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Lyanna slung the shield to her back as she clambered up the tree.
The tree was a large one, and old. It wasn’t a weirwood—she’d dismissed the angry-eyed heart tree of Harrenhall’s godswood as too great a risk, and she wouldn’t find any others this far south, unless she cared to seek out the Isle of Faces, which she didn’t. Still, she liked the look of it. Its trunk was wide and gnarled, knotted here and there. No features were carved into it, but it seemed to have a face all the same, wise and watching, its bark mottled with scratches and scars. The faint trace of a name could be seen etched on one side, though the letters were all but worn away. Above, its branches were weighted with new leaves just beginning to bud, the hint of green filling up the open spaces where the last of the sunlight pushed through. Lyanna had chosen it by touch, pressing her hands against the bark as she stared up into the boughs. Its skin was rough against her palms, familiar. It smelled of sap and soil, and the ancient, earthy smells that made her think of her home in the north, of the wolfswood, of great roots digging deep beneath the ground to all the secret places of the earth. The tree was old, but it wasn’t dead. This was her tree. And Lyanna knew trees.
She climbed it easily, hands seeking out edges and branches to pull herself skyward. Bann, one of her lord father’s guardsmen, had once claimed she must have squirrel blood, the way she was up and down trees in the godswood. But then, she was often being likened to animals. Half squirrel, half horse, all Stark. And all Starks were wolves—everyone knew that.
She slid outward along one bough, as far as she dared, feeling its weight bend beneath her. Below, she saw sunlight gleaming off the steel of her helm where it lay in a patch of grass, resting against an upraised root. A bird trilled somewhere above. She stilled, listening to the sounds of the wood. The breeze whistled around her, tugging at her hair and clothing, but there was no other noise, save for the distant barking of dogs. Someone had called for a hunt, perhaps. But it was far off still, if it was even headed her way. She was alone.
Benjen had offered to come with her. But no, she’d told him—this task was hers.
Careful to keep herself balanced, gripping the branch with one arm, she reached over her shoulder and pulled the shield from her back. Her fingers worked quickly, deftly at the rope, securing shield to branch with a knot the master-of-horse had once taught her. She tested it twice, to make certain it would hold. Finally she released her it, letting the shield drop and swing free so that it dangled, spinning. The laughing face of the weirwood tree disappeared, appeared, disappeared again, before the shield came to rest and simply hung. Satisfied, she inched backward to begin her descent.
She hadn’t wanted to part with the shield, but she knew she could not keep it. King Aerys wanted her unmasked, and there was danger there, she sensed it. Even in the north, they heard whispers of the king. Better to remain unknown, unseen. The rest of her armor was innocent enough, spare pieces and scraps found by her and Benjen and just as easily returned—save for the helm, which was dented on one side and ornate enough that it might be recognized. But the shield was hers. Painted by her hand. There was no place to return it to. Benjen had suggested she bury it, or paint over it. She couldn’t do either. This forest would have to be its home.
Her helm she planned to bury down below, beneath the roots of the tree. She’d brought a spade, which she’d taken from the gardens early that morning, tucking it into the top of her breeches. The breeches didn’t belong to her, either—she’d borrowed a pair of Benjen’s for the task, the same she’d worn beneath her armor. She had her own at home in Winterfell, but her father had not allowed her to pack them. In the hope that she might remember she was a lady, he’d said.
She smiled at the memory. The night before she and her brothers had left for Harrenhal, her father had summoned her to his presence. All of his children were departing for the tourney, but he’d chosen to remain in the north, because there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. But he meant to send his wisdom with them, he’d said. Then he’d watched her a moment before continuing.
I trust you will behave yourself, Lyanna, he’d said.
I always behave as myself, she’d replied, grinning.
He’d looked very grim, then. Grim as only a Stark can look. His eyes had closed. Yes, that is precisely my fear.
And then he’d asked her to recite the Starks words and promise to keep them with her when she was in the south, where men who had never been north of the Neck thought the winter a gentle thing, not a hungry beast that stalked its prey with sharp eyes and bared teeth. So Lyanna had said them. And she carried them with her, as she always did.
But winter was over, and spring was on the land. The world was green and growing, and though the nights were still cool, no snows fell, and—
And she was no longer alone in the wood.
