Baelon POV
The sharp crack of wood echoed across the training yard.
Baelon swung with all the strength his arms could muster.
Ser Ryam Redwyne stepped aside as though he had seen the strike long before it came. Their wooden swords met with a loud clack, and before Baelon could recover, Ryam hit his wrists.
The practice sword flew from Baelon's hands.
It spun through the air before landing several yards away.
"No," Ser Ryam said calmly.
Baelon rushed him barehanded.
The knight sighed.
"You never learn."
Ryam hooked a foot behind the prince's ankle.
The world flipped.
Baelon crashed onto his back before rolling onto his rear with a grunt, dust flying around him.
Laughter rang through the yard.
The loudest laugh belonged to only one person.
Alyssa.
His little sister stood at the edge of the practice ring, hands on her hips, laughing so hard she nearly doubled over.
"I told you!" she called. "You always charge like a bull!"
Baelon's face burned hotter than dragonfire.
Around them, guards and squires tried, and failed, to hide their smiles.
Ser Ryam offered him a hand.
Baelon stared at it for a moment before accepting.
The Kingsguard pulled him effortlessly to his feet.
"You fight bravely," Ser Ryam said, brushing dust from the prince's shoulder. "But bravery without patience becomes recklessness."
Baelon looked away.
"I almost had you."
"You almost hit me."
"I was close."
"You were not."
Baelon frowned.
Ser Ryam rested the practice sword across his shoulder.
"If that had been steel instead of wood, you would have died three times over."
Baelon hated hearing that.
He hated it because it was true.
Ryam smiled kindly.
"You are growing stronger every moon. But strength alone does not make a great knight."
Baelon barely listened.
Behind him Alyssa laughed again.
"Oh, look! The mighty Prince Baelon, conqueror of dust!"
Baelon clenched his fists.
Ser Ryam noticed.
"Go cool your temper," the knight advised. "An angry swordsman is a dead swordsman."
Baelon muttered something under his breath before storming out of the yard.
His sister followed him.
Naturally.
She skipped behind him with entirely too much energy.
"Baelon!"
He ignored her.
"Baelon!"
Still nothing.
"Baelon!"
He spun around so quickly she nearly walked into him.
"What?"
"You looked funny."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You landed on your ar—"
"Enough!"
The hallway fell silent.
Servants walking past suddenly found the walls fascinating.
Baelon took a deep breath.
"Leave me alone, Alyssa."
She tilted her head.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's fun."
Baelon groaned.
She truly was impossible.
Then inspiration struck.
"I'm going to Father."
Alyssa made a face.
"Eugh."
Baelon almost smiled.
"He's talking with old men all day."
"I know."
"They're boring."
"I know."
"They'll probably start talking about taxes."
Baelon nodded solemnly.
"They probably will."
Alyssa shuddered dramatically.
"I'd rather watch Maester Benifer count ravens."
Without another word, she turned around.
"I'm going back to watch Ser Ryam beat people."
She waved over her shoulder.
"Try not to fall over again!"
Baelon watched her disappear before grinning.
"Finally."
He had never intended to visit Father.
Not yet.
Instead he turned down another corridor.
Toward Aemon's chambers.
A few minutes later he knocked.
"Who is it?"
Baelon recognized the voice instantly.
"It's me."
The door opened.
Aemon stood inside wearing a simple tunic, a book resting in one hand.
His older brother smiled.
"Come in."
Baelon entered and shut the door behind him.
The room was quiet.
A sword rested on its stand beside the bed.
Several books lay open across a table.
Sunlight streamed through the window overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Aemon sat back on the edge of his bed.
Baelon joined him with a sigh.
"What happened?" Aemon asked.
"Alyssa."
Aemon chuckled.
"What did she do this time?"
"She mocked me."
"You gave her reason?"
Baelon folded his arms.
"Maybe."
"So Ser Ryam beat you again."
Baelon scowled.
"I nearly hit him."
"I'm sure you did."
"I did!"
Aemon laughed.
"You sound exactly like Father after he loses to Septon Barth."
Baelon snorted.
"Father loses?"
"More often than he'll admit."
That surprised him.
Father always seemed able to do everything.
For a few moments neither brother spoke.
Finally Aemon broke the silence.
"You've grown."
Baelon blinked.
