The snow fell silently over Winterfell, its icy flurries clinging to the grey stone walls like a heavy shroud. Inside the ancient halls of the fortress, Lyanna Stark sat by the high, narrow window of her chamber, her fingers cold despite the fire roaring in the hearth. The scent of smoke and pine filled the room, but it brought her no comfort. Her eyes were fixed on the path leading out of the gatehouse, watching for a raven that never came.
Days had turned to weeks since the coronation of King Rhaegar Targaryen, and still—no letter. No message. No word. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, not from the cold, but from the hollow ache in her chest. He had promised her. Promised her songs, freedom, a life beyond the stifling walls of her northern prison. But all she had now were memories and dreams that faded like mist in the morning.
Winterfell had once been a place of wild laughter and sibling squabbles, where she could ride her horse across the godswood trails and spar with the stable boys without shame. But that was before Brandon had returned from the Riverlands with his new bride.
Catelyn Tully—Lady Catelyn now—was everything Lyanna was not. Graceful. Composed. Soft-spoken. She moved like a swan through the great hall, all flowing silks and delicate smiles. And she disapproved of Lyanna from the moment they met.
Lyanna still remembered that first week after the wedding. Catelyn had spoken sweetly to Brandon by the hearth, her hands folded primly in her lap, her Tully-blue eyes betraying a hint of ambition. "Perhaps, my lord, a sept would serve your people well. To honor the Seven, and mark your rule with piety."
Their father, Lord Rickard, had nearly choked on his ale. "This is the North, my lady. We kneel to the old gods beneath the weirwoods. There'll be no southern shrines built here."
Catelyn had turned red as the embers in the fireplace. Later, behind closed doors, her fury had risen like a storm tide. She threw a quiet but seething tantrum, demanding Brandon support her. But Brandon, ever the proud wolf, had simply walked away. His heart belonged not to his wife, but to a woman in Barrowton—everyone knew it, though none dared speak her name aloud.
From then on, Catelyn turned her attentions to Lyanna.
"You shouldn't ride like that, Lyanna. You'll scar your legs."
"A lady should not brawl with kitchen boys, it is unbecoming."
"A proper maiden would not speak so openly in court."
On and on it went. Her whispers, her glances, her disapproving sighs. It was as though Lyanna's very existence was an affront to Catelyn's sense of decorum.
And Lyanna? She had tried. Gods knew she had tried to be civil. But she was not Catelyn. She never would be. Lyanna was a wolf of the North, not a river trout trained to swim in calm waters. She was wild, unpolished, fierce.
Now, even the castle felt foreign. The warmth she once felt in the echoing halls of Winterfell had faded into cold stone and longer shadows.
She missed Rhaegar.
The thought came unbidden, and it twisted something deep inside her.
She remembered his voice, low and solemn, his silver hair falling over his violet eyes as he played his harp beneath the great tree at Harrenhal. The way he spoke to her—not as a lord to a lady, but as a man to a woman, with tenderness, curiosity, and depth. He had promised her that there was more to life than duty and expectation.
"You are not meant to be caged," he had told her once. "You were born for greater things than dust and silence."
And she had believed him.
Every morning since his coronation, she rose early, hoping to see the flutter of wings, the arrival of a raven bearing his seal. And every evening, her heart sank just a little more when the skies remained empty.
Would he come for her? Or had he bowed beneath the weight of his crown, abandoning his promises at the altar of duty?
Still, she waited. Because hope was the only thing she had left.
And wolves, after all, were patient hunters.
The wind howled low through the stone corridors of Winterfell, tugging at the ancient banners that hung above the Great Hall. Snow powdered the windowsills, but within the walls, warmth and celebration reigned. Fires crackled, mead flowed, and music echoed from lyres and drums as the people of the North gathered to mark the sixteenth nameday of Lyanna Stark, daughter of Lord Rickard, sister to Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen—betrothed to the Warden of the Stormlands.
But no part of Lyanna's soul stirred with joy.
