Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a light summer snow raining gently down on Bear Island the morning Lyarra Snow woke up with her forearm burning fiercely. 

The girl of six and ten hissed and grabbed the offending appendage in pain and quickly rubbed the skin, as if to scrub the pain away. It ached less than when she was sparring with live steel with Dacey or Alysane, but it certainly stung similarly to a scraped knee or raw wound. When Lyarra looked down there was nothing particularly notable on her right arm, only splotches of deep red and yellow. However, before she could continue to examine what Snow thought might be some odd bruise, her foster sister and dear friend Dacey Mormont burst through her door. 

“Arise Lyarra for duty calls!” Dacey called out in a dramatic flare

At nine and ten, the heir in question was tall and lanky like a willow tree and just as firm and flexible. Her brown hair was tied in a northern style braid and surprisingly for Lyarra, Dacey was in a nice green dress with bear motifs, befitting her station but short enough that you could see her boots underneath. Certainly a hand-me-down from Lady Lynesse’s old clothes. A cheeky smile graced her face, pulling on her various freckles and showing Lyarra the gap between her two front teeth - which worried the girl greatly. When Dacey smiled trouble usually followed in one way or another, Snow had the various scars to prove it. However, when her friend’s keen brown eyes looked down at Lyarra’s arm, her smile fell in worry. 

“Why don’t you look nice? Has Maester Rolf finally convinced Maege to sell you off to the highest bidder?” snarked Lyarra before her friend could get a word in - trying to deflect attention from the odd colored bruise. It was a running joke between the Mormonts and Snow, it seemed the only thing the acolyte of the Citadel cared for was marrying off the she-bears. It worked, as Dacey continued on without pressing on her concern.

“Ha! The old rat-faced fucker wishes, however he will be happy to see some of his match making in action. House Glover is here, are you ready to see your darling Galbart again?” replied Dacey while walking into the quarters with ease. For how much she loathed dresses, Lyarra had to admit Dacey had a natural grace in them and seemed as comfortable in feminine wear as her fighting leathers. 

“I thought they were coming in a week! How did they get here so quickly?” Lyarra questioned in an exasperated tone as she got up to get ready. First putting on breaches for under her dress, a tendency she adopted while  here on Bear Island. You never know when the Ironborn will strike.

“Seems the Burley clan backed-out from the trade talks they had scheduled before us. Apparently they heard that Glover had proposed a similar trade deal to the Wull’s, which set the whole trade talk up in flames.” said Dacey as she help Lyarra into her gown.

“Lord Glover can be such a fool sometimes, for how close he is to the Mountain Clans you would think he would know not to go talking to Wulls if the Burley’s are concerned.” 

“I think Old Gabart never truly wanted the Burley deal to begin with and was looking for a way to attract the Wull to consider his offer. Anyway, you got the numbers ready Snow?” Dacey said as she pulled the strings tighter on her bodice.

Lyarra choked out “That makes sense and yes, certainly. If I had a bit more time I would have looked them over once more.”  

Dacey snorted, turned Snow around and grabbed her shoulders, ”It will be fine, your numbers are always impeccable. Stop overthinking, this trade meeting is not of serious import.” Then patted her cheek for good measure. “I’m pretty sure Lord Glover will be happy with anything we give him, so long as you are in the room.”

The bastard of House Stark had always been excellent at numbers. So much so, that Maester Luwin at Winterfell started giving her tasks to help him from an early age - something that truly did not amuse Lady Stark at the time. However, it did give her quite the reputation in the North. 

As a little girl the start of Lyarra’s fascination with coinage came more from the wonder of the shiny nature of currency - it was just an added bonus that the small round chunks that reflected light were valuable and also great for honing the mind. As much as Snow loved swordplay and riding, her love has always been more in the realm of books and from a young age she realized that book keeping was deemed too lowly for most lords but too complicated for common folk. Only Maesters, castellans, and prolific merchants bothered to really master the complicated nature of economics and trade. So Lyarra soon found her niche, a role perfect for a highborn bastard in her mind. 

“Yes, ha ha. Lord Glover asking for help with barley profits is the height of romance.” Lyarra responded to Dacey’s sly remark while picking up from her small desk the books and paperwork needed for the meeting. Her arm still ached so she handed her companion the heavier of the tomes. 

Hence, when she came a foster to Bear Island at the tender age of ten, Lady Mormont looked at her enthusiasm with pleasure and gladly let her dive in and help the old maester out. Especially needed after the farce of a second marriage and blight her nephew Jorah put on the small Island’s coffers. Because of Lyarra’s help, in just six years House Mormont had regained all revenue lost and was starting to heap a profit off of trade.

“For you it well may be romantic.” 

Rolling her eyes, Lyarra responded, “Regardless, we will be starving if we don’t break fast soon.”

“Ah yes, little Jory really does live up to the she-bear moniker when it comes to food. Bet I can steal a biscuit with minimal bit marks” Dacey japed with a smirk

Giggling back the bastard placed her own bet, “10 groat she aims for the fingers” 

--- 

As expected when both Lyarra and Dacey walked into the great hall, the room was full of raucous bickering and laughter. Meage at the center and head of the table had her youngest, tiny 6 year-old Lyanna, on her lap and was chatting with her second oldest, Alysanne to her right. The young woman in question was six and ten, and out of all her sisters looked the most like her mother with her stout height, muscular frame, and being big of breast. Alysanne liked to poke fun at Dacey when she can saying ‘you got all the height but I took all the bosom back!’. Apart from being the comic of  the Mormont clan, she was also the one responsible for the production of the new alcoholic drink sweeping the North - Mormont Whiskey.

It was obvious that important trade talks were upon Bear Island since all the Mormont women were dressed in their finest northern garb. If Lord Glover refused to sell them a quarter of his barley crops, they would have to haggle with Lady Dustin and the whiskey’s steady pace of production would hit a decline. 

