Lyanna blinked. Derron was dead and gone, and had been for some time. She looked up, taking in her surrounds anew. Someone had put a blanket over her shoulders and the moon had well and truly risen; a fire had been built, casting shadows on the ruins around her, and she was sitting on one of several blocks of stone arranged around it, close enough to be warm but not so close as to be uncomfortable. There were low conversations going on around as her rescuers went about setting up a camp and recovering from the fight.

Like Derron’s corpse, the other two guards had also been dragged away, the only evidence of their presence the splattered remnants of bone and brain matter against the mountain face and a large blood stain that had seeped into the dirt. If not for that, there would have been no sign of the violence that had occurred that eve. Even the horses were calm in their corral.

Beside her, Howland was sitting on another block of stone, watching her carefully. He examined her closely as she noticed him, and a moment later, he nodded. “Are you hungry?”

She was suddenly aware of the yawning chasm that was her stomach. “Yes.”

“I’ve got you something,” the small man told her. “It’s simple, but better than any trail rations should be.” From his other side, he produced a plate with a slab of something on it. There was a cut of half melted cheese draped over it, and a small cluster of nuts and berries beside it.

Lyanna reached for it with her spare hand. It wasn’t hot, but it was warm enough, and it was like nothing she’d ever tasted. “Wha’ is i’?”

“Steve calls it pemmican,” Howland said. “I’ve heard of similar things amongst the mountain clans.”

A grunt was his response, as Lyanna focused on eating. It was dense, and not something fit for a high table, but in that moment it was delicious. She swallowed down a portion and cast about for something to drink. Again Howland was prepared, handing her a waterskin. As she drank from it greedily, she spied a face that made her double take.

“Is that Lord Brynden?” she asked. “And - who is that?” Their face was uncannily familiar.

“Aye,” Howland said, following her gaze. The two men were unpacking the saddlebags of a group of patient horses, helped by the light of torches in rusting sconces. “And that is Lord Beron Rogers.”

Her cousin, one she’d never met. “Son of my mother’s sister,” Lyanna called out, speaking in the Old Tongue.

Beron’s head came up as he paused in his work, turning towards the call. He saw her looking, and opened his mouth to reply, but he hesitated. “Daughter from my mother’s sister,” he answered haltingly.

Lyanna couldn’t help the snort. “Of, not from,” she said. She took another bite of the pemmican. She felt funny, like she was almost floating.

The Stormlord winced as he realised what he had implied. “Daughter of my mother’s sister,” he said, slightly better this time.

“You speak well, for a southron,” Howland said, joining them in the language.

“Thank you?” Beron said, in Common Tongue that time.

Lyanna grinned at her newfound cousin. He might be worse than Ned. Her smile died as she remembered that her brothers were fighting a war even then, might have been hurt or killed because she let herself be led by the nose to the south, instead of insisting she be taken to her family. “My brothers,” she said abruptly. “Are they-” she couldn’t say it.

“Benjen remained in Winterfell,” Howland said. Beron was returning to his task, keeping one eye on them. “Brandon and Ned were well when we left them.”

Colour drained from her face.

“Your father lives,” Howland said swiftly. “He suffered an injury after Aerys bluffed in having cut your foot off as a threat, but he lives, and recovers well.”

Lyanna felt her heart start beating again. Then the words caught up with her. “Aerys bluffed what?”

A grimace was her answer. “Aerys has claimed to have you in his possession through the war.”

“But he- Rhaegar said-” Lyanna cut herself off, making a sound of helpless frustration.

“The captain wanted to speak with you about that,” Howland said. He looked away, past the fire and towards the broken tunnel door.

“The captain?”

“Lord Am- Steve,” Howland said. His brow creased in thought, gaze distant. “I had heard the stories, even seen a little of what he can do, but today…”

Before Lyanna could question him, there was movement from the tunnel. A stranger was the first to come out, a slender man with hair shorn almost to his skull with a long dagger and a sling at either hip. The navy of his gambeson spoke of his allegiance, but Lyanna’s attention was elsewhere. Alys was right behind him, looking lost, but that changed the moment she saw Lyanna. She took a step forward, mouth opening - but then the person behind her was putting a hand on her shoulder.

Alys looked back to its owner, face falling as Lord America shook his head and said something. She looked back to Lyanna, forcing her cheeks into a smile, before following after the nearly bald guard. Lyanna watched as she skirted around the patch of dried blood that was all that was left of Derron.

Lord America did not follow them. Instead, he approached the fire.

