101 AC
the twelfth day of the fourth moon

     THE halls of Winterfell were alight with warmth, food and song. Children ran amok from the ramparts to the hallways. Women laughed while the men drank till their bellies ached. Outside, the snow continued to fall unbothered and the frozen rivers remained thick. Lyra could not have felt more alone in that moment as all the lords and ladies, servants and septas, celebrated her name day with joyous merrymaking.

Her frosted breath curled and evaporated into the air like the snowflakes in her dark, sable hair. She was restless, the sigh trapped in her chest felt like barbs that cut into flesh, despairing. The revelries echoing from within the castle walls sounded hollow to her ears, left her questioning how her father could smile on the day that she was to be condemned. Dread filled her belly instead of the sweet wine in her hands and despite her rosy cheeks, she was cold to the marrow.

Heavy boots plodded through the courtyard. A tall young man with dark hair and eyes searched the castle from wall to wall. "Has anyone seen Lyra?" he called out but the people around him merely shook their heads. Sighing in dismay, he continued on his quest to the western ramparts.

Poor Brandon, she thought. Her cousin must be searching for her on her father's behalf. From the northern tower, she could see as far as three leagues out from the castle. The southern road remained bare even though the sun had already begun its descent into the west. She hoped she would not see banners on the horizon that day, that her sentence would be delayed so she could remain a free woman for a night longer. Her heart yearned to stay in the winter halls of her father but her hands have been bound by summer vows.

Lyra would always end her nameday with relief and a full belly. However, this year was different. She had just turned twenty; the age that her father had promised the King to finally give her hand away in marriage.

She had only ever seen her betrothed once in her entire life. When she was six and ten, her father had brought her to the summer tourney in King's Landing. Daemon Targaryen had won each contest in jousting, melee and archery. All the young ladies in the realm had tried to earn his favour that day.

At the same age, Daemon had already been tall and sturdy. Lyra remembered his violet eyes, bewitching yet unnerving, as he peered up at her from the tiltyard. Out of respect, he had asked for her favour. Though it was her duty to do so, he still thanked her endearingly when she surrendered her wreath to his jousting stick. She remembered thinking him fair and handsome, how his roguish smile lit his Valyrian features with a boyish charm that made her heart flutter within the enclosure of her ribs.

The women whispered that she was born blessed, that despite her raiments of fur and snow, she was more winter rose than feral wolf child of the North. But they had never seen her trudge through the snow banks of the wolfswood or skin a bear with a dull blade or ride freely alongside the elks and wolves and treecats. The sun was warm in the South, golden radiance captured in the young prince's silvery locks of hair. And Lyra burned where she sat as he crowned her with a laurel of blue winter roses, declaring her the queen of love and beauty.

How embarrassed she had felt with the entire realm watching her. But Daemon merely grinned at her flushing cheeks, sincerity in his eyes without an ounce of pretence.

When King Jaehaerys knighted him and gifted him the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, he also officiated their betrothal. She remembered sitting next to him at the feast, how he would lean in close to her with his teasing smiles and twinkling violet eyes. They had both imbibed on too much wine that night, laughing and jesting as if they had known each other all along. How the maidens would observe them with green eyes of envy, how the ladies of the court would look on with delicate pity.

For a flitting moment, Lyra thought they had made a good match. Though he was impetuous and mercurial, hot-tempered and moody at best, he spoke of his family with high regard as did she. He was charming and carefree, and there was warmth in his voice whenever he addressed her. They may not have loved one another, but they could have been amiable companions as they carried out their duty.

That was until she heard the vulgar rumours surrounding him and watched as he beat one of the servants out of his chambers for disturbing his rest. She had turned her back on King's Landing that day, putting the Targaryen princeling out of sight and mind.

Lyra allowed the despondent sigh in her chest to escape and took another swig from her wineskin. Though her father had tried to postpone the marriage for as long as he could, it was nigh inevitable. Lost in her thoughts, a pair of hands suddenly covered her eyes but it was with familiarity. It brought her back to the present and her lips curved into a welcoming smile. "I have a gift for you," Brandon's voice disclosed in her ear.

His hands fell back to his sides and Lyra turned around expectantly. From his belt, he unlatched a small leather scabbard. Lyra watched keenly as he gripped the hilt and pulled out a dagger. The light caught upon the silver and it gleamed brilliantly underneath the high noon sun. She reached out for it and Brandon relinquished the dagger unto her palm. The blade was solid yet lightweight in her grasp.

"How does it feel?" he asked.

"Perfectly balanced," she responded.

Brandon smiled in satisfaction before his face grew sombre. He let out a small sigh as his gaze trailed the empty horizon. Despite being only two years her senior, Brandon appeared weathered as if he was battled-hardened from countless wars. His raven hair was unruly and his face unkept, he resembled his father in that regard. A true Northman of the barren fields and ice-tipped pines. However, that was farther from the truth and the only flesh that his steel sword had ever tasted was from the heart of a boar that knocked over their older cousin in the wolfswood.

