unholygengar

[unholygengar]

Help a girl out

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[unholygengar]

A duel of hot and cold

Breakfast was a tense affair. Lyria and Cregan sat across from each other, the silence between them thick with unresolved anger. Both were too stubborn to be the first to speak, their pride keeping them locked in a standoff. The clinking of utensils on porcelain was the only sound that filled the room, each bite a testament to their stubbornness.

Lyria finished her meal first, pushing her chair back with a slight scrape that seemed louder in the quiet. She stood, ready to leave without a word. As she reached the door, Cregan cleared his throat, a sound that halted her in her tracks. 

"Behave," he said simply, his tone brooking no argument.

Lyria didn't turn around. She nodded once, and continued out of the room, her steps echoing down the corridor. 

Back in her chambers, she stripped out of her stormy blue gown, feeling the weight of it lift from her shoulders. She needed to clear her mind, and there was no better way than with physical exertion. She donned her battle attire, dark brown leathers detailed with black thread, a thick black belt cinching her waist. The outfit made her look more like a warrior than a lady, a wolf in human form. Her hair was braided away from her face, tied high at the back of her head, swaying with each step as she walked.

As she moved through the long hallways of the keep, those she passed did a double take. Maids whispered amongst themselves, their eyes wide with surprise and curiosity. Lyria paid them no mind, her focus on the tasks ahead. She had no time for their gossip.

Her leather-clad form cut a striking figure, a stark contrast to the refined and delicate appearance she had worn the night before. Her innocent doe-like face belied the fierce spirit within, and her attire now reflected that inner strength. As she walked, the whispers followed her, but she remained resolute, a wild wolf in a den of dragons.

It was the third day in King's Landing, but for Lyria, it was her first morning without a "good morrow" from the princess. Despite the short time they had known each other, Lyria had grown accustomed to Helaena's presence. They were so different, yet so alike in many ways. The absence of her soft-spoken friend left a void that Lyria couldn't ignore. She made a mental note to find the princess later on; perhaps they could indulge in conversation under the weirwood once again.

But before she could enjoy simple pleasures with Helaena, Lyria felt the need to be physical, to train in the art of bladed battle. She'd been granted the right to wield a sword since the age of eight. Cregan has convinced their father it would be good if Lyria could fend for herself. Rickon Stark had cared little about his daughter, his disappointment in her gender obvious for all to see. Despite her father's disinterest, Lyria still thought that if she showed promise with a sword, then maybe—just maybe—he would look at her with fondness, the same way he looked at Cregan.

As she made her way to the training grounds, she recalled the countless hours spent perfecting her technique, driven by a desire to earn even a fraction of her father's approval. The memory was bittersweet, but it fueled her determination. The open space of the training yard beckoned her, the clanging of swords and the grunts of effort from others already engaged in their morning practice filling the air.

Lyria found herself overlooking the training grounds from an elevated terrace, a vantage point that allowed her to observe the activities below. Her eyes were drawn to a pair engaged in a fierce duel. Aemond Targaryen was sparring with one of the Kingsguards, the same guard she had often seen standing behind the queen since her arrival in the capital.

Aemond moved with an elegance that seemed almost unnatural, his strikes precise and deliberate. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next, his sword an extension of his will. There was a quiet intensity in his demeanor, a focus that suggested he was always several steps ahead of his opponent. His movements were economical, every action serving a purpose, conserving energy for when it was most needed. He wielded his blade with a calm confidence, the one-eyed prince showing no hesitation, no wasted effort.

In stark contrast, the Dornish Kingsguard fought with a ferocity that was both captivating and intimidating. His style was aggressive, each attack explosive and charged with raw power. He moved like a storm, his sword crashing against Aemond's with the force of a hurricane. Yet, for all his aggression, there was a rhythm to his movements, a controlled chaos that balanced perfectly against Aemond's calculated grace.

Their duel was a dance of contrasts, each fighter's strengths and weaknesses complementing the other. The Dornishman pressed forward with relentless energy, forcing Aemond to parry and sidestep, his movements fluid and adaptive. Aemond, in turn, responded with swift, precise counters, exploiting the brief openings left by his opponent's more forceful strikes.

Despite their differing styles, the battle seemed evenly matched. Neither appeared to have a clear advantage, each pushing the other to the limits of their abilities. The clash of steel echoed through the training grounds, drawing the attention of other spectators who watched with rapt interest.

Lyria couldn't help but admire the display of skill and determination. Aemond's grace and precision were mesmerizing, a testament to countless hours of rigorous training and discipline. The Dornish guard's explosive power and relentless drive were equally impressive, a reminder of the raw strength that lay beneath his polished armor.

As she watched, she felt a surge of inspiration. The sight of two warriors, so different yet so evenly matched, resonated with her. Strength came in many forms, knowledge her first instructor drilled into her mind. The men before her were a testament to that lesson, that mastery had many paths. The key to true skill lies in comprehending and maximizing one's abilities, be it by grace, cunning, or strength.

Lyria continued to watch the intense sparring match between Aemond and the Kingsguard, their movements a blur of calculated strikes and powerful counterattacks. The duel seemed to go on forever, each combatant refusing to give any ground. The contrasting styles created a mesmerizing display of skill and strategy. 

The Dornishman’s ferocity would have overwhelmed a less disciplined opponent. Each swing of his sword was powerful and deliberate, meant to break through Aemond's defenses. His footwork was swift and unpredictable, attempting to catch Aemond off guard with sudden bursts of speed and aggression.

Aemond, however, remained calm and composed, his one eye never leaving his opponent. His movements were smooth and fluid, each parry and riposte perfectly timed to deflect the Dornishman’s strikes. He conserved his energy, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike. His precision and control were evident in every motion, as if he were playing a game of chess rather than fighting a duel.

As the battle wore on, it became clear that both fighters were tiring. The Dornishman’s attacks grew less explosive, his breathing more labored. Aemond maintained his calm exterior, but his footwork became less graceful, his moves becoming less calculated. 

Then it happened—a small mistake, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. The Dornishman overextended on a particularly forceful swing, leaving his side momentarily unprotected. Aemond seized the opportunity with lightning speed. He sidestepped the blow, bringing his own sword up in a swift, decisive motion. The tip of Aemond's blade stopped just short of the Dornishman’s throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the consequences of even the smallest error.

The Dornishman froze, his eyes wide with the realization of his mistake. For a moment, the training grounds fell silent, the only sound was the heavy breathing of the two combatants. Aemond’s expression remained focused, his grip on his sword steady as he held his opponent at bay.

"I yield," the Dornishman finally said, his voice breathless but respectful. He lowered his weapon, acknowledging Aemond's victory.

Aemond stepped back, lowering his own sword. A hint of a satisfied smile played at the corners of his mouth, though his expression remained otherwise stoic. He offered a hand to the Dornishman, who accepted it with a nod of respect. The crowd of onlookers began to murmur and clap, recognizing the skill and determination of both fighters.

From her vantage point, Lyria couldn’t help but feel a surge of admiration for Aemond's prowess. The duel had been a masterclass in both strength and strategy, showcasing the prince's dedication and training. It was as a prime example of the intricacy and allure of combat, where a single error could bring disaster.

As the two men stood conversing about sword-fighting strategy, Lyria descended from her vantage point above the training grounds. Her steps were deliberate and confident, her gaze sharp as she approached the array of sparring weapons laid out before her. She searched intently for something akin to her preferred twin sai, but to her displeasure, such weapons were not among the choices. Instead, she settled for the closest approximation: two wakizashi-type blades. Heavier than her usual weapons but still manageable, they felt familiar enough in her hands.

With her chosen blades, Lyria strode directly toward Aemond and the Dornish Kingsguard. Her confidence was palpable, drawing the attention of both men. The Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, was the first to notice her. His eyes quickly scanned her unconventional attire, an unreadable expression on his face. Aemond turned shortly after, amusement flickering in his eye as he observed her approach.

"I must say that your sparring gave me joy to view, quite the show," Lyria commented, her voice carrying an edge of challenge.

Ser Criston nodded appreciatively while Aemond remained silent, his gaze fixed on the blades she held.

"Thank you, Lady Lyria, you honor me with your kind wor—" the Kingsguard began, but Lyria's eyes flickered with impatience, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"I wish to duel," she stated bluntly, her tone brooking no argument.

Ser Criston looked taken aback, his surprise evident as he struggled to find a response. Aemond, however, seemed intrigued, a pleased expression settling on his face as if he had been waiting for something interesting to happen.

"My lady... I'm not certain that you should be indulging in such activities, and I do not wish to harm a lady—" Ser Criston began to protest, but Lyria interrupted him once more, her lips curling into a confident smile as she twirled one of the blades.

"Not against you," she clarified, turning her full attention to Aemond. She pointed one of the wakizashi at him, a daring grin playing on her lips. "The prince Aemond is who I wish to duel."

Ser Criston looked as though he might object, about to lecture the wild girl on how she shouldn’t point her blade at a royal, but Aemond raised a hand, silencing him before he could speak. The one-eyed prince met Lyria's gaze and stepped closer to her, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"No, Ser Cole," Aemond said firmly, his eyes never leaving Lyria's. "I accept your request, Lady Wolf. But it brings me no pleasure to defeat such a fickle thing as yourself..."

His words were a taunt, a provocation designed to test her resolve. Lyria's grin widened, her eyes flashing with determination.

"Then let's see if your blade is as sharp as your tongue, Prince Aemond," she retorted, her stance shifting into a ready position.

The gathered onlookers murmured in both anticipation and judgement, their attention riveted on the unexpected challenge that had emerged in the training grounds. Aemond and Lyria circled each other, the air between them crackling with tension as they prepared to duel.

Aemond wouldn't be the first to strike. Despite his readiness, he found himself hesitating at the thought of engaging a woman in combat. Yet, the look on Lyria's face made him question that moral for a moment. It wasn't an aggressive or determined expression like Ser Criston Cole's, nor was it the stoic mask he himself often wore. Instead, she wore a grin—wide, genuinely joyous—that transformed her doe-like features into those of a ferocious beast.

Before Aemond could fully process the sight, Lyria launched herself at him with a speed that caught him off guard. Her initial strike was blocked, but she spun around him with a fluidity and agility he hadn't anticipated, forcing him to turn swiftly to keep up. There was that grin again—manic, almost wild.

