Chapter Text
It happened somewhere around Tumbleton, at the edge of the Reach and the Crownlands.
Lyanna Stark had been in a foul mood since her party had left Riverrun one moon prior. Her father had tricked her. He'd said that there was an elderly relative of the Tullys in the Reach and would Lyanna be a good little lady and be a part of the party that was going to make their overtures to an old woman who couldn't leave her manse for the wedding.
She’d been rather excited to go, implications of proper ladyship aside, having never been to the Reach. Much like the tourney at Harrenhal over half a year prior, Lyanna had viewed it as a chance at adventure. Yet it had all been lies.
There was no elderly relative, Rickard Stark was sending his daughter to Storm's End to wait out the moons till her wedding under the watchful eyes of the Baratheons. The long twisting route avoiding the Kingsroad was to prevent her from growing suspicious and bolt for Winterfell or Bear Island.
Jory had informed her, after her questions got too pointed.
She'd been lied to, and she was going to miss Brandon's wedding to Catelyn Tully in several moons, all because someone had overheard her tirade to Benjen in the Godswood. She suspected Walys, the southron maester who encouraged the Starks betrothals to the Tullys and Baratheons.
Her father’s southron ambition, she’d heard the other Northmen whisper. Lyanna did not care what it was, it was making her furious with her father.
Did her father honestly believe she was serious about running away? That the words she'd said in anger were true? It was heinous. They were treating her like an unbroken horse, like at the sign of an open gate she'd bolt to freedom.
And yet, they still did not see it as an indication that the betrothal was a terrible idea.
Lyanna scowled. Next to her, Jory Cassel shifted nervously in his saddle; much of her ire over the past few days had been directed at him. He was the only friendly face amongst the company of Rivermen and Northmen guiding her over the rough and seldom used roads of the Riverlands and the Reach.
“My lady,” Jory began and Lyanna made huffing noise of discontent, turning her head away from him to look at the clear blue sky. “My lady please don’t be upset.”
Jory had been pleading much the same over several days. He was the son of Winterfell’s captain of the household guard and the Starks’ childhood friend. Her anger towards him cut deeply.
Lyanna did not answer him. She shifted in her saddle, Hellish dress, terrible for riding, and stared over the heads of her other guards and into the dense trees on the one side of the narrow road.
That is when she noted something strange shifting through the woods.
Eyes narrowed, Lyanna made out the forms of several men on foot and horseback mirroring their steps. Rattling, white hot fear spiked in Lyanna’s chest. She nudged her chestnut Garron mare, Iona, closer to Jory on his speckled warhorse.
“My lady, please let me—”
“Shush, Jory,” Lyanna hissed, elbowing Jory, and glancing sideways at the shapes in the forest. “Not to alarm you, but there appears to be a large party of men following us in the woods.”
Jory’s eyes widened and his hand drifted towards the pommel of his sword as he looked over Lyanna’s head.
“Don’t be obvious,” Lyanna admonished, face twisted in a scowl. “Just spread the word.”
Jory nodded and smiled nervously at Lyanna before drawing back his horse and speaking quietly to the men at the back of their party.
She watched him fuss with his reins as he spoke. Lyanna often forgot that he was only eight-and-ten, only a year younger than Ned, and had never been in a serious fight. Concern lanced through her, making her breathing falter. Jory was not allowed to get hurt, not on her watch.
Hands clenched around Iona’s reins, Lyanna turned in her saddle to look ahead on the road. Jory returned to her side.
“The men have been informed,” Jory whispered, bending in his saddle. “They think that we should—”
Lyanna did not get to hear what the collection of men around her thought they should do. From the tangle of trees ahead, a man on a deep brown warhorse appeared. He was tall and dark haired with a close-cropped beard.
The woods exploded next to Lyanna’s party. Men with swords and dirks rushed mounted Rivermen and Northmen.
Jory grabbed Iona’s reins and yanked her sideways, dragging Lyanna into the open field. Disoriented, she looked back at the sounds of clashing steel and neighing horses.
“Get the girl!” Came a rough shout from the unknown men. Hot and terrified panic rushed through Lyanna, and she began thinking wildly of what to do, how to survive.
The men from the woods on horseback were following her and Jory. There were five. They were after her and they’d go through Jory and do whatever unspeakable things they wanted.
