Chapter Text
It was nightfall and with it, the cold was nipping into Lyrion's exposed cheeks. It wasn't bad, the ring on her finger tempering the temperature to a mostly pleasant spring chill, but the wind was as sharp and unpleasant as a goblin blade. She pulled the hood of her grayish-silver cloak closer over her head and walked deeper into the forest. The trees were thick enough to effectively block most of the frosty gusts.
She stepped carefully. The ground was muddy and slippery under a thin layer of snow, full of treacherous roots and rocks. She had to make a great effort to remain as quiet as possible, her full plate, heavy armor making it difficult. Hand covered by thick, leather glove tightened around the hilt of her morning star. Her whole being felt the danger lurking nearby.
She didn't know what strange land she had found herself in, but the Moonmaiden light, though not as strong as usual, had been guiding her to this place for days. Who was she to ignore the will of her goddess? Therefore, she continued through the forest. Her armor clattered every now and then. The ground began to rise.
In the distance, a wolf howled. Lyrion stopped and listened. A few leaves, that were still on the trees rustled, and the sound of water came from the distance. An owl hooted somewhere. Apart from the swaying branches, the world remained still. She saw the twisted shapes of trees, noted every unevenness in the ground. A terrible wind arose. The previously pleasant chill became terribly cold, her breath turned into a silver mist.
Suddenly the silence got broken by a scream, cracked in half like a boy's voice. “Come no farther!”
At the same moment the wind had stopped. Lyrion cursed under her breath. She pushed her helmet onto her head, her right hand clenched around the hilt of the morning star, the other on the triangular shield, and quickened her pace. With elven grace, she avoided the trees until she reached the edge of the clearing. A long-cooled firepit, a snow-covered lean-to, a huge rock, a half-frozen stream, and in the middle of it all, a young boy dressed in black fending off the attacks of a thin creature with his sword. The humanoid creature was as white as milk. It raised the almost transparent blade of his sword, a ghostly glow shimmering around its edge. The movement caused the armor to change color, the snowy white giving way to the shadowy color of the tree bark.
The boy, despite the terror on his face, bravely crossed his blade with the creature. But it wasn't the sound of steel hitting steel that pierced the air. The barely audible sound, like that of a wounded animal, sent shivers down Lyrion's spine.
Every instinct in her body was sounding the alarm. She didn't know this race. She had seen fairies, devils, and all manner of beasts, but nothing that even remotely resembled this creature. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw five more shadows emerging from the forest. Undead. Another shiver, this time unrelated to the terrifying wail of monstrous steel, informed Lyrion that someone else was watching her.
The sound of ripping chainmail and a cry of pain brought Lyrion back to reality. The boy was panting, clutching his side. Blood stained the snow around him, as if dark red flowers had suddenly bloomed everywhere.
She lowered her visor in a fluid movement, said a short prayer to the Moonmaiden, and jumped out of her hiding place. The world around her blurred. She raised morning star above her head, a green flash loomed on its surface, and in the next moment a terrifying crack, like ice breaking, pierced the air. The force of the blow threw the creature back. Lyrion didn't wait. She immediately covered the distance between them and swung again. She felt the warmth of divine power flowing through her hand and into the weapon. The head glowed with a golden light a second before impact. Another crack, and the creature fell to the ground.
Only now did she see the creature's eyes, so intensely blue they were inhuman. The soft golden light emanating from the star did little to diminish their monstrosity.
To her surprise, the creature got back to its feet. Its face was scarred and its eyes were pure anger. It raised its transparent sword, and Lyrion felt rather than saw the shadows approaching her. She shifted her feet, and the undead ran past her. She took advantage of its moment of distraction and struck straight at its back. The studded head tore through the flesh with ease. Without breaking stride, she raised her shield just in time to protect herself from the collision with more undead.
Full armor effectively protected against any undead attacks. Why hadn't they picked up their weapons? She thought she saw an axe lying on the ground somewhere. But they also moved more efficiently than the zombies. She pushed the distracting thoughts aside. The attacks could bounce off her armor, but their combined power and erratic movements required her to use all her concentration to stay on her feet.
One of the undead grabbed her shield. She shot toward the nearest tree. There was a dull crack, the tree groaned mournfully, but the blue eyes still glowed with an unnatural light. Though still “alive,” the force of the blow caused him to loosen his grip on his shield. Lyrion easily turned away from him and struck at the living corpse heading her way. Its head split like a ripe watermelon. Its body fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The two blue dots went out.
Two down, three to go. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a strange creature standing just out of reach. Its inhuman eyes bored into her skull. She pressed her lips into a thin line and adjusted her grip on the star. Another swing, but before she could strike, dead arms wrapped around her neck. She cursed her distraction. She slammed her back against the tree with all her might, but this time it didn't let go. She kicked away an approaching undead and struck another one with the star from below. Its head snapped back and it fell to the ground.
The grip on her neck was like a steel vise. The pale creature's intense gaze haunted her.
"LOOSE"
The voice rolled across the clearing like thunder, though to Lyrion it sounded more like a wheeze.
The effect was immediate. Dead hands fell away from her neck. She took a deep breath and immediately stepped away from the undead, charging towards the creature that was keeping its distance from the fight. It widened its eyes in surprise. Lyrion raised morning star above her head and struck. She put all her strength, both body and will, into the blow. The creature raised its sword in an attempt to block the attack, but the studded pommel pierced through the strange material of the blade and fell on its head, shattering it like crystal. Tiny shards of flesh as cold and hard as real ice struck Lyrion's armor. In the same instant, the undead fell to the ground with a dull thud.
The clearing fell silent. The terrifying cold had disappeared, the wind calmed to gentle gusts. Lyrion took a deep breath and turned to the boy in black. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement in the tree. The dark mass was perfectly visible to her eyes in the light of the holy glow emanating from the star. Lyrion squinted. She saw the shapes of a human figure wrapped in black fur, but no blue eyes. She took the man in the tree as a companion of the boy who was currently aiming his sword straight at her heart.
"Wh-who are you?!" he shouted, his gaze flickering from her to the weapon she was holding and from the weapon to the bodies lying everywhere.
Even in the warm light of the star, he looked sickly pale. He looked to be about Theren’s age. Lyrion had learned from her own experience that it was too early for humans to face danger. She wondered if he and his companion had stumbled upon the undead by accident, or if, like glory-seeking idiots, they had gone hunting without preparation. She put her shield back on her back.
"Lyrion Moonwarden, paladin in the service of the Moonmaiden." She wrapped the fingers of her free hand around the Selûnic amulet and nodded. Her helm muffled her words.
There was no recognition in the boy's face.
"You're a wizard." It sounded like an accusation.
Lyrion raised her eyebrows, though the boy couldn't see it. A terrifying thought flickered in her head. Could there be no magic in this strange world? Fear settled in her stomach like a bag of rocks. She pushed the thought away, this would problem Lyrion from the future.
"I am far from a wizard, but politeness dictates that one introduces oneself before accusing someone, goodsir. Even false ones." To her relief, his voice betrayed no nerves, it was as calm and unwavering as ever.
The boy blinked like an owl, but in the next second a shadow of pride crossed his face. He raised his sword higher. "Ser Waymar Royce, brother of the Night's Watch."
Finally, she found the familiar shadow of civilization. There was an order in this world with alien stars. She hoped they weren't anti-magic fanatics. Even on Toril there was no shortage of them, although fortunately it was a rare occurrence. She decided to play it safe.
"Well met, Ser. Are the undead a common problem in these parts?"
"U-undead?" All the self-confidence he had exuded a moment ago had vanished.
Ser Waymar shivered and grimaced. Sweat ran down his pale face, his nostrils flaring. Lyrion cursed silently.
"I'll put my weapon away," she said, trying her best to imitate Ember's tone when she calmed the terrified animals. The light disappeared the moment she hooked the star around her belt. She pulled off her helmet, the cold air hitting her warm face. "You're bleeding. If you don't mind, I can dress the wound."
Lyrion hadn't thought it possible to go wide like that, and she knew Theren. She raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather die here?" she gestured to the now-dead dead.
Ser Waymar blinked and slowly lowered his sword. "Will, where are you? Gared!" he called into the forest.
Lyrion notice movement, and in the next moment the man who had accompanied the boy slid down the tree and stood behind Ser Waymar. He moved quietly, like an experienced hunter. A dagger glinted in one of his trembling hands. Like the boy, he kept glancing at the massacred bodies.
Ser Waymar sheathed his frosted sword. Moonlight fell on the jewels adorning the hilts. The boy must have been wealthy or high in the order, though his young face belied the latter. "I'm fine and I can take care of myself," he said, lifting his head.
"Your decision," she raised her hands to shoulder height. "If it's not a secret, where are you headed now?"
"What are you doing here?" he glared at her suspiciously. "You don't look like a Wildling. Targaryen?"
She wasn't sure what Ser Waymar meant, but none of the things she could think of applied to her.
“None of the above, and believe it or not, my presence here is pure coincidence. The light of the Moonmaiden brought me to you. I believe we were meant to meet."
He gave her armor a strange look. His gaze lingered on the moon symbol on her chest. He nodded slowly. “We're headed for the Wall. We owe you our lives, so keep your magic out and you can join us."
“Thank you, Ser. I suggest we move somewhere untainted by the presence of the undead. Usually, a whole swarm follows one.”
Both members of the order paled at her words, confirming Lyrion's suspicions that they had stumbled upon the undead by accident and had not been trained to fight them. Ser Waymar swallowed and turned in the direction his companion had come from.
"Gared!" Silence answered him. "Where is that old fool? Gared!"
Lyrion looked across the battlefield. The remains of the unknown creature had shattered across most of the clearing. She picked up one of the fragments, the one closest to her boot. Even through the thick leather of her gloves, she could feel the cold radiating from it.
"What are you?" she murmured, admiring the way the moonlight spread through the shard.
"That was the Other."
She turned to Ser Waymar's companion. He looked like a startled deer. He flinched as the silence of the night was broken by the hooting of an owl.
“Demons made of ice and snow from the Lands of Always Winter.”
"What is your name?"
"Will..." he hesitated, red creeping onto his thin cheeks. He looked over her. "...Ser."
She threw away the fragment of the Other. It was unwise to take the remains of unknown creatures. Especially demons.
"Have you met one before?"
"Those were supposed to be legends," he glared at the remains. "Just legends."
She placed a hand on the man's shoulder, covered in a boiled leather jacket and black cloak. The effect was immediate, his body visibly relaxing. "All legends come from somewhere."
From a distance, they heard Ser Waymar's angry words echoing off the trees.
"Your companion should tend to the wound. I don't know what effect the Other's sword might have."
Ser Waymar's rage was justified. His other companion, Gared, had disappeared, leaving behind him a trail of long footsteps consistent with a running man. They found two more bodies a short distance from where he was supposed to be waiting for his black brothers. One of them had fresh wounds. "That old fool ran!" Ser Waymar tightened his grip on the reins. "A coward."
Will stared ahead, his expression grim. His shaggy horse, much smaller than Ser Waymar's warhorse, slowly wound its way through the thinning trees and underbrush.
“What is the punishment for desertion?” Formerly Gared’s horse, now Lyrion’s, snorted. He was thin, and the ride was a far cry from her loyal companion, Bane Fluffington.
Ser Waymar's lips twisted in a dark grimace. "Death."
No order she knew liked deserters. It was oddly comforting to know that this world was no different. Against her will, Lyrion’s fingers found the silver pin on her cloak. Right now, it only showed the moon, but beneath the charm was a harp.
“Your fight with the… undead was impressive, Ser. Is that a common problem where you come from?”
Ser Waymar's voice had a tone Lyrion had heard too often from nobles with too many ancestors or too much treasure. "Unfortunately, yes."
"It must be a fearsome land," Ser Waymar observed.
Lyrion shrugged. "Faerûn is a large continent with many kingdoms, and like any continent there are places of wonder and fear."
Ser Waymar nodded thoughtfully. " So it shall be.”
A wolf howled in the distance, and the conversation died down. They rode on, the light of the stars and moon shining through the branches illuminating their path. It was late at night when they reached another, smaller clearing.
Ser Waymar reined in his horse. "We'll make camp here," he decided.
Lyrion looked around the clearing. She was on the crest of a hill, providing a good view of the surrounding area. Apart from an owl and a fleeing hare, she saw no other life. A good place to spend the night.
She slid off her horse and tied his reins to a nearby tree. Will gathered a pile of damp twigs.
"Can your spells light a fire, Ser?"
Lyrion shook her head. "It's not my power, but I have a tindertwig."
She lit the fire, large enough to provide a little warmth and small enough not to alert anyone nearby to their presence. She could feel the watchful eyes of the Night's Watch brothers on her. "What does your order do?"
Talking about the order and the oaths you swore was familiar to her, and she knew she could melt the ice of initial distrust.
"We defend the Seven Kingdoms from threats from the far north." Ser Waymar puffed out his chest proudly. "Wildlings and... Apparently, from today again, from the Others." His face did something strange. The boy, because now more than before he looked like a terrified teenager, was clearly trying to maintain a brave stance.
"When did the Others pose a threat?"
"They were repelled in the Age of Heroes, then Brandon the Builder built the Wall, and they haven't been seen since. This..."
Lyrion waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“Then you’ll have to learn to fight them again. The undead are easy to defeat, as long as they’re not in large numbers and you have the right weapon,” she nudged the hearth, sparks shooting up into the sky.
Will shifted in his bed. “How do we defeat them?”
“Fire and holy weapons.” She was met with two pairs of surprised eyes.
“Holy weapons like… blessed by a septon?”
“That’s not the most effective approach. It’s best to have a cleric at your side. Or a holy warrior. They should be able to provide adequate support.”
A chill wind blew through the underbrush. Ser Waymar frowned. "The septons do not fight, and the Faith Militant has been disbanded."
"Are there other holy orders?"
Both men shook their heads. Lyrion blinked.
"At least tell me that your gods give their priests power? Can they heal wounds or perform other miracles?"
"The faith provides care for those in need, but I have heard of no miracles."
Lyrion connected the dots. They assumed her power was magic, for they had never seen miracles at the hands of the clerics. She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a long journey.
Chapter Text
Will was torn. The events of the last day had made him question what he knew about the world. Everyone had told him he was a good hunter. His mother had told him that dead men sing no songs, and everyone knew that magic had died with the dragons. And yet here he was, still a great hunter, now also a ranger for the Night's Watch, and only a day ago he had seen living dead whose bodies should have been rotting under a fresh layer of snow. The leader of the expedition had crossed swords with a demon of legend and almost died at his hand and had been saved by a knight with the help of strange magic.
"The trail went cold here." He said, turning to the young knight. Royce was staring into the darkness of the forest with an expression half-bored, half-torn. An expression familiar enough to anyone who had spent time with him to know that the presence of the knight-sorcerer unsettled him as much as it did Will.
"Coward," the young knight had often said that since Gared's escape. “They'll catch him when he crosses the Wall... If the Wildlings don't get him first.”
Will cast one last glance at Gared's broken trail and mounted his horse. The ranging took longer than planned. Royce ordered a pursuit of Gared. So they marched southeast for almost two days, until fresh snowfall and animal trails completely covered the tracks.
“Who are the Wildlings?”
Ser Lyrion was silent most of the time. Sometimes, like now, he asked the strangest questions about things that were as obvious to Will as night and day. In moments like these, he wondered where the knight came from.
“A band of primitive killers, rapists, and thieves. Sometimes they cross the Wall and kidnap women.”
“So they're a bit like orcs.”
“Orcs?”
Ser Lyrion nodded and described the monstrous creatures with boar-like fangs and a great love of violence and bloodshed. Will shuddered at the thought. It was a good thing his only problems were the Wildlings... and the White Walkers and their undead.
"Of course, not every orc is a bloodthirsty monster. Some can live with humans, but they tend to stay away from human settlements. They prefer a... simpler lifestyle."
The cheerful face did not fit the image of a mighty knight facing such horrors. Ser Lyrion's face was anything but knightly. It was too delicate, more suitable for a lady, perhaps even a princess. Skin like a Dornishmen’s, silver-gold hair, and eyes so pale they looked like two moons. In the darkness, they seemed to radiate a soft light. The appearance was marred only by an ugly, jagged scar on his left cheek.
When Will had spoken his thoughts aloud during his watch, Royce had just looked at him as if he were crazy. "He must be a Targaryen bastard. Everyone knew they were strange. And what woman would take up a sword? The cold must have completely taken your wits away."
Who was Will to speak of the fallen royal family? He couldn't ask Ser Lyrion if he was a woman. The thought of possibly offending someone so powerful was foolish. Even saying those words in his own head seemed unwise. What if he could read minds?
"Your land seems... Fascinating. But I think I'll have enough of the horrors beyond the Wall, Ser," Royce said in a seemingly amused tone, but Will didn't miss the trembling of his hands or the shifting of his eyes toward the darkness of the forest.
Ser Lyrion laughed. A sound like bells filled the silence of the forest. Another thing that didn't match the image of a knight.
"It's not so bad. You don't meet monsters around every corner," the knight smiled confidently. “Of course, there are also good sides.”
"Really?"
"Magic makes life much easier, the gods favor their worshipers, and if you're mad enough, you can go on adventures in search of treasure. In Waterdeep, retired adventurers build their manors closest to the castle. I've seen a few of them. They're magnificent."
"If they live long enough," Royce observed.
"If they live long enough," Ser Lyrion agreed.
They continued south. The haunted forest alternately grew thicker and thinner again. On the seventh day, heavy clouds covered the sky. A terrible wind arose, and the trees creaked and howled.
"We must make camp!" Will shouted, trying to be heard over the wind. "It looks like an ice storm!"
"Not here!" Royce shouted back. "There should be an abandoned hut south-east of here. We'll spend the night there!"
Will clenched his jaw and spurred his horse after the young knight. Ser Lyrion was right behind them. His pale armor stood out in the darkness of the forest.
The path Royce had set was twisted and full of treacherous roots. His horse stumbled several times. He feared he would twist his ankle, but fortunately nothing of the sort happened. He pulled his hood further over his head, trying to protect himself from the cold wind. It began to rain. The drops were heavy and cold, and as they struck the exposed skin, they felt like a thousand tiny knives.
The rushing wind had died down, and Royce's muffled voice cut through the roar of the rain.
"We're here!"
The hut was four crooked walls with a leaky roof. It barely kept out the icy wind and rain. Will pulled pine branches from his bag. They were still sticky with resin. He set up the fire in the spot where the roof was tightest. The fire was more smoke than actual fire, but it still provided much-needed warmth. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and held his numb hands out to the flames. Ser Lyrion watched with fascination every time they set up camp. Tonight was no exception.
Every night, the knight would walk to the edge of the camp and fall to his knees. One night, Will dared to go over and eavesdrop on the words being spoken. He spoke a strange language. It sounded alien, almost inhuman, and yet more beautiful than anything Will had heard before. Then he took a skin and poured some wine in front of him. Only a few drops at a time.
The storm did not deter the knight from his ritual. He moved to the edge of the hut, far enough away for some privacy and close enough that the poor remains of the hut still hid the worst of the winds.
"Do you think his gods are closer to man than the Seven?"
Royce watched the praying knight. He turned the remains of his sword in his hands. The blade had broken shortly after the battle with the White Walker. Now all that remained was the jeweled hilt and the jagged steel covered in ice.
"He claims his magic comes from a god, m’lord."
Royce stared at the knight's back for a long time. The light from the fire gave his thin face a ghastly expression.
“The Seven teach that magic is evil. And yet he saved our lives from a monster from legends.”
Will looked at the knight again. When he emerged from the darkness of the forest in full armor, he looked like another creature of legend. The vengeful spirit of a fallen warrior, ready to bring ruin to his enemies with ancient magic. The thought that the same magic might be directed at him was unsettling. And yet...
"He defeated the undead. I would rather fight them at his side than alone." He accepted the wineskin from Royce and took a sip. The sour wine warmed him instantly. "Besides, this is the North, m’lord. The Seven have no power here."
Royce's face remained perfectly blank, but Will saw the faint tightening of his jaw.
"The others may not be so friendly to magic."
A whole tenday passed before the famous Wall appeared on the horizon. At first Lyrion had mistaken the glimpses of blue between the trees for clear sky, but then they had left the forest. She had to stop her horse to fully take in the icy monstrosity, whose edges disappeared to both east and west. No clouds hid the sun that day, so the surface of the Wall gleamed and sparkled as if it were made of crystal. True beauty in its most terrifying form.
Squinting, she tilted her head upwards when they were close enough. The peak was lost in the sunlight.
"This is magnificent... So your order has its headquarters here?"
Ser Waymar slowed his horse. "On the other side, in Castle Black. But the castle itself is not as magnificent as the Wall.
She dug her heels into the horse’s sides, forcing it to move. With such a defense, fending off the Others should be no problem. She shared this thought with her traveling companions, but Will only shook his head.
“I’ve never been through winter on the Wall, but even in summer the cold can be deadly, Ser.”
Lyrion frowned. “Haven’t you served on the Wall for four years?”
“This is the tenth year of summer, Ser.”
A chill wind ruffled their cloaks and tore snowflakes from the ground. They rose into the air in sparkling clouds and settled in a white mist.
“How long have the seasons lasted here? Winter must be awful.”
She shivered at the thought. Ten years of snowdrifts, freezing winds, and terribly long nights. What about the food? How had the plants and animals adapted? How many people died because of mismanagement of supplies?
"I remember last winter," Ser Waymar leaned back in his saddle to give her a strange look. "It lasted two years, and I was only a boy then. I remember the cold winds and the snow drifts that made travel impossible."
"The winters in the North are worse than in the other kingdoms," Will leveled his horse with Lyrion's. "I come from Seagard. It's close to the border with the North, but I've never known the kind of winters Gared spoke of."
A grim look settled on both black brothers' faces at the mention of the deserter's name.
"What kind of winters did he describe?"
“So cruel that people are freezing in their own homes, the snowdrifts are forty feet high, and an icy wind is blowing from the north.”
Lyrion imagined a winter like that lasting for years. Normally she would have dismissed it as a joke, after all that wasn’t how the seasons worked. But the seriousness of her companions was real, and it scared her. Even if Ser Waymar seemed to be taking the subject with a grain of salt. From what she had heard, he had only recently been sworn in, so he probably hadn’t experienced the real cold yet. Neither had Lyrion, but she had known the heat of hell.
She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the silence was broken by a long, dull blast of a horn. The noise startled the few birds roosting in the treetops. None of her companions looked alarmed. Will's grimace deepened, and Ser Waymar pressed his lips together and straightened his back. He tried to look fearless, but Lyrion could see the worry lurking in his eyes. He was the leader of this expedition—his first—and he brought very bad news. It was never easy.
They approached the massive iron gates. From this distance, Lyrion could feel the unnatural cold radiating from the Wall, biting into her as if bypassing the magic of the ring that kept the cold at bay. Now she understood Will's words. The winters here must be awful. She adjusted her cloak, wanting to provide herself with a little more warmth.
"Perhaps you'd better not mention your magic, Ser," the young knight shifted in his saddle, carefully avoiding her gaze.
A black silhouette moved behind the bars. The man was round, as was his red face. Lyrion immediately thought of bearberries. He glared at her from behind the bars, completely ignoring the others. Ser Waymar lifted his chin, speaking with easy authority.
"Open the gates, Bowen. I have important news for the Lord Commander."
He didn't take his eyes off her for a moment.
“Who is this? I didn't let anyone outside the Watch through the Wall.”
"This is Ser Lyrion Moonwarden, he..." Ser Waymar glanced at her in a silent plea for support.
"I haven't crossed the Wall, goodsir, but there's more than one way to get north.”
She kept her fingers crossed that her answer wouldn’t betray her lack of knowledge or be too arrogant. She had heard from her traveling companions that the Wall stretched from one end of the continent to the other, which meant there had to be some kind of sea route. Air routes and portals were ruled out almost immediately. And she knew that the guards guarding the gates could be touchy-feely. Maybe it was the only form of entertainment in such a boring job?
Bowen mumbled something incomprehensible. He unclipped a bunch of metal keys from his belt. The heavy chains rattled and the gate opened with a terrible grinding sound, revealing a deep tunnel. It was dim inside, lit only by a single torch in Bowen's hand. The warm light highlighted every imperfection and every flaw.
They dismounted and entered the tunnel. Lyrion felt as if the entire mass of packed ice would collapse on her and swallow her. As beautiful as it was on the outside, it felt wrong to cross it. As if the Wall itself were displeased with this. A strange feeling enveloped her limbs. It reminded her of pushing through cobwebs or trying to walk along the bottom of a river. It was wrong. Very wrong.
"Where's Gared?" Another creaking sound rent the air as the gate slammed shut behind them. “Don't tell me that old bastard is dead.”
Ser Waymar accepted the torch, and a moment later another flame joined the single flame. Shadows on the walls quivered with every step.
"He might as well be dead. He ran away."
Bowen suddenly stopped and looked at Ser Waymar, and a moment later he looked at Will, as if seeking confirmation of the young knight's words. Will only nodded in grim resignation.
“That's true.”
The keykeeper's shoulders slumped.
"What were you thinking, Gared?" he muttered under his breath, the echo in the tunnel multiplying his words and carrying them further.
He led them toward the next gate. The clatter of hooves and the occasional snort of horses were the only sounds for a moment.
"What happened there?" asked the keykeeper as another chain rattled.
“Something the Lord Commander needs to hear,” Ser Waymar’s voice cracked, as if the mere memory of the events were too much for the young knight to bear.
Lyrion understood this very well. You never forget life-changing events. And sometimes they hurt even after too many years.
She felt Bowen’s settling gaze on her. His eyes seemed to drill into her soul. Would it be wise to engage in a staring contest? Probably not. Would it make any sense? Not either. Especially since her face was hidden in the shadow of her hood, and she didn’t think any human eyes could match hers. So she ignored Bowen and the shivers his hostile remark sent through her.
The tunnel was much longer than Lyrion had expected. The path twisted like a snake, but there were no other branches that could confuse the enemy forces if they somehow managed to break through the iron gates. Perhaps no attacker had ever made it this far? But who in their right mind would attempt to break through such a monstrous construction? Probably just a madman or desperate. Or the Others with their undead army.
Bowen let them through the third and apparently final gate. The tunnel didn’t end yet, but in the distance Lyrion could see the walls shimmering in the sunlight. A moment later, she heard the muffled sounds of the people living in Castle Black, the clash of steel, the snorting of horses, and conversation. She was the last to leave the tunnel, in the same instant, the sickening feeling of pushing through caves inhabited by giant spiders left her. The relief didn't last long, because only seconds later, a sickening shiver ran down her spine, and the power beneath her skin hummed as if begging to be released. She was surrounded and watched closely, and with every passing moment, more eyes were on her.
She followed Ser Waymar and Will to the stables. Each of the men in the courtyard was dressed in black, but the quality of the clothing clearly varied depending on the person. Each also had at least a dagger strapped to their belts.
The shuffling sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind Lyrion. She handed the reins to the stable boy and turned.
"Waymar," an old man with the appearance of an experienced warrior stood with his hand on his sword. For a warrior to reach old age, he had to enjoy Tymora's favor or be an extremely dangerous person. For her own comfort, she found the hilt of the morningstar. "Who is your companion? And where is Gared?"
“Lord Commander” Ser Waymar nodded respectfully and gestured to Lyrion like a proud lord boasting of his wealth. “Meet Ser Lyrion Moonwarden, knight of the Moonmaiden order. He saved our lives.”
She ignored the fact that he still thought she was a man (she really wanted to see his face when he realized she was a woman) and stepped forward.
"Lord Commander," she bowed her head respectfully.
A wave of whispers rolled through the courtyard.
“I have never heard of your order. What have you been doing beyond the Wall... Ser?”
"The light of the Moonmaiden guides my path. Her will guides me and directs my sword against her enemies. Since meeting your people, I believe we share enemies."
Suspicion flashed in the Lord Commander's eyes. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he shifted his gaze to Ser Waymar. The boy tried to keep a straight face.
"Gared has deserted." Silence fell over the courtyard. "But I bring much worse news."
Chapter Text
Lyrion welcomed the warm shelter with its sturdy walls, tight roof, and a fire blazing in the fireplace. Somehow, the unnatural chill of the Wall wasn't as noticeable here, which was a definite bonus. The Lord Commander's Solar was a spacious room. The windows were covered by heavy drapes, and in the center stood a table, behind which sat an older man. He had a surprisingly large, bald head, and his beard covered most of his chest.
Just behind the Lord Commander stood a young man with a sharp face and alert, blue-gray eyes. He was thin and resembled a pine tree. Lyrion found him quite handsome, even though he looked a bit disheveled at the moment, with one hand resting warningly on the hilt of his sword and giving her alternately strange and inscrutable glances.
The last of the three men was bald and so wrinkled that he looked like a sun-dried plum. His thin neck was surrounded by long chains, the links of which flashed with different colors. He reminded Lyrion of the old scholars who sat with even older scrolls in Candlekeep.
All three of them, or rather two of them, because the scholar's eyes were milky white, were giving her strange looks. Ever since she pulled down her hood, everyone within sight had started looking at her strangely. To be more precise - weirder than before. The grumpy combat instructor almost choked on his own saliva when he saw her.
"According to Waymar, he and Will owe you their lives...Ser." The Lord Commander was the first to break the silence. His eyes seemed to drill right through Lyrion's skull. "I would like to hear your side of the story."
"What can I say?" She shrugged with a nonchalance she didn't feel at all. "I was traveling through the forest when I heard the sounds of fighting. Any decent person would have reacted."
She bit the inside of her cheek, considering how much to reveal. Should she mention the foul demon? Ser Waymar seemed unconvinced about magic, but Will thought the creatures were known to humans, if only in legend. And if those legends were to be believed, they were a threat. The decision was simple.
"I must admit that Ser Waymar showed great courage. He faced the unknown and was prepared to fight to the end... Few would have made the same decision." The black brother shifted, but his gaze never left hers. An odd tension grew in the air. "Will called this creature the Other." She found the hilt of the morningstar. "A demon of ice and snow, able to call the dead to its service. Cursed are those who disturb the peace of the dead."
"Cursed! Cursed! Cursed!"
Lyrion lifted her head. A large, black as night raven sat in the rafter. She suppressed a shiver. She didn't like ravens.
"You speak of beings that have not been seen in thousands of years." The Lord Commander leaned back in his chair. His face was unreadable, his eyes sharp.
"I do not know them. I am not from here. I saw the evil I had sworn to destroy, so I stepped in. I destroyed the demon and its undead." It was a simple explanation. Back home, no one would question it. But this was not her home, and she knew perfectly well when people did not believe her.
Then the old man with the chain spoke for the first time. His thin fingers wrapped around the wooden staff and although he couldn't see anything, he turned his face towards her.
"This is indeed interesting." The voice was as quiet as the rustle of parchment, yet everyone immediately turned their attention to it. "You appear at an opportune moment, Lady Lyrion. Do you have any proof of your victory?"
She pulled a small bundle from the bag slung over her shoulder. She carefully placed it on the table and uncovered the frayed material, revealing fragments with sharp edges that gleamed in the candlelight like ice. She could curse Will for his stupidity in bringing with him the remains of magical beings with unknown properties, but she couldn't deny his resourcefulness.
The men gathered in the room leaned in to get a better look.
"These are fragments of the Other's sword. It shattered just as the body did when I struck it with my morningstar."
The Lord Commander picked up the largest of the shards and immediately dropped it.
"The Others take me... They are terribly cold." He muttered, and Lyrion looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
"Cold! Cold! Cold!"
A huge raven flew down from the rafters. It landed on the Lord Commander's shoulder and snatched the offered grain. One of its beady eyes, black as the endless abyss of emptiness, bored into Lyrion's soul. Gods, she really hated ravens.
"Your testimony matches that of Waymar..." The words were barely audible, spoken under his breath as if to himself. The next ones were louder. "You appear out of nowhere, claiming to have fought a creature of legend. You claim to belong to an order that no one knows about. You wear armor like a man and you look like a Targaryen," Lyrion tensed as his eyes landed on her ears, and the unspoken questions rang out loudly. "Who are you, Lyrion Moonwarden?"
If she were anyone else, or had not experienced what she had, it was possible that the gaze would have made her feel uncomfortable. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened. She stood unwavering like any experienced soldier.
"I am who I am. I am a faithful follower of Our Lady of Silver, a holy warrior who follows her leads. I am judge, jury, and executioner. I am vengeance against all evil, a light that destroys darkness. I am the enemy of the Others. And if you would stand by my side to fight them, I am your ally."
The declaration rolled off her tongue as easily as always. She puffed out her chest proudly and waited. Only the black brother standing behind the Lord Commander broke the silence.
"Brave words."
"True words. Every single one."
Pure silver met blue-gray. She wasn't going to be the first to look down. She didn’t move even as the wooden legs of the chair scraped against the stone floor and the Lord Commander began to pace the solar like a caged wolf. Or a bear, if the clasps on his cloak were any indication.
"Magic is returning to our world." The scholar’s quiet voice drew her attention from their staring contest. "If the Others are indeed awakening, we can expect another Long Night. This summer is in its tenth year, and after a long summer there always comes a long winter."
The Lord Commander paused by the window. His fingers ran through his shaggy beard.
"The Long Night," he repeated as if to himself. "Eight thousand years have passed. And yet... Who but the Watch can remember it?"
Ser Waymar told Lyrion of the Long Night. The disturbingly long winter, lasting a generation, and the night that accompanied it. Lyrion worshiped Selûne, the moon was sometimes closer to her than many people. Yet she could not imagine a life spent without the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Where was Lathander to bring a new dawn?
The vision of experiencing endless night and deadly winter was enough to spur Lyrion into battle. Whatever dark forces were behind this abomination, she was bound to face them. Perhaps that was why the gods had sent her to this strange land?
The Lord Commander's voice brought Lyrion back to reality. "These undead... What happened to them? How did they come into being?"
"When I got there, they were already under the control of an Other, but... There are several ways to create undead..." She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to remember her master's lessons. "I think there are only two options in this case. One. The Others' presence may be affecting the bodies in some way, such as through the evil spirits that accompany them. This type would typically show signs of intelligence. The fact that they ignored the weapons lying on the ground contradicts that, but that doesn't mean everything. Two. The Others deliberately reanimate the bodies, turning them into mindless minions completely obedient to their will. Let's add the fact that no undead gets tired, feels hunger or pain, cannot be frightened or convinced..."