Aemond swung his longsword with calculated precision, knocking one of her blades from her hand. He expected this would make her back up, perhaps even yield. But Lyria only closed the distance, her small fist colliding with his ribs. The force behind the punch startled him.

"Interesting," Aemond thought, briefly caught off guard.

He shoved her away, creating space between them, but the sound of her laugh—light and almost musical—lingered in the air, unsettling him. The tales of Northerners in battle he'd heard were of burly men attacking with brute force, relentless until the Stranger claimed them. The opponent before him defied that image entirely.

Lyria pressed forward again, unrelenting. She moved with the grace of a dancer, each step purposeful and every strike calculated. Her remaining blade sliced through the air, aiming for openings in his defense with a precision that belied her playful demeanor.

Aemond parried and countered, the clang of their blades ringing out across the training grounds. He could feel the eyes of onlookers on them, the tension thickening with each passing moment. He found himself adjusting his stance, responding to her movements with a newfound respect.

Aemond's strikes grew more aggressive, aiming to break through her defenses and end the duel swiftly. Yet, Lyria matched him blow for blow, her agility and tenacity making up for any disparity in their strength. He could see the focus in her eyes, the thrill of the fight reflected in her every move.

In a swift maneuver, she feigned an attack to his right, only to spin and strike from the left. Aemond narrowly avoided the blow, his eye widening in realization—she was testing him, pushing him to his limits. And he found himself rising to the challenge, determined to meet her skill with his own. It never crossed his mind that he would find a worthy opponent in such a small wolf.

Their duel continued, a dance of steel and strategy, neither willing to yield. Aemond's initial hesitation was long gone, replaced by a fierce determination. He could see the same fire in Lyria's eyes, a mutual respect growing between them with each clash of their blades. Despite the newfound respect, the prince wished not to be bested by a little lady.

Finally, he saw an opening and capitalized on it, disarming her last blade with a deft flick of his wrist. Yet, even unarmed, Lyria did not back down. She moved with the same fearless intensity, her fists now her weapons. Aemond blocked her punches, feeling the strength behind each strike, his free hand found her braid, yanking her harshly, her back forced against his chest, leaving her to be pinned between him and the sword now held against her throat.

Lyria groaned as a burning sensation surged through her scalp, her chest heaving with exertion, but that grin remained on her face. Aemond held her gaze, recognizing the fierceness of the wolf within her. That’s when he felt it— something pressing against his breeches. His eye darted down, finding a dagger aimed at his crown jewels. Had their duel been a real fight, Lyria would be dead, yet there she stood— amused.

“Yield. You cannot win, wolf. I have bested you.”

The pressure of the blade increased but remained harmless. Lyria’s head turned just enough for their eyes to meet, her face flushed red from exertion. He thought the northern lady would’ve been disappointed at her loss, but the grin remained, their bodies still pressed together.

“Aye. I have been bested, but I would’ve taken your manhood with me… That remains a win in my book.”

Now it was Aemond who was amused, a small smirk grazing his sharp features— all that showed while he experienced much more within, something that could only be described as arousal. Aemond had never encountered a woman like Lyria before. Her boldness was astonishing, her spirit wild and carefree, unrestrained by the typical decorum he was accustomed to at court. In King's Landing, ladies were expected to be demure, reserved, and subservient. They played their roles well, adhering to the rigid expectations placed upon them. Lyria Stark, however, was a force of nature, challenging those norms with every breath she took.

As he stood there, his sword still at her throat, he couldn't help but marvel at her. The thrill of their duel still buzzed through his veins, the memory of her laughter echoing in his ears. She had fought with an intensity and joy that he had rarely seen, her every movement filled with purpose and passion, like a dance. She was a contradiction—a fierce warrior encased in the delicate frame of a lady.

Aemond's mind raced with questions. Were all the women of the North like this, or was Lyria an exception? The stories he had heard painted Northerners as stoic and hardy, their women strong and resilient, but none had mentioned this wild, almost feral spirit that Lyria embodied. Her every action spoke of a life lived in freedom, unburdened by the constraints that bound so many others.

He studied her face, her chest still heaving from their exertion, her eyes alight with the remnants of their combat. She met his gaze without flinching, her grin prominent. There was no fear in her eyes, only a fierce determination and an unspoken challenge.

Aemond's gaze shifted from amused to confused as he saw crimson blood suddenly gushing from Lyria's nose. Had she pushed too hard? No, that couldn’t be it; she didn’t look too tired. He lowered his sword from her throat, and on cue, she sheathed her blade, bringing her free hand to her face. The carefree expression was now long gone, her gaze faltering. She turned away, one hand still trying to stop the gushing blood from her nose to no avail. 

The prince had no way of knowing the haze that took over Lyria's mind or the ringing in her ears. All he could see was her staggering steps and the blood falling to the ground. Aemond took a step forward, unsure what to make of the situation, hearing a low “shit” from Lyria before she turned to look at him. In seconds, she had gone from looking carefree to that of a sickling, the blood still flowing from her nose.

"I need Cregan... now..." she muttered, her voice weak. She turned to start walking—where? He wasn't sure, and she did not make it far before her body gave out. Before her head had the chance to hit the ground, Aemond caught her, holding her body as it started to shake. That’s when he saw it: her eyes wide open and milky, her face and throat painted red by blood while her body continued to convulse. 

Was this a seizure? He had never seen something like this before and was at a complete loss.

Unbeknownst to the prince, Cregan had watched their duel from the terrace overlooking the training grounds, having come across it while they were in the midst of sparring. He had witnessed the tension between his sister and the one-eyed prince and felt displeased by the sight. That displeasure was replaced with worry as his eyes caught on to the blood escaping her nose. He descended the stairs quickly, but not fast enough. By the time he reached the training grounds, his sister was already seizing, her body tensing and shaking beyond her control. 

He arrived by her side, the scene having caught the eyes of onlookers. Without hesitation, Cregan ripped his tunic, pressing the garment against her nose in hopes of slowing down the bleeding; then he saw it—milky eyes. His face remained stoic as he grabbed Aemond's hand, pressing it to the piece of cloth that covered Lyria's nose.

"Keep her on her side," he ordered.

Aemond didn’t question the Warden of the North, watching the young Lord stand and look around, seemingly searching for something or someone. Soon enough, Cregan found the milky eyes that matched his sister’s: a guard stood still as a statue as he approached, his lips moving and quiet murmurs escaping him. Once Cregan was close enough, he could hear the words the guard spoke while his body was not in his control.

"Winter is coming... The long night will doom us all..."

Those two sentences were repeated over and over until the man tensed. His eyes returned to normal, but the spirit within the guard had been ruined by whatever he had seen. Everything after that happened all too fast. The man screamed, wished for the Mother to show him mercy, and for the gods to forgive him. He brought his sword to his throat and slit it open without a second thought, ending his life within seconds.

Cregan turned around, sped back to the prince and his sister, swiftly hoisting her into his arms and leaving Aemond without any explanation as to what had occurred. The prince stood, his eye scanning the witnesses as he cleared his throat.

"This will not be spoken of. Clean this mess—oh, and if word gets out about this, I will know it was one of you. Punishments will be in order for those who act against the order of the prince. That is all."

With that, Aemond exited the area with haste, following the path Lord Stark had taken. His mind raced with questions, but he knew he had to find answers.

As Aemond made his way through the keep, he paused to instruct a passing servant. "Fetch the maesters and my father," he ordered, his voice firm. "Now." He might not have known exactly what had happened to Lyria, but he knew it was far from normal.

By the time Aemond arrived at Lyria's chambers, her brother had already laid her on the bed. Her face was pale, and Cregan was gently cleaning the dried blood from her skin, the crimson liquid no longer flowing from her nose. Aemond's concern deepened as he observed the stark contrast between Lyria's usually lively demeanor and her current state of unconsciousness.

Moments after Aemond entered the room, a maester arrived, followed by his sister Helaena, their mother Alicent, and their grandsire, Otto Hightower. Lyria lay motionless on the bed as the maester joined Cregan at her side, beginning his examination. Though Cregan seemed somewhat reluctant, he didn't prevent the maester from performing his duties.

Alicent was the first to break the tense silence, her stress evident in her posture and the way her hands were clenched against her chest. "What happened?" she demanded, standing by the entrance with Otto. Her eyes darted between the Northerners and her second son, searching for some sort of explanation.

Cregan rose from his sister's side, turning to face the royal family. "A seizure, my queen," he said solemnly. "They are few and far between, but my sister has had them since she was a mere child."

The maester nodded in agreement, also stepping away from Lyria to address the queen and the Hand of the King. "She will wake in due time. I fear she will only feel fatigued," he assured them.

Otto Hightower dismissed the maester with a curt nod, allowing the tension in the room to settle slightly. Helaena, however, left her mother's side, ignoring Alicent's attempt to stop her. The princess quietly moved to a chair beside the sleeping lady, her worry evident as she studied Lyria's features.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft rustling of Helaena's dress as she settled into her seat. Aemond stood by the doorway, his gaze shifting between his unconscious sparring partner and the family members gathered around. The unsettling events of the morning weighed heavily on his mind, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Lyria Stark than met the eye.

Cregan, still standing by the bed, finally spoke again, his voice low but resolute. "My sister will need rest. I appreciate your concern, but I must ask for privacy."

Alicent hesitated, her eyes filled with worry, but she nodded. "Of course," she said softly. She cast one last, lingering glance at Lyria before turning to leave the room with Otto.

Aemond lingered a moment longer, his eyes meeting Cregan's in a silent exchange. He gave a curt nod before following his family out of the chambers, leaving Helaena by Lyria's side.

As the door closed behind them, the room was enveloped in a heavy silence, the only sound being the soft, steady breathing of the sleeping Northern lady.

Cregan noticed that Helaena hadn't left the chambers. He glanced at her, but didn't question her presence. Instead, he approached the bed once more, looking between the princess and his sleeping sister. "You seem quite fond of my wild sister... I'm sure the feeling is mutual, princess," he remarked.

Helaena didn't look away from Lyria, her fingers playing absently with the folds of her gown. "Our spirits are sisters. I shall remain by her as she will me."

Cregan furrowed his brows, refraining from questioning the princess' cryptic words. He brushed a few stray strands of hair from Lyria's forehead before backing away from the bed. "I shall see to your father, the King—inform him of what has happened and that I take full responsibility." He paused, glancing at Helaena. "I trust you will stay here?"