They would also save themselves a headache by avoiding treating with Barrowtown and it’s caustic, bitter lady. 

On the other side of Maege at ten was the knobby-kneed Jorelle, hoarding biscuits and jam, dressed in one of Lyarra’s old blue dresses but with one of the legs hiked up on the bench, you could clearly see her breeches underneath.  

“Your feet should stay on the floor Jory!” her sister Lyra exclaimed, at two and ten she was in the stage of life where everything and everyone annoyed her, especially her younger siblings. Lyra was the Mormont sister that desired to play the role of a more traditional lady, however, you would be hard pressed to find her without a dagger hidden somewhere on her at all times. 

“You are incorrect, I can put it on you instead” Jorelle replied at the same time that she lifted her foot to show it to her sister in front of her. However, Maege put a stop to it.

“Stop! Jorelle get your foot out of ya’ sisters face. Lyra the way you say words matter as much as what you mean. Be nice to your sister.” In one fell swoop Maege effectively doused an on-coming fight and proceeded to hand her youngest to Alysanne. Then looked at the oldest with her ward in tow and with a small smile gestured both to sit in the two spaces on the right of Lyra. 

In moments like these Lyarra was reminded of how lucky she was to foster with the Mormont Clan. As much as she loved and missed Winterfell, especially the comforting presence of her father and the exuberant energy of most of her half-siblings, the looming shadow of judgment cast on her by Lady Stark was too much for the young woman to bear. The Mormonts did not mind her bastardy and had always accepted their ward’s passions. Lyarra always feels free and loved by these women and she hopes to always return that in any way she can. 

As Lyarra handed Maege one of the books detailing her recommended strategy, Alysanne commented “By the size of those ledgers it makes me think you have mapped out the next 100 years of trade between us and House Glover!” 

“Nah, it seems she capped herself at ten this time. You should say your thanks Alys - if this goes according to plan you’ll have enough barley to make whiskey for the rest of your life.” Maege responded not looking up from the notes she had started to read. 

“With all the trial and error that it takes not to taste like piss, 10 years worth of grain will last her a measly fortnight!” Dacey quipped, grinning. 

“Not my fault your tastes are as underdeveloped as Lyanna’s.” Alysanne said gruffly back at her older sister, prompting a “Hey!” from the child in question from her lap. “But yes, thank you Lyarra, we greatly appreciate it.” 

“Don’t insult Lyanna that way. She has the best taste here.” prompting a jam filled smile from the girl. “Can you please pass me the blackberry jam, Lyanna dear?”

Lyarra winked a thanks and grabbed the small jar from the girl’s equally small hand when her own spasms. The intense pain from her arm came back in full force and was such that her hand with the jar hit the wooden table, shattering it in her hand. Jam splattered everywhere and the palm of her hand started to bleed out red. A cacophony of sounds  erupted around her. 

“I’m sorry!” said Lyanna on the verge of tears.

“Lya are you alright!?”  exclaimed Jorelle and Lyra in unison. 

“It’s not your fault Lyanna - Dacey try to take the biggest shards out of her hand.” responded Alysanne, taking a napkin and trying to clean up the mess in conjunction with a pair of servants. 

“Lyra! Jorelle! Go and get Maester Rolf. Tell him he might have to give some stitches.” Said Maege to her third and fourth child as she stood up to go behind her ward. 

“It will be alright Lyarra, just breath in and out. I know you can deal with pain better than most southron knights.” consoled Dacey in a soothing voice, trying to keep her calm as she pulled the biggest glass shards out of her friend’s hands. 

“I’m sorry Lady Mormont - I don’t know what got into me. I woke up with this pain that won’t -ah- subside in my arm” Lyarra made out with tears in her eyes from both the stinging pain of her hand mixed with the odd burning of her forearm.

“None of that Lady Mormont horseshit - you aren’t with Lady Stark and you did nothing wrong. Just show me your arm and where it hurts ” Maege ordered as she knelt down and grabbed the arm from Dacey, pulling back Lyarra’s sleeve. 

Then suddenly it seemed like everybody was frozen, staring at Lyarra’s arm. The usual raucous dissonance that permeated Mormont Keep was overcome with silence, in that moment, only the light snow and sea breeze hitting the windows made a sound. 

On her arm,  unmistakable, was the Lannister Lion, roaring perched on a white cloak and red banner. The lion was gold, resplendent, and proud. Not even the blood dripping down from her cut could mar the mark on Lyarra’s left forearm. It seemed like the gods, old and new, had decided that Lyarra Snow of House Stark was to bind the North and the Westernlands for the first time. 

Maege was the first to react, standing up, and saying “What you all saw stays in these halls until our Warden Lord Stark of Winterfell informs us otherwise. This matter is bigger than many of you have ever witnessed and secrecy is paramount, any loose lips will be dealt with by me personally.” Looking back down and Lyarra in the eyes, she finished, “I will write to your father post-haste and he will know how to handle this.” 

Little did those words do to reassure Lyarra Snow of what fate had in store for her. 

Chapter Text

The heart tree in the middle of the Godswood on Bear Island was vastly different than the one at Winterfell. Instead of one solid weirwood tree, it was two weirwoods that had grown together and become intertwined, lifting up the base and creating a canopy. Local legends say that because of the odd shape, the Children of the Forest decided to carve two weeping faces facing each other instead of one. The tragic lovers, locals called it, since they are intertwined together but never to kiss or be truly whole. 

As pious as Lyarra was, she found no solace in the heart tree and found only more mocking and irony in her current circumstances. But alas, here she was brooding under it, avoiding everyone, and praying to any and all known gods to will the damned mark away from her flesh. 