She stopped with a clank of armor. She hadn't even realized she had begun to circle. A sudden snort drew her attention to her black brother.
"What in the seven hells is a minion? And how could you possibly know all this... Ser?"
"A minion is a mindless servant. And I am a paladin." She pointed at Selûne's amulet. "We specialize in fighting the undead."
She found no recognition in any of the faces. Did these people really not have warriors here dedicated to their gods and oaths? Or perhaps their gods were simply silent. But what is the difference between a silent god and a dead god?
"To return to your question, Lord Commander... The existence of the undead is often strongly linked to their creator. Considering this, we are probably dealing with the second type. Destroying the Other destroyed the undead." She rested her chin on her fist. The metal woven into the thick leather was cold. "Which brings us to a paradox. Destroying the Others will destroy the undead they create so as not to be destroyed. A very bad situation."
The wood in the hearth popped and a shower of sparks flew upward. The Lord Commander looked out the window as if it would tell him the secrets of the world. His shaggy beard quivered as he thought aloud.
"A very bad situation indeed... The White Walkers are considered a scary bedtime story. And then there's the army of the undead..." He turned from the window. The raven on his shoulder flapped its wings and landed on the table. "You defeated the undead. How?"
"All undead are sensitive to fire, holy weapons, and sometimes light. Some paladins use weapons forged from cold iron, but not everyone can wield them." She was impressed by her own voice. Theren would have called it academic. "My advice, burn the dead. If the Others are actually creating an army, it's good to take away their potential soldiers. After all, you can't reanimate ashes."
"Yes, that's a good idea. The wildlings are already burning their dead..." He looked at her, considering his next words. "If I may see the weapon you used?"
She held up the morningstar so that the candlelight highlighted the green sheen on the black surface of the head. "It is made of adamantine. Many undead met their end there."
She couldn't hide her pride. It was the first weapon she had acquired after meeting Garret, and while it wasn't the most powerful in her arsenal, it wasn't weak either, and when filled with divine power it could deal damage as powerful as her Holy Avenger Sword. She still remembered how they had miraculously escaped from a pack of kobolds that day. After finding a blacksmith, she commissioned him to replace the handle and some of the studs. Even adamantine wasn't immune to the passage of time, but it had gained a strange beauty thanks to it.
She handed the weapon to the Lord Commander. He hefted it in his hands, then ran his fingers over the pommel.
"It is surprisingly light for its size."
"It is a very light alloy."
The chains rattled, the staff hitting the floor in time with the scholar's footsteps. "This is not Valyrian steel, and yet it feels...remarkably similar. If I may ask, was magic used to forge your morningstar?"
Lyrion frowned. Perhaps magic did not exist in this world in the same form it did in Faerûn, but it was still present.
"I have no idea," she shrugged. "The blacksmiths who work with adamantine guard their secrets very closely."
"I see."
The Lord Commander gave her the morningstar. "Will your order support us in this time of need?"
For Lyrion, it was a punch in the gut. Her fingers tightened around the star's hilt like a vice. There was something comforting about the feel of the weapon. "I'm afraid that's impossible," she said, the sorrow in her voice seeming to be obvious to everyone. "I come from far away. Few back home can make it this far, and none of my order."
"Yet here you are."
"Only by the will of the gods." The silence was terribly heavy. She brushed a strand of dirty hair from her face. Gods, when she had the chance, she would take a bath.
"However, I am still here, and it is my duty to destroy these filthy creatures. In your moment of need, I will answer the call and stand shoulder to shoulder with you. You can be sure that I will show no mercy to the demons. I will bring the light of the Moonmaiden and bring down the divine wrath upon them. I will fight until my last breath. I can promise you that."
Her blood boiled. Another oath she had made and one she intended to keep. After all, ice demons couldn't be as evil as devils.
The Lord Commander returned to the table and extended his hand with the grain towards the raven. "The Night's Watch is a shadow of its former glory. We have neither the men nor the equipment. This will be a difficult fight," he fell silent and stared at Lyrion.
"Do not fear that I will not keep my promise. If I have to, I will fight them alone. I have placed my life in the hands of the Moonmaiden. I do not fear death."
"Death! Death! Death!"
The Lord Commander straightened to his full height. For some reason, at that moment Lyrion thought him a bear. Old and bald, but still dangerous.
"Ah... It's almost a luxury," she sighed as she plopped down on the bed. The furs and blankets were heavenly soft after spending the last few nights on the forest floor.
It was late when one of the black brothers escorted Lyrion to her chamber in the King's Tower. It was said that the kings of Westeros had once stayed there, but none had visited the Wall in over a hundred years.
It took another hour to wash off the grime of travel and change into something that wasn't armor. As any adventurer would tell you, the pocket dimension was the greatest invention of all, next to potions and healing magic.
To her annoyance, there was no mirror in the room. In her humble opinion, monastic life did not exempt her from caring about her appearance. After all, appearance was important. She reached for her bag and stuck her hand in it up to her elbow. She found a stack of thick books, most likely placed there by Theren when she wasn't looking (she was certain that the last time she checked the bag, they weren't there, and their origins weren't entirely legal). A set of dice, a deck of cards, a flute, a cast-iron frying pan, and many other things rolled between her fingers. She should check her bag more often. Theren had already made it a hiding place for "borrowed" things.
"Ha!" She triumphantly pulled out a small cosmetics bag. "Thank you, Eva!"
Advantages of knowing Sune's clerics - they always left something to improve your appearance. Disadvantages - they always left something to improve your appearance.
She found a small mirror in her cosmetic bag. She set it on the chest and began to tidy up her hair. Two tendays in the wilderness was nothing unusual for her, but it was unexpected enough that she didn't have a chance to make the usual preparations. Now that she had access to more civilized conditions, she intended to make full use of them. She braided some of her hair, leaving the other part loosely falling over her shoulders. A bit of extra styling and the point of her ears was properly hidden.
Thus prepared, she ate evenfeast in the Common Hall with the other black brothers - a warm, tasteless stew with dark bread, and a terrible beer that twisted her from the inside out. After the first sip, she recalled her youth, when in exchange for the healing services of an acolyte, she received a modest meal. The good old days.
An additional attraction was Ser Waymar's expression. The moment he saw her, his face turned deathly pale, and a moment later it turned an impressive shade of red. He sat perfectly imitating a fish out of water. Lyrion feared that his brain would overheat. On the other hand, she felt a vengeful satisfaction. How could he consider her face not feminine enough?
Now, clean and well-fed, she lay staring at the stone ceiling. The room was lit only by the fire in the fireplace. A spider's web hung in the corner above the door. She watched as a small spider skillfully wrapped a fly almost twice its size in its web.
"I wonder if they have giant, blood-sucking spiders here," she mused aloud. She had to ask one of the black brothers. Maybe even Maester Aemon. She didn't want to get an unpleasant surprise, especially if she could avoid it. They sometimes caused trouble at home, and she didn't want to think about giant undead spiders. Even she would develop arachnophobia over them.
She smiled at the memory of Ember pummeling a giant spider with her staff. For a druid with such a close bond with the animal world, she had a passionate dislike for arachnids of all shapes and sizes. Whenever one found itself in her bed, it was always Garret who took the little creature away. After that, she slept somewhere else entirely.
A feeling of emptiness gripped her heart. She had spent so many years with her team that they had become the closest thing she had to family since the temple. She wondered how they were doing. Had they noticed she was gone? Theren would be devastated. Ever since Avernus, he had been following her around like a duckling.
She blinked, trying to fight back the tears. They would be fine. They would live a peaceful life, and she would stop the invasion of ice demons. Maybe in the meantime, Theren would find a way to bring her home. And then they would all swap stories in The Flagon Dragon and laugh about it until Khorvis threw them out of the tavern for being too enthusiastic.
She rolled over on her side. Her gaze fell on the pieces of armor spread out in the corner. She should take care of it. The plate was full of dirt that needed to be removed sooner rather than later.
"Tomorrow," she wrapped herself in a thick blanket, its material biting against her exposed skin just like the blankets in the temple. With this semblance of home, she fell asleep.
Chapter Text
She stood in the middle of the vast moors. The delicate scent of grass mingled with the cool air. The earth around her rose and fell into hills and valleys. The silence was absolute and unnatural–there was not the slightest whistle of wind, no sounds of life. She was alone, but not completely. A familiar presence wrapped around her like a blankiet. She looked up. The sky was atramental, dotted with uncounted stars. She did not recognize any constellations. They twinkled and trembled, as if uncertain of their place. They all looked so inconspicuous next to the large disk of the moon.
The wind picked up, gentle as a lover's caress. It was warm, completely different from the bone-chilling frosty gusts of lands beyond the Wall. It set blades of grass and flower heads in motion. She heard a rustling somewhere behind her. She turned, her heart stopped for a moment. A wolf. It was large, though not as large as her companion, and had no burning eyes. Its fur, more gray than silver, blended with the falling snowflakes. Snow... She raised her hand. Large, white flakes fell onto her skin, but she felt no cold, and the flake itself did not melt.
Something told her to raise her head. The wolf passed her. Step by step, it walked, focused on a goal known only to itself. Its paws left bloody tracks. No matter how much snow fell, the red always remained on the surface. It walked and walked and walked. Slowly and steadily, paw by paw. It was a small speck on the white horizon when it finally stopped. It threw back its head and howled. It was a sound full of loneliness and sadness so great that Lyrion's heart ached. She raised her hands to cover her ears, but the sound was everywhere. In the air, in the ground, in her bones... It pierced her body and soul and refused to leave. It seemed to last forever. And when it finally died down, its echoes echoed across the empty world for just as long. But Lyrion found no peace in the silence that followed. This was even worse. Thick and implacable as the ancient darkness. Then, one by one, the stars went out. There was only her, the moon, and endless drifts of snow, and among them countless icy blue dots.
Lyrion woke up suddenly. Her heart was pounding against her ribs like a startled rothé. She took a few trembling breaths and hugged the blanket to her chest as if her life depended on it.
"This is bad." She mumbled when she found her voice. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no... This is bad. This is very bad!"
She grabbed her head and lay there, staring at the gray ceiling, until the first signs of dawn came to the room. Before, she might have suspected that she had found herself in this foreign land by the power of higher powers. Now? Her goddess, or her messenger, were very obvious. And how could she prevent the impending end of the world without her party?
Her fingers tightened on the rough blanket. The room suddenly seemed too small. The walls pressed against her from all sides. She needed air. She slid off the bed and, stumbling over her own feet, reached the window.
The cool breeze on her face was the most wonderful feeling under the sun. Her shirt was sticking uncomfortably to her sweaty body, but at the moment it didn't matter at all. She shivered as a colder breeze blew through the window, carrying small snowflakes with it. Memories of her dream flooded her mind. She slumped to the stone floor. It was just as cold as the air outside. Even the blanket did little to block the cold from her body.
"Wolf... Wolves... I have to find wolves…" She mumbled, playing with the edge of the blanket. A panicked giggle escaped her lips. "No pressure. If I fail, it'll only be the end of the world! Gods..." She took a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled very slowly. She repeated this until her hands stopped shaking.
"What does wolf mean here..." she wondered aloud. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and buried her face in the scratchy blanket.
Wolf could mean literally anything — a symbol on a coin, a guild sign, a country's coat of arms, or someone's nickname. It could even be a common animal, although she doubted it. As terrifying as these creatures could be, they didn't stand much of a chance against the ice demons. If she had to assume, it would be some form of institution. Maybe this world had its equivalent of the Harpers.
"Gods!" She suddenly felt the urge to hide under a blanket and stay there.
She could fight demons and undead. It was her daily bread. Avernus had been a horrible experience, but then Lyrion didn't have the axe hanging over it with the vision of the end of the world. Sure, being cannon fodder in the Blood Wars sucked, but there was still a chance for the rest of the world to live. Here, her defeat would literally be the end of everything.
"Don't panic, take small steps" She got up on her feet. "Let's start with pros... The Night's Watch already knows about the threat. It's an entire order for my mission, however underfunded it may be. I can work with that... Cons? No one in this world has ever fought demons and undead. Many will probably ignore the danger until it's too late. Let's add some unforeseen events, because of course there always are."
She paced the room. Her bare feet made almost no sound. The touch of the cold stones had a grounding effect. "Maybe the local faith will encourage people to fight. After all, they don't like magic..." She stopped by the fireplace. All that remained of the fire was cooled ash, spilling onto the floor and staining her toes.
Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek. The easiest thing was to train the black brothers. Theoretically, she could do it right away. Everything else was the problem. She had no idea how much time she had left. It was supposedly still summer, but no matter how long the seasons were here, winter would come sooner or later.
She would love to have her friends with her. Theren would throw fireballs at anything that moved beyond the Wall. He would probably set the forest on fire, then be choked by Ember and composted to make amends with the flora and fauna… Lyrion realized something that no one had mentioned in yesterday’s conversations.
“The Wildlings…”
She didn’t know how many there were, but they would be on the front lines. Perhaps they are even aware of the problem and are looking for a way out of the deadly trap. According to Ser Waymar, they earned their name for a reason, but she didn’t think they were all that bad. If they decide to flee, they may attempt to storm the Wall, causing further damage.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t have all the information she needed to make plans now. After breakfast she would go to the Lord Commander and present her suspicions. He would know what to do. Then she will do what every Harper should do — she would be a pebble in the charger's path, and one could only hope that would be enough.
It had been snowing for a few days. Then, in the middle of the day, the sun came out, the air warmed up slightly, and as dusk fell, the thin layer of melting fluff turned into insidious ice. Even an experienced ranger like Benjen had difficulty moving efficiently.
He stopped on the wooden platform of the King's Tower. From here he had a very good view of the courtyard and the sworn brothers training under the tutelage of the ever-snarling Thorne. One of the boys slipped on the ice. The clang of the sword hitting the ground and the knight's shout could be heard even on the landing. However, the exercises below weren't the reason Benjen had climbed a third of the way up the tower. His reason was standing a few steps up, leaning against the wooden railing, absently mumbling in a language Benjen didn't know.
The mysterious knight, who turned out to be a woman, had spent three days at Castle Black, each of them in the company of Lord Mormont, discussing future battles with the Others or with Maester Aemon, seeking information about the first Long Night. Benjen wondered how young Royce could have mistaken her for a man. The heavy plate she wore might have obscured all her feminine curves, and her height might have been impressive (she was two or three inches taller than he was), but her face was unmistakable. When she came to dinner that first night, refreshed and wearing much lighter leather armor and a pretty blue gambeson, everyone who wasn't blind followed her with eyes. Benjen himself wondered if this was what the legendary Visenya Targaryen had looked like—beautiful and impressive.
That was one reason to worry. Lyrion Moonwarden looked like Targaryen, and only her darker skin belied her possible heritage. That didn't stop the gossip. He had heard his sworn brothers speculate that she might be the lost bastard of the Mad King, or Rhaegar. Some speculated that she was a Blackfyre. Neither possibility was pleasant.
"How long are you going to stand there and pretend you're not following me?"
He almost jumped out of his skin. She was looking at him over her shoulder. Her silver eyes sparkled like stars, and he saw a hint of amusement in them. When she wasn't talking about the White Walkers and their undead 'minions', she looked much younger. More like a girl entering adulthood than an adult woman capable of crushing a monster from legends into the ground.
"I'm not following you." He cursed in his mind, sounded like a child caught red-handed.
"Of course not." She flashed a smile, the scar on her cheek wrinkling ugly, the only flaw on her appearance. "Come on then. You can not-follow me next to me. You can see the training quite well from here."
She patted the railing next to her, and Benjen felt like a rabbit caught in a trap.
"Your master-at-arms doesn't seem to like his job." She said, as the string of nicknames directed at the recruits reached their ears.
"I think he doesn't like a lot of things. But he's good with a sword."
"He's as cute as a goblin's butt." She muttered sarcastically. He didn't know what a goblin was, but judging by the grimace, it wasn't a compliment.
Ser Lyrion leaned her shoulders against the railing. Benjen noticed that she did not act like a lady of noble house, though she was clearly educated and could move with unusual grace. She laughed at dirty jokes at meals, wore men’s clothing, and he had yet to see her without a weapon. Her step was confident and steady, like that of someone who was perfectly aware of her strength. She looked more like a seasoned mercenary or a knight, and if her and Royce’s stories were to be believed, she might well be one. The title 'Ser' seemed oddly fitting, though Benjen himself had difficulty using that title on a woman. There had never been a lady knight in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. He wondered what strange land she had come from. Benjen was from the North, but even here, outside of Bear Island, women did not engage in combat so openly.
A cold wind rose. A few buildings away a pile of snow fell from the roof and hit the ground with a dull thud. Elsewhere, a shutter slammed against a wall, the crash echoing through the courtyard, punctuated by the sounds of everyday life.
"Winter is coming." He could feel the change in the air. It was always colder this far north, but something had begun to change in the past few days. The air became harsher, the snow fell more often, his brothers lit fires in metal baskets more frequently.
Ser Lyrion hummed, and he felt her watchful gaze on him. "If you have the Long Night here, is there also a Long Day?"
"What?"
It was a ridiculous question. At first he thought he had misheard, but it was obvious that he hadn't. The woman made a vague gesture with her hand, as if pointing to the omnipresent snow.
"Druids believe that nature strives for balance. If winter can last a generation, then I assume summer can too. Am I wrong?"
"No... I have no idea." He blinked, because he couldn't bring himself to say anything more. "I don't think so, and I've never heard of anything like that."
She nodded, as if the answer satisfied her. Her fingers tapped against the wooden railing in a rhythm known only to her. He noticed that a bronze ring with white carving adorned her left hand. From this distance, he couldn't make out the details, but he could swear it was some kind of animal.
"Huh, I was counting on the smaller one to win."
Benjen glanced out into the courtyard. The new recruits had moved on to their duels. The pair Ser Lyrion pointed out had just finished their fight. The large man with greasy hair laughed a raspy laugh as he hovered over his opponent. He was immediately silenced by Thorne and paired up with another.
"Yes! Dodge and... Oh! That must have hurt..." She moaned as the big man received a blow to the groin.
Benjen was forced to look away, struggling to stay upright. He felt the phantom pain of the blow very clearly. When he finally pushed the painful experience out of his mind, he heard Ser Lyrion muttering perfectly sensible advice under her breath. "You seem to enjoy violence." He ignored the groans coming from the courtyard.
"I don't know if 'enjoy' is the right word. I know it and I can use it, but I don't enjoy it." A pair of silver eyes turned to him. Suddenly he felt completely exposed. "You're the First Ranger, you've had to kill a lot of Wildlings. A lot of people. You were good enough at it to get promoted. Do you enjoy violence?"
"No. Not at all."
Finally, the battered recruits made their way to the armory, and the courtyard fell silent. The snow had stopped falling, but the sky was still thick with clouds. His companion pushed herself away from the railing, and Benjen felt he had to ask one more question before she disappeared into her chambers.
"What does 'veel' mean?"
She stopped, her foot on the lower step. She frowned in confusion and tilted her head like an owl. "What does it mean?"
"You kept saying that," he shrugged. "I thought it must be important."
"Oh, you mean vil." She repeated the unfamiliar word loudly and distinctly. Even spoken alone, it sounded incredibly melodic. "It means wolf," she grimaced. For a moment, she seemed to consider something. "Do you happen to know who or what uses the symbol of a large wolf here?"
He kept his face impassive, although inside he felt an unpleasant tug. "Maybe I know." Almost immediately, the woman's face lit up with hope, the kind he had only seen on the faces of his youngest nephews when they were promised sweets. It was strangely... captivating. "Why do you want to know?"
She leaned back against the stone wall of the tower and puffed out her cheeks. A raven flew somewhere above them, its screech echoing through the castle.
"Just like that." She said, the words sounded forced, almost false. "So, what does a wolf mean in these lands?"
"The ruling house of the North uses a direwolf in their sigil."
"Oh!" She looked pleasantly surprised. "Well, that explains a lot... Thanks Benji!"
He could only stand and watch as she jumped down the stairs two at a time, then disappeared into her chamber. Only one word echoed in his mind.
"Benji?!"
Chapter Text
She sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes. The Lord Commander's task of finding the Others' weaknesses other than fire or magical weapons had proven to be much more difficult. She couldn't remember the last time she spent so much time reading books. It was probably in Candlekeep before the mind flayer invasion. She felt she had every right to stay away from books since then. For her taste, one cursed book is one too many.
She picked up a thick volume the size and weight of a large granite block and slid it onto the shelf. Another text of northern legends edited by maesters into children's stories about long-gone magic. Clydas put down a stack of scrolls next to it. Maybe one of them mentioned the first Long Night without editors' intervention. It was a pity that the weapon used in the fight was not described in more detail. She could bet that it was definitely neither ordinary nor magical steel. But why couldn’t they have written it outright?
"I can hear your irritation."
She turned to Maester Aemon. The old man sat by the fireplace, his face turned toward the flames.
"Why would your scholars erase history? They accept the existence of dragons, but they treat everything north of the Wall as nothing more than fable and fantasy. It's incredibly stupid."
She left out the fact that the dragons were dead. It sounded as unreal as a world without magic. How could such powerful and magnificent beings simply become extinct?
Lyrion put down two more books and carefully rolled up an old scroll that looked as if it would fall apart at the slightest touch.
"Old times brought many legends about magic, but few facts." Maester's voice was as quiet as ever. "Maesters tend to prefer facts over legends."
"Well, now we could definitely use some more facts." She muttered under her breath, contemptuously looking at the pile of books waiting to be read. "I would like to meet the wise man who said that the Others are just a clan of Wildlings. I would tell him to his face what I think of his research method. And I would use a tough argument to do so."
The Maester laughed. It was a quiet laugh, barely shaking his body, but it seemed to make him a few years younger. Which actually made little to no difference. Five years one way or the other was nothing to a hundred-year-old.
"Ah, to be young and full of energy again."
She smiled at the Maester, even if he couldn't see it. "Do you miss books?"
"Books and sun. I miss books most of all."
Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek. She glanced at Clydas out of the corner of her eye. "If your sight could be restored-"
"I'm old." Maester turned his sightless eyes towards her. "I gave up all hope long ago."
She plopped down in a chair and reached for the rolled up parchment on the extremely empty table, Clydas had just put down the last texts they had managed to look through today. She found a quill under a stack of scrolls marked for later review and scribbled down more titles. She winced as she pressed the quill down too hard, ink splattering across the page and her fingers. The list was growing at a snail's pace and they hadn't found anything groundbreaking yet. If only the Maester could read.
It was dark when she opened her eyes. The fire in the fireplace had died down, leaving only glowing ash. Something was wrong. No dreams filled with blue eyes and dying wolves. Instead, she felt an unpleasant tingling in the back of her head. She stayed still and listened. Something moved behind her. She heard the crunch of sand on the stone floor, and heavy breathing. Every muscle in her body tensed like a bow ready to fire. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Slowly, so as not to alert the intruder, she moved her hand under the pillow. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger.
Everything happened in a flash. Suddenly she felt a rough hand grip her shoulder. The stench of alcohol and sweaty flesh hit her nose. In the next moment she was brutally turned onto her back. In the same second she pulled out a dagger. Cold steel gleamed in the pale moonlight. Another second and a male scream broke the silence of the night. Warm blood smeared across Lyrion's face. She jumped out of bed and kicked the man who was clutching his maimed hand to his chest. The force of the punch pushed him straight onto the stairs. The door slammed against the wall with a thud and the hinges groaned.
Lyrion ran from the room. Cold air hit her face. Only years of fighting incredibly agile monsters had enabled her to avoid another pair of hands. She spun on her heel, grabbed the second attacker by his boiled leather, and in one movement threw him over her shoulder. He hit his companion with great force, knocking them both down the steep steps. They tumbled to the landing with a dull thud.
Lyrion came down the stairs. The wooden steps were cold, damp, and slippery. The knots and dents dug into her bare feet like broken glass.
A thin man with a crooked nose and a sparse mustache rose from the floor. "You fucking whore!" He spat and charged forward with a disgusting look on his face. He was clearly drunk, barely keeping his course. Lyrion moved a step to the right. She caught his outstretched hand, raised her dagger, and plunged it straight into his palm. The silence of the night was shattered by a string of curses and the clash of metal on stone.
The blade dug in to the hilt. It missed the bone and wedged itself between two stones, crumbling the weathered mortar. A shiver in the back of her head and the groan of the wooden steps warned her of movement behind her. She turned just in time. She aimed a punch straight at the other guy's jaw. His head snapped back. She didn't wait for him to fall over. She jumped at him and punched him over and over again. Stomach, face, stomach again. At some point, her attacker was on the ground, and she was sitting astride his chest. Blow after blow, her fist met his face. Even the unpleasant crunch of a bursting nose didn't stop her. After that, he stopped trying to shield himself from any more hits.
The words of the oath burned in her mind. How many women had he hurt? How many more would he hurt? She wouldn't let him. She would be the end of him. She would become an avenging angel for each of his victims.
Suddenly, hands wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her back with brutal force. She fought against the grip, but there were too many hands.
"By the old gods, what is going on here?!"
The Lord Commander's voice echoed through the tower like the cry of a hundred soldiers. She froze. Only now did she notice the dozen or so men surrounding her. A few of them held torches to illuminate the stairs. Their flames quivered in the gusts of wind. At least three men wrapped their arms around her body, trying to pull her away from her attacker. In the midst of it all, the Lord Commander stood, looking as if he had left his bed in great haste.
Lyrion took a shuddering breath. She wiggled the fingers of her right hand. She felt a dull ache in her knuckles. She had definitely torn her skin.
"Those two broke into my chambers." She said, when she was certain her voice betrayed nothing but anger. "They attacked me. I responded."
She lifted her chin. It's hard to look impressive with three grown men hanging off of you, but that doesn't mean you can't try. She glared at the man with his hand nailed to the wall. He looked pathetic. She spoke without taking her eyes off him.
"Let me kill them. It wasn't their first time. I know it. I can see it in their eyes."
The attacker’s eyes widened like a terrified deer’s, and all color drained from his face. Fear overcame the drunkenness, and in a moment of clarity he was forced to realize what he had done.
"Their past deeds were amnestied the moment they took the black. They will be punished for today's transgressions no less."
"That’s not-"
"These are my final words, Ser Lyrion." Lyrion clenched her jaw like a vice. The Lord Commander nodded to the two black brothers. "Take them to their cells. Let the Maester tend to their wounds first."
She didn’t take her eyes off the two men until they were gone around the corner. Her fingers trembled. Just a few words, and the holy flame would consume the wicked. She could feel the power pulsing beneath her skin. The raw power of divine wrath, ready to meet her call.
"Ser Lyrion," the Lord Commander's voice brought her back to reality. He must have given some sign she had missed, because the black brothers' hands binding her were gone. "You have my deepest apologies. They have broken the laws of a guest. The laws of the gods. You are our guest, and I will personally bring justice... Are you all right?" he asked as her silence stretched on.
"Ser Waymar claimed that the Night's Watch was a chance for redemption for those who had lost their way. But they didn't want redemption. They escaped from death. Like common cowards!"
The Lord Commander's shoulders slumped. He looked as if age had finally caught up with him. "The days when serving on the Wall was an honorable duty are long gone," he sighed. "I'll assign someone to guard the entrance to the tower."
"There's no need for that."
The Lord Commander's look showed that he would not change his mind. She pressed her lips into a thin line, but did not argue. As he had mentioned earlier, she was just a guest. She bowed her head and turned on her heel. She could feel the eyes of her black brothers on her, following her every move until she was out of the light. Although human eyes could no longer see her, she did not calm down until she was in her chamber.
She didn't think she could go back to sleep. She could see blood on the floor and the sheets. In the darkness, they looked no different than spilled wine. She winced when she noticed two severed fingers lying next to the chest. The magic beneath her skin demanded release, to be paid back for every wrong.
The water in the bowl on the table was cold as she washed her face and hands. She couldn't see colors in the darkness, but she could guess that it had turned pink.
She pulled off the soiled sheets and collapsed onto the bed. She took deep breaths, counted to ten, then exhaled very slowly. She focused on her senses. The wind had picked up outside the window. It whistled shrilly as it tried to squeeze into the tower. A shutter slammed somewhere in the distance. She could hear the muffled voices of her black brothers, but she couldn’t make out the words. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually her heart slowed. The deafening pounding in her ears had subsided to a quiet throb. Her thoughts became clearer.
She would wait until morning. Then she would confront the Lord Commander again. She would not let such an act go unpunished. She would call upon the holy fire if she had to.
Sighing, she reached for a candle. If she couldn't close her eyes anyway, she might as well read. She picked up an unassuming book from the table. The leather cover was scarred by time and looked as if it would fall apart at any moment at the slightest touch. Lyrion carefully opened it, the pages inside yellowed, the ink once black now faded and hard to read.
Maester Aemon recommended this book to her so she could learn about the history of the Night's Watch. The first page read, "The Watchers on the Wall by Archmaester Harmun." Lyrion's eyes scanned the text. Some of the legends dated back to the very beginnings of the Guard, focusing on the largest and oldest of the strongholds at the Wall. From what she knew, the Nightfort was now a ruin, filled with dark echoes of the past, and everyone stayed away from it.
"The gods of this land are not so silent after all," she said, lingering over the pages devoted to the Rat Cook. "Though they seem more concerned with their own laws than with the faithful."
She furrowed her eyebrows and hurriedly flipped through the next few pages before the Cook's actions reignited her anger. Feeding a man with his son, and under a flag of peace, was one of the worst acts she could imagine. The rights of a guest were supposed to be the rights of gods and men, and those who broke them were met with divine justice. At least that was what Lyrion had read. If that was true, she might not have to bother with tomorrow’s conversation.
She turned another page and focused on the text about the Night's King and his corpse queen.
"These people are crazy!" She rubbed her eyes to get rid of the feeling of sand under her eyelids. It was unthinkable that it had taken thirteen years for someone to realize that the entire order was under magical mind control. Madness. And then there was Archmaester Harmun's attitude. Lyrion was convinced that the man would sooner eat his own boot than admit the existence of magic. Madness!
Suddenly, the whole thing about announcing the coming Long Night seemed even more complicated. These people wouldn’t care until it bit them in the ass, and even then they’d deny it was a big deal.
A sudden knock tore her from her dark thoughts. She checked to make sure she had a spare dagger hanging from her belt before opening the door.
"Hey, Will. Did you need something?"
Will looked like a startled cat. He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the point beyond Lyrion where evidence of recent events must have lain. She swallowed a curse; she should have thrown those fingers away yesterday.
"The Lord Commander wants to see you, Ser."
It was convenient. Entering with an invitation was always more pleasant than without one.
"Is it urgent, or can I get dressed first?" she moved her hand expressively, pointing to her crumpled sleeping clothes.
In an instant, Will's skin turned milky white. "I'll wait," he managed, staring at his shoes as if they were about to reveal the greatest secret of life.
She closed the door and quickly changed into more suitable clothes. Will's behavior was strange. He had seemed calmer during the time they had spent traveling on the other side of the Wall. He didn't jump at her every word and expressed his own opinions with relative ease. Now he was behaving like a scared child who knew he had done something wrong. He couldn't be afraid that she would demand consequences from him for the actions of his brothers. That would be stupid. Right?
She laced up her boots, slung her bag over her shoulder to hide it under her cloak, and left. The day had not yet fully begun. The morning was grey and unpleasant. The Wall was as grey today as the sky. Only the black outlines of the war machines on the peak marked the boundary between the ice and the clouds. A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight, covering the treacherous ice. The few black brothers who had been assigned to night watch swayed in their posts, pulling their cloaks closer around them; the more awake ones gave Lyrion bored glances.
"The Lord Commander is waiting in his solar," Will announced as they reached the tower, and hurried away toward the Common Hall.
Lyrion had learned the layout of the tower well over the past few days. She climbed to the top of the stone steps and pushed open the heavy door after a muffled invitation. Inside, to her surprise, a group of men were waiting. Her arrival had to interrupt the intense discussion. As usual, the Lord Commander was there with his damned-talking-raven, Maester Aemon, and Benjen Stark. She recognized Ser Waymar, Bowen Marsh (he turned out to be the Lord Steward, not the keykeeper), and the gruff master-at-arms Ser Alliser Thorne, whose face expressed pure indignation. She knew the other black brothers only by sight, but she knew they were officers. The atmosphere in the room was not optimistic. She tensed, ready to repel an attack at any moment.
"Eldon died in the night," the Lord Commander said instead of a greeting. He placed a dagger on the table, the same one that was stuck in the wall, piercing the bastard's hand.
A sense of satisfaction flooded Lyrion, but she immediately suppressed it. A death sentence was one thing, but there was no joy in death. Even if there was now one less degenerate in the world. She wondered which of the two was Eldon.
"What about the other one?" She took a quick look at the blade. Luckily, it wasn't damaged.
"He'll survive."
She put the dagger in her bag and asked casually.
"His punishment?"
"Chastisement."
The Lord Commander's voice left no place for argument. Lyrion clenched her jaw. A vengeful part of her demanded execution. Another, sounding oddly like her long-dead mentor, demanded restraint and reason.
"All right." She met the Lord Commander's gaze. "But if he stumbles again, I will take his head myself. My oath demands it. The Night's Watch may have a noble purpose, but men like him bring nothing but shame to your order."
"Shame! Shame!" The raven screeched. It flapped its wings and landed on the window.
One of the gathered black brothers snorted. The Lord Commander looked at her for a moment, as if weighing his words.
"There will be no need for that." Lyrion was ready to argue, but he continued before she could even open her mouth. "These are difficult times. The Night's Watch has never been in such need. You swore to aid us in the fight, Ser Lyrion. You will go with Benjen to Winterfell, then south to Runestone." He placed the sealed letters on the table. "You will deliver them into the hands of Lord Yohn Royce, words from me and Waymar that the raven cannot deliver."