Lyanna felt her scorpion shift in place on her neck, unsettled by something. Lord America had doffed his armour, metal and cloth both, but even in tunic and trousers there was a presence to him that made something in the back of her head sit up and pay attention. It could have been the blood that still flecked him despite what looked like a splashed bath, or it could have been how little his clothes did to hide how easily he moved. Perhaps it was the way the other knights and guards glanced over at his appearance - even Lord Brynden and a man who had to be Bronze Yohn were wary of him, even if only for a moment. This was no guard or man-at-arms, or even a knight. This was a warrior, like out of Nan’s stories. She couldn’t imagine how even someone like Ser Duncan could stand against him. She held back a swallow. Howland was beside her, unconcerned, and if everything turned out to be another lie, her scorpion could deal with him. No man could survive her sting, no matter how strong.

“Do you remember me, Miss Stark?” the warrior asked. He came to a stop a few steps away, but still he almost loomed.

Lyanna barely blinked at the strange title he put on her name. “Ser Steve,” she said. She remembered a conversation at Riverrun, with her father, and the Prince. It was so long ago.

“You can call me Steve, if you want,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Lyanna stared up at him, trying to gather herself. She was taking too long to answer, she knew, but despite that he made no move to sit without her say so. She gave a jerky nod.

Steve stepped over the ring of blocks, on the other side to Howland, but he didn’t sit right beside her, instead leaving enough space between them for someone else to sit. “Here,” he said, producing a scrap of fabric from his pocket. When she looked at it with confusion, he added with a nod, “for your knife.”

Lyanna glanced down. She was still holding her knife; she wasn’t sure when she had pulled it from Derron’s corpse. It still had blood on it, long dried. Her grip was stiff and frozen when she tried to loosen it.

“You’ll have questions,” he said. “Between me and Howland, we can answer most.”

“What happened?” Lyanna asked, words outpacing her thoughts. “The Prince said that there wasn’t - that if I was missing, my father couldn’t be pressured to hand me over, that they could negotiate.”

Steve’s face turned to granite. “Rhaegar contacted your family, warning them that Aerys wasn’t going to take no for an answer. That was shortly before you disappeared.”

“Aerys said he cut off my foot,” Lyanna said. She shifted, a phantom pain at her ankle. “The others, were they…”

“They’re ok. I got them out at the end of last year,” Steve told her. He paused, considering something. “Stannis was shot and lost the leg, but he recovered well. Robert left him in command of Storm’s End.”

“He lost his leg??” Horror dripped from her tone.

“They were shooting to kill,” Steve told her. “There’s been hints that there’s more going on here since before the war started. Your disappearance was not what caused it, only another part of it.”

“But I-”

Blue eyes stared at her intently. “A single disappearance was never going to start a war. This was not your fault.”

“It was my idea to ride south, to avoid the Targaryen men,” Lyanna argued, but it was weak. She tried to think back to how it had happened, but time had dulled the details.

“Maybe,” Steve said. “But even if it was, that doesn’t change that the war isn’t on your shoulders.”

“Aerys demanded the heads of his high lords, and the heirs of others,” Howland said quietly. “Even after Steve freed his hostages from him.”

Lyanna was quiet for a time. “What else. Where is the war now?”

Steve told her. He spoke of putting down and persuading disloyal lords, of raids through the Reach - she couldn’t help but estimate the days between them if he’d known - and of battles and open warfare. Howland added his own perspective, speaking of her brothers and what they had achieved after her father’s injury. Any other time she would have been - not enthralled, but captivated by the tales, but they were too real, too fresh. She knew, she knew, that no true lord would call their muster if they didn’t intend to use them.

Howland finished the tale, speaking of the anonymous message of Lyanna’s location, and the decision to send Steve south to check, out of blind hope more than anything else.

A shiver crawled up her spine. How easily she could have been trapped there for months longer. She would have missed everything. Brandon could have died because he was too thick headed to think twice. The war could have turned for the worse, and she would never know.

Rhaegar could have returned.

“You didn’t know any of this,” Steve said, more an observation than a question.

She shook her head. “Rhaeger, he…” she gathered herself, speaking of her time in the Red Mountains. Steve listened quietly, unjudging. The others - there were only nine of them, how did they overcome her captors with only nine - drifted by, or sat themselves nearby to listen, but they never intruded as she told her tale. If she was not fully forthcoming about her thoughts on Rhaegar’s visits, that was her business.

"What do you suppose Rhaegar's goal was?"

“I…” she thought, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I’m not sure. If he had just taken me back to my family, if he had stood against his father openly and not these calls for a Great Council…”

Steve didn’t reply, lapsing into silence as he stared at the fire, deep in thought. A branch broke, sending up sparks and making a horse whicker. Eventually, he spoke. “In the morning, we’ll search the tunnels. We might get lucky with some letters.”