Lyanna dropped the rest of the way to the ground and crouched there, one hand pressed to the dirt. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she took long, slow breaths, trying to silence it.
It was not something she had heard, but something she sensed. A shiver crawled up her skin, pricking all along her arms. Cautiously, quietly, she lifted her helm from where it lay in the grass and drew it over her head. Slid the visor down. Turned.
That was when she saw him.
She knew him by his silver hair. He was clad simply, in breeches and doublet rather than the black armor gleaming with rubies that he was known for—but even without adornment, there was no mistaking Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
He was still some distance from her, but he seemed to feel her gaze. He stopped where he stood, the falling sunlight dappling his face and catching in his hair.
Lyanna swallowed, considering her options. Stay or flee. Flee or stay. With the helm covering her face and the boys’ garb hiding what figure she had, he couldn’t know her. But his legs were long, much longer than her own. If she ran, he might catch her.
She hesitated.
The prince of the Seven Kingdoms took a step toward her, but that was all. His gaze flicked upward, to where her shield dangled from a branch.
“A fitting monument,” he said, nodding toward the shield. “But your departure was met with some distress, Ser. There were men who wished to test their skill against your own.”
To see my face, you mean, she thought, but she said nothing. She watched him steadily. He couldn’t see her eyes, but she could see his. Solemn eyes that revealed nothing of his intent. For a moment, she thought of Ned, whose eyes were also somber, serious—but there was a melancholy in the prince that was not in her brother. She recalled the song the prince had sung two nights ago, a tune as haunting as it was lovely, but it was the sadness in his eyes as much as in the words that had affected her. The Starks warned that winter was coming, but winter was where this man lived.
She took half a step back.
The prince walked forward again, stopped again. “My father says you are no friend to him.” He sounded weary somehow.
She would have to speak. She swallowed once, then pulled in air. Her lungs were strong; her brothers had always said so. She pitched her voice low, let it ring out. “I am friend to all who are friend to me.”
His smile was faint. “You would do well at court.”
“And how do you know I’ve not been?” She hadn’t been at court, of course, but no need for him to know that. The Knight might be highborn lady or baseborn lad—if he could not say which, she’d be that much safer.
One eyebrow lifted. “I would remember.”
“Would you? You do not know my face,” she said. Then, recalling her courtesies, she added, “Your Grace.”
His smile broadened. “I see you know mine.”
She could have kicked herself. Instead she shrugged. “Every stable hand knows the look of our dragon prince.”
“But you’re no stable hand. Your speech betrays you. As does your stance. You keep your shoulders straight, your head high. You don’t look away from me.” He paused, and the smile faded. Something that might have been a sigh escaped his lips. “You need not be so wary. You aren’t the first boy to seek glory at the joust, nor will you be the last.”
She watched him again. He was expressionless once more, his pale hair pulled back from his face, though a few wisps had come free to curl around his ears. He wore a sword, but his hand had not strayed near it. He believed her captured already, she realized. He had assessed her, deemed her nothing of a threat. She found that faintly galling.
She lifted her chin. “I fought for honor, not for glory, my lord. And I am no boy.”
That earned her a chuckle. “I’d wager half my kingdom you’re no man yet.”
“I’ve heard my lord does not gamble.”
“With coin, no. But we gamble every time we ride to battle, every time we take up a sword.” His lips tilted upward again, though his eyes still seemed sad. “I would trust a knight to know that, even one as scrawny as yourself.”
Lyanna crossed her arms in front of her. She was tall for a woman, but she didn’t have a man’s height or build. His tone was friendly, indulgent; he thought her a lad playing at being a man, or some young squire hoping to test himself. And better that he should—but somehow it grated.
He advanced another step. “Come, Ser. Let me see your face. The king has commanded it.”
And do you always do as the king commands? she wanted to ask. But what she said was, “And then?”
“And then I know what to call you. Our valiant Ser Barristan won his name at a tourney such as this. My father's uncle named him the Bold. What title shall I give you?”
Another step.
She didn’t know what madness overtook her then.
“The Quick,” she said, and spun around.
She ran blindly, without direction. The helm limited her vision, and anyway, all conscious thought had fled. Somewhere in the back of her head, her father’s voice echoed. That is precisely my fear, it whispered. What would he say when word of his daughter’s conduct reached him?