Outside, she wore her best smile, her dark hair braided with winter roses, her pale blue dress chosen by Catelyn Tully to "soften her wild edges." She greeted the bannermen, nodded to the lords and ladies, and accepted their gifts with murmured thanks. But inside, her spirit churned like a stormy sea. Every song, every toast, every dance was a drumbeat toward her fate—a fate she had never chosen.
This was not just a birthday. This was a herald.
Her father, Lord Rickard Stark, had waited precisely for this day—her sixteenth year—to send the official letter south. A raven had already taken wing to Storm's End, carrying with it a message to Lord Robert Baratheon, confirming the readiness of his bride and the blessings of House Stark. Another letter had flown to the Vale, summoning her brother Eddard from the Eyrie and asking Lord Jon Arryn to escort both Ned and Robert north for the long-awaited union. The Tullys of Riverrun, now kin by marriage, had also been invited.
A great Northern wedding was being prepared, and her father's heart was set on it.
"It will be under the weirwood," Rickard had said that morning, pride softening the usual stern lines of his face. "Not in some southern stone shrine like your brother's. No septons. No Seven. The old gods watched over us before the Andals came, and they will watch over you, my daughter, when you speak your vows beneath their white branches."
She had said nothing, only nodded. What could she say?
She had tried. Gods knew, she had tried everything to prevent this.
She had pleaded with her father, citing Robert's reputation. His whores, his drink, the bastard children whispered of in court. She spoke of how he barely knew her beyond her face, her name, her blood. How he loved the idea of her, not the girl herself. How he would ruin her, trap her in a life of waiting while he hunted stags and drank himself into oblivion.
But in the halls of power, a man's vices were just that—vices. Not crimes.
Lord Rickard had listened with furrowed brow but said only, "He is Warden of the Stormlands, Lyanna. A future Lord Paramount. One day, perhaps even Hand of the King. You are a Stark of Winterfell. This is a match worthy of your name."
That had been the end of it.
She could not speak of Rhaegar. She dared not. How could she tell her father that her heart belonged to the crowned dragon? That her dreams were woven with harp strings and silver hair? That she longed for the day Rhaegar would ride north not as king, but as a man who had promised her freedom?
No, that path was closed to her.
He was already married.
And though Elia of Dorne was distant, though whispers swirled of her frail health and the quiet life she lived in King's Landing, the truth remained: Rhaegar Targaryen had a queen. And Lyanna Stark, wild as she was, could not make herself a usurper to another woman's place. Not yet. Not without him standing at her side to face the world.
So she wore the crown of Northern tradition—furs on her shoulders, braids in her hair, smiles on her lips—and waited. Waited for the letter that never came. Waited for Rhaegar to do something, anything. To send a word, to send a raven, to send her a reason to believe that she was more than a passing dream.
But Winterfell was quiet.
And the snow kept falling.
That night, when the music had faded and the firelight cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, Lyanna sat in her bedchamber alone. Her dress was folded over the chair, her hands bare, her hair undone and tumbling like black silk over her shoulders. She stared into the fire, watching the flames devour the logs like time devoured hope.
"I'm not meant for cages," she whispered to herself. "You said that, Rhaegar."
But the only answer was the crackling of the fire, and the cold wind scratching against the windowpane like ghostly fingers.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and the girl known as the Wolf Maid of Winterfell lay down in the dark, her eyes open and full of unanswered prayers.
It happened again.
As the servants cleared the plates from the morning's meal, Lyanna's face had gone pale, her stomach twisting in a way that could no longer be blamed on rich food or nerves. She had risen from the bench and barely made it out the side door before she doubled over in the snow, retching violently behind the kennels. No one saw her, save for the kitchen boy who quickly looked away, pretending to fuss over the firewood.
It had first happened during her birthday feast—an evening of roasted game, honeyed bread, and sweet wine rarely found so far north. They had all dismissed it then. Even she had believed it was the result of indulgence, of a Northern stomach not used to southern splendor. But now... it was unmistakable.