The princess nodded, a silent affirmation that gave Cregan the assurance he needed. With a final look at his sister, he exited the room, leaving Lyria to rest in the company of her newfound friend.

The room fell into a serene silence, the only sound being the soft breaths of the sleeping lady. Helaena remained seated, her gaze unwavering from Lyria. She felt a profound connection to the Northern girl, one that transcended words and rational understanding. The princess gently reached out, her fingers brushing against Lyria's hand, a silent promise of companionship and support.

Outside, Cregan walked with purpose through the halls of the keep, his mind racing with the events that had just transpired. He had to ensure the King understood the situation and that Lyria's condition was managed with care. As he approached the King's chambers, he steeled himself for the conversation ahead, knowing the gravity of the situation required his utmost resolve.

As Cregan approached the grand doors of the King's chambers, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. He knocked firmly, and a guard opened the door, allowing him to enter.

King Viserys sat on his ornate chair, looking more tired than usual, yet his eyes held a warmth that was reassuring. Beside him stood Aemond, his expression unreadable as he observed the Northern lord approach.

"Your Grace," Cregan began with a respectful bow. "I have come to inform you of an unfortunate incident involving my sister, Lyria Stark. She experienced a seizure during a sparring match and—"

Viserys raised his hand, gently stopping Cregan mid-sentence. "Lord Cregan, your concern for your sister speaks well of you, but there is no need for further explanation. My son Aemond has already informed me of the situation."

Cregan's eyes flicked to Aemond, who gave a slight nod. The King continued, his tone calm and understanding. "Aemond explained that your sister's condition is a medical one, and that it was an unfortunate event during training. As for the death on the training grounds, he has assured me that it is not something we need to worry about."

Viserys' gaze softened. "All powers stemming from magic can be unpredictable at times. I hold nothing against you or your sister for what happened. It is clear that neither of you had any ill intentions, and I trust that Lyria will recover with time and care."

Cregan felt a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your understanding is greatly appreciated."

Viserys nodded. "Ensure that your sister receives the care she needs. If there is anything we can provide to aid in her recovery, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I will make sure she is well taken care of."

As Cregan turned to leave, Aemond stepped forward. "Lord Cregan, if I may," he said quietly. "I am genuinely concerned for your sister's well-being. If there is anything I can do, please let me know."

Cregan paused, studying the young prince's face. He saw no malice, only sincerity, something that he didn’t think was possible for the stoic young man. "Thank you, Prince Aemond. Your offer is appreciated."

With that, Cregan exited the King's chambers, his mind a bit lighter from the conversation. He made his way back through the keep, thoughts racing about how to best care for his sister and navigate the complexities of their situation in King's Landing. Despite his sister’s state, he wasn’t too concerned. The unintentional skinchanging had happened once before and that situation had been a lot more critical than the one they faced in the present time. There were laws on skinchanging, laws that the northern Lord remained grateful for the South to be unaware of.

Cregan made his way to his chambers, the weight of the day's events pressing heavily upon his shoulders. The corridors of the Red Keep, with their cold stone walls and distant echoes, did little to alleviate the tension knotted in his muscles. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind a whirlwind of worry and exhaustion.

Once inside his quarters, Cregan took a moment to lean against the closed door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. The familiar scents of the North, faintly clinging to his belongings, brought a brief sense of comfort. He summoned a servant and requested a hot bath and supper, hoping that some physical relief would calm the storm within him.

As he disrobed and sank into the steaming water, Cregan felt the heat begin to work its magic on his tense muscles. The warmth enveloped him, soothing the aches and pains from both his travels and the recent upheavals. He let his mind drift, focusing on the simple, physical sensation of the water instead of the complex and troubling thoughts about his sister’s health and their precarious position in King’s Landing.

He replayed the events of the day in his mind, from Lyria’s sudden seizure to the unsettling death of the guard. The image of his sister, her face pale and streaked with blood, was a haunting one. He knew that their presence in the capital, surrounded by political intrigue and potential enemies, only heightened the stakes. Lyria’s episodes were unpredictable and often misunderstood by those who were unfamiliar with her condition, making their situation all the more delicate.

After what felt like an eternity, Cregan reluctantly left the bath and dressed in more comfortable clothing. A tray of food had been laid out on the table: roasted meats, fresh bread, and a flagon of wine. The sight of the hearty meal brought a small measure of comfort, a reminder of home amidst the strangeness of the South. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, trying to let the simple act of eating ground him in the present moment.

As he finished his meal, he couldn’t help but think of Lyria again, her fierce spirit now replaced by the image of her unconscious and vulnerable.Despite the day’s challenges, Cregan’s determination to protect his sister remained unwavering, and he vowed to navigate the treacherous waters of King’s Landing with the same steadfastness that had seen House Stark through countless trials before.

Feeling somewhat renewed, Cregan allowed himself to rest, hoping that sleep would bring him the clarity and strength he needed to face whatever the morrow might bring. As he lay down, he sent a silent prayer to the Old Gods, asking for their guidance and protection for both himself and Lyria in the days to come.

[unholygengar]

Winter's Blood & Dragon Fire

Chapter 2: Skinchanging

The small group moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, the atmosphere heavy with tension. Cregan Stark's grip on his sister's arm was harsh, a silent testament to his displeasure and concern. Lyria could feel the anger radiating from him, but she held her head high, determined to see this through. Never would she forget Southern Lords visiting her grand home during childhood, mocking the customs of their host. It birthed a resolve to show the other regions just how special her homeland was. What better way to do that than a meeting with the king? 

The entourage arrived at the grand council room, the massive doors creaking open to reveal the imposing space. King Viserys took his place at the head of the long table, his Hand, Otto Hightower, and Queen Alicent sitting beside him. Behind the king stood his sons, Aegon and Aemond, their expressions unreadable. Helaena was notably absent. Disappointment swept through Lyria. She'd known the princess for just a day, but the unexplainable connection she felt to her made that time feel far longer. 

Viserys gestured for Lyria to sit in the chair at the opposite end of the table. Cregan remained behind her, his hands firmly placed on her shoulders, anger and protective worry evident in his stiff posture. Lyria could feel the tension in his grip, the silent plea for her to reconsider what she was about to reveal.

The room was filled with an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of metal as the Targaryen princes shifted their weight. Viserys cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on Lyria. Alicent and Otto watched the northern visitors with thinly veiled disdain, their expressions unamused.

"So," Viserys began, his voice cutting through the silence, "what is this gift you speak of, girl? Must be quite the thing for you to request the attention of your king."

Lyria took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She glanced at her brother, finding no comfort in his stern expression. Turning her attention back to the king, she straightened in her seat, determination gleaming in her stormy gray eyes.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice steady despite the tension in the room, "the North holds many secrets, some of which have been passed down through generations of Starks. One such secret is the gift of skinchanging."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. Viserys leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Skinchanging?"

Lyria nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. It is a rare gift, one that has been granted to few. I have the ability to warg into the body of beasts. It allows me to see through their eyes, to experience the world as they do."

Otto and Alicent exchanged skeptical glances, while Aemond's single eye seemed to narrow in curiosity, a smirk playing on his lips. Aegon remained impassive, his gaze fixed on Lyria, eyes red from the amount of wine pulsating through his body.

Viserys leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And you wish to demonstrate this gift now?"

Lyria nodded again, her resolve unwavering. "If it pleases you, Your Grace. I believe it is important for you to see that the magic of the North is real, and that our faith and traditions should be respected."

Viserys gestured for her to proceed. "Very well. Show us this gift of yours."

Lyria took a deep breath, nerves threatening to take over, but she maintained a determined exterior. "It may take a while, Your Grace, and please—" she paused, relaxing in her seat before speaking again, "do not fear this power." With those words, Lyria's head slumped back against the chair, her eyes turning a milky white. 

Cregan grunted, his discomfort evident as he watched his sister's transformation. Her eyes now resembled those of the dead, and his protective instincts were on high alert. The rest of the room's occupants, including the king, watched in a mixture of fascination and trepidation.

"Is this safe?" Viserys asked, worry lacing his voice as he observed the lifeless appearance of the girl.

Lord Stark moved to kneel beside his seated sister, his gaze shifting to the king. "Mostly—though I am not thoroughly educated on the matter."

Alicent turned to her husband, gripping his arm, her eyes filled with fear and displeasure. "This is black magic, husband... It is foolish to play with such things."

Viserys shooed his wife's grip away, his eyes still on the siblings across from him. "Hush, wife. It would be disrespectful to lay judgment on a matter that has yet to be shown."

Suddenly, a knocking against one of the grand windows echoed through the room. All heads turned to face the noise, revealing the sight of a great horned owl. The bird's eyes mirrored Lyria's white orbs, and Cregan moved to open the window. Once open, the owl flew in, landing directly before the king. Alicent backed up in her seat, gripping the sleeve of her father's robe, her fear growing.

Cregan returned to his sister's side, standing beside her husk of a body while his eyes remained on the owl.

"How do we know this isn't some grand jest?" Aegon slurred his words as he approached the table, leaning in closely to the owl. In response, the owl rotated its head fully. Viserys shot a glare at his eldest, but his eyes quickly returned to the white-eyed owl.

"While my son speaks out of turn, his words hold purpose... How are you going to prove this is not a cruel joke?"

Lord Stark straightened his stance. "I understand your concerns, my king. Feel free to trial my sister in whichever way you see fit."

Viserys sighed, pondering how to test the legitimacy of this power. Finally, he decided. "Land on the rider of Vhagar."

Without a sound, the owl left the table, swiftly flying over and landing on the shoulder of Aemond Targaryen. An amused hum left the younger prince as he studied the owl. This was surely a curious power, one he had only read about in stories. His father spoke again, his gaze following the bird of prey as it stood on his one-eyed son.

"Fascinating... show me your wings, Lyria."

The owl took flight again, landing on the arm the king held out. Once it stood firmly, it spread its wings to show off its wingspan. Viserys made one final request. "Return to your own body and leave this creature."

Within seconds, the milky white of the owl's eyes disappeared, replaced by great, yellow orbs that stared at the king before the bird took off towards the open window. A small gasp of air came from Lyria as she returned to her own body. Cregan knelt once more to check on his sister's wellbeing. She nodded at him, and while he was relieved that she had returned without issue, his displeasure still loomed over her.

The king, clearly impressed, leaned back in his chair. "Remarkable. Truly remarkable, Lady Lyria. Your gift is indeed extraordinary." 