She bit the inside of her cheek. Winterfell was the heart of the North, home of the wolf lords. She should go there, but it didn’t seem necessary to travel further south. "I am a stranger in your kingdom," she said after a moment of silence. "I might as well be nobody. Why should they believe me? I will be more useful here, in direct combat. Even a simple messenger can deliver letters. Besides, I am hopeless at contacts with…"
Something about the Lord Commander's attitude made her pause. The strange glint in his eyes, the quiver of his chin as he clenched his jaw, the twitch of his fingers... She realized he knew. She found Ser Waymar among the men. He avoided her gaze with determination, staring somewhere over her shoulder. What a bastard! He had advised her to keep quiet, but he had spilled the beans himself. Hypocrite! She would have a few words with him later.
"I am aware of your...skills, and I would be more than happy to have you fight with us in the Long Night. However, it will be many moons before winter comes, and the Wall is no place for women."
"Of course not," she snorted, rolling her eyes. She had worked with the Flaming Fist, a few degenerates in the Night's Watch couldn't be worse. Maybe she could even knock some sense into them.
The Lord Commander continued as if he hadn’t heard her at all.
"You will speak to Lord Royce. He is respected in the Vale. If he and Lord Stark join forces, they may be able to convince the Hand, perhaps even the King, to send aid." Another snort came from somewhere behind her, eerily reminiscent of an insult. It was a relief to know she wasn’t the only one doubting the mission, though the prospect of aid from the kingdom was tempting. "The Night’s Watch needs resources, but most of all, it needs soldiers."
She didn't like it. Contacts with the highborns had never been her strong point. Or anyone else on the team. It was not without reason that in Elturel their ban on entry under threat of imprisonment was lifted only after the city had literally been pulled out of hell. On the other hand, the quest from the Lord Commander overlapped, at least partially, with the quest from Selûne. Well, after all, she didn't want to disappoint her goddess.
"I'm a terrible messenger." She repeated, but without much conviction.
The Lord Commander's face didn't even flinch. One of the black brothers mumbled something under his breath, but it was too quiet for her to make out the words. She had the feeling it was meant to offend her. She glared at him and hoped he would express his disapproval appropriately. It worked, he looked away.
"Fine! I'll take these letters." She pointed at the Lord Commander. "But I'll be back when winter comes! I swore to fight these demons and I'll keep my word!"
Chapter Text
"Let's talk about following your own advice."
Waymar let out a terribly unmanly squeal. Behind him, Ser Jeremy Rykker and two other officers laughed aloud. Their raucous cackles continued until they reached the far end of the courtyard. Even then, their shoulders didn't stop quivering. Warmth spread across Waymar's cheeks, though an ice as cold as the Other's sword settled in his stomach. He cleared his throat and turned to the clearly displeased lady knight, who was also a sorcerer and had every reason to be displeased.
"Ser Lyrion, I didn't see you."
She raised eyebrow. There was a hint of anger in her eyes. They could laugh at him for mistaking her for a man. No woman should be so intimidating, and right now she wasn't even wearing her plate armor and magical weapons.
"Sure... Is our conversation to be public, or would you rather discuss this in private?"
The normally cheerful, bell-like voice was now disturbingly flat. He had foolishly hoped until the end that she wouldn't hold it against him for telling Mormont the truth, but he hadn't anticipated the stupidity of the other black brothers. Still, Waymar was a knight, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, he had fought the White Walker, and he would bravely face an angry woman. A woman who could curse him and his entire kin. He suddenly felt a strong urge to sink into the ground. He uttered a quick prayer to the Seven.
"Nobody goes to the old stables, Ser." He straightened his back and was proud to say that this time his voice didn't crack.
"After you."
He led them to the furthest buildings. They had been abandoned for years, and few of the black brothers ever came here. Common sense told him to stop and get away from Ser Lyrion as quickly as possible, but that was stupid. They had spent weeks beyond the Wall; if she had wanted him dead, she could have killed him in the haunted forest and blamed it all on the Wildlings. She hadn't, so he assumed she wouldn't do it again. And she was going to meet his father. He wouldn't let anyone think a Royce was anything less than a brave knight.
He walked into the old stable. It had no doors and the roof was riddled with holes. Inside, there was an unpleasant smell of damp and rotting wood that irritated the nose. Of the many horse stalls that had once been there, only one retains any resemblance to the original structure.
Ser Lyrion placed herself between him and the entrance, effectively cutting off the only possible escape route. No escape, he mentally reprimanded himself, a way to tactically regroup. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an appraising look.
"So how did we go from 'it's best not to mention your magic' to 'let the Lord Commander appreciate your extraordinary skills'? Explain, because I must have lost track somewhere along the way."
Waymar felt completely naked under the intense gaze of her silver eyes. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat and straightened. He may have renounced his name when he took his vows, but the noble Royce blood still ran in his veins. His ancestors had led armies, he had been taught to do so.
"I thought Lord Mormont should know that. As Lord Commander, it is his duty to do everything he can to best utilize the potential of his men, and you may not be a member of the Night's Watch, but you agreed, Ser... You swore to fight at our side."
Ser Lyrion took a few slow steps towards him, but Waymar didn't back away.
"And you didn't think to warn me? Don't the Seven teach contempt for magic?" Her voice was quiet, dangerous. "You claim a surprising amount of control over my secrets, Ser Waymar."
If she hadn't resembled a wolf stalking its prey at that moment, may the seven hells consume him. With every step she took toward him, Waymar's heart beat faster.
"L-Lord Commander is from the North," he choked out, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. "He does not follow the faith of the Seven, and he will not condemn you, Ser."
Ser Lyrion stopped at arm's length.
"You agreed to fight at our side, Ser Lyrion," he repeated so quickly that the words almost ran together in a blur. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. The leather of his gloves creaked. "Even if you cannot share your magic with us, the Lord Commander must know how to best use your abilities. This is what commanders are expected to do, to use the strengths of their soldiers."
With a sudden surge of courage, he puffed out his chest and lifted his chin.
"Or are you going to go back on your promise?"
Ser Lyrion's face remained expressionless. In the dim light of the ruin, her eyes were like storm clouds. The tense silence stretched on until...
"Okay."
With that single word, the knight's entire demeanor changed. The tension in her shoulders melted away, and for the first time that day, her face showed emotions other than anger and displeasure.
"Okay?" he repeated the unknown word, completely bewildered. Was this some kind of spell? Would he die in agony? Or perhaps just another of the strange words the woman used to describe completely ordinary things. The sudden smile that appeared on Ser Lyrion's face lit up the interior of the hovel and threw Waymar into confusion.
"I'm just teasing." She shrugged and kicked a pebble, sending it rolling into a pile of rotten wood. "Consider this as my little revenge. I'll even throw in a bonus! Never mistake a woman for a man again. I know plenty of people who would curse you for something like that without batting an eye. And believe me when I say that turning into a frog would be the least of your problems."
She patted his shoulder in what he could only assume was a friendly gesture. He blinked. He could feel his mind trying to catch up with what had just happened. He must have misheard. Was this all just a mummer's farce used to get back at him for his mistake?
"You're not mad?"
She waved her hand as if she were swatting away a pesky bug. "I never considered my powers a secret. They are a testament to my devotion to the Moonmaiden. My pride," she grabbed the medallion hanging from her neck. From this distance Waymar could see the image of a pair of eyes surrounded by seven stars. "I will never renounce them, just as I will never renounce my goddess."
"Oh..."
He suppressed his irritation, because although he felt growing indignation at the whole trick, his ignorance had offended the woman. And such an act was unbecoming of a knight.
"But I still think you should have at least warned me!" she jabbed his chest with her finger. Despite the layers of boiled leather and wool, he felt it very clearly. "It's basic human courtesy!"
"I promise it won't happen again."
"Good."
A terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It seems that neither he nor his family will be cursed. That's right, family. He didn't know what Mormont wanted to achieve by sending the lady knight south, other than keeping her away from his Night's Watch brothers. If it had been Waymar's decision, he would have kept her close.
"My father won't be so understanding about magic," he warned. He probably wouldn't be so understanding about a lady knight either, but his letter should dispel some of his doubts. At least he hoped so.
Ser Lyrion's face twisted into a grimace.
"Yeah... About your father... I'll take any advice you can give. My interactions with the highborns don't usually end well."
Waymar wasn't sure he wanted to know the details. Ser Lyrion must have found his silence telling enough. She held up her hands as if calming a wild horse.
"Relax! No one was hurt. Well, not directly."
"This isn't reassuring at all," he muttered before he could bite his tongue. Ser Lyrion laughed nervously, and Waymar thought for the first time that she couldn't be much older than he was.
“What happens in Elturel, stays in Elturel,” she said as if it were some unquestionable truth. Between the strange creatures that inhabited Ser Lyrion's homeland and the fact that she was a lady knight with magic, there were too many potentially terrifying things to want to explore further.
"My father is a proud and honorable man and a great knight. I wrote everything he should know in the letter. Don't insult him or our family and everything should be fine. And do not mention magic," he looked straight into the gray eyes. "You saved my life, Ser. House Royce remembers."
Ser Lyrion nodded solemnly. The amusement had gone, and determination shone in her eyes. Waymar was filled with peace. Somehow, he knew this woman would not return empty-handed. He only hoped his father could convince Jon Arryn to aid the Night's Watch.
"One more thing." Ser Lyrion paused at the entrance. Outside, the clouds parted, and the sunlight turned the lady knight's hair into a halo of white fire. "Do you think Maester Aemon would take news of magic well?"
The door closed behind the last of the black brothers, and Benjen could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Meetings this early and this long had been the new norm for the past week. A necessity in the face of the looming threat from the north. First the Wildlings gathering under Mance Raydar's command, and now the White Walkers and their army of undead. Did the gods decide to punish him for the mistakes of his youth?
"Thorne is not mistaken. If news of Lyrion Moonwarden reaches the south, the king may demand her presence at court."
It was the best option. He didn't even want to consider the other, much worse option. Everyone knew the fate of Princess Elia and her children. He didn't know yet what to think of this strange woman, but she certainly didn't deserve to die just because of her silver hair. If he were to judge by the ease with which she endured the cold, he would sooner consider her a northerner than anyone else.
"Corn!" the raven landed on Mormont's shoulder and croaked hoarsely into his ear. "Corn! Corn! Corn!" The Lord Commander reached out to close the bird's beak with his fingers, but it took to the air and flew back to the table.
"Damn bird... If what Waymar said is true, I'd be more worried about the Faith than the king."
"She worships foreign gods, but I don't think that's a problem. Certainly not from the northmen."
He had no illusions that this other faith would shield Ser Lyrion from the septons' criticism of her as a lady knight. Septon Cellador had barely noticed her, but that had more to do with his constant and uninterrupted drinking. Benjen wasn't even sure the septon had noticed Ser Lyrion's presence at all. Probably not.
Something outside the window caught the Lord Commander's attention. Benjen followed his gaze. The black brother's figure blended into the mud of the courtyard, but Ser Lyrion's cloak and hair were clearly visible. They were heading toward the abandoned buildings. An unpleasant feeling bloomed in his stomach, and if the Lord Commander's face was any indication, he had similar thoughts. He hadn't witnessed the events of the night, but he had seen both attackers before dawn, one already on the brink of death. He couldn't deny Ser Lyrion's effective brutality. She had handled the surprise attack better than most men. He would have liked to see how she would have handled a real fight, armed and prepared. Now he only hoped that the black brother wouldn't do anything stupid, and that the woman wouldn't blame the other brothers for the night's events. Perhaps if the Lord Commander had meted out a more severe punishment to the attacker, Benjen would have been calmer.
"Keep an eye on her on the road," the Lord Commander's grim voice brought Benjen's attention back to him. "I appreciate her dedication, but few people act so selflessly."
Benjen frowned. "She's made her commitment to her vows clear. I have a feeling even the Wall won't stop her from fighting the Others."
He knew youth and the big words that came with it all too well. He was a boy when Robert's Rebellion began, but he wanted to fight as hard as any Northman. Sometimes he still wondered if his presence would have made any difference. Would Lya return home safe and sound?
"A girl will not break her vows. Her eyes are too sincere for that. It will be worse if she fulfills them very scrupulously." Mormont pulled a simple wooden box from one of the cabinets. "You will take this with you. Proof." He passed the box to Benjen. It fit easily in the palm of his hand. He lifted the lid, and inside lay the shards of a White Walker sword. They were still as cold as the day Ser Lyrion had presented them. “I hope it will be enough to convince the lords."
The box felt disturbingly heavy in his pocket as he left the Lord Commander's Tower. It was as if the magic in the blade shards were pulling him down. He shook his head, clearing the absurd thoughts from his mind. Ser Lyrion had carried it for weeks wrapped in a simple cloth, and Mormont had kept it in his office for several more days, and none of it had been harmed. He decided to ignore the tricks of his mind; he had to prepare for his departure. He had the distinct feeling that the journey to Winterfell with a lady knight would be far from peaceful.
He made a quick mental list. He had to pick up the sword from the blacksmith, pack his things, and probably check on Ser Lyrion. She had arrived in whatever she was wearing on her back, so it would be wise to find something for her. Traveling in full plate armor would be uncomfortable... He stopped mid-step. The woman had arrived with a small bag, barely larger than her hand, yet somehow she had been wearing leather armor for a week now, and he had seen her in two different gambesons. She couldn't get any of them on the Wall. He had to have missed something. But what? He glanced toward the Kings Tower. Ser Lyrion would usually be in the library with Maester Aemon at this time, but today he would be sending out the ravens. She could have stayed in her room, browsed the book collection on her own, or been anywhere else. He decided to deal with that later.
He didn't deal with it later. He met Ser Lyrion only at supper. On her scarless cheek was a mark, probably from a blanket. She looked as if she had just woken up, and for the first time that day her eyes were soft, as if sleep had washed away some of the anger.
"Are we leaving tomorrow morning?" she asked, her voice still hoarse from sleep.
"Right after breaking the fast."
"Great," a wide, but sleepy smile crossed her face.
With a spring in her step, Ser Lyrion moved toward Royce and Will and led them to the edge of the tables. Both of them seemed unhealthily pale. It wouldn't have been surprising, she often sat down with the two of them, but this time they spent the entire meal leaning toward each other, feverishly discussing something, nodding every now and then. Maybe she was telling them more secrets of fighting the undead? He should also ask for more detailed advice when traveling.
Chapter Text
Lyrion fell to her knees. The wooden bowl in front of her and the small mug filled with milk seemed inappropriate, but no matter how chipped, it had to be enough. She lifted the mug and intoned the first prayer.
"Selûne, Our Lady of Silver, I offer you milk, symbol of life, blessing and protection that you bestow upon us. May your light give me wisdom." She started to carefully pour the milk into the bowl. It glowed pale in the moonlight. "Guide me through the darkness of the night, let your light illuminate my path, protecting me from evil and danger. In every dark hour, your light will be my shield and your power my guide. Bless me, that my steps may be sure and my heart full of hope, Moonmaiden, lead me to your light."
She put down empty mug and closed her eyes. She knew her goddess was there. She could feel her warm presence in the moonlight, showering her with divine grace. Yet she felt as if there was an invisible wall separating her from the goddess, and it tore her heart. It was frustrating. Like being able to see your dearest friend but not be able to talk to them. She hoped that this strange state would pass with the full moon. Unfortunately, it didn't, and even if it did, the difference was too small for her to notice.
She moved the bowl back on the platform to prevent any bird from knocking it over. She said her prayers at the top of the King's Tower, away from the black brothers and the torchlight. Apart from the crumbling tower called the Lance and the Wall itself, it was the quietest and highest point she could reach. Although no one could forbid her to go to the top of the Wall, she felt it wouldn't be right to say her prayers there. Its nature was too inhospitable and forbidding.
Lyrion leaned back, admiring the sky. The night was exceptionally beautiful and peaceful. No clouds, just her, stars, and the round moon. Even the unnatural coldness of the Wall seemed less disturbing. Her fingers moved along the wooden platform, drawing spiral patterns in the dirt. She hummed the melody of the first song that came to her mind. It seemed like ages had passed since the priestess Tessele had sat with little Lyrion on her lap, when nightmares woke her, and had sung. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to return to those days, to the warmth of Tessele's hands, to the safety, to her soothing voice.
The words of the song, though quiet, carried in the silence of the night. And when it ended, she sang another. Full of sadness and joy, fearful and uplifting, about what had passed and what still endured. In one moment Lyrion's soul was floating in happiness, only to be consumed by anger and sadness. It soon passed, replaced by infinite energy interwoven with longing, until finally only peace remained.
She wondered if it was full in Faerûn as well. Her friends must have been worried. She had never disappeared so suddenly for so long before. If only she could let them know she was safe and sound. She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure if she should be making such a selfish request to her goddess. Then again, her friends could be reckless when one of their party was in danger. She couldn't help but wince as she remembered Ember's last sermon. She couldn't help but wince as she remembered Ember's last lecture. She was still convinced that she didn't have a death wish.
"Moonmaiden…" she said, unsure of what to say next. "Moomaiden, can you tell Ember that I'm okay? She must be so worried, she doesn't like it when I disappear without warning." The memory of her dearest friend brought a small smile. Ember was too caring for her own good. "I promise that I will do everything in my power to save this world from darkness, and as long as I can lift my sword, until my breath stops, I will fight until the end. You have my word. I will not let you down, nor the people who live here."
For a moment, it seemed to her that the moon twinkled brighter. Another sigh left her mouth. It was not until late at night, when her voice was hoarse from singing and praying, that she whispered "Let your moon be my light, and I shall let my sword be your shining symbol."
After that she fell silent and remained gazing at the moon with a much lighter heart. A pleasant warmth blossomed in her chest. Previous fears and uncertainties were quieted, doubts were dispelled, and a well-known peace filled her mind and soul.
The early light of dawn began to illuminate the horizon earlier than she would have liked. A golden glow had begun to glow in the east, tinting the clouds pale pink, the stars had faded, but the round disk of the moon was still visible. For the first time since arriving at the Wall, Lyrion heard a bird other than a raven or crow. It was twittering somewhere in the trees near Castle Black. It's a pity that it was so quickly drowned out by the cawing of crows.
Lyrion stretched. She had spent the night in prayer and vigil, but with the dawn came the time to put an important plan into action. She jumped to her feet and ran down the tower. The day was looking wonderful, the Wall shimmering with colors and sparkling in the morning sun like the purest crystal. The light reflected off it illuminated the courtyard with a warm glow. Everything seemed more alive. Even the black brothers on guard seemed less gloomy and more energetic than usual. She took back her last thought when the man she had run past almost fell on his face. Now he was blinking like an owl and looking around the courtyard as if surprised to be standing there. Lyrion had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
Finally, she reached a stout wooden keep overlooked by the rookery. Even from here she could hear the cawing of ravens. Why did the people of this world decide to use the raven mail? They had no magic, so birds were a convenient substitute, but why couldn't they be pigeons? They didn't stare at people as if they were about to peck out their guts.
She leaned against the wall and waited, and waited, and waited. The sky had already turned a pure blue, and Lyrion was close to tapping a hole in the ground with her foot when she finally spotted two familiar figures. Will and Ser Waymar approached at an excruciatingly slow pace, both looking as if something had chewed them up and spat them out. The young knight somehow looked worse than Will, which was worrying, because in the time she had known him, he had given the impression of someone who cared about his image.
"You look...bad?" Because what else could she say? They had dark circles under their eyes, their skin was unhealthily pale, and they moved stiffly and sluggishly. "Is everything okay?"
Ser Waymar cleared his throat and straightened, his eyes wandering towards the keep. "Absolutely... Are you sure this is a good idea?" He met Lyrion's gaze for a split second, but looked away almost immediately. He sighed. "Let's just get this over with."
She felt she was doing these people a favor. How were they supposed to fight the ice demons when every mention of magic was met with such a reaction? Maybe she should tell them about the events in Avernus? No, they would both have heart attacks. Maybe another time.
"Do you remember the plan?" she had to make sure.
She considered herself a master of improvisation, but that didn't mean she always acted without a plan. Last minute plans were still plans and she wouldn't change her mind.
They both nodded with a lot less enthusiasm than she assumed they should. If Theren were in their shoes, he'd be vibrating with excitement already.
"Then let's get to work."
Ser Waymar marched toward the Maester's chambers, and Lyrion followed. From what she remembered of the castle’s layout, there should have been quarters above the chambers for recruits. Will separated from them as they climbed the stairs. She hoped she could keep the other black brothers from entering long enough.
Ser Waymar knocked on the door. There was a shuffling sound behind them, and a moment later the Maester's assistant, whom Lyrion had never encountered before, stood there. She had to blink at the sight of the man to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. She knew that humans didn't have the beauty of elves, but even without them on the scale, this man could be considered unpleasant to the eyes at best. And that was if those eyes belonged to someone who had drunk too much ale. Were the ugliest of the black brothers specially assigned to help the blind Maester?
"We must speak with Maester Aemon," Ser Waymar said in the voice of a man who demanded obedience.
"It's still early. Come back later and maybe he'll see you." He began to shut the door. Lyrion moved before she could think about it. She grabbed the door, blocking it.
"This is a matter of great urgency for the Maester's ears only." Ser Waymar’s voice had deepened, and beyond a slight tensing of his shoulders, he gave no sign that Lyrion’s sudden movement had surprised him in any way. "We wouldn’t bother him if it weren’t important. Let us in."
The black brother's eyes flicked to Lyrion. She saw a hint of something in them that she didn't like at all, but she didn't want to bring it up just yet.
"It's important," Ser Waymar pressed, and if his skin was a shade paler than usual, no one but Lyrion seemed to notice.
The black brother snorted in displeasure but let them pass, then led them straight to the library. The Maester was already sitting by the fireplace, facing the flames. His legs were covered with furs, and for a moment Lyrion thought he was dozing, but as the floorboards creaked beneath their feet, he moved his head.
"Greetings Maester. Sorry to bother you so early," Lyrion said as she approached the old man.
"I find I need less sleep as I grow older. Unexpected guests so early in the morning is a welcome change," replied Maester Aemon. "So tell me, Lyrion Moonwarden, how may I help you?"
"I'm here with Ser Waymar. I wanted to say goodbye before I leave," she glanced at her black brother standing by the door, "and talk to you about something extremely important, meant for your ears only."
"Anything you want to say to the Maester, you can say in front of me," the black brother was outraged.
Ser Waymar stepped forward, and though the Maester could not see it, his voice was urgent enough. "It is very important, Maester."
The old man frowned and thought for a moment. Finally, he slowly turned his head toward the fireplace. "Leave us, Chett," he ordered in a quiet voice.
Chett gritted his teeth but left the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. Ser Waymar spared Lyrion a quick glance and took the spot the Maester’s assistant had occupied. His nerves were palpable.
"What did you want to talk about?"
"I have one important question to ask, but before I do, promise me that for a moment you will forget about what is possible and what is not."
The maester mused. "That is a very strange promise. But I think I can fulfill it."
Lyrion breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't even realized she had been holding her breath. "Good. The question is, would you like to be able to see again?"
Maester's face seemed to fall. His unseeing eyes looked somewhere over her shoulder.
"We talked about this..."
"You promised," she reminded him. She didn't like how desperate that sounded.
"Yes. I would." The old man sighed.
Suddenly Lyrion felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders that she hadn't known she had been carrying. She fell to her knees and took the Maester's delicate hands in hers. "Then you'll get it back," she whispered with all the conviction she could muster and closed her eyes.
She directed silent prayers to Selûne, and though weaker than usual, her grace flowed over her. Warmth rose within her. It emanated from her heart and radiated in every direction. She focused to direct it into her hands. She felt them warm up until, like water through thick cloth, the power of her goddess leaked out onto the Maester. She heard a sigh behind her. The floor creaked as Ser Waymar moved restlessly. She ignored both sounds and focused instead on the last breath of magic. The heat had faded, but the memory of it still made her skin tingle. She slowly opened her eyes and looked at the man in front of her.
The old man's eyes, previously clouded with cataracts, became focused, and a shade of purple crossed his irises. His thin fingers gripped hers with a strength she hadn't expected from him. He blinked several times, adjusting to the light. His lips parted, but no words came out.
"It's a miracle," he whispered. "A true miracle."
She took a breath. This small act took much more energy than usual. She pushed aside the sudden urge to doze off and smiled at the Maester. "I was told you are a Targaryen, a human with the blood of a dragon. What kind of monster must one be to deny a dragon its magic?"
A toothless smile crossed the Maester's face, his eyes glazed over. Such pure delight Lyrion had only seen in a select few, and none so advanced in years.
"For so many years, I lived in darkness, and now I have come to see the world once more... I never thought I would live to see the day magic returned. And yet, here it is." He blinked and glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on the speechless Ser Waymar, but then returned to Lyrion. "Are you sure you don't have dragon blood in you?"
Lyrion shook her head. "I come from the Land of the Purple Dragon, but I had never heard of the Targaryens before I came here. I don't think we're related by blood, even if I'd be proud to call you grandfather."
A soft laugh shook the Maester's body. "I understand," he nodded. "I have so many questions. Will you answer the old man?"
"I promise I'll answer all of them, but not today. I have to go, but I'll be back."
The maester leaned back in his chair. Lyrion's grip on his hands disappeared. "Then don't keep the First Ranger waiting too long."
Benjen patted his horse's back. He hadn't seen Ser Lyrion during his morning meal, and there was no sign of her now. And Othor was approaching him. His smile made him feel an overwhelming urge to leave Castle Black immediately.
"Well, well… Has a woman abandoned you? Benji?
His brother's ugly face was too happy when he said his name. Benjen gave no sign that he had heard him. Othor was too happy to abandon his new favorite word. He hoped that by the time he returned from Winterfell, Othor would have forgotten about it or become bored and everything would be back to normal. Why did he have to stand under the tower then? The gods must be punishing him.
Benjen adjusted his saddlebags once more. He then walked over to the horse Ser Lyrion would be riding on and made sure everything was fastened properly there as well.
"Don't be like that, Benji! Just think, a whole month alone with a woman like that! I'd almost trade places with you, but I like my fingers."
"We all swore the same oaths," he reminded finally turning away from the horses. He ignored the comment about the fingers; Othor could be an idiot, but he wasn't evil. "Don't think I'd break mine. And I certainly wouldn't dishonor a woman."
Othor waved his large hand as if dismissing his words. "She already likes you. And if she spent so much time with books before, all you have to do is look better than the Maester and she'll come to you. Look at you, Benji, you've already won!"
He doubted that books were what was occupying their guest's mind, and even if they were, it seemed wrong to even think about Othor's insinuations. He turned to his horse to keep his hands occupied. He had joined the Night's Watch for a reason, and he would die before he broke his oaths. He glanced over his shoulder at Othor. A stupid smile was still on his face.
"Don't you have a patrol to do? Or anything else?"
His brother widened his eyes at him.
"Are you serious? She's so much prettier than all the whores in Mole's Town. Have you seen her butt?" He made a gesture in the air, as if trying to draw a woman's hips. "Not the best butt I've ever seen, but all together? It's like..."
Benjen ignored Othor's words completely. They became indistinguishable from the sound of the wind and the distant clash of swords as the recruits trained. His happiness didn't last long, because Othor began to sing. His loud voice echoed through the courtyard.
"...Now this is number one and I'm buttering up her bun. Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again!"
The worst part was that in any other situation he would have joined in the singing, but how was he supposed to look Ser Lyrion in the eyes when he was listening to Othor suggesting he fuck her in the grass like a common whore?
"Othor, enough."
His brother's grin widened. A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. He took a deep breath and intoned the next verse in an even louder voice.
"Now this is number twooo! Down in front, I'm coming throoough!"
Benjen had been patient, but that patience was running out. He had gathered some of the snow from the pile of rubble that hadn't melted yet. He had seized the moment when Othor had closed his eyes, making very graphic gestures that matched the words he was singing. He had stepped behind him and shoved the snow down his collar.
"Stark, you fucking bastard!" He howled, jumping around like a drunken goat, trying to reach the cold slush.
Benjen found this a very satisfying sight. He couldn't hide his amused smile as he leaned against his horse. "I remembered that verse differently."
At the last moment he dodged the slush flying towards him, but that prevented him from noticing the black mass hurtling towards him.
"Stark!"
Benjen suddenly found himself with his head under Othor's arm. They pushed past each other until a speck of silver flashed in the corner of his eye. His brother must have noticed his sudden stillness, because he stopped as well and looked up. Ser Lyrion was leaning against her horse's back, and Benjen thought he had never seen her so happy. Even if her eyes seemed a bit tired.
"Don't pay any attention to me."
Benjen managed to pull away from grip. He cleared his throat and smoothed his rumpled coat.
"How long have you been standing here?"
"Since number two." She turned her head toward Othor. "I don't predict a career for you as a bard, but I admit the song is catchy."
"Ha! See, Benji? Some people can appreciate a good song!"
Benjen ignored his brother's words. An uneasy feeling was growing in his mind that he would not be able to enjoy the peace of his presence for a long time after his return from the south. With these dark thoughts, he climbed onto his horse. He glanced briefly at Ser Lyrion. His brows furrowed in confusion; he saw no additional bag anywhere.
"Where's your stuff?"
"Don't worry about a thing. Everything's here." She patted the bag, barely larger than her hand.
It was foolish to leave such good quality armor at Castle Black. Even Othor agreed with his words.
"Like I said, it’s all here." Ser Lyrion looked amused. Benjen had the feeling he was missing the joke, but no matter how hard he pressed, the answer remained the same. " Shall we go, or would you like a moment to yourself?"
Othor's loud laughter could still be heard far beyond the last towers of Castle Black.
Notes:
The song sung by Othor is 'Roll me over' by Oscar Brand
Chapter Text
There was something magical about travel. It hit you by surprise when you least expected it. Just one was enough to make it impossible to stay in one place for too long. Even when Ember and Garret bought a house in Waterdeep to settle down, neither of them could go a month without at least a few days’ journey into the surrounding forests or villages. For Lyrion, it was even harder. Since losing her first home, she had been on the road all the time. She spent over twenty years wandering the wilderness, slogging through haunted dungeons, and helping common people in every village she encountered. The road was familiar, for a long time the only semblance of home.
Traveling in Westeros was unfamiliar. Shortly after leaving Castle Black, they passed through a peculiar village, much of which was underground, but other than that, nothing happened. Grasslands stretched to the horizon. There was no risk of a sudden goblin attack here. Trolls, kobolds, and cultists serving the dark gods did not exist in these lands. No owlbears or giant spiders...
"Are there giant spiders here?"
Benjen looked up from his simmering hare stew. The smell was wonderful, enough to make Lyrion's stomach rumble.
"I've heard stories of ice spiders, but I've never seen one," he poured the stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to Lyrion along with a piece of dry, black bread. "Shadowcats pose a greater danger. They hide in the darkness. Only their eyes are visible. Shattered bones and torn clothes are what remain of a man who had the misfortune of coming across a single, hungry shadowcat."
"Huh…"
Lyrion dipped bread into the thick stew. The barren taste was comfortingly familiar. She settled back in her bedroll and leaned against the thick trunk of an old oak tree. Its branches stretched far out, blocking out the darkening sky. She spotted a raven among them. A shiver ran down her spine. She had felt eyes on her constantly since leaving Castle Black. They were definitely not Benjen's. She could tell because he was currently trying to pick up the remains of his stew with bread, and Lyrion's skin was still numb from the unwanted attention. She couldn't see any other creatures nearby, so that left the raven. She could have sworn that she had seen the beady eyes of the bird and its friends peeking out from the leaves in the darkness a few nights ago.
Two more days passed, and the bird was still in sight. It lurked in the branches. It disappeared for hours at a time, but it always returned. Lyrion picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at it. It hit the branch with a dull crack that echoed through the forest. The raven squawked, as if mocking her, and flew away. Benjen threw dry sticks on the fire and looked at Lyrion.
"Something wrong?"
"That raven is following us," she replied without taking her eyes off the spot where the bird had been a second ago.
"It's a raven. It won't hurt us." Benjen shrugged. "Maybe it's hoping for scraps."
Lyrion gritted her teeth but said nothing more. She would have to watch the bird closely. She won't let herself be surprised.
"You don't like ravens," he stated after a short moment of silence.
She patted her horse on the back one last time and sat down by the fire. "They are malicious creatures, cruel and full of lies. They do not bode well." She wrapped her fingers around the amulet. Whenever the ravens appeared, someone was suffering. Lyrion was not going to let this happen. Not this time.
She could feel Benjen's piercing gaze on her. He often looked at her like a puzzle to be solved. She got used to it. Sometimes it was amusing, like when he tried to understand where she had pulled the sword from (after all these days, he still refused to accept the existence of bag of holding), but sometimes it seemed as if he wanted to peer into the beginning of her story. Then he looked at her ears and Lyrion had to use all her will to stay calm.
"You'll have to get used to them. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are plenty of them in Westeros." Benjen threw a log into the fire, and the flames shot up like greedy hands. "You've probably seen the colony at Castle Black. They're used to send messages throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
Lyrion rolled her eyes. " Those ravens were normal and didn't follow people every day. This one is just weird."
Her companion became serious. He glanced in the direction where the raven had disappeared. Lyrion felt a surge of triumph. He also watched the bird.
"I don't think it's a warg."
Lyrion frowned. She was sure she had come across the term in some old tome, but she couldn't remember what it meant. The sudden seriousness on Benjen's face was alarming.
"Explain."
"In the North, we have legends of men who can change skins. They can see through the eyes of animals." The fire sharpened Benjen's features, giving them a monstrous look. "I don't think there are any wargs south of the Wall. We haven't seen any signs of Wildlings either, so it's probably just a raven hoping for scraps. You don't have to be afraid of either the bird or the wargs."
She wasn't afraid of these wargs. Their abilities were somewhat reminiscent of those of druids, which was a bit of a surprise. There was the question of loyalty. Who did they serve? What were their goals? Perhaps, once they left the lands of the Night's Watch, the raven would fly away. But still, who was looking through its eyes?
Some time later, as Lyrion lay in her bedroll, she glanced at Benjen. He had taken the first watch that night. He was carving a piece of wood with his knife. The sound of the blade chipping away the shavings was rhythmic and, together with the crackle of the fire, created a soothing background.
"People of this land are weird."
"Why do you think so?" He didn't stop whittling.
