooted to the spot, seemingly stunned.

Lyanna ventured a glance toward the spectator box, where the two royal brothers were seated next to each other, accompanied by Lord Ashford and his daughter. Prince Baelor’s gaze held an inscrutable quality, a blend of uncertainty and perhaps even respect. Lyanna couldn't quite discern whether this expression would benefit her cause or harm it.

Casting another glance over the assembled people, she slid from her horse's back, just as Prince Aerion managed to push himself upright. He raised his visor, allowing her a clear view of his features. A bit of earth marred his cheek, yet the mud wasn't what held Lyanna's attention. It was his gaze. Lyanna was intimately familiar with hatred, having observed it in the eyes of every knight she'd knocked from their saddle, but this emotion surpassed mere hatred. It was something far more profound.

It was rage. Pure, hot, blinding rage mixed with shame.

Even at a distance she could see it take him: the stiff, stuttering breath beneath his gorget, the white-knuckled grip upon his helm as he tore it free. It was no courtly anger but something deeper, uglier – the kind that rattled a man from the inside, that made his hands tremble and his shoulders quiver with the need to strike at something, anything, for the shame of the fall.

And then his hand went to his blade. Lyanna observed the noise of the crowd vanish, everybody pausing in anticipation of the ensuing events. She noted his approach, the space separating them shrinking rapidly with each lengthy, furious step he took.

Advancing a short distance, she then halted. Lyanna couldn't pinpoint the exact reason for this action. Up to this point, she had consistently kept her helm on; she never removed it. This maintained her obscurity; the helm functioned as protection, affording her the peace of mind that while speculation might circulate, her true self would remain concealed from everyone.

Perhaps it was out of sheer spite, or possibly with the deliberate aim of ensuring Aerion Targaryen would forever carry the memory of being unhorsed by a woman, causing him to cope with that fact until his dying day. In that moment Lyanna Stark did not even think twice as she took her helm and quickly pulled it off her head, allowing her dark long tresses to fall freely down her back.

Startled cries of astonishment erupted from all sides. The instant the helmet was removed, unveiling her face, Aerion froze in his stride, as though divine forces had materialized and barred his way.

Her gaze was fixed upon him. Her eyes tightened, her posture perfectly upright with her chin elevated. She observed the transformation in his expression, moving from intense rage and wrath to a state resembling astonishment. Nevertheless, Lyanna detected the underlying, suppressed fury still pulsing just beneath the surface.

A broad, predatory smile spread gradually over Lyanna's features, revealing her teeth, including the prominent canines that caught the sunlight. Following this, she executed a deep, mocking curtsey, extending her arms out to the sides. It was a gesture fit for a cheating prince.

Not waiting for any further reaction from him, she mounted her steed and spurred it onward. Drawing rein, she halted directly in front of the viewing platform, where the two young princes, alongside numerous other lords and ladies, observed her with focused attention.

“I must apologize Your Grace, for the lies and deception of entering the list under false name and false House.” She stated, her tone carrying clearly so that those nearby could hear her.

Prince Baelor exchanged a look with his brother before speaking. “And say my Lady, what is your real name?”

Lyanna smiled. “My name is Lyanna Stark from House Stark. Firstborn daughter of Brandon Stark, the Warden of the North.” She bowed her head before continuing. “My father asked me to give his regards to you, Your Grace. He claimed that once you have been great friends.”

A subtle grin graced Baelor's mouth, and he inclined his head in assent. “Indeed, that is the case, my Lady.” A brief silence followed before he continued.

“Your performance was immaculate given the circumstances,” He briefly looked where Aerion was still standing dumbfounded, sword drawn. Then his eyes returned to her. “Every knight has much to learn from you. My congratulations are yours, Lady Stark.”

As soon as the declaration left his mouth, the crowd burst forth with renewed shouts and claps. Giving Prince Baelor one final acknowledgment, Lyanna jerked the reins and spurred her horse across the expanse, heading straight for the imposing entrance.

And thus, the wolf bested the dragon, its jaws firm around the beast’s throat. However, little did anyone suspect that this was merely the beginning.