“And if we don’t?” Howland asked.

“Rhaegar still has some very pointed questions to answer,” Steve said. “Lyanna’s testimony will mean a lot.”

“He lied about Lyanna being in Aerys’ grasp,” Howland said. He frowned, but for him it was like a ferocious scowl. “Lied about her being in danger.”

Steve shrugged. “There’s the truth, and the truth that’s convenient to those in power.” He looked like he was about to say more, before glancing from Lyanna to where Alys was sitting, a blanket of her own draped over her shoulders, and thought better of it. “The truth may not even matter, one way or another.”

“Why not?” Lyanna demanded. She sat upright, turning to face Steve more directly. “He had my people murdered. It was his order that Derron did it.”

"Too much has happened. Each side is already going to do what they mean to do,” Steve said. “There’s been death, but not enough to make people sick with it. Some lords think they’re in the right, others see the chance for advantage.” He shrugged again.

“Oh.” She supposed she had thought that when she reached her family, they would spread the word of what Rhaegar had done, and he would be left hanging. Now, she felt like it wouldn’t mean anything.

“Chin up,” Steve said. “Did Rhaegar know that you knew?”

Lyanna shook her head. “No one did.”

“That Derron seemed surprised,” Steve said, inviting her to talk without pressure.

Lyanna remembered her knife again, and the fabric Steve had handed her to clean it. The blood was long dry, but she still had the waterskin that Howland had given her nearby. She dribbled some water onto it, and started to clean. “He lied to get close,” she said, “and then murdered my people. I fled, and Rhaegar - with Connington and Whent - they rescued me.” She swallowed, focusing on cleaning the knife. “I thought they had a spy to warn them of the attack.”

“They planned it,” Steve said. “Positioned themselves as your rescuers, to gain your trust.”

“I believed them,” Lyanna said. “I believed them so easily.”

“How did you realise?” Steve asked. There was no censure in his voice.

“Derron’s horse. It has a marking. I saw it here, after months, and it was the same horse as when Charlotte - it’s the same horse,” Lyanna said. She was making little sense, she knew, but Steve seemed to follow.

Steve questioned her further for a time, asking small questions that didn’t seem terribly important. Why he wanted to know how long she had known, what kind of rules Derron had for her, or what kind of advice Alys had given her, she wasn’t sure, but she found it easier to answer than the larger questions that went unasked. Even if the others hadn’t been nearby, close enough to listen in, she didn’t want to talk about how Rhaegar had treated her so kindly, so dash- she didn’t want to see what they’d think. She chewed away at her pemmican, slipping a few small crumbs to her scorpion, disguising it as a scratch at her neck. Eventually, the questions stopped.

“What comes next?” she asked. She tried not to hope. She couldn’t bear the disappointment if she was denied.

“We ride north,” Steve said. “Your family miss you, and they need to know about Rhaegar.”

Relief and joy and exhilaration exploded in her chest, and it was all she could do only to nod. She was finally leaving the mountains behind. She was going home.

“We’ll be taking a path through the western Stormlands this time,” Steve added. “There’s more chance of running into loyalists given they’re probably still investing the place, but I figure we can deal with any unlucky patrols.”

“Unlucky for who?” came a question from someone leaning against a stone wall, someone she didn’t know, but cheeky all the same.

“Them, of course,” Steve said, and there was amusement from his men.

“A risk, given those we must protect,” Bronze Yohn said, looking back from where he stood keeping an eye on the outer ruins.

Steve nodded. “But a necessary one. To that end, Ren, you’ll be sticking with Alys. Lyanna, Keladry will be your primary guard from here on,” he said. “She’ll watch over you, but if you need some time alone, we’ll make arrangements for that too.”

But Lyanna hardly heard him after a certain point. Her head swivelled around, fixing on Steve. “‘She’?” she asked.

Steve blinked at her. “Right. Keladry was hiding her gender at Harrenhal and Riverrun. It came out during the campaigning in the Riverlands.”

Lyanna glanced over at Keladry. He- she was standing by the corral, brushing the neck of a gorgeous roan destrier as he nosed at the pockets of her shirt. Her eyes trailed over broad shoulders - she could see how she passed as a man - and then down to the curve of her hips - nevermind, no she couldn’t. A memory of Harrenhal came over her.

“You told me you didn’t see any reason a woman couldn’t joust well,” she said. It came out accusing.

Keladry paused in her brushing. “I did,” she said, cautiously, like she was looking for a trap.

“You’re a woman!”