Jory reached for his sword, however Lyanna stopped him. Several Northmen had broken from the group and engaged the five horsemen. She had a plan, an awful half-formed plan, but it would only work if Jory were safe.
“Jory,” Lyanna gasped and gripped his wrist. They were still moving across the field. “I’m the best rider in Winterfell,” Jory’s eyes were wide and confused. “But I can’t make it with you,” his dark brows drew together in stormy rebuke and his normally smiling mouth was frowning. “Trust me.”
“I am meant to protect you,” he pleaded, brown eyes wide and thick brows bunched. “Your brother said so.”
“Someone has to tell my family what happened. You’d be the only one they’d trust,” Lyanna said urgently and glanced over her shoulder. The Northmen and Rivermen had the attackers from the woods well engaged. “Ride back to Riverrun and tell Ned what happened. Tell him that they were not marked by any house.”
“And you, my lady?” Jory questioned fearfully; two fingers pinched her grey sleeve.
“Tell them I rode south, aiming for Storm’s End,” Lyanna’s mind was running through possibilities. “But that he should wait for a Raven from me. I’ll find safety in the closest noble holding I can find.”
Jory stayed stiff and silent for far too long for Lyanna’s comfort in the dangerous situation. Then he nodded.
“Ride fast Lady Lyanna,” he whispered. “Ride fast and don’t get caught.”
“I would like to see them try to catch a wolf,” Lyanna snarled savagely and turned Iona south. “Come girl, let’s become the wind.”
~~~~~~~~~
Three days. She had been riding relentlessly for three days, never resting in the night. Yet she could not stop.
Lyanna had left her party—with Jory riding like hell towards the North—and found the Roseroad. She thundered past groups on the wide road, earning scowls and stares. She passed inns and villages, constantly looking over her shoulder.
It was worse at night, when she feared that outlaws would pop out of the woods and stop her. The absence of sleep made her mind conjure wild and horrible things that they would do. But the old gods protected Lyanna, and her travel went unimpeded.
She was exhausted. There were deep violet bags under her eyes, her grey traveling dress was stained and rumpled, and her stomach howled for food. Iona’s strength waned as well. They’d needed to rest.
Bitterbridge was situated where the river Mander met the Roseroad. There was an old stone bridge that crossed the Mander. Ahead of Lyanna lay a small castle, made of stone and timber, squatted in the low, flat land. She wanted to head directly towards the keep and seek protection from House Caswell.
A yellow centaur with bow on white. Lyanna recalled, remembering her lessons. Defenders of the Fords. Would they believe her? Jory would not have reached Ned in Riverrun yet and she did not know if the Northmen and Rivermen had won out against the Men of the Woods, as she had taken to calling them.
Lyanna decided to spend the night in a nearby inn, freshened up in the morn, and put on the only other dress she had with her—the cart with her trunk of clothes had been with her party when they were attacked—and head to the keep.
The Hog’s Head was a slightly shabby looking inn located near the foot of the old stone bridge. Lyanna felt her tangled hair and dirty dress would protect her a bit. She stabled a tired, but nervous Iona, who nickered with worry when Lyanna took her saddle bag.
The large woman at the counter eyed Lyanna suspiciously as she requested a room for one night. Lyanna made sure to pay in small coins and mention loudly that her husband would be coming up shortly. She purchased some bread and cheese to sate her hunger. She really wanted meat but feared that it would draw attention to her.
She was, for once, grateful for Ned’s lectures on caution and moderation.
A comely chambermaid, not much taller or older than Lyanna, brought her a tub and a pitcher of water. In only her shift, Lyanna washed the stains off her grey gown as best she could. She hung it to dry from the rafters. It was not the best washing job, but Lyanna thought it was rather good for a first attempt.
Lyanna wedged the lone chair in the room under the doorhandle and curled up under the bed with a blanket. She wished Benjen had come with her, but he had stayed in Winterfell.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Lyanna wished she could be that Stark as she drifted restlessly off to sleep, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the inn.
~~~~~~~~~
Bruised from the rough floorboards, Lyanna woke with the cock’s crow the next morn and smacked her head against the underside of the bed. She slipped on her slightly damp grey dress and laid out her prettily embroidered blue silk dress with the velvet bodice for later. Then she went to find food and the chambermaid, for water to wash her hair and face.
The matron of the inn gave her more bread and cheese but could not tell her where the chambermaid was.