Snow had always known she had to marry at some point, soon even, since she had started her moon blood a few moons prior. As much as the older Mormont girls teased her for, as they perceived it, being dense when it came to matters of the heart, everything since she was ten was all meticulously calculated like her book keeping. Of course , Lyarra knew Galbart had an interest in her and she also knew that her work in turning the Mormont coffers around made her an attractive candidate to all Northern Houses - regardless of her bastard status. It also didn’t hurt that she was considered to be easy on the eyes and have Stark blood. However, as a bastard could never seem like she knew what she was doing - the appearance of naivete gave her the freedom of underestimation. 

Well in most cases, the bastard thought to herself.

Lyarra Snow vividly remembers the night before coming to Bear Island. It was storming and the thunder mixed with the growing emotions boiling inside her had kept her awake that night but it was still startling to see the door of her small bedroom swing open. With a small lantern in hand Lady Stark looked like the harbinger of death that night. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot, and wine staining her breath. She remembers being grabbed by Catelyn by the very same forearm that now graced the Lannister Lion. She also remembers the pain she felt as her half-siblings’ mother’s fingernails dug into her skin. However, it was her words that stung the most and marked her forever. 

“ I’ll let you know bastard that I hope you enjoy your time with those savage women. Because as long as I live, you will never set foot in Winterfell again. Mercy will be you getting snatched up by wildings or by Ironborn - for what I will have in store if you ever try to seduce my sons or take from my daughters will be a hundredfold worse. You will never be a Stark, you will never by a true Lady, you will always be just a nameless bastard.” 

The following morning she left with Lady Meage between tight hugs from most of her siblings, tears from Arya and growing sniffles from Robb the most pronounced of the bunch, and the comforting shoulder squeeze from her father. Lady Stark, for the first time since she could remember, looked her in the eyes and gave her a knowing smile. 

At ten she vowed she would at least prove Lady Stark wrong in her own way, Lyarra would make a name for herself, she would become a true Northern Lady, and she would be known as Stark in all but name. Snow was well on her way to proving her wrong too, all of her lessons and trousseau were geared towards the Northern way and to the benefit of all the people under the Stark rule. All that she needed to do was marry a loyal lord and serve his people to the best of her abilities. 

However, now that whole plan went up in flames - she has to do what all bastards and smallfolk alike do all that time. Re-adjust. 

---

“- I would even say that some of the most prolific political unions have started as marriage alliances from warring factions. Your impending marriage to House Lannister - most likely - will probably be beneficial to establishing a relationship between the Westerlands and the North that has been, pun very intended, frosty a best. I can’t think of any notable alliance made in recent years and this would be a great opportunity to defend against another uprising of the Ironborn.” 

Lyarra didn’t know whether to groan, pull her hair out, or scream. 

Currently she was stuck in Mormont Keep’s library listening to Maester Rolf wax poetic about the notable marriages and the historic consequences that these have had for the prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms. In any other context Lyarra would relish time in the library and would be attentively listening to the small Maester. However, the circumstances that put her in what is her favorite place in the known-world sours the usual sweet experience. 

Shortly after the incident in the Great Hall at breakfast, Maege forbid her from attending the trade meeting with House Glover and sent her to Maester Rolf instead to get stitched up. In the moment she appreciated the reprieve, as much as she worked on the ledgers and was looking forward to seeing if the deal went through, Lyarra felt emotionally like she was knocked around the training yard for five hours straight and the Maester did little to help. 

After he quickly patched her up Maester Rolf had insisted that once Snow had taken some time to digest the situation, that she come with him. He had dragged her to the library and insisted they go through a comprehensive history of Soulmarks. It was not a coincidence that the Citadel named Rolf to Mormont Keep - he was the foremost scholar in soulmarks and marriages. However, Maege and the rest of her brood did not really care much for whatever possible “potential” a marriage might bring to House Mormont and concentrated more in re-establishing the coffers that were neglected by Ser Jorah. However, his time had finally come to aid them in a prosperous marriage, not via any of the Mormont girls like expected but a soulmark, which was even better in his book. 

“Maester Rolf, as much as I appreciate all your help and enthusiasm, it was just two days ago that I found out I have a soulmark. As the foremost man of the scripture on such would you be so kind as to concentrate on that? You and I both know I have a lot of catching up on Westerland histories and the Seven, hence could you possibly give the abridged version?” Lyarra said in the most polite way she could muster at the moment. She liked the small man and usually would indulge him in his ramblings, god knows she is the only one in the castle who does, but Lyarra was in a limited time frame and the fact that the results of talks with House Glover would be given to her soon did not help her already sour mood. 

“Ah yes, yes. Sorry about that young lady - that reminds me that I pulled out some key readings on House Lannister and the Westerlands. You, girl!” snapping and waving to one of the nearby servants cleaning the library and handed her the heavy books. “Put these in Lady Lyarra’s room for her will you?” 

Before the girl could take her leave Lyarra put in a final “Thanks Poppy, we really appreciate it - if you haven’t taken a lunch break please do so after” 

Poppy gave her a wink in gratitude and left. It was not uncommon for Lyarra to give her courtesies to the servants and smallfolk alike. As a bastard under Lady Stark’s southron reign, she knew how easy it was for people not to see you as a person. Hence, she was a big proponent of treating everyone with respect and this was quickly adopted by most of the fellow Highborn in the castle as well. 

Maester Rolf, finally sat down in front of her, his usually the erratic eyes that flitted around the room looked at Lyarra dead in her own. He was in his element and he had the confidence of a warrior in battle. 