Alicent and Otto exchanged wary glances, but the king's approval was unmistakable. Lyria had taken a great risk, but it seemed to have paid off. The magic of the North had been laid bare before the ruler of the realm, and for now, her boldness had earned a measure of respect and curiosity rather than condemnation.

Once the spectacle was over, King Viserys dismissed everyone from the council room. The group dispersed, some returning to the hall to continue the feast, while others made their way to their chambers. Cregan grabbed his sister by the arm, and they swiftly walked toward the west wing where they had been set to stay. Lyria knew that her brother was fuming. He neither glanced her way nor spoke a single word.

When they reached the door to Lyria's room, Cregan opened it with haste, shoving his sister into the confines of the room before slamming the door shut behind them. The Lord of Winterfell stared his sister down, his gaze reminiscent of their late father, a look she hadn’t seen in years. The memories it evoked were not pleasant.

"I was a fool to bring you here. Do you not realize what you've done?" He began pacing the room, a habit of his when processing his thoughts. "You are not a child, Lyria. You are a woman grown! Your actions reflect on our house. Do you forget that? Acting like the wildling you are in private is one thing, but at court? In front of the king, no less! Do you not see the consequences you bring upon us with your actions?"

Her brother's words wounded her. At one time, he supported her dream of sharing the magic of the North with the rest of the realm. His powerful status changed him, making him stricter and dulling his rebellious streak.

Lyria stepped back, her brows furrowed. "The king is clearly fond of me, brother! I—"

Cregan cut her off. "You are naive, like a child, Lyria! Have I been wrong to grant you the freedom that you have? To not discipline you the way Father would have?" 

The mention of their father made Lyria feel small. Rickon Stark hadn’t been a bad man by any means, but neither had he been a good father. He had never been happy to have a daughter instead of a second son, and was a believer of physical punishment, something she had been on the receiving end of on multiple occasions. 

Cregan took a deep breath, trying to relax as he turned and headed for the door. He opened it, but before leaving, he glanced back at his sister. "You are to take the role of a lady once we are back in Winterfell. You will not fly as a bird or run with the wolves. You will take a husband and do your duty... that is final."

With that, Cregan left, the door closing harshly behind him. Lyria felt her blood boil, warm, angry tears threatening to escape her eyes, but she did not let them. Seconds later, a chair flew across the room, Lyria having thrown it in her emotional turmoil. Despite being ten and eight, a woman grown, the young Stark still had a hard time expressing heavy emotions, especially when they stemmed from her being a disappointment.

Breathing heavily, Lyria sank to the floor, her hands trembling as she tried to process the anger and sadness that washed over her. Her brother’s words cut deep, reminding her of the expectations placed upon her, the constraints of her birth and gender, and the weight of her family’s legacy. She wiped away the unshed tears with the back of her hand, steeling herself against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Lyria stripped off her gown, the white fabric falling to the floor in a heap. She walked over to the basin of water, splashing her face and scrubbing away the remnants of the evening’s emotional turmoil. The cold water helped to calm her, but the distress lingered, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. After drying her face, she slipped into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Sleep came quickly, but it was a restless sleep, filled with nothing but an eternity of darkness and the disorienting sensation of falling.

When morning arrived, Lyria woke with a start, her heart pounding from the endless night of void and descent. She shook off the remnants of the unsettling dream and climbed out of bed. She chose a simple gray gown from her wardrobe, one that wasn’t as constricting and allowed her to move freely. Despite its simplicity, the gown flattered her lean figure, highlighting her natural grace.

After a quick breakfast, Lyria left her chambers, wandering the long hallways with no particular destination in mind. She walked aimlessly, her thoughts still troubled by the events of the previous night. The stark corridors of the Red Keep felt both confining and endless, amplifying her sense of being trapped.

Somewhere along her path, a Kingsguard approached her, his armor clinking softly as he moved. He bowed slightly before speaking. “Lady Lyria, the king requests your company.”

Lyria nodded, her heart skipping a beat. She wondered what this summons could mean. Her mind raced with possibilities, but she knew better than to speculate too much. She followed the Kingsguard, her footsteps echoing through the grand hallways as they made their way to meet the king.

Once Lyria entered the King’s grand chambers, the first thing that caught her eye was a breathtaking miniature replica of a city she had never seen. Viserys had spent many years meticulously crafting the replica of Old Valyria, a city now lost to history, its grandeur and magnificence preserved only in stories and this intricate model. The tiny buildings, the flowing rivers of molten lava, and the towering dragon pits created a scene of a world long gone. The king sat before his creation, his back turned to her as he meticulously adjusted a small tower.

Lyria hesitated at the entrance, awed by the delicate craftsmanship and the devotion it must have taken to create such a masterpiece. Viserys, sensing her presence, spoke without turning. “I have never spared a thought for the similarities we with Valyrian blood have with you who share blood with the First Men...” His voice was contemplative, almost melancholic.

He finally turned in his seat, his gaze meeting hers. Lyria stood tall, her face stoic, masking the whirlwind of emotions within. “Forgive me for being rather uneducated on your history,” he continued, “but that is why I wished to see you.” He gestured for her to come closer, a gentle invitation.

She approached, her footsteps silent on the stone floor, and as she neared the replica, she marveled at the detail. Every corner of Old Valyria seemed alive in this miniature form, a poignant reminder of a lost age. Viserys observed her interest with a soft smile. “I’d like to familiarize myself with your people’s history if you find me worthy of such information?”

Lyria took a seat next to him, her eyes never leaving the small city. She began to speak, her voice steady and clear. “The history of the North is as ancient as the winds that howl through our forests. We share blood with the First Men, the original inhabitants of Westeros. Our tales are entwined with the Children of the Forest, those mystical beings who shaped the land with their magic.”

Viserys listened intently, his fingers idly tracing the contours of a Valyrian palace. Lyria continued, her words painting vivid pictures of the North. “The Wall, that great barrier of ice, was built with magic to protect us from the dangers that lie beyond. The Free Folk, who live north of the Wall, are as much a part of our history as the Stark lineage itself. They are our kin, wild and free, unbound by the oaths we have taken.”

As Lyria spoke, Viserys’s eyes lit up with curiosity and respect. He shared tales of his ancestors, the Targaryens who had fled the Doom of Valyria and forged their destiny in Westeros. He spoke of dragons, of the magic that once flowed through their veins, and the legacy they sought to preserve.

Their conversation flowed easily, a meeting of minds and hearts. Time passed unnoticed as they exchanged stories, realizing they both shared a deep love and respect for history. Lyria spoke of the ancient magic that still lingered in the North, of the weirwood trees and their carved faces that watched over the land. Viserys, in turn, recounted the myths of his ancestors, the dragonlords who had commanded beasts of fire and fury.

As the morning light filtered through the windows, casting a golden hue over the room, Lyria felt a kinship with the king that she hadn’t expected. Despite the differences in their heritage, they were bound by a common appreciation for the past, for the stories that shaped their present.

Finally, Viserys leaned back in his chair, a look of contentment on his face. “Thank you, Lady Lyria. You have given me much to ponder. Our histories, though different, are threads in the same tapestry.”

Lyria nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “And perhaps, in understanding our pasts, we can better shape our future.”

Viserys’s eyes twinkled with a newfound respect for the Northern lady before him. “Indeed, Lady Lyria. Indeed.”

– – – –

Alicent Hightower sat in her chambers, the golden light of the sun casting long shadows on the walls. Her mind was troubled, thoughts swirling around the recent events. Lyria Stark. The girl had caused quite a stir since her arrival. Alicent couldn't shake the unease she felt whenever she thought about her.

Her father, Otto Hightower, entered the room, his expression as unreadable as ever. Alicent stood up to greet him, then moved to the window, staring out at the courtyard below. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice laced with frustration.

“Father, this Northern girl, Lyria Stark… I do not trust her. Viserys has taken a liking to her, and it unnerves me. Her powers, if they are real, are dangerous. She is dangerous.”

Otto stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “I understand your concerns, Alicent. The girl’s display was… unsettling. But you must remember, Viserys is often captivated by what he does not understand.”

Alicent turned to face her father, her eyes filled with worry. “It’s not just her powers, Father. It’s the way she has so easily ingratiated herself with Viserys. He listens to her, spends time with her. It’s as if she has bewitched him. And Helaena, too, seems quite taken with her.”

A maid working for Lord Larys had already informed her of Lyria being summoned to the King's room. Alicent had never felt attracted to her lord husband, but the news had jealousy roaring through her. Long ago, her relationship with the king had started the same way.

Otto nodded slowly, considering his daughter’s words. “The girl does pose a potential threat, yes. However, we must also see the potential advantages of having someone with such abilities on our side. If it comes to war, as we suspect it might, a skinchanger could be a powerful asset. Imagine the advantage of having someone who can spy through the eyes of animals, or even influence the battlefield with such a power.”

Alicent's expression hardened. “You suggest we use her?”

“I suggest we secure her loyalty,” Otto corrected. “There is a difference. We must ensure that she and her brother understand where their allegiances should lie. If we can bind her to our cause, it could greatly strengthen our position.”

Alicent sighed, her mind racing. “And how do you propose we do that, Father? She is fiercely independent, wild even. I doubt she would easily submit to our control.”

Otto’s eyes gleamed with cunning. “We do not need to control her, Alicent. We need only to make her believe that our interests align with hers. Play to her strengths, her desires. Perhaps she seeks validation, respect, or a place where she feels she belongs. We can offer her those things, make her see that her future, and her brother’s, are best secured by standing with us.”

Alicent frowned, still uneasy. “And if she refuses? If she becomes a threat we cannot manage?”

Otto’s expression grew stern. “Then we will deal with her as we must. But let us not make enemies where we might find allies. For now, observe her, learn her motivations, and see where we might find common ground. The king’s favor can be a powerful tool, if used wisely.”

Alicent nodded, though her heart remained heavy with doubt. “Very well, Father. I will try to find a way to bring her to our side. But I will not trust her, not completely.”

“That is wise,” Otto agreed. “But remember, even the most dangerous tools can be the most useful, if handled correctly.”

As her father left, Alicent returned to the window, her thoughts a storm of uncertainty. She knew she had to tread carefully. The game of thrones was ever dangerous, and with someone like Lyria Stark now a part of it, the stakes had never been higher.

— — — — 

Lyria made her way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, her steps echoing softly against the stone floor. Her thoughts were fixed on the weirwood tree, a sanctuary that offered a connection to her home in the North. The desire to pray and find solace under its ancient branches pulled her forward.