Someone behind her sniggered.

“You broke six lances against Ulrich Flint!”

“He was a skilled opponent,” Keladry offered. Hazel eyes under long lashes appealed to her fellows for aid, but none was forthcoming.

“That’s almost as many as I broke in all my jou-! Shit,” Lyanna said, remembering herself too late.

“Excuse me?”

“What was that?”

Lyanna cringed as Lord Royce and Lord Brynden spoke, almost over each other, and they weren’t the only ones to react. She turned to Howland, beseeching, but she found only betrayal, the crannogman studiously stoking the fire. Reluctantly, she began to speak of her adventure at Harrenhal, and of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. The reactions they gave her left her almost giddy, revelling in the thrill of being able to tell someone. Despite herself, despite the blood that still flecked her rescuers and stained the ground, despite everything, she found herself smiling. She was going home.

X

The next morning, Lyanna found herself drafted into breaking camp, alongside Lord Brynden, Keldary, Ren, and Alys. Part of that was preparing the horses - all of them, they would apparently be steali-taking possession of the mounts of the Targarymen men - so she didn’t much mind. She wouldn’t have minded at all, if not for the rising sun. Even after almost a year spent languishing in the Red Mountains, she still hadn’t come to like the morning sun or the way it banished the chill of the night so quickly, but she couldn’t put her hair up, not without taking away her scorpion’s hiding place. It was that reason alone, and not because she would need help from someone used to such things.

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The horses were hard to direct, given there were fifty of them, but between Vhagar, Fury, and Redbloom - Steve and Keladry’s mounts - they had them acting as one herd. The others were apparently inspecting what goods were in the tunnels, sometimes bringing out with them this or that bit of loot from the supplies of her captors, but she never saw Steve.

“Lord Royce,” she called, spying the man emerge from the tunnels, carrying a pair of stacked crates.

The older man set the crates down near to the corral those outside were working at, keeping his spine straight. “We share enough blood that I think you can call me Yohn, dear girl,” he said as he rose.

“Yohn,” she said, swatting at the nose of an overly familiar horse that was nosing at her hip from through the corral fence. “Has Steve gone somewhere? I haven’t seen him all day.”

“He did not return to his bed after he took the middle watch,” Yohn said. “I believe he has been seeing to the bodies of those we slew yesterday.”

Let them sit and rot as far as she cared, but Lyanna supposed it was the right thing to do. “Are we not leaving today?” she said, worrying at her lip. Some fifty corpses would take time to bury.

“No, he is finished,” Yohn said. “He was searching the captain’s quarters, last I saw.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his head, glancing back to the shadow of the tunnel, but made no move to hurry back to it.

Howland and Beron walked into the sun at the same moment, carrying a saddle bag and another pair of crates respectively, bringing them over to deposit alongside Yohn’s haul. It was still unusual, seeing Stark features in a stranger, but reassuring all the same.

Lyanna checked that Alys was busy with another task before stepping up to see what was in them. It was mostly clay jars and pots, probably spices or similar, but her attention was grabbed by the look on Yohn’s face. She must have made a questioning sound, because a moment later he was waving her off.

“Just an ill feeling,” he said with a shake of his head. “I would almost prefer to walk to Hellholt than spend any time in there.” He looked like he regretted his words immediately.

But Lyanna had other thoughts. “It’s the tree, isn’t it.”

Yohn’s head turned to her swiftly. “You- yes. How…?”

“You felt it too?” Howland asked, intent, looking between her and Yohn.

Beron let out a sharp breath. “I thought I was the only one.” He looked to Lyanna. “You lived with it. How-?”

“It wasn’t as bad after I sacrificed to it,” Lyanna said.

Howland frowned. “What did you sacrifice?”

“Just some blood,” Lyanna said. When she saw the looks on their faces, she hastened to reassure them. “Only a few drops.” Her voice dropped to a mumble. “Every day.”

“I do not think I will follow,” Beron said, looking slightly green. “Did the others feel it?”

Howland shook his head. “I do not think so. I asked Robin and Osric, and they noticed nothing.”

“How could they not?” Yohn asked. “It was,” he paused, searching for the words, “like a godswood, but inverted. We are not welcome here.”

Lyanna shrugged, looking over at the others. Alys was watching her, but making no move to approach, and she turned her attention back. “It was easier, once I sacrificed to it.”

“My people have no tales of this,” Howland said.

“Nor mine,” Yohn agreed. “Beron?”

He shifted, awkward. “My father was a great believer in the Seven. There are few stories of the Old Gods in my House, for all that he planted a godswood for my mother.”