“Right well, on to Soulmarks” Rolf said as he rubbed his bony hands together “There is a reason that Soulmarks, or as they are referred to in the South, ‘the Maiden’s Markings’, are not taught regularly and are often relegated to fairy stories. The most recent one in our history is Jaehaerys and Alysanne, and people claim that Florian and Jonquil came before them. They’re extremely uncommon phenomenon that trace back to even before the founding of Valyria and they’re found all over the world. Because of their ancient nature all of the various races of men have differing notions of how and why they appear.” He pulled out a sheet of parchment that compared the First Men, Andal, Rhoynar, and Ironborn beliefs on Soul Marks.

“The Rhoynar beliefs follows that of the Seven. There are some texts about soul markings before mixing with Andals, however, they are few and far between. Many suspected they were intentionally lost.” 

Pointing at the Andal’s “The Andals belief is tied directly to the Faith of the Seven. In the Seven Pointed-Star it says that the Maiden gave Hugor of the Hill and his wife a mark that would bind their souls together. The rest of the Seven followed suit, the Father then judged both of their Houses as one, the Mother blessed the union with many a strong son, the Warrior imbued the pair with his protection, the Smith pledged that they would always be able to provide, the Crone saw many a great thing in their future, and the Stranger made sure they would never live apart.” 

He continued, “You may be most familiar with that of the First Men. The Children of the Forest as messengers of the Old Gods summoned markings on a pair that would bring about change and strong children. Your ancestor Bran the Builder was said to be a product of a Soulmark union.” 

Rolf then reached for her forearm where the mark laid “May I?” 

“Certainly.” responded Lyarra, pulling her sleeve back and laying her arm in his opened hand. 

Trailing his finger on the Lannister Lion he said “As you can see no one can agree how they first appeared and what they are really meant to be. Yet three things have always remained true from my observations. The first is that the gods, all the many in the known world, have a specific reason to unite two people. Second lies in godly ramifications that will happen to either punish or reward those that seek to prematurely stop what the gods want each person to accomplish together.” the Maester takes a deep breath “ Third, the pair will not be able to survive without the other until both of their duties to the gods are done.” 

“So I am now a big walking target?” Lyarra said drily. Great, my fate is in the hands of a Lannister. 

“No...and yes. Most, if not all cultures and civilized peoples fear the retribution of the gods in harming any of the intended pair. Yet, there have been individuals who fear what the pair might bring in their union and seek to defy the will of the gods.” Maester Rolf said as he put her arm back down on the table, rolled her sleeve down, and patted her hand. 

“You are tied to two of the most powerful Houses in Westeros now. I am certain you are the safest person in the world.” a chuckled followed. “Do not lose sleep over that aspect Lyarra.” 

Feeling both fearful and oddly reassured, the bastard in question leaned back in her chair. But before she could get too comfortable with her thoughts. A young man she had been teaching to read that works in the raverny called Edd came rushing in. 

“Sorry M’aster, M’Lady Maege said I had to give this to Lya at once,” he said while looking at the Maester but handing the small strip of parchment to Snow. Odd, Edd usually told her the correspondence anyway when their lessons rolled around. She knew this would be important then. 

“Understood but no running in the Library! This is a sacred place of learning --” Rolf started a rant with a grumble, but Lyarra tuned him out as she read: 

Lady Mormont, 

Thank you for your swift raven, but I already knew. Expect House Stark and company at Bear Island in one moon’s time. Prepare your ports for House Lannister as well. Both will send over enough money to prepare for a Wedding. 

   - Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

Chapter Text

Snow could feel the curious stares on her forearm as she finagled in the market, but that had become a common feeling as of late and she suspects it will remain for the rest of her life. 

It had been about three weeks since Bear Island had started it’s wedding preparations. It had also been years since a major wedding had taken place and the townsfolk did not remember fondly last time they had to prepare the castle for such an event. However, once they found out that not only would it be Lyarra’s nuptials but extra gold dragons were being sent by both House Stark and House Lannister to soften the blow, they were much more pleased with the goings on.

Yet, for many of the peasantry it was a bittersweet moment. The bastard of House Stark came in a trying time and completely reinvigorated the Island and trade in a way that filled their bellies and warmed their hearths - and she did it not moved by pity or piety but because it made sense to treat them as people. Truly as much as the servants and smallfolk will always be loyal to House Mormont (always), Lyarra Snow’s unwavering belief that every person mattered had garnered her a reverence in life most only garnered in death. So much so, that her reputation had started spreading around in the North and even to some other parts of Westeros. Hence, they were elated that such a kind and generous lady was making a good match but none really wanted to see her part to so far away.  

Lyarra always felt humbled and flattered that the people on the Isle had embraced and trusted her so but with that trust came a lot of candor of their feelings on her impending marriage. 

“I just don’t trust those yellow haired runts Lady Lya, in my years trading with them they think they are better than us and that’s not something me or Jen want you to be around. You are too good for them.” Thom, a short portly man with a jarringly high voice told her one afternoon. He was a textile merchant that specialized in northern leathers and wool, because of his trade he had travelled through the western coast of Westeros and has been a wealth of knowledge on the area for her. His wife had been a great help as well, since she was one of the only seamstresses that worked at all with Southron styles. He was currently insisting on her taking some silks and patterns Thom claimed were favored in the Westerlands. 

“Oh Thom, you know there is nothing I desire more than to stay on Bear Island but the gods make demands and we pay the price.” Lyarra replied while trying to hand the man a few silver stags “In the vein of prices and paying, please accept this is for all of your help. I know Jen does not believe in my ‘pity money’ but this is just the best way I know to give thanks”

“Nah’” Thom, with a shit-eating grin said as he shut her fist closed and refused, “I agree with her.”  He then loaded her arms with silks, broacades, and different kinds of lace making the pile bigger and effectively blocking her hand full of silver. 

“Lya!” shouted Jorelle, to the woman of the hour. Snow turned with her small mountain of cloth towards her foster sister. “Lyra wants you to come and see the dresses she and Jen have been working on.” 

