Chapter Text
The weirwood roots lay thick and heavy with all the years that have anchored the gods into the breadth of this world, and watched over her and her forebears since their bloom. They watched over her, many moons ago, when she had been a young girl of six and ten, playing on those very roots at the edge of dusk, when they had slowed to water the horses and plan the days ahead. The moon above had been waning thinner by the day, and the air had lost its chill. Soon, it would be that time of the year, the day when he had first—no. It made no use to think of it now.
Lyanna Stark kneeled at the edge of the godswood of her very home, a place of longing and memories. She had taken to spending her evenings here as of late, allowing the doleful tune of the wind to wash over her in a mood that matched her own. It was not truly a bout of sadness that bequeathed her, but that one dreary appellation that had stolen her heart and showed her love and wanting had not ceased its whispers. Every shade of violet amongst baby Rickon’s swaddling clothes, every spindle threaded by Sansa's gentle hands, or the harp she loved so dearly, had seemed to share but one avail: to nettle her. Or, at least to mess her thoughts with a time she’d sooner forget, if not to hold onto the mellow parts and cast aside the following woes.
She had been spending more time with Jon as of late, and had been quick to avoid her brother’s knowing gaze this time of the year; she had no mind to speak with him on matters like this. But even now, she was refused the simple joys her son never failed to bring her; he had been harder to catch, and it had been harder yet to keep his attention for long enough to calm her agitation; he was always slinking off on a whim from one task to the next, and then spending more time in affairs that no one would be able to testify to. It should not irk her; he was a growing boy, a man in truth, at six and ten. The very age she had been when she had created him. He might even be leaving her soon, though Ned had made no mention of it; he was at the age where it was time for him to build his own life. She could not be prouder. Still, he was hers in too many ways, and he was his, too, and at this time of year, she had grown too used to the comforts of building a rapport with him and keeping him with her.
Standing with a sigh, Lyanna brushes the dirt and moss off her knees and gazes up at the clouds, shielding her eyes from the light. It was not too late, she thought; she could perhaps catch him before supper, and he could treat her to a ride.
The thought of a saddle and the wind in her hair lifted her spirits, and Lyanna turned to leave when she heard the rustling of the branches, slow and timid. Feeling the edge of a smile on her lips, she bent forward with a hand on her knee to beckon to Ghost, when a slender hand parted at the weirwood bough, and her son’s figure emerged, flushed and startled.
How fitting, she thought, rising up to meet him. He had come to her!
“Mother…” Jon said, eyes wide and breath coming short. He could only call her that when they were alone, which was less and less, her secret known to them alone, and her brother. Still, it made her heart rise to hear that word from his lips, a countenance she never believed she’d grow so fond of bearing.
He was such a mess in front of her, with bits of grass dusted in his tunic, and the red leaves twisted in his brown hair. And yet still, he looked like her at his age, fierce and wild, and the sight of him like this never failed to catch her breath. He had grown too tall for her now, so she had to lean up a bit to brush the stems out of the tangle that was the crown of his hair, but she felt herself smile as she chided him.
“Ghost led you on quite the chase through the underbrush, hm? You look as though you’ve been wrestling with a giant.”
His cheeks darkened, and he still looked way too shocked to see her here, which was odd, as the godswood had become her second quarters lately, but perhaps he was just ashamed of being caught playing around with his wolf at his age. It made no matter to her; she wanted him to bask in the simple joys of youth for as long as he could, for longer than she was allowed, before the stress of age took his smile away.
“I was… yeah. Ghost can be a bother,” he settled sheepishly.
She hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it pass. Jon had always been a terrible liar; his face gave him away every time, flushing at the smallest of falsehoods and tumbling over words. He had no need of that skill, and it was one of the things she loved most about him, the earnestness bred into his bones despite the many secrets that clung to his name.
“Well, you’d best get yourself presentable before supper,” she said, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Lady Catelyn will have words if you track half the godswood into her hall.”
“I will,” he promised, already stepping back, always eager to be away. “I should–I need to find Robb. We’re meant to ride out early on the morrow.”
She had been ready to open her lips to bring up a ride of their own with herself, but let the urge go. It was not queer for a boy of his age to prefer the company of his brothers to that of his own mother. She had loved her father, and he had loved her in his own ways, but she was always quick to explore corners with Benjen or rattle off with Ned and Brandon in their frantic quarrels. She had enjoyed the airs of her youth for as long as she dared before being whisked away into the cage her father had lovingly crafted for her. She wanted to see the world for herself, if not to forge stories of her own to tell her children in the future.
