Lyanna Stark slipped away while the tents were being raised, leaving Brandon to bark orders and Benjen to dart about like a pup. She wanted quiet, wanted space free from the oppressive atmosphere. The campground air stunk of wet canvas, horse manure, and fetid lake mud. She wandered without a particular destination in mind, just away from the stench.
The ground rose by slow degrees toward the trees. Harrenhal's godswood crouched above the tourney fields like an animal at rest. As she crossed from trampled grass into shade, the noise of the camp thinned to a dull throb. A hammer struck somewhere far off. A gull complained over the God's Eye lake. Here the air cooled and smelled of leaf mold and cold stone.
She was forced into following a deer trail, no men frequented these woods. Last year's leaves lay matted and slick; each step pressed water from them in a tired sigh. Beetles worked in the litter. The trunks here were thick and old, bark plated and scabbed with lichens.
A sound broke the hush — laughter, sharp and ugly. Not the kind that warmed the bones, but the kind that chilled them. She slowed, listening. It was followed by a grunt, then another spatter of cruel amusement.
Lyanna's father would have told her a lady must avoid conflict. But her father wasn't here.
She pushed through dog rose and hawthorn, thorns scraping her sleeves, until the brush fell away to a small clearing. Three boys kept a smaller man down. Squires by their half-grown limbs and fearless swagger. They kicked at his reed-cloak and jeered about "frog-blood." She recognized the leader as Jahaerys Frey, Lord Walder's nephew.
The young man on on the ground was of age but small of stature. He had a light northern complexion, mature dark green eyes, and disheveled brown hair just past his ears. Lyanna recognized him with shock as Howland Reed, the young Lord of Greywater Watch.
Something in her boiled. She remembered the quintain at Winterfell, how she would charge it with a branch in hand when her father's back was turned, imagining it was the face of every smug lord who talked down to her. Her fingers itched now in the same way.
A pale limb lay at the edge of the clearing, fallen from some storm. Weirwood, heavy and bone smooth. She picked it up, and before she could second guess herself, she charged.
The branch cracked hard across Jahaerys Frey's ribs. He stumbled back with a curse, face twisted in shock.
"Cowards," Lyanna spat, her chest heaving. "Three against one? Doesn't seem very equal. Touch my family's bannermen again and I will teach you to count with your teeth."
The other squires hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or run. Her glare was fierce enough to buy her the moment she needed. She planted herself between them and the crannogman, daring them to step closer.
They didn't. Muttering about "feral northern bitches," they backed off and fled, Jahaerys holding his side, shame burning red on his cheeks.
Lyanna tossed the branch aside and crouched, offering her hand to the boy. He was small, slight, with eyes like still water. He was wary, but alive. "Up," she said. "Let's get you seen to."
He took her grip. His palm shook against hers. She slid his arm over her shoulders and rose, bearing more of his weight than her size promised. They moved slowly, picking a path around roots and slick leaves, the rhythm of their steps falling into something steady.
At the edge of the clearing she looked back. The weirwood stood beyond the brush, pale as bone and smooth as old teeth, its carved face set in a quiet, knowing smile. Red sap brightened the corners of its eyes like tears. No wind stirred, yet the crimson leaves seemed to shiver all the same.
The feeling of being watched did not leave her as they went. It did not feel like the eyes of boys. It felt older. Patient. She drew the crannogman closer against her side and set her jaw.
"Thank you," Howland murmured.
"For swinging a stick?"
"For swinging it on my behalf."
As they left the forest, Lyanna kept most of Howland's weight on her shoulder until his steps grew sure again.
"What were you doing alone in the woods," she asked.
"Wondering the same of you," he said, breath steadying. "I went to the godswood to pray. To thank the Old Gods for a safe road. I'm grateful they watch over me."
"And the Freys?"
"They followed," he said. "Not by accident. The Neck interests Lord Walder. He can't resist the temptation of a passageway to tax. A casus belli is would be a fine prize for Jahaerys. If I raised a hand, he could carry a story back to the Twins and polish it until it shone."
"So you let him kick you," Lyanna said flatly.
"I chose not to give him what he wanted," Howland answered, gentler than her tone deserved. "Until you arrived."
They came up on the Stark tents at last, grey banners stirring above a hedge of spears. But before they could slip inside, Dacey Mormont barreled over, wrapping her in a bear hug.
Dacey was six feet tall and immensely strong. She had long silky black hair, sharp features, fair skin, and a fierce disposition. After turning 16 namedays, she came to Harrenhall not to find a husband but to swear her mace to Lyanna. Yet Lyanna thought her beauty unmatched in the north. Her simultaneous strength and elegance was paradoxical.
"You vanished," she said, planting herself in Lyanna's path. "I've only been in your service a day and you already are making a lost fool of me? If you don't want a woman protecting you, spare me the trouble and say it now."
"I went to breathe air that didn't smell like horse," Lyanna said. "I'm sorry for leaving you. I don't dislike you, really, I'm just used to sneaking off."
