Chapter Text
"You have a wildness in you, child.
'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it.
Brandon had a touch of it,
and my sister Lyanna more than a touch."
Eddard Stark to Arya Stark
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
A lady should not grow up without a mother.
"Lord Stark should remarry," her father's servants and bannermen whisper where they think they can't be overheard. "Lady Lyanna needs a woman's hand to guide her. She'd be different with a woman in the house. Tamer."
Lyanna does not care for tame. She is the North's winter rose, wild and beautiful and thorny. There's magic in winter roses, Old Nan tells her, and strength. No other flower can survive the harshness of winter, and yet the colder and longer the winter, the more beautiful its roses.
Lyanna might have no mother, but she has three brothers and a father who dote on her. She finds that more than enough. She doesn't remember her mother and doesn't really miss her, even though everyone seems to think she ought to, but Lyanna has never been one for doing what others expect. She's contrary like that.
Wild, the men call her, and Lyanna smiles with pride when she hears it. She likes being wild, like a winter storm, like a direwolf. Like the North.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
On her fifth name day all kinds of presents wait for Lyanna: a new gray and white coat; fine dresses; a doll like the little ladies in the South like to play with, clad in delicate embroidery, with real hair as fine as gold and just as pretty.
Lyanna looks at her father with the betrayed look of a child who has always gotten her will and doesn't know why today of all days should be different. "Where is my sword?" she asks. Maybe they just hid it some other place. "I said I wanted a sword, just like Ned's. He got a sword for his fifth name day."
Her father laughs, that deep laugh he has whenever one of his children does or says something that takes him by surprise and yet pleases him. "Darling, Ned is a boy. Swords are for boys, not for little ladies. Don't you like your doll? I had it made for you in King's Landing, just for my little princess."
"I want a sword, not some stupid doll." Lyanna glares at her father and stomps her foot so hard that she feels it in her knee.
"Darling, that's not possible," Lord Stark cajoles.
It's the first time as far as she can remember that her father has denied her anything. She doesn't like it. "I want a sword!" she shouts in a high-pitched voice that precedes a temper tantrum. Her lips tremble and tears well up in her eyes.
"She can have my wooden sword," Brandon hurries to offer, always the first to cave to Lyanna's whims. "Ser Willam says I'm ready for a real sword anyway."
"Nonsense," her father snaps, his tone harsher than Lyanna has ever heard. "I won't have my daughter running around with swords."
"I hate you!" she screams at him. "If mom was alive, she'd let me have a sword!" she says, crying, and runs to her room, slamming the door shut with all her strength. Deep down, there's a part of her that regrets the words, but right then that part doesn't matter. Only the tides of anger crashing against her chest with no other outlet than useless tears.
Lyanna refuses to leave her room, even after Brandon and Ned and Old Nan come to cajole her. Brandon even offers to get her a sword behind their father's back and teach her how to use it, but Lyanna doesn't want to hide. She wants to learn to fight like her brothers, like the warrior princesses of Old Nan's stories. Her anger feels almost alive, like a caged animal that wants to escape and lash out.
She catches sight of her new doll, blonde and pretty and so very frail—a silly doll for a silly girl—and her anger grows. Nobody thought to give Ned a doll. Or Brandon. What does she get a stupid doll? She hurls it against the wall and its porcelain face shatters into hundreds of pieces. It feels good. Liberating.
She comes back to herself within the embrace of her father's arms. Only then does she realize that she's been fighting against him, biting and kicking and screaming. Her room is in shambles, with most of her things lying broken on the floor. Dimly, she remembers being the one responsible.
"I'm sorry," she says, sniffing. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." And she is sorry. She doesn't know what got into her, only that she needed to let her rage out or else it would have consumed her.
Her father strokes her hair and hugs her closer. "Hush, I know. I know. It's the wolf blood in you, darling," he says. "All Starks have some, and you have more than others."
"I'm sorry," she says again, because it seems as though it's something she ought to apologize for.