As she approached one of the many exits, she slowed her pace, lost in her thoughts. Rounding a corner, she suddenly collided with someone moving quickly from the opposite direction. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back a few steps, though she steadied herself quickly.

Irritation flared within her as she looked up, her brows furrowed. Her gaze met the sharp, assessing eye of Aemond Targaryen. He was dressed in black leather attire, the kind worn for dragon riding. His presence was imposing, but Lyria's annoyance overshadowed any intimidation she might have felt.

For a moment, they stood in silence, locked in a stare-down. Lyria waited, expecting an apology for the abrupt collision, but Aemond simply studied her with an inscrutable expression. The silence stretched, and Lyria's patience wore thin.

"Are you not going to apologize for your lack of awareness, Prince Aemond?" she finally said, her tone sharp. "Or should I apologize for being so unaware of your surroundings?"

Aemond's lips curved into a smirk, amusement flickering in his eye. He stepped forward, positioning himself beside her so they stood facing opposite directions. "Perhaps it is you who should be more cautious, Lady Stark," he replied calmly, his voice a low murmur. "After all, you are far from home."

With those words, he moved past her, disappearing down the hall she had come from. Lyria watched him go, her irritation slowly giving way to a grudging respect. She turned and resumed her path towards the exit, the encounter lingering in her mind.

As she stepped into the courtyard, the cool air brushed against her skin, carrying with it a hint of the North. She made her way to the godswood, her thoughts returning to the weirwood tree and the comfort it provided. Despite the unsettling encounter with Aemond, she felt a renewed determination to find peace under the ancient tree's watchful presence.

Lyria finally reached the godswood, the tranquil sanctuary she sought. The gentle rustling of the leaves and the soft whispers of the wind welcomed her, bringing a sense of calm that began to soothe her earlier irritation. She approached the weirwood tree, its ancient branches stretching high above her, the red leaves a striking contrast against the white bark.

She leaned her back against the great tree, feeling the rough texture of the bark pressing into her skin. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, allowing the serenity of the godswood to wash over her. For a brief moment, she let herself be completely still, embracing the peace of the place.

When her eyes fluttered open again, they were no longer their usual stormy gray but instead a milky white. Her spirit had left her body, soaring far away from the Red Keep. She had skinchanged, slipping into the body of a raven, a form she often took to connect with her distant home.

In the form of the raven, she flew above the vast, icy expanse of the North. The cold wind ruffled her feathers, a stark contrast to the warmer air of the South. She felt the familiar chill seep into her being, the icy gusts carrying with them the scents of pine and snow, reminding her of the forests she had explored and the mountains she had climbed as a child.

The raven's sharp eyes took in the landscape below, the towering walls of Winterfell standing strong against the winter landscape. She swooped down, skimming over the castle's battlements, the sight of her home filling her with a profound sense of nostalgia and longing. The white-capped peaks of the distant mountains framed the horizon, a breathtaking vista that was as much a part of her as her own heart.

As the raven, she circled the godswood of Winterfell, her gaze resting on the weirwood tree there, its face carved in an expression of eternal solemnity. The tree seemed to welcome her presence, its ancient eyes watching over her as she flew.

For a while, she simply soared through the skies, savoring the freedom and the connection to her homeland. The icy winds felt like a balm to her soul, a reminder of who she was and where she came from. This was her sanctuary, her place of power, and even though she was far from home, the bond she shared with the North remained unbroken.

Eventually, Lyria knew it was time to return. The raven circled one last time before turning back, her spirit pulling away from the cold skies and the familiar landscape. She felt herself being drawn back to her body, the warmth of the South gradually replacing the chill of the North.

Her eyes fluttered open again, returning to their stormy gray. She was back in the godswood of the Red Keep, leaning against the ancient weirwood tree. The whispers of the wind greeted her once more, grounding her in the present. The solace she had found in her brief journey lingered, a comforting reminder of her home and her heritage. Her escape had been brief, but the distance her spirit had traveled had been far, something that took a lot more power to control. Lyria’s body reminded her of the tull it had taken on her– to be so far away from her actual body, a hot streak of crimson escaping her left nostril and gathering at her lips before her hand came up to wipe the liquid away. 

As Lyria sat there, leaning against the great weirwood tree, she remained dazed from her journey back to the North. The familiar presence of the icy winds and the sight of her homeland lingered in her mind. She was so lost in her thoughts that she barely registered the soft presence that settled next to her.

Helaena had taken a seat beside her, but neither girl turned to face the other. They remained in companionable silence, almost as if they were both far away in their minds, lost in their own reveries. The only indication of their awareness of each other was the gentle contact of their shoulders.

Lyria's dark brown hair contrasted sharply with Helaena's white curls, the two of them resembling the moon standing out against the night sky. The stillness of the godswood enveloped them, the only sounds being the whispering leaves and the distant calls of birds.

A long silence stretched between them, a shared quiet that was comforting rather than awkward. Eventually, Lyria was brought out of her daze by the low muttering of the princess. Helaena's words were soft, almost a whisper, as if she was unaware that she was speaking them aloud.

"Green thread spins 'round silver... Weapon of war... weapon of victory, they seek. Spin the thread, spin the thread, spin the thread..."

Lyria turned slightly, her gaze resting on Helaena. The princess's eyes were distant, unfocused, as if she was seeing something far beyond the physical realm. The words seemed to come from a place deep within her, a prophecy or a vision that she could not control.

Despite the cryptic nature of Helaena's words, Lyria felt a shiver run down her spine. The mention of weapons of war and victory, the imagery of threads spinning, hinted at things to come. It was a reminder of the political tensions and the potential for conflict that loomed over them all.

Lyria gently placed her hand over Helaena's, a silent offer of support and solidarity. The princess's muttering gradually ceased, her eyes slowly coming back into focus. She turned her head to meet Lyria's gaze, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Do you see it too?" Helaena asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lyria nodded, not entirely understanding the full extent of what Helaena saw, but recognizing the weight of it. "I feel it," she replied softly.

They continued to sit there, shoulder to shoulder, finding solace in each other's presence. The godswood offered a momentary refuge from the complexities and uncertainties of their world, a place where they could simply be, even if only for a little while.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting golden hues through the branches of the godswood, the two girls remained seated in their shared silence. The soft rustle of the leaves above and the gentle hum of the summer breeze created a tranquil cocoon around them.

Lyria's thoughts wandered back to her earlier conversation with the king, the stories of the North, and the history she had shared. She couldn't help but think about the bond she had quickly formed with Helaena, a connection that seemed almost fated. The princess’s cryptic words still echoed in her mind, stirring a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Eventually, Lyria sighed, breaking the silence. "Helaena," she began, her voice steady but soft, "do you ever feel like we're just pieces on a board, moved around by forces we can't control?"

Helaena turned to look at her, her pale eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that belied her years. "All the time," she admitted. "But perhaps, but I wish for us not to be, we have our own roles to play, your own dreams."

Lyria shook her head slightly, a determined look in her eyes. "A wolf is not a piece to be played in a game, Helaena. And neither are dragons."

Helaena smiled at that, a glimmer of admiration in her eyes. "You’re right, Lyria. We aren’t to be pawns in another’s game. We have our own strength."

Just then, a guard approached, his armor clinking softly with each step. "Princess Helaena, Lady Lyria," he said respectfully, "the Queen requests the presence of the princess. It is time to retire back inside."

Helaena sighed, the peaceful moment broken. "Thank you," she said to the guard before turning to Lyria. "I suppose this is where we part ways for now."

Lyria smiled, albeit a bit wistfully. "It seems so. Thank you for this, Helaena. For joining me in my prayers and thoughts"

Helaena returned the smile, a genuine expression that reached her eyes. "And thank you, Lyria. For listening and for sharing your thoughts. It is not often that others lend an ear for my words…."

With a final shared glance, they stood and began to follow the guard back towards the Red Keep. As they neared the castle, the sounds of the bustling court reached their ears, reminding them of the world they would soon re-enter.

The guard escorted Helaena away, leaving Lyria to make her own way back. She watched as the princess disappeared down the corridor, then turned on her heel, deciding to roam the woods for a short while before retiring. The path through the godswood was peaceful, the cool evening air a soothing balm to her troubled thoughts.

As she wandered, Lyria felt a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with potential dangers and challenges, but she was not alone. She had allies, and perhaps, even friends. The whispers of the godswood, the wisdom of the past, and the bonds she was forming would guide her through whatever lay ahead.

Eventually, she made her way back to the castle, her mind clearer and her heart steadier. The godswood had given her the solace she needed. As she prepared for the night, Lyria couldn't shake the feeling that her journey had only just begun. The whispers of the godswood, the wisdom of the past, and the bonds she was forming would guide her through whatever lay ahead. And with that thought, she drifted into a dreamless sleep, ready to face the new dawn.

[unholygengar]

Work in progress: Vhaemyx (original dragon) He is of lavender scales, adorned a coral pink mohawk to match his wings. He is about the size of Drogon, 34 years of age and unclaimed.

Vhaemyx's design is inspired by Moondancer and his mohawk, Syrax's skull and horns and the beauty of Silverwing.

[unholygengar]

Winter's Blood & Dragon Fire

Chapter One: A Long journey

The very north of Westeros is a realm where the world seems to slumber beneath an endless blanket of snow and ice. Here, the air is a biting chill, carrying with it the whispers of ancient legends and the howls of wolves echoing through the night. The land is stark and unforgiving, a vast expanse where the snow-covered hills and dark forests stretch out as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the occasional frozen river or barren, rocky outcrop.

In this desolate and beautiful landscape stands Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark. Winterfell is a fortress as old as time itself, its great stone walls rising up from the white landscape like the unyielding mountains in the distance. The castle is a sprawling complex of towers, walls, and courtyards, each part of it touched by the harsh breath of the North. Its high walls are crowned with frost, and the massive gates, forged of ancient oak and iron, seem to groan with the weight of centuries.

The heart of Winterfell is the Great Keep, a towering edifice of gray stone that dominates the skyline. From its battlements, one can see the vast stretch of the Wolfswood to the west, where direwolves still roam, their eyes gleaming in the twilight. To the east lies the wide expanse of the Kingsroad, winding its way southward through the endless snow towards the warmer, softer lands beyond the Neck.

