Lyanna Stark slipped away while the tents were being raised, leaving Brandon to bark orders and Benjen to dart about like a puppy. She wanted quiet, wanted space free from the oppressive atmosphere of obligation and expectation.
Everywhere around her rose the clamor of a noble camp taking shape: shouted insults, hammering stakes, idle gossip, the neighing of horses penned too tightly. The air stank of manure and cut flowers scattered in an attempt to hide it.
No one stopped her. Men rarely noticed where a girl went so long as she did not do anything enough to shame them. Lyanna took the freedom gladly and climbed toward the trees, away from the stink and the shouting, toward the hush of Harrenhal's godswood.
The ground rose by slow degrees. The camp sounds thinned behind her until they became only a dull throb. A gull cried over the God's Eye. Somewhere far off, a hammer still rang. Under the trees, the air cooled and smelled of leaf mold, moss, and cold stone.
Step by step, Lyanna felt her mood getting better.
She followed what might once have been a deer trail, ducking beneath low branches and stepping over old roots. Clearly no followers of the Old Gods lived nearby. The leaves lay matted and black, squeezing water up around her boots in tired little sighs. Beetles moved in the litter. Great trunks loomed on every side, bark plated with lichen and age.
A sound broke the hush — laughter, sharp and ugly. Not the kind that warmed the bones, but the kind that chilled them. She slowed, listening. It was followed by a grunt, then another spatter of cruel amusement.
Lyanna's father would have told her a lady must avoid conflict. A lady called for men to settle problems. But her father wasn't here.
She pushed through dog rose and hawthorn, thorns scraping her sleeves, until the brush gave way to a small clearing. Three young men kept a smaller man down. Nobles, by their fine garments and fearless swagger. They kicked at his reed-cloak and jeered about "frog-blood." She recognized the leader as Jahaerys Frey, Lord Walder's nephew.
The young man on on the ground was older than the others, but smaller framed. He had a light northern complexion beneath the mud on his face, mature dark green eyes, and disheveled brown hair just past his ears. Lyanna recognized him with shock as Howland Reed, the young Lord of Greywater Watch.
That was her family's vassal.
Something in her boiled. She remembered the quintain at Winterfell, how she would charge it with a branch in hand when her father's back was turned, imagining it was the face of every smug lord who talked down to her. Her fingers itched now in the same way.
A pale limb lay at the edge of the clearing, fallen from some storm. Weirwood, heavy and bone smooth. She picked it up, and before she could second guess herself, she charged.
The branch cracked hard across Jahaerys Frey's ribs. He stumbled away with a curse, folding over in shock and pain. The other two squires sprang back so fast one nearly lost a boot in the mud.
Lyanna planted herself between them and the crannogman, weirwood branch held ready.
"Cowards," she spat. "Three against one? Is that how Freys count?"
Jahaerys straightened, face already reddening. "You little bitch—"
"Touch my father's bannermen again," Lyanna snapped, "and I'll teach you to count with your teeth."
The others looked from her to the branch to the crannogman and seemed, for the first time, uncertain whether they had chosen their prey wisely. Lyanna bared her teeth at them and took one step forward.
That was enough.
Muttering about "feral northern bitches," they backed off and fled, Jahaerys holding his side, shame burning red on his cheeks. She let them go.
Lyanna tossed the branch aside and crouched, offering her hand to the young Lord Reed. He was small, slight, with eyes like still water. Up close he looked worse—clothes smeared with mud, blood dripping from his nose, bruises already darkening along his arms. "Up," she said. "Let's get you seen to."
He took her grip, hand trembling. Lyanna braced, hauled him up, and ducked under his arm before he could protest. He was slight enough to manage, though taller than she had first thought.
Together they made their way out of the clearing, step by slow step, over slick leaves and grasping roots.
At the edge of the clearing she looked back. The weirwood stood beyond the brush, pale as bone, its carved face set in a quiet, knowing smile. Red sap brightened the corners of its eyes like tears. No wind stirred, yet the crimson leaves seemed to shiver all the same.
The feeling of being watched did not leave her as they walked back to camp. It did not feel like the eyes of boys. It felt older, patient. She drew the crannogman closer against her side and set her jaw.
"Thank you," Howland murmured.
"For swinging a stick?"
"For swinging it on my behalf."
As they left the forest, Lyanna kept most of Howland's weight on her shoulder until his steps grew sure again.
"What were you doing alone in the woods," she asked.
"Wondering the same of you," he said, breath steadying. "I went to the godswood to pray. To thank the Old Gods for a safe road. I'm grateful they watch over me."
"And the Freys?"
"They followed," he said. "Not by accident. The Neck interests Lord Walder. He can't resist the temptation of a passageway to tax. A cause for grievance would please him. If I raised a hand, he could carry a story back to the Twins and polish it until it shone."
"So you let him kick you," Lyanna said flatly.
"I chose not to give him what he wanted," Howland answered, gentler than her tone deserved. "Until you arrived."
They came up on the Stark tents at last, grey banners stirring above a hedge of spears. Lyanna had hoped to slip inside unnoticed. Instead Dacey Mormont found her first, barreling over and wrapping her in a bear hug.