There was a pause as the four of them looked to the tunnels. The men shuddered almost as one.

“The sooner we leave, the better,” Yohn declared. “Something deeply offensive to the Gods must have happened here, to leave that tree in such a state, and give it such a presence.”

Lyanna didn’t disagree, even if she had become used to it all. “Which way are we going?” she asked, jittery. Soon, she would be leaving. Soon, she would be able to ride to her heart’s content. Soon, she would never have to see this place again.

“Through the Boneway,” Beron said. “Well for us that the Dornish have decamped, though it will be trouble later. They must have marched north.”

It was a topic that had been discussed already, but they seemed eager to take it up again to delay their return to the tunnels. A halt was put to it, though, as Steve stepped out into the ruins with them, squinting briefly against the sun. He was carrying a bundle of some fabric under one arm, and carried no torch.

“Steve,” Yohn called to him, “how went your search?”

“No convenient letters detailing Rhaegar’s plan, I’m afraid,” Steve said. “I did find these though, tucked away. Do they mean anything to you?” He produced what he had been holding tucked under one arm, shaking them out to see.

Yohn uttered a foul oath, and he was not alone in reacting. Howland hissed, almost drowned out by Beron’s sound of shock. Lyanna felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, and her shoulders hunched in on themselves.

Steve blinked, looking back to the cloaks he held out, clearly confused by their reactions.

“Lyanna,” Beron said, voice low, as if she was a spooked horse, “did he ever - ever say anything that hinted at…?”

“No,” Lyanna said, shaking her head even as she clammed up. “Never.” She had - foolish daydreams - how was it worse?

The upset had drawn the attention of the others, and they had come to see what it was.

“Fuck me,” Brynden said as he glimpsed the cloaks. “That’ll do it.” Then something occurred to him, and he levelled his gaze at Alys beside him.

Alys flinched, and Lyanna was speaking up before she could think twice.

“It’s not her stitching,” she said quickly. “And she never- never worked on anything like that.” She kept her gaze on Brynden, unable to look at the woman who had been kind to her, who she thought she might have to kill, but who had never breathed a word about her knife.

“This is a smo- a bloody knife, then,” Steve said. He didn’t seem happy.

Keladry was glowering at the cloaks.

“There will be bloody knives over it, aye,” Brynden said. “Where’d you find them?”

“Derron’s quarters,” Steve said. He glanced up at the sun, and made up his mind about something. “I want to be gone within the hour. The sooner we get back to friendly territory, the better.”

He put word to action, striding away, taking the cloaks that said so much about Rhaegar’s intent, and the rest of the men were quick to follow suit. Lyanna wanted to turn to Alys, but she didn’t, and she busied herself with the goods that had been brought out from the tunnels.

She tried to think about anything else. It was time to leave the Red Mountains behind.

X

Being on the road again was soothing a pain that she had nursed so long, she had almost forgotten it was there. With the wind in her hair and Vhagar’s muscles bunching beneath her, she felt like she was floating, grinning so wide it almost hurt. The afternoon sun shimmered over the river crossing ahead, and they kicked up a high spray in their wake, almost dousing Keladry and Qēlos, her brown palfrey, behind them.

On dry land again, Lyanna slowed, wheeling about to smirk at her guard as the woman slowed with her. “Beat you,” she said, using the tone that always drove Brandon spare.

“You did,” Keladry said, adjusting her gambeson from where it had shifted during their gallop. She returned Lyanna’s pout with a dry look. “I have eight older siblings.”

Lyanna didn’t deign to respond, instead looking back down the path they followed, watching as the others approached in the distance. They were still in the mountains, not quite at the Boneway, but they were perhaps less than a day away. The shadows cast by the high peaks would see them forced to make camp soon, however, lest they have to set up their tents and manage the horses in the gloom.

Still, she could probably get another gallop in before they reached the point they’d have to stop. She and Vhagar looked east, towards the path to come.

“Race you back to the others,” Keladry said, and then she was off, crossing the river again and kicking up water in her wake.

Lyanna let out an outraged shout, leaning low against Vhagar’s neck. She would not be overcome by treachery!

Later, when dusk had fallen and their camp was established, their band of eleven took a moment to rest after eating their fill. Some saw to their equipment, like Kel with her glaive, while others like Ren - finding out that Steve had yet another woman fighting for him would have had her eyeing Robin suspiciously if not for the fluff on his chin - and Osric exercised, going through motions that looked near torturous, and Yohn had gone downstream to bathe, but the rest of them had gathered around the fire, sharing tales of the war that might bring cheer. Some of them caught Lyanna’s attention more than others.