Nibbling her merger food, Lyanna wandered into the stables, looking for the chambermaid with increasing frustration.
“Have you seen the chambermaid?” Lyanna tiredly asked Iona as she brushed and fed her chestnut mare. Iona shook her mane and Lyanna giggled, pressing her face into Iona’s silky neck.
Voices came from the entrance of the stables and Lyanna dropped to the hay on instinct.
“Did ya hear?” Came a male voice from two stalls over. He had the soft lilt of the Reach.
“Hear what?” Another man, with a slightly deeper voice.
“There are riders at the keep. Arrived at dawn.”
“From Highgarden?”
“The castle stableboy said they looked and sounded like Northmen,” the first man said and Lyanna’s heart soared. She was safe. Her men had won.
“What are those frozen fucks doing down ‘ere?”
“Stableboy said that they were looking for their leader’s sister, said she’d run off with a knight of the Reach and they were tryin’ to find her.”
Lyanna’s hopes plummeted. Those weren’t her men. They’d tell the truth. That they were looking for a highborn girl on the run for her life. The Men in the Woods had won.
She needed to leave.
“Damn. Hope they find the silly girl. Dishonoring ‘er family like that.”
The voices trailed off as the men left the stable. Lyanna chewed her bottom lip, mind running through scenarios. The Men in the Woods were smart. Once people heard they were looking for a girl who disgraced her family, they’d hold onto her and hand her over to her ‘family’ for punishment. It raised less questions than a group of men looking for a girl with no relation to them.
She needed a disguise.
There was another mare in the stables, a lovely grey thing. Lyanna swapped her fine embroidered saddle for the mare’s plain green blanket and cracked leather saddle. She saddled Iona in the traded tackle. She also swapped her fine black cloak for a patchwork brown one from the mare’s saddlebag.
Lyanna encountered the chambermaid as she left the stables.
She was tucked against the side of the stables, kissing the inn’s stableboy.
It gave Lyanna an mischievous idea. Like when she and Benjen played pranks on Brandon and Ned.
She made a cacophony of noise coming around the corner again, kicking a pail just in case, scaring the chambermaid off.
“You, boy,” Lyanna put every ounce of authority into her tone as she stopped the gangly stableboy before he could follow.
“Ah, yes ma’am?” The boy fidgeted nervously, like he wasn’t older and taller than Lyanna.
“That your girl that just ran off?”
“Aye,” the stableboy blushed. “She’s my Rana.”
“You should give her a pretty gift,” Lyanna said conspiratorially. “And I have a fine dress I’m not using,” she tried to smile charmingly at the stableboy, like Brandon would.
The boy looked intrigued, then suspicious.
“What’s the price?”
“A trade.” Lyanna responded sourly, not appreciating the stableboy’s suspicion. She was impatient, wanted to leave this place. “Give me a knife and a set of your clothes, then I’ll give you the dress for your Rana.”
The boy considered it, then nodded.
He led Lyanna to his narrow room next to the tackle shed. Gabbing a dull knife, a rough spun tunic, plain brown jerkin, and brown breeches.
Lyanna led him to her room. She folded the blue dress and shoved it into his arms. Once he was gone, Lyanna tugged on the breeches, tunic, and jerkin then swept the borrowed cloak over her shoulders. Her boots were plain black, perfect for long trekking; she’d keep them.
She mounted Iona in the stables and left Bitterbridge quietly.
Lyanna pulled Iona to a stop on the old stone bridge. She reached up and grabbed the base of her thick brown braid. She pulled the traded knife from her saddle bag. It was not a quick cut, but Lyanna sawed at her hair with the dull knife until she held her whole braid in her hand.
She dropped it in the river Mander and rode on.
~~~~~~~~~
Longtable was where she stole a map.
She’d been riding for five days. She camped in woods and stayed in inns only when she had to. Praying to the old gods to protect her in the night. Longtable was southeast of Bitterbridge, and after she’d gotten soaked crossing the Blueburn.
Lyanna decided against trying to contact House Merryweather, in case the Men in the Woods had sent a raven to all the houses around Bitterbridge. A golden horn of plenty spilling out apples, carrots, plums, onions, leeks, turnips, and fruits of many colors on a white field bordered in gold. She recalled grumpily. Their motto is "Behold our Bounty." What useless information. Lyanna was having that thought a lot during her days on the road.
