Rain fell in sheets, turning the road into a ribbon of mud. By the time Lyanna, Dacey, and Howland spotted the village, their cloaks were soaked through and Winter's coat gleamed wet as polished stone.
The inn was a squat timber hall with smoke leaking from its thatch roof. Inside, fire and noise pressed close. Villagers hunched over bowls of stew, the smell of wet wool and ale clinging to the air. Lyanna was relieved to escape the downpour.
But then the crowd parted, and she saw them.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat at the corner table, pale hair gleaming even in the low light. Arthur Dayne was with him, pearlescent armor polished though rain-spotted. Their cloaks hung steaming from a rack nearby, the dragon resting over the sheet of white.
Dacey swore under her breath. "Of all the gods-forsaken inns…"
Howland shifted uneasily, his small frame tightening like a bowstring. "We should go," he murmured.
But it was too late. Rhaegar's violet gaze had already found her.
"The people of Goodbrook are honored by the prince's stay," the innkeep whispered hurriedly, bowing low as Rhaegar rose. Lyanna caught the words and felt the room tilt. This was not neutral ground. Rhaegar was among allies.
He stopped before Lyanna and inclined his head just slightly, not quite a bow. "Lady Lyanna," he said. "I had not thought to see you here. The gods are kind."
Dacey shifted subtly, putting herself at Lyanna's shoulder. Howland slid to the other side, his hands hidden in his clothes. Both were protective, silent.
Lyanna's hand slid to the pommel of her new blade, a reminder of her freshly-earned independence. Carefully, she responded, "The gods are capricious, Your Grace. Not kind."
That brought the faintest curve to his mouth. "Perhaps. And yet here we are. I would speak with you." His eyes lingered, not on her body but as though trying to pierce straight through her, weighing spirit and marrow alike.
Rhaegar gestured as though inviting her closer. And then, without waiting for consent, he laid a guiding hand on her elbow, steering her toward the corner shadows away from the villagers' ears. His touch was not rough, but it was deliberate — as though her place at his side was already chosen.
"You flee from your cage," he murmured, eyes glinting in the firelight. "A wolf who will not be yoked. I see that. You do not belong to Robert Baratheon, nor to your father's ambitions. You are wasted as another lord's broodmare. But with me…" His hand lifted, almost brushing her sleeve. "With me you could forge something greater. Do you not feel it? Elia is kind, but too fragile for the role the realm needs her to play. You, Lyanna, you burn. The realm needs fire like yours. You were always meant to find me, it's your destiny."
Lyanna's heart pounded, half with fury, half with unease. His gaze was hungry, with some strange focus on fate. He spoke as if her freedom were his gift to give.
She pulled back a step, planting her boots firmly on the rushes. "Your Grace, the gods may have given you songs, but not the right to write mine."
Dacey appeared at her shoulder in an instant, steel mace resting across her knees as though daring him to push further.
Rhaegar did not move away. "You think me cruel for the roses. But I saw spirit in you, Lyanna Stark. Not meekness. Not submission. You are wasted as a pawn in another man's game. Come with me. I would give you the chance to be something greater."
Lyanna stiffened. "We are tired from the road. Perhaps another time."
The fire popped, and the room held its breath. Villagers shared uneasy glances, desperately hoping to avoid the embattled royalty.
Rhaegar's gaze flicked once to Dacey, once to Howland, then back to Lyanna. He did not press further. Then, louder, "Rest well, Lady Lyanna. Tomorrow we will talk again. The storm will pass, and the road awaits us both."
Arthur's eyes followed Rhaegar as he returned to the table. He reached out, resting a steadying hand on the prince's wrist. "You ask too much, too soon," he murmured, not knowing Lyanna still watched. There was no rebuke in it, only the practiced intimacy of someone who had soothed Rhaegar's storms before. The look they shared was not merely of lord and sworn sword.
Lyanna turned away, throat tight. She begged a chamber from the innkeeper and climbed the stairs without supper.
In the dark room, rain drummed on the shutters while Rhaegar's words replayed, a net she would not allow to close around her. She did not sleep.
When at last the rain eased, she woke Dacey and Howland. They left their coin on the table and slipped into the wet dark, Winter and the marsh-pony stamping restlessly and eager to be gone.
Behind them the inn lay still, the dragon prince dreaming of victories yet unwon. Ahead, the road bent toward the black waters of the God's Eye.
Lyanna pulled her cloak tighter, the night pressing cold against her skin. She would not let him catch her again. Whatever the prince wanted, she needed no part in it. The gods had shown Lyanna her tomb once already. She would not walk into it by following a dragon's shadow.
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By the end of the week, the land opened wide before them. Beyond the rolling woods and meadows, the vast sheet of water known as the God's Eye stretched into the horizon. Even at a distance, it dwarfed every lake Lyanna had ever seen, a mirror of shifting blue under the pale winter sun. At its western edge, the travelers caught the roar of rushing falls, white spray rising where the outflow thundered into the waters below.
Lyanna might have slowed to marvel at it, but Dacey's sharp intake of breath drew her gaze northward. Across the rise, sunlight caught on steel. Banners flapped high, orange and white, with the sigil of House Lychester. The black and red dragon banners of house Targaryen flew alongside them.
"They're scouring the roads," Dacey muttered, her hand already tightening on the haft of her mace. "Looking for us."
Howland shaded his eyes beneath his mossy green hood. "Five and twenty riders, maybe more. If they corner us here, we'll lose days, if we survive at all."
"No delays," Lyanna ordered, too fast, too fierce. The Isle was close enough to taste, and she would not be turned aside.
The fugitives spurred forward, galloping hard until the shore opened before them. For a frantic while they followed the weed-choked banks, water lapping cold at their boots. Behind them, the pursuit drew ever closer. Just as despair threatened, Dacey pointed with a laugh. "There—someone abandoned a boat."
It was half-sunk in mud, weathered but whole. Together they dragged it free, shoving it nose-first into the lake's shallows. The vessel groaned under the crew's combined weight as they loaded Winter, the marsh pony, and themselves inside, careful as thieves with each step. The water rocked the boat dangerously when Winter shifted, but the mare stilled at Lyanna's touch.
"Sit balanced," Dacey barked, already seizing the oars. Lyanna took the steeds in hand, whispering gently to calm them. Muscles bunched under Dacey's mail as she rowed, pulling them out from the bank. The boat wobbled but held.
Behind them, hoofbeats thundered. Lyanna glanced back to see the Lychester knights burst from the treeline, their banners snapping like baying hounds against the sky. They reined in at the water's edge, shouting, cursing, powerless to pursue.
A mist hung over the lake ahead, thickening with every stroke. The fog clung low, muffling sound, hiding the horizon. It swallowed the shore behind, then the shouts of the pursuers, until there was nothing but the dip of oars and the creak of wood.
Lyanna looked east, heart pounding. Somewhere in that shifting veil of white, the Isle of Faces waited.