"You will need it in the days to come, I have no doubt," he told her. "King's Landing is a miserable hole, full of politicking cunts that only care about themselves."

"Have you talked to him in person?" she asked out of curiosity. She wanted to know how the prince spent his days on the other side of the continent, and what he did during his spare time. Wandering the city streets or basking beneath the summer sun with pretty maidens fawning all over his arms.

"On a few occasions whenever I had the misfortune of visiting King's Landing for the tourneys," Brandon said with a grimace from the memories. "But I have heard the rumours too and I will not lie to you, Lyra. . .your soon-to-be husband is arrogant and debauched. They call him the rogue prince for good reason."

"An apt description," she remarked dourly, staring back into her own green eyes through the reflection of the dagger. Lyra found herself disheartened at the thought of living her life with a licentious husband. She wondered if he already had a string of mistresses and bastards tied to his belt. It would not be a surprise. Daemon Targaryen was as charming as he was dangerous. "It is of no consequence, marriages are only diplomatic arrangements, after all," she said to comfort herself.

"If only Rhea Royce had been born more beautiful," Brandon remarked ruefully.

"You will join us in the capital, will you not?" She looked at him with despondence. "I fear Mother will leave Cregan in Winterfell."

"If your lord father allows it, aye," he said.

While engaged in their conversation, neither Starks had paid much attention to the King's Road. It was only when trumpets blared through the frosty air that they noticed the arriving company. Lyra gingerly stood from her perch and looked over the parapets. Immediately, her insides twisted with apprehension when she caught sight of their black and crimson banner.

Brandon took her arm and hastily pulled her towards the stairs. They flew down the tower and the ramparts into the main courtyard. A crowd had quickly gathered around the herald who was now addressing the Lord of Winterfell. Lyra and Brandon elbowed their way through to the front where Lord Rickon Stark stood ready to meet the company. He glanced at them with disapproval on his brows at their dishevelled appearance. Lyra could only smile meekly and hide the wineskin behind her back.

The messenger unfurled a scroll to declare his missive, "His Grace, Jaehaerys Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, do hereby decree with great honour, that the Lady Lyra Stark is to be wed to Prince Daemon Targaryen within the next three moons. He also extends his invitations to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, to attend the wedding ceremony and celebrations in King's Landing."

Rickon bowed his head in silent acquiescence. "We accept His Grace's invitations and will leave for King's Landing the day after the morrow."

He accepted the scroll from the herald who then very promptly left Winterfell to relay the message back to his King. Lyra stood rooted to the spot as she looked back at her father, into the same pale green eyes that she bore from him. Her heart trembled in her throat as her future was now set in ink. She wanted to cling onto the hem of his cloak just as she did as a child, she wanted to be scooped into his arms and be told that she belonged nowhere else other than the frozen plains of the north.

Rickon placed the summons in her hand and she gripped it tightly, the crisp parchment crumpling between her fingertips. The barbs inside her chest tore through flesh, closing around her throat to strangle with dread and unease. Her father retreated silently back to the castle and its warmth without a word, for he knew there was nothing to be said that might offer comfort.

"Good wishes, Lyra," her younger cousin Ellis approached. "You will become a princess, how wonderful! I wonder what is the latest season in King's Landing, I heard blue silk from Myr is quite popular nowadays."

"Don't jest, Ellis, you know exactly who she will be marrying," Brandon admonished.

"What is wrong with Prince Daemon?" Ellis retorted with indignation. "At least he is handsome, Lyra, do you not think so? It could be so much worse, Gods forbid I marry a fat old lord when my time comes."

Brandon sighed at her naivety. "You would shrivel in shock if I told you half of the things he is said to have done," he told her.

"Oh, don't be such a bore, Brandon," Ellis said. "I shrivel in shock all the time when I look at you and our brothers."

As Lyra listened to them bicker, she was struck with such wistful heartsickness that stole the breath from her lungs and caused her lips to tremble. The white fields of the wolfswood that gleamed in the distance, the thick hoary rivers that ran to the Bay of Ice, the roaring flames in her father's hearth, the sweet melody of her mother's songs and the clamour of her northern brethren around the courtyard. Her fingers clenched tightly around the parchment in her hand and her eyes stung but not from the snow that fell onto her lashes. Tears spilt across her cheeks like a gentle stream in the cool clear air.

"Heavens, Lyra, what is wrong?"

"I-I don't want to l-leave," she choked, weeping bitterly as Ellis quickly wrapped her arms around her favourite cousin while Brandon wiped the moist trails from her face with startled concern. She loathed the thought of moving south, to abandon the wolves who nipped at her feet to the slumbering dragons in their halls of gold. She was woven of grey on white, not red on black.

But the hands of fate would deliver her far away from her home.