She didn’t know how to do much. She couldn’t hunt or fight—for this she blamed her father for forbidding the master-at-arms from teaching her when she tried to sneak into her brother’s lessons. She didn’t know which coins were appropriate to use when she ran out of small coins and she often worried that people were suspicious of her. She rarely knew where she was, only half knowing how to navigate by stars; Brandon told her that moss grows on the north side of trees, so south was the other way.
What Lyanna was good at was acting like a boy. At five-and-ten and almost half a year, Lyanna was short, slender, and flat as a board, with too long limbs. Which made her hope that she had more time to grow. She had the long Stark face and large grey eyes. With her jaggedly chopped hair, brushing her chin, Lyanna looked every bit a wide eyed, awkward boy of two-and-ten. She acted like one too, asking perhaps too many questions.
There was a knight at the inn, looking over a curling map. Lyanna took it before she left. Which left her with a decision to make.
Her eyes roved over the markings of the Seven Kingdoms south of the Neck.
She’d promised Jory she’d head for Storm’s End.
But Robert Baratheon was there. Lyanna grimaced at the thought of her betrothed. This was all his fault. Lyanna wouldn’t have been ranting to Benjen in the Godswood if he was a good man. A decent man.
A vision of Lila’s baby popped into her head. Black hair and Baratheon blue eyes. Lila had been one of Lyanna’s favorite chambermaids at Winterfell, until one morning she had not been there to brush Lyanna’s hair and tell her all the things that her brothers wouldn’t. One day after one of Robert Baratheon’s visits. Lyanna would not see her again until months later, in Wintertown, with a strange husband and a Baratheon baby.
She’d known about Robert’s ways. Her brothers couldn’t keep that from her, not when Robert was so unashamed. She knew about his bastard in the Vale. About the girls at Harrenhal, some of which she’d seen firsthand. It was one of her biggest protests when it came to the betrothal.
As selfish as it was, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him.
She just wanted to go home, but Winterfell was so far away.
Lyanna sniffed slightly and rubbed her eyes. Stop it, wolves don’t cry. She looked south on the map, trying to fight of the uncertainty, homesickness, and fear tightening her chest and throat. She hated feeling so weak, she wanted the anger that always boiled beneath her surface. Iona snuffled Lyanna’s knee as she ambled carefully along the narrow road—Lyanna was once again avoiding the main roads.
If she found a harbor, then she could get a boat North or to the Saltpans. Or send a letter to her brothers and have them come get her on a boat, so she wouldn’t be alone, on a boat, with strange men.
Lyanna’s journey was quickly making her hate men. Who harass or threaten women traveling alone or working or walking or doing anything. At least as a boy they could believe she was heading off to squire or apprentice somewhere else.
Harbors in the Reach were out, for the same reason she had not contacted House Merryweather. Would the Men in the Woods try to look for her in the Stormlands? She couldn’t risk it.
Lyanna looked to Dorne. Had a wolf ever gone to Dorne? Had any Northman? They wouldn’t think to look for her there. Yes, she thought if they lost her, they’d look to the Stormlands first. Because they’d think she’d run to Robert for protection.
Her eyes scanned the sparse portion of the map dedicated to Dorne. There weren’t many ports up by the Red Mountains, they were all far away and across a sea of sand. She chewed her nail as she tried imagining crossing such hot and terrible terrain. She was already concerned about leaving the comfort of the rivers in the Reach, what would she do it Dorne?
She decided to cross the Prince’s Pass, hoping to blend in with the masses crossing into Dorne that way. From there she would…
Lyanna tapped the marks on the map marked Wyl and Yronwood, they were close to the coast and the Red Mountains. But Wyl was a bit out of the way, like doubling back up the mountains, and there were no rivers. Yronwood was her best bet. Once she exited the Prince’s Pass at Skyreach, she’d follow the river to Yronwood.
Yes, Lyanna decided it was one of her better plans.
But not as good as her plan to put a warren of rabbits into Ned chambers. That had been a great plan, one of the best. Poor Ned had looked so harried.
Lyanna suddenly felt an ache in her chest. It was different from the ache that gnawed at her stomach—bread and cheese could not satisfy even a scrawny girl like her. She missed Ned. He was smart and sensible, he’d know which coins to use, how to lay low, and who of the Houses of the Reach to trust. She missed Brandon. He was wild and strong, he’d protect her, talk sweetly to suspicious innkeepers, and navigate by the stars. She missed Benjen the most. He’d keep her company, make her laugh, and help her sleep. They could’ve pretended they were two brothers going to visit their uncle.