“Well hello Jory, as you can see I was heading there just after finishing with Thom. Here help me with these.” Lyarra handed the small girl a third of the pile “Make sure the fabrics don’t drag and I’ll just pay Thom quick before we head to them.” However, when she turned around the stall was closed and the man in question was nowhere to be found. Which made the bastard slip an unlady-like “Fuck,” under her breath.

Jorelle snorted a laugh and said “Maybe you’ll have some luck slipping some onto Jen.” 

“Doubt it, I tried already and received a dressing down for the ages” Lyarra giggled to herself “Pun very intended,” as the younger girl groaned and started the short walk back to the Keep. 

“Apart from my unappreciated comedic nuances, how was your first class alone?” For the last two years Lyarra had taught local children and some adult residents of Bear Island how to read. It had all started as weekly storytelling and as time passed she realized that increased literacy among the general population promoted independence and greater opportunities for trade. Hence, with Maege’s approval, the bastard set up two classes every week, one for children, structured similarly to lessons highborn folk receive. Then another for merchants, traders, and other working folk more concentrated on jargon related to specific crafts and skills. Jorelle, the resident bookworm of the Mormont women, had joined Lyarra as an apprentice. As the older girl’s impending marriage and departure approached, they had come to a consensus that it was time for the apprentice to become the master. 

“Better than expected, however, I was still very nervous and it took me a bit to get my bearings. Especially with the older group, they had a lot of questions about regional vocabulary for fishing trade which I was completely out of my depth with.” Jorelle paused as they both smiled at the guards at the keep’s entrance, “Yet I followed your notes and could maneuver the overall flow of the lessons in the end.” 

“That’s great Jory! I’m truly proud of you. Also give yourself some credit where it is due - I would have not known how to answer that question either.” Lyarra replied as they directed themselves to quarters that used to be Lady Lynesse’s, now dubbed the base of operations for all things Wedding related. 

“Yeah, I think they asked that to trip me up.” the younger girl replied in a small voice as they approached the door and continued in the meek tone  “...I know they much preferred to have you there than I”

Lyarra was shocked, she knew Jory to be a vibrant and self-assured girl, especially when it came to anything related to the acquisition of knowledge. She looked around the hall making sure that no one was in earshot, she knelt down in front of her foster-sister and said with all earnesty, “Jory, you are one of the brightest people I know, and because of that brilliant mind of yours, you tend to overthink. Now look at me in the eyes.” Lyarra said while clutching the pile of clothes in her arms even tighter and rearranging herself to Jorelle’s eye level. “By the time you are my age you will be twice the tutor than I will ever be. This is your passion, you were meant for this Jorelle.” 

“Really?” the Mormont girl questioned, uncertain but more hopeful..

“The others take me if I ever lie to you Jory.” Lyarra stood up and added “Let’s go in before your sister considers murder.” She walked over to the heavy wooden door and tried to push it open with her foot. Luckily Lyra opened it before the bastard appeared too ridiculous. 

“Amazing! Thom really outdid himself,” exclaimed the middle child of the Mormont clan, while she completely ignored both her foster and blood sister to grab the pile fabrics. “Greens, purples, pinks, and of course reds - ah he even included some gold and silver lace appliques! Jen it bears repeating, Thom has amazing taste.” 

Inside Lynesse’s old quarters was a seamstress wonderland, on the unused bed laid at least three different unfinished gowns. One was a classic Lannister red but it seemed to be cut in a Northern fashion, with a high collar and silver embroidery, another one was a lilac purple that seemed to be airy and high on the bust, the last one was the typical baby blue that she wore often. There were also piles of cut up dresses, ones from which threads and fabrics were repurposed. Initially Lyarra felt terrible that House Mormont were giving her  the expensive fabrics that were on hand, however, Maege had insisted that none of her daughters had any use of the Southern fabrics and her daughters tended to agree. Even Lyra, the resident seamstress preferred to work with leathers rather than with silks. 

“Well, he did marry me! If that doesn’t show good taste, I don’t know what does,” Jen was a thin woman with wide hips and boney hands, her hair was a healthy chestnut brown and when she smiled her cheeks dimpled. She and Thom had been married for 14 years and have had six children together - and the seventh was on its way. Two of her daughters were helping her out today, Twany and Twil, twins at one and ten and good friends with Lyra, and the bastard’s former students. 

“Oh Lyarra, you are going to love these and so will your future husband!” said Twil in a dreamy voice. 

“He might just faint at the craftsmanship alone,” Twany joked back, teasing her sisters tendency to daydream. 

“If a Lannister can even stop looking at themselves in the mirror long enough, than mayhaps. I heard from Vic that the men are prettier than most of the women here. Made him all confused in his pants - whatever than means.” said Lyra, parroting what Jen’s oldest son probably told her, with a few cups in by accident

“Why would he feel funny in his pants?” chimed in Jorelle from where she was laying on the bed organizing some of the fabrics. 

For damage control and to avoid having to have a very awkward conversation with her foster-sisters in front of everyone, Lyarra thought on her feet and responded with what Maege had told her at that age, “When boys get to a certain age they get stupid and think they feel things when but it’s probably just gas.”

Terrible Lyarra, just terrible - god I need to let Alysanne know to give the talk to Lyra. Gods know Dacey would just scar them for a laugh. 

“Bah! Stop listening to my son’s nonsense” Jen said playing it off but looking like she would beat her son when he got close enough to her. “So, Lyarra dear, what are we going to do for the wedding dress?” 

“Jen, you know I do not mind wearing a hand-me-down from the former Lady Mormont. From what I gathered from my brother Robb, there will be two ceremonies - one here with the Old Gods and ones with the New at Casterly Rock. I am sure the lions have another dress being made as we speak.” Lyarra grabbed a the older woman’s hand and squeezed. “You and yours have done so much already.”