The Godswood within Winterfell's walls is a sacred place, a haven of ancient trees with branches heavy with snow. At its center stands a weirwood tree, its bark pale as bone, and its leaves a dark red, like the blood of old gods. The face carved into its trunk gazes out with solemn eyes, watching over the quiet grove where the Stark family has prayed for countless generations.

As the cold winds howl around Winterfell, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of winter, the people within its walls go about their lives with a resilience born of necessity. The blacksmith’s hammer rings out in the cold air, the scent of baking bread wafts from the kitchens, and the sound of laughter echoes through the stone halls. The Stark motto, "Winter is Coming," is not just a warning but a way of life, a constant reminder of the harshness of their world and the strength required to survive it.

Sitting beneath the weirwood tree sat the younger sister of Cregan Stark, eyes white as snow and a mind far away from her own body. Atop the great fortress that was Winterfell a bird of prey soared, eyes the same matching white as that of the girl sat against the ancient tree. Humans, in their ceaseless pursuit of power and conquest, found the power to carry swords and armor, their feet bound to the earth while their hearts yearn for what true freedom might feel like. Lyria often watches the birds with envy, their wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, embodying the freedom she craves. Yet, she is grateful beyond measure for the gift of skinchanging, a rare blessing from the Gods that allows her spirit to soar. Each time she melds her consciousness with that of a raven, she savors every moment, feeling the rush of wind beneath her wings and the exhilarating vastness of the world below. In these stolen moments of flight, Lyria truly feels alive, unburdened by the chains of the mortal realm.

A voice of which felt close, yet so far away came to join Lyira’s trail of thoughts, but it was not before the call of her name that her eyes returned to their normal, cool shade of gray. Behind her stood Cregan, her brother, Lord of WInterfell and Warden of The North, his eyes locked with hers, his mouth moving without her being able to make out a single word of what he said. Blinking a few times in hopes of getting rid of the ringing in her ears and the blurriness of her vision, Lyria’s brother knelt made way to kneel before her, his hand coming up to wipe the crimson liquid that escaped her nose.

“How long were you gone, sister?” A question Cregan had repeated for a third time before his sister made sense of what had been asked, her hands found their way to his arms, gripping them lightly as he went on to help her to her feet. When she looked around, it became clear to her that the sun had risen, the sky no longer bleeding gold— she had been gone for a good while without realizing. 

“The sky had yet to look blue when I came outside…” She paused for a moment, taking in her surroundings as she now stood with her feet on the ground once more. Cregan went to link their arms, guiding his sister out from the Godswood, slowly making their way towards the courtyard. “Are we to depart soon? The Gods seem to have granted us fine weather for our long journey– not a single cloud to be seen in the sky.” Lord Stark looked at his sister, her mind still far away even though she walked by his side. It was the usual outcome of her skinchanging— ever since it first happened. It took a while for Lyria to find herself again once her spirit returned into her body, as if it took a while for her to adjust to everything when she no longer saw the world through the eyes of whatever creature she came to possess. 

Cregan turned to his sister Lyria as they arrived in the frost-kissed courtyard, his hands finding and gripping her elbows with a mixture of urgency and tenderness. “We were to leave not long ago, but you were nowhere to be found.” He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with a stern but caring gaze. “I wish for you to stay here, Lyria. The South is no place for a wolf—”

Lyria’s calm fury interrupted him, her eyes flashing with a mix of longing and defiance. “I want to come—no, I need to. I wish to see dragons, Cregan. To feel winds melting my skin instead of the ones that nip at my soul. The North is my home, but you are my pack. You cannot make me stay while you dine with all the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.”

Her voice, steady yet fervent, cut through the chill of the air. Cregan’s gaze softened, torn between the protective instincts of a brother and the understanding of a sibling who knows too well the pull of one's heart. All Cregan could do was nod. Knowing his sister as he did, he realized there was no arguing with her resolute and wild spirit. With one final, reluctant squeeze of her elbows, he released her, though his gaze lingered on hers, filled with both resignation and affection. "Aye, then you shall dine alongside all the Lords and Ladies, lie your eyes upon the biggest of beasts, and see all that the South of the Neck has to offer."

Lyria’s grin widened, a flash of triumph in her eyes. With a playful jab to her brother’s shoulder, she spun on her heel and hurried towards her black stallion, her heart brimming with excitement. “Then we shall waste no more time! To the South we ride!” she declared, her voice ringing with a blend of determination and exhilaration as she mounted her horse and set off towards the awaiting journey.

The journey south was a grueling one, a week of relentless travel that saw Lyria and her companions spending a cumulative forty hours on horseback. The Northern travelers, accustomed to the biting chill and the steady rhythm of the snowy landscape, found themselves weary from the relentless pace and the varying terrain of the South. Despite making numerous stops to rest and resupply, the weariness of the road weighed heavily upon them.

As they traversed the Kingsroad, Lyria marveled at the changing scenery. The stark beauty of the North gave way to the lush and varied landscapes of the South. Passing the Neck, the looming silhouettes of the Twins came into view, their stone towers rising above the misty waters of the river. The sound of rushing rivers filled the air as they neared Harrenhal, its massive, crumbling structure a stark contrast to the vibrant life of the surrounding lands. 

The Gods Eye sparkled like a jewel in the early morning sun, its serene surface reflecting the soft light and adding a touch of magic to their journey. They pressed on past Sow’s Horn, its name evoking images of the ancient and the mythical, and Hayford Castle, with its imposing walls and storied past.

Finally, after days of arduous travel and the subtle shift of seasons, the travelers were greeted by the sight of King’s Landing. The sprawling city, nestled against the bay, shimmered in the distance, a vibrant and bustling hub of life. Its towering Red Keep and the bustling streets below seemed almost to beckon, a far cry from the cold, unyielding landscape of the North. As the travelers approached, the city’s grandeur and the promise of new experiences provided a welcome contrast to the fatigue of their long journey.

— — —

Lyria, Cregan, and their small assembly of Northerners made their way through the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the city alive with the sounds and scents of the capital. The Great Sept loomed magnificently to their left, its towering spires catching the midday sun, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. In the distance, the Dragonpit’s dome was a stark reminder of the powerful beast it housed below.

As they continued, the Red Keep came into view, a stunning fortress of red stone that dominated the skyline. Its high walls and grand towers were both imposing and awe-inspiring, a testament to the might and majesty of House Targaryen. The Northerners, weary yet resolute, felt a sense of anticipation and respect as they approached the grand entrance leading into the castle grounds.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by an honor guard of Kingsguards, their white cloaks billowing slightly in the gentle breeze, and their polished armor gleaming. Beyond them stood the royal family, a sight both regal and formidable. King Viserys, though frail and in ill health, was seated in his grand chair, exuding an air of dignified authority. Behind him stood Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his expression stern and watchful. To the king’s right stood his sons, Aegon II with a proud stance and Aemond with a piercing gaze. 

On Viserys’ left, Queen Alicent stood with a composed grace, her presence commanding and serene. Next to her was the princess Helaena, her delicate features reflecting both beauty and melancholy. The Targaryen family stood proud and united, a powerful symbol of the realm’s might.

Lyria, Cregan, and their companions dismounted their steeds, the journey’s fatigue momentarily forgotten in the face of such grandeur. They slowly climbed the steps leading up to the royals, their movements measured and respectful. As they ascended, the Northerners felt the weight of tradition and history pressing upon them, aware of the significance of this meeting between the North and the Iron Throne. The air was thick with anticipation as they prepared to pay their respects and present themselves to the rulers of Westeros.

All of the guests lowered their heads in respect for the king and his family, though it didn’t go unnoticed by the Stark’s that a certain member of the family was nowhere to be seen— the heir, princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

As the lord of Winterfell and his sister approached the king, Cregan was the first to offer his greetings. Their hands met in a firm yet gentle handshake, a silent exchange of respect and acknowledgment. While King Viserys welcomed the young wolf lord, his gaze shifted to Lyria, whose soft features did not go unnoticed by his Grace. 

Cregan then moved on to greet the remaining members of the royal family, each gesture marked by the formal courtesy befitting his station. Meanwhile, Lyria stepped forward, her steps measured and graceful. She curtsied with deep respect before the king, who reached out and gently grasped her hand.

"Lady Stark, your brother failed to mention your presence, albeit I am honored to be graced with your northern beauty," King Viserys said, his voice warm and welcoming.

Lyria offered the elder man a small smile, holding her head high despite barely standing taller than the seated king. "You honor me, Your Grace. We sent a raven, though it seems that we reached your blessed home before it got the chance to inform you of my joining."

The king’s face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook his head. "Nonsense, my dear. Your presence is that of a pleasant surprise."

His hand continued to engulf hers, a gesture both reassuring and kind. Lyria felt a sense of warmth emanate from the frail yet resilient king, a stark contrast to the icy winds of her homeland. As she stood there, hand in hand with the Realm's protector, she could not help but feel a sense of profound connection and mutual respect. This moment, amidst the grandeur of the Red Keep and the presence of the powerful Targaryen family, was a testament to the strength and unity of Westeros, a tapestry woven from the diverse threads of its noble houses.

Once the king released Lyria’s hand, she moved on to greet Aegon. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, widening as the snow-white beauty bowed her head to him. In a swift motion, his hands found hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a long, rather un-kingly kiss. His violet eyes locked onto hers as their hands parted, his gaze that of a predator eyeing its next meal.

“The Realm has failed to mention that northern ladies are that of beauty, Lady Stark. The view before me is sent by the heavens.”

Surely Aegon thought his flirtatious words would elicit a blush, but Lyria saw the lustful gleam in his eyes, the gaze of a man longing to see what lay beneath the layers of her dress. She smiled—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—as she replied.

“You flatter me, prince, though I assure you that I am simply human and not a gift sent from the heavens above.”

Aegon chuckled at her response, a small snicker escaping him, followed by a nod. “You could have fooled me, my lady. I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming days.”

Another kiss was placed on her knuckle before she moved to greet the second son of the king: Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. He stood stoic, taller than his older brother, his well-tended hair resting against the black leather he wore. Lyria nodded at him, her eyes fixed on his uncovered violet eye. This time, she spoke first, her hands intertwined in front of her.

“There are widespread tales of your skills with the blade, my prince. It would be an honor to witness them with my own eyes.”

Aemond’s lips curled slightly, a glimmer of confidence shining in his eye at the compliment. He bowed, his gaze never leaving hers as he extended his hand. Lyria placed her hand in his, and he bestowed a chaste kiss upon her pale knuckles before straightening.