Lyanna hiccupped and scrubbed her eyes fiercely with the palms of her hand. No. She was a wolf, she would not cry. She would go to Dorne, go to Yronwood, and then go home.
Then she would never leave Winterfell again.
~~~~~~~~~
Ashford. Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Ashford. Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Ashford. Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
These were all the places Lyanna had to pass. These were all the names she repeated to keep herself calm. She could no longer tell how many days she’d been on the road.
Ashford. House Ashford. A white sun-and-chevron on orange; Our Sun Shines Bright. It had been a small market town with whitewashed houses and thatched roofs.
Lyanna had sworn she’d seen the Men in the Woods milling in the crowds amongst the stalls. She had not stayed the night, sleeping in an abandoned cow shed outside of town.
Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Nightsong. Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
These were all the places Lyanna had to pass. These were all the names she repeated to keep herself calm. She could no longer tell how many changes of the moon she’d been on the road.
Nightsong. House Caron. A field of black nightingales on yellow; No Song so Sweet. Lyanna had started sweating. She could not tell if it was because she was now in the Dornish Marches or if because this was the only stop in the Stormlands.
She wondered if Jory made it to Riverrun yet.
Here, Lyanna thought she’d heard Robert’s booming laugh in the crowded inn. A chill should not have run down her spine. She should not have had nightmares of arriving in Storm’s End and Robert’s large frame pressing her exceedingly small shape against the wall; like she’d seen a man do to a far more receptive chambermaid.
Sometimes he’d kiss her forcefully, like he did at Harrenhal, but mostly he’d whisper terribly in her ear that betrothed do not need to wait for a wedding. Which made Lyanna wake up panting and shaking. She could not fall back asleep. But she could hear moaning and groaning from the rooms on either side, which scared her more.
She wanted to leave the Stormlands. She wanted to go home.
Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
Kingsgrave. Skyreach.
These were all the places Lyanna had to pass. These were all the names she repeated to keep herself calm. She could no longer tell how many changes of the moon she had until she reached safety.
Kingsgrave. House Manwoody. A white skull with a golden crown on a black field. Guarding access to Dorne. The castle was halfway through the Prince’s Pass. Lyanna chewed her lips to pieces during her stay, worrying that every glance of the men-at-arms was someone asked to hold a runaway girl for her furious brother.
Not a runaway. Not a runaway. Lyanna repeated to herself, tugging on her chopped hair, reminding herself that she looked like a boy. She wanted to go home to her family, not leave them. She never wanted to leave them.
She did not sleep in Kingsgrave. Curled with Iona in the inn stables, Lyanna stared North. She tried to picture Winterfell in her mind but could not. All she saw was a decrepit, round tower she and other travelers had passed on their way through the Prince’s Pass. It had been set high up on the Red Mountains and filled Lyanna with a strange sense of foreboding. She never wanted to be anywhere near there.
She wished there were a Godswood. That way she could pray to the old gods under a heart tree. That would make her feel better. Lyanna folded her hands and prayed to the stars instead, as she had in the woods of the Reach, perhaps they could ask the Gods for her.
Skyreach.
Skyreach.
Skyreach.
This was the place Lyanna had to pass. This was the name she repeated to keep herself calm. She could no longer tell how many days she had until she reached safety.
Skyreach. House Fowler. A hooded blue hawk on silver. Let Me Soar. Lyanna’s breath rattled past her chapped lips in relief as she stared up at the soaring towers of the stone castle. She ignored the excited buzzing that came from the townspeople, what they were celebrating she did not care. All she had to do was find the river that flowed from Yronwood, and she’d be—
Lyanna stiffened and then dragged Iona into an alley between two stone houses.
Two Northmen on horseback. Men in the Woods. Blocking the way towards the river, towards Yronwood.
Lyanna’s breath came out in quick pants. She pressed herself against the wall of the house, dragging nervous fingers through her dirty, unruly hair. Iona snuffled her head and Lyanna threw her arms around her mare’s neck, trying to find calm.
Over Iona’s chestnut backside and cracked saddle, Lyanna spotted a large retinue. Men-at-arms, Ladies-in-waiting, servants, and lots of horses covered in bags. She could blend in with them.