"What?"
"You've nearly reached my shoulder now."
"I'll be taller than you one day."
"I doubt it."
"I will."
"You said that last year."
Baelon ignored him.
Aemon smiled knowingly.
"So..."
"So?"
"Have you finally chosen who you'll squire for?"
Baelon groaned.
"Everyone keeps asking me."
"Because you're old enough."
"I know."
Aemon leaned back.
"You should ask Ser Ryam."
Baelon immediately shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
"I already train with him."
"And?"
"I want..." Baelon searched for the words.
"I want someone who's actually been out there."
He pointed toward the window.
"Beyond King's Landing."
"I want someone who's fought real battles."
"Someone who's crossed mountains and forests."
"Someone who's hunted outlaws."
"Someone who has stories."
Aemon watched him quietly.
"You mean someone like Ser Lyonel."
Baelon smiled despite himself.
"Yes."
The Lightning Knight.
Every bard in the city seemed to know a different tale about him.
One claimed he had slain forty bandits in the Kingswood.
Another insisted the Warrior himself had blessed his sword.
One particularly ridiculous song declared he could summon lightning whenever he drew his blade.
Baelon did not believe all of them.
Only most of them.
"I heard Father invited him to the wedding."
Baelon's eyes widened.
"Really?"
Aemon nodded.
"So the servants say."
Baelon practically bounced off the bed.
"He's coming?"
"So they say."
"When?"
"I don't know."
Baelon's heart pounded.
Ser Lyonel.
The knight with the white bird.
The knight who wandered the realm helping smallfolk.
The knight who had rescued Princess Rhaena's daughter.
The knight who had refused a place in the Kingsguard.
No song ever explained why.
Baelon wanted to know.
More than that...
He wanted to meet him.
Maybe...
Maybe even squire for him.
He was a prince.
Surely Ser Lyonel would accept.
Wouldn't he?
Baelon hurried toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Aemon called.
"To Father!"
"You said that before."
"This time I actually mean it!"
Aemon laughed as Baelon flung the door open.
"Try not to interrupt a Small Council meeting."
"I won't!"
"You absolutely will."
Baelon ignored him.
He sprinted down the corridor with only one thought in his mind.
He had to convince Father.
He had to become Ser Lyonel Dondarrion's squire.
Lyonel POV
The closer they rode to Raventree Hall, the quieter Lyonel became.
At first it was only another castle upon the horizon, its grey walls rising above the forests of the Riverlands. But as the road wound through the trees, something far greater came into view.
A tree.
Not merely a tree.
The tree.
Lyonel swallowed.
Its trunk was pale as bone, enormous beyond belief, while its ghost-white branches stretched across the sky like the fingers of some giant reaching over the castle itself. Though the afternoon breeze stirred the surrounding oaks, the great weirwood seemed almost unmoving, watching the world in silent judgment.
He found himself staring.
"So..." he muttered beneath his breath.
"So that is a real weirwood."
It looked nothing like the tree in King's Landing.
The tree in the Red Keep had been an old tree; he saw many in his travels through the realm.
This...
This was ancient.
It felt ancient.
His thoughts drifted unwillingly to the raven.
Leave, Stormseed.
The words still haunted him.
The man who bears the Stormseed is not allowed in such holy places.
He rubbed unconsciously at the back of his neck.
What in the Seven Hells was a Stormseed?
Why had the bird spoken to him?
Why had it known him?
Questions without answers.
Questions he had wanted for years.
He glanced toward Lord Tytos Blackwood riding beside him.
For a moment he nearly spoke.
Nearly asked if they could simply continue to King's Landing without stopping.
But the words never came.
Lord Blackwood had treated him with nothing but courtesy.
Refusing him now would be an insult.
So Lyonel remained silent.
The great gates of Raventree Hall creaked open before them.
The guards recognized their lord immediately.
Lord Blackwood smiled.
"Welcome to Raventree Hall, Ser Lyonel."
They rode beneath the gatehouse and into the castle.
The first thing Lyonel noticed was not the walls.
Nor the towers.
Nor the bustling servants crossing the courtyard.
It was the ravens.
Hundreds of them.
Perhaps thousands.
Every branch of the dead white tree was black with birds.
They covered it so completely that parts of the trunk could scarcely be seen.