Dacey was six feet tall and immensely strong. She had long silky black hair, sharp features, fair skin, and a fierce disposition. After turning 16 namedays, she came to Harrenhall not to find a husband but to swear her mace to Lyanna. Yet Lyanna thought her beauty unmatched in the north. Her simultaneous strength and elegance was paradoxical.
"You vanished," she said, planting herself in Lyanna's path. "I've only been in your service a day and you are already making a fool of me? If you don't want a woman protecting you, spare me the trouble and say it now."
"I went to breathe air that didn't smell like horse," Lyanna said. "I'm sorry for leaving you. I don't dislike you, really, I'm just used to sneaking off."
"And came back with a bloodied lord," Dacey said, eyeing Howland. "Gods save me. Sit. Both of you."
She bullied Howland onto a camp stool and immediately examined the damage with the practice of someone familiar with injuries. Bruises were already deepening in color, ugly blooms on narrow ribs.
"Nothing's broken," she decided. "You'll ache for two days though."
Howland managed a smile. "My thanks, Lady Mormont."
"Dacey," she corrected. "Save the titles for feast days."
Just then, Lyanna's younger brother Benjen ducked through the tent flap with the light of mischief on his face and the smell of fried onions on his sleeves. "Why do I always miss the fun?" He took in the scene, brows lifting. "What did you do now, Lya?"
"Just doing my part to keep bridge trolls out of the North," Lyanna joked.
Benjen's grin sharpened. "Good. Last thing we need is higher grain prices this winter. Gods know they are high enough as is."
Dacey cut him a look. "You could have warned me that my charge likes to lose her escort."
Lyanna knelt to rinse dirt from a cut on Howland's cheek. "You said he wanted a tale to bring back to the Twins," she said, voice steady. "Fine. I'll give him one to choke on."
Benjen's head tilted. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," Lyanna said.
His eyes widened. "You're thinking about the quintain. I know the bruises you kept hidden from Father."
"I can ride a tilt," Lyanna said. "Better than Jahaerys Frey, if today is any indication."
Dacey's hand stilled. "No."
Lyanna met her eyes. "Yes."
"You are not entering the lists," Dacey said. "You are an untrained girl of four and ten namedays. Your father will clap you in irons. Then, he'll add me to your cell for failing to stop you."
"My father is not here," Lyanna said. "And in a joust one can wear a helm and be whoever they please."
Benjen chewed that, thoughtful. "She's right. It has been done before."
"By fools," Dacey said.
"By the bold," Benjen added. "Aemon the Dragonknight was no fool."
Howland spoke before the quarrel could grow. "If you ride," he said, "ride for more than vengeance. I don't need it."
Lyanna looked at him. "I ride because three boys thought attacking during prayer was acceptable. To stop bandits from reaching more pockets. And because no one will remember a wrong if no song comes of it. If a laughing knight takes coin from a Frey and returns it to the wronged, men will remember justice."
Benjen tried not to beam. He failed. "A laughing knight," he repeated, already tasting the tale.
Dacey dragged a hand down her face. "Gods. All right. If this madness is happening, I will help. But we do it clean. No one sees your face. No one knows your name."
"I can help with that," Benjen said. "There's a hedge-armorer at the edge of camp who sells half-plates to squires with more courage than coin. His junk might fit a… smaller knight."
"How small," Dacey asked, arching a brow.
"Small enough," Benjen said, smirking.
"We'll need colors," Lyanna said, mind already moving. "Something none will tie to house Stark."
"How about none at all," Dacey said. "Plain grey, plain shield. Paint it with a smiling face and be done."
"A weirwood laughing," Lyanna said before she could stop herself.
Howland's eyes flicked up at that, quick as a fish. "The heart tree will remember," he murmured.
"Good," Lyanna said.
Dacey pointed a stern finger at Lyanna. "Rules. No killing blows. A dead noblemen will make this so much worse. You unhorse him, you leave him breathing. You do not take coin from anyone else you defeat, no other ransoms. And if your body says stop, you listen. I am not scraping you off the lists like berry jam."
Lyanna swallowed a smile. "Agreed."
Benjen bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'll fetch the armorer."
"After you fetch a bowl," Dacey said, stabbing a finger toward the cookfire. "Our lord of the marsh bleeds and our lady plots; someone in this tent can ladle stew."
Benjen saluted and slipped out.
Howland's gaze moved from Lyanna to Dacey and back again. "If you mean to ride in the lists," he said softly, "you need to be a knight. Let us go to the godswood. We do this properly."
Dacey huffed, but the complaint lacked teeth. "Fine. Prayer. Then armor. Then sleep." She tilted Lyanna's chin with two fingers, locking eyes with her. "And if you fall, you fall toward me."
"I will not fall," Lyanna said.
"Everyone falls," Dacey said. "The trick is landing."
Benjen returned with bowls steaming in his hands. They ate while dusk gathered against the tent walls and the tourney hummed on outside. Inside, a plan tightened like a knot.
When the food was done, Dacey rose. "Cloak on," she told Lyanna. "If you're going to pray, do it before the drunks start pissing on the tree."
Howland looked horrified by that possibility. "Surely they wouldn't dare."
Dacey shrugged. "Have you seen the king? Sanity seems in short supply around here."
Lyanna stood and offered Howland her arm again. He took it, lighter than before. Together they stepped out into the cooling evening. Above, the direwolf banner stirred as if it, too, wanted to see what came next.