“She’s being annoyingly humble again.” Lyra loudly whispered to Tawny.

“Hey! Then you are just annoying.” the older girl replied back.

“Let her have it Lya!” injected Jorelle, while Twil giggled at them,
----

After two hours or so of her foster sister extracting her revenge on Lyarra by "accidentally" shoving pins in her behind. The bastard was headed to the Library where she was scheduled to meet the small Maester.

As she arrived she saw the small frame of the youngest of the Mormont Clan, hunched over a book almost as heavy as herself. A clear struggle painted on her face as she clutched her forest green dress and tried to read out the lines in front of her. 

“That is ‘p’ Lady Lyanna, not a ‘q’. Please concentrate, we have been over this.” the Maester instructed, frustrated at his young charge. 

“I try! I really do, it just jumbles up and I see it as I said.” replied the little girl while pounding her fist in a determined manner. 

Lyarra cleared her throat and had to bite her tongue from saying something rude to Rolf at that moment. They had previously discussed that Lyanna need a more patient approach for her development in reading. It was not that the girl was meerley simple, as many maesters would categorize her, it was that she simply needed a bit more time to digest the information in front of her. With a bit more patience and understanding from her instructor Lyarra was sure little Lyanna would flourish but impatience and visible frustration would just put her off on learning all together. And Lyarra would be damned if she at least try to make the people around her appreciate the wonder of a book. 

“Oh! Lady Lyarra, you are a tad early.” Rolf said in both a surprised and nervous manner, he knew that the bastard in question heard and did not appreciate how he was talking to her foster-sister. 

“I’m actually quite late. Lyanna, I imagine that your mother is in her study waiting for you. I think I heard her earlier, saying to some servants that she wanted you to go to her after your lessons.” She was actually a bit early to the agreed upon meeting, but it would serve Rolf right to sweat a bit thinking that Lyanna might complain to her mother. The little girl being more clever than most people expect was well aware what her foster-sister intended and looked back at her with a fiendish smile. 

“Well of course, I cannot leave until the great Maester let’s me.” Lyanna replied back in a sickly sweet tone. 

“Y-yes go, you can go.” 

Lyarra had to contain her laughter at how quickly Lyanna shot up and ran. But it quickly died as it started when she heard Rolf speak. 

“Well I see you finished all the reading I sent you. You spent more time on it than what I usually send you to browse,” the small man said regaining his confidence as he cleaned up the work table. 

Lyarra grimaced, “They weren't my usual readings really.” She sighed as she sat down and put her head in her hands as she griped at her former teacher “I have read each thrice and something just does not seem correct each time!” The bastard grabbed a piece of wayward parchment and the discarded quill Lyanna had left. 

“Care to explain?” Rolf queried,a bit amused at her frustration. 

“The last known recording of a Soul Pair appearing was with King Jaeherys and Queen Alysanne, before that it seems to have been a couple from the Riverlands that brought forth House Tully, and before that it was Princess Nymeria and her husband Mors Martell as they birthed a unified Dorne.” Lyarra said as she mapped out a timeline “Others in the in between were located in different parts of Essos - which we know not much about, but as you mention in The Guide to Soulmarks and Notable Pairings, we can infer that there is a notable marked pair that appear around the world once every  generation or so. Hence, it seems odd to me that the last known pair in Westeros was over 150 years ago! It just doesn’t make sense.” Lyarra explained while sighing, throwing the quill down, and leaning back in frustration. 

A little odd to not hear the Maester start rambling in a tone of superior satisfaction, born of having knowledge she knew not. Lyarra looked up and what she saw unnerved her. For the first time in her recollection, Rolf’s face was like a stone. Unreadable, unmovable, and truly terrifying as his gazed zeroed in on her observation. He suddenly took a breath, stood up, and as he did so, took the parchment, ripped it and threw it in the nearest hearth. 

“Hey!” exclaimed Snow offended. 

“Hush, follow me child.” Maester Rolf said in a voice above a whisper as he ushered her to the hallway and down to his quarters. “Swear to me this stays between us” 

“Well I would have to first know what we are doing, and honestly this is no--” 

“Swear it by all the known gods!” the Maester urged as he whirled around, robes akimbo and chains doing a light clinking sound as he moved, just in front of his doorway. 

“Yes, yes I do!” Lyarra swore, startled. She was thanking the gods she was currently in her training trousers as Rolf was surprisingly agile. As they both entered the room, Snow noticed how utterly small it felt, being that it was full of strewn about books and candles. For a man that was meticulously neat in the library, he was quite disorganized. Yet, her observations were cut short when she heard a crack and saw that the Maester had opened up an unassuming looking chest. He threw some stuff out on the floor, some old clothing, a sigil pin, and a wooden horse. All things that Lyarra gathered were from his life before the Citadel, in the Riverlands. 

“Aha!” Rolf exclaimed as he clutched a leather journal. “...I remember when you first came to Bear Island, Lady Lyarra, you were curious about everything and everyone. You asked so many questions that the servants would run the other way if they spotted you down the hall. However, I remember one question you asked me; “Why did you want to become a Maester?”.

“I remember - you never answered and made me write lines for the rest of the lesson.” Lyarra remarked reliving the cramp her hand had after that particular punishment. 

“Well, I didn’t answer because of this,” Rolf replied tapping the leather binding. “I was a bastard of House Whent - my mother was a washer woman who got tangled in the sheets with a member of a lower branch of the House. The Lady of Harrenhal felt pity for us and let us work for them and let me attend lessons with the rest of the children. However, as you know yourself, bastards are not the most popular of companions.” 

