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Chapter 10 - Obligation

The duel had ended in dust and silence. Petyr Baelish was carried off to the maester, Lysa Tully trailing behind. 

Brandon pulled splinters from his palms with a grin, as though he had swatted a child rather than beaten down a man. The Tully courtiers whispered, their voices sharp as needles. Lyanna stayed back, her thoughts tangled, when a shout went up at the gates.

The Stark banners had arrived.

Lyanna caught sight of her father astride his great black stallion, solemn as a carved statue, the cold of the North written into every line of his face. Behind him rode his bannermen: Roose Bolton with his pale, leech-pink skin and dead eyes; Greatjon Umber booming laughter even at the solemnity of his arrival; and others besides, filling Riverrun's courtyard with a forest of spears and the smell of horses long on the road.

When Lord Paramount Rickard Stark's gaze swept over the crowd, it fixed on her. His mouth was a hard line. One of his men-at-arms crossed the yard to Lyanna's side and murmured, "Lord Rickard commands your presence in his chambers at once."

Her throat tightened. Commands. Always commands.

She handed Winter's reins to the nameless messenger and made her way through the stone halls of Riverrun. The noise of the courtyard dulled to the hush of banners in drafty corridors. That was when she saw them — Ned and Ashara stepping out from an archway ahead. His ears burned red as always around women, but his hand brushed hers in the shadows, and she did not pull away.

"Lyanna," Ned said softly, catching her eye. "Where are you bound?"

"Father summons me." Her voice came out flatter than she meant it to. "Best to face it before he grows sharper."

Ashara's violet gaze lingered on Lyanna, kind but keen. "Do you want company?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "I would welcome it."

So together they walked the final stretch, three young hearts bracing for one old wolf.

At the chamber door, Ned knocked once before the guards swung it open. Their father sat within, tall even at rest, his cloak of grey wool spread over the chair like storm clouds. Maps lay across the table before him, pins marking villages and keeps as though all the North was a game board. Number-filled sheets and tables sat in a stack to the side. He did not look up at first.

When he did, his eyes cut straight through her. "Lyanna. Sit."

She lowered herself into the chair opposite Rickard. Ned lingered just behind her with Ashara at his side, as if their nearness could steady her.

Lord Stark's voice was the voice of judgment itself. "You will wed Robert Baratheon within the year. The pact is made, and the realm expects it. Say nothing against it — this is settled."

The words landed like a chain around her throat. Lyanna's lips parted, but no air came. She wanted to shout, to cry that she was not a pawn, that she would not be bartered for a sack of flour. Instead, she clenched her fists and sat still, the weight of his decree pressing into her like a brand.

That was when Ned stepped forward.

"Father," he said, quiet but steady. "If there is talk of marriages, then I would make my own request."

Rickard Stark's gaze flicked up, hard as ice. "Speak."

Ned glanced once toward Ashara. She held her head high, though a faint color rose in her cheeks. Lyanna's brother's voice did not waver. "I would ask leave to wed Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall."

The chamber stilled. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to crackle more softly. Rickard leaned back, studying Ned as though weighing a sword's edge.

"The North cannot live on beauty and Dornish smiles," he said at last. "We haven't had a harvest for years now. The winter grows leaner. You ask for a wife, but what will she bring to Winterfell? What will she bring to our people?"

Ned's ears flushed red, yet he did not falter. "Grain. Starfall has a hot climate, food production is greatest in winters when the crops won't burn. If the Daynes will grant us trade, our stores can last the winter. Let me bargain for it, Father. If I succeed, will you grant me her hand?"

Ashara's eyes glimmered at his words, though her expression remained composed.

For a long moment, father Stark was silent. At last, he gave one sharp nod. "Win us bread, Eddard, and I will give you your bride. Fail, and you will marry where I command."

Ned bowed his head, though Lyanna saw the flicker of fire in his eyes. Ashara's lips curved, the smallest, proudest smile, as though a vow had been spoken already.

Lyanna sat there between them all, her father's words still ringing in her ears: You will wed Robert within the year. Her throat burned with all the answers she could not give. Alas, if only she was Garth Greenhand she would have the food to trade for her agency. 

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The walls of Riverrun pressed too tight for Lyanna after her father's words. She left the chamber with her heart pounding, the command to wed Robert still heavy as chains. Ned walked one way with Ashara, quiet fire in his eyes. Lyanna went the other.

Remembering Howland's words about greendreams, Lyanna found Dacey near the stables, feeding Winter an apple. "Come," she told her handmaid. "We're sleeping beneath the gods tonight."

Dacey raised her brows, but made no protest. Together they carried a small tent and bedrolls through the keep, down toward the patch of trees that witnessed the earlier duel. This godswood's trees were bare-limbed but old, their roots twisted deep in the earth. A pale weirwood stood at their heart, its carved face long faded by time, but the red eyes still watched. Lyanna felt them on her as she set the canvas and struck flint for a fire.

When at last the camp was made, Lyanna laid back beneath the branches, cloak pulled tight, the cold air sharp in her lungs. Dacey fell to her dreams quickly, snoring soft as a cub. Lyanna stared at the pale boughs until her lids grew heavy, and the world slipped.

Old Nan, the north's most esteemed storyteller, was waiting. She looked as she had in Winterfell's halls: wrinkled, bent, her eyes milky but sharp as a hawk's. Her voice was the same too, scratchy as dry leaves.

"Little wolf," she said, "do you remember the tales I spun by the fire?"

Lyanna swallowed. "I remember them all."

She nodded once. "Then remember this one truer still. Long ago the First Men came, crossing the land bridge from Essos. They brought fire, and bronze, and axes sharp enough to bite the heart trees. They cut the weirwoods down, one after another, and the children wept to see their gods fall."

Around them, the air shimmered, and Lyanna saw it—their axes flashing, white faces bleeding sap, flames devouring sacred groves. The children of the forest, small and secret, keened like wounded birds.

Old Nan's hand, gnarled and cold, closed around mine. "So the children called to their gods, and the gods answered. They brought down the Hammer of Waters. The land bridge shattered, and the sea rushed in. The Arm of Dorne, broken forever, so no more men might cross."

Lyanna saw it as she spoke: green shadows chanting in weirwood groves, waves thundering, stone sundered, the Stepstone mountains sinking into the deep.

The old woman's smile was thin. "They could not turn the tide of men, not fully. But they could slow it, they could fight. And they did. Still they do, when the need is great."

Her eyes gleamed like wet bone. "The children have not forgotten you, Lyanna Stark. They bid you come. To the Isle of Faces. To learn what truths remain."

The dream began to fade, her voice trailing like smoke on the wind. Lyanna reached for her, but her hands closed on nothing. All that remained was the rustle of branches above, the fire burning low, and Dacey's steady breath.

Lyanna lay there staring into the darkness. The children invite you. The Isle of Faces.

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