"And came back with a bloodied lord," Dacey said, eyeing Howland. "Gods save me. Sit. Both of you."
She shouldered Howland into a camp stool and fetched a skin of water. Lyanna helped unwind the reed-cloak. Bruises were already rising, ugly blooms on narrow ribs. Dacey's touch turned careful. "Nothing's broken," she decided. "You'll ache like a song for two days though."
Howland managed a smile. "My thanks, Lady Mormont."
"Dacey," she corrected. "Save the titles for feast days."
Just then, Lyanna's younger brother Benjen ducked through the tent flap with the light of mischief on his face and the smell of fried onions on his sleeves. "Why do I always miss the fun?" He took in the scene, brows lifting. "What did you do now, Lya?"
"Just doing my part to keep bridge trolls out of the North," Lyanna joked.
Benjen's grin sharpened. "Good. Last thing we need is higher grain prices this winter. Gods know they are high enough as is."
Dacey cut him a look. "You could have warned me that my charge likes to ditch her protectors."
Lyanna knelt to rinse dirt from a cut on Howland's cheek. "You said he wanted a tale to bring back to the Twins," she said, voice steady. "Fine. I'll give him one to choke on."
Benjen's head tilted. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," Lyanna said. "You know the quintain at Winterfell."
"I know the bruises you kept hidden from Father," Benjen said.
"I can ride a tilt," Lyanna said. "Better than Jahaerys Frey, if today is any mark."
Dacey's hand stilled. "No."
Lyanna met her eyes. "Yes."
"You are not entering the lists," Dacey said. "You are an untrained girl of 14 namedays. Your father will clap you in irons. Then, he'll add me to your cell for failing to stop you."
"My father is not here," Lyanna said. "And in a joust one can wear a helm and be whoever they please."
Benjen chewed that, then sighed. "She's right. It has been done before."
"By fools," Dacey said.
"By the bold," Benjen added. "Aemon the Dragonknight was no fool."
Howland spoke before the quarrel could climb. "If you ride," he said, "ride for more than spite. I don't need vengeance."
Lyanna looked at him. "I ride because three boys thought attacking during prayer was acceptable. To stop bandits from reaching more pockets. And because no one will remember a wrong if no song comes of it. If a laughing knight takes coin from a Frey and returns it to the wronged, men will remember justice."
Benjen tried not to beam. He failed. "A laughing knight," he repeated, already tasting the tale.
Dacey dragged a hand down her face. "Gods. All right. If this madness is happening, I will help. But we do it clean. No one sees your face. No one knows your name."
"I can help with that," Benjen said. "There's a hedge-armorer at the edge of camp who sells half-plates to squires with more courage than coin. His junk might fit a… smaller knight."
"How small," Dacey asked, arching a brow.
"Small enough," Benjen said, smirking.
"We'll need colors," Lyanna said, mind already moving. "Something none will tie to Stark."
"How about none at all," Dacey said. "Plain grey, plain shield. Paint it with a laugh and be done."
"A weirwood laughing," Lyanna said before she could stop herself.
Howland's eyes flicked up at that, quick as a fish. "The heart tree will remember," he murmured.
"Good," Lyanna said.
Dacey pointed a stern finger at Lyanna. "Rules. You do not break a knight's neck to make a point. A dead noblemen will make this so much worse. You unhorse him, you leave him breathing. You do not take coin from anyone else you defeat, no other ransoms. Only from the peacock you mean to pluck. And if your body says stop, you listen. I am not scraping you off the lists like jam."
Lyanna swallowed a smile. "Agreed."
Benjen bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'll fetch the armorer."
"After you fetch a bowl," Dacey said, stabbing a finger toward the cookfire. "Our lord of the marsh bleeds and our lady plots; someone in this tent can ladle stew."
Benjen saluted and slipped out.
Howland's gaze moved from Lyanna to Dacey and back again. "If you mean to ride in the lists," he said softly, "you need to be a knight. Lets go to the godswood. We do this properly."
Dacey huffed, but the complaint lacked teeth. "Fine. Pray. Then fit. Then drill. Then sleep." She tilted Lyanna's chin with two fingers. "And if you fall, you fall toward me."
"I will not fall," Lyanna said.
"Everyone falls," Dacey said. "The trick is where."
Benjen returned with bowls that steamed like small clouds. They ate as the light faded and shadows crawled up the tent walls. Outside, the tourney hummed on: hammers on rivets, men laughing too loudly at nothing, the creak of leather being broken in. Inside, a plan took shape with the quiet certainty of a knot pulled tight.
When the food was done, Dacey rose. "Cloak on," she told Lyanna. "If you're going to pray, do it before the drunks start pissing on the tree."
Lyanna stood and offered Howland her arm again. He took it, lighter than before. Together they stepped out into the cooling evening. Above, the wolf banner stirred as if it, too, wanted to see what came next.