None moved.
None cawed.
None fought one another.
They simply...
Watched.
Lyonel felt every hair on his arms stand.
He leaned toward Lord Blackwood.
"My lord..."
Blackwood looked over.
"Yes?"
"Are the ravens always this... quiet?"
The lord frowned slightly before following Lyonel's gaze.
"Hm."
"No, but they've been like this for a few moons now."
"You don't know why?"
Lord Blackwood shrugged.
"I've stopped wondering."
"They still eat."
"They still fly."
"They're healthy enough."
"If they wish to keep silent, they're welcome to it."
He laughed.
"Truth be told, it's a blessing."
"They've annoyed me since I was a child."
"Clever little bastards never stop making noise."
Lyonel managed a small smile.
"I suppose silence has its benefits."
"It does."
Though Lyonel did not share the man's comfort.
He could still feel those dark little eyes following him.
They rode farther into the inner courtyard before dismounting.
Servants hurried over to take the horses.
Thunder snorted softly as Lyonel stroked his old companion's neck.
"Easy, boy."
Cloud fluttered down from the sky before settling comfortably across Thunder's back.
The stable boys froze.
One whispered,
"Gods..."
Lyonel pretended not to notice.
Across the courtyard, he caught sight of a young boy watching him.
Perhaps ten or eleven years old.
Dark-haired.
Sharp-eyed.
He wore fine clothes trimmed with black feathers.
The boy looked remarkably like Lord Blackwood.
Their eyes met.
The child quickly looked away.
"That'll be my son," Lord Blackwood said, noticing Lyonel's gaze.
"He'll probably ask you a hundred questions tomorrow."
"I don't mind questions."
"You will."
Blackwood laughed.
"Come."
"My solar awaits."
The inside of Raventree Hall surprised him.
The corridors were older than any castle Lyonel had ever visited.
The stone seemed darker.
Worn smooth by centuries of passing feet.
Wooden beams crossed the ceilings overhead.
Strange carvings decorated many of the pillars.
Old runes, perhaps.
Or simply the work of forgotten craftsmen.
Yet another smell reached him.
Burnt wood.
Strong enough that it lingered through half the corridor.
Lyonel frowned.
"My lord..."
"No offence intended..."
"But why does your castle smell as though someone has set half of it ablaze?"
Lord Blackwood barked a laugh.
"My sister."
"...Your sister?"
"Aye."
"She's forever burning something."
"Herbs."
"Wood."
"Roots."
"I've stopped asking."
He waved a dismissive hand.
"No man would marry the woman."
"Mad as a loon."
"But she's still a Blackwood."
"So she remains."
Lyonel's stomach tightened.
A mad woman... burning herbs...
His mind immediately returned to another forest.
Another hut.
Another old woman.
The witch of the Kingswood.
He had no desire to meet another.
Not ever.
Lord Blackwood noticed his expression.
"Don't worry."
"She's harmless."
"I think."
"I think?" Lyonel repeated.
The lord only laughed harder.
Eventually they reached the solar.
It was spacious but plainly furnished.
Maps covered one wall.
Shelves overflowed with books and scrolls.
Weapons from long-forgotten wars decorated another.
Lord Blackwood removed his feathered cloak before sitting behind his desk.
He motioned for Lyonel to do likewise.
"So, what do you think of Raventree Hall?"
Lyonel looked around carefully.
"It is... ancient."
"I've never seen a castle quite like it."
"It feels..."
He searched for the proper word.
"...alive."
Blackwood smiled.
"A fitting description."
"My ancestors built this hall thousands of years ago."
"We've lost and rebuilt parts of it more times than I care to count."
"But its heart has never changed."
Lyonel nodded respectfully.
"It is impressive."
The lord leaned back.
"It should be."
After speaking of the castle for some time, Lyonel finally asked,
"When do we depart for King's Landing?"
Lord Blackwood raised an eyebrow.
"So eager to leave already?"
Lyonel nearly cursed himself.
"No, my lord."
"I merely wished to know."
Blackwood chuckled.
"I know."
"No offence taken."
"We leave in several days."
"There are gifts to prepare."
"Fine clothes to commission."
"And," he added with a grin,
"we cannot have the famed Ser Lyonel Dondarrion attending Prince Aemon's wedding dressed like a hedge knight."