Her father chuckles. "It's not your fault. There's too much Stark blood in you, that's all." He kisses her forehead and holds her and she falls asleep within the comfort of his arms, exhausted.
The next day, she gets her wooden sword.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
After Old Nan finally considers her clean enough, Lyanna runs to her father's solar to tell him all about her first day of sword practice. Ser Willam is speaking to her father, and Lyanna slows down, coming to a stop on other side of the door. She knows better than to interrupt her father when he's fulfilling his duties as Lord.
"Are you sure that's wise, my Lord?" Ser Willam is asking her father.
"Ser Willam, if you go easy on that girl, she'll never stop wanting to play with swords," her father says. Lyanna holds her breath, aware that they are talking about her. "A few bruises won't kill her. Be hard on her; harder than you'd be on the boys. When it gets to be too much, she'll realize that swords and horses aren't for women. The sooner that happens, the better."
"Let's hope you're right, my Lord," Ser Willam says. "That girl could out-stubborn a mule."
Lyanna balls her hands into fists, turns around on silent feet and goes back to her room. She'll show them.
There's wolf blood in her, and it was her father who told her that true wolves know no fear. She'll prove to him that she is as much a wolf as her brothers.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
By the time she's two and ten everyone has forgotten that she shouldn't fight with swords.
On the training field she has no rival. Not even Brandon can best her, despite being five years her senior. She's fast, faster than any of her father's men, and utterly ruthless. She fights to win and doesn't stop until she has, no matter the cost. The other children learn to fear her. Strength and size don't matter much against someone willing to do absolutely anything to win a fight.
They call her She-Wolf to her face, and Mad-Bitch behind her back. Lyanna likes both names, is proud of them.
Then Ned comes home after years in the South and brings his friend Robert Baratheon with him. It's the beginning of the end, but Lyanna doesn't know it, nor would she believe it if someone were to tell her. She's just turned two and ten, and life seems as eternal as the snow in the North.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
She, Brandon and Benjen whisper about Ned behind his back.
"He's not our real brother," Brandon tells Benjen with a serious face, and Lyanna has to bite her lips not to laugh out loud at the worry in Benjen's face.
"But father says he is," Benjen points out, looking around to check if there are grown-ups close by. Benjen had been four when Ned left to be fostered at the Eyrie and doesn't remember their brother well.
"He looks like our brother," Lyanna confides, playing along, "but in truth he's an Other."
"An Other?" Benjen gasps, glancing at Brandon for confirmation.
"Yes." Brandon nods. "The Others probably took the real Ned when he was traveling South and put an impostor in his place. The Southerns didn't notice, of course. Everyone knows they're too stupid to recognize an Other when they see one," he says dismissively.
"But father would surely notice, wouldn't he?" Benjen frowns.
"Well, he's getting on his years. His eyesight isn't what it used to be," Lyanna whispers.
Benjen breaks into tears during dinner when father makes him sit next to Ned, and Lyanna and Brandon laugh so hard that their bellies ache. Father finally manages to get the story out of a terrified Benjen, and she and Brandon get the scolding of their lives — although not as bad as the one they'd gotten when they were caught trying to sneak away to go see the Wall.
Ned is angry with them, too, but this new Ned is so serious all the time that his anger goes almost unnoticed. It's just as quiet as he is, nothing like Brandon's shouts or Lyanna's infamous tantrums. Lyanna can't reconcile this tall stranger with the brother that used to run around Winterfell with Brandon and her playing hide and seek. He's her brother, though, and when Robert Baratheon laughs at him after Lyanna beats him in their first sparring session she feels honor-bound to show the Southern Lord that in a match against her Robert wouldn't fare any better.
It's been awhile since she's had new sparring partners, and when Robert finally agrees to take the challenge, thinking he's indulging Ned's little sister, everyone in the yard gathers around them, wanting to see her thrash him. That's the nice thing about fresh meat; they never see it coming.
Robert is no different.
It takes her all of ten seconds to disarm him the first time, using her speed to knock the sword out of his hand before he has had the time to realize that the match has already started. He laughs in good humor, claiming that he wasn't yet ready, and asks for a rematch.
