InsaneJournal

The weather was finally seasonable, having tapered off from sweltering heat to a comfortable - reasonable - day in the mid-60s. Her work was tireless. She never really had days just to sit around and do nothing, but she liked it that way. She’d had lessons in the cool morning and afternoon. Now that it neared evening time, all of the horses were beginning to settle in for the night with feed and comfort in their stalls. She was brushing down her strawberry roan, the last horse to be put away for the night. Even as the temperature began to fall, a little bit of sweat trickled down her temples.

Echo was drinking deeply as Lyllia brushed over her withers. When the mare lifted her head, she blew her lips at her human companion. The water droplets splattered over her cheek and nose and she chastised, “Echo!” Thinking it was funny, her horse repeated the action.

As that water splashed against her face, she blinked and looked up at the dreary northern sky. It wasn’t snow like her father always said would fall from the sky in thick blankets and turn their world into a barren landscape without end. It would snow, eventually. Even if the season was mild, snow always came to the northern reaches of Westeros. The rain was cold and it bit sharply against her cheek. It might turn to ice or sleet before the day was done. She pushed her horse harder, the white mare’s hooves like thunder against the ground as she made for home. Her absence had likely been noticed by now, and she had wandered further than she was technically allowed from home.

The ride wasn’t terribly wrong, but rain clung to her hair like glittering jewels as she rode through the gates of Winterfell. Lightning cracked in the distance, and the rain poured harder, soaking through her shirt and her breeches. She slowed the mare to a trot as she rounded a few servants and headed for Willis, who seemed anxious that she had been gone so long. After all, he had helped her flee on the horse in the first place for her forbidden jaunt in the woods.

“Lyanna,” her father’s voice boomed in the courtyard. She turned her eyes up to the sheltered landing where he was often seen, watching over his little part of the kingdom.

She slipped from the saddle, and said nothing as she handed the reins off to Willis. Her boots squelched in puddles and spots of mud as she hurried her way up to her father’s platform. She didn’t hang her head. Lyanna was far too stubborn to pretend that she was ashamed of what she’d done.

“Where have you been?” Lord Rickard Stark asked as she looked down at her, his eyes scrutinizing as he took in her sodden, boyish appearance. She had styled her hair so as to shorten it, hoping that when she left no one would have noticed.

“The woods, father. I never strayed far from the road,” she told him, wondering if she was going to be severely punished for the stunt she’d pulled. He had already made it quite clear that he wouldn’t allow her to train in the art of war with her brothers. She wasn’t to touch a sword, unless she was picking one up to hand it back to Ned or Benjen.

“And your clothes?” This time his brow raised, though that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. He was curious, nearly amused.

She looked down at her ill-fitting garb, the shirt too loose on her slender frame and the breeches a little tight in the hips, “They’re Ned’s. I nicked them from the laundry when Nan wasn’t looking. The saddle is more comfortable in breeches. I know I’m a lady, Father, but dresses just aren’t practical all the time.” There was no small amount of conviction in her tone. Frustration had bled into her words, and her father had noticed because he laughed. He reached out, his hand brushing over her wet hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and she knew that she was forgiven.

“Lyanna, my child...you have wolf-blood running strong in your veins.” He ruffled her hair, one large hand falling to her shoulder where he squeezed gently, “We’ll send off to get some breeches and tunics made that fit you proper.”

She looked up, wide-eyed, “Really?”

“Yes,” his agreement was quickly followed with a warning, in case she got any wayward ideas, as she was prone to do, "We’re not getting rid of your dresses. You are still the little lady of this house, Lyanna. There are certain burdens that I can never lift from your shoulders, but for the purposes of riding, I think we can bend the rules a little. Let me deal with your mother.”

“Thank you, Father,” she leapt, tossing her arms around his shoulders in a hug, and he held tightly to her. Her boots no longer touched the ground, but he didn’t seem to find her weight a burden.

“Riding is a skill you can always use. Besides, you’re my favorite daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter,” she laughed.

“The sentiment still stands, little she-wolf,” he assured her as he set her back down onto her feet, “Come on now. You need to get cleaned up before dinner.” He swatted at her back, and she took off down the platform, mud trailing off of her boots with every step.

She blinked blearily down at her feet. The mud there was dried, but it hadn’t been just moments before, right? Her hand gripped in the coarse hair of Echo’s mane to steady herself. That masculine voice still rattled around in her head along with the deep laugh that accompanied it.

Lyanna.

Her heart ached. She felt a deep sense of loss. Her father had been taken from her. She had gotten the message and raged in her grief. It had been preventable. She had done something...something that brought him to a terrible end in fire and blood.

That wasn’t right. He’d had a heart attack...he had been sick.

Lyanna.

No…Lyllianna.

She stumbled a little, and grasped Echo’s halter, “Let’s go, girl. I need to lie down.”