Lyonel sighed.
"I dislike court clothing."
"So does every sensible man."
"But weddings demand it."
Lyonel nodded.
Their conversation drifted elsewhere.
Lord Blackwood proved far more curious about Lyonel's travels than Lyonel expected.
"I've heard stories from the Westerlands."
"The Ironborn raids, were they true?"
Lyonel nodded.
"They were."
"The Banefort was struck three times."
"The first two raids we repelled."
"The third nearly overwhelmed us."
Lord Blackwood listened intently.
"I heard that you fought beside Ser Arthur Banefort?"
"I did."
"He is one of the finest warriors I've ever known."
"There wasn't a man among us who inspired more courage."
Lyonel smiled faintly at the memory.
"When the Ironborn reached the cliffs, Ser Arthur charged them before any order was given."
"I followed and so did the others."
"The fighting lasted until sunset."
"I've never seen men refuse to die as stubbornly as the Ironborn."
Blackwood laughed.
"Aye."
"They've always been that way."
Lyonel nodded.
"I think Ser Arthur and I slew more than two dozen between us."
"And afterward?"
"He thanked every man who fought."
"Even the lowest stable boy."
"He remembered every name."
Lord Blackwood smiled.
"A good lord remembers the men who bleed for him."
"He'll make a worthy Lord Banefort."
"I believe so."
For hours they traded stories.
Lord Blackwood recounted border disputes with the Brackens, troublesome bannermen, and the peculiar habits of ravens.
Lyonel spoke of storms on the western coast, mountain clans in the hills, villages he had helped rebuild, and the countless roads he had ridden over the last nine years.
By the time they finished, darkness had swallowed the windows.
Candles burned low.
Lord Blackwood stood.
"You've had a long ride."
"Get some rest."
"We'll speak again tomorrow."
A maid led Lyonel through winding corridors to a guest chamber prepared especially for him.
It was larger than he expected.
A roaring fireplace warmed the room.
Fresh clothes had been folded neatly across the bed.
Beside it waited a steaming wooden bath.
Lyonel smiled.
"Now this..."
"...is a gift."
Once the maid departed, he began removing his equipment.
First came his cloak.
Then his sword belt.
Adder's Fang rested carefully against the bed.
His pauldrons followed.
Then his vambraces.
His breastplate took considerable effort despite years of practice.
Piece by piece, his armour came away until only his tunic remained.
He took that off too.
Finally he stood bare before the bath.
He lowered himself into the steaming water with a contented sigh.
"Gods..."
Heat soaked into aching muscles.
The soreness in his shoulders slowly melted away.
He closed his eyes.
He thought of Thunder resting safely in the stables.
Of Cloud, no doubt stealing food from someone's kitchen.
Of Blackhaven.
Of Emily's name day.
Nine years.
It had truly been nine years since he set off from Blackhaven.
Nine years since he left home.
He did not regret it at all.
He had saved many lives and helped others; he hoped that his father and mother were proud of him.
"Ser Lyonel the Lightning Knight, the most famous Dondarrion to have ever lived". He whispered to himself.
The water remained warm.
His body grew heavier.
His breathing slowed.
Before he even realized it, exhaustion claimed him.
His head rested against the rim of the tub.
Within moments, he had fallen asleep.
...
Lyonel was cold.
Not the sort of cold that seeped through a cloak on a winter morning.
This was a cold that reached into his bones.
He shivered violently.
His eyes slowly opened.
White.
Nothing but endless white.
Snow drifted across an empty plain that stretched farther than he could see. A grey sky hung overhead, heavy with clouds swollen with ice and storm.
His breath came out in pale mist.
He looked down.
He wore nothing.
No boots.
No clothes.
No sword.
No Adder's Fang.
No Thunder.
No Cloud.
Only bare skin against frozen earth.
"What..."
His words vanished into the wind.
A distant rumble echoed across the sky.
Then another.
Lightning split the heavens.
The flash illuminated the endless waste for only a heartbeat before darkness swallowed it once more.
The thunder that followed nearly knocked him from his feet.
The storm grew louder.
Closer.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
Then—
A voice.
Not spoken.
Not heard.
It crashed into his mind like a mountain falling into the sea.
LYONEL.
He fell to one knee.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
He clutched at his head.