Then everything else fell away but the run. One foot after the other, forward and forward, the ground blurring beneath her. She was quick, she always had been. If she could just make it a bit farther, if she could just outlast him, run until he gave up the chase, or get far enough ahead of him that she might hide, and double back—
An arm caught her around the waist, dragging her backward.
For an instant she thought she would fall. Her momentum carried her forward even as he lifted her into the air, but he was strong, stronger than she’d expected. He clutched her, flailing, against him, one arm tight around her middle. The other clapped against her chest, trying to hold her still. His large hand curved around one small breast.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen froze.
Lyanna reacted on instinct. Heedless, unthinking, she jerked from his grip and whirled about. Her knee came up and met his groin.
The prince groaned in pain and bent double.
She backed away, staring at him in horror. She didn’t think she’d hit him very hard—there had been little force behind the attack—but she wasn’t going to wait to find out. “I’m sorry!” she squeaked, and ran again.
She heard him calling after her. At least, there were words in the air around her, some ringing shout. But the words didn’t penetrate. The shout died away. She ran, and kept running, lungs burning and muscles straining. And now there was no Lord Stark to berate her. No whispered admonitions or disappointed sighs. Panic gripped her. All she could think was: she had kneed the royal balls. Royal balls that were needed to make royal babies.
That was treason for certain.
She was prepared to run to the very ends of the earth, she decided. She’d flee Harrenhall and just keep going, swim the Gods Eye and travel south all the way through the Riverlands to the Reach, then on into Dorne, until she reached the Summer Sea. Surely he’d have given up the chase by then. And if he hadn’t, she’d dive beneath the water and make friends with the merlings.
But for now, the prince was still pursuing. He called out again, though his words were lost to her. His words—but not his distance. He sounded close. Much closer than she’d have thought, and far too close for comfort. She should have kneed him harder, since she’d done it at all. Instead of incapacitating him, she’d merely enraged him. The thought lent her speed.
This time, he tackled her.
They fell to the ground—hard, though the prince had pulled her against him, so that his own body took most of the impact. Her breath whooshed out of her anyway, leaving her momentarily dazed. Her helmet kissed the ground. She smelled soil, newborn grass. Blood. She tasted blood, too; she’d bitten her lip. With that realization came awareness. The prince had caught her. And this time, she reasoned, he would mean to keep her.
She didn’t mean to let him. She struggled, trying to wriggle out from underneath him, but the prince had all the advantage. He was bigger, he was heavier, and he was angrier. He pinned her to the ground, straddling her, his hands coming down upon her back and pushing her into the earth. She felt the pressure of his palms keeping her immobile even as she thrashed. Then he lifted himself just slightly, rolling her over so that she faced him. Her arms came up, but he caught them with one hand and held them above her.
“Be still,” he commanded. “I will not hurt you, richly though you deserve it.”
Using his weight to secure her to the ground, he gripped her wrists with one hand and, with the other, flipped up the visor of her helm.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither spoke. Around them, the wood was hushed, without the whistle of wind through branches or the sound of bird wings. The last of the light was fading, cool blue settling over the land. They stared at one another.
Maybe he would not know her, she thought. He’d seen her before—they had been introduced, brief courtesies murmured—but there were so many people at the tourney. And she had been dressed in finery then, her gown carefully selected by the maid who had been sent with her; she’d been well-mannered, if not precisely demure. She knew she did not look a lady now. She felt sweat on her brow, blood on her lip. A lock of hair was matted against her cheek. She wanted to brush it away, but he still held her wrists.
The prince’s words came out in a single breath, dispelling her hope. “Lady Lyanna.”
Gods be damned.
“Your Grace,” she managed. She cleared her throat. “I would bend the knee, but…”
That eyebrow raised again. Beneath, his indigo eyes looked very dark. “Yes, thank you, I believe I am well enough acquainted with your knees.”
She flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Let us have the truth now. You didn’t mean me to catch you.”
Trapped as she was, she couldn’t really deny it. She glared at him. “Well. Naturally. Are you going to let me up?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he surprised her. “Lyanna Stark,” he said. And then Rhaegar Targaryen, the somber, sad-eyed prince who sang melancholy tunes and always looked so haunted, gazed down at her and began to laugh.