She needed a moment to gather her thoughts. The weather was nice, the fire was warm and cozy. She could hear the crickets hiding in the grass. That, and the whole day of riding, made her mind work slower than she would have liked. "Everyone says that magic died with the dragons, but among you there are still creatures and people gifted with it. It's like you want to get rid of magic. It's strange and disturbing."
The rhythm of whittling faltered for a moment but quickly returned to its steady pace.
"The place you come from—is the magic still alive there?"
The flames danced in the stronger gust of cool wind that managed to blow through the trees and bushes around them.
"Yes. It’s wonderful,” she murmured, closing her eyes. "My friend studies it at the academy. When we first met, he could barely summon light. He almost blew up the prison of the Flaming Fist. Now he can conjure a massive firestorm and bend it to his will. A talented beast, that one." Her lips curved into a lazy smile. Gods, she really missed her party. She couldn't remember if Benjen had said anything in response. She gave in to the sleepy feeling and closed her eyes.
Lyrion yawned and sniffed. She shouldn't have taken off her ring at night just because the fire had kept her warm. She woke up with a cold nose, a damp bedroll, and a foul mood. On top of that, the streak of beautiful days had ended, heavy drops were falling from the sky and it didn't look like it would clear up anytime soon. At least the birds weren't flying in the rain
Benjen rode up to her and held out a heavy waterskin towards her. "Here, this'll warm you up."
She sniffed the contents and took a sip without much hope. A pungent warmth spread down her throat. She was pleased to discover that it was not gulletfire ale they shared at meals, but a wine that tasted quite pleasant. "You've been hiding something like that all this time?" she smacked her lips in disappointment. "Not nice, Benji."
Lyrion pretended not to see the flash of irritation on his face. She took another sip and handed back the waterskin.
"Do you know that because of you Othor is not letting me live?"
"Your singing friend? He seemed nice."
She heard a string of indistinct grunts interrupted by the snorting of a horse. She scratched her mount. His shaggy coat was now limp from the rain. She promised to give him a proper brushing at the first opportunity.
"He heard you call me Benji."
"But you look like Benji!" she made a chaotic gesture with her hand. "Just look at you. Benjen is such a serious and dignified name, not that you're not serious or dignified. You are. But I literally see you and immediately hear 'Benji'. I can lend you a mirror and you'll see for yourself."
He stared at her in disbelief for what must have been an eternity. Finally he blinked, an amused spark in his eyes. "How would you shorten the name 'Eddard'?"
She tapped her cheek.
"Eddy. Definitely Eddy."
Benjen flinched. He looked like he was trying not to laugh, but eventually gave in. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Please, never call my brother that in his presence," he gasped. He shook for a long time from uncontrollable laughter.
"As you wish," she sniffed again, but the smile never left her face. They rode in silence for a moment. Lyrion adjusted her cloak, hoping it would keep the moisture out of her clothes. "By the way, why didn't you mention that they were your family when I asked about the Northern rulers? That would make things much easier... Lord Strak is your father, grandfather, cousin...?"
Benjen was silent for a moment, considering his answer. The stoic, brooding face he was now wearing didn't suit him at all. Plus, the rain had made his hair limp and he looked particularly depressing. Still handsome, but a smile definitely suited him better.
"Lord Eddard Stark is my brother," he said, and Lyrion made a mental note to never, ever address this man 'Lord Eddy'. "You really haven’t heard of the Starks before?"
"This is my first time in Westeros." Lyrion pursed her lips.
If she was to be honest, aside from the royal family, she didn’t even know the noble houses of Cormyr. Her mentor might have mentioned one or two names, but she hadn’t paid attention at the time. As a nine-year-old child, she had far more interesting things on her mind, and that never really changed later in life.
"The history of House Stark is as old as the history of the Wall itself. For eight thousand years, there was no other king in the North but a Stark. That comes with a certain recognition." He adjusted his grip on the reins. "You really must be from very far away."
"I have no head for noble houses, but I can recite almost all the sacred texts of the Selûnites and a few of the Lathanderites." It was a skill Lyrion was vaguely proud of, though probably not very useful now. She didn’t miss Benjen’s inquisitive glance. "What? I'm a paladin—my life quite literally revolves around religion."
"I didn't say anything."
The landscape began to change. To the west, a forest emerged, growing denser with each passing day, and far beyond it, pale, jagged mountain peaks loomed in the distance. To the east, rolling fields stretched on unchanged, now covered with a thin layer of snow and interspersed with groves.
They stopped by a rushing stream. The sun had not yet set, but it was already approaching the horizon. Lyrion took a moment to shrug off her leather armor. Although incomparably lighter than her full plate armor, having the extra weight off her shoulders was like a breath of fresh air after too much time spent in musty dungeons.
"Oh yes!" she moaned, arching her back. Then she jumped on the spot a few more times.
She heard a rustling sound behind her, but didn't care. She knew it was Benjen. " There's a... Is everything okay?"
"That's what a tenday in the saddle does to a person," she announced, twisting her torso. She had never spent so many days uninterrupted on horseback. There were always some changes in the form of skirmishes, small villages, or tracking down a deserter. Or teleportation, but she preferred to forget about that incident. "When you said we were traveling on the Kingsroad, I thought it would be a bit busier than it is."
"The further south we go, the busier it gets," he walked over to his horse checking his saddle. "There's a farm a ways from here. If we leave now, we should get there before dusk. Maybe they'll let us spend the night in the barn."
Lyrion froze in mid-motion. She wanted to finally take a bath, the river would be perfect for that, but the idea of a dry shelter was just as nice. Ultimately, it was her spiritual side that made the decision. A family living in such an isolated place could use healing, or prayer and a simple blessing.
Holding back a sigh, she put her armor back on. She fastened the last clasp and jumped onto her horse. "Okay, lead the way."
They headed east, leaving the Kingsroad behind for a much worse maintained path. Minutes before dusk, the sky cleared and orange light flooded the endless fields.
An unpleasant shiver ran down Lyrion’s spine. She slowed her horse and scanned the land around them. Apart from the hut in the distance, she saw nothing worth mentioning. She jerked her head up just in time to see a raven fly by. It circled overhead and flew toward the house.
Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head. The bird had made her premonitions run wild and ultimately useless. She caught up with Benjen, and as she drew level with him, she gave him a smile.
"Will you tell me another story about your amazing ancestors?"
"Today it's your turn."
Lyrion gave him a look that put every ounce of irritation she could muster. "You thought the mind flayer invasion was a load of crap," she said. She didn't hide her indignation.
"I understand the White Walkers exist, they've been talked about since the Long Night. But you have to admit that beings with tentacles that can mess with people's minds, feed on human brains, and plant parasites in their heads as a form of reproduction is a bit much. Not to mention the strange world of madness they're supposed to come from. I admire your imagination, Lyrion, but I'll never believe something like this could happen." He scratched his stubbled cheek. "Still, I admit you're a very good storyteller."
She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide whether to take offense at the thought that her story was fiction or accept the compliment on her storytelling skills.
"Would you consider a tale of spiders that once caused a camp to burn down true enough?"
Benjen shrugged. Movement was barely visible through his heavy black cloak. "I'll decide after I hear the story.
"Oh, you’re asking for trouble, Benji."
Lyrion focused on the house in front of them so she wouldn't have to see the amused smirk on Benjen's face. At the same moment, another shiver ran down her spine, and an unpleasant feeling appeared in the back of her mind that she couldn't ignore. Something was wrong. She stopped her horse, carefully scanning the shack. From this distance, she could easily make out details. A wheel leaned against the wooden wall, another lay abandoned in the neglected garden. There was a loud squawk, and Lyrion noticed a raven sitting on the roof. He turned his head, never taking his eyes off her. She slowly led the horse to the crooked fence, trying not to think about the beady eyes watching her every move.
"Wait here, I'll be right back." Benjen handed her the reins and walked toward the door.
Lyrion jumped off her horse, intent on stretching her legs, when her ears caught the faintest sound of steel being drawn. Without thinking, she grabbed her morningstar and ran for the house. The first thing she noticed was the broken door. It lay abandoned and broken in front of the house, as if someone had attacked it with an axe. She saw Benjen. He stood on the threshold, sword in hand, ready to fight. Then she saw the bodies.
Chapter Text
He knew something was wrong the moment he noticed there was no smoke coming from the chimney. This wasn’t the first slaughter he’d witnessed. It wasn’t the bloodiest either, but the sight of men slaughtered like cattle always made his stomach twist. He hoped Lyrion would listen and stay with the horses. She shouldn’t have to see this. He raised his sword, ready to ward off the attack at any moment, took a steadying breath and stepped through the door.
The stench of rotting flesh hit him instantly, forcing him to cover his nose. His vision blurred and only after a moment did he realize his eyes were watering. It took him another minute to look around the room. It was dark, but he could see black spots and white pieces. If this were a forest, he would have mistaken them for puddles and bits of fallen weirwood branches. They weren't pieces of wood. He took a step forward and felt something touch his foot. A round shape, not much bigger than his clenched fist, rolled into the room.
He heard a rustle behind him. He reacted before he could think. He turned, ready to thrust his sword at his attacker. He stopped at the last moment, the blade barely an inch from Lyrion's chest.
"You were supposed to stay with the horses!" he hissed, lowering his sword.
Lyrion didn't seem to hear him at all. She was looking over his shoulder, straight into the darkness of the house. Her face was pale, her wide eyes seemed to glow in the gloom. She was trembling. He could almost hear her teeth grinding as she took a heavy breath.
"This is not something you should see," he said firmly, stepping in front of her.
Very slowly the silver eyes moved to his face. Benjen's mouth felt dry. It wasn't fear that gripped Lyrion, it was anger.
She opened her mouth. The air seemed to tremble with words spoken in a language he didn't know. They were beautiful and terrifying in an incomprehensible way. He had never heard anything like it before. They sounded like a song not meant for human ears. Benjen's chest tightened. He felt he wasn't worthy to hear these words. He lowered his sword and looked away.
The words fell silent, but the unsettling feeling in his chest didn’t disappear with them. Quite the opposite. The silence was so deep it rang in his ears, settled in the pit of his stomach like a too-heavy stone, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his skin went numb. Benjen’s breath caught in his throat the moment he looked at Lyrion. A black shape loomed over her. It was bigger than a horse, maybe even bigger than a bear. Two burning points drilled into his companion’s back.
The monster moved. Fangs, each the size of a dagger, glinted in the dim light. Benjen wasn’t thinking much at the moment. He was probably staring death in the face, but if he could buy Lyrion a few extra seconds to escape, it would be a good death. He raised his sword and…
“Find them,” Lyrion’s voice boomed through his clouded mind like thunder, low and strangled, as if she were trying not to shout. “Now!”
The monster behind her threw back its head and howled. Teeth and every bone in Benjen's body rattled. At some point he must have dropped the sword. All he knew was that a pair of burning eyes had suddenly disappeared, and he stood covering his ears.
Suddenly he could breathe again.
"Seven hells, w-what was that?!"
Lyrion stood impassive. Her chest heaved as she took a heavy breath, but she said nothing. She walked past Benjen as if she hadn't seen him at all. Only the steel grip on her arm made her pause for a moment.
"Lyrion!"
Inhuman silver met blue gray. For a moment, Benjen felt as if time had stopped. Silver surrounded him, as if he were staring into the clearest starry sky. He was brutally brought back to reality when Lyrion yanked her arm away and entered the house without a word.
What had just happened? A monster, a direwolf, larger than any he had ever seen, had appeared out of nowhere. And Lyrion ordered him as if he were an ordinary hunting dog. And he listened.
Benjen's eyes went to the ground. It was dark, but he could still make out the trail of grass being torn up as the beast ran. But that was all. It was as if the monster had appeared out of nowhere... Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Royce's uneasy behavior around Lyrion, Mormont's words, her surprise at the lack of magic in Westeros... All the oddities around Lyrion made sense. The way she calmly accepted the news about the wargs, her knowledge of fighting the undead, objects appearing out of nowhere, incredible stories about people wielding magic, strange rituals every night, and monsters from the darkest nightmares. She knew magic and knew how to use it.
The White Walker. Lyrion had arrived just in time to destroy it and save Royce. The boy was skilled with a sword—Benjen had faced him a few times and could say so with a clear heart—yet he had been unable to defeat the Other. Lyrion's arrival could have been a lucky coincidence, or a carefully placed decoy.
He picked up his sword. He weighed the blade in his hand as if drawing it for the first time. What could a simple steel do against magic? It hadn’t even been able to destroy a White Walker. He turned toward the house. It was dark inside, but thanks to her light cloak he could make out the faint outline of Lyrion’s body. He liked her. He was afraid she would be a demanding type used to comfort, but she turned out to be great company with a penchant for barren stews and funny stories. But if she posed a threat, Benjen would fight. Even if it meant fighting a monstrous direwolf or her enchanted weapon.
The raven on the roof croaked, and suddenly Benjen remembered all Lyrion's words, about birds and the misfortune they bring. The hand with the sword twitched.
"What are you doing?"
He grimaced. His voice, though barely above a whisper, rang out in the silence of the night.
Lyrion remained silent for a long time. She wrapped the body at her feet in a piece of cloth. Her movements were stiff but precise. She was a knight, she must have seen death. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded disturbingly empty. "The dead must be buried."
Benjen wet his lips. Some of the fighting energy left his body. "Did you know them?" He mentally kicked himself. A stupid question, Lyrion had never been to Westeros before.
He looked at the sword in her hand. After all, Lyrion hadn't given him any reason to think of her as a vile and devious sorcerer. He sighed heavily and sheathed his sword. Mormont knew about magic, and yet he had sent Lyrion south to deliver the letter. He was his Lord Commander, and Benjen was going to trust his judgment.
It was late at night, almost dawn, when the funeral pyre flames lit the darkness in front of the house. Black, thick smoke arose in clouds. The night air was cool. Benjen could imagine the faint scent of grass and the smell of damp earth, but now the stench of burning flesh dominated everything. It settled in his nose and kept him from forgetting the cruelty. Benjen didn’t want to think about the pieces of flesh that were missing, the bare bones that remained, and the ones that had disappeared. He told himself he couldn’t see the too-small hands being devoured by the fire. His hand ached from the force with which he clenched it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t track down the Wildlings responsible for the crime. There were too many of them to face.
Lyrion's stiff silhouette seemed unreal against the flames. She flashed and faded into the long shadows. Benjen started as she spoke for the first time since sunset.
"Kelemvor, judge of fate, in your hands rest the souls of those who passed away too soon. May they find their place in your kingdom, not endless night, nor flames of woe, but peace. May they know freedom in your quiet halls of eternity" she took a shuddering breath. The next words were spoken with a feeling incomprehensible to Benjen. "As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too all life. Selûne, guide my hand towards justice, give me the strength to respond with destruction and ruthlessness to this unholy act of evil and bring peace to the tormented souls."
The wood on the pyre snapped with a dry crack, sparks flowed into the sky. A cold shiver ran down Benjen's spine. Something touched his cloak. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing but the dark, rolling fields. Through it all, he was beginning to see things. He pulled on his furs as a cold wind blew between his clothes. For a moment, it drove away the smell of the burning pyre.
A long howl pierced the night's silence. Benjen's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword against his will. He knew the wolf was far away, but the memory of the black beast and its blazing eyes was still fresh in his mind. He forced his hand to relax.
"It will be dawn soon, we should get some rest."
"Then rest," she didn't take her eyes off the pile for a moment. She looked more like a statue than a human being.
Benjen sighed and turned to the horses. There was nothing more he could do. He might as well take advantage of the sleep.
"They're dead," he said quietly. "There's nothing you can do to help them."
He had barely closed his eyes when a sudden noise forced them open again. He jumped to his feet, his hand on his sword ready to fight at any moment, while trying to figure out where he was. Before he could straighten up, a dark streak flashed in front of him. All he could see was the cloak moving away.
"That woman..." he gathered his things, threw them into the saddlebags without any order and composition and jumped on the horse. "Go! Go!" he urged, digging his heels into the gelding's sides.
He raced past the ruins, jumped over a low fence, and galloped after the silver cloak.
Let the Others take Lyrion... He would never let her stand guard again. Not when he was so clearly losing his mind. What was she even thinking? There might still be Wildlings nearby, too many for them to be safe together, let alone oneself. She would die before they reached Winterfell.
He gritted his teeth and urged his horse on again. The sound of hooves echoed. He heard the distant clang of metal. Men-at-arms? No robber would wear metal armor. The sound came from ahead, so Lyrion had to use her magic to pull the armor from somewhere. How convenient that she could just summon things.
Benjen passed the forest wall. Ancient oaks and crooked apple trees made the chase difficult. Their twisted, slippery roots were a death trap in the dim morning light. He slowed to a walk. Lyrion’s cloak disappeared and reappeared as she weaved through the trees, but with each step she seemed to get closer.
He realized he couldn't hear the sounds of animals. Years of wilderness expeditions had put him on alert. He was in a terrible position if attacked. The trees were too dense for him to swing his sword freely.
In front of him, Lyrion's horse suddenly stopped. She slid off his back, landing with a soft clang of metal on the mossy ground. She seemed to be searching for something. Benjen tightened his heels, and his horse moved a little further. Lyrion was indeed wearing her armor.
"They were headed south," she said without even looking at him. "They don't have horses, we should catch up with them in a day or two."
Benjen could only stand and watch. She really was foolish enough to give chase. "There's a group of at least ten Wildlings," he said, trying to sound calm. "Every one of them is an excellent hunter. They know how to move through the forests. They know how to set traps and ambushes. You can't defeat them alone!"
She turned her head toward him. Her eyes glowed unnaturally in the gloom. The thought that she might not have been human at all crossed his mind.
"You can stay here, or you can continue on to Winterfell. I will not break my oath. I intend to find them and make them pay for their deeds."
She lifted her chin, as if encouraging him to try to dispute her words. Benjen clenched his teeth.
"This is foolish," he growled. "They must be Wildlings from the Ice-river clans. Cannibals. Very cruel. We can stop at Last Hearth, Lord Umber's men can hunt Wildlings-"
"No."
"Lyrion-"
"How many people will die before we reach this Umber? They are mere men, they cannot fight. Not like us!" Her shoulders rose and fell as she took heavy breaths. "You are a black brother, you are supposed to protect the people on this side of the Wall!"
Heat surged through Benjen's gut.
"I'm a black brother, but I'm not a fool!" he shouted. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Right now he really wished Lyrion was from the Night's Watch. Then she would have listened to him. "We are only men, and they greatly outnumber us. I say this with a heavy heart, but there is nothing we can do if we end up dead."
The silence was so thick it seemed to press in on them from all sides. Lyrion tightened her grip on the hilt of the morningstar.
"Then it's good that I'm not just human."
She turned on her heel and led her horse through the trees, deaf to Benjen’s calls. He cursed darkly and tugged on the reins of his horse. He couldn’t let stupidity kill the only person who could fight the White Walkers. If the gods were kind, they might survive this. Or her magic. Benjen wouldn’t complain if the monstrous direwolf tore apart a few Wildlings.
Panting heavily, leaning back against a tree, Alyn tried to catch his breath as his eyes darted nervously between the trees. The cold air turned his breath into a mist. He tightened his grip on his little sister. Her face was covered in tears and snot, and she still wouldn't stop crying. He gritted his teeth. His legs and arms shook with the effort, and each breath ached in his chest. He wanted to sit down and forget about everything, but he couldn't. His parents, grandfather, brother had sacrificed themselves so that he and little Sara would have a chance to escape.
"There he is!"
"Catch him!"
He swallowed his tears and ran again. He mentally cursed his grandfather, who had dug in his heels to stay in The Gift.
His breath burned mercilessly, but he kept running. He had deceived himself that after five days he had managed to lose his pursuers, but on the sixth he heard the harsh cackling carried by the wind again, and from that moment on he kept looking over his shoulder.
Through the trees he could see Queenscrown. The holdfast was in ruins, and the road leading to it was treacherous, especially now, covered in frost and ice. He hoped his knowledge of the terrain would allow him to reach the keep. After all, everyone told him he was as agile as a deer.
"Come back, ya little shit! We made a nice little fire to cook ya!"
He wanted to cry. His parents often told him about the Wildlings, but he never thought they would come for them. He forced his legs to work harder. He had never run so fast, but it still wasn't enough. Branches slammed into his face, leaving dozens of scratches on his cheeks.
The arrow whistled past his ear. Sara cried and sniffed. Alyn could already see the lake surrounding the fortress. Its surface was covered with thin ice, too thin to walk on. Before the despair could intensify, he pushed the dark thoughts out of his head. If necessary, he would fight. He would do anything to at least make Sara alive. Even if it was not enough.
Suddenly the whole world tilted. The ground was getting closer and closer. He managed to reach out one hand to protect Sara from being crushed. He turned onto his back and saw the fletchings attached to the shaft sticking out of his thigh.
The Wildlings emerged from the trees only a few paces away. Each wore mismatched animal skins. They wore the bones as if they were decorations. Their faces were dark with grime, their hair wild and matted. And each carried some kind of weapon. The largest of the group, with a large, rusty axe, smiled cruelly. The way he looked at Alyn reminded him of a dog when it was given a bone with bits of meat.
Gods, they really want to eat us!
"Well, well... It was a fun little hunt, wasn't it? But now it's over!"
Alyn tried to get to his feet, but immediately felt a terrible pain in his right thigh. He pushed Sara. "Run!" Sara wasn't even crying anymore. She clung to his arm and stared at the approaching Wildlings in pure terror. "Run!" he repeated louder, but she only tightened her grip.
He felt tears streaming down his face. Why wasn't she running away? She had to at least try.
There was a nasty cackle. The huge Wilding stood just above them. Alyn could smell the sour stench of his body. He saw him reach out in slow motion towards Sara. No, he wouldn't let that happen. He kicked him in the shin with his good leg. The amused expression disappeared. He growled, raised his axe, and suddenly the whole world seemed to shake as a terrifying howl filled the air.
"What the fuck was that, Errok?" asked a woman with a bow in her hand.
"Wolf," he muttered, but he didn't look so confident anymore as he looked around the forest.
Alyn shifted, pushing Sara further. He had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound as the arrow caught a protruding root and dug deeper into his leg.
"And where are ya going, ya brat?!" roared another Wildling and roughly grabbed him by the clothes.
In the next moment, several things happened at once. There was an unpleasant, wet sound mixed with a crack like splintering wood. Between the Wildlings' legs, Alyn saw a body fall and a flash of red on the silver-white frost.
"Incendē!"
Behind Alyn, golden flame erupted. The Wildling screamed, raising his hands to his face, but Alyn didn’t hesitate. The pain in his leg suddenly became irrelevant. He wrapped his arms around Sara and crawled away under the twisted apple tree. He watched with horrified fascination as the man fell to the ground, lifeless. His breath caught in his throat as he held his little sister to his chest. What was happening? Magic? Or maybe the gods?
"Fucking magic!" the huge Wildling, Errok, raised his huge axe.
Alyn couldn't tear his eyes away from what was happening right in front of him. A large knight in armor so shiny it must have been made of the purest silver was destroying the Wildlings as if they were no match for him. Errok swung his axe at him, but the blade only slipped off the triangular shield and hit the ground harmlessly. The knight raised his spiked weapon, it gleamed a delicate green in the sunlight, and struck the nearest Wildling. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, the dirty leather did nothing to soften the blow. Even from this distance, Alyn could hear the crack of breaking bones.
"Who the fuck are ya?" Errok stepped away from the knight and pointed his axe at Alyn. The boy flinched as the rusty blade came too close to Sara's head. "Some southern, kneeling knight-wizard who came to save the boy?"
"It doesn't matter who he is! That bastard killed Hogg!" The Wilding woman strung her bow.
The knight remained silent, slowly turning his helmeted head toward the woman.
"Fuck it! Let's kill this bast-"
Wilding fell silent forever as the weapon crushed its head. Alyn covered Sara's head, sobbing in his arms. She didn't need to see the red goo seeping from the body. He wanted to look away. His stomach felt like it was in his throat, but he couldn't stop watching. A vengeful satisfaction filled his heart as another Wilding fell dead.
It was like a dance. The knight easily avoided the blades. Two arrows pierced the shield, the axe screeched against the armor, but it didn't slow him down at all. He swung his mace, destroying more Wildlings like an unstoppable force of nature.
Alyn had to swallow bile as the lower half of a particularly ugly Wilding's jaw landed at his feet. His tongue was still quivering. He kicked the fragment of flesh away from him, fighting a new wave of sickness.
Suddenly he felt someone pull his hair with brutal force and a cold blade press against his cheek. His head was pressed into the trunk behind him. He hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't let go of his sister.
"Not one step further, or the boy dies!"
The knight hesitated for only a second, but it was enough for the great club to hit him square in the head. He staggered. The Wilding raised his club again. Before he could lower it, another golden flame appeared from the sky. The scream was short-lived.
The knight straightened up. He looked like the impersonation of vengeance. He was covered in blood, and bodies were lying on the ground around him. Alyn struggled to tear his gaze away from the blade and stared at the knight. I am unimportant, he wanted to scream, save my sister. But he couldn't make a sound.
The Wilding bared his yellowed teeth in a smile.
"You'll let me go" he growled, shaking the hand clenched in his hair, deaf to Alyn's moans. "Or the boy will lose his head."
The knight lowered his weapon. No, no, no! He can't surrender. Not now. He can't!
"Fucking kneeler," the Wildling muttered into Alyn’s ear, his grip tightening on the boy's hair. The sour stench hit his face. “Get up!”
A booming growl filled the forest. It made Alyn's teeth chatter and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something huge crashed against his back. He fell, his knees colliding painfully with protruding roots. Something hard caught under his head, and stars danced before his eyes.
The next thing he knew, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She said something, but he didn't understand a word. The beautiful sound enveloped his mind. It was like a soft blanket on a cold night. Was he dead? Tears flowed from his eyes. He was still holding Sara to his chest, he couldn't save her. He had failed.
Chapter Text
Benjen shifted his weight from one leg to the other very slowly. The thick bushes and shadows hid him from unwanted attention. A sudden burst of laughter made him stop. Fatigue faded away. The bush rustled, and an incomprehensible string of words, which he recognized as the Old Tongue, grew louder as one of the Wildlings approached Benjen's hiding place. He pulled a knife from his belt and pressed himself flat against the tree. The damp moss felt cold on his cheek.
The Wilding passed Benjen and stopped under another tree. Benjen tightened his hold on the knife. He quickly covered the distance between them. He put his hand over the man's mouth. The Wilding didn't even have a chance to move, the blade of the knife slit his throat. Choking on his own blood, he fell to the ground.
Benjen froze, listening. Wild's companions were still talking. He retreated to his previous position and looked out over the branches. Three men sat by the fire, one of them cleaning his axe, the others' weapons lying on the ground among the furs. The crookedly stitched hides blended with the gray-brown tree trunks.
Somewhere in the branches a raven squawked. One of the Wildlings rose. He waved his hand at the bird, uttering harsh words. Loud laughter filled the forest.
Benjen cursed his lack of foresight. He could have taken the bow with him, then defeating the other two would be a breeze.
Suddenly, the birds that had been chirping quietly flew out of the trees like a dark cloud. The Wildlings fell silent. Everyone stared at the other side, standing with their backs to Benjen. The shortest of them picked up his bow from the ground and entered the trees with an arrow drawn. Whatever it was, Benjen thanked the gods. He drew his sword from its scabbard as quietly as he could. He walked around the bush and, silent as a shadow cat, approached the Wildling standing closest to him.
He swung his sword at the same moment that the Wilding turned to face him. The sword cut through his torso from shoulder to hip.
"Crow!" the other shouted, reaching for his axe.
Benjen raised his sword, ready for another attack. Suddenly an arrow flew by, narrowly missing his head. With a pounding heart, he jumped behind the tree. One opponent at a time.
Another arrow struck the trunk. A shrill cry echoed through the trees, like a choir of suffering souls. Benjen hoped this would mean another one less.
The axe whizzed dangerously close to Benjen's head and dug into the tree behind him with a dull crack. Before he could straighten, the Wilding kicked him in the shin. He staggered, gritting his teeth. He swallowed a curse. His movements were too slow and clumsy. He needed rest. Next time, if he had to, he would tie Lyrion to a tree.
He pushed the distracting thoughts out of his head. The Wilding gave up trying to pull out the axe and drew his knife.
"Die, ya fucking Crow!"
He swung the knife like a man possessed. The bone ornaments on his belt rattled with every movement. Benjen jumped back. He kept glancing down at his feet. Slippery roots and thick bushes protruded from the ground.
Suddenly, the Wilding staggered. Benjen planted his feet and swung a powerful overhead swing. The sword dug deep into the skull, up to the bridge of the nose.
Benjen listened, but there was no sign of the archer returning. He had to meet his end, whatever it was. He hastily yanked the blade from his skull and wiped the sword on the hide of the dead Wildling, whatever lurked in the forest might turn towards him. He froze mid-movement as hot breath hit the back of his neck. He swallowed, heart pounding, and turned to the huge direwolf.
In just a few short days, Benjen's world turned upside down. He alternately wanted to laugh, scream, or sit in silence, staring into the fire. To his own surprise, it wasn't magic that was unsettling him, but a massive creature with blazing eyes that was apparently completely and undyingly loyal to Lyrion. This black as night monster was capable of tearing people apart before they even knew they were in danger. And it could apparently hear its mistress's thoughts. So maybe there was some magic in it? That was a thought for later.
Now, the same creature was sitting in front of Benjen on its haunches, its pink tongue hanging out and its tail slapping the ground over and over again. The fur on its muzzle was clearly wet, though the color didn’t show the red sheen. The direwolf must have torn a Wildling to shreds when he tried to stuff him with arrows, and now it was behaving like an overgrown puppy. A strange mixture of relief and fear flooded Benjen.
He rose from his crouched position. Even standing upright, his head barely reached the beast's snout. Despite the fact that the beast had clearly saved his life, he was still afraid to turn his back on it. Suddenly, the direwolf froze and bared its fangs. A low growl made the air shiver. In an instant, Benjen felt cold and hot at the same time. The direwolf snapped its giant jaws and moved in a direction known only to it. For its size, it maneuvered through the dense trees with terrifying ease.
"I'm too sober for this…"
Benjen sheathed his sword, its clang like a boom in the silence. He looked around the camp. Chaos reigned everywhere. Skins and furs were strewn on the ground between the bodies. The fire in the hearth was dying, the wood was still glowing. He did not dare to move the meat on the makeshift spit. Someone left a bag made of crookedly stitched leather next to the stone. When he nudged it with his foot, it rattled. He winced as several skulls fell out. Fortunately, he saw no human skulls amongst them.
All signs indicated that these Wildlings were indeed Ice-river clans. Warning bells started ringing in Benjen's head. He defeated four of them, and Lyrion went after the rest. It was a large group. More and more Wildlings had tried to cross the Wall recently, but this was the first time Benjen had seen so many of them this far south. They had to flee from the White Walkers. It was the only reasonable explanation. Nothing else would have driven them this far.
He needed to talk to Ned. Without the support of each of the Seven Kingdoms, the Night's Watch will not survive the Long Night, and with its fall, the human world will fall. He could already feel a headache coming on. Ned, as Lord Stark, had always supported the Night's Watch to the best of his ability. The real challenge would be convincing Jon Arryn, and with him all the other southern Lords. To them, the White Walkers were just stories of snarks and grumpkins.
A howl echoed from deep in the forest.
He decided he would worry about politics later. Right now, he had to find Lyrion. He hoped she could deal with the Wildlings as easily as he did.
Getting the horses to approach the lake that surrounded Queenscrown, was impossible. Honestly, he wasn't surprised. He could see the massive shape of a direwolf through the trees, and anyone with a ounce of common sense would have kept their distance from the black beast. Benjen wondered how Lyrion had managed to tame it. Either she has had it since he was a pup, or magic had played a part. He knew that the old Kings of Winter have had direwolves as companions, but that was ancient history; the details had faded with the passing of the years.
He tied the reins to a low branch and stepped out of the trees. He stopped mid-step. Bodies littered the ground, the coppery scent of blood mingling with the scent of apples in the air. He counted eight dead Wildlings, one clearly torn apart by a direwolf. Two of the bodies showed no signs of struggle. They looked as if they had been sleeping, but their chests did not rise and their eyes were empty. Benjen’s skin went numb. He supposed that answered his question about how Lyrion fought in a real fight.
"...don't worry little one, it's just Benjen" he heard Lyrion's soft voice. She was crouching at the edge of the battlefield. "He's a friend, he fought the Wildlings too. He's a black brother of the Night's Watch."
She was talking to a small child who was hugging a slightly larger, unconscious boy; he couldn't have more than eight name days. Benjen saw streaks of tears on the younger one’s thin cheeks. They both looked like they’d been through hell. The child sniffed, wiped away tears with a tiny fist. Lyrion pulled a tissue from her bag and wiped dirty and snotty face.
"A-alyn?"
"Alyn is sleeping. He was injured and needs to rest." Lyrion brushed a lock of hair from the child’s face. She glanced over his head at Benjen. "Shall we camp somewhere nearby? Benjen?"
The direwolf nudged him with his big head.
"What?" He blinked. "Aye, we'll set up camp."
Lyrion gave the child a tired smile. It didn't reach her eyes, but it was clearly enough for the child. "Do you want to go with Benjen?"
The child shook it's head and held out it's hands to Lyrion. She looked expressively at her armor, covered in the filth of battle. Her lips twitched as if in disgust. She sighed and took the child into her arms. Then she turned to Benjen. " Will you take the boy? I've healed his wounds, but I don't think he'll wake up anytime soon. Gods know how long they've been running."
Yes, that was completely normal. Magic could heal wounds just like that. Benjen didn't know a thing about magic, so he wasn't going to question Lyrion's words.
He lifted the boy. He was light. The black hair at his right temple was matted with blood, but there was no sign of the wound. Only blood where there must have once been a nasty gash. Many men have been defeated by lesser wounds. How powerful was Lyrion's magic? Could it pull a man from the brink of death? Or restore a lost limb? If so, the price would be enormous, and he didn't want to know.
He realized that Lyrion wasn't anywhere near him. He turned to where she had been a moment ago. She was still standing by the corpse of the Wildling.
"Are you going?"