The voice came again.
Far louder.
STORMSEED.
The snow beneath him trembled.
The clouds churned into a great whirlpool above.
Lightning danced endlessly within it.
COME TO ME.
His vision blurred.
Blood trickled from his ears.
He screamed.
The voice continued.
DO NOT LISTEN TO THE LIES OF THE OLD ONES.
The storm clouds opened.
Something watched him.
Not a face.
Not a man.
Only an eye.
An eye larger than a castle.
Blue-white.
Alive with endless lightning.
It stared directly into him.
Not at him.
Into him.
Lyonel could not breathe.
His heart hammered.
The eye blinked.
The world shattered.
Lyonel's eyes flew open.
He burst upward from the bath, water splashing across the floor.
He gasped for air.
His chest rose and fell wildly.
His hands shot to his ears.
Wet.
Sticky.
He looked down.
Blood.
Fresh blood stained his fingertips.
His stomach turned.
"No..."
A woman's voice broke the silence.
"So."
Lyonel spun around.
Someone sat quietly in the corner of the room.
A woman.
Pale as moonlight.
Long black hair flowed over a dark gown.
She watched him with calm grey eyes.
No surprise.
No fear.
Only quiet curiosity.
"So," she repeated.
"He has finally found you."
Lyonel stared.
"What?"
She tilted her head.
"The Stormeye."
His blood ran cold.
Without thinking, Lyonel lunged from the bath.
Water poured from his body as he seized Adder's Fang from beside the bed.
Steel hissed from its scabbard.
The black Valyrian blade stopped inches from the woman's throat.
"Who are you?"
His voice shook.
"And what in the bloody Seven Hells is happening to me?"
She never moved.
Not even when the sword touched her skin.
Instead...
She reached forward.
One slender finger rested against the flat of Adder's Fang.
Her eyes closed.
For a long moment she simply listened.
Almost as though the sword whispered.
When she opened her eyes again, there was sadness within them.
"So."
"It still carries his touch."
Lyonel frowned.
"Whose?"
She ignored the question.
"I suppose introductions should come first."
She stepped back from the blade.
"I am Lyanna Blackwood."
Lyonel searched his memory.
Blackwood...
The mad sister.
The woman Lord Tytos spoke of.
She smiled faintly.
"My brother prefers to call me mad."
Others call me a witch."
"They are both correct."
Lyonel tightened his grip on the sword.
His heartbeat quickened.
"A witch..."
His thoughts immediately returned to the Kingswood.
The old woman.
The ruined hut.
The giant knight with burning red eyes.
The storm.
Before he could speak—
Lyanna did.
"You have met the sisters, haven't you?"
Lyonel froze.
"...What?"
"The women of the Kingswood."
His face drained of colour.
"How..."
"I never told anyone."
"You did not need to."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Lyonel forced out the words.
"How do you know?"
She looked toward the open window.
"The trees remember."
"The rivers remember."
"The birds remember."
"The earth remembers."
She looked back at him.
"We merely listen."
Lyonel felt the room become smaller.
"What do you want?"
"I want nothing."
She walked toward the door.
"I am only here because they wished to speak with you."
"They?"
She stopped.
"The ones older than kingdoms."
"The ones older than dragons."
She rested a hand upon the door.
"If you wish for answers..."
"Come."
Lyonel did not move.
"How do I know you won't kill me?"
She looked over her shoulder.
If there was amusement in her eyes, it was slight.
"If I wished you dead, Ser Lyonel..."
"I would not have waited for you to wake."
She opened the door.
"Oh."
"And put some clothes on."
"I have no desire to stare at your cock."
The door closed behind her.
Lyonel stood frozen.
Then looked down.
"...Seven Hells."
A short while later, he emerged dressed.
His sword hung once more at his hip.
Lyanna waited in the corridor.
Without a word, she began walking.
Lyonel followed.
Servents whispherd.
"Is that Ser Lyonel?"
"Why is he awake so early?"
Lyonel ignored them.
They left Raventree Hall.
Night had fallen completely.
Only the moon illuminated the ancient castle.
They entered the godswood.
Lyonel's chest tightened.
Every instinct told him to turn around.
Yet he kept walking.
The ravens had already gathered.
Hundreds.
Perhaps thousands.
They watched in complete silence.