Well, she had her son now, and there was still so much of the past that she could not tell him, tales shes sure would impress him, but also wound him, and she was loath to break the benign peace she had managed to build. She’d ride alone tonight.
“Of course,” she stepped back to let him go. “Just make sure I see you before bed.”
She watched him run off, noting the way he glanced once toward the trees in the opposite direction he had come out of, before disappearing beyond the bend.
Strange, she thought, but dismissed it just as quickly. Jon was sixteen, after all. Boys his age were allowed their peculiarities, their need for solitude and space away from watchful eyes.
She’d certainly needed the same back then.
The stables were quiet and lulled save for the soft shuffling of the horses and occasional snort. Lyanna ran her hand along her mare’s flank, taking comfort in the familiar ritual of preparing the saddle, and the earthy scent of musk and hay and the grains left out by the stableboys. The animal knickered softly as she brushed, as eager for the ride as she was.
She’d ride to the edge of the Wolfswood, she decided. Far enough to clear her head, close enough to return before dark. The wind would do her good, shake loose the memories that clung to her flesh this time of year.
The stable door creaked behind her.
“Arya,” she said without turning, recognizing the light, quick footsteps. Her niece had taken to skittering around like a cat as of late, always slipping between one's fingers and leaving no hint of her presence. It amused her. “Come to check on your horse?”
But when she glanced over her shoulder, she paused.
Arya stood in the doorway, backlit by the fading sun, and looking decidedly… disheveled. Well, debauched would be a more fitting word, but perhaps a word too crude for her little wolf. Her hair had become half-loose from its braid, its dark strands pulled out and tangled among leaves and bark. Her clothes were a mess, as if they’d been hastily arranged. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath still coming back, as if she’d been running. Or wrestling. Or… something else entirely.
Those same leaves. She’d been in the godswood.
Lyanna’s hands stilled on the saddle’s strap.
“Well,” Lyanna said, keeping her tone light as she returned to fastening the saddle. She seized the opportunity for company ere yet another could leave her with her less-than-pleasant thoughts. “You look as though you’ve had an adventure of your own. Care to join me for a ride before supper?”
Arya hesitated, shuffling from one foot to the other as she gnawed on her bottom lip, and that alone was queer. The girl never wavered at a chance to ride; she’d leap after it like a hound after a hare. She had grown into nearly as good a rider as she, and Lyanna had grown quite fond of her little niece, even more than the other of Ned’s wild children, a feeling she kept to herself. She loved to foster after the girl, and sometimes Lyanna felt as though she were seeing a reflection of the past: her own ferine temperament echoed in that dark mane, her affinity for the sword, or tumbling with strangers in sight of a new quest.
“I… yes. Of course,” Arya decided finally, moving toward her horse’s stall with far less enthusiasm than Lyanna had ever seen from her, and a slight hunch to her step. Odd.
The two saddled in relative silence, Arya’s movements oddly stiff and deliberate compared to her usual eased swagger. When she finally mounted, Lyanna caught the way the girl winced–barely, just a flicker across her face–before settling in her saddle with a visible wariness.
Lyanna said nothing, only watching as Arya shifted her weight, adjusted to her seat, and shifted again before gingerly settling on a position. It was a sight, the same girl who could ride from dusk to dawn without complaint, who’d often beg Lyanna to race across the fields until the horses were lathered and heaving, or venture into town when her brothers could not, now sat her mount like a green rider on her first day.
Lyanna hesitated. “Are you… certain you’re fit for a ride? I’ll take no offense if you wish to retire—”
“No!” the girl rushed out, startling them both. Arya cleared her throat and looked away, flush deepening. “I mean, I’m not unwell. I was going to go out anyway,” she finished, urging her mare out the door before Lyanna could get in a word.
Interesting.
They set out at an easy walk, the horses’ hooves crunching on the packed snow, and the sky above shining in reds and pinks as the sun sought to take its rest. Lyanna kept her pace leisurely, noticing how Arya seemed to be relieved by it.
“Rough day in the training yard?” Lyanna asked casually, guiding her mare toward the wood’s edge.