“...Peake’s Valyrian Steel sword?” Lyanna asked, hands gripping at her knees. “They stole that from House Roxton during the Dance!” She looked to her cousin, sitting beside her. “Did you see the duel?”

“I did, though not from close by,” Beron said. He leaned in, conspiratorial. “After Steve seized it, do you know what he did with it?”

Lyanna leaned in to match him. “What?”

“He gave a Valyrian Steel sword, Orphan-Maker, to his smallfolk serjeant!” Beron said, almost laughing. “That crotchety old man still carries it. Some of us made a game of watching lords realise what it was the man has. Their faces-”

Lyanna held back her own laughter. “No!”

“Yes!” Beron took another swig of his wine, grinning widely.

Lyanna looked to Steve, searching for confirmation. Surely he hadn’t-

“Orphan-Maker is a terrible name,” he said, pulling a face. His lack of denial was plain.

The cackles couldn’t be stopped this time.

“What would you call it then?” Brynden asked from across the fire. “When- if you take it up.” He glanced over to Keladry for some reason, where the woman was oiling the haft of her weapon by her tent.

Steve thought about it, tilting his head back as he looked up at the stars above. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Liberty, maybe.”

Lyanna wasn’t sure if you could just rename a Valyrian steel sword on a whim, but she didn’t think anyone would argue with Steve over it, either.

“Strong name,” Brynden said, taking a sip of his wineskin. “Lot to live up to.”

“It’ll have the chance,” Steve said.

It felt like there was another conversation going on over her head, and she couldn’t help but glance at Alys questioningly. The woman looked just as confused as she did, but on seeing Lyanna’s attention, she brightened. Lyanna managed a nod, and then jerked her gaze back to the fire.

“When we reach my family,” Lyanna said, “I want to see some of the sketches you did of Peake.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “I did one of Aerys, too. Put his head on a donkey. Robert has it now.”

Robert would show her if she asked, she was sure.

They spoke further, and Lyanna learned of Ned’s heroics under the Gods Eye, but soon it was time to bed down for the night. They had another day of travel ahead of them in the morning.

X

There was little trouble making it through the Boneway. The one group that approached them, a party of guards sworn to House Wyl, were bluffed with a story of taking horses north for sale to the Dornish army, and in turn warned them of the ongoing siege of Blackhaven. A small keg of Dornish Red was handed over in thanks, and in turn the Wyl men gave them a number of still fresh peppers. Lyanna’s heart had almost beat out of her chest during the conversation, but as she tried the meal that Steve made that night with the peppers, she thought it was well worth it.

Summerhall was passed by without incident, and the land started to change, becoming greener, as they rode north. It was not until they were some few days short of the Kingswood that they found trouble. Or rather, trouble found them.

The day was cloudy, and their path was rounding a grassy knoll when Steve stiffened, holding up one fist to stop the party. It was not an easy thing to do with as many mounts as they herded, and Lyanna found herself helping Ren at the back, both trying their best to see what it was that had concerned Steve so.

“Foes?” Yohn called from his place on the left of the herd.

“Seventeen men, mounted,” Steve called back. “Across the field to the east.”

A distant horn sounded, and a ripple went through the herd, but Vhagar snapped at the first to try and turn around, and they settled.

“Another eight just left the trees to our north,” Steve said. There was no fear in his voice, at most only mild concern. “They’ve seen the horses. They’re forming up on us.”

“No banners,” Brynden called out. “Beron, do you know their colours?”

“Nay. Reachmen or bandits, I say,” the Stormlord answered, up on the right. Another horncall came. “Yep.”

“We must flee, surely?” Alys asked. She had guided her horse over as Lyanna was split between managing the herd and trying to see what was going on up ahead. The Crownland lady was pale.

“The Captain will deal with them,” Ren said, apparently unbothered.

“There are five and twenty foes!” Alys fretted.

“There was fifty at the Red Mountains.”

"Kel, take Robin, Ren, and the ladies up the hill," Steve commanded, his voice easily heard. “Everyone else, form up on me. If they’re so eager to come to us, we’ll let them break on our line.”

Lyanna was being ushered up the hill, as much by Alys as by Keladry, while Robin and Ren were already halfway up. Ren was shaking loose her sling, other hand digging at a pouch at her hip. By the time they were all at the top, Robin was doing the same with his bowstring.

“Bet I can hit more than you,” Ren said, already fitting a small, oval shaped stone into her sling pocket.

“No contest,” Robin said. He had the bottom limb of his bow resting on his boot, still in its stirrup, hooking his string into place with a grunt. “I can shoot faster than you.”

“But I can shoot farther,” Ren said slyly. “Bet you a latrine duty.”