Not one called.
Not one moved.
Only their black eyes followed him.
They reached the heart of the godswood.
The dead weirwood towered above them.
Its pale trunk gleamed beneath the moon.
Its carved face seemed almost alive.
Watching.
Waiting.
Lyanna stopped.
"There."
Lyonel swallowed.
"You said I'd have answers."
"I said..."
She gently rested her hand against the ancient bark.
"...they would answer."
She stepped away.
"Touch it."
His feet felt heavy.
Slowly...
He approached.
The ravens all turned together.
Watching.
Waiting.
His trembling hand reached forward.
His fingers brushed the white wood.
The world vanished.
He stood within a green clearing.
Warm sunlight filtered through leaves.
Birdsong filled the air.
Gone was the snow.
Gone was the cold.
Gone was the storm.
Around him stood figures unlike any he had ever imagined.
Tall.
Slender.
Their skin carried the colour of moss and ancient bark.
Branches and antlers rose from their heads like living crowns.
Golden eyes regarded him without hatred.
Without kindness.
Only endless age.
When they spoke...
Every voice became one.
Do not fear, Stormseed.
Lyonel could barely find his own voice.
"What are you?"
Men.
"Men?"
They did not answer.
Instead—
You came because you seek truth.
"I seek answers."
Truth and answers are not the same.
Lyonel frowned.
"You're raven attacked me."
It judged you.
"And?"
Silence.
Then—
You chose mercy when you could have chosen glory.
You chose strangers before yourself.
You carry death with sorrow instead of joy.
The trees remember.
Lyonel stepped closer.
"What is Stormseed?"
The men looked toward the sky.
As though listening.
Then every one of them spoke at once.
The storm has awakened.
His heart pounded.
"What storm?"
No answer.
Instead—
Come to the Isle of Faces.
There the oldest roots still drink.
There the first memory waits.
Lyonel's voice cracked.
"And the Stormeye?"
For the first time...
The Men showed emotion.
Not much.
Only enough for Lyonel to notice.
Do not listen when it calls.
It has waited longer than men remember.
Longer than kingdoms.
Longer than dragons.
The forest darkened.
The sunlight disappeared.
The wind began to howl.
The men faded like mist.
Only one final whisper remained.
It lies.
Lyonel gasped.
He stumbled backward from the weirwood.
His legs failed him.
He collapsed onto the earth.
His lungs burned.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
He looked around wildly.
The godswood was silent.
The ravens were gone.
Lyanna...
Was gone too.
Only the dead weirwood remained.
Watching.
Waiting.
Lyonel scrambled to his feet.
"Lady Lyanna!"
No answer.
He spun in every direction.
Nothing.
Only rustling leaves.
He tightened his grip around Adder's Fang.
The answers he had sought had only brought more questions.
Lyonel stumbled from the godswood.
His breathing came in ragged gasps.
The cold night air filled his lungs, yet it did nothing to steady his racing heart.
He looked back only once.
The ancient weirwood stood silently beneath the moon.
Its dead white branches reached toward the heavens like skeletal fingers.
The ravens were gone.
Not one remained.
The clearing was empty.
"L-Lady Lyanna?"
No answer.
Only the rustling of leaves.
His hand tightened around the hilt of Adder's Fang until his knuckles turned white.
He turned and hurried toward the castle.
His boots struck the stone path harder with every step.
He needed to find her.
She had to explain.
She had brought him here.
She had known about the Kingswood.
She had known about the Stormeye.
She had known everything.
She had to know.
She had to.
As he rounded a corner of the courtyard, he spotted a man-at-arms swinging a blunted sword at a training post beneath the light of a torch.
"Lad!" Lyonel called.
The man turned.
His eyes widened.
"Seven save me..."
He lowered his sword.
"You're Ser Lyonel."
Lyonel nodded impatiently.
"Yes."
He stepped closer.
"Tell me, where did Lady Lyanna go?"
The man blinked.
"Lady... who?"
"Lady Lyanna."
Lyonel spoke faster.
"Lord Blackwood's sister."
"The tall woman."
"Black hair."
"Pale skin."
"She wore a dark gown."
"She led me into the godswood only moments ago."
The soldier frowned.
For several heartbeats he said nothing.
Then...
"I'm sorry, Ser."