Arya’s hands tightened on the reins. “Er… yes. Ser Rodrik had us running drills all morning.”
It wasn’t quite a lie, Lyanna noted. More of an evasion, the kind of half-truth she herself had favored when her father had questions on her whereabouts. Enough verity to be validated by others or routine, with enough generality to hide her true desires. The girl would not meet her eyes, her gaze firmly fixed ahead on the treeline.
“Drills,” Lyanna echoed mildly. “That would explain the leaves in your hair.”
Arya’s hand flew to her braid, fingers fumbling through the tangles. “I–we were–there was a break, and I went to clear my head in the godswood after. To pray.”
To pray. Lyanna had to bite back a smile. Her little wolf, who dodged septa lessons like they were sword strikes, and who used to complain endlessly about having to sit through sept services, was now suddenly so devout. Sansa would surely be delighted to hear it.
“How pious of you,” she said, keeping her voice even. ”I was just there myself. Strange, I didn’t see you.” She paused. “But I did see Jon.”
The flush on Arya’s cheeks deepened to crimson. “It’s… the godswood is large. I was by the eastern edge. Near the… the old oak.”
And then quieter: “I never saw Jon…”
She was getting flustered now, the added fibs piling up faster than she could keep them straight–another thing Lyanna recognized all too well, the desperation of trying to cover your tracks. She remembered the look Jon had thrown in the same direction as the godswood upon leaving. Had they been there together?
Lyanna let the silence settle as they rode, the path darkening ahead of them, and Arya continued to squirm. She could push the girl, let her crumble beneath the weight of her stumbled contradictions. But what good would that do? Arya was already wound as tight as a bowstring, pointedly trying not to look at her, and Lyanna had learned long ago that you could find a lot of fun in trying to piece apart the ruse.
For now, at least.
“The old oak is lovely this time of year,” she said finally, her tone gentle. “I’m glad you found some peace there.”
The relief that flooded Arya’s face was almost comical. “Yes. Thank you. I mean–yes, it was peaceful.”
They rode on in companionable silence, only occasionally broken by short quips about nothing, though Lyanna heeded how her niece still shifted uncomfortably every few moments, as though she could not find a position that did not pain her.
Jon in the godswood, flushed and disheveled, leaves in his hair.
Arya in the godswood, looking thoroughly tumbled, unable to sit her horse.
Lyanna’s grip tightened on her reins.
No, surely not. She was seeing things that were not there, planting seeds in untilled soil. They were close as siblings, and Arya believed it to be true, even if Jon knew better. They wouldn’t…
But even as she tried to dismiss the thought, something nagged at her. Jon had always been the closest to Arya out of Ned and Catelyn’s brood, and that alone was enough for her to take a further interest in the girl. The way Jon had looked when she’d found him was so startled and guilty. And then Arya’s fervent protests and desperate evasions. They’d both been so eager to escape her innocent questionings, and the two had been oft been skirting around in their odd ways.
She herself had been quite the sneak in her own day.
The memory comes unbidden, herself at sixteen, and in awe of the queer twisted towers of Harrenhal, pleased at the warmer breeze and vibrant grass, taken with those violet eyes that traced the bruises from her spontaneous joust, and returning to the Stark tent with blue petals in her hair and silver lies on her tongue. Her father had never noticed, she’d liked to believe, too trusting or perhaps unwilling to see. But she—she knew the signs all too well.
Gods.
The matter had given her much to ponder on the way back, chewed on the thought all through supper, from cheek to cheek, rolling it on her tongue, trying to warm to the taste, to digest the notion.
Her son and her niece, alone in the godswood. Together.
She ought to leave it alone. Her own hunches did not always hit the mark, and she was not as wise as she thought herself; the years had taught her that lesson harshly. Her certainties would not always reflect reality. Two young people seeking solitude in the godswood, it meant nothing. Jon oft went there to think, and Arya to escape her mother’s watchful eye. Her own ghosts had her chasing phantoms that were not there.
And yet.
She thought of Arya’s guarded and stiff posture on the ride back, thought of Jon’s backward glance toward the trees, the panic they both wore in their eyes.
The same leaves. Those red leaves from the weirwood, tangled in both their hair, the eastern edge where Arya claimed to be had only oaks. The same flush. The same look. The same desperate need to be believed.
Perhaps this was the day the gods had finally decided to open her eyes.