"Best two out of three," he says, and Lyanna accepts, knowing that it won't change the outcome. He's big and strong, but much too slow to truly reach her, and his footwork shows the sloppiness of someone used to winning fights by sheer strength. Besides, he underestimates her, as most first timers do.
Best two out three turns into best four out of seven, and by then Robert stops playing around. His mouth hardens into a thin line, and she can almost taste the moment when she stops being his best friend's silly kid sister and becomes a serious opponent. He's still too slow, and it's easy to use his strength and rising anger against him, sidestepping in the last second and using Robert's own momentum to make him lose his footing and overreach. Still, it takes her longer to win the fourth bout, and she can't help but grin, enjoying the challenge.
He asks for best six out of ten, and Lyanna laughs out loud but readily agrees. Most boys would have given up by now; she likes his perseverance.
"Enough," Ned says, coming to Robert's rescue.
"No, Ned, I want another try," Robert insists, rising to his feet. "She took me by surprise the first few times, that's all. Best six out of ten will do it."
"Robert, if you haven't realized yet that best forty out of fifty wouldn't be enough, there's no helping you. She's turning you into a laughing stock," Ned says with that devastating honesty that marks this new version of him.
She expects Robert to take offense, as most men would in his place, but he looks at her with a strange intensity she's never encountered before. His eyes travel up and down her body, lingering on places that make Lyanna want to beat him again just because.
"Well, there's no helping it then," Robert says, a small smile catching the corners of his lips and spreading across his whole face like fire on dry hay. "If I can't beat her with a sword, I'll just have to marry her. Baratheons like their women fierce. I couldn't find a better Lady for Storm's End were I to travel the Seven Kingdoms."
All the men in the yard laugh, and Lyanna can't shake the uncomfortable suspicion that this time it's her they are laughing at.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Robert writes her letters about Storm's End, about his brothers, about the places he wants to show her, the life they will have together, the children he will give her. Lyanna doesn't care much for letters. She'd much rather ride horses and play with Benjen, but father makes her sit down and answer.
"It's a good way to get to know your future husband, Lyanna," Lord Rickard tells her.
"I don't want a husband," Lyanna mumbles. She had said as much to Robert, when it became clear that his offhand remark hadn't been meant as a joke. It had made Robert laugh. "Then I will just have to change your mind, my Lady." However, it hadn't been her mind he'd gone out of his way to change, but her father's.
Lord Rickard sighs. "Darling, Lord Robert is a fantastic match. Better than anyone I could have hoped for. Not only is he Lord to one of the Great Houses, he also has ties to the king's family! And Lyanna, my child, he's in love with you. He'll probably indulge your horse riding and swordplay. What more could you possibly want?"
"Not to marry at all," Lyanna grouses. "I could stay here, at Winterfell, and become Brandon's Master-at-Arms. He says he'd take me. I'm really good with weapons. Please father, I don't want to live in the South. They don't even have proper winters or proper gods, everyone knows that. I like it here."
"You're still much too young, darling," her father says. "I've told Lord Robert that you're not to be wed until you turn six and ten, and he has agreed to wait. You've yet to have your first moon blood. Things will change after you flower. You'll want a husband and children." He chuckles and kisses her forehead. "Master-at-Arms, what an insane idea. You'll be the death of me, child."
Lyanna fears the mysterious moon blood everyone keeps mentioning. Even Old Nan seems to think that Lyanna will change after it comes. Lyanna can't imagine how some bit of blood could change anyone that much, and a part of her worries that they might be right. What if it does change her? She doesn't want to become some lady that only cares about husbands and children. She likes who she is. She doesn't want to change, any more than she wants to marry Robert.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Her moon blood comes, and it does change her, but not in the ways Lyanna feared. It's her body that grows, filling out in places that make boys and men stare when her father and brothers aren't looking. Her brothers' cast me downs no longer fit her, and her father refuses to purchase new breeches for her. He wants her to wear dresses all of a sudden, and no matter how much Lyanna protests he won't listen to reason.