It was a warm, rich sound, loud and echoing and endless. The forest seemed to fill up with it. His shoulders shook, and he released his grip on her hands. And still he laughed.
Lyanna scowled. “Why are you laughing?”
His amusement faded to a wide, crooked smile. “I ought to have known. Aegon might have conquered the north, but he never tamed it. Starks are a grim lot, it’s said, but their blood runs hot, not cold.”
Lyanna had heard that, herself. Grim, yes. Solemn at times, there was no denying that. But fierce, and quick to temper. “To keep us warm in the chill of the north,” she finished for him. To heat us through the winter, she thought. She shifted beneath him, trying again to wriggle free. “Will you let me up?”
“Will you run again?”
“You know who I am,” she said. “What would running now gain me?”
A shadow crossed his face, winter returning. “Did you fear me, then? Do you fear me?”
“You’re the prince. And I … injured you.”
Abruptly he was smiling again. “More my pride than my parts, happily, and the damage isn’t permanent on either count.”
She chewed her lip, a bad habit she had yet to be cured of. “What do you mean to do with me?”
He seemed to ponder it a moment. “Tell me what prompted this sport of yours.”
“It wasn’t sport,” she declared hotly. Then, seeing his doubtful look, added: “Not entirely. I was defending my father’s man.”
“He could not defend himself?”
She remembered the squires beating Howland Reed, for no reason but that he was smaller and weaker. The thought enraged her still. “He could not—like many others in our realm. Will you look down on them for that? When your brother is on the ground, you offer him your hand, not your scorn. A knight would have little purpose with no one to protect.”
“The wolf has teeth. Forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense.” He looked at her a long moment, then lifted one hand to trace his thumb across the blood on her lip. “You’re hurt.”
“When we fell.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and withdrew his hand. “I didn’t intend it.”
“It isn’t permanent,” she echoed, her lips curving.
He still hadn’t released her, she realized.
A voice from long ago drifted to her. Her mother, or Old Nan perhaps, telling her that there were moments that could divide a life in two, clean and quick as the sharpest of swords. You might not see the sword, but you would feel it as it split your world into before and after. One swift slice, and it was over—unless you could avoid it.
The second voice was fainter. Some whispered warning her father had given Brandon. Those who burn quick burn out, he’d cautioned. Brandon had only laughed and said that winter was coming to cool him off.
It was Lyanna who was burning now. A fire in her flesh, her entire body growing hot. She saw the prince smiling down at her, his eyes bright; she felt his weight pressing her to the ground, no space between them. There was silence all around them, no sound but their breathing, but the slamming of her heart was loud within her. Their gazes locked.
They seemed to become aware of it—whatever it was—in the same instant. He fairly leapt off of her. Gracefully, though, and rapid in his recovery. When he looked at her again, his eyes showed nothing.
“Lyanna the Quick,” he said, helping her to her feet. “But not quick enough.”
I imagined it, she thought. Of course she had. There had been no fire, no thrill of connection. She made a show of brushing the dirt from her breeches. “If I had a horse, you’d never have caught me.”
“True,” he said. “But it would hardly be a fair contest, would it? I’ve only the two legs to carry me.”
“I meant—” she broke off, realizing he was jesting with her. She glowered, and he laughed again. Turning away, she removed her helmet and dragged her fingers through the tangles of her hair.
“Perhaps I should keep that,” he said.
Swallowing, she turned back to face him. “You won’t—you don’t intend to reveal me, then?”
“I will hold your secret here,” he said, clapping his free hand across his heart after she’d handed him the helm. “You may go unfearing, my lady.”
Her own heart was pounding. She did not feel a lady. She wore breeches, torn in the knee, stained with grass and dirt; she was damp with sweat, her hair clumped and filthy. But he’d spoken the words without irony.
Now he was looking at her helm, she saw. The curve of the metalwork that had once been delicate and lovely, the dent just above the visor. His voice was quiet. “Would that all knights had your honor.”
She wasn’t certain how to respond to that, so she said simply, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
She turned then, making her slow way back through the thick of the forest toward the castle, where she would find her tent, make excuses. Her maid would draw a bath, and brush the knots from her hair and wrap her once more in finery. For the rest of the tourney, she would be a lady, she vowed.
When she glanced back, she saw that the prince was watching her.
He was no longer smiling.