“Done.”

Lyanna was wide eyed as she listened to the two banter. She could see the enemies cantering across the field - they had met up before advancing - and while they weren’t knights, they were still mounted, armed, and armoured.

“Second from the right end, with the skull cap,” Ren said. She rose in her saddle, sling whirling overhead. A moment later, she loosed, and fell back into her seat.

Tracking the stone was impossible, but a breath later its impact with the called figure was very noticeable, the man clapping a hand to his chest as he reeled in pain.

Alys exclaimed in surprise behind her, and Lyanna felt her brows shoot up. Ren was already slipping another stone into her sling pocket, rising up once more. Robin had an arrow to string, but hadn’t drawn yet.

Below, a horn rang out, a low, mournful thing, and led by Steve, the line of men began to walk their horses forward. But Lyanna’s eyes were elsewhere - the moment the horn had sounded, one of the men had yanked on his reins, bringing his horse to an unwieldy stop. Before his companions could do more than notice, he was already turning to flee.

There was no time for them to stop and remonstrate with him. A crack rang out, a man slumping from his saddle as Ren claimed another victim, and then there was the thwip of a bowstring, another man sprouting an arrow from his shoulder. The archer had his mount turned side on, and bare seconds later he was drawing another.

The enemies were getting close now, and Lyanna’s heart was beating like a rabbit’s hearing the falcon’s cry. Their saddlebags seemed heavy, she saw, and one man had a small dead pig tied across the back of his mount. They must have been foraging for provisions and thought it their lucky day to see a herd of horses so lightly defended.

Below, Steve nudged his white horse into a canter, and then a charge. Their line turned into something closer to an arrow, even as the Reachmen spread into an arc, trying to envelop them. Ren hit another in the arm, and their sword dropped from nerveless fingers, but then they were upon each other.

Lyanna clapped her hands to her mouth as she saw Steve launch two men from their saddles with a single swing of his hammer. The man who took its head to the chest was very dead, while the other had probably only had all his ribs broken. It took her a moment to realise that he had killed another man with a blind bash of his shield. Yohn had speared a man with his lance, letting the weapon fall after impact and drawing his sword swiftly enough to take the head of the first man to reach him. Arrows and rocks continued to rain down upon them as the enveloping line turned into a mess. Even Howland accounted for a foe in the first moments, putting his pronged spear through a man’s neck, unsuited and untrained for mounted combat as he was.

Two men got through the mess by sheer luck of being on the ends of the line. They were charging up the hill towards them, but it seemed more that they were trying to get away from the carnage than get at those atop it. Keladry tapped her heels to Redbloom’s flanks, and a moment later he was surging forward. In Lyanna distraction, the warrior woman had donned her helmet, and now she was a thing of steel and sharpness as her destrier carried her down the slope, glaive brought back with lethal intent. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

An arrow and a rock seemed to hit the man on the left as one, both to the face, and the other did not live more than a few heartbeats longer. His gambeson was no match for the force and momentum of Keladry’s glaive, and as he flopped from his saddle it seemed that he was lucky to still have his spine in one piece. The way his intestines fell from his open side was less fortunate.

Alys made a retching sound, heaving as she turned her gaze from the sight, but Lyanna’s was fixed on Keladry, watching as she gave a single shake of her polearm to flick the bulk of the blood from its blade. She swallowed. The fight at the base of the hill was being ended with mercy kills, but she hardly had eyes for it, or for the argument between Robin and Ren on who had hit their final target first. The jousting had been one thing, but this was something else.

She swallowed again. If Robert would teach her how to do that, she would be the perfect southron wife for a moon.

X

Two days later, they had made camp in the fringes of the Kingswood, and Lyanna found herself watching Keladry again, chin propped up on her fist. She was going through some kind of exercise with her glaive, repeating the same set of movements again and again, and even though she was only wearing trousers and a tight tunic, not armour, there was still something about the smoothness of her movements that kept Lyanna from looking away. She wanted it.

They had ridden hard the past days, putting distance between them and the site of the skirmish. A good enough campsite had been found to justify stopping early that day though, despite the afternoon sun only just starting to reach towards the horizon, and most were taking advantage of it. A small brook burbled nearby, and most of the men had gone to swim in it. Steve was the only one remaining, digging a pit for a smokeless fire close by with a small shovel, while Alys was resting in her tent.

A bug buzzed past her face and she flinched, slapping at it and accidentally killing it. Absently, she held it up to the back of her neck, letting her scorpion take it as a snack, even as she held back a gasp. Keladry had just planted the butt of her glaive in the earth and used it to lift herself into a pair of high kicks, landing with the polearm in position to take a charge. She knew Brandon would be teasing her for her naked admiration were he there, just like he had at Harrenhal, but he wasn’t, so there.