"May Jergal forget their names," she hissed. For a moment their eyes met, and Benjen could see the pain and anger that tore at her.
She turned away from the battlefield. Her back seemed straighter than before, her step lighter and more springy. The Wildlings’ crime must have weighed on her. Benjen had lived long enough to know that the tales of knights were examples of the few, the best of men. Lyrion seemed like that - strong to fight for the weak. She called herself a paladin. Is this what these warriors were like? People who use magic to protect others?
The direwolf had been standing on the sidelines, watching Lyrion and the children carefully. When they moved toward the horses, he shot forward. The beasts neighed and shuffled their hooves as they approached. The direwolf stopped and whined piteously. Lyrion mumbled something in that strange language. She sounded displeased. The direwolf snorted, glanced at Benjen out of the corner of his eye, growled at the horses, and ran into the forest. Why did he feel judged by the beast?
"Is it normal to talk to scary creatures where you come from?"
Lyrion gave him a look that was remarkably like that of a direwolf.
"Depends" Lyrion did something strange with her cloak around the baby. It reminded Benjen of the way mothers carried babies on their bellies wrapped in scarves. She clambered onto the horse's back, gently cradling the baby's head. It seemed so easy when she did it. "Where do you want to set up camp?"
"Follow me," he climbed into the saddle with considerably less grace. "So, talking to beasts?"
Lyrion fell helplessly onto a fallen tree. She tilted her head upward. The sky was thick with clouds that night. She might not have seen the moon, but she knew it was there - a thin crescent surrounded by stars. What she would give to be able to see Selûne and her Tears once more. A heavy sigh escaped her lips.
She wanted to sleep, but she was afraid that if she closed her eyes for even a moment, unwanted memories would come back to haunt her. She bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, and she didn't like it. There was anger at the group of Wildlings, monsters in human form who were guilty of murdering innocent people and desecrating their bodies. They were as bad as the worshippers of Bhaal, maybe even worse. Overwhelming sadness and a searing grief for the two little children who would never see their family again. It brought back unwanted memories from years ago. The time she had lost her home and family. Tired, because the irrational rage that had fueled her like hellfire for the past three days had finally subsided, and her body was crying out for rest. Finally, when the last Wildling had died, she had felt relief and fulfillment; she had fulfilled her vows. She wanted to think that in doing so, she had saved another little Alyn, who would never have to flee with his Sara or mourn his family.
Lyrion sad? A deep voice rumbled in her head.
There was also this pleasant feeling of lightness. It radiated from her heart and filled her whole body. It pushed everything else into the background. She realized that she was happy. The foreign world had become a little more familiar, with the arrival of a faithful friend. Even if the circumstances were painful, she was glad that he was here with her. Someone she could trust completely, someone she could count on.
She tilted her head slightly, just enough to see Fluffy’s blazing eyes. He took his role as protector very seriously. He kept to the camp’s perimeter and growled at anything that got too close—two squirrels and a magpie that had been attracted by the glint of armor. It was cute in its own way, but she would never tell him that.
"Just tired," maybe if she repeated it out loud it would actually come true. She held out her hand to the direwolf.
He immediately ran over to her. His large paws made almost no sound. Lyrion buried her face in his fur. It was incredibly soft and thankfully no longer smelled of blood.
Lyrion should sleep. The direwolf’s deep voice echoed in her head. Fluffy will watch over her. No one will hurt Lyrion!
She stifled a laugh. She reached up high above his head and scratched him behind the ears. His tail immediately wagged. With each strike of the ground, dry leaves and sand flew into the air.
"You know that just being there is enough? You can be quite intimidating. You don't have to strain yourself."
Fluffy tilted his head.
Fluffy takes care of Lyrion's pups. Even when the little pup touched Fluffy's clean fur with its dirty paws.
He let out a disgruntled huff as he glanced at little Sara, snuggled up to her brother. Both children's heads barely poked out from under the covers. Lyrion wished she had one more blanket in her bag. The warmth of the fire and the bedroll would have to do.
"I'm sure she was so enchanted by your fur that she couldn't resist."
Fluffy snorted. Of course he did. Fluffy has the most beautiful fur! He proudly straightened to his full height. He marched majestically past the fire. He stretched out his front paws and bent his body strangely. His black fur shone beautifully in the soft light. He walked like this a few more times, then looked expectantly at Lyrion.
"Yes, yes. Everyone would like to have such beautiful fur."
He puffed out his chest and trotted over to the log she was sitting on. Lyrion knew perfectly well what Fluffy was trying to achieve.
A loud snore came from the other side of the fire. Lyrion's lips curved in amusement. Benjen was half lying, half sitting, leaning against a tree. Only his nose peeked out from the fur of his cloak. He was asleep, clutching his sword to his chest. Judging by his twisted position, the next morning would be a painful experience for him.
At Lyrion's suggestion that Fluffy should keep watch, Benjen made a funny face. Then he loudly and long assured her that he was not tired at all and could stay on watch himself. Well, he lasted an impressive hour before sleep overcame him.
Fluffy gasped again, drawing Lyrion's attention.
"Is something wrong?"
Fluffy doesn't like the Curly Man. Fluffy ate the smelly man, but the Curly Man didn't thank him. The Curly Man is an ill-mannered boor.
He gasped again and looked at Lyrion. He had somehow mastered the look of a sad puppy. The effect was enhanced by the white patch on his ear and the equally white socks on his forepaws. At that moment, his large, blazing eyes were far more deadly than his fangs or claws.
"No, Benjen is a friend. You can’t scare him," a sad whine filled the silence of the night. She sighed. "I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Happy?"
He abandoned his sad puppy pose. His giant jaws opened, and only through pure luck and Lyrion's intimate knowledge of the direwolf did she manage to close them again with her arms. What should have been a loud bark turned into a choked, indeterminate sound. He blinked in surprise.
"The kids are sleeping," she nodded toward the bagroll occupied by siblings. "You don't want to disturb them, do you?"
He shook his large head. He seemed completely unaware of the extra weight hanging from his snout in the form of Lyrion.
"Okay" she sighed, releasing muzzle. She yawned long. She wanted to get back on the log, but Fluffy's jaws clamped down on her collar with the force of a vice.
Lyrion should sleep.
Ignoring her protests, he dragged her to the place next to the children. Somehow, Lyrion suddenly found herself on Benjen's bedroll, a far too large mountain of very warm, very soft fur on top of her.
"Fluffy!" she cried into his chest. It came out more like inarticulate sounds. She immediately regretted it. Too much fur had ended up in her mouth.
Puppies are sleeping. Fluffy's thoughts were filled with self-satisfaction.
Lyrion managed to free her head from under the bulk. She spat the fur out of her mouth and gave her friend an offended look.
"Fluffy, get off me," she repeated, this time in a whisper.
He only huffed in response. Lyrion is right. Fluffy is intimidating. Fluffy can watch over the camp from here.
Chapter Text
It was nice. He was surrounded by warmth, the bed was comfortable. He felt one of his siblings at his back—probably Sara; she was the only one who clung to his back like a burr on a dog's tail. Somewhere in the distance, birds were chirping. He buried his face in the thick fabric to escape the light seeping through his eyelids. It smelled different than usual—a bit like smoke and something floral. It also wasn’t as rough as he remembered.
Unintelligible words broke through his foggy mind. The voice was that of a man. It was soft, a little rough on the edges. And it didn't belong to anyone he knew.
Alyn froze. The events of the last few days came back to him like a worst nightmare. His eyes snapped open. He dared not move.
The man sat with his back turned to him. From where he was sitting, Alyn could only see the outline of a black cloak.
"...I thought he ate you. I only saw your hand and you didn't answer."
A woman's voice answered him.
"Why would he eat me? I would be a terrible snack. Besides, I was sleeping and there was almost no sound from under so much fur," there was a moment of silence. "Don't even think about mentioning it to him. He already thinks you're an ill-mannered boor."
There was a crash of metal and something heavy hit the ground. A weight pressed against Alyn's back. A small hand caught in his hair. He had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing. Sara was alive. Sara was alive and she was here with him. He glanced at the man. He could still see his back, not a woman anywhere. He remembered the knight destroying the Wildlings. If they were his friends, he should be safe. He took a calming breath and turned to Sara as gently as he could.
His little sister was sound asleep, softly snoring. Her face was clean, with no trace of wounds, dirt, or tears. Her dark hair must have been braided earlier, but now it looked like the familiar rat’s nest Alyn knew so well. A thin trail of drool trickled from her mouth.
He felt wetness on his cheeks. No one who wanted to hurt them would take such care of his little sister. Or maybe they really were dead?
Alyn reached out a trembling hand. He froze in front of Sara's face. He was afraid that if he touched her, she would disappear. Then her eyelids fluttered and a moment later he saw the eyes he knew so well.
Sara blinked once, twice and jumped to her feet.
"Alyn!" she cried, jumping at him. Her thin voice was the sweetest sound in the world. All the bad thoughts disappeared the moment Sara's bony knee hit Alyn's stomach.
"Ugh!" he gasped as he tried to catch his breath.
"Alyn's awake! Alyn's awake!"
Small arms embraced him with all the strength they could muster. Alyn ignored all discomfort and buried his nose in his sister's hair. This wasn't a dream. It hadn't failed. They were alive.
"Alyn's awake!" Sara called out directly into his ear.
"Yes, he's awake," the female voice from earlier was much closer and sounded amused, he could tell even with the ringing in his ears.
Alyn twisted his head to look over Sara's shoulder. His mouth went dry. He was saved by the entourage of a lady or princess. The woman was beautiful. On top of that, the sun made her hair look like a crown of white light. She didn't seem real. She was far more beautiful than Errena, and Joran couldn't stop talking about her...
It was strange to think that he would never hear Joran again. Joran who had been as tall as a spruce and as strong as an ox. He had talked about his fiancée with such a stupid smile, and in the evenings he had made up the funniest stories. They had been in the forest when his fearless brother had put Sara in Alyn's arms and told him to run. Then Joran had torn the axe from the trunk and run home. He had not been frightened by the screams, not like Alyn.
A pair of bony knees dug into Alyn's stomach again. The air left his lungs. In the next moment, the weight of Sara was gone.
"Sara, you need to be more careful, your brother was badly injured."
"Sowy."
A warm hand touched his shoulder. It wasn’t nearly as delicate as he would have expected from a lady—or a princess. He swallowed, trying not to think about the fact that someone like her was paying attention to someone as insignificant as him.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm good, m'lady," he gasped, blinking hard. He managed to straighten up and sit up on the bedroll.
The woman made a strange face. One eyebrow arched upward, and her lips twisted into a crooked smile. Only then did Alyn notice the jagged scar. The skin stretched ugly as she moved.
"I'm no lady," she gracefully lowered herself onto the bedroll in front of him. Sara broke free from her arms and trotted over to Alyn. Without thinking, he put his arms around his sister and sat her on his lap. "I'm Lyrion Moonwarden, and that man in black is Benjen Stark of the Night's Watch," she pointed to the man, who now turned to face them. "I don't know how much you remember, but you were hurt pretty badly. I healed everything I could. You slept through the night and half the day. How are you feeling?"
Alyn looked away from the grim Benjen Stark. He remembered something hitting him on the head. He touched where there should have been at least a bump, but there was nothing there. Well, his hair was a little matted and rough, but other than that his skin was smooth.
"I'm good, m'lady."
Lady Lyrion's gaze was too intense.
"Just Lyrion" the woman tilted her head. "No pain? No nausea?"
"I'm good, m'lady," he repeated. In reality, he had probably never been so healthy and rested. He clenched his teeth and buried his face in Sara's hair. Why does he feel so bad if he is apparently so healthy?
"If anything changes, let me know. We'll have a meal ready soon. I'd like you to take it easy until then. From what your sister told me, you've barely eaten anything since you ran away."
Alyn nodded slowly. He felt strange, like he was suspended in a dream. He licked his chapped lips. He had to ask, no matter how much he feared the answer.
"Is my family..."
"You lived in a house near the stream?" He nodded slowly. Lady's face softened. "Your family, they're all with the gods now. Do you have anyone else who could take care of you?"
He blinked as the sting in his eyes intensified. Would Old Olly adopt him and his sister? He was grumpy, but he was friends with Alyn’s grandfather and respected Joran. Alyn could help him work in the fields. Errena was nice, though her brothers could be as glum as their father.
"Old Olly, he's..." he sniffed and immediately wiped his wet cheeks. He felt a calloused hand on his head.
"Grieve for as long as you need to, but don't let the grief consume you. It's a bottomless pit, you won't get out of it easily. Remember the living, remember your sister, okay?"
He nodded, sniffling again.
"Alyn," the sudden intensity of her voice made him flinch. "The Wildlings responsible for this will never harm anyone again. Their bodies belong to the earth now, the ravens will feast on their bones until they turn to dust, their names forgotten."
The awful feeling that had been haunting him since he had run away with Sara in his arms hadn't gone away, but it no longer burned.
Lady Lyrion rose from her bedroll and walked over to her companion. Sara shifted uncomfortably in his arms. Sometimes holding her was as hard as catching a fish with your bare hands. Now he would have to take care of her. He was the older brother, and she was his responsibility.
"Fluffy!" she cried, waving her hand.
Alyn looked in the direction his sister was pointing. His breath caught in his throat. The blazing eyes stared straight into his soul. Had he survived the Wildlings' attack just to die in the beast's jaws?
"...I think that's more than enough. Can you leave it there?" A pair of legs appeared in Alyn's vision. Lady Lyrion approached the beast without fear. "Looks like we'll have deer stew for dinner today... Do we have any apples, Benjen?"
Alyn didn't hear the answer. The black beast opened its jaws, the deer's carcass fell to the ground with an unpleasant sound. Sara twisted, a dissatisfied groan leaving her lips.
"I want Fluffy!" she sobbed, stretching her arms out to the huge beast. Alyn had no intention of letting her go. "Fluffy!"
The beast licked its maw and lay down next to a pile of armor that gleamed in the sun. It never took its eyes off Alyn. The Lady's voice pierced Alyn's ears as if through a fog.
"Don't worry, he won't hurt you."
"It's a big wolf," Alyn managed to choke out, his voice becoming squeaky.
Lady Lyrion sat down next to the beast. She pulled a knife from somewhere and reached for the stag. "Fluffy is actually a dire wolf. And he's a good boy."
Benjen Stark gasped for air, and that was the only sound that kept Alyn from breaking down. That, and Sara's constant squirming. "You named him Fluffy?!"
The beast raised its large head and growled at the man. Lady Lyrion rolled her eyes.
"Everyone, this is Bane Fluffington, but he prefers Fluffy. I assure you, he won't eat any of you and..." she snapped her head up, narrowing her eyes as she pointed her knife at the beast. "Oh no, I'm not going to say that."
The beast snorted and fell back onto its paws. Alyn could only think how tiny Sara seemed compared to the direwolf. She almost sank into the black fur...
"Sara!"
Lyrion watched Alyn closely. The boy was quiet and had barely moved since Fluffy's arrival. It was only Sara who managed to get him moving. Now he was sitting with a bowl of stew in his hand, Lyrion could clearly hear his stomach growling, but he had only been staring blankly at his sister for many minutes while chewing the same piece of meat.
She wanted to give the boy some space, but she was afraid that what had worked for her might not be right for him. She knew his loss too well. Sometimes, when she squinted, it seemed to her that for a moment his figure would gain mass, his hair growing longer and straighter, his brown eyes giving way to dirty green. In moments like that, she had to clench her hands, her nails digging through her skin. This is not Aric, she repeated in her mind like a mantra. The boy would not change his silver robe for a black cloak, he would not slaughter innocents.
She bit the inside of her cheek and turned her attention to the squirming Sara. Sara was easier to care for. She was young, she didn't understand what had happened, and Fluffy's presence seemed to calm any crying fits that hadn't been calmed by her brother's company. Even now, she sat on Lyrion's lap and refused to eat until Fluffy lay down next to her.
"No!" she turned her head away from the spoon. Lyrion sighed, placing the nearly empty bowl on the ground. Sara reached out her small hands toward the direwolf. "Fluffy!"
Fluffy gave Lyrion only a blank look. Shortly after returning from the hunt, he had accepted that if he wanted to keep his hearing intact, he would have to let Sara snuggle up to him.
I'll brush you later. She sent him a thought before reaching for her meal. He gasped, turning his head, but Lyrion didn't miss the twitch of the tip of his tail.
"I still find it disturbing to leave anyone near... Fluffy," Benjen muttered as she sat down next to him. The direwolf's name sounded strange on his tongue. "Why not Bane? It seems to suit him more."
"When he was teething he tore apart the leg of Bane cultist. Garret thought it was the perfect commemoration of his initiation into combat, but Fluffy didn't like it" she still remembered the cultist's screams and the stubborn ball of black fur that wouldn't let up. He was nothing like that ball now, he was smaller than Sara then. Lyrion looked at the children. So young, and already the world was testing them. "How long until we get to Winterfell?"
"A moon, maybe a little less." He finally tore his gaze from Fluffy to Alyn. The boy took another bite of stew. "More if we take the kids with us."
"Do you think that Olly won't want to accept them?"
Benjen put down his empty bowl and grabbed an apple from the pile. There was a stiffness in his movements that comes with people who have fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position.
"Life in the North is not easy. I wouldn't be surprised if a man didn't want to have more mouths to feed under his roof... But mostly I was thinking about chasing the bandits. It will take a long time to catch every single one."
Lyrion crumbled the last bits of bread into her stew, pretending not to notice the judging gaze. It had been easier with Garret. They had sworn various oaths, but in the end they had both thrown down the gauntlet against all evil that threatened innocent life. One knowing look was enough for them to pursue and bring justice. Ember and Theren had never questioned it either. She had chosen to ignore that one memory from Avernus.
"How did you defeat eight Wildings?"
The bread had softened enough that biting it didn't require much effort.
"I sneaked in."
"In full plate armor?" Benjen glanced at the armor lying in the sun as if it were a bloodthirsty mimic. He frowned. "Another magic trick?
"For your information, I'm quite good at sneaking… sometimes," her teeth stopped on something hard, she spat a piece of cartilage onto the ground. "And I have a ring of invisibility."
"Sure. Magic. No question." Benjen sighed.
Despite herself, the corners of Lyrion's mouth turned upward. "I have to admit, you're taking this better than Ser Waymar did at first." She tilted her head. "He got a little weird before we left."
When Lyrion spoke to him after restoring Maester Aemon’s sight, he remained silent for almost the entire time, staring at her like Theren would at any of Elminster’s works—with a mix of respect and reverence. It was a little unsettling, but she figured she shouldn’t worry about something that soon wouldn’t be her problem. Maybe by the time she returned to Castle Black, Ser Waymar would have gone back to normal. That would be nice.
"You didn't destroy a creature of legend in front of my eyes," Benjen bit into the apple. Juice ran down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. "And the old Starks kept direwolves as companions. Other than that, I didn't see any other magic" he fell silent for a moment, clearly thinking about something. "And please, let me think that all the creatures you spoke of don't exist. They're worse than Old Nan's stories, and she knows all the legends of the North."
A sudden squeak made Lyrion jump in place, star in hand, carefully scanning her surroundings. Sara rose from her knees, jumped twice, and threw herself again onto Fluffy's shaggy back, squealing with delight. The direwolf turned its large head toward Lyrion and gasped.
Pup plays. Lyrion can eat.
Heart pounding, she sank back to the ground. How on earth had the priestess Tessele been able to control a whole horde of energetic children and still run the temple so smoothly? Lyrion couldn’t understand it. As a child, she had suspected that it must have been a form of magic that only priestesses could wield, and she still held that belief.
Chapter 12
Summary:
My friend thinks Fluffy has a russian accent so it's canon now
Chapter Text
Water is falling from the sky. Again. Water should be on the ground. On the ground, it won't stain Fluffy's fur. Fluffy is fed up. Fluffy wants Ember's house... Ember's house is dry. And there's a fireplace. Fluffy wants to lie down in front of the fireplace. It's dry in front of the fireplace. And warm... Fluffy's fur is nasty. Fluffy's fur can't be nasty... It's a disgrace to Fluffy's dignity.
Lyrion's eyelid twitched. In fact, it had been twitching for some time. She adjusted her hood and hugged Sarah closer to her chest. She completely agreed with Fluffy. Such weather should be waited out in a dry place. Unfortunately, Alyn, whether due to poor sense of direction or fear, ran in the completely opposite direction of Old Olly's homestead, forcing them to backtrack north, and consequently, there was no trace of civilization anywhere.
Lyrion glanced at the silent boy. She wanted to complete her goddess' quest as soon as possible. After all, the fate of the world depended on it. That night, her dreams were haunted by more visions. She remembered a bird falling from the sky. It was large, perhaps a bird of prey? Above it, another, much smaller one hovered, chirping in a mocking manner. She couldn't recall the details, but she felt that something important had happened. She tightened her grip on the reins; the mission was crucial, but she had no intention of turning her back on people in need.
She sighed heavily and focused on the narrow road ahead, which was slowly turning into a river of mud. During the night, it started to snow. The flakes were small and melted before they touched the ground, so Lyrion didn’t pay it any mind. Only by morning did the snowfall intensify, and as dawn broke, it grew warmer, resulting in continuous rain. The rain was cold, striking the skin like hundreds of tiny knives. Everyone was already soaked to the bone. Benjen returned to his gloomy expression—the same one he wore before they had dealt with the Wildlings. Water dripped miserably from his nose. He looked as if he were trying to swim in a lake while fully equipped in Night’s Watch gear. The children were wrapped in furs that Benjen had prudently packed. While Alyn sat calmly, his sister squirmed constantly and loudly expressed her displeasure.
...Fluffy looks like a wet dog... And smells like a wet dog. Fluffy complained non-stop. He trotted along a short distance away, a shadowy shape against the dark trees through the wall of rain. The horses became too skittish when he got too close. This is an insult to Fluffy's dignity.
Lyrion rolled her eyes. Irritation was starting to get the better of her. Apparently, wolves and dogs are family, she remarked sarcastically before she could mentally bite her tongue.
The dark shape that was Fluffy stopped suddenly. A pair of burning eyes peered through the rain.
Insult! Fluffy is a direwolf! He gasped indignantly. No dog will ever be worthy of comparison to Fluffy!
Sara twisted around and cried.
"Want to go!"
"Hold on a little longer, little one. We'll reach our destination soon," she hoped she was telling the truth. She wrapped the fur tighter around her little body. Convincing Sara that riding Fluffy was a bad idea was a battle only slightly more challenging than keeping her in a good mood.
Sorry, my friend. She sighed. With her free hand, she pushed the wet strands of hair out of her face. I guess we're all a little on edge.
Fluffy didn't answer. Lyrion only saw the movement of a smaller, dark streak, most likely a tail, and in the next second it shot forward. Great, now she had an offended direwolf on her hands.
Around highsun the rain finally eased to a drizzle. Sara had fallen asleep some time ago, snoring softly. From her perspective it must have been a long and boring trip.
Benjen guided his horse to the side of Lyrion's horse. His face twisted in concentration, as if he were pondering an exceptionally complex riddle. The ends of his dark hair curled more than usual.
"This bag of yours…" he adjusted his grip on the reins as he considered his next words. "If it can hold armor, can it hold a man?"
"Yup" she popped the 'p', she felt the approaching suggestion. "And before you say anything, no, we're not putting kids in it."
Alyn seemed to flinch for the first time this day. He stared at the bag, eyes as big as coins.
Benjen focused on the bag and frowned.
"I assume this could end bad?"
"Magic items have certain requirements and limitations. Just because magic is magic doesn’t mean you can do anything with it. It’s like a sword, it has its uses," she wondered if Theren would find her explanation acceptable. He could recite any rule of magic in his sleep. More than once, he’d woken her by mumbling entire pages from magical tomes, down to the punctuation. Lyrion had checked it herself—night watches could be boring as hell.
"Has anyone ever put someone in yar bag, m'lady?" A quiet voice made Lyrion look at Alyn.
"I don't think so? But there are others, and someone must have done it at some point. It's common knowledge, after all," she shrugged. "A bard friend of mine put one of these bags inside another one and let's just say it didn't end well."
The fact that the guy had done it in a crowded tavern was terrifying. Blackstaff himself set out to bring the people back, though there were rumors questioning the nobility of his actions. Lyrion had never met the wizard in person, and Theren, when speaking of the academy, focused solely on magic—never on the people.
"What happened to him?"
"A portal opened and pulled him and thirteen other regulars into the Astral Plane. It’s like… a world beyond the material one." Lyrion hoped it was just a trick of the mind and that Benjen hadn't moved his horse away from hers. "Most of them were safely brought back home."
A sudden gust of wind made the drizzle just as unpleasant as the earlier downpour. The cold cut through the wet clothes like an icy projectile, and not for the first time, Lyrion was overwhelmed by the fear that the children might fall ill before they reached their destination.
Benjen mumbled something indistinct under his breath. She caught the word 'magic' and something about common sense.
"Is that why yar ears are pointy, m'lady? Because of magic?"
Despite herself, Lyrion's muscles tensed like a bowstring. She considered ignoring the question.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend..."
She forced her jaw to relax, her teeth aching from the clenching. He was just a curious child. Finally she spoke, her gaze fixed on some undefined place, far ahead.
"The blood of Tel'Quessir, the blood of elves, flows in my veins" each word felt like walking barefoot on hot coals. She breathed a sigh of relief as the last sound left her lips. Neither Benjen nor Alyn seemed to understand what she was saying. After all, the people of this world did not know elves. A familiar feeling nudged her mind, saving her from the need for a more detailed explanation. She strained her eyes; a dark shape loomed on the horizon. The rain limited visibility, but she was certain it was some kind of building. "I see a house, is that Old Olly's?"
The boy stretched his head, leaning out of the saddle. He squinted, trying to make out the distant building.
"I don't see... But that tree looks familiar, m'lady." He pointed to a large oak tree, part of its trunk blackened and twisted, as if struck by lightning many years ago. He frowned. "There should be a large boulder behind that grove. Then continue straight ahead."
They passed a grove, a cluster of slender birches with white-gray bark growing loosely and dense berry bushes. Among the branches, Lyrion spotted the dark shape of a raven. It remained silent, its beady eyes never leaving her for a moment. She ignored the urge to summon sacred flame upon the bird and urged her horse forward.
As they approached, the outline of the house became clearer. Warm light flickered in the windows, casting a gentle glow on the ground in front of the house. Someone sat on a bench by the wall, a small roof sheltering them from the rain. Suddenly, the dog at their feet sprang up and barked. The person lifted their head from a piece of wood they were working on and froze. Lyrion saw them clench their hand around a small knife, while the other reached for a long-handled axe.
"Who goes there?" They called out in a loud voice. The man stood up from the bench. He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were as broad as a tree, and he stood slightly tilted to one side.
"Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch!" Benjen replied, then looked at Alyn. "Do you know him?"
The boy nodded but said nothing. They halted their horses in front of the man. He moved closer, limping on one leg. The dog circled them, sniffing. The man gave Benjen a sharp glance, frowning, his gaze lingering longer on Lyrion.
"Since when do women serve in the Watch?"
"I'm not of the Watch. You're Old Olly?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Benjen sliding off the horse's back. He grabbed Alyn under the arms and slid him to the ground. The boy's legs buckled, unused to riding.
"Old Olly is my father. My name is Mors," he leaned against the axe and glared at the boy. Thick eyebrows rose in surprise, almost disappearing into his shaggy mane. "Alyn? What are yar doing here, lad?" he looked at Benjen. "What is he doing here?"
"Can we talk inside?"
Mors eyed them warily.
"Aye, come on in."
Lyrion slid off the horse. Sara's eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes.
"Ma?" she rubbed her little eyes with her fist.
"It's just me," Lyrion hugged her to her chest. The wet fur tickled her cheek unpleasantly.
She followed Benjen and Alyn. She had to duck to avoid hitting her head on the door frame. The house was warm inside, the air smelling of soup and smoke. A young woman sat by the hearth, working with a needle on a piece of cloth, quietly humming a sad tune to herself. She didn’t notice them. An older man was tying slender twigs together at a narrow table. He was nearly bald, the remaining tufts of hair above his ears were milk-white.
"Who are these people?" The old man croaked without stopping his work. His voice was unpleasant, like the grinding of sand. At his words the woman fell silent.
"The Night Watch." Mors hobbled to the bench, the dog did not leave his side for a single step. "They brought Alyn."
The old man, who must have been Old Olly, threw the twigs aside and only then raised his head. His face was weathered, deeply lined.
"What do yar want here? The laddy lives farther down, by the stream."
Benjen sat down on the bench opposite the old man. His black cloak seemed to press his shoulders to the ground. Wet hair covered his forehead and fell into his eyes, giving him an exceptionally grim look.
"The Wildlings attacked his family, they are the only survivors. Can you take them in?"
A deep wrinkle appeared on Old Olly's forehead.
"Joran! Is he...?" the woman covered her mouth, her knitting lying forgotten on the floor. Tears glistened in her eyes, and a quiet sob shook her body. Sitting nearby, Mors awkwardly put an arm around her.
The noise fully woke Sara. She cried and arched her small body. Lyrion set her down on the ground. The girl immediately shrugged off the fur and clung to her brother's side.
Old Olly was silent for a long time. He rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily.
"Sorry, boy. Yar grandfather was a good man... Are the Wildlings still around?"
"They're no longer a problem," Benjen assured.
"Good, good..." The old man nodded and looked at Alyn. He pressed his hands together, twiddling his thumbs. The boy cringed under his attention. "They can stay until the end of the summer, but no longer."
"I can work!" the boy lifted his chin, but immediately shrank back as everyone's attention focused on him. "'ll earn my keep. I can do it."
"The days grow shorter, one of my sons is a cripple, and my daughter's betrothed has passed. I will not condemn my family to starve. I was yar grandfather's friend, and for his sake alone, I'll grant ya shelter until the summer's end."
Lyrion gritted her teeth. She hadn’t thought the boy could look any more defeated. She wouldn’t let the children wander the world alone. If she had to, she would take them to the nearest village, but she preferred to leave them in a place they knew. She dug her hand into her bag and threw a few gold coins on the table.
"If old friendships mean nothing to you, this should cover the cost of food." The old man flinched at her harsh tone, but then his eyes widened at the gold clinking on the table. Lyrion didn’t know what value it had in this world, but judging by his expression, the man was probably seeing it for the first time in his life. She ignored Benjen’s burning gaze. "Will you take children into your home now?"
He blinked and opened his mouth a couple of times, he looked like an old fish out of water.
"I can heal your son too," she offered. She would have healed him whether he took the children or not, but the old man didn't need to know that.
Old Olly finally snorted, coming out of his shock.
"Mayhaps ya'll bring the dead back to life as well?"
"The Moonmaiden has not given me the power over life and death, but as long as your son lives, I can heal him."
"Can ya do that, m'lady?" Mors rose heavily from the bench. One hand was still on the shoulder of the hiccupping woman.
"Don't be stupid," Old Olly growled.
Lyrion ignored the grumpy old man and moved toward his son. She reached out but didn’t touch him yet.
"You want this?"
Mors nodded, dark eyes gleaming under shaggy brows. Lyrion placed her hand on his shoulder. A pleasant warmth flared within her, radiating into her palm, where it glowed palely. Mors gasped, and only Lyrion’s firm grip saved him from falling as his leg snapped back to its original shape. The woman beside him let out a strangled cry.
Lyrion made sure the man was standing steadily and stepped away from him. Mors took an uncertain step, then another, and yet another. Laughter escaped his throat as he jumped a few times in place. He turned to Lyrion and dropped to his knees.
"Whatever sorcery this may be, a hundred thanks to ya, m’lady."
"Rise, I am but a loyal servant of the Moonmaiden." She turned to Old Olly. He was as pale as a ghost, the fire in the hearth casting shadows that deepened the lines on his skin. "You have a hale son and the means to feed your family. Will you now take Alyn and Sarah into your home?"
"Let the Others take me... Take yar cursed gold, witch, and get out of my house!" he gathered the coins from the table and threw them at Lyrion. They bounced off her chest and clattered to the floor. "Stay away from those children!"
Benjen jumped up from the bench, his hand on his sword.
"Watch your words."
There was a warmth in Lyrion's chest that had nothing to do with her goddess's power. Over the years, she had learned to ignore the insults, eventually ceasing to notice them. The sight of someone she had recently met, someone who didn't fully trust her abilities, ready to come to her defense was... nice.
"Don’t worry about it," she whispered, so quietly only Benjen could hear her. "Let’s go." He allowed himself to be led to the door, though his hand never left his sword. She turned to the children, crouching before Alyn. "Take care of your sister, and take care of yourself. Got it?"
The boy nodded, pulling Sarah closer.
"Thank you, m'lady."
"May Selûne guide your steps in the night, and bring them to the new dawn."
They left Old Olly's house behind. Fluffy joined them at the big boulder, still keeping his distance from the horses. His fur was full of twigs and leaves. He shook them off, along with the water droplets, and growled at the house.
The old man is a boor. Fluffy can eat him.
"I appreciate it, but please don't do this."
He gasped, his thoughts full of Theren and Ember setting fire to the hair of people who looked at anyone in their party in a wrong way. He glanced at Benjen as if considering something, and padded toward the grove.
"Do I want to know what he said?"
"Not really." Benjen accepted that without comment and focused on the road. The stiffness in his movements was not due to too much time in the saddle. "Thanks for that."
"Don't think about it." For a moment Lyrion thought she saw a soft glint in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly she could only imagine it. At least the children had a home.
Chapter Text
To the west, the jagged, blue-gray ridges of the mountains loomed, their peaks crowned with numerous strongholds rising like the teeth of a giant. From this distance, they looked more like children's toys—a sign that many days had passed since they left behind the New Gift. The cold wind blew plumes of snow and ice from the slopes; from a distance they looked like clouds that had fallen from the sky. With every mile, the warmth grew, and snowflakes appeared less and less frequently, and the sun, along with the blue sky, peeked through the milky-white clouds more often. The air was still crisp and at night the breath turned into clouds of silver mist.
