By the time the platters were picked over and the trenchers wiped clean with the last crusts of bread, the wine had done its work.
Brandon's laugh rang over the hall like a battle horn. Robert's followed a heartbeat later, louder and cruder, the two of them leaning across the table with flushed cheeks and half-empty goblets.
Lyanna stayed put between Benjen and Howland, grateful that the dancing had started on the other side of the hall. The space before the dais was cleared, and the first couples were already moving to the music — slow enough for formality, quick enough to show off.
Ashara Dayne was impossible to miss. She wore violet silk that matched the glow of her eyes, her dark hair unbound and gleaming like a raven's wing. She began with her brother Arthur. Both tall, impossibly poised, their footwork flawless, they looked born for it.
Oberyn Martell claimed her next, and the mood shifted. Where Arthur's dance had been elegant, Oberyn's was playful and just shy of scandalous. He spun her until her skirts flared, laughed when she stumbled, then caught her by the waist and pulled her in close enough to make a septa faint.
Benjen grinned. "And you're just going to sit here through all that?"
"That's the plan," Lyanna replied.
Across the hall, Ned stood rigid, eyes darting between the dancers and the floor at his feet. Brandon noticed. That was all it took.
"Seven hells, Ned, you'll rust standing there!" Brandon bellowed, shoving their younger brother forward.
Ned protested, but Brandon was stronger and far too drunk to care. He propelled him straight toward Ashara, who arched a perfect brow and held out her hand as though she'd been waiting for him all night.
The change in her smile when they began to dance was subtle; less dazzling for the crowd, more private for him. Whatever she whispered, it turned Ned redder than the wine had.
Benjen snorted. "You'll lose your riding partner to her if you're not careful."
Lyanna only hummed, watching until Ashara led Ned from the floor entirely.
It wasn't long before Robert tired of the music. He slapped Brandon on the back so hard his companion nearly toppled from the bench.
"The real fun's in Harrentown!" Robert boomed. "Come on, Stark, you've been too long in the snow. I'll show you the warm side of life!"
Brandon, half-laughing and half-stumbling, agreed at once to visit the brothel. They left arm in arm, drawing a trail of half-shocked, half-amused stares.
Benjen leaned closer to his sister. "Better for you that he's gone."
Lyanna didn't argue.
She was still watching the dancers when a shadow fell across the table.
"Will you dance?" Rhaegar's voice was even, but not soft. It was the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed.
Every instinct told her to refuse. But both her elder brothers and her betrothed were gone, and Rhaegar's gaze burned in the torchlight. She rose.
The dance was measured, almost too careful, as though he was only half-present. His gaze drifted more than once toward the far table where Arthur Dayne sat in quiet conversation with Elia. When the song ended, he did not release her.
"Come," he said, steering her toward that same table.
Arthur Dayne rose at once, his pale cloak brushing the floor as he pulled out a chair for her with courtly precision. Elia Martell sat opposite, slim fingers curled around a goblet. Even seated, her hand trembled faintly as she lifted it. Her dark eyes took in Lyanna quickly, not with judgment but with sharp awareness, like a woman accustomed to reading a room before it turned hostile.
Oberyn lounged at her side, wine in one hand, the other draped carelessly over the back of her chair.
"This is Lady Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar said, as if introducing a new piece on a cyvasse board. "She is not entirely without spirit."
Arthur's expression remained still, but his eyes flickered as though he already knew the story. Elia smiled faintly. "A rare compliment from my husband. You must have impressed him."
"I try not to," Lyanna answered. Elia's laugh was soft and genuine, enough to disarm her.
Rhaegar poured wine into Lyanna's cup without asking, then into Elia's. "My lady, you should pace yourself," he murmured to his wife — low, but not low enough. "You tire too easily as it is."
Her smile did not falter, though her knuckles whitened on the goblet. Lyanna's jaw tightened. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I think the realm would benefit from more of her laughter, not less."
Oberyn's gaze sharpened. "Indeed. My sister carries your children, yet I see you grant her barely half the time you give your friends." His eyes flicked toward Arthur.
The air cooled. Arthur's mouth twitched as if to speak, but he only sipped his wine.
Rhaegar didn't rise to the bait. "We all serve the realm in our ways, Prince Oberyn. Some obligations are heavier than others."
His gaze went distant then, the look of a man hunting something only he could see. Lyanna recognized that look — the same restless distraction she'd seen in her father's eyes when he thought of wars long past.
Elia reached across the table and brushed Lyanna's hand. "You have brothers here?"
"Yes. Ned and Benjen. And Brandon, though he's… occupied."
The princess' lips curved knowingly. "They're lucky to have you watching their flanks."
Oberyn raised his cup. "A toast to the wolf-girl who keeps her teeth sharp."
Lyanna drank, though her mind had already begun to retreat from the table, wary of the undercurrents swirling there.
The wine dulled the edges of the hall. Music softened, as if the lutes themselves were growing drowsy. Conversation thinned to the clink of cups and the scrape of trenchers being stacked by servants.
Lyanna stayed at the prince's table longer than she meant to, answering Elia's questions about the North, letting Oberyn pull more guarded smiles from her. Rhaegar spoke less and less, his thoughts clearly far from Harrenhal.
Finally, Rhaegar rose. Arthur followed protectively, and together they vanished into the dark passage behind the dais. Oberyn watched them go, swirling his wine. "Some men," he said dryly, "cannot be torn from their chosen company."
Elia's hand trembled slightly as she took up a cane in place of her goblet. "It's late, Lyanna. Will you walk with me part of the way?"
They left together, Oberyn trailing behind, unreadable. Outside, the cooler air was a relief. Torches guttered along the walkway, their light flickering across stone.
At the turn to her chambers, Elia paused. "Thank you," she said softly. "For speaking to me tonight. You'd be surprised how many forget I'm here at all."
"I don't think you're easy to forget, princess."
Elia smiled, faint, but real, and let Oberyn guide her inside.
The courtyard was still beyond, a welcome relief after the press of bodies inside. Moonlight silvered the towers of Harrenhal, and from somewhere far off came the sound of a lone howl. Lyanna wandered without thinking, following a path that skirted the sept, its high windows glowing faintly.
That was when she heard the voices.
"…the kingdom grows restless… only requires tending…"
She slowed, eyes flicking toward a narrow window left ajar. Not the septon of Harrenhal, but another preacher, clipped and commanding. Based on his attire, he was perhaps one who had traveled here with another lord.
"…wildfire experiments… his madness no longer speculation…"
The word wildfire froze her in place. Her father had muttered once about pyromancers and the fools who trusted them.
A third voice, unmistakably Hoster Tully's, steady and firm: "…marriage ties. North, Riverlands, Vale. They will form the backbone if the time comes."
Lyanna edged closer, her shadow brushing the wall.
"…the girl from House Stark… betrothed to Robert Baratheon… eager to spill blood…"
Her stomach knotted.
"…he will not need much persuasion to fight."
Her fists curled. They spoke of her as though she were no more than a horse to be traded, a name to scrawl on a treaty.
"…the Faith will hold the Reach… Tyrells can be set aside…"
"…Lannister's hands are tied…"
The murmurs continued, but Lyanna had heard enough. She drew back into the shadows, pulse drumming in her ears.