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 at one another with flushed cheeks and half-empty goblets.
I stayed put between Benjen and Howland, grateful 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, and kept her hair unbound and dark as a raven's wing. She began with her brother Arthur. They were both tall, impossibly poised, and their footwork was flawless, as though they'd been born for it.
Oberyn Martell took 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."
Across the hall, Ned stood like a soldier at attention, eyes darting between the dancers and the floor beneath his boots. Brandon noticed. That was all it took.
"Seven hells, Ned, you'll rust standing there!" Brandon bellowed, shoving our brother forward.
Ned protested, of course, but Brandon was stronger and far too drunk to care. He propelled him straight toward Ashara, who arched one 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 made Ned flush deeper than the wine had.
Benjen snorted. "You'll lose your riding partner to her if you're not careful."
I only hummed in reply, 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 my brother nearly fell off 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. "Better for you that he's gone."
I didn't argue.
I was still watching the dancers when the shadow fell across the table.
"Will you dance?" Rhaegar's voice was even, but not soft. It was the tone of a man expecting to be obeyed.
Every instinct told me to refuse. But both my older brothers and my betrothed were gone, and Rhaegar's gaze was burning in the torchlight. I rose.
The dance was measured, almost too careful, as though he was only half-present. His gaze wandered past me more than once, toward the far table where Arthur Dayne now sat, deep in quiet conversation with Elia.
When the song ended, he didn't release me. "Come," he ordered, steering me toward that same table.
Arthur Dayne rose as we approached, his pale cloak brushing the floor. He pulled a chair out for me with courtly precision, more than I felt I deserved as an intruder to the royal family.
Elia Martell sat opposite him, slim fingers curled around a goblet. Even seated, I could see the tremor in her hand when she lifted it. Her dark eyes took me in quickly. Not with judgment, but with the sharpness of someone used to reading a room before it turned against her.
Oberyn lounged at her side, wine in one hand, the other draped carelessly along the back of her chair.
"This is Lady Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar said as if announcing a new piece on a cyvasse board. "She is not entirely without spirit."
Arthur's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker in his eyes that made me think he'd heard the full story already. Elia smiled faintly. "A rare compliment from my husband. You must have impressed him."
"I try not to," I said, and she laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made me like her immediately.
Rhaegar reached for the wine, filling my cup without asking, then Elia's. "My lady, you should pace yourself," he murmured to her, low but not low enough for the rest of us to miss. "You tire too easily as it is."
Her smile didn't falter, but her knuckles whitened on the goblet. My jaw tightened. "Forgive me, Your Grace," I said, "but I think the realm would benefit from more of her laughter, not less."
Oberyn's gaze sharpened like a drawn blade. "Indeed. My sister carries your children, Rhaegar, yet I see you give her barely half the time you grant your friends." His eyes slid meaningfully toward Arthur.
The air cooled. Arthur's mouth twitched as if to speak, but he only took a measured sip of wine, eyes down.
Rhaegar didn't rise to the bait. "We all serve the realm in our ways, Prince Oberyn. Some obligations are heavier than others."
As he said it, his gaze went distant, as though following some thought no one else at the table could see. I recognized that look — the same restless distraction I'd seen in my father's eyes when he thought of wars long past. Only Rhaegar wasn't looking backward. He was hunting something ahead.
A shadow of madness, though I didn't have the word for it yet.
Elia reached across the table to touch my hand lightly. "You have brothers here?
"
"Yes. Ned and Benjen. And Brandon, though he's… occupied."
Her lips curved knowingly. "They're lucky to have you watching their flanks."
Oberyn raised his cup to me. "A toast to the wolf-girl who keeps her teeth sharp."
I drank, though my mind was already retreating from the table, wary of the undercurrents swirling here.
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.
I stayed at the prince's table longer than I meant to, answering Elia's questions about the North, letting Oberyn pull more guarded smiles from me. Rhaegar spoke less and less, his thoughts clearly far from Harrenhal.
When the crown prince finally rose, Arthur followed protectively, and they vanished together into the darkened passage behind the dais.
Oberyn watched them go, swirling the wine in his cup. "Some men," he said dryly, "cannot be torn from their chosen company."
Elia's hand trembled slightly as she exchanged her goblet for a cane. "It's late, Lyanna. Will you walk with me part of the way?"
We left together, Oberyn trailing behind us, his mood unreadable. Outside the hall, the cooler air was a relief. Torches guttered along the covered walkway, casting brief shadows over the stone.
Elia stopped at the turn that led to her chambers. "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," I said.
She smiled, faint but real, then let Oberyn guide her into the room.
The courtyard beyond was still and cool, 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 owl. I wandered without much thought, following a path skirting the base of the sept, its high windows glowing faintly.
That was when I heard the voices.
"…the kingdom grows restless… only requires tending…"
I slowed, eyes flicking toward a narrow, half-open window. Not the voice of Harrenhal's septon; 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 made me pause. I had heard Father mutter about this once, about pyromancers, and the sort of men who'd trust them.
A third voice I recognized as Hoster Tully, steady and commanding: "…marriage ties. North, Riverlands, Vale. They will form the backbone if the time comes."
I took a step closer, my shadow brushing the wall.
"…the girl from House Stark… betrothed to Robert Baratheon… eager to spill blood…"
My stomach tightened.
"…he will not need much persuasion to fight."
My hands curled into fists. Whoever they were, they spoke as though I were no more than a horse to be traded, a name to ink on a treaty.
"…the Faith will see the Reach held… Tyrells can be set aside…"
"…Lannister's hands are tied…"
The murmurs went on, but I had heard enough. I stepped back into the shadows, pulse quick in my ears.