Sleep would not come anymore, Lyanna knew. Her breathing was heavy, her mind restless. In her chamber she shed her shoes, pulled her cloak tighter, and slipped away again, bare feet quiet on the stone. Down the stairs, through the courtyard, past the silent towers, she found herself in the godswood for the second time that day.
The heart tree loomed pale in the moonlight. Its carved face, solemn by day, seemed tonight to grimace in anger, its red sap weeping to match her own tears. Beneath its boughs she finally breathed, though the words she had overheard still echoed, stubborn and sharp.
Kneeling, she pressed her palms into the cold earth. Dampness seeped through her skirts. The carved face's red eyes glistened above her in the shifting moonlight.
"Please, Old Gods," she whispered. "Help me escape this prison fate has planned. Freedom for my body, for my future. I'll do anything you ask. Just… please."
The godswood was still. Even the owl had fallen silent. Then a shiver of air, soft but insistent, stirred the leaves overhead. The weirwood's branches groaned faintly as if something old and heavy were waking.
Fate…
The word slid through the darkness. Not carried by wind, nor quite in her ears. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, deep and strange, the kind of sound that lingered in the bones.
Lyanna's breath caught. "What must I do?" she asked, daring to move her lips.
The leaves whispered again, a sigh, or a promise. The night pressed closer. Her eyelids grew heavy, weighted by unseen hands.
She sank back against the trunk. The carved face stared down, red tears glistening. Sleep came without warning, swift and deep.
Then she saw.
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Dead men walked. Shadows with pale blue eyes roamed across a wasteland of snow, footsteps soundless in the drifts.
Familiar names, unfamiliar faces. A man wearing her brother Ned's voice but not his face stood on a grassy hill. Ice, the greatsword, fell in a clean merciless arc.
Wolf pups in the snow. Tiny bodies nestled against laughing children, their eyes bright with futures she could not yet name.
Then she was another girl — hair like spun silver, silks too fine for her thin frame. A child bride, trembling as she was led to a towering man with braids heavy with bells. His dark eyes burned with fire and strangeness. His people circled like wolves, and the brother who sold her whispered poison into her ear, raising his hand when she displeased him.
The vision lurched again. Robert Baratheon, but older, heavier, crowned in gold and wine. Beside him, a queen with hair like beaten gold and eyes like sharpened emeralds. Cersei Lannister — a match of venom and steel.
Darkness deepened. A cold stone slab stretched before her. She saw her own name carved into it, stark and final. Whispers of her death coiled around her, tangled with the shadows of Targaryens. Her song unfinished. Doom eternal. Was this warning, or inevitability?
Then the pull again. A boy's small hands clinging to stone. Golden-haired twins loomed above, their closeness wrong, their smiles colder than knives. A push. The world fell away.
Darkness swallowed her.
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Lyanna woke with a gasp, chest heaving, the echo of that endless fall still tumbling inside her.
A sudden splash of icy water stole the rest of her breath. She sputtered, blinking against the pale light of daybreak through the leaves.
"Howland said I might find you here," came a voice — cheerful, far too cheerful. "Up, sleepyhead. We've barely an hour until the joust. If I miss the fighting, I'll never forgive you."
Lyanna shoved wet hair from her face, scowling. "Dacey…" she groaned.
Her handmaid only grinned, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching the empty bucket like a weapon. Wild curls framed her face, all mischief and stubbornness.
"You can thank me later," Dacey said, offering a hand. "Or sit here soaked and explain to your brothers why you slept under a tree. Your choice."
The scramble that followed was a blur: wet clothes flung aside, hair dragged into order, a fresh gown tugged over her head while Dacey muttered about lazy wolves. The dream clung like cobweb, but Lyanna shoved it down beneath ties and laces.
By the time they reached the tourney grounds, the stands were already filling. Color rippled in sunlight, banners snapped in the wind, silks gleamed, and the air was alive with trampled grass and spiced wine.
They found Howland with Benjen, the crannogman's small frame half-hidden beneath his green cloak. He smiled faintly, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. Benjen smirked at Lyanna's damp hair.
"You smell like pond water — I would know," Howland teased.
Jeor Mormont sat like a boulder at the row's end, massive and bear-shouldered, surveying the lists with the patience of a soldier. Dacey slid in beside him with the ease of someone who had never cared for protocol, patting his arm before leaning forward to catch sight of the knights assembling.
Lyanna I sat between Howland and Benjen, smoothing her skirts more to keep her hands busy than out of any care for appearances. The dream lingered — dead men, false Ned, her own tomb — until the roar of the crowd pulled her back.
She forced herself to focus on the sunlight and the banners instead. The day's games were about to begin.
The herald's voice rang out: "Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, champion of the North!"
The crowd murmured with polite applause from the Riverlords, but louder cheers rose from the Northmen along the rail. I glanced at Dacey; her grin was wide with pride.
Jorah looked every inch the knight in his polished mail and dark bear-sigil surcoat, his hair brushed back from a weathered, honest face. But his gaze wasn't for the northern benches. He drifted southward, to where the Reach's bright colors fluttered.
"Lady Lynesse Hightower," the herald announced, as Jorah bowed before a young woman in pale green and silver. She was fair and luminous, her smile delicate as spun sugar as she tied her favor to his lance. She was also a child. The crowd gave an approving ripple of sound.
Jeor Mormont snorted, the sound carrying even over the cheering. "The boy's a fine fighter," he rumbled, "but he ought to be looking north for a wife, not chasing soft-handed southerners with eyes full of gold. A shame."
Lyanna winced, "forget the north, surely he can find someone his own age. That girl can't be more than 12 namedays."
Dacey rolled her eyes but said nothing, gaze fixed proudly on her cousin.
Then the herald called the next name.
"Facing him — Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, of the Kingsguard!"
The stands erupted. Barristan guided his white destrier forward with the calm of a man who had nothing left to prove. He slowed before a tall woman near the Dornish party, dark hair falling loose over lilac silk.
"Lady Ashara Dayne," the herald cried. "Will you grant your favor to Ser Barristan?"
Ashara's eyes sought Ned. His froze on hers, the world taut for a heartbeat. Something unspoken passed between them in that taut heartbeat, and then Ashara inclined her head in refusal.
Barristan masked his disappointment with chivalry, though his jaw tightened.
Dacey leaned close to Lyanna. "That's going to sour his morning."
The trumpets blared. The lances lowered.
Lyanna leaned forward as they thundered down the tilt, the splintering crash of impact rattling her bones. Barristan's lance struck true; Jorah tumbled hard into the dirt. Gasps rose around the stands. Lyanna winced. Dacey's breath caught beside her.
The marshals rushed to Jorah's side, but Barristan was already dismounting, kneeling with surprising urgency. "My apologies, Ser Jorah," he said, steady but regretful. "I let my temper ride with me."
Jorah gave a dazed grin. "If that's your poor form, Seven help the rest of us."
Laughter rippled. The tension eased.
But Jeor Mormont's jaw was stone as he watched his son limp away.