Lyanna hustled over to a beleaguered looking woman in nice clothes, but not the clothes of a noblewoman.
“May I assist you, ma’am?” Lyanna asked, mimicking the accent of the stableboy of the Reach.
“Oh, thank the seven,” the woman breathed and gripped Lyanna’s shoulders, her voice was pretty with a lovely Dornish accent. “You are the new stableboy, yes?”
“Yes,” Lyanna lied and tugged Iona forward. “What can I do?”
“Strap these bags to your mare, young…” the woman trailed off and looked at Lyanna expectantly. Ah, she wants my name, Lyanna mused. Shouldn’t give her my real name, ‘cause it’s a girl’s name, but what name would be good…Unbidden, Lyanna thought of the only other Northern boy she knew younger than Benjen. Wee Jon Umber, the Smalljon, three-year-old son of Brandon’s best friend, the Greatjon.
“Jon,” Lyanna said firmly. There were many Jons among the Starks. Like King Jon who raised the Wolf's Den at the mouth of the White Knife. A little bit of home. To remind herself she was still a wolf when she couldn’t be herself.
“Well, young Jon, pack these bags on your horse and join the other stableboys,” the woman nodded and piled bags into Lyanna’s arms. Then she pointed to a cluster of Dornish boys and horses.
Lyanna carefully tied the bags to Iona’s saddle, taking a couple more from the woman. The stableboys were talking about tourneys when she approached. They stopped talking when she joined them.
“Your horse looks funny,” the tallest boys said, eyeing Iona. They were a varied collection of boys, some with dark hair and skin, some with light hair and skin, and some with a mix.
“She’s northern,” Lyanna answered. Inspecting the boys’ sand steeds with interest; they were slim, with narrow heads and in red, gold, black, and white colorings. “Good for irregular terrain and carrying cargo.”
“But not as fast,” another boy said smugly.
“Even the fastest horse in the known world could be slow in the wrong hands,” Lyanna said sagely. Ser Rodrik had told her that whenever she beat Brandon on his warhorse.
“Have you ever ridden a sand steed?” another boy asked, letting Iona sniff his hand.
“No,” Lyanna said sadly. “Say,” she wanted to change the subject. “Where are we going?” If it were a long enough trip, mayhap they’d let her ride one of theirs.
“You don’t know?” The first boy asked suspiciously.
“Uh, I was kicked in the head by a warhorse when I was small,” Lyanna lied nervously. “I forget things.”
“That happened to my cousin,” a small boy piped, and they all nodded, like it was common and acceptable. Baffling.
“Well, fine,” the tallest boy huffed. “Lady Fryda Fowler is going to marry Lord Allem Dayne and we’re escorting her to Starfall,” Lyanna shivered at the reminder of her own engagement.
“Look, there she is,” one of the boys whispered excitedly and suddenly they all crowded around the boy. Lyanna stood on her toes to look too.
A statuesque blonde woman rode a pure white sand steed. Her face was pale and austere, with sharp blue eyes that scanned the retinue meant to escort her to her new home. Lyanna’s had not been this nice or friendly, but they had been there to prevent her from fleeing. She admired the woman’s loose layered robes of blue and white, they looked comfortable in the heat.
Lady Fowler was very pretty. She reminded Lyanna of Brandon’s betrothed, Catelyn Tully—although Lady Fryda was older than Catelyn, who was eight-and-ten. Catelyn was tall and blue eyed, with flowing red hair and an open, heart shaped face. It was the way they both held themselves high, like proper ladies, a stance Lyanna could never master.
“Let’s move out,” called a male voice from the head of the party.
There was a great amount of shifting.
Lyanna glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. The Men in the Woods had mounted their horses and turned towards Yronwood. She grabbed Iona’s reins and led her after the other stableboys; they were talking about their distaste for squires.
She pulled out her map, tracing Dorne until she found Starfall. It was located at the mouth of the Torrentine river. It might have a port, Lyanna thought, the plan could still work.
Starfall. House Dayne. A white sword and falling star crossed on lilac. Lyanna suddenly flushed. She wondered if it was from the heat or if it was because she was remembering the last Dayne she met, over half a year ago at Harrenhal.
Starfall. House Dayne. Trustworthy.
Lyanna Stark galloped for her life.