A moment later she frowned, feeling something off. She glanced around, and froze. Steve was looking directly at her.

"So, a scorpion, huh?"

Somehow, Lyanna felt herself becoming even more still. “No?”

Steve gave her a look. It made her feel like she’d been caught stealing from the kitchen.

“Yes?” she tried again.

He gave her an encouraging nod.

Lyanna took a breath. She had known Steve for scant weeks, but he had been the one chosen to lead her rescue, and he had women under arms in service to him. Surely, fantastic tales from out of the old myths would not be much worse than that to him. “Have you heard,” she said slowly, “of warging?”

“Yeah,” Steve said easily. He reached down into the holes he had dug to pull a rock out. “You’ve got it with scorpions, do you?”

There was a pause. “What?” She was gaping.

Steve looked up at her. “What?”

She had lost all control of her expression.

Steve’s lips twitched, but he smoothed them a moment later. He glanced over at Keladry, and made a decision. “Kel’s ward, Toby - remember, he almost won the horse race at Harrenhal? - he’s got the same thing, but with horses.” He frowned, consideringly. “I would have thought you’d have it with horses too.”

“What?” Lyanna said again, like a court fool. “He - no. You’re not surprised?”

“Actually you’re the third warg I’ve met since washing up here,” Steve said, returning to his task. He had scraped a tunnel between the two holes he had dug, and now he was placing small bits of tinder and kindling into one of them. “No, I’m not surprised. Should I be? How uncommon is it?”

Lyanna brought herself under control with a deep breath. “Very,” she said.

“Huh.” Steve fiddled with the fire, getting it just so, before fetching his flint. “Have you thought about a name for it?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing that fits her. I used to like Valyrian names, but now…”

“Understandable,” Steve said. He sparked his flint, and there was a flicker of flame as the tinder caught, but it was still bright out so it was only a flicker. “What about…Sting? Charlotte?”

“What do those names mean?” Lyanna asked. She wasn’t sure about Sting, and she still couldn’t hear the other one without it hurting.

“Sting was a sword that glowed in the presence of evil,” Steve said. He blew gently on the flames. “Charlotte was a spider, a kind mother, who helped someone who wasn’t her own. Both are from popular stories.”

Lyanna thought about the bizarre colours she sometimes glimpsed through her scorpion’s eyes, and the way her mother would go and help the poorest families in Wintertown during the hard times. Better than thinking about how Charlotte had given her life for her. “I don’t know.”

Steve was quiet for a moment. “Natasha.”

Something about his tone had Lyanna holding her tongue, though her question was still plain on her face.

“She was a friend. Deadly, but by the time anyone saw her coming, it was too late.” His voice got quieter. “She died.”

“Natasha,” Lyanna said, trying it out. She held her arm out before herself, and her scorpion scurried down to perch on the back of her hand. “Natasha. Nat.” She smiled, and had her scorpion wave her claws at Steve. “I like it.” Charlotte was too much, but the idea of honouring someone who was gone…it was nice.

Steve met her smile with one of his own, small as it was. He cocked his head. “Better hide her. The others are coming back.”

Nat skittered back along her arm to hide under her hair, and Lyanna busied herself watching Keladry practise again. She hummed a northern ditty under her breath, and enjoyed the breeze blowing through the trees.

X

For three more weeks they journeyed north. They forded the Blackwater Rush to skirt around King’s Landing, and took to wearing disguises as they reached the wartorn reaches of the Crownlands. The further north they went the more evidence of skirmishing and looting they saw. They even found the site of a pitched battle, not far from the Kingsroad, home only to desperate looters and crows. Brynden would ride out early each day and range far, dragging Osric with him, but they were still only two men. The days grew tense, and on one occasion Steve saw something in a burnt out village and went off to deal with it, only to return with his hands dripping blood. He wouldn’t speak about whatever it was.

Brynden and Osric returned at a gallop on one day, bringing word that saw them flee the road, heading west and taking the back country lanes that only a local truly knew as best they could. The main roads were empty of merchants and trade, but the soldiery more than made up for it. What cheer they had mustered as they rode through the Stormlands was leached from them, but still they rode on. They had to be getting close.

Then, as the twelfth month of the year 282 AC began, Brynden returned with news that made Lyanna break into a wide smile, sharp and true. There was a holdfast ahead under siege, and the besiegers bore banners of white and grey. There were direwolves ahead, and Lyanna was finally going to join them.