Lyarra suddenly felt a bit of shock at the revelation, she would have never guessed he had been a bastard and now a type of kinship towards the man bloomed in her. However, as she recalled most of her interactions with the maester over the last four years she realized that, even if he was quite uppity, he never had treated her any less than her trueborn counterparts. Probably the exact opposite, he seemed to give her a bit of leeway compared to her foster-sisters. 

“I never wanted to be a maester. No, not at all. I wanted to be a knight! To prove myself in battle and make my bullies pay for their japes - make something of myself, rather than being just a bastard. However, as you can see, I am not really built for battle, but I tried and trained on my own to maybe attract a knight to squire me. In one incident of the self-proclaimed training, I was roaming around the crypts of Harrenhal, hauling rocks from one of the decaying tower rooms. In there a found a chest marked by the Targaryen three headed dragon. After I read this right here, I decided to change the course of action I’d previously planned, and dedicate my life to deciphering soulmarks instead.” Rolf then, with his two thin hands gave Lyarra the book. Yet, upon further inspection she saw it was not a book at all, but a journal. 

‘Property of Prince Duncan of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne’

The breath seemed to be knocked out of her, but Snow still made out, “Maester...this is priceless.”

“And a secret that could have both of our heads. You are correct, there are some couples that have been omitted by the Citadel from the book of Soul Pairs. This holds some of the answers you seek, but share this with no one, not even your bonded.” Rolf emphasized grabbing Lyarra by the hand and clutching it. 

The Bastard of Winterfell understood, this type of information could piss off both former loyalist houses and the houses loyal to Baratheon, and that’s without taking into consideration that she is headed to the literal Lion’s den where the Queen Consort’s family resides. No, this is a secret she will keep. 

Lyarra chuckles wistfully, “Aren’t I lucky then, to have been fostered in the same place as you maester?”

“No child, there is no such thing as luck in our world - only fate and what the gods decide for us”

Chapter Text

Lyarra Snow should have been sleeping, as her family and notable Northern Houses were coming in the morn and the dawn was rapidly approaching. However, from memorizing the schedules of the inhabitants of Mormont Keep, these silent moments before the day started and everyone in the castle slept was her chance to start reading Prince Duncan’s journal. 

I woke up with a burning sensation on the underside of my forearm today, but, thinking it a bruise from Daeron’s prank from two day ago, (my brother has become quite enchanted with fire lately) I kept on with my day. 

However, as the day progressed it just got worse. Then It all went to shit when I was meeting with my father to discuss the betterment of the infrastructure routes between the Gold Road and the Rose Road. As I was jotting down some notes from our discussion, (I’ll go into finer detail later on my plans to convince House Lannister and House Tyrell to pay for the construction so we can avoid dipping into the Royal coffers.) 

The curious bastard took a pause on that statement, found the page where he did map out his strategy, then bookmarked the page to read later. 

    My arm went numb, toppling over the ink all on top of  the various parchments we had accumulated in the lengthy meeting. However, my father did not much care for the pieces of paper, (in my opinion my arm costs less than a year’s worth of  the policy planning I had concocted) and called the Grand Maester Luthor to help out.

When the maester cut the sleeve where it hurt, instead of the burn scar I knew was there the night before...it was a picture of three flowers

A gardenia 

A lily of the mist 

And a simple daffodil 

All flowers native to the Riverlands. 

As you can imagine my father's reaction was a mixture of shock, fear, and fury. He made the old maester swear that this information would not leave this room and if it did he would personally make sure his right eye ended up as blind as his left. 

Safe to say my secret is safe for now. My father then commanded Luthor to fetch the information on the soulbond between Jaehaerys and Alysanne. To start seeing what this all means. As much as my father tried to reassure me that all will fall in place in time, I can’t stop worrying. 

What will happen to my betrothal with Cerena Baratheon? I feel especially bad since we had fucked behind the -- 

As Lyarra tried to continue to read and keep her face not resembling a tomato, she had to stop since the future bride could hear the first footfalls of the servants getting ready for House Stark’s arrival. Snow quickly hid the book and tried to get some sleep, however it was hard to do so when so many questions lingered in her head and all that she so desired was to keep reading. 

---

Lyarra tried to calm her breathing, to no avail. 

The Bastard of Winterfell stood at the immediate left of Lady Mormont, as they all lined up to greet her family and the other liege lords and their own kin. All of the Mormont women dressed in their best bearings - similarly to when Lord Glover had come for trade negotiations. However, their ward had defiantly chosen to wear a dress embroidered with Winter Roses. It was her own form of protest, and the only that the bastard knew she could get away with. 

As much as Snow understood that her father had no choice and just as she has, must follow the will of the gods. She can’t help but feel resentful of Lord Stark. Not only did he send her away at the behest of his wife from the only home she has ever known, when the time came for her to marry her father did not even give her the option - no, the simple courtesy - of marrying at Winterfell. As uncharacteristically naive as it sounds, Lyarra had held the hope that when (not ‘if’ she knew, she always knew it would eventually happen) she would wed whomever, it would at least be in the place where her father's family was from. Hence it was a bit of a shock to her when Lord Stark had just ruled that she would get married at Bear Island. 

When Lyarra read the letter with the commands, there were many emotions going about her head, from who would she marry, to how her father found out before she or Maege would have written him, to the mundane comings and goings of having to plan uprooting her whole life in a few moons time. However, now that the dust has settled, and for the most part she is physically prepared for the ceremony and her impending relocation to the Westerlands- Lyarra’s ever whirling mind realized how utterly preposterous it was to have her wedding at Bear Island. The bastard girl considered this her second home, but she doubts her future family was keen on the choice. 

She was marrying into House Lannister for the gods’ sake. The House of the current Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the richest family in said land, and frankly a prosperous match, even if she was to marry the lowliest member of the bloody lot. Didn’t Lord Stark see that a House with such prestige could perceive this as slight? Especially as prideful and vain as their reputation suggests they all are. It was bad enough she wasn’t trueborn. 