“Your words honor me, Lady Wolf. I suppose it would be a pleasure to demonstrate my honed skills—if the celebrations of my father’s nameday spare us such pleasantries.”

Lyria nodded, her eyes meeting his with a mix of respect and curiosity, the formalities of the greeting charged with unspoken understanding and anticipation.

After greeting the king and princes, Lyria made her way to the queen. Alicent Hightower was young—much younger than her husband. Her auburn hair was neatly braided away from her face, falling freely down her back. A stunning green gown hugged her body, leaves embroidered with gold thread stretching from the collar, wrapping around her waist. As Lyria stood before the gracefully composed woman, she was struck by the realization that Alicent embodied beauty itself. Dropping into a small curtsy, she was met with a forced, yet tender smile from the queen.

“Words do you no justice, my queen. You are as graceful as they come,” Lyria said earnestly. She had never seen such beauty until her eyes slipped to the princess beside the queen. Their exchange was brief, only a few words passing between them before Lyria continued on to Helaena.

Just as Lyria was about to bow her head to the princess, she felt soft, cool hands embrace her face. She met Helaena’s gaze, shocked by the sudden touch of her gentle hands. In the princess’s eyes, Lyria found something familiar—a faraway look, though her physical form was present.

“The wolf can fly…” Helaena’s voice was soft, enigmatic.

Lyria was momentarily confused, aware of the many eyes upon them. Despite not fully understanding Helaena’s words, she nodded, her hands finding and holding the ones on her face. She made no effort to remove the princess’s hands, allowing the white-haired girl to maintain the tender contact.

“The wolf can fly, princess,” Lyria affirmed.

With Lyria’s words, it seemed Helaena returned to her senses, her eyes studying the northern girl she had embraced. It wasn’t often that others responded to her cryptic sayings, yet this stranger from a distant land looked at her with understanding and respect. Helaena smiled, her thumbs softly stroking Lyria’s warm skin. The two stood in comfortable silence, as if the world around them ceased to exist, until the queen beside them cleared her throat.

Helaena’s hands left Lyria’s face, the ghost of her touch lingering on her pale cheeks as the princess took a step back, her eyes still on Lyria, mirroring the curiosity of the Targaryen family. “A wolf with wings is but a rare thing—” She paused, as if the rest of her sentence had slipped her mind. “I’d like to show you the Keep, if you’d let me? The Godswood would be a great start to your stay with us, though I’m sure ours is nothing compared to what your home has to offer.”

Before Alicent or Viserys could stop their daughter, Helaena swiftly led the brunette girl away from the gathering and towards the Red Keep’s own Godswood. The two girls moved in tandem, the world around them a blur as they delved into the serene sanctuary, a silent understanding forming between them.

Arriving in the godswood, Lyria realized that the princess had been right—while the royal godswood was beautiful, it was nothing compared to that of Winterfell. The white bark of the weirwood trees did not blend into the soft summer snow as they did in the North, nor did the crimson leaves provide the striking contrast she was accustomed to. The weirwood tree here stood tall but felt small compared to the ancient giant she was used to praying by, though the somber face carved into its trunk remained much the same, a silent witness to their presence.

The two girls came to a stop before the mighty tree, its roots sprawling out like the veins of the land itself. They sat down by its base, settling into a comfortable silence. Helaena’s eyes roamed the ground as if searching for something hidden in the soil, while Lyria found her small dagger fastened at her hip. Unsheathing the blade, she brought it to her thumb and sliced the skin just deep enough to draw blood. The small drop of crimson, resembling a ruby, gleamed before it met the bark of the weirwood, which seemed to absorb the offering from the northern lady.

The two sat in silence, a sense of peace enveloping them. Though strangers, their brief introduction had unfolded an unspoken understanding between them. The sacred space, with its ancient trees and whispering leaves, provided a sanctuary where words were unnecessary. They were connected by something deeper, something primal and ancient.

Eventually, Helaena broke the pleasant silence. A spider crawled in the palm of her hand as she turned to face Lyria, whose thumb still rested against the tree. “I must ask… How does a wolf fly? Such creatures have no wings, yet your eyes have seen the world from above. How so?”

Lyria looked at the princess, her gaze thoughtful, not sure how the princess knew this information. She took a deep breath, feeling the connection between her and the weirwood tree, the life force that seemed to pulse through its roots and into her soul.

“Wolves may not have wings, but there are other ways to soar,” Lyria began softly. “In the North, some are gifted with the ability to skinchange—to enter the minds of animals and see the world through their eyes. I am one of those few. Through the eyes of a raven, I have soared above the trees, felt the wind beneath my wings, and seen the world from the sky. In the body of a wolf, I roamed the woods and lived freely and in the skin of a bear I experienced the mind of a beast and the power that comes with it. ” She paused briefly, but continued as if knowing that she could trust the princess with such a heavy secret. “I know the South views our ways as wrong, some going so far as to call it black magic, but it is far from truth. I swear it by my Old Gods, for they granted me this gift.”

Helaena’s eyes widened slightly, her fascination evident as she listened. The spider in her hand crawled leisurely, oblivious to the weight of the conversation. “A raven,” she mused, her voice almost a whisper. “How extraordinary. To see the world from such a vantage point… it must be freeing.”

“It is, though I believe you have felt that freedom too.” Lyria agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s a gift, one I cherish deeply. It allows me to escape, to see beyond the confines of my own body and experience the world in a way few others can.”

The princess smiled, a serene expression settling on her face. “Perhaps we are more alike than I thought, Lady Stark. We both see the world differently, in ways others might not understand.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them and the ancient tree that bore witness to their bond. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty; it was filled with mutual respect and the promise of a deepening friendship.

Now it was Lyria who continued their conversation. She removed her thumb from the weirwood and moved closer to the princess, her eyes captivated by the massive red spider in Helaena’s hands.

"That is one big spider. We only have small ones in the North, and it’s rare to be graced with their presence."

Helaena nodded, turning her hands over and over as the spider crawled along her skin. There was no fear in her eyes, only a fondness for the small, eight-legged creature. "I can't imagine the North having many insects... Word says it’s terribly cold in those lands, that snow never leaves the ground." She paused, letting the spider go and watching as it crawled its way up the massive tree they sat under. "Though that is just a word of tongue. I'm sure a true Northerner like yourself would be the right person to ask about such things."

Lyria found her dagger again, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she twirled the blade between her fingers with ease. "Aye, while winter is everlasting, we are blessed with bare ground for a while, albeit very short. Summer snow is not as heavy, nor the winds as harsh. My home might not be as colorful as yours, princess, but the North is beautiful in its own way."

Helaena reached forward, grabbing Lyria's unoccupied hand in hers. Normally, the princess was quite reserved, tensing at physical contact—even from her own mother. But seated under the weirwood tree, observed by the gods, the two girls had quickly come to understand each other. In all earnestness, Lyria had been the first person not to judge her, not to question her odd sayings, nor look at her as if she had said something that should never be spoken. Their friendship, though new, was profound. The Targaryen princess had never been around anyone like the girl wolf seated with her.

Lyria looked at Helaena, her expression softening. "The North may be harsh and unforgiving, but it has its own kind of beauty. The silence of the snow, the strength of the trees, the resilience of its people. It’s a land that teaches you to be strong, to endure. And in that, there is a beauty unlike any other."

Helaena’s eyes shimmered with understanding. "I would like to see it someday. To feel the cold you speak of, to witness the stark beauty of your home."

Lyria smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. "And I would love to show it to you. The godswood at Winterfell is ancient, the heart tree standing tall and proud. It’s a place of reverence and peace, much like this one, but with a unique northern charm."

The princess squeezed Lyria’s hand gently. "You are different, Lyria. In a good way. You see things others don’t, like me, and you don’t shy away from what you find."

"And you, Helaena," Lyria replied, her voice soft, "are one of the most genuine souls I’ve ever met. Your insight, your way of seeing the world—it’s a gift."

The two girls shared a moment of silence, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing second. The godswood around them seemed to embrace their newfound friendship, the ancient trees bearing silent witness to the connection forming beneath their branches.

Before the two girls could continue their genuine conversation, footsteps approached, stopping a few feet away from them. The girls looked up to meet the stoic gaze of the one-eyed prince, Aemond Targaryen. His right hand firmly gripped the sword at his hip, while his left hand rested behind his back. He studied the scene before him: his sister’s hands playing with the Northerner’s fingers, both of them looking utterly peaceful in each other’s company. A small hum emitted from his throat, his eyes darting between the young ladies before settling on his sister, though she didn’t meet his gaze.

"The King is requesting your presence. You will have time to show the Lady Wolf our home in due course, sister. As of now, though, the day is growing late, and I’m sure our guest would be pleased to clean up before the welcome feast."

Though Aemond had finished speaking, he remained standing in front of them, waiting to be their escort into the castle. Lyria was the first to stand, dusting herself off before lending a hand to the princess and helping her to her feet. As the two of them closed in on Aemond, he offered his arms to the girls—like a proper prince ought to do.

Lyria placed her hand on his elbow, accepting his escort. However, Helaena chose to intertwine her arm with Lyria's instead of her brother’s. Aemond wouldn’t go so far as to say he was offended, but the fact that Helaena preferred to link arms with someone who was initially a stranger instead of her own brother did something to weaken his ego.

As they walked towards the castle, the air between them was filled with an unspoken tension. The courtyard was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone path. Aemond’s tall, imposing figure contrasted sharply with the delicate forms of Lyria and Helaena. The serene atmosphere of the godswood was left behind as they moved closer to the grandeur of the Red Keep.

Lyria couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for Aemond. She sensed the hurt behind his stoic demeanor, the subtle wound inflicted by his sister’s preference for her company over his. But she also understood Helaena’s choice. There was a unique bond forming between the two girls, one that transcended the formalities and expectations of court life.

As they approached the grand entrance of the castle, Aemond spoke again, his voice a touch softer than before. "Lady Stark, I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

Lyria nodded, offering him a gentle smile. "Thank you, Prince Aemond. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."

Helaena, still holding Lyria’s arm, glanced at her brother with a look that held a mixture of apology and defiance. "We shall make haste, brother. But know that Lyria’s company is a welcomed change for me. She understands things others do not."

Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through his eye, despite not fully gripping what his sister meant.. "Very well, sister. But do remember, the feast awaits."