This day was as pleasant as the previous two. The sound of running water came from the distance and birds chirped in the treetops. Normally, Benjen wouldn't have paid it any mind, but this time, Lyrion's quiet humming made him feel a touch more sentimental. There were no words, just melody. Sometimes he wanted to ask her to sing something, she had a beautiful voice, as gentle as bells and sweet as honey. He heard only one song. The words were unfamiliar, yet they stirred something solemn in Benjen, as if he were listening to a long-forgotten tale. Unfortunately, he didn't hear the end of the song. Lyrion somehow noticed Benjen in the darkness of the forest and fell silent. She sang no more, but Benjen accepted her invitation, and they spent the night in silence, watching the round face of the moon.
Suddenly, the soft melody stopped.
"Let's camp here."
Benjen looked up. Lyrion was staring with incomprehensible determination at one of the many streams that fed the Last River.
"Here?" They stopped before a stone bridge along the Kingsroad. The surroundings were pleasant—a dense forest, the ground covered in moss and grass, which near the stream gave way to a rocky shore. "There's a village ahead, there's an inn-"
"No, no, no." Lyrion shook her head. "I'll have to wear the hood again because they'll think I'm some long-lost Targaryen and we'll end up sleeping in a barn. Besides, I want to take a bath. I stink so bad that even Fluffy won't be my pillow."
A short bark came from somewhere in the trees. Lyrion pointed to the bushes as if this was final confirmation of her words. Benjen sighed. He was glad she was back to her lively, smiling self from before the Wildlings attacked, but her stubbornness could be irritating.
"There's still some time until dusk."
"Exactly. I won't make the mistake of going into a river in the dark again." She shuddered, as if the memory that came to her was particularly terrible. Benjen wasn't going to ask; he was still haunted by the tentacled creatures that devoured human brains in his dreams.
He sighed and led his horse toward the forest. They moved away from the road just enough to be out of sight.
"What is this?" Lyrion's tense voice made Benjen stop his horse. He followed her gaze toward the weirwood. Crimson sap trickled from the face carved into its bone-white bark, pooling in its mouth and eyes, gleaming like rubies. The red leaves rustled softly, some drifting to the ground, forming a blood-hued ring around the tree.
"Weirwood. The old gods see through their eyes."
"I don't doubt it…" She mumbled so quietly that for a moment Benjen thought he had imagined it. " Do you feel it? A presence as old and untamed as the forest itself. Powerful, but somehow... asleep... And bloody."
A shiver ran down Benjen's spine. Growing up he often came to the godswood at Winterfell. He played among the trees, swam in the hot springs, or came looking for silence. His parents and Old Nan had told stories about the First Men and the old gods, but he had never thought of it as a fact as real as himself. Knowing that the presence of the old gods was so tangible, so real was... Believing that gods existed and knowing they existed were two different things. Benjen couldn't describe the feeling. Did that mean the gods really existed and were simply watching in silence?
"Are you okay?"
He almost jumped out of the saddle. Lyrion was right next to him, concern written all over her face.
"Aye, I just..."
"Don't worry, these trees are a sign that your gods don't turn a blind eye to your fate." Benjen needed a moment to remember that Lyrion served a goddess and received great favor from her. She must know his thoughts and understand the gods at least a little. How strange that was. "Let's camp somewhere close, but not right under the tree. The old gods feel a bit like Silvanus, I don't think they'd appreciate a fire so close."
Golden light was shining through the trees, gutted fish were slowly roasting over a small fire. Benjen settled comfortably on his bedroll. He barely spared a glance as Fluffy's monstrous form emerged from the underbrush. When did a direwolf coming out of the forest become the norm for him?
Fluffy whimpered pitifully and nudged the magical bag with his nose.
"I'm not going to touch it." Benjen said, turning the fish so it would brown evenly.
The direwolf continued to whine. He lay down on his front paws and stared at Benjen with large, blazing eyes. When he didn't react to that either, Fluffy grabbed the bag between his teeth and dropped it in Benjen's lap. He jumped away from it as if it were a red-hot iron.
"No! If you want anything from that bag, go to Lyrion," he blinked. "Or just tell her. I know she can hear you."
Fluffy pushed his big head straight into his chest, Benjen staggered back. He tried to get past the direwolf, but he kept blocking his path. Suddenly Benjen tripped over a protruding root. The world tilted, only the thin branches of the bushes slowing his fall.
"Ugh..." the direwolf huffed as if amused. Benjen narrowed his eyes at him. "Shaggy bastard."
"Bane Fluffington, I said I'd take care of it."
Lyrion's voice was irritated. The direwolf whined in reprimand. Ears flat against his head, tail low to the ground.
Benjen rose to his feet, the stones grinding beneath his boots He turned and froze. Lyrion stood in the stream, waist-deep in water. The golden and rosy light of the setting sun cast a rich, copper hue over her skin. Her water-darkened hair, reaching her shoulder blades, clung to her back like silvered armor. He knew she was a warrior, but the sight of scars etched into her slender muscles ignited a fierce desire to harm whoever had caused them.
"If you stand there any longer, I'll think you're a pervert."
Only then did Benjen realize that he had been shamelessly staring at a naked woman. He turned around so quickly that for a moment he was afraid he had injured a muscle.
"Forgive me," he muttered, his ears burning like those of a green boy who had lain with a woman for the first time. "I'll be... I'll be by the fire."
A joyful bark announced Lyrion's return. Benjen didn’t dare look at her, keeping his focus on the fish. A string of incomprehensible words pierced the air. After so long in her company, he could tell it was a reprimand for Fluffy, not another spell meant to turn his world upside down. It wasn't long before the words turned into cheerful whistling.
"You're in a good mood today," he dared to look her way.
Lyrion crouched next to Fluffy, who was melting with happiness, and brushed his black fur. She wore a simple linen shirt. Water dripped onto it from her still-wet hair, which was loosely thrown over her shoulder.
"Today is Garret's birthday," a wide smile spread across her face. "As he once said, the world should rejoice that such a great man is allowed to walk upon it."
She spoke the last words in a ridiculously low voice.
"Sounds like a funny man."
"He is." She sighed and patted Fluffy's back. The direwolf yawned, showing off a full set of deadly teeth, and switched places with Lyrion so she could lean against him comfortably. "We met shortly after I swore my oath. For a time, he was my mentor. He had been a paladin longer than I. In some ways, he is everything one might expect of a servant of the Morninglord… And then we met Ember, and from that moment on, he spent most of his days drooling over her."
She wrinkled her nose in disgust, but the glint in her eyes revealed that it wasn't a real grimace. Benjen chuckled under his breath, but his previous dilemmas did not leave him alone. He had heard Lyrion call upon Selûne many times—evidently a goddess of the moon and something of a guide—but he had also heard prayers to other gods. If they were truly real, would they not take offense?
"Yes and no? It depends on which gods." Lyrion settled more comfortably into her black fur. Even she looked petite compared to Fluffy. Her fingers traced the dial of her silver amulet. A pair of beautiful moonstone eyes gazed at Benjen. "There are gods who are at odds with each other, or are simply vile beings. As a Selûnite I will never call upon Shar, our churches have been in dispute since time immemorial. Only the war of the goddesses themselves lasts longer." At the name of the goddess, Lyrion grimaced. It wasn't the amused grimace she had earlier, but an expression of true disgust. She sighed heavily and smoothed her features. "The Morninglord, Lathander, is a very positive and energetic deity, and his followers sometimes cooperate with us. They also have a strong aversion to the undead, so Garret would be an invaluable help. He's destroyed more undead than I can count. Once we went underground, his greatsword..."
Benjen couldn’t focus on what she was saying next. The idea that the gods had their own alliances and wars was… something. Did they have their own courts? When they called for war, did their paladins respond like men-at-arms sworn to lords? How devastating were their wars? Were the old and new gods anything like the ones Lyrion had told of? If so, he wasn’t surprised they didn’t interfere in the affairs of men. The affairs of the gods must be even more complicated. He thought of the wars of the First Men against the Andals, when thousands of weirwoods had been burned and hundreds of children of the forest had been killed. Benjen knew the dark side of men, but now he doubted that it was only men who were behind those wars. Perhaps it was a mercy that the old and new gods remained silent, withholding their power from the world. The thought of the Mad King being capable of even half the things Lyrion could do was… No, he didn’t dare think about it.
"Faerûn to Benji!" he blinked. Lyrion’s worried face hovered before him. He realized the golden light no longer filtered through the leaves. "Is everything okay? You paled."
He wet his lips and ran a hand through his tangled curls. He was all too aware of the weirwood tree standing only a few feet away.
"It’s just… a lot," he trailed off. " Are the Seven Hells real?"
Lyrion tilted her head and blinked like an owl. The orange flames of the fire reflected in her silver eyes.
"There are Nine Hells."
Darkness enveloped the world. The line between sky and ground was blurred. No stars, no moon. Nothing. Nothing but the howling of the icy wind. It whistled, howled and moaned as it moved through the endless darkness. Nothing could stop it, not stone walls, not furs and leathers, not the thickest woolen coats.
The man pulled his thick fur tighter around himself. The words he shouted to his companions, grim men in equally heavy furs, were swallowed by wind and snow. The ungodly cold turned his breath into a gray cloud. He waved his hand toward the thick undergrowth, and only the flickering flame of the torch he held allowed the others to notice his movement.
They pushed through wind and snow until the thick branches were within reach. From here the ground sloped down. They slid down the slope, the bushes revealing themselves as trees smothered by feet of snow. Twisted trunks creaked as the trees swayed in the wind. In the distance came a clatter, as of dozens of men striking nails on wood.
The men quickened their pace, their eyes wide with fear, darting to every shadow. With each passing moment, the clatter grew louder. The wind howled with a terrifying fury. A monstrous chill crept between their furs, mercilessly biting at exposed cheeks. A man unsheathed his sword, its bronze blade flashing in the torchlight.
"They're here." The words, harsh and unpleasant, barely rose above the moaning of the wind.
More men drew their swords. A terrifying crack and an accompanying terrible roar that shook the forest pierced the blizzard.
"Run!"
The words died in a deafening crack.
They didn't wait to see what it was. They stumbled over drifts and branches and ran into the darkness and swirling snow. The eerie clattering came closer, inexorably.
Knock-knock-knock.
Suddenly the wind died down. The torch flames no longer flared, the ancient trunks no longer bent under the strong gusts. Blue eyes flashed between the trees. Many, many eyes.
"No, not while I draw breath!" One of the men shouted and threw a torch at a fallen tree. In a sudden burst of orange light, the ghostly shapes of giant spiders appeared. Pale, naked bodies withdrew from the heat, huge jaws clattered. Light reflected in many eyes. A terrifying screech rent the cold air. The ghostly figure of the White Walker raised a transparent sword. "Go!"
There was no need to repeat it, the six men turned and ran on, deaf to the shouts of their companions, the sounds of swords cutting through giant limbs, and the shrieks of ice spiders.
Sliding over icy roots, they reached a large plain. Here the snowdrifts were smaller. The flickering torchlights highlighted the high cliffs carved by thousands of years of withstanding the sea and harsh winds.
The sea, the endless water reaching to the horizon, frozen and covered in snow, now disappeared into the darkness. The men moved forward. The clatter of the legs of the great spiders, long absent, returned, echoing through the icy wastes. After days of relentless marching, broken only by brief moments of rest, jagged rocks emerged from the earth far ahead in the darkness of the endless night. The ice cracked with every step, but it did not break. Not until something huge fell just a few feet from the men's feet.
Salt water gushed out, soaking furs and skins.
"A giant..." A bearded man, thinned by winter and mad march, turned to his companions. The dying flames of the torches illuminated their equally thin and pale faces. He spoke to the youngest of them, who didn't even have a beard on his face, although exhaustion made him look just as haggard and old. "Go. We'll stop him, but you must run."
So he ran. He ran until he reached the jagged rocks. His lungs burned, the cold air, tainted with the stench of rotten eggs, stinging his nose. A weirwood tree rose before him. A twisted face adorned its trunk, so wide it took several men to embrace it. Red sap gleamed in the torchlight like fresh blood. A pair of yellow eyes gleamed between its roots.
The creature crawled out of the hole. Its large eyes never left the young man's figure. It slowly approached, placing a knife in the boy's hand. The blade was black, jagged.
The boy stood face to face with the Other. Blue eyes burned with hatred. The terrible cold made his fingers go numb. Without thinking, the boy stabbed the Other in the chest with his knife. A terrifying scream tore through the night, the demon's body shattering into pieces like a sheet of ice thrown onto a stone. Around him, the men raised their spears and torches with loud shouts. A man walked past the boy. He raised his flaming sword and pointed it at the dead army and the White Walkers.
"For the dawn!"
"For the dawn!" The men echoed him. A shout like thunder rolled across the ground, and the black tips of their spears and swords flashed in the orange light of the torches.
Lyrion!
"Lyrion!"
Lyrion's eyes flew open. She felt like she'd just run from Candlekeep to Baldur's Gate. Her heart was pounding like it wanted to burst from her chest. She blinked. A familiar face loomed over her, worry carving deep lines into it. She could feel Fluffy's soft fur behind her, hear his whine.
"Is everything alright?"
She blinked again. She felt strangely unreal, but with each passing moment the feeling grew fainter. She knew the rough hand on her shoulder. She knew that face. Benjen.
"Yes, I'm okay." She pushed herself into a sitting position, it wasn't easy, a coldness had settled in her bones, making her whole body shiver. She made sure the ring was still on her finger, it was there.
She was in camp. The fire had long since burned out, leaving only glowing ash in its place. Trees surrounded them, leaves rustling softly, a stream flowing nearby. There was no snow anywhere, no strange eyes. The howl of the north wind had faded to a vague memory, yet goosebumps covered her arms.
" Are you sure? You were screaming about escaping. And about Others..."
"Just a dream. Just a dream." Something inside her didn’t think so at all. The uncomfortable embrace was still fresh in her memory. She looked over Benjen’s shoulder at the weirwood tree in the distance. A monstrous face, different from the one in her dream, stared back at her, making her skin crawl. "Everything's okay."
She patted Benjen's hand. He didn't look convinced, but eventually he nodded and returned to his bedroll. He kept throwing worried glances her way, though from this distance his eyes couldn't see Lyrion's face.
Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek and snuggled into Fluffy's fur. Maybe his warmth would chase away the cold and the unpleasant feeling.
Lyrion safe. Fluffy will eat anything that tries to hurt Lyrion. He nudged her with his wet nose. Lyrion buried her face in his fur. The Curly Man will help too.
"Thank you," she mumbled into his fur.
She didn't think she'd be able to fall back asleep, but she could use some comfort and just bask in Fluffy's closeness. She hoped whatever it was wouldn't come back.
Chapter Text
Lyrion stood leaning against the wooden post that held up the small roof in front of the forge, ignoring the not-so-subtle glances from the blacksmith and the far more obvious curiosity of passersby. The sound of the hammer striking hot metal rang out again and again.
Clang-clang. Clang-clang.
Then a brief pause as the piece of metal was placed back into the furnace to heat to a glowing red once more. The blacksmith grasped the massive arm of the bellows and pulled it downward—not forcefully, just enough to make the coals in the hearth flare with renewed heat. The entire process repeated over and over, but Lyrion paid it little mind. Her thoughts kept drifting toward a strange dream.
She didn’t know whether it was a dream or a vision, but she knew it hadn’t come from the Moonmaiden. She knew the touch of her goddess, and this was nothing like it. It was cold, ungentle, and unpleasant in the way that the hands of old farmers or veterans often were. At first, fear seized her—the dark touch of Shar, attempting to claim her as its own. Since Aric's betrayal, nothing had terrified her more than surrendering to the lies of the Lady of Loss. If Lyrion had ended up here and still maintained her connection to Selûne, then the Moonmaiden's wicked sister could also exert influence over this world. After all, what other god would crave eternal darkness and the annihilation of all existence? Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek. She had been foolish to not think of it sooner.
She gritted her teeth and looked with new diligence at the people passing her. Several of the passersby lowered their gazes and quickened their steps as they realized they had caught her attention. Farmers, bakers, small shopkeepers, children - they all looked like ordinary folks of a small village. Lyrion saw no symbols of Shar. No one looked at her amulet with outright hatred—distrust, yes, but she attributed that to the hood drawn over her head and the color of her cloak, which made her stand out like a sore thumb.
Ironically, there was no sign of ravens either. She didn’t rule out the intervention of the old gods either, but something told her it wasn’t them. Why would they take an interest in her? Unless they also wanted to avoid the Long Night.
Whoever or whatever it was, Lyrion was going to keep her eyes peeled. It's a shame she hadn't had the chance to write down the details of the dream. She would have to remember as much as possible.
"I don't think the blacksmith would appreciate you scaring away his customers." Benjen appeared at her side. She nodded in greeting and went back to observing the villagers. "Is everything alright? You've seemed rather distant since yesterday."
"I'm fine, you can stop worrying." She felt as if his gaze was burning a hole in the side of her head. She sighed, then changed the subject. "Successful shopping?"
"Dried meat and some ale, should last us until we get to Winterfell. Is there a reason you're crushing those people with your gaze?"
A group of screaming children ran down the street. One of the boys tripped and fell face down in the sand. He immediately jumped to his feet and caught up with the others, laughing loudly.
"You won't let it go, will you?"
"No."
"You're worse than Ember." She mumbled in elvish, not even trying to hide her irritation. Benjen raised an eyebrow in silent question. "If I don't look at them, will you let it go?"
He shrugged, movement barely visible under his heavy cloak. Lyrion turned to face him so that she was now leaning against the pillar with one shoulder. She wouldn’t spot any Sharrans anyway.
"There you go. No crushing stares... At least not toward the villagers. Happy?"
He eyed her for a moment.
"You're like my niece," he sighed, shaking his head. "And she's eleven."
"If it helps, in certain circles, they still don’t see me as fully grown," she furrowed her brows. She looked young for someone with only a trace of elven blood. Unfortunately. She had lost count of how many respectable taverns had refused her a pint of beer for that reason. Fortunately, those days were behind her. Her lucky streak—during which no one questioned her age—had lasted three years now.
Lyrion turned her head as the sound of hooves rang out. The villagers jumped aside as a group of five men-at-arms rode down the Kingsroad. Their clothes showed signs of fighting, and one of them held a red banner with a giant breaking chains—Lord Umber's men, if she remembered correctly. As quickly as they appeared the riders disappeared and the villagers returned to their daily duties.
"Are there any disturbances in the area?"
"They must have found another group of Wildlings." Benjen narrowed his eyes at Lyrion. "I'm sure they've already taken care of them. As soon as the horse is shod, we'll move on."
Lyrion raised her hands in defense.
"Whatever you say."
Riding through the few scattered villages, Lyrion almost felt as if she had stepped back into her childhood. As far as the eye could see, there were mountains, forests, and rolling fields where shepherds tended their flocks, watching their surroundings carefully for fear of bandits. When she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she heard the roar of the Tun River and the constant croaking of frogs. Fortunately there were no mosquitoes and the air was as cool as ever in Cormyr at this time of year.
"These streams flow into Long Lake," Benjen said as they crossed another stone bridge. "Farther south, the White Knife runs all the way to White Harbor. It's the largest city in the North," he added after a moment's thought. "The Manderlys are the only house in the North that worships the Seven."
"What are they like? Your gods."
Benjen leaned back in his saddle. The sun illuminated his face, his eyes took on the color of cold iron.
"I don't know the Seven, but the old gods are, well, old. They have no names," he frowned. "Or maybe we've just forgotten them... They're the wind in the leaves, the water in the earth, the creaking of the trees. They're the force of nature itself. They don't interfere in our lives, but they do have a few rules that if broken can bring down their wrath, like guest right or the kinslaying," his gaze darted into the forest. Fluffy appeared among the trees for a moment, but disappeared almost immediately. Benjen was silent for a moment, as if lost in memories. "As a boy, I liked to sit in the godswood. I'll show you when we get to Winterfell. It's magnificent. I've always felt welcome there. The peace and quiet, like being in another world."
Lyrion smiled to herself. She couldn't count how many times she had hidden in the temple, away from the noise and worries of everyday life. She even had her own place - a forgotten alcove where she could admire the entire temple undisturbed.
"I and Lya would hide in the godswood whenever we got into trouble. Of course, father always found us quickly, we weren't as smart as we thought." Benjen laughed, a raspy laugh that quickly died down. "I miss those days."
"Things were simpler back then," Lyrion nodded and gave him a searching look. "So what did young Benji do that required him to seek refuge in the gods' house? Did you eat cookies before evenfeast? Skip classes? Bring mud into the castle on the freshly washed carpet?"
Benjen snorted. Crow's feet appeared at the corners of his eyes.
"I sparred with my sister. Father wasn't happy about it," he shook his head, his gaze fixed longingly on a point in front of him. "Brandon, as father's heir, was always busy, and Ned was raised in the Eyrie, so Lya and I were always close. We'd sneak out for rides and come back hours later covered in mud and gods knew what else. Sometimes Lya would steal tournament swords and we'd spar in the godswood. No matter that I trained with an master-at-arms every day, somehow Lya always made me bite the dust."
Lyrion frowned, it seemed that since Benjen was a child, there must have been a change in the succession. Or maybe his oldest brother had simply died. It wasn't unusual, deaths came at the least expected moments, but still sad.
"Sounds like a dangerous woman. I bet she'd love to lead men into battle."
Lyrion glanced at Benjen, he looked sad.
"Father always said she had wolf blood. She never wanted to marry a southern lord, she would be happy to have a sword in her hand," he clenched his hands, the leather of his gloves creaking. Benjen blinked as if ridding his head of unwanted memories and forced a smile. "But that's the past. What did you do as a child?"
Lyrion was silent for a moment, watching Benjen closely. It was clear he didn't want to bring up the subject of his most likely dead sister. She couldn't imagine losing half of her siblings. She'd never known her own parents. Her first family had been the priests and the children at the temple. The pain of losing them still haunted her. Then came Garret, Ember, Theren, and Fluffy, and she couldn't imagine losing them. They were her family in every way except blood.
Lyrion tilted her head back, trying to remember her own childhood antics. A welcome distraction from the sad conversations.
"I was a fairly easy-going child. Some kids liked to experiment with magic. You know, mostly healing magic, so it wasn't like we could really hurt each other. And if something happened, there was always someone to patch us up. The adults didn't always have time to watch over us either. Taking care of the temple and helping the refugees could be time-consuming."
"You are an orphan." He sounded surprised.
"When I was born, there was tension on the borders of Cormyr. Returned Netheril was already preparing for invasion, and orphans were not uncommon. I was lucky to have been brought to the temple of Selûne," Lyrion said, narrowing her eyes at Benjen. "Is there any problem with that?"
"None," he assured her quickly. "I just never would have guessed. You seem educated... and it's rather unusual for someone in your station to become a knight. I assumed you were from the family of some landed knight or minor lord and had decided to join the faith."
"May the divine hand protect you from such assumptions!" It was a terrible idea, one she didn't even want to hear. She a noble? "The priests made sure we could read and write; I’ve lost count of how many times that has saved my life. And if you're good at your work, money is never a problem."
They rode in silence for a while.
"So, were you a model pupil of the temple?" Benjen asked. His face clearly showed his disbelief.
"I never said that. It's just that the other kids were more energetic and well... It's kind of ironic that I was the only kid who not only had zero magical talent but also pointy ears. I almost cut them off once."
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized she shouldn't've said it. Benjen turned his head toward her so quickly she was afraid he would break his neck. She shifted nervously in the saddle, one hand going to her hair to make sure the silver strands covered the tip of her ears.
"Why would you do that?!"
"I was eight years old and the only non-human in the temple. And to spite me, my heritage decided to backfire," she shrugged as if it were a minor detail, unworthy of mention, though her back tensed like a bowstring. "Fortunately, Tessele found me just in time. I got quite the scolding." She shuddered at the memory of the nearly two-hour-long lecture, punctuated by looks of utter disappointment and bouts of hysteria. "Then she specially invited a priest of elven descent to tell me about my heritage. The poor thing fainted halfway through the explanation. Eight-year-old Lyrion was so devastated by this that she spent the next day and night praying."
She ended the story on a light note, but Benjen still looked terrified. For Lyrion's taste, he resembled that priest too much.
"Please don't faint."
This seemed to snap Benjen out of his shock.
"In what world was that supposed to be a good idea?!" he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He repeated it a few times and finally pinched the bridge of his nose. "You said that magic was common in your home, why couldn't you ask someone to enchant your ears? Is that possible?"
Lyrion blinked once, then twice.
"You know I didn't think of that?" She scratched her jaw. "Why didn't I think of that?"
Benjen's groan must have been audible far away.
Fluffy needs a brushing! Fluffy said as they finally made camp beneath the ruins of another of the many towers. He focused his blazing eyes on Lyrion, putting every ounce of criticism the direwolf could muster into that gaze. Lyrion needs a brushing too. Lyrion can't talk to the Wolf Lord like that!
Lyrion's eyelid twitched. She had been trying to say her prayers for half an hour, but something interrupted her every time. This time, for the third time, it was Fluffy.
"You do realize the direwolf is just in their sigil? They don't rule the wolf kingdom."
The Wolf Lord appreciated Fluffy's majesty. Fluffy must be pretty. Lyrion must be pretty too! He wagged his tail energetically.
Lyrion sat back on her heels. She could feel a headache coming on. Ever since Fluffy had learned that the Starks used the direwolf as their sigil, he had become incredibly insufferable in his excitement.
"Why don't you bother Benjen? He's the Wolf Lord's brother, he'll know what you should look like."
Fluffy blinked, then blinked again, and suddenly jumped in place like an excited puppy. Lyrion wise! The Curly Man has taste, black fur is nice fur! He nodded his huge head in agreement with himself. Lyrion must speak.
He walked up behind Lyrion and before she could protest, he grabbed her by the collar and dragged her toward the camp.
"Fluffy!"
Fluffy will be pretty. Lyrion will be pretty. The Curly Man will be pretty too! Everyone will be pretty! His wagging tail whipped the air like a shaggy whip. Quick, quick!
Years of experience with Fluffy had taught Lyrion that in a situation like this, any resistance was futile. Feeling like a sack of potatoes, she allowed herself to be dragged, moving her legs just enough to keep from becoming a rag doll. Fluffy's excitement was spilling out of him. His thoughts were jumbled into incomprehensible gibberish, punctuated by happy gasps.
One moment Lyrion's face was whipped by twigs and leaves, the next she was standing before a bewildered Benjen, her eyes as wide as coins.
"So Fluffy has decided that you are his fashion guru and he wants you to help him look good in front of your brother."
Benjen blinked and looked at Fluffy. The hand with the dried meat froze halfway to his mouth.
"What?"
"Brush him and he'll be happy." She pulled Fluffy's brush out of her bag and shoved it unceremoniously into Benjen's one free hand. "It's just a regular brush, it doesn't bite," she said, as he looked at the object in his hand as if it were an unsealed vial of alchemical fire.
"Do such things exist?"
"Absolutely."
"By the old gods!"
Lyrion's head shot towards the unfamiliar voice. A middle-aged man sat by the fire, his mouth hanging open. He looked like any northerner they had passed—long brown hair hidden under a gray cap, weathered skin, and a thick beard.
"Oh...Uh...Hello?" Lyrion raised her hand and waved at the man, then turned to Benjen. "You didn't mention we had guests."
"He joined a moment ago, he's also heading south." Benjen gave Lyrion a meaningful look, then turned his gaze to Fluffy. Oh yeah, she was still practically hanging from his jaws. She patted him gently on the muzzle, the grip on his jaws loosened and she found herself on the ground, free and unfettered.
She brushed the dust off her clothes, whether it was actually there or not. She had to do something with her hands, years of traveling had taught her to be wary of strangers on the trail, so any unexpected encounter was rather nerve-racking.
"So you're heading to Winterfell too?"
The man, Tom, turned out to be a leatherworker who had decided to find happiness (and a wife) somewhere else, and that place was Deepwood Motte. At least that was what Lyrion learned when he finally stopped turning into white stone with every little twitch Fluffy made. It didn't help that the beast was clearly amused by this, and a booming laugh echoed in Lyrion's skull with every squeal the poor man made. Luckily, Benjen took pity on the poor guy, grabbed a brush, and brushed Fluffy's fur.
Oh, yes! Brushy, brushy, brushy!
Sometimes Lyrion wished she could quiet her friend. Well, she could have walked away, but she was too tired to walk like that.
If everything goes according to plan, in two days they will be within the walls of Winterfell. She was genuinely curious about Benjen's home. In his stories, it was a vast, impregnable fortress.
She sighed and sank into her bedroll. Reaching Winterfell marked the first milestone of her mission. If Lord Stark was anything like Benjen, this should be the easiest part. If he was skeptical, Lyrion would put on a little magic, no matter how humiliating it would be. The fate of the world was more important than a little pride.
After presenting her case to the Lord Stark, she would continue south, unfortunately without Benjen for company. She remembered the maps scattered throughout Maester Aemon's quarters, and Ser Waymar's instructions. She would go to White Harbor, where she would catch a ship to Gulltown, from there she would travel to Runestone and deliver a letter to Ser Waymar's father. This part of the journey would be quicker, though much would depend on the sea. She feared what would happen when they reached the Vale. She consoled herself that it could be no worse than Elturel.
The large mass of fur was behind Lyrion. Fluffy sighed contentedly. His fur was softer now and very pleasant to the touch. She closed her eyes, thinking that she couldn't deny Benjen's knack for handling animals.
Chapter Text
Wilbur liked his life—it was simple and quite pleasant. He had served House Stark as his father had before him, and his father before him, and he was immensely proud of it. Since childhood, he knew he would eventually pick up a sword. Unfortunately, he had been too young to take part in the Rebellion—the same one in which his father had died—but with all the pride of a Northman, he rode to fight the Greyjoys at his lord’s side. The war was nothing like the stories he had heard as a child. And yet, the bloody battle and the later celebration of victory with his comrades-in-arms and a barrel of beer made him feel more fulfilled than ever.
On days like this, he longed for battle. Since noon, he had stood watch at the Hunter's Gate. He suppressed a yawn and looked after a small bird he didn't know by name. He would give anything to feel that wild surge of energy from battle once again. Blood racing through his veins, the clamor of combat like the music of minstrels, that feeling of being invincible and capable of anything.
No one except a small group of huntsmen passed through the gate. Wilbur could hear the sounds of the courtyard behind him. The servants gossiped, and the wind carried their tangled voices straight to his ears. Once or twice he thought he heard dogs barking in the kennels.
Wilbur stifled another yawn and shifted from foot to foot. To his left, Roger could barely stay upright, squinting his eyes. Last night they celebrated his engagement long and loudly. Wilbur wasn’t suffering from a hangover now only because his annoying little sister had practically dragged him home before the party could get going. He sighed as he remembered the redhead Ros's curves. He was willing to pay her for a great night. It wasn't often that the young Greyjoy didn't occupy her time.
"Sleeping on duty?" He smacked his lips as Roger's head began to droop. "I'm so disappointed."
The answer came late.
"Shut up."
"So much love in the air... What will be left for your future wife?"
Roger glared at him, then winced almost immediately as the sun glinted off Wilbur's helmet. Who would have thought the captain's obsession with keeping his gear in perfect condition would be a source of amusement.
"Prick."
Wilbur laughed out loud, earning another grimace from Roger. He'd probably pay him back the next chance he got, but for a bit of amusement he'd take it. He sighed and leaned against the wall. The sun was already reaching this side of the castle, their watch would be over soon.
Another yawn escaped before Wilbur could stop it, and he froze. He thought he saw a shape growing in the distance. He adjusted his grip on his halberd and strained his eyes.
"Do you see that too, Roger?"
Roger blinked and groaned, but looked in the indicated direction. "It's not the huntsman..." He clenched his hands around his halberd and tilted his head forward. "Night's Watch?"
The shape was indeed black. And huge. It couldn't be a coincidence that a brother of the Night's Watch would arrive at Winterfell the day after the deserter's execution. On the other hand, amidst the black, Wilbur saw some white. During the Greyjoy rebellion, he had become familiar with the coats of arms of the northern houses. He knew that the Karstarks used a white star on a black field. But what would they be looking for in Winterfell? Besides, visitors usually came through the north or east gates.
The boredom was replaced by a growing sense of excitement. Whoever it was, their presence would provide at least some entertainment. Wilbur straightened, puffing out his chest. Though not tall, he knew how to look intimidating.
Soon, the newcomers were close enough that he could distinguish two riders on horseback. One wore the black furs typical of the Night's Watch, while the other wore a light cloak that seemed to gleam in the sunlight like fresh snow. Wilbur could have sworn he had seen another rider in black earlier, but there was no sign of him now.
"Halt!" Roger stepped forward as the newcomers came within earshot. "State your name and purpose of your visit- HOLY SHIT!"
Wilbur agreed wholeheartedly with Roger. Holy shit.
Arya jumped over a protruding root and landed in a puddle of mud. Yesterday was the best day of her life. Her father may not have allowed her to accompany her brothers to the execution, but they returned with puppies. Real direwolf puppies! And one of them was for Arya! She knew she had to come up with a name. She spent all night considering ideas. Well, maybe not all night, she fell asleep at some point. But as soon as she woke up she found the proper name. Nymeria. Her beautiful girl was worthy of a warrior queen's name. And it would be perfect when Arya finally became a great warrior herself!
She ran out of the godswood. Nymeria was close behind her, stumbling over oversized paws as she ran. Arya was planning to head to the courtyard, where she could watch her brothers train under Ser Rodrik's supervision. It was far more interesting than lessons with the septa. But then, a guard of her father burst through the gate. He was pale as milk, and his voice trembled.
"Someone get the Lord Stark!"
Arya watched the guard disappear into the Great Keep, the many stares of the servants following him to the door. Nymeria groaned.
"Wait here," she told her pup and quickly walked toward the gate. Of course Nymeria didn't listen.
She reached the kennels, where the dogs restlessly paced in their pens as a man dressed entirely in black rode through the gate. Arya recognized him instantly—Uncle Benjen had arrived! She darted through the servants working in the courtyard, her puppy at her heels. She stopped a short distance from the horse when a second figure appeared. Beneath the gray-silver cloak, a blue gambeson and leather armor peeked through, the hood casting their face in shadow.
The stranger lifted their head, clearly admiring the high walls and towers.