"I don't know any Lady Lyanna."
Lyonel stared.
"You must."
"I was walking beside her."
"She just left."
The soldier scratched his beard.
"I've served House Blackwood nearly fifteen years."
"Our lord has no sister."
A chill ran through Lyonel that had nothing to do with the night air.
"...What?"
The soldier gave him an uneasy look.
"He never had one."
Lyonel laughed.
It sounded hollow.
"No."
"You must be mistaken."
"I spoke with her."
"She was standing beside me."
"I could touch her."
The soldier slowly shook his head.
"I think someone has been making sport of you, Ser."
Lyonel took an involuntary step backward.
"No..."
Without another word, he turned and hurried away.
He found another servant carrying a basket of fresh bread.
"You."
The servant nearly dropped the basket.
"S-Ser Lyonel?"
"Answer me."
"Does Lord Blackwood have a sister?"
The servant looked genuinely confused.
"No, Ser."
Lyonel nodded stiffly.
He left.
Another.
A stableboy.
The same question.
The same answer.
"No, Ser."
A maid.
"No."
A steward.
"No."
Each answer struck harder than the last.
By the time Lyonel returned to his chambers, his legs felt weak.
He shut the door behind him.
The room was exactly as he had left it.
The bathwater had gone cold.
His clothes were folded neatly where he had discarded them.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing...
Except him.
He slowly sat upon the edge of the bed.
His elbows rested on his knees.
His hands covered his face.
"I spoke to her..."
He whispered the words aloud.
"I know I did."
He remembered every step.
Every word.
Every glance.
He remembered the warmth of the torchlight on her face.
The way she touched Adder's Fang.
The way she mocked him for standing naked.
He remembered following her through the halls.
The servants staring.
The whispers.
Had that happened?
Or had he imagined it?
His stomach twisted.
The Stormeye.
The Green Men.
The Isle of Faces.
The raven in King's Landing.
Cloud.
The witch in the Kingswood.
The giant knight with burning eyes.
One impossible thing after another.
Perhaps...
Perhaps the impossible had finally broken something inside his mind.
He lay back upon the bed.
The wooden ceiling stared down at him.
"The Isle of Faces..."
The words escaped him almost unconsciously.
That was where they had told him to go.
If they had told him.
If any of it had happened.
Part of him begged to forget everything.
To return to Blackhaven.
To his family.
To a simple life.
To the Seven.
Another part—
The louder part—
Needed answers.
He shut his eyes tightly.
"Father..."
"Mother..."
"Warrior."
"Smith."
"Maiden."
"Crone."
"Stranger."
"If you are truly there..."
His voice cracked.
"...please save me."
"I do not understand."
"The old gods speak."
"The storm speaks."
"But you..."
He waited.
Silence.
Only the crackling of the dying fire.
His faith had carried him through every hardship since childhood.
Now...
It felt terribly quiet.
A knock broke the silence.
Three gentle taps.
Lyonel opened his eyes.
He took a long breath.
Wiped the uncertainty from his face.
Forced a smile.
Then rose and opened the door.
Standing there was a boy of perhaps eleven.
Dark-haired.
Clothed in fine wool.
Lord Blackwood's Son.
The boy shifted awkwardly.
"Ser Lyonel?"
"Yes?"
"I..."
The boy rubbed the back of his neck.
"...would you train me?"
Lyonel blinked.
"Train you?"
The boy nodded eagerly.
"I've had eleven namedays."
"I'm not some little child anymore."
Despite everything weighing upon him, Lyonel managed a faint smile.
"So I've heard."
Then his expression became serious.
"I will."
The boy's face lit up.
"But first..."
Lyonel swallowed.
"I need you to answer one question."
"Anything."
Lyonel looked directly into the boy's eyes.
"Does your father..."
"...have a sister?"
The excitement vanished from the boy's face.
He frowned.
"My father?"
"Yes."
"A sister named Lyanna."
The boy looked genuinely puzzled.
"No."
"He doesn't."
"He never did."
Lyonel simply stared at him.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too warm.
Too quiet.
He remembered her voice.
Her face.
Her touch.
Every detail remained as vivid as if she still stood before him.
Yet everyone insisted she had never existed.
For the first time in his life...
Lyonel truly wondered whether he could still trust his own mind.