Helaena and Lyria walked slowly through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the warm glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. As they reached Lyria’s chamber, Helaena paused and gave her new friend a gentle smile.

"This is your room, Lady Stark. I hope you find it comfortable. I’ll see you at the feast."

Lyria returned the smile, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Princess. I’ll be there shortly."

Helaena nodded, her hand lingering on Lyria’s arm for a moment before she turned and walked away, her footsteps soft and echoing down the corridor.

Lyria entered her room, taking in the opulent surroundings. A large bathtub had been brought in, steam rising from the hot water. She sighed in relief, eager to wash away the dust and weariness of their journey. She carefully removed her travel-stained clothes, folding them neatly before stepping into the tub. The hot water enveloped her, soothing her sore muscles. She took her time, scrubbing her skin clean and letting the warmth relax her.

Once she felt sufficiently refreshed, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a soft towel. She found a small bottle of cinnamon-scented oil on the vanity and applied a few drops behind her ears, enjoying the comforting aroma. She then began to work on her hair, her fingers deftly weaving it into an intricate triple braid that joined into one at the back. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped into a stunning white gown. The shimmering silver thread and stormy gray accents complemented her eyes perfectly, and the white fox fur that draped over her shoulders added a touch of northern elegance.

Ready to join the feast, Lyria left her room and met her brother, Cregan, in the hallway. The two of them walked in silence, the bond between them unspoken but strong. Cregan, in his dark shades of gray and black, with a mighty fur cloak hanging over his broad shoulders, looked every bit the formidable Lord of Winterfell. In contrast, Lyria shone in her white gown, a vision of northern grace and beauty.

As they entered the grand hall, they were met with the sight of lords and ladies already taking their seats. The room was filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of goblets. Helaena spotted the siblings and waved in their direction before returning to her conversation.

The Starks made their way to their seats, their contrasting attires drawing the eyes of many. Once seated, goblets were filled with wine—a more fruity and refined beverage than what they were used to in the North. Lyria took a sip, savoring the unfamiliar taste, while Cregan merely nodded his approval, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with a warrior’s vigilance.

As they settled in, the feast began in earnest, the tables laden with an array of sumptuous dishes. Lyria and Cregan exchanged a glance, both feeling the weight of their northern heritage amidst the southern opulence. They were wolves in a dragon’s den, but they held their heads high, ready to face whatever the evening—and the days to come—might bring.

The feast in the grand hall of the Red Keep was a dazzling affair. Lords and ladies engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of goblets and laughter filling the air. Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was frequently engaged in conversation with various nobles, discussing matters of the realm, the North, and their mutual interests. Despite the attention, his gaze frequently darted to his sister, Lyria, to ensure her well-being.

Lyria, however, sat mostly in silence. She was a stark contrast to the animated conversations around her. Her quiet demeanor was alarming to Cregan. He knew his sister to be a wild spirit, full of life and opinions. Her silence in such a setting was unusual and disconcerting.

As the feast progressed, and dessert was served, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Most men were deep in their cups of wine, their tongues loosened by the drink. It was then that Lyria, with a determined glint in her eye, rose from her seat. The creaking of her chair drew attention, and soon all eyes were upon her. 

Ignoring the stares, Lyria focused on the royal family. Helaena, sensing Lyria's intent, gave a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Lyria addressed the king. "My King!" Her voice rang out, silencing the hall. Cregan watched her, confused and worried.

"If I may be so bold and ask," Lyria continued, "it is said that Old Valyria was a place of great things, such as magic. Is that something you believe in, Your Grace?"

At this, Otto and Alicent Hightower, seated beside the king, shot her sharp looks of disapproval. Cregan’s grip on his sister’s wrist tightened, a silent plea for her to reconsider. But Viserys, intrigued by the boldness of the young lady, smiled warmly. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort of his wife and the Hand.

"Well, yes, Lady Lyria," Viserys responded, taking a sip of his wine. "The Targaryens are from a place of old magic. If there are such creatures as dragons, it would be foolish not to believe that things akin exist, no? Any particular reason for these questions?"

Cregan's grip grew more intense, but Lyria met his gaze with a soft yet determined look. In a whisper meant only for her brother, she said, "The South paints us as heathens, brother. We should not be shamed for sharing blood with the First Men. Our home was built atop creations made by the Children of the Forest. Our faith is no laughing matter, and we should not be a jest for our beliefs—no matter how old."

Returning her attention to the king, a mischievous grin played on Lyria’s lips. "It would do me great honor, Your Grace, to show you the gift I’ve been granted by the Old Gods... though I’d much prefer less of an audience for such a matter. Only if it pleases you, my king."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, clearly fascinated by the young Stark's boldness. "Such confidence and conviction in your beliefs, Lady Lyria. Very well, I shall see this gift of yours. Ser Otto, Alicent, and my sons will accompany us. Let us adjourn to a more private setting."

As the king rose, the hall buzzed with whispers and curious glances. Cregan released his grip on Lyria, his expression a mix of concern and pride. He followed the royal family, along with his sister, to a more secluded part of the castle where Lyria would reveal her extraordinary gift.

-----------------------

A/N: This story will be cross-published here and on AO3, eventually Wattpad, if you see it anywhere else, please report it. On another note- I'd love to hear thoughts on this chapter, as well as feedback, but be kind! I don't normally write and usually my ideas remain that of stories told to my friend @thee-horny-thicky

[unholygengar]

Lyria Stark, born two winters after older brother Cregan Stark; last born child of Lady Gilliane & Rickon Stark, a young maiden described as skin kissed by icy winds, hair the color of lovely walnut trees and the signature grey orbs that came with being of House Stark.

With a gentle face, none would give a second thought— seeing Lyria as a maiden to be married off and strengthen the line of Stark blood, yet there was more to such fair maiden than one would first think.

With her brother being named Lord of Winterfell, Lyria was granted her wish to train in the arts of wielding swords. Whilst this would be seen as unfit and anything but ladylike by most in Westeros, Lord Cregan Stark found himself preferring the thought of his sister being able to protect herself in a world of cruel men.

By the age of ten and five, Lady Lyria of house Stark had become a prolific fighting, possessing the ability of archery, bracers and of course— wielding swords. Having a preference for the art of duo-weilding, Lyria had smiths create twin blades for her to wield.

The twin blades were given the names "Mother" and "Stranger" referencing to two of the new Gods. With Mother in her dominant, left hand and Stranger in her right. One shall grant "mercy" whilst the other a "quick" death.

A/N: Some info about my original character Lyria Stark. Might continue adding to her, either with more notes or a fic which would then be posted here and on AO3. Feel free to leave comments and/or feedback.

[unholygengar]

Sigil and banner of House Aeronfly; protectors of the Grassy Vale and loyal to the rightful heir of the Iron Throne.

@thee-horny-thicky

[unholygengar]

So obsessed with HotD rn, me and my homegirl @unholygengar are creating our own house 😭

[unholygengar]

12th of October, 1999

Location: Tokyo, Minato district

It had been cloudy all day, but the rain only started as the evening rolled around.

I stood under the roof of the school's main entrance, waiting like so many others for my mom to pick me up. One by one, mothers arrived and greeted their children with warm smiles and open umbrellas.

15.45

School had ended forty-five minutes prior, mom hadn't arrived and I stood alone and peered towards the road leading up to the school, hoping to see her with an umbrella.

'Hopefully she is only running late' is what I had told myself. A mother never forgets her child.

.

.

.

Right..?

16.20

I remember thinking that maybe mom had fallen sick and needed help, hence why she never came by to pick me up. This thought made me walk into the pouring rain which soaked me in an instant. Home couldn't be that hard to find– she'd walk me to school every morning and it never felt far. But the streets of Tokyo are neverending, nothing looking familiar, yet everything looking the same.

Thinking back on it: why was no one helping a lost child with soaked clothes and shivering body?

I could see them staring as I passed, some with guilt and worry and others with disgust.

At that point, the sun had set below the towering buildings and streetlights became the new source of light to guide those who walked the streets after sundown.

It truly felt as if I had walked for hours, my feet sore and my nose running. I knew I was crying by then, but the rain made if hard to differentiate the tears from the drops falling from the cloudy sky.

Hopeless, scared, lonely and cold...

Perhaps I wasn't supposed to find home? Maybe mom didn't want me anymore?

Pain.

I had sat down on a bench, hugging my knees to my chest in an effort to keep some heat while my back ached. From within there was a laugh— not in my head, but from my core. It was as if my sorrow and heartbreak brought the laugh joy.

The rain stops.

"Why are you crying?"

That question should've been asked by an adult, worried about a child's safety, but no. It came from a boy her age.

Dressed in a yellow raincoat, umbrella in one hand and a small bag in the other.

"I don't know where my home is..."

The way I had said those words; stuttering, heaving and with snot running from my nose. In that moment, I was vulnerable and suffering, a kid being the first one to care enough to stop and ask.

"Well, I'm sure my mom can help you. We live just around the corner and we're having soup for dinner."

The boy handed me the umbrella and helped me off the bench. I was still crying, but he wiped my cheeks gently before grabbing my free hand in his. The warmth eased my heart as we began to walk under the shared umbrella, towards a home that wasn't mine, but his.

"I'm Geto Suguru, by the way. What's your name?"

"Unmei... Hayashi Unmei."

He had glanced at me when I answered his question, a questionable face. Most kids made fun of my name due to the meaning, surely he was about to do the same...

But he didn't.

Nodding his head with a small smile, Suguru chose a set of words she had never heard being paired with her.

"Unmei? What a unique name. You must be special."

...

I smiled for the first time that day.

×------------×

2nd of May, 2006

Location: Tokyo, Jujutsu High

Turning her head to face the only other person laying under the great oak tree, a smile crept onto her lips. It wasn't often she thought back on that day, and while it was a traumatic experience, it was also a memory she held onto fondly because of him.

Feeling eyes on him, Geto Suguru opened an eye and glanced at the girl before closing his eyes once more.

"Why are you staring, Unmei?"

At the question, the girl sat up, brushing the grass off her uniform. The setting sun painted the sky orange and pink, making Unmei feel all the more content with the moment.

"No reason, just thought about how we should have soup for dinner."

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A/N:

A prequel to what might become a fanfic, depends on if people would read it and for how long I can stay focused on Jujutsu Kaisen.

Anyway- stan Geto Suguru

[unholygengar]

Made some art of Kiri, aka Pandora Jesus