"Are you Westerosi trying to compensate for something with all these constructions? This castle is huge!"
"Am I to believe that there are no such grand constructions in your homeland?" Uncle Benjen turned to the cloaked figure, disbelief written across his face.
Arya didn’t hear the answer, her thoughts swallowed by the chorus of gasps as a direwolf passed through the gate. It was huge and black as night, moving like a true predator. It cast a glance at the barking dogs in their kennels but quickly lost interest, trailing just a short distance from the horses. Had Uncle Benjen found a direwolf as well? That would leave only Father as the last Stark without one.
Soft fur brushed against Arya's leg. Nymeria alternately squealed and growled, the fur on her back rising.
Suddenly, a pair of blazing eyes turned toward her. Cold sweat broke out on Arya. The direwolf had jaws so large, it could swallow her whole.
"Arya?" A hand fell on her shoulder. It was Uncle Benjen. He laughed, though the sound seemed strangely distant. "You’ve grown so much. Your mother will be angry that you’re running around in your brothers’ clothes again."
"Uncle Benjen..." She blinked, then shifted her gaze to the black beast. The direwolf tilted its head like a curious puppy, but it didn't move from its spot in the middle of the courtyard. Arya wished her pup was just as well-mannered. And big. Septa Mordane would never dare say her stitches were crooked again.
"Is that a wolf?" Uncle Benjen's face remained warm, though confusion filled his eyes as he looked at Nymeria.
"A direwolf. The same as yours, but still young," she declared, puffing out her chest proudly. "Father let us keep them!"
Uncle Benjen blinked and cast a reproachful glance at his companion, who merely raised his hands in what looked like a defensive gesture. The lips visible beneath the hood seemed to struggle to suppress a smile. Uncle Benjen sighed.
"Fluffy isn't mine," Arya looked at the beast. He looked like something out of a nightmare, why would anyone name him Fluffy? It didn't make sense. Her older brothers' direwolf names were much cooler. This was as stupid as Sansa's direwolf name. "Ned!"
Lord Father appeared in the courtyard, accompanied by Jory Cassel and the guard who had earlier rushed in. At the sight of Uncle Benjen, his stern face softened, and a rare smile, one reserved only for family, emerged.
"Benjen, I just sent a message to the Watch to get you here. Good to see you, brother," he hugged Uncle Benjen. He pulled back to arms’ length and frowned at the sight of the black beast. "Is that…?"
"This is Bane Fluffington," her uncle's companion stepped forward. Only now did Arya realize that their voice was very feminine. "I assure you he poses no threat. He's a good boy."
The direwolf in question suddenly lifted its head, ran up to father, and fell on its hindquarters in front of him. The guards accompanying father tensed, ready to draw their swords at any moment.
The beast's tail struck the ground over and over again, sending clouds of dust into the air each time. Even sitting, he looked down on all the people. Probably only Walder could look him in the eye without tilting his head.
Nymeria jumped in place. She whined and, tripping over her own paws, ran after the black direwolf. It snapped at her with its teeth. It was enough to stop the cub from getting any closer, but it continued to circle, sniffing curiously. And why, at the sight of Nymeria, did the beast make the same face as Sansa when it was definitely-not-Arya who threw mud at her hair?
"I see you've found a direwolf as well," her father said after a long moment. The beast barked. It was a loud, low-pitched sound that made the hairs on the back of Arya's neck stand on end.
Uncle Benjen sighed and gestured to his companion. "Brother, this is Ser Lyrion Moonwarden, holy warrior from the distant kingdom of Cormyr. Fluffy is hers. Lyrion, meet my brother, Lord Eddard Stark, and his youngest daughter, Arya."
The mysterious companion pulled back their hood, and Arya barely managed to stay in place. She looked like a Targaryen! And she was a knight. The real lady-knight! And she was huge too.
"Well met, Lord Stark," Ser Lyrion nodded to her father, "Benjen has spoken much of you and Winterfell. Words can't do justice to the castle's splendor."
Then she bowed to Arya in the same manner. Her father's face had returned to its neutral, slightly thoughtful expression, a strain around his eyes. He sometimes did that when Arya or her siblings had done something wrong.
"I believe the journey was free of trouble?"
"We ran into some Wildlings at Queenscrown." Arya tore her gaze away from the ugly scar on Ser Lyrion's face and focused on her uncle. Every northerner had heard of the Wildlings and the horrors they commit. Old Nan had always said that the Wildlings were thieves, murderers, and slave traders. "Luckily, traveling with a giant direwolf tends to discourage others from causing trouble. I'm sure I owe him my life."
"That sounds like a story." The lord father admitted, eyeing the black direwolf with concern.
"A story that is better told in private" a half smile, half grimace appeared on the uncle's face.
Father turned to the servants and ordered the rooms to be prepared. The stable hands took the horses, and Uncle Benjen and Ser Lyrion received bread and salt. Then he looked at Arya. For a moment he seemed to be weighing his words. She pressed her fists to her thighs and lifted her chin. She wasn't going to apologize for skipping her lessons.
"You'd better go get your brothers," he said finally, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Yes, Father," she agreed immediately. "Nymeria!"
The pup squealed at the large direwolf one last time and ran after her. Arya felt her excitement growing. Maybe she could talk to Ser Lyrion later, and maybe she'd agree to teach her how to swordfight!
Lyrion ran her hand over the wall curiously. It was warm. Not in a magical way, more like a sun-warmed stone. According to Benjen, there were pipes in the walls that carried water from the hot springs, keeping the castle warm even in the worst of winters. Clever and practical.
"This is your chamber, m'lady," the servant opened the door and bowed low, glancing nervously at Fluffy who was following them. He took offense at the suggestion that he was supposed to spend the night in the kennels and simply followed Lyrion, sending everyone into a state of near panic. If Lyrion hadn't cared about making a good impression on Lord Stark, she probably would have laughed.
She entered. The room was large and surprisingly modest for a lord's estate. A fire burned in the fireplace along the wall, a carved chest and a table with a tray of food stood by the bed. Steam rose in spirals from the wooden log in the center. The servants had even left a tray of soap and a towel.
Lyrion sighed as the woman remained with her head lowered. People weren't supposed to bow to her. It seemed wrong. "Just Lyrion. And thank you."
The servant straightened but didn’t move. Lyrion blinked. Shouldn't a woman leave after leading her to her room? She hesitated, frowning slightly. They stood there in silence, the servant with her eyes downcast and Lyrion staring at her.
"Do you need anything?"
"I am here to help you with anything you need, m’lady."
"Oh..." Lyrion blurted out in surprise. Right, the nobility had servants who helped them with many tasks. She hadn't thought about that. "No need. Really, I can handle it."
The woman pursed her lips as if fighting the urge to protest.
"I have two good hands." Lyrion made a gesture with her hands, as if to emphasize their skill. "And I can wash myself. And if I need help, I'll find you... What's your name?"
"Bess, m'lady."
"Sure. I can handle it, Bess." Bess blinked. She had pretty, brown eyes. "I promise I'll look decent." Lyrion added with a smile that melted people's hearts.
For a moment there was an awkward silence. There was an awkward silence for a moment. Finally, the woman bowed once more and tiptoed out of the room. When the door finally closed, Lyrion let out a breath of relief.
Fluffy takes the bed.
"What? No. Fluffy, no!" She hung onto the direwolf's neck and braced her legs. Maybe if she were Garret's size Fluffy would notice the difference. "No. Have you forgotten what happened last time?"
Fluffy whined pitifully and fell back on his haunches. Fluffy is not fat. The bed was bad.
Lyrion scratched him behind the ears.
"Exactly. You're not fat, just a lot of muscle. And fur. And yes, the bed was probably bad too." She blinked. "We don't want to ruin Lord's stuff, do we?"
He whined and lowered his head. He was the perfect picture of misery and despair. Lyrion sighed. The bed looked solid, but she didn't want to risk it.
"Well, keep your head up." She went to the bed and pulled the thick furs off it. "Where do you want a bed? Somewhere near the fireplace, I assume?"
A moment later, Fluffy curled up on his makeshift bed and let out a series of happy noises. The narrow window barely extended above his back, making the spacious room seem a little less spacious.
Lazy noodle. Lyrion thought with amusement as Fluffy's breathing slowed, but she didn't blame him. She missed spending time in front of the fireplace at home in Waterdeep too. This and evening board games.
Lyrion took off her clothes and stepped into the tub. A moan of pleasure escaped her lips. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the water seep into her bones and her muscles relax. If she could, she would stay here for a long time. She couldn't remember the last time she took a hot bath. She rested her head on the edge of the tub, enjoying the moment of peace.
"I wonder if they have bathhouses here." She mused aloud. It had been ages since she last bathed in one. The last time had been with Eva, which was… Gods, that was truly a long time ago.
A sudden gust of wind hit the window along with heavy raindrops. There was a flash of lightning and the next moment a roar of thunder rent the air. Fluffy sighed in his bed and moved closer to the fireplace.
Lyrion grabbed some soap and began scrubbing herself. Getting into the river, while better than nothing, wasn't an effective way to cleanse herself. The dirt from a month of travel began to loosen, turning the water a brown color. By the end, Lyrion finally felt like a civilized human being.
Chapter Text
Benjen wasn't surprised that his brother had pulled him away to talk immediately after Lyrion had left. He followed him through the corridors of the Great Keep. The last time he was here was over three years ago, but nothing had changed. The stone walls were decorated with tapestries he remembered from his childhood, and servants and castle guards walked the same routes.
Ned ordered the guards not to be disturbed, entered his solar, and sat down at a desk covered with piles of correspondence and important documents. Benjen had once carried out the duties of a Stark at Winterfell, and though most of the work had then fallen to the steward’s shoulders, he was glad he no longer had to bother with administration. It was a nightmare he didn't want to go back to.
Ned walked over to the table with the jug and cups. "Wine?"
Benjen pulled off his leather gloves and accepted the cup gratefully. One of the many things lacking at the Wall was good wine. This one was sweet, with a pleasant, fruity taste. He sat across from his brother, taking another sip.
Ned remained silent, clearly searching for words, his face tense with concern. Benjen knew that face.
"The woman you brought..."
Benjen sighed, he had expected this.
"Lyrion is not a Targaryen." He said with all the faith he could muster, his fingers tightening around the cup. The knowledge that she was an orphan had somewhat shaken that belief, but surely there were many silver-haired people wandering the world. Or, as in Lyrion’s case, half-human. From what he gathered from her explanations, elven blood—whatever those beings truly were—took her human traits as much as it granted her peculiar abilities. Her softly glowing eyes or the pointy ears couldn't be called human. "Even I don't really know who she is. It's complicated. But I've spent enough time with her and I can assure you she's no threat. She's more of a knight than all the knights of the south." A humorless laugh escaped his chest at the thought of her magical abilities and what awaited them beyond the Wall. "She single-handedly defeated eight Wildlings while protecting two children... I think she's our only hope at this point."
Ned laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them. He frowned. "What do you mean?"
Benjen ran his fingers through his hair, a quick, nervous movement. "These are difficult times, Ned. The wildlings are gathering under Mance Rayder, the White Walkers are awakening and raising an army of the dead, and the Night's Watch has never been in worse shape in its entire existence. Black brothers die during rangings or desert." He gritted his teeth. "There are fewer than a thousand of us, and most are criminals with no training whatsoever. And now? Magic is returning to the world, Ned. Magic! I've seen it with my own eyes!" He jumped up from the chair and started pacing. "If not for Lyrion, Waymar Royce would have died by the sword of the Other. Will confirmed it, he saw a living corpse with blue eyes. Another black brother ran away when he saw it. I don't know whether he still lives… or marches now with blue eyes. Maybe he was torn apart by wolves, or killed by Wildlings...
He still felt a burning bitterness over Gared's desertion. He trusted him. Of the four deserters this year, Gared was the closest black brother to him.
"I thought he was trying to justify himself. That he was mad," Ned muttered.
Benjen stopped and looked at his brother. Worry etched deep lines into his face.
"Ned?"
There was silence. Ned sank deeper into his chair, his hand going to his closely trimmed beard. Benjen noticed the white streaks in it. Were they that old?
"I hoped these were just the words of a madman." He spoke, looking at Benjen. "After all, the White Walkers haven't been seen for thousands of years." He sighed. "A deserter from the Night's Watch was captured a few days ago. I beheaded him yesterday."
Gared had been in the Watch as long, if not longer, as Benjen had been alive. He knew him well; more than once they had shared meals in the common hall, spent nights huddled together amid blizzards, and tracked Wildlings side by side. Yet Benjen felt nothing at the news of black brother's death. He broke his vows, broke the trust of his brothers, and fled at his time of greatest need. And Ned as Lord did his duty.
"Well, he wasn't lying." He finally choked it out. "The Others have returned, and with them comes the Long Night. Winter is coming, and we will not survive without the support of the Seven Kingdoms."
Heavy drops of rain drummed on the window, as if to emphasize the finality of his words. Thunder rumbled in the distance. From the courtyard came the sound of people running for shelter from the sudden rain. Ned rose from his chair and stood beside Benjen.
"I know you, and as hard as it is to believe, I know you would never lie about something like this. But how do you intend to convince the other lords? The northern lords know our legends, but they are stubborn, and to the south it is only grumpkins and snarks. You will not do this without proof."
"I have a plan and proof." Ned’s brows rose. Just a little, but for a man of his typically composed bearing, it was significant. "I have the remains of the White Walker's sword. And Lyrion can tell you about the fight. Then all we have to do is convince Lord Arryn, and you two can convince the king."
Of course, Benjen was well aware that to the southerners, the words of a lady-knight might mean nothing. They did not recognize warrior women. But he had no intention of giving up hope. Not when he had to cling to it as tightly as a drowning man to a blade.
Ned's face instantly became a grim mask of regret. "Jon Arryn is dead. The King is coming north."
Had the world conspired against Benjen? He took a sip of wine to moisten his suddenly parched throat. All was not yet lost. They would still have a chance to speak with the king directly. He looked to his brother.
"I'm sorry, I know how much he meant to you."
Ned gave him a sad look.
"I'll speak with Ser Lyrion tomorrow. I hope you're right about her."
Benjen woke up feeling wonderfully rested, but his good mood ended quickly as consciousness returned. The changes in the royal court were going to make it harder to get support for the Watch. He felt it deep in his bones. And then there was the king's visit. He hoped that for her own good Lyrion would be able to avoid his attention throughout the journey. Too bad those hopes had vanished like the summer snows.
He left his chambers with the intention of going to break his fast when he heard the rapid clatter of footsteps echoing down the almost empty corridor.
"Uncle Benjen!"
He turned on his heel and felt some of his worries recede into the background. Jon caught up with him quickly.
"Jon, look at you, you're almost a grown man!" He said and tousled the boy’s hair. Since the last time, he had grown taller and leaner, and a downy hint of a beard—like the fuzz on a peach—had begun to grace his cheeks. Though truth be told, he was still more pretty than handsome.
"Arya said you arrived, but I didn't see you at supper yesterday." It was an accusation, but the broad smile spoiled the effect.
"I had some matters to discuss with your father. Perhaps you could tell me how Winterfell is doing? I've heard of the direwolves."
Jon's face lit up all the more. They set off down the corridor together. Jon matched his pace with Benjen's, glancing at him now and again, as if still not quite believing he was truly there.
"Aye, six pups. Their mother died, they wouldn't survive long." He stopped, looked over his shoulder and whistled. A ball of white fur padded over. Red eyes glanced curiously at Benjen. He sniffed his legs, then returned to Jon. "He’s not like the others. He never makes a sound that's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he’s white."
"Calm direwolf." Benjen admitted. Between Arya's loud pup and Fluffy's strange obsession with grooming, this one seemed to be a real ghost. They resumed their walk; Ghost moved in silence, even if he occasionally tripped over his oversized paws. "There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings... Although I did recently met a grown direwolf south of the Wall."
"Arya mentioned you brought one with you. The servants also talked about him." Jon nodded and looked at Benjen. "Is it true that it is as big as a horse?"
"Bigger."
Jon's eyes widened to the size of coins. He blinked and looked thoughtfully at his pup. It was hard to believe that something so small could grow into such a huge beast. Benjen suppressed a shudder at the thought of such a large and dangerous creature that could move silently. He would be undetectable in the snow. The true beast of the north.
"Can you hear his thoughts, too?" He asked casually. Jon's look told him very clearly that he hadn't. So it wasn't an ability tied to the bond between human and direwolf. Good to know. "I've never met such a well behaved puppy."
Jon puffed out his chest proudly. It was rare for Benjen to see him so pleased with himself.
"I'm going to train him. He'll be a great hunter."
They walked in silence for a while. Several servants passed them, running to do their work. They stopped only briefly to nod to their Lord's brother and son, and then they sped off.
"Are you staying until the King's visit?" Jon asked as they passed through the archway leading to the lower floors.
Benjen nodded, watching Ghost clumsily jump down the steps. He was only slightly bigger than them. It would take some time before he grew big enough to walk up them comfortably.
"Take me with you when you go back to the Wall," Jon said in a sudden rush. "I'm good with a sword, and Ghost will help track the Wildlings. Father will give me leave to go if you ask him."
Benjen stopped and looked closely at the boy. "Jon, you don't know what you're asking for. The Wall is a hard place, and you're still young. You don't know what you'd have to give up."
Jon straightened up, trying to appear taller than he was.
"I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle." He bit his lip, clearly considering his next words. When he finally spoke, he sounded defeated. "Robb would someday inherit Winterfell and become Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb’s bannermen, but who will I be?" His shoulders sagged. "I’m just a bastard, where else could I be someone, if not in the Watch?"
Jon's gray eyes were filled with sadness. In his own way, Benjen understood the boy's desire; when he was his age, he had felt the same way. But he didn’t want him sealing his fate so soon. The life of a black brother was hard and sacrifices. Sacrifices that over time intensified the regret for a life he would never be able to live. Benjen knew this too well. He placed his hand on Jon's shoulder.
"You could one day take Ser Rodrik’s place as master-at-arms of Winterfell. You could become captain of the guard, find a wife, and have children. You could travel." Jon clenched his jaw and turned his head away. Benjen sighed. "It will be a long time before the king arrives, and longer still before I return to the Wall. Think carefully, Jon. Taste life, spend a night with a woman and then come back to me. But do not make this decision lightly."
Jon gritted his teeth tighter and stared stubbornly at the floor.
"I will never dishonor a woman!" He said, lifting his chin. "And I will not change my mind."
"We'll talk in a few moons." Benjen squeezed Jon's shoulder one last time. "Now come on. You haven't told me how you're doing with a lance yet. Have you managed to defeat Walder?"
Lyrion put several pieces of cheese on her plate with unconcealed pleasure. It wasn't as good as the kind made in the temple, but still better than what the strange merchant at the docks in Baldur's Gate tried to sell. She still maintained that the cheese had the sounds and smells of a diseased fungus. She would never understand who would consider it a delicacy. On the other hand, Theren could make a wonderful spicy roasted rat. Is it that weird Lyrion thought this was some of the best food she'd ever eaten?
"Where is Cormyr?" A little girl with dark hair and a long face similar to Benjen and Lord Stark stared at her with a hawkish gaze. Her bowl of oatmeal was forgotten. The other children seated at the high table pretended not to be listening to the barrage of questions. Or like the boy, Bran if she remembered correctly, hey had dropped all pretense of disinterest and were greedily soaking up every word.
Lady Stark gave her daughter a tired look. None of her warnings had worked and now she simply sat quietly eating her morning meal.
Lyrion had thought she would never get used to sitting at the same table as a highborn, but so far the Starks seemed oddly practical for their status.
"In Faerûn, east of Elturgard."
"Is that somewhere in Essos?" An older boy with shaggy, reddish-brown hair tilted his head.
Lyrion searched through her memories of her time searching the library at Castle Black with Maester Aemon. She was certain she had come across that name somewhere, but at the moment, she couldn’t recall where." Further. Much further," she said. After all, Essos had to be on the same plane as Westeros.
"And girls can be knights there? Like you?" The girl jumped up from her seat, almost knocking over the bowl of oatmeal on her sister.
"Arya!" The red-haired girl cried out in indignation.
"Arya, calm down or you'll go to your room," her mother scolded her.
Arya reluctantly sat back down in her chair. Lyrion felt a growing feeling in her chest. It had been a long time since she had eaten in such a large group, and Arya's energy was so similar to that of the younger children in the temple. Lyrion's years of experience had taught her to be cautious; she was no stranger to oatmeal bolts.
The thin boy with a face that didn't match the rest of the family snorted.
"Women can't be knights," he said, the cocky smile never leaving his face. Then he looked at Lyrion, his eyes sliding from her face, lower and lower.
She suppressed a shiver and reached for the cup of watered wine. Lord Stark had granted her guest rights. The boy wasn't a criminal sent to the Wall, so he probably had to follow them? But if he tried anything, Lyrion would punch him in the face. That usually worked.
"Ser Lyrion is a knight!" Arya called out with a warlike gaze, turning to Lyrion. "You are a knight, aren’t you?"
"Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard gave me the title of knight after I saved him and the city from a terrible war." she nodded, causing a proud smile to appear on the girl's face. She never used the title at home, she never cared about it. Being a follower of Selûne was more important than the title, which was purely ceremonial. The ceremony itself was rather ridiculous. So much fanfare and pomp for official permission to use her own sigil. Ember had to drag Lyrion to the palace by force, and now if it weren't for Ser Waymar, she would probably forget about it. It was still strange to hear 'Ser' before her name. "Are you planning to become a warrior?"
Arya was cut off by her older sister. "Fighting is not fit for a lady, it is a task for men."
"That's stupid!" She crossed her arms over her chest, puffing out her cheeks in outrage. "Girls can fight just as well as boys. Visenya Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms with Aegon the Conqueror. And she rode Vhagar! And Mormont women fight the Wildlings..."
Lyrion wisely decided not to get involved in sisters’ quarrel. Instead, she stuffed a piece of freshly baked bread with juicy ham into her mouth. It was good food, and surprisingly free of the extravagance so common to many highborns and wealthy merchants on the Sword Coast.
Eventually, after another threat to spend time in the rooms, the argument calmed down. Lady Stark leaned out from behind her husband, who was talking quietly to Benjen, and turned to Lyrion. "I apologize for the children's behavior, Ser Lyrion."
Lyrion quickly swallowed her bite of bread. "There's no need to apologize. After all, children are children, and it's the duty of siblings to annoy each other." She smiled and leaned toward the three youngest, as if she were about to reveal a secret. "Theren, my brother, once used my favorite shirt as a target for his fire tricks. There was nothing left of it. I returned the favor by pushing his head into a puddle of mud."
All the children laughed, except the older girl. She looked the very picture of a proper young lady, and if Lyrion were younger, she might have felt like a ragged peasant beside her. Well, maybe not perfect - the girl was clearly trying to look at Lyrion's face, and when she did, her brows drew together in bewilderment and she quickly looked away, as if fearing the scar might be contagious.
Lyrion straightened, keenly aware of Benjen’s burning gaze on the back of her head. She just gave him a pretty smile. She didn't mention magic.
Lord Stark's eldest son wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes shining with excitement. "Jon once covered himself in flour and hid in the crypts."
The sad-eyed boy brightened up a little and mumbled something about little girls beating up ghosts.
"You earned it." Arya looked proud as hell.
Lyrion felt a knot tighten in her chest. Meals with her friends were similar. There were more flying firebolts, but she had never missed them as much as she did now. Maybe if she stopped the darkness, the Moonmaiden would allow it to return to them. She hoped she would.
Chapter Text
Lyrion’s gaze swept across the heavy wooden door. It was carved just as beautifully as the doors leading into the Great Hall and the stone alcoves lining the corridors—trees with wide-spreading crowns that could only be weirwoods, wolves racing between them toward their prey, all crowned with blossoms of roses. Some of the details had already faded from generations of coming and going from Lord’s solar, yet the craftsmanship still dazzled with its splendor.
It seemed that the Starks had decided to replace gold, silver, and gemstones with as much carving in wood and stone as possible. And it made sense, when you compared it to everything else—the clothes were practical rather than ostentatious, though still pretty and made with incredible care, the food wasn't as strange as the dishes in High Hall, but it was tasty and filling, and the servants didn't shudder at the thought of contact with the Lord's family.
Lyrion adjusted her grip on the morning star, pretending not to notice the wary glances of the two guards standing outside the door. She bit the inside of her cheek. Lord Stark was quiet and difficult to read, but she had already sensed his cold demeanor toward her. Lyrion had always been proud of her silver hair. She liked to think it was a gift from Selûne, a sign of her blessing—while other priests had to use dyes, she had been born with them. But in this world, so far, it had caused nothing but trouble. What did the Targaryens do that made people hate them so much?
"Any last words before we step into the wolf’s den?"
Benjen gave her an amused look. It's easy for him to laugh, he was raised a highborn. And lord was his brother.
"It'll be fine," he assured, frowning. That did nothing to calm Lyrion's frayed nerves. "There's actually one thing... There's been a slight change of plans, but I think we can discuss that later."
Lyrion studied Benjen's face. There was something, not entirely off, but she felt a chill settle in her stomach. Her eyes narrowed.
"Does this affect the outcome of the conversation with your brother?"
"No. But the entire mission may take longer."
It wasn't perfect. In fact, she planned to return to the Wall as soon as possible, and maybe instruct the black brothers in strategies for fighting the undead. Unless the Moonmaiden said otherwise, of course. Every month of delay felt like an inch of the executioner's blade falling.
"No worries. My brother is a reasonable man, everything will be fine."
"Yeah, it'll be fine." Lyrion took one more breath and they entered the Lord's solar. After all, if they failed, they would only disappoint her goddess and bring about eternal night. No pressure.
Lyrion shifted in her seat. Lord Eddard Stark clearly did not welcome her presence. He didn't show it directly. He was polite, he spoke to her with respect, but every glance he gave her was as cold as the winds beyond the Wall, and his face was as impassive as a rock. If not for her past experiences with Zariel, Lyrion would likely have been pacing the chamber like a living embodiment of a bundle of nerves.
It's strange how brothers could be so similar and yet so different. They were both quite tall for humans, with long faces and dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Benjen had blue eyes that often smiled; Lord Stark had gray eyes, hard as stone and cold as steel. Where Benjen carried himself in a charmingly sloppy manner, his brother was the picture of a nobleman, with a neatly trimmed beard and ironed clothes.
Lyrion swallowed and glanced around the solar, trying not to think about the fact that her good old morningstar lay on the large desk just out of her reach. She rolled the ring between her fingers. The moment it slipped, the terrible cold radiating from the shards of the Other’s sword grew even more piercing—only to wane again as the ring returned to its place. She did this move several times. The change in temperature was a welcome distraction from the prolonged silence. If it weren't for the footsteps of the castle's inhabitants that she could hear every now and then outside the door, she would have thought that someone had cast a Silence spell on them.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and a small man entered, whom Lyrion immediately recognized as Maester. He was far younger than Maester Aemon, but she had yet to meet a soul in Westeros whose age could rival the old man of the Black Castle.
The man bowed to Lord Stark, his chains rattling.
"You summoned me, my lord?"
"Maester Luwin, I would appreciate your contribution to this weapon," he pointed to the morningstar.
The Maester raised the weapon with reverence and examined it closely.
"This is extraordinary craftsmanship, Lord Strak," Maester Luwin muttered as his fingers began to trace the ornamentation on the hilt. "It is beautifully made... I do not recognize the decorations. I do not believe I have ever seen anything like it. Surprisingly light for its size..." He turned the morningstar, and the metal caught the light coming through the window, shimmering green. "This metal is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps those who forged their links from metallurgy might have heard of such a thing."
"This is not Valyrian steel?" the Lord asked.
"Definitely not." The Maester shook his head and looked at Lyrion. "Where did this weapon come from?"
"From Faerûn. I got it in the Sunset Mountains. It’s adamantine."
"Maester Aemon believes it was forged with magic," Benjen added.
"There may be some truth to that." The Maester turned the morningstar again, nodding slowly.
Lord Stark rubbed his beard in thoughtful silence, his gaze never leaving Lyrion. Then he took the morningstar from the Maester—who seemed to be dying of curiosity to ask questions—and slid the box of shards toward him.
"What can you say about this?"
The chain rattled as the Maester leaned over the box. He reached out curiously, but stopped just inches from the shards, no doubt sensing the cold emanating from it. He deftly pulled the long sleeves of his grey robe over his hands before lifting one of the pieces.
"It looks like a surprisingly pure piece of ice. And incredibly cold. Fascinating... It should have started melting long ago," he said, holding it up to the light. He frowned as a bluish light flickered around the edges, then almost immediately put the piece back in its box and rubbed his hands together. "This material is unknown to me as well. If I may ask, my Lord, what is it?"
"By all accounts, these are shards of the White Walker sword destroyed by Ser Lyrion."
The Maester blinked and looked around at those gathered in the room.
"My lord, the White Walkers have not been seen for thousands of years. They are extinct, like the giants and the children of the forest."
Lord Stark rose from his chair and went to the window.
"Apparently, they are not as dead as we thought," he said, gazing into the distance, as if the view beyond the window might reveal all the answers. "The Night’s Watch has confirmed their existence. The White Walkers are coming and they call the dead to serve them. Not even castle-forged steel harms them."
"My lord," the Maester tugged on his chain. "Forgive my boldness, but you must admit that this sounds absurd. Magic vanished from the world with the death of the last dragon."
"Wargs still live among the Wildlings, and we see traces of giants on our expeditions," Benjen said from his seat.
Lord Stark turned from the window, his grey eyes seeming to bore through body and peer into soul.
"I still place my trust in your words, Benjen—but as you can see, this proof is not enough to convince others." Whether by light or some trick of the mind, the Lord’s eyes seemed to soften. "I will support your cause before the king. I shall ask the lords of the North to send reinforcements to the Wall. Others or Wildlings, the Night’s Watch will need aid."
A great weight seemed to have been lifted from Benjen's shoulders. Lyrion could swear she heard a sigh of relief. The meeting with the Lord had been a success. Interceding with the king and the promise of aid from at least one of the kingdoms was a good beginning. So why did Lyrion feel as if she were about to be struck by a giant’s club?
"We'll find better evidence," he assured, his eyes gleaming with determination. "They won't deny the Others' existence if they see them with their own eyes."
Lyrion's head snap towards Benjen.
"HAVE THE GODS TAKEN YOUR WITS, OR WHAT?" she snapped, ignoring the offended looks from the Lord and the Maester. "No matter how many men you gather, you won’t catch an Other. Any rope, cage, whatever you use, will simply be shattered! If you’re intent on capturing something, then go after their minions instead."
"I admit that's a more reasonable option," he mumbled, scratching his cheek. "We'll talk about this later. For now, thank you, Ned."
Lord Stark nodded at his brother, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly into something like a smile, but as quickly as it appeared it disappeared as he turned his gaze to Lyrion.
"I wonder what you were doing beyond the Wall, Ser Lyrion?"
"I serve the Moonmaiden, her holy light will guide me. A great darkness lurks over the world. Whether it is a plot by the Lady of Loss or an unknown enemy, it is my duty to stop it. Either my mission will succeed or I will die trying."
Lord Stark's face didn't even flinch as he looked to Benjen for silent support.
"Lyrion is part of an order devoted to the goddess of the moon, an order that holds its oaths in the highest regard. She has already sworn to aid the Night’s Watch, which is why she stands here beside me."
"Avernus will freeze before I break my oath," she said with all the conviction she could muster. At the same time, she tried not to think about becoming an Oathbreaker. People who broke their vows easily were worse than the worshippers of the Dark Three, as horrible as the followers of Shar. They could never be trusted not to turn on you in the darkest moment.
"I see," Lord Stark nodded slowly, finally recovering from the shock of her abrupt response. Lyrion caught the doubt in his voice. "I hope you speak the truth, Ser Lyrion."
Lord Stark returned to his desk, and Lyrion realized it was a dismissal. She grabbed her morningstar and followed Benjen to the door, but before she reached it, she turned to the Lord.
"Lord Stark, if I may..." He gestured with a wave of his hand, urging her to go on. "Now, the only known methods of defeating the Others and their minions are fire and my weapon. Maester Aemon is combing through the library at the Black Castle, hoping to uncover what was used during the first Long Night. Searching the library of Winterfell may increase our chances of finding answers."
"You have my permission to use the library in the presence of Maester Luwin or the librarian."
"Thank you."
She bowed and left. The unimaginable weight in her chest no longer felt so heavy. It might not have been a big step, but it still counted.
Deep in the dark crypts of Winterfell, Ned Stark stood silently before three statues. The torch in his hand cast dancing shadows, twisting the silent figures of his father and older brother into almost ghostly images. Their bones never returned to the North, the dust that remained of them blown away by the south wind long before Ned reached King's Landing.
The last was the statue of his sister. Lyanna Stark, the 'She-Wolf'. The flickering flames made her eyes flicker for a moment, as if they were not cold stone but real flesh. Those dead eyes stared at Ned with judgment, and long-whispered words, as quiet as a gust of wind, rang in Ned's ears once more.
Promise me, Ned.
His thoughts drifted to the tourney at Harrenhal. To the day he used to curse with all his being. He remembered how excited he was about it. After years of being apart, he would finally be reunited with his family and introduce them to his friend, Robert. Ned loved Robert like a brother, even despite his constant visits to brothels and the amount of ale he could drink. He had a gift for winning people over. Ned still remembered the day the engagement between Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon was announced. He was glad that he would finally be able to call Robert a true brother.
Then came the tournament. Ned remembered his first dance with Ashara. Brandon had pushed him toward her, and though the conversation had been awkward at first, it had eventually turned into a pleasant time. Then he fell in love with her. With her dark hair and beautiful, purple eyes. But then the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree had appeared. The joyous celebrations could turn into a moment of holding one's breath in an instant. Like when Prince Rhaegar had won the tournament and crowned Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty.
Ned remembered the indignation that had flooded him. His older brother had been seething with anger. He and his father had had to forcefully restrain him from doing something stupid. But even his anger could not compare to Robert's fury.
A year later, the Rebellion began, Ned's brother and father were executed by the Mad King, and the foolish prince kidnapped his only sister and sentenced her to death by his actions. If not for Jon Arryn, Ned would have been another dead Stark.