It leads to another screaming match, and Lyanna is so furious she can barely breathe. She stomps out of the house ignoring her father's shouts and jumps onto her unsaddled horse. She rides away, spurring Winter to go faster when her father's men try to stop her, forcing them to scatter when she races by.
By the time she's managed to calm down, dusk has already set in. Lyanna stops her horse and looks around, surprised when she doesn't immediately recognize her surroundings. Night is falling and it is much too late to head back, not that Lyanna really wants to. The anger is still rolling in waves inside of her — the wolf blood — and going back when she's like this is just a recipe for disaster.
She secures her mare and starts gathering dry wood for a fire. The sounds of the night creep in. In the distance she can hear owls hooting and the whispers of the wind among the trees. The new moon is just three days away, and Lyanna knows that the night will be a dark one. She's not afraid, though. Men in the North wouldn't dare to harm her, and if there was one fool enough to try, cutting the idiot's throat would be quick work. And for all that the North is full of horror stories about wild animals killing lost men, she knows that in truth it is men who kill wild animals more often than not.
The fire burns warm in the cold night. Above her the stars shine bright in the clear sky, breathtaking in their beauty. She'd much rather spend her life like this, under an open sky, than caged in some castle playing at being a Lady.
If she'd be born male… she would probably be just as unhappy, truth be told. Brandon doesn't seem too content with his lot either, forced to become a Lord and marry some silly Southern wife who will only care about embroidery and children. It's the kind of life only Ned would want for himself, Ned who's become a half Southern. Not a drop of wolf blood in that one, Lyanna thinks rather fondly. Kind, loving, boring Ned.
Her stomach growls with hunger, and Lyanna does her best to ignore it. She lies down near the fire and lets the sounds of the night and the heat lull her. She falls asleep trying to imagine the life she'd like to have, if given the choice. She'd go to the Free Cities, she thinks, become a sellsword and travel the world. A life filled with adventures and dangers, with no one to answer to but herself. The best kind of life.
She dreams she's a wolf, hunting in the woods. The snow is soft beneath her paws as she stalks her prey, slinking closer on silent feet. The stag flees when it sees her, and Lyanna howls and gives chase, hunger and instinct taking over. A surge of warm, fresh blood floods into her mouth as she closes her jaws on its soft throat, tearing at it. She swallows greedily as the life bleeds out of it. She reaps a chunk of flesh and gulps it down, satiating her hunger. It tastes delicious.
It's not dawn yet when shouts wake her. She sits up, groggy, barely remembering where she is. The taste of blood still fresh in her mouth. Such an odd, vivid dream.
Memories of the fight with her father come rushing back. When she listens again, it's her name people are shouting into the night. Far away she sees the flickering lights of torches and sighs. She lets herself fall back on the ground and closes her eyes wearily. A part of her still wants to make a run for it, but she knows it's pointless. Sooner or later she'll have to head back.
She doesn't call to the men, not wanting to hurry the moment when they finally find her. Her father will demand an apology, Lyanna knows, and it rankles that she will be forced to give one, as if she was the one at fault. Why should her father have a say in the clothes she wears? The anger rekindles in her, but it's not soaring like before, just a useless, tame thing, like a lit-up fireplace, bright and warm, but contained and harmless.
Things are as they are, and raging about it won't change anything. Maybe she's growing up after all, she thinks, and the thought fills her with dismay.
Her mind wanders to Robert, and she wonders idly if he will let her dress as she pleases, or if he, too, will insist on what's proper and right for his Lady Wife. The torches are coming closer still, and Lyanna casts a longing look at the darkness of the hills further ahead. They remind her of her wolf dream, the rush of excitement as she chased her prey, the expanse of the unending forest surrounding her. The freedom.
If she could choose her life, she thinks, that's what she'd like to be. A direwolf: fierce, feared and free. Not the tame bitch her father is training her to be, with her pretty collar and her prettier leash and the fitting Southern Lord to better hold it.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
A raven comes from the South inviting their family to a tourney at Harrenhal — a real tourney with jousting and sword-fights and melees. Lyanna wants to go and fight, show those Southerners than she's better than all of them put together.