Her moonblood had not come. Not since before her sixteenth name day. And Lyanna Stark was no fool.
Standing in the cold wind, she pressed a hand over her stomach, trembling. Her body was betraying her secrets, revealing truths no noble maiden could afford to wear. The memory of those fevered nights beneath the stars with Rhaegar—whispers in the dark, fingers intertwined, vows spoken in stolen moments—burned within her like the last embers of a dying fire. She had believed him. Believed in him.
Now, all she had was this growing panic.
And a child.
She stumbled back to her room in silence, ignoring the curious looks of passing servants. The walls of Winterfell pressed in around her like the bars of a cage. Her chamber felt colder than it ever had. Rhaegar had promised her the world, had whispered of songs and destinies and kingdoms reborn. But he was gone. Crowned. Burdened. Distant.
Had he meant to return?
Had she simply been an escape for him, just as he had been for her?
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring down at her hands. What now? Could she marry Robert Baratheon and pass the child as his? The thought made her stomach turn more than any spoiled meat. She had fought too hard to expose Robert's philandering ways—his bastards, his lusts, his brash oaths. To turn around and deceive him with another man's child... she couldn't do it.
Her honor, wild and stubborn as the rest of her, would not allow it.
Then what?
She had no choices. No allies. She was a maiden of noble birth—of the most ancient house of the North—and noble women did not bear bastards. It would shame her father. Her brothers. Winterfell itself. And Lord Rickard Stark had already endured enough shame with Brandon's southern-style wedding. He had refused to remarry, choosing to raise his children alone. That quiet sacrifice had always been Lyanna's comfort. She could not disgrace him now.
There was only one answer.
She had to leave.
She waited until the moon hung full and silver above the trees. Her plans had been in motion for days—casual questions to the old hunter about provisions, idle chats with stable hands about the best forest paths. No one suspected anything. She'd gathered her meager savings: twenty-eight gold dragons and eight silver stars. She packed lightly but carefully—smoked jerky, two cloaks, a fire starter, bedroll, waterskin. Everything tucked neatly into saddlebags hidden by the stable's rear fence.
In the deepest hush of the night, Lyanna walked barefoot down the silent corridors of Winterfell. The stone was cold beneath her feet, the walls whispering old stories as she passed. She stopped at her father's chamber, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. The room inside was dark, save for the dull glow of dying embers in the hearth. Her father slept soundly, his thick grey beard rising and falling with his breath.
She stepped inside, her heart pounding.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words cracking from her throat. "I never wanted to do this. But I can't stay. I can't let you bear the shame of what I've done."
She stood there for a long moment, watching him sleep—this stern, weathered man who had never once failed her, who had ruled his house with honor and steel. She wanted to reach for him, to kiss his brow, but her hand would not rise. She backed away before her courage failed, returning to her room only to scrawl a letter in trembling ink.
Father, I have run away with the one I love. I met him at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Do not search for me. I am going south to be with him, and I beg you, please, forgive me.
It was a lie. But a lie to buy her time.
She folded the parchment, sealed it, and left it on her pillow. Then she crept from her room for the final time, a shadow among the sleeping halls of her childhood. Through the crypts she went, down into the heart of Winterfell, where a hidden tunnel that lead out to the forests beyond Winter Town.
The night was cold, the trees skeletal and swaying in the wind, but her path was clear. At the mouth of the tunnel, her horse waited, saddlebags packed and tied, reins looped over a low branch. The old hunter's advice had served her well.
She mounted quickly, pulling her cloak tight. The cold bit at her face as she turned the horse toward the narrow trail. Behind her, the great castle loomed, its towers silver in the moonlight, its gates closed, its people asleep.
Lyanna Stark looked back only once.
A tear slipped down her cheek, freezing on her skin.
Then she kicked the horse forward, riding into the darkness of the trees—away from home, from duty, from everything she had ever known.
Toward a future she no longer dared to dream.
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