In those days, Ned felt out of his own body. Present, yet distant. Rage and sadness washed over him in waves, then numbness came. But none of it could ever compare to Robert's feelings. Deceived by blind fury, his brother in everything but blood had sought to destroy all Targaryens. Anyone with the blood of the Mad King in their veins could expect death. Ned remembered all too clearly the mutilated bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen, and Princess Elia Martell with Robert laughing above them. Their savage murder had long been a thorn between Ned and Robert, nearly costing them their friendship. He hoped that time had dulled his friend’s bitter grief.
Ned shook his head and let out a sorrowful sigh. He hadn’t thought much of it before, but with the arrival of the strange woman, he began to dread the king’s visit. If he hadn't seen the body of Rhaenys Targaryen, he would have mistaken her for a long-dead princess. The resemblance chilled him. Even her age seemed fitting. He feared Robert would look at Jon and see dragon’s blood in his veins. He feared that hatred for the Targaryens would bring ruin upon his entire family.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his breathing. This wasn't the only threat to his family.
The Others. He would never have thought these things existed. Of course he knew the legends, he was a Stark, he knew his home and its history. But then Benjen showed up with a woman who not only looked like a Targaryen, but wielded a weapon that by all accounts had the power to destroy White Walkers. They brought the remains of the Other's sword and asked for reinforcements for the Watch. And even with all the evidence, some part of Ned refused to believe it.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall, the coming Long Night—Ned had not feared so deeply for his family’s future since the Rebellion. As Warden of the North, he would provide the Night’s Watch with all that lay within his power. That was his duty. He suspected Robert rode north with the intent to name him Hand of the King. It was the last thing he desired, yet he knew he could not refuse his friend. Should it come to pass, he could only hope to sway the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
Echoing footsteps made him look up. The glow of flickering light slowly grew until Ned could see Benjen. His brother stopped at his side without a word, looking at each of the statues.
"Sometimes I wonder what our lives might have looked like, had they not died that day," Ned’s voice, though quiet, echoed through the crypt like a distant thunder. "Had there never been a Rebellion."
Sometimes he dreamed of a peaceful world where King Aerys wasn't mad, Prince Rhaegar was happy with his wife, and the Rebellion had never happened. A bittersweet dream that would never come true.
"Most likely, I would have traveled," Benjen said with a wistful smile. "I’d have sailed to Essos, spent a few years riding through the Free Cities, and eventually returned to the North to become a master-at-arms. I’d have found myself a wife… had children…"
"Brandon would be a Lord and Cat's husband. Lya would be Robert's wife and live in the far south... I would marry Ashara."
A silence fell between them, broken only by the crackle of torches. Ned would sometimes think of Ashara. Often at first, but with each passing year—as his love for Catelyn deepened—his old affection visited his thoughts less and less. He had always been the second choice, yet he wasn’t sure he could give up his family for sweet illusions.
He spoke after a long moment.
"Do you trust her to keep her oath?"
"Lyrion?" Benjen considered his words for a moment, then nodded. "Aye. I trust her to do everything she can to defeat the White Walkers. Her heart is in the right place."
Ned looked at Benjen. He could see that he believed his own words deeply. And let the Others take him, but Benjen would never lie in front of his ancestors. Ned was going to trust his brother.
"Maester Luwin has sent one of the sword fragments to the Citadel. I trust their opinion will aid the cause." He frowned and tore his gaze away from the motionless statues of their family members. "Lord Mormont will not be pleased that you will be outside the Wall so long."
"'ll send him a raven, he'll understand. Getting support is key right now... Although I doubt the Citadel will support us."
Ned had to agree with him. He remembered Maester Walys and his disdain for northern legends. He considered it a boon that Maester Luwin, while skeptical of the messages from the Wall, did not so readily question the old stories of the North.
Chapter Text
Lyrion tucked her legs beneath her on the bench. The challenge was to do so without waking the purring bundle of gray fur, all while pretending not to notice the two small shadows that had been trailing her for days. The persistent tingling at the nape of her neck was growing tiresome. She really ought to commend them for their tenacity. And their foolishness. The boy climbed walls as deftly as a spider, but in a world without magic a single misstep could end very badly at any moment. Arya, on the other hand, moved with remarkable agility—light-footed and quick whenever she fled from her mother and her tutor, the septa.
“Bran! Get down!” Lady Stark’s raised voice rang out even here, on the far side of the wall separating the many courtyards. The cat curled on Lyrion’s lap twitched its ears and rolled onto its other side, revealing its soft white belly for a fleeting moment. Lyrion sighed, charmed by the sight. “Arya! Don’t hide, young lady, I can see you perfectly well. Arya, come back here!”
Lyrion smiled shamelessly. It seemed the children’s luck had run its course. Did that make her a bad person? Well, it was either that or utter boredom, so the answer seemed pretty simple. Fluffy, much to the children’s disappointment, barely left the chamber, savoring every luxurious moment. Benjen had disappeared to spend time with his family, including sparring with the older boys. The library wasn’t an option at the moment, and Lyrion had no desire to train. She could have inventoried her bag—Theren had surely slipped in a few suspicious items before she ended up in Westeros—but even that didn’t feel appealing right now. So Lyrion found herself wandering the castle. Or rather, the castle complex. It had been several days, and she’d only managed to explore the Great Keep and a few nearby courtyards. She’d even felt the roaring heat of the godswood but didn’t dare enter without an invitation. Winterfell was truly vast, more a fortified town than a castle.
Lady Stark’s voice faded into the distance, along with the children’s complaints, leaving only the hum of everyday life echoing across the courtyard. Two washer women passed through, carrying baskets full of sheets. They chattered cheerfully in a throaty language that Lyrion couldn’t understand, the same dialect spoken by many of the smallfolk in the North. They giggled when a guardsman called after them and quickened their pace.
Lyrion tilted her head and closed her eyes, running one hand through the fluffy fur, causing another burst of purring. Sunlight wrapped gently around her face. She felt... She didn't quite know what she felt. And then, the upcoming meeting with the king in a few months… She feared it. She was a simple paladin, sworn to defend the weak. Demon of the Trident, as Benjen had called him, didn't seem to need protection at all. It was others who should be protected from him. After all, you don't call someone a demon without reason.
Lyrion bit the inside of her cheek. Things were simpler back home. She would wander from village to village, fulfilling her oath and fighting foul creatures. In the meantime, she’d help the Harpers and get Theren out of trouble. And she would never have to bother with nobles and kings. She’d be just another paladin doing what was right.
Lost. Yes, that was the word that best captured her current state. She had reached Winterfell, the home of the Wolf Lord, and now she was suspended. The dreams once sent by her goddess, which had haunted her nearly every night, had gone silent. What was she meant to do here? Was it enough that she had just appeared? If so, how long should she stay? Or perhaps her role was to help Benjen convince his brother? But Lord Stark believed his words almost immediately.
She brushed loose strands from her face and let out a sound of pure frustration. She needed to find some form of amusement other than repeatedly getting lost in the keep. Otherwise, this would kill her long before the first ice demons reached the Wall.
Approaching footsteps caught Lyrion's attention.
“Hey, Bess,” she waved to the servant. The sudden words almost made the poor woman stumble. A blush crept onto her pale cheeks, she swallowed, and hurried across the distance. “I hope Fluffy isn't causing any trouble.”
Bess’s face flickered with emotion before settling into practiced neutrality.
“Not at all, m'lady,” she said, though Lyrion detected displeasure in her tone. "The library has some books that might interest you."
Lyrion blinked and immediately straightened up. Finally, some good news. The cat opened its eyes, yellow eyes glaring at her reproachfully as her hand stopped scratching the spot beneath its chin. It blinked, leapt down to the floor, and with a lazy stretch wandered off in a direction known only to itself.
Lyrion rose from the bench with a grace that always amazed humans.
“Will you show me the way?” she asked with a smile. Finally, she could move on.
Climbing the steep, stone steps, Lyrion couldn’t help but wonder who had conceived such a brilliant idea as placing the staircase on the outside of the Library Tower—with no safety measures whatsoever. Absurd! She didn’t even want to imagine how many had paid for the climb with their lives.
She brushed windblown strands from her face and peered over the edge. The people in the courtyard below, no larger than mice from this height, moved between the Great Keep and the smaller buildings. She spotted a small gathering at the center, where young boys trained under the watchful eye of the master-at-arms. Two children, surely Arya and Bran, having once again slipped free from their mother’s care, dashed beneath the wall, their puppies bounding after them.
A sudden squawk caught Lyrion's attention. A raven had perched on the edge of the wall, its black feathers gleaming in the midday sun. Why could these creatures never give her a moment's peace? If she had to choose between ravens and pigeons, she’d pick the pigeon every single time.
“M'lady?“
Bess stopped a few steps in front of Lyrion, an unspoken question lurking in her eyes. Lyrion shook her head and continued climbing. A quick glance toward the wall revealed the bird had already flown away.
The servant pushed open the wooden door. Lyrion had to duck to avoid hitting her head on the threshold. She stopped in surprise as her eyes swept over the library, thoughts of the raven vanished from her mind in an instant.
"That's a lot of books."
A whole lot of books. It seemed as though every flat surface—shelves, tables, even corners—had been put to use storing volumes, scrolls, and even stone tablets. It didn't quite compare to Candlekeep's collection, but it was still impressive. Though the amount of wax pooled around the candles on every table might have caused any Oghma cleric's heart to stop beating.
“That’s the collection of every generation of the Starks,” came a proud voice from behind her. A young man emerged from between the shelves, a crystal swinging from a thin chain around his neck. “You’ll find more books only in King’s Landing or the Citadel, Ser,” he bowed briefly. “I am Septon Chayle. Lord Stark has asked me to aid in your search.”
Hope filled Lyrion's chest. If she knew anything about nobility, it was that they loved to write down all the glorious achievements of their ancestors. There had to be something here that mentioned the last Long Night.
“In that case, I look forward to a fruitful collaboration.”
A smile lit up the man's face. He looked a bit like the farm boy who had taken Lyrion and Aric into his home many years ago as they fled the slaughter. He had the same friendly face and lively eyes.
Lyrion moved between the shelves just as a dreadful realization crushed all her joy. Gods, she would have to sift through as much of this as possible. Without magic. Alone.
She swallowed a groan of frustration and turned again to Septon Chayle.
“Which books contain anything on the Long Night? Or the White Walkers?”
The septon blinked. He didn’t seem surprised—so either Lord Stark had revealed what Lyrion was seeking, or, as a man of faith, he’d received guidance from his gods. Sadly, it was probably the former.
"I'm afraid there aren't many books on that particular subject," he confessed, bowing his head. "But I’ve managed to find a few volumes that may interest you."
He led Lyrion through the shelves to a cozy corner of the library, right by the tall window from which she could see the Hunter's Gate. Four books lay on the table, each thicker than the last. Lyrion stifled a grimace. There was going to be a lot of reading.
“Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile.
“At your service anytime, Ser.”
She watched the septon vanish between the shelves. And this time, she openly scowled at the stack of books. She had read more dull, dry texts since arriving in this world than she had in her entire life. And it hadn't even been three months! What was this world doing to her?
“Let’s hope it’s worth it,” she muttered and sat down at the table.
She immediately dismissed the hefty tome titled Lies of the Ancients . She’d read enough of it at Castle Black to know that Archmaester Fomas possessed zero understanding of anything remotely related to magic.
With a sigh, she reached for the next book, which—judging by its title—contained the history of the Kings of Winter, recorded since the time of the legendary Bran the Builder. She crossed her fingers, hoping to find at least a scrap of useful information.
Lyrion leaned back in her chair and rubbed her dry eyes. Her neck felt like a piece of dry wood. She stretched her arms behind her head, tilting first to the left, then to the right, feeling her spine crack and her stiff muscles pleasantly loosen.
The reading on the Kings of Winter had, so far, yielded no answers. The events described took place after the Long Night, yet Lyrion found the race mentioned within—namely the Children of the Forest—strangely compelling. Something about them was strangely familiar, but Lyrion couldn't remember what. She wrote down everything she could learn about them on a piece of parchment, hoping her mind would suddenly be enlightened. Unfortunately, with every moment she stared at the paper, her frustration only grew. She felt the answer was on the tip of her tongue.
Trying to ignore the scratching feeling in her head, Lyrion turned another page of the book.
“Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf,” she read from the ornate illuminations. She frowned. “You clearly haven’t encountered either the Others or the Children of the Forest, have you?”
She closed the thick leather-bound book. Nothing in it had proved worth her attention. King Theon had lived nearly two thousand years after the construction of the Wall, not to mention the Long Night.
She rubbed her tired eyes and looked out the window. The sky had turned a beautiful shade of pale blue. Faded stars twinkled low on the horizon. She blinked and looked around the library. On her table, just beside a plate with remnants of bread, stood a lamp—the oil must have run out recently, for it was still warm. Somewhere between the shelves, a faint light shimmered, barely distinguishable from the one streaming in through the windows.
Lyrion’s awareness slowly caught up with everything around her. It was morning. She’d spent half the day and the entire night in the library, without even noticing the time slipping by. That certainly explained the exhaustion. She buried her head in her hands. If Theren ever found out about this, he’d never let her live it down.
She bit the inside of her cheek as another wave of irritation surged through her mind. Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she grimaced at the ink-stained fingers. Pens were a hundred times more comfortable than the quills. She really ought to freshen up. A meal would be nice too.
She neared the door when the unrelenting, scratchy feeling of irritation turned into a flicker of panic. An incomprehensible, frantic babble echoed through her mind. She froze mid-stride. Fluffy. Few things could frighten a direwolf, and those that could…
Lyrion ran up the steep stairs. She heard Fluffy before she saw him, panicked squeaking punctuated by short barks.
I'm coming! I'M COMING! She hoped her thoughts would pierce through the direwolf’s panicked mind.
She jumped down the last three steps and stopped right in front of a panicked Fluffy. He didn't seem to notice her at all. He kept pacing the same patch of ground, his claws carving deep grooves into it.
“Fluffy, Fluffy!” She tried to draw his attention, but he was too deep inside his own mind. She reached out and grabbed his snout. “Bane Fluffington!”
Fluffy froze. He blinked as if struggling to believe what he was seeing, then a torrent of babble spilled out of him.
They’re multiplying! They’re everywhere! Fluffy is far too beautiful to be a dad! Fluffy’s too young and without Mr. Chewy! Fluffy misses Mr. Chewy. And there’s so many of them! Fluffy’s fur will turn silver! That’s bad. Very bad! Fluffy cannot be ugly!
He barked, his words once again becoming an incomprehensible babble. Lyrion tightened her grip on his muzzle and forced him to meet her gaze. She decided to ignore the part about silver and ugliness for now.
“I’m here, it’s alright. One step at a time. Why don’t you sit down first?” she said gently, stroking his muzzle. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted three guards, each with a hand on their sword hilts, and only Benjen, bless Selûne for him, stood between them and Fluffy. “I’ve got this under control. Weapons won’t be necessary.”
Benjen gave her a nod and immediately turned to the guards. Lyrion was too focused on Fluffy to catch his words, but she felt an indescribable wave of relief as all three men reluctantly left.
"Okay, my friend." Her precious puppy shouldn't look like a beaten dog. She swallowed her own panic and tried to speak as gently as possible. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"
Fluffy is too young to be a dad. He pushed his big head straight into Lyrion's arms.
Lyrion blinked. Her mind tried to process the implications of the words she had just heard. She must have misunderstood something.
“You need to be more specific.”
Fluffy can handle one pup, but they’re multiplying! Multiplying! Fluffy is too young for this!
He turned his head toward Benjen, and only then did Lyrion notice the boy standing behind him. Young Jon was staring at her, or perhaps at Fluffy, with eyes as wide as coins. At his side sat a ball of white fur.
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. As if touched by a wizard’s staff, all fear drained from Lyrion. A sound like a mixture of a sigh of relief and a hysterical giggle escaped her lips.
"So you just met the other pups, huh? You poor thing," she scratched him behind the ears, fighting back a smile. "See, that's why you should get to know the other people in the house first."
Fluffy whined and looked at her with wide eyes. Fluffy isn't ready to be a dad. All dads go gray. Fluffy doesn't want to be gray.
"And you're not a dad," she hastily assured him. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Benjen shifting uneasily and in that moment, an idea sparked in her mind. “But you can be an uncle.” Fluffy huffed, unconvinced. “You could teach the pups all the cool stuff, hunting, fur care, and all that uncle stuff. And none of the parental responsibility. You won’t go grey.”
Fluffy straightened up. He tilted his head to the side as if considering an idea. No diaper changes?
Lyrion blinked. Where had he even gotten that idea?
“Definitely no diapers,” she said, glancing at Benjen and Jon—and gods, that must have sounded strange to them. “Why not take advice from Benjen? He’s a good enough uncle.”
Fluffy nodded slowly. Yes, the Curly Man is smart. Lyrion is smart too. Fluffy will be smart too! He stood up, ready to leave, but stopped mid-step. And what about Mr. Chewy? Fluffy misses him.
Jon knew perfectly well that what he was seeing wasn’t a dream—yet he had just witnessed Ser Lyrion speaking the strangest, most contextless phrases to her direwolf. Part of him wanted to ask if everything was alright. He glanced toward his uncle Benjen for clues, but the man seemed utterly unfazed by the oddity. Curious and clearly amused, yes, but not concerned. He and Ser Lyrion had journeyed all the way from the Wall to Winterfell, so maybe he’d simply grown used to it? Or perhaps there was something going on that Jon had yet to understand.
“Mr. Chewy is safe in Ember's care in Waterdeep,” the lady knight scratched the direwolf behind the ears. “How about we go to the market later? I can sew Mr. Chewy's family. Or his very similar twin brother.”
Jon couldn’t make sense of the strangeness unrevealing before him. Fluffy’s tail wagged with wild enthusiasm at Ser Lyrion’s offer. Moments later, the direwolf turned, gave Uncle Benjen an intensely appraising look, snorted at Ghost, and nudged him with his nose. Only Benjen’s outstretched hand kept Jon from snatching up the pup. Fluffy was enormous and just moments ago, had been tearing through the castle in a frenzy.
Ghost's tail wagged as the large direwolf nuzzled him again. He turned his red eyes on Jon, then on the direwolf, then back on Jon. He remained where he was as Fluffy walked toward the Hunter's Gate.
Benjen stepped up beside Ser Lyrion, glancing toward the spot where the direwolf’s silhouette had only just disappeared. “I’ll probably regret asking, but… what exactly was that about?”
“A minor parenting crisis, but it’s been resolved,” the lady knight said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face and furrowing her brows. “He might follow you a bit later. Don’t worry, purely for educational purposes.”
"I figured." Uncle Benjen made a strange face and looked at Ser Lyrion with something akin to reproach. “Did you seriously call me just a good enough uncle?”
“Because you are?”
“I’m a great uncle, thank you very much.”
Jon felt startled as Ser Lyrion's starry silver eyes suddenly turned toward him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He was definitely not ready for the attention of such a beautiful woman.
“I'm sure Jonny has a great opinion of you, but you'll never be as great an uncle as old uncle Sammy. He used to throw in warm bagels with every one of my purchases. Face it, Benji.” With a smug smile, she patted uncle Benjen on the shoulder. “But I have to admit Fluffy's right, you're the uncle with the best hair.”
Jon wasn’t entirely sure what he had just witnessed. Ser Lyrion and uncle Benjen were long gone, leaving him alone with Ghost beneath the Library Tower. The name 'Jonny' echoed in his head like a shout from the crypts. How should he respond? He touched his ears; they were as hot as coals in a fireplace.
Chapter Text
The Library Tower was usually quiet, as if suspended in a perpetual sleep. Dim light filtered through the tall windows, casting pale streaks across the narrow paths between the shelves. It was a world entirely different from the vast stretches beyond the Wall — sometimes just as silent and serene, but far more dangerous.
Benjen passed Septon Chayle, who was absorbed in a monstrously thick tome, and headed toward the source of softly spoken, melodic words. He nearly laughed; the amount of venom Lyrion poured into each and every word was almost hilarious.
He stopped a few steps away from Lyrion’s table. In the dim light of the library, her gray-and-white tunic stood out clearly. She raised an ink-stained hand and made an aggressive gesture toward the book. Then she pointed a finger in Benjen’s direction without even looking at him.
“I know you're in there. And if you're already here, you can help me before I smite any of these old…” Benjen doubted he could repeat the word Lyrion had just used, even if he tried. “A troll has a better grasp of the alphabet than these old fools have of magic.”
He pulled up the nearest empty chair. Curiosity got the better of him.
“Can you smite ghosts?” he asked, peering over her shoulder. No wonder she was irritated, Benjen remembered Maester Walys forcing him to read that book when he was only nine. He hated it with all his being.
“Ghosts? Yes. Souls? Probably not, but I’m quite clever. I’ll find a way,” she said, dragging an alarmingly tall pile of books toward herself with unsettling ease, not even glancing at him. “Here, look through this pile. Look for anything on the Long Night, the White Walkers, the Battle for the Dawn, or the Last Hero… If you find mentions of a flaming sword, let me know.”
Absent-mindedly, she ran her hand through her hair, leaving a dark smudge behind. She wrinkled her nose, a crease forming between her brows.
“No. There’s nothing here,” she said, snapping the book shut and pushing it as far away from herself as possible. On a scrap of parchment, she crossed out a single line, then with a heavy sigh, reached for the next book.
Benjen glanced at the title carved into the thick leather of the first book in the pile. He hadn’t even known Winterfell held texts this ancient. He opened the one on top and grimaced. The letters were as tiny as poppy seeds. He had no intention of reading it. Not today.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go to the courtyard.”
Lyrion barely lifted her gaze from the book. She rubbed her clearly tired eyes and flipped to the next page. “We have to find a way to defeat those ice demons. I can’t be the only one capable of killing them. If I die, you’ll be defenseless.”
Benjen suppressed the unpleasant feeling that crept in at the thought of her death. She spoke of it with the same calm as if she were commenting on the weather. No resignation, no sorrow. As if she were stating the most obvious fact. It was as terrifying as it was fascinating. He didn’t think Lyrion was one of those people who considered themselves invincible, nor did she seem like someone who lacked the will to live. She could laugh and grieve, she cared about others, and she always gave her all.
Benjen wet his lips.
“And we will find a way. You said you fought the undead. Teach me.”
“What?” she finally tore her gaze from the book and looked at Benjen.
“Teach me,” he repeated. “If it comes to it, I’ll fight with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, but I want to know what to watch out for. Later, I can pass it on to the other black brothers when you're in the Vale. Besides, you need a break. Please.”
Lyrion opened and closed her mouth, clearly searching for words. She furrowed her brow, visibly battling with herself. Even before she spoke, Benjen already knew she would agree.
“I suppose I should practice with the sword,” she mumbled, then added more firmly, “And we’ll need a few volunteers. The undead never attack alone.”
“All the better. My brother's men could use some practice too,” he shrugged. After a moment’s thought, he added, “Just… maybe don’t use magic for now.”
Lyrion rolled her eyes dramatically but rose from the table.
“Yes, yes. I know. You say that every day.” She grimaced. “Let me change, and we can begin.”
Arya hissed as the needle pricked her finger once again. She furrowed her brow in frustration—the stitch was still crooked, and the fabric beneath it wrinkled. She shot a glare at her mother and the septa. She had really hoped to escape the lesson, but at this point, it was impossible. Why did her Mother have to abandon overseeing the preparations and sit with them instead? She puffed out her cheeks and jabbed the piece of cloth, imagining it was Sansa’s face.
Her stupid sister, along with her friends Beth Cassel and Jeyne Pool, were loudly swooning over the upcoming royal visit. They chirped cheerfully between bites of lemon cakes, and although Arya hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, she’d heard the words ‘knights’, ‘queen’, and ‘prince’ far too many times, each one followed by a wistful sigh. She stifled a grimace of disgust. She doubted any southern knight could single-handedly defeat a band of Wildlings the way Ser Lyrion had. Maybe the famous Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, could do it. And maybe the Kingslayer. But even uncle Benjen had admitted that Ser Lyrion was unstoppable in a fight.
“A lady's role is not to fight,” Arya heard Septa Mordane's voice and immediately shrank back. She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts aloud. “Men fight, and a lady’s role is to care for them.”
“Ser Lyrion fights.”
“Maybe that’s why she doesn’t have a husband?” Jeyne suggested. “No man would want to marry a woman who fights. And that scar?”
Sansa nodded, her face twisted with sadness.
“If Ser Lyrion didn’t fight, maybe she’d still be beautiful.”
Arya pressed her lips together. The scar might have marred the face of a lady knight, but so what if she could do whatever she wanted.
“Why should she get married? Boys are stupid.”
“Oh, Arya,” her mother shook her head. “You're still young, but when you grow up and marry a lord, you'll understand everything.”
Arya clenched her teeth. She sincerely doubted that would ever happen. She would never get married. Instead, she would become a great warrior, and together with Nymeria, they would go down in history. And she certainly wouldn’t need a husband to do it.
“Look, Mother,” Sansa showed her embroidery to their Mother. From her seat, Arya could see the perfect stitch forming an intricate pattern. “I’m thinking of adding it to my dress for the king’s visit. What do you think, Mother?”
Mother leaned over Sansa’s embroidery, smiling as she touched the soft fabric with her fingertips.
“It's beautiful, Sansa. You chose a very delicate pattern. It will look lovely on the dress.” Pride bloomed on Sansa’s face along with a charming blush. “Perhaps you should add a blue thread along the edges. It would highlight your eyes wonderfully”
“That's a great idea,” she admitted, turning to Jeyne. “Do you think the prince will like it?”
Arya clenched her teeth harder, stifling another irritated sigh. Why did she have to sit here? She was better with a bow than Bran, and she was sure that if she were allowed to train with a sword, she’d be just as good as the boys. The world was unfair. She looked again at her embroidery, wondering if it could somehow be fixed, but sighed and set the needle aside. Her mother looked up from her own needlework.
"Arya," her mother said, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Sansa and her friends looked at Aria with amusement. “Your name day is coming up. Will you help me with the feast preparations?”
Arya blinked in surprise. The recent events had so absorbed her attention that she’d completely forgotten about her name day. And she was turning eleven!
Managing the household was one of the few things Arya was better at than Sansa. The only one, if limited to traditionally womanly tasks. She knew that because of the upcoming royal visit, the celebration wouldn’t be grand—only Lord Cerwyn and a few minor vassals were expected to come. But Arya would seize any opportunity to escape the sewing circle a little sooner.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, recalling all the lessons in proper behavior her mother and the septa had tried to instill in her over the years. “May I go and prepare the list?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Arya didn’t flinch, even though her stomach twisted into a knot. She even began counting the beats of her heart. Finally, her mother broke the silence.
“Of course. We’ll review it together after supper.”
It was the kind of voice that promised consequences if Arya didn’t follow through. But Arya wasn’t too worried. She had until supper, after all. She tossed aside her embroidery, curtsied, and left the chamber. The moment the door closed behind her, a wide grin spread across her face—and she dashed off toward the courtyard.
Even before she reached the training grounds, loud cheers and groans reached her ears, and in the rare moments of silence, the clash of steel. She hadn’t expected the courtyard to be so full of people. It was unusual—almost as if half of Winterfell’s inhabitants had gathered there. It looked like the guards had organized a small tournament among themselves. She quickened her pace; watching fights was fun.
For the first time in her life, Arya was glad to be so small, as she squeezed through the packed bodies with little effort all the way to the front row. She immediately recognized the towering figure of Ser Lyrion. Standing in the center of the training ground, clad in boiled leather with a tourney sword in hand, her face flushed from exertion and her light eyes blazing. She looked like the legendary Visenya. Opposite her stood two guards. Alyn’s red beard glistened with sweat, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose. The second, shorter one, leaned on his sword, clearly struggling to catch his breath, one eye already swelling. Three others lay scattered like scattered dolls, their chests rising and falling with heavy breaths. All were bruised and covered in various small cuts.
“Wilbur, Alyn, I invite you to dance.” Ser Lyrion smiled radiantly and stretched out her arms as if to embrace both men. “Or are you ready to surrender?”
The smaller of the guards, Wilbur, rose from his knees. His hands trembled with effort as he lifted his blade. The eye not hidden by a swollen eyelid gleamed with determination.
“Never,” he rasped, and with a savage cry, he charged at Ser Lyrion.
The lady knight gripped her sword with both hands, ready to fight. Steel clashed against steel. The crowd roared with excitement.
“Watch out! Behind you!” Arya shouted as Alyn leapt from behind the lady knight, but even to her own ears, her voice was drowned out by the crowd’s roars.
Ser Lyrion struck Wilbur’s sword with such force that it flew from his hands. She dodged to the side, missing a powerful blow from behind by mere inches. With one hand, she grabbed Wilbur by his armor and hurled him over her shoulder as if he were a rag doll. He hit the ground with a dull thud, sending clouds of dust into the air. He didn’t get back up.
The longsword glinted dangerously in the sunlight as Ser Lyrion aimed it at Alyn. They circled each other slowly, like a pair of starving wolves. They jabbed and parried in turn. Finally, Alyn gathered his courage. He struck from above, but Ser Lyrion easily deflected the blow. When he tried to attack from the side, the lady knight leapt back and, without hesitation, kicked him in the ribs. Alyn staggered backward, barely staying on his feet. She spun her sword, chasing the retreating guard. Steel rang out again and again as they exchanged blows.
Suddenly, Ser Lyrion raised her sword above her head and at the last moment changed direction. The blade whipped sideways, striking Alyn’s ribs with the flat. Arya could’ve sworn she heard an unpleasant crack. He wavered, his face turning a milky white. He stumbled back and dropped to one knee, bracing himself with one hand on his sword.
“I-I surrender,” he gasped, clutching his side. His shoulders rose and fell as he took shallow breaths.
Ser Lyrion immediately lowered her sword and extended a hand to the guard.
“Good fight,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering. She helped Alyn to his feet with ease. He mumbled something under his breath, and Ser Lyrion laughed with a clear, ringing voice. “Well said!”
Arya watched as the lady knight helped each of the fallen men to their feet, one by one. Each time, she smiled and patted them on the shoulder, her eyes seeming to sparkle in the sunlight. With every touch, the men stood a little straighter, and the pain from their bruises and small cuts seemed to fade from their faces. It was almost as if her touch could heal—or at least lift their spirits. Arya snorted at the thought. The men could definitely use some cheering up.
For a brief moment, Arya felt a sting of jealousy. Despite what Sansa and Jeyne said, Ser Lyrion was a beautiful and skilled warrior. Arya bit her lip. She decided she wanted to be just as strong as her. She would become the most renowned warrior of the North, perhaps even of all the Seven Kingdoms, and pass into legend like Queen Visenya or Nymeria!
Pouches jingled as the people surrounding the training ground began passing copper coins among themselves. Theon, grimacing, tossed a handful of coins into Robb’s outstretched hand. Her brother looked very excited.
“You're lucky, Stark.”
Robb laughed out loud, tossing the coins into the air. Then he leaned toward Jon and said something to him. Jon only nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the training ground. Then he glanced at Ser Lyrion and immediately looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink.
Ser Lyrion approached lord father and uncle Benjen, who stood nearby clad in black leather armor and chainmail. His disheveled appearance and split lip suggested he too had fought a duel earlier. Arya pouted. A shame she’d missed seeing her uncle beat up the guards.
She heard footsteps beside her and looked up.
“What are you doing here, little sister?”
“I came to watch Ser Lyrion fight.” Jon’s eyebrows rose. Arya crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t skip my lessons. Well… not entirely,” she muttered the last part under her breath, quiet enough that no one else could hear.
Jon ruffled her hair, and Arya allowed herself a moment of ease. It was Jon, her favorite brother, who sometimes took her to the godswood and showed her sword moves. Jon, to whom she could always confide.
“I wish I could be like her,” she sighed, gazing at Ser Lyrion. She was speaking with father and uncle, and even Ser Rodrik had joined them.
“You’re too skinny for that,” Jon said, nodding toward the training ground. "Uncle said her blows feel like those of a giant. And she kicked Jory so hard he flew three feet.”
Arya glanced around the courtyard, searching for the captain of the guard. He stood with a group of battered guardsmen, wincing slightly with every movement.
“I wish I’d seen that.”
“You still have a chance,” Jon smiled and nudged her with his arm. “She promised us a sparring match tomorrow. Maybe you’ll come watch?”
“Watching you get beaten by a girl? Absolutely.”
The courtyard had emptied. Everyone who would’ve immediately reported Arya to her mother had returned to their duties. Only Bran was climbing the walls of the Guest House, but luckily, he never cared what his older sister was up to—as long as she didn’t snitch on him either. A very useful agreement they’d made some time ago.
Ser Lyrion placed her sword on the weapon rack, and Arya saw it as her best chance.
“Teach me to fight!” she demanded, stepping into the lady knight’s path.
“Lady Arya, good morning to you as well.” Ser Lyrion’s silver eyes looked at her with quiet amusement. Arya shifted from foot to foot, as if Ser Lyrion’s gaze could peel back her thoughts like layers of cloth. It felt as though all her secrets and hidden thoughts had been laid bare. Worse than her lord father’s gaze. “I’m quite sure your mother wouldn’t appreciate that. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my hosts. You understand? And even if I did, before you start fighting, you should definitely work on your body.”
Ser Lyrion deftly unfastened the clasps of her armor and headed toward the castle. Arya wasn’t about to give up
“Please, no one has to know,” she quickly matched her pace. “I promise I'll do all the tasks! I want to be like you!”
Ser Lyrion stopped. A cold wind scattered the silver strands that had escaped her braid. There was something ethereal about her appearance, almost inhuman. She crouched down, bringing her face level with Arya’s.
“You will never be like me, Lady Arya.” Arya opened her mouth to protest, but Ser Lyrion raised her hand, and it shut with a soft click. “Before I ever held a sword, my mentor made me run, carry wood and buckets of water. I can’t count how many times I climbed trees and temple walls. You won’t be able to swing a sword if you don’t have enough strength. I believe you don’t need me for that.”
She smiled, stood up, and walked away without sparing Arya a second glance.
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Camsonius on Chapter 7 Wed 19 Feb 2025 01:40PM UTC
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