"Fight at the tourney? What a crazy idea," her father laughs. "Soon you will be a married woman with responsibilities to your husband and your house. You need to grow up and leave these childish dreams behind, darling. You may go to Harrenhal with your brothers, but not to fight." He laughs again and shakes his head in disbelief. "You'll see Lord Baratheon again and meet your brother's fiancee, Lady Catelyn. Being friends with other Ladies of your own age will help you. Maybe Lady Catelyn can talk some sense into you. The gods know I've tried."
She bites back a sharp reply and mumbles her acceptance. If she can't participate in the tourney, watching it would be the next best thing. Lyanna knows her father well enough to recognize this is one of those arguments where he won't change his mind. His willingness to indulge her whims has faded over the years. Everyone keeps insisting she needs to grow up, but Lyanna would much rather stay a child forever, at least then nothing seemed impossible. If growing up means giving up her dreams, she'd rather skip the whole thing.
˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜
Lyanna has never seen so many people together, not even on a market day in White Harbor. The South, Lyanna discovers, is a loud, overcrowded place, with people constantly shouting and moving around. Not a mile of road goes by where they don't encounter other riders or some kind of town or at least an inn eager to take their coin in exchange for food and drinks. It's nothing like the North, where the king's road stretches for days at a time with hardly a traveler in sight.
It's easy to get lost in the South, and at times Lyanna feels almost invisible. In the North, everyone knows who she is: Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter, the Lady of Winterfell. Even the lowest of farmers know her name.
Here, she's one more Lady among many. She might be the daughter of a Lord Paramount but most people don't know that when they see at her. Her dresses are sturdy and plain, made to resist the cold of the North, lacking the frills, laces and colors the Southern ladies favor.
Lyanna studies the Southern Ladies with barely contained curiosity. They look frail and soft, like puffed-up summer birds, trilling and chirping and giggling for no apparent reason. They seem foreign to Lyanna, and she can't quite shake the feeling that she stands out like a sore thumb, unable to blend in. Too simple. Too Northern. Too other.
Lyanna smiles and curtsies and tries her best to be the kind of woman that would make her father proud. Lady Catelyn takes her under her wing, introducing Lyanna to all of her friends, sharing useless gossip with her about engagements and scandals, alliances and feuds. She advises her on how to dress and teaches her how to pin her hair up in a Southern style. They talk about fabrics and laces and the best tailors to order dresses from, and for moments it feels as if Lyanna could belong. Most times, though, it's exhausting, like wearing an ill-fitting armor, constantly aware of all the places it keeps slipping, showing glimpses of her true-self—a Northern girl, lacking the refinement of a Southern Lady.
Robert doesn't seem to mind, though. He stares at her like a starving man in front of a banquet, desperate for the host to give the signal to dig in. He strips her with his eyes, his gaze lingering in places that make Lyanna want to slap him even though she knows she can't. He's her betrothed; he's allowed to look at her however he wants, but it still makes her skin crawl when he comes near.
He introduces her to the royal family, talking about her like she's some prized mare he just purchased. His cousin, king Aerys II is an ugly excuse of a man, scabbed over and jittery, with sunken eyes and a mad laugh that chills Lyanna to the bone whenever she hears it. His son, prince Rhaegar, comes closer to Lyanna's childish image of what royalty ought to look like, tall and handsome, regal. Princess Elia, on the other hand, is as disappointing as the king, a quiet, frail woman who reminds Lyanna of the statues in the crypts of Winterfell with their ghostly beauty and unyielding gaze.
Whenever she can get away with it, Lyanna slips away from Lady Catelyn and Robert, to go watch the squires and knights practice, trying to discern their fighting styles, so different from those in the North. Her hands ache with the desire to take a sword and challenge them, wanting to see how their extravagant, showy moves would fare against the Northern straightforward and simple approach. Her father has forbidden it, though, and Brandon made it clear that he would make sure that she obeyed the command. All that Lyanna can do is hide in the shadows and watch from a distance.
