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Chapter 8 - Growing Claws

The air was sharp with the bite of winter, though no snow lay on the roads this far south. Frost clung stubbornly in the shadows, but the sun held more warmth than it had a fortnight ago. The maesters called it the turning of the seasons. Men toasted the promise of spring. To Lyanna, the warmth felt less like renewal and more like sparks on dry tinder.

She pressed Winter into a quicker pace, pulling ahead of the column. Behind her stretched the long line of northmen and riverlords, banners snapping, carts creaking, and laughter carrying thinly on the cold air. Howland urged his stocky marsh-pony to keep pace, his reed-cloak trailing like rushes in the wind. Dacey rode close behind, her helmet hanging from her saddle, eyes bright with amusement at their small flight from the wagons.

Lyanna was not amused. The silence weighed on her until she broke it.
 "They'll still be whispering," She muttered. "About the crown. About me. As if I asked for it."

Dacey shifted in her saddle. "Let them whisper. The prince used you to make a point. That's his shame, not yours."

Lyanna's jaw tightened. "His wife's face was right there. He shamed her, and left me to carry the weight of it."

Howland glanced at her, steady and knowing. "You dreamed before it happened, didn't you? In the godswood."

Lyanna stiffened. "It was only a dream."

"Not always," he said. "Among our people, the old gods speak through dreams. Greendreams. Warnings, if one listens."

"Greendreams," she repeated, the word bitter in her mouth. Lyanna fell quiet for a moment before forcing the words out. "Then tell me what this means. I saw Robert grown fat and sour with drink, bedding his queen and half the realm besides. I saw my name carved into cold stone — my tomb, Howland. And shadows of Targaryens above it all, as though they'd brought me to it. Tell me, is that wisdom from your gods? Or just madness from wine and smoke at the feast?"

Even Dacey fell silent.

Howland's voice, soft as wind through reeds, carried anyway. "Perhaps it is both. The gods seldom show the whole road, only enough that we do not stumble blindly."

Lyanna clenched her reins until her fingers ached. "I don't want their road. I want my own."

They rode on in silence, the false warmth of spring pressing at their backs. The quiet gnawed at Lyanna until the words spilled forth again. "I'm tired of being everyone's pawn. First Father, now Robert, even Rhaegar. As if my name and face are just pieces to be moved across their board."

Dacey leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist atop the pommel. "Then stop letting them move you. Learn to stand on your own."

Lyanna shot her a sharp look. "Easy for you to say. You fight with the strength of a bear. I don't have your strength, Dacey. I'd sooner be knocked flat than lift one of your maces."

Dacey laughed, loud enough to send a raven fluttering from the trees. "True enough. A mace would break your wrists before you ever broke a man's skull. But a blade, perhaps. Or a spear. You're quick, and that's worth more than bulk if you learn to use it."

Lyanna gnawed at her lip, turning her words over. Her thoughts drifted back to the tiltyard at Harrenhal. The gleam of armor, the cheers of the crowd, Jorah Mormont unhorsed by Ser Barristan yet rising again with grace.

"Your cousin Jorah did well enough in the lists," Lyanna said at last. "Better than most expected. Perhaps he might be persuaded to show me a thing or two."

Dacey grinned. "He would, if you asked. Jorah's soft-hearted under all that iron. And you're a Stark, the she-wolf. He'd never dare refuse."

Howland had been quiet, his cloak whispering in the breeze. When he spoke, his voice was soft but certain. "Strength can guard the body, but it also draws eyes. A wolf cub that bares her teeth too soon may find hunters at her heels."

Lyanna frowned. "So I should do nothing? Sit still and wait for them to carve my tombstone?"

His dark eyes met mine. "No. I only mean that every choice has a price. If you fight for your own fate, be sure it is a fate you are ready to pay for."

Lyanna sat taller in her saddle, the resolve hardening in her chest like steel in cold water. For the first time since Harrenhal, the whispers and the crown of roses stung less. If the old gods had given her glimpses of doom, then she would meet them with her own strength. Not trembling behind silks and courtesies.

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Camp rose beneath the pale arms of an oak grove, the air sharp with woodsmoke and horse sweat. Men laughed over dice, and the smell of roasting venison carried on the wind. Lyanna tugged off her gloves, restless. She hadn't forgotten her words on the road. She needed her own strength.

It was Benjen who noticed her pacing. He came over with a lopsided grin and something wrapped in oiled cloth. "You'll get blisters wearing out the grass like that, little wolf. Here."

Lyanna unwrapped it to find a wooden blade, heavier than she expected. Her brows shot up.

"You'll not start with steel," Benjen said, tugging her braid as he had when she was small. "Best you learn how to swing without losing fingers first." He leaned close, voice lowered. "I won't breathe a word to Brandon or Father. But don't be reckless, Lyanna. There's pride in wolf's blood, aye, but don't let it carry you into folly."

Lyanna gave him a fierce look. "I won't."

Satisfied, he wandered off to where Dacey and Howland sat near the fire, leaving her with her new prize.

Jorah Mormont was oiling his armor when Lyanna marched up, wooden sword in hand.
"I challenge you."

He blinked, then gave a low laugh. "Challenge? You'd not last a heartbeat against me."

"Then teach me." Her jaw set. "I won't be useless."

Something in Lyanna's tone silenced his laughter. Jorah rose, setting his helm aside.
"Very well. But first — calm yourself. Anger's a poor master."

He stepped behind her, adjusting her grip. "Thumb along the flat, not across. You'll break your wrist otherwise." He nudged her boots apart with his own. "Wider. Bend your knees. You're not dancing at a feast, you're bracing for a storm."

Lyanna scowled, awkward in the stance. She slashed at the air, only for Jorah to catch the wooden blade with one finger and shove it down.
"Sloppy. Again."

"What do you mean sloppy? It's just—"

"Again," he said firmly.

So began the tedium. One thrust, then another. One slash, then another. Jorah counted each aloud, unmoving, while her arms grew heavy and sweat prickled beneath her cloak. By thirty Lyanna was growling, by sixty she muttered curses, by eighty she wanted to throw the blade into the fire.

"Why?" Lyanna demanded, chest heaving. "What good is this when no one fights like this?"

Jorah's expression softened, but he didn't relent. "Because if you learn wrong, you'll never unlearn it. A bad grip, a lazy swing, and you'll die with steel in your belly before you ever know why. The basics are the bones: without them, you'll always be weak."

Lyanna glared back, spat her disheveled hair from her mouth, and lifted the blade again. Her arms shook, but she finished all one hundred thrusts and one hundred slashes, each harder than the last.

When at last she dropped the blade, Jorah gave a nod of approval. "Better. Tomorrow, we'll do it again. And the day after. Until your hands bleed and you no longer think of the sword as something you hold, but as part of you."

Lyanna flexed her aching fingers, half furious, half exhilarated. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was shaping her fate with her own hands.

A slow clap came from the fireside. Dacey lounged against a log, helm in her lap, grin sharp as a spearhead.

"Seven hells, Lyanna, you look like a pup that's just chewed its first bone. All sweat and pride."

Lyanna shot her a glare, cheeks flushed.

Dacey only laughed, tossing a twig into the flames. "Don't scowl at me, She-Wolf. You kept your feet, didn't cry, and didn't quit. That's more than most men manage their first time. You'll do."

Benjen smiled into his cup, while Howland murmured something that might have been a prayer. Lyanna straightened, sore and stubborn, and found herself grinning despite the ache.

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