Hooves pounded the frozen earth, each jolt rattling the mismatched plates strapped across her shoulders. Branches clawed her cheeks and tore at her cloak as she urged Winter deeper into the forest.
Shouts echoed behind her, muffled by the trees—no names, only orders. They didn't know who she was. Not yet.
The armor pinched at her ribs and dragged at her arms, built for a broader chest and heavier frame. But it had been worth it, every aching muscle, to ride in the lists, to strike a blow for Lord Reed and make those Freys eat dirt.
Her father would have caged her at the hearth for such insolence, stripping away every weapon larger than a knitting needle or cooking knife. Robert would have laughed, slapped her back, and claimed her as his wild she-wolf. Both futures felt like shackles.
The shouts faded behind her. Winter knew how to run in the Wolfswood, and the mare kept her footing better than any southern-bred destrier in the overgrown godswood. She slipped between the pines and found sure ground in the frosted undergrowth.
Lyanna didn't slow until the pale face of the old weirwood loomed ahead. Its red eyes seemed to follow her as she swung down from the saddle.
She stripped off the plate in frantic jerks, letting it fall in a heap beside the heart tree. The shield followed—too distinctive, too dangerous to keep. From her saddlebag she pulled the gown she had crammed there that morning, silks crumpled and cold.
Halfway into it, she froze. Hooves again, closer now, slower. She turned, clutching the fabric to her chest.
A shadow moved between the trees, resolving into silver hair and dark armor.
"Well," a voice said, smooth as still water, "isn't this a surprise."
Her stomach dropped. Of course it was the crown prince.
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Lyanna tightened her grip on the gown, meeting his gaze with what she hoped passed for defiance.
Rhaegar studied her in silence, his strange purple eyes tracing her face, her stance, the dirt on her boots. "You chose the godswood," he said at last. "Most would have ridden for the open fields. But perhaps you were hoping to pray?"
"Or to hide," she said. "Unfortunately I don't know these woods."
"Few do." His glance shifted toward the white trunk behind her. "And fewer still would have reached them before my men. You ride well, for…" He let the pause stretch, weighing the words. "…for someone untrained."
Her jaw tightened. "At least I have good horsemanship, even if my skill with a lance is lacking. Those Freys fell out of the saddle with barely a nudge."
"That much was plain." His gaze flicked to the discarded armor. "It was… spirited. A shame your technique lacked discipline. I imagine the Mormonts would be horrified to see such a seat wasted."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"As you like." He shifted in his saddle, looking away briefly toward the far edge of the glade. "There are some in this realm who think women should be kept from danger. My wife, for instance, faints if the fire smokes too heavily. She could not hold a blade if her life depended on it. Yet she insists on offering counsel, as if a sickroom grants wisdom."
Lyanna bit back the urge to comment. "I'm not your wife."
A faint smile ghosted over his lips. "No. You are not." For a heartbeat, his eyes seemed far away, softened by some memory she could not guess at.
"Will you tell your father?" she asked nervously. "I'm not sure why the king wanted me caught, but I didn't intend to offend the crown."
One corner of his mouth twitched upward. "My father finds offense in everything. I suspect he would call the heart tree treasonous if it didn't bow to him. No, this will stay between us."
"Why?"
When his gaze returned, it was sharp again. "I value competence. Tenacity. Those are not traits bound to sex, though I've found fewer women who possess them."
"And you think I do?"
"I think you might. And that can be useful."
The silence deepened, broken only by the rustle of branches overhead. The carved face of the heart tree seemed to watch her, red sap glistening at the corners of its eyes. Lyanna could almost feel its gaze boring through her, deeper than Rhaegar's words. For an instant Lyanna thought she heard something beneath the stillness: not words exactly, but a warning. Pictures flickered across her mind like half forgotten dreams: a wilting blue rose, a deluge of dark blood, cold stone engraved with names she could not read.
She clenched her fists until her vision steadied, leaving only the wind stirring the leaves.
Rhaegar turned his reins. "There is a feast tonight," he said over his shoulder. "Come. Wear something less incriminating."
With that, the silver-haired prince nudged his horse forward and vanished into the shadows, leaving her alone with the heart tree and the echo of his words.
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Later she had chosen the plainest gown she had brought: dark blue wool, high-necked and long-sleeved. It made her feel armored, which was the point. She was still unsettled by her experience at the weirwood, and sought protection in the smallest ways. If she could have wrapped herself in the tablecloth and hidden under the benches, she would have.
Benjen slipped in beside her, smirking as he eyed the lords and knights already deep in their cups."Your modesty will make them all stare harder," he muttered.
"I'm not here to be stared at."
"That's like bringing a torch into the dark and saying you don't want to be noticed."
She elbowed him lightly and scanned the hall for safe ground. Ned stood near the far wall, already looking as though he would rather be in the practice yard. Brandon, of course, was in the thick of things with Robert Baratheon, both of them roaring with laughter over some joke that made a Mooton lady scowl.
Lyanna found a table near the edge of the hall, far from the dancing space, and slid into the bench with Howland Reed. The crannogman's eyes darted nervously over the crowd. If she felt out of place here, he must have felt like a salamander in a falcon's nest.
The din softened when Rhaegar Targaryen stepped onto the dais. He was unarmored now, dressed in black and red velvet, the three-headed dragon gleaming at his chest. In his hands, he carried a golden harp strung with silver strings.
The first note was a thread of sound so fine it barely seemed real. Then the rest followed: a slow, haunting melody that coiled through the hall like smoke.
He did not look at the queen. He did not look at his wife. His gaze passed over the crowd once, lingering only for a heartbeat where Ser Arthur Dayne sat among the Kingsguard.
No one else seemed to notice.
The song caught at something in Lyanna's chest before she could steel herself against it. The sound was the trickling of water over stone, the shiver of a winter breeze, the shimmer of light on the God's Eye at dawn. Her eyes stung.
Benjen leaned close. "The she-wolf never cries," he teased softly, "unless it's for blood."
"Quiet," she whispered, blinking hard. But she kept her face turned away from him all the same.
When the last string faded, there was no roar of applause, only a slow, reverent clapping that spread across the room like a ripple.
Rhaegar bowed his head slightly, then returned the harp to a page without another word.
Conversation resumed, louder now, as if the hall had to shake off the spell. The smell of roasted meats and fresh bread pressed in from every side.
Servants entered balancing great silver platters, weaving between the benches. Trenchers of steaming boar, haunches of venison, bowls of spiced roots. The air grew thick with pepper, clove, and dripping fat, and the bards raised their instruments at Lord Whent's command.
Lyanna leaned back from the table's edge, letting the noise and smells wash over her. For the space of a heartbeat, the hall was only a feast again, not a battlefield of eyes and whispers.