It's on such an occasion that she sees three squires, not much older than herself, bullying one of her father's bannermen, pushing him around and laughing when he tries to defend himself. Before she knows what she's doing, she has already advanced on the three boys, demanding that they leave her father's man alone.
"What are you gonna do about it, little lady?" one of the boys taunts her, turning to her with a mocking smirk.
It is an invitation if Lyanna has ever heard one. Her father and his rules are suddenly forgotten, erased by the bloodlust howling inside her, demanding that she show them exactly what she can and will do. She takes one of the practice swords lying around and raises it. The boys laugh, forgetting her father's man for the moment and turning to her.
Three on one. Lyanna laughs, too, because she loves a good, hard fight. It makes winning so much sweeter. It's almost disappointing how little time it takes her to send their swords flying. "Run," she says, and she sounds like the wolf she is. They squeak and scramble away, running as fast as their legs can carry them.
A part of her wants to give chase, finish off the easy prey. Instead, she forces herself to take a deep breath and turn to the man lying on the floor, wearing her father's colors.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
"Yes, thank you, my Lady," he says, standing up with some difficulty. He doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I apologize for shaming your father's bannermen."
Lyanna frowns. "Did you do something to shame my father's bannermen?"
"I wasn't able to fight off those squires, even though they were just boys," he says, looking at his feet.
"Nonsense," Lyanna says. "They are the only ones who ought to feel ashamed, ganging up three on one like that. Someone ought to teach them better manners. What's your name?"
"Howland Reed," the man answers. "I'm a crannogman from the Neck," he adds, reluctantly, as if expecting to be mocked for it.
"My father speaks greatly of you," Lyanna says, which is not quite true, but it's not a total lie either. Her father has mentioned crannogmen before. "You're loyal subjects, and talented fighters." Mostly, her father thinks that their fighting is a bit craven, but Lyanna disagrees. A fight is a fight, and the only thing that matters is winning it. If the crannogmen use smarts against size then that only speaks for them. "I know so little about your people. Will you tell me more?" she asks.
It takes some convincing, but she gets Howland to come with her. She and Benjen pester him with questions endlessly under the premise of tending to his wounds.
Howland knows about poisons and plants, and how to best hide in the forest, covering your tracks so that dogs or animals can't follow you. Lyanna decides that she likes him more than she does Lady Catelyn or her friends. He's certainly more interesting, and the things he has to teach more practical than listening to silly gossip. She and Benjen convince him to accompany them to the fest that night, and Lyanna is glad to have an excuse to stay away from the other women.
Ned and Robert sit with them, but soon enough only she and Benjen are talking to Howland. Robert and Brandon are distracted by the drinks and the music and have both entered into some inane competition to figure out who can outdrink whom, while Ned tries his best to run interference.
Across the table, Lady Catelyn's lips are pursed in displeasure, as she watches her fiancee make a fool of himself. Lyanna has the strong suspicion that Lady Catelyn will not be as happy in her marriage as she probably expects. At least Lyanna has no illusions about her future. She knows she will be miserable away from the North.
She pushes away her dark thoughts and turns her attention to Howland, trying to console him to no avail.
"I'm sorry, my Lady," he says. "I know I'm not good company tonight. I just feel so useless and powerless. You say crannogmen are good fighters, and we are, but what good are our tactics here in the open? Those boys still took my sword and my armor, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it." He takes another swallow of ale and sighs. "You don't understand. I hate feeling this helpless, knowing that there's nothing I can do to make them give back what is rightfully mine."
Lyanna glances at Robert, laughing louder than before and swatting the rump of the unlucky maid in charge of refilling his cup. She knows all too well what helplessness feels like. She hates the feeling, too.
"I have an idea," she whispers to Howland and Benjen.
She might not be able to do much about Robert, but it is in her power to help her new friend.
One last act of rebellion, before she becomes the daughter her father expects her to be.