Yet, when she tried to air her grievances to her brother Robb, all she got as a response was, “I know this is an emotional time, but Father must have a reason for picking Bear Island. And he has never failed at doing what is best for the North and House Stark.” Which was a typical load of horse shit - but she could not expect anything else from her dear brother. He idolizes their father too much. 

So here she was dressed in symbols tragically associated with Lyanna Stark, to let not only her Father but his own people know that his daughter felt like she was forced to leave the North, without much choice, similarly to her own aunt. 

Suddenly a hand squeeze pulled her out of her thoughts, and she looked up at Lady Mormont who gave her a warm smile and turned her head to the gate. It seemed her family had arrived. 

Lord Stark looked powerful on his horse, thick grey fur coat embroidered with his house sigil, and by the look on his face he had also just noticed what his eldest daughter was wearing, and Eddard did not seem pleased.

Behind him chuckling was the heir of House Stark and Lyarra’s older brother Robb. His auburn hair curled at the ends, and his face still held a bit of the boyish roundness but seem to be smoothing out. However, in that odd age between boyhood and manhood Lyarra noticed that her brother was trying to unsuccessfully grow facial hair similar to their father. It looked like a bald caterpillar had taken home on his upper lip. That alone made her crack a smile. 

Out of all her siblings, she wrote to Arya the most but she had seen Robb the most frequently. As the next Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he had started joining Lord Stark on his diplomatic trips and for the most part Lady Mormont tried to match up hers as well to bring Lyarra to visit her family. 

Behind Robb she could see small hands gripping his leathers, and as fast as the cold winter winds in the middle of a summer snow storm came bounding her favorite sister off the still moving horse.

“Lya! Lya! Lya!”  

“Arya no!” Shouted Lord Stark from his horse. 

Arya repeated her call as her small feet bounded towards her, and just as quickly as she bounded off of Robb’s destrier her little sister tackled her in a hug that made Lyarra lose her balance and fall backward. A grunt and a laugh accompanied the fall as she clutched the smaller girl. She could also hear her foster-sisters laughing on the sidelines as well. 

“I have missed you so much. I have so much to tell you! Did you know that Old Nan told me that a baby can grow scales? I think she is lying but -” 

“Well I have missed you too, Arya. But we can catch up later, I promise,” Lyarra interrupted what she figured would be a long stream of ramblings that would only be interrupted by the occasional breath. 

Ned Stark approached his dark haired daughters and took Arya from Lyarra,  setting her to her feet as Robb scurried behind his father and helped the bastard girl up. As she got up she saw the third member of her family bound out of a carriage. In the four years gone from Winterfell her younger brother Bran had grown like a weed - looking a lot like Robb did at the age of six. 

“Hello, Lyarra,” Bran replied shyly as he partially hid behind their father. 

“Hi, Bran,” Smiled back and held out her arms to invite him to a hug which the boy gladly accepted. 

“My apologies, Lady Mormont,” said Lord Stark to the Mormont matirach. 

“No skin off my back, Lord Stark - I have five of those right here.” Maege replied and pointed to the distance as she guided her daughters to form a circle. “I see that you brought one of the Manderly girls with you,” she noted as she looked back at the carriage  Bran had just exited. 

Sure enough, a girl about Lyarra’s age stood to the side, smiling nervously at the small crowd. The young woman in question had long blond hair that she wore in a braid, Lyarra noticed that the ends of it seemed green, her dress was a color between sea green and turquoise blue and had a scale motif.

“Ah yes. Apologies to both.” Her father then turned to the girl in question and she meekly walked over, “This is Ser Wylis’ youngest daughter Wylla. He sent her over to serve as Lyarra’s lady-in-waiting at Casterly Rock, in hopes that her knowledge of the Seven and of the South will benefit you.” 

Lyarra suddenly felt honored, nervous, and relieved all at the same time. House Manderly was the richest house in the North and White Harbor was the gateway of trade for the area. That meant that Lord Wyman not only trusted House Stark, but had faith that Lyarra would keep Wylla safe and hopefully help relations for trade via the three Houses - something that is as uncommon as a bastard receiving that kind of honor. This also meant she would not be entering the Lion’s Den alone but with a noble lady who was familiar with both the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods. However, this also put a large amount of pressure on Snow, she now had to make sure that both she and Wylla survived this unknown circumstance of her marriage. Lyarra had a feeling that was easier said than done. 

Lyarra took Robb’s hand and squeezed, he quickly looked at her and gave her a reassuring smile. Ah, so at least she had her brother’s approval.  

“Well, welcome Wylla, House Manderly is always welcome on Bear Island and in our Keep,” said Lady Maege without skipping a beat. “As you know this is my oldest and heir Dacey,” the woman in question gave a graceful curtsey and wicked grin that stretched the numerous freckles on her cheeks, and made her gap more pronounced. 

“Good to see you again Lord Stark and nice to see you Robb.” Which just prompted the heir of the Great House to gulp and smile. It seemed he was still terrified of her, since Dacey beat his arse in hand to hand combat last time they were at Last Hearth. 

“The feeling is mutual Lady Dacey.” Lord Stark responded as Arya interrupted from where her father was holding her by the shoulders in front of him, “You are the one that beat Robb in front of House Umber?” 

That earned Arya a laugh from House Mormont, a firm squeeze and exasperated look from her father, and her younger brother holding in laughs from where he stood in front of her. From the huffing that Snow could hear beside her, Robb was not amused. 

“Arya!” 

Dacey’s smile became even wider “Oh yes, I did!” 

“Awesome,” replied Arya and Lyarra had to roll her eyes. She just knows the older girl is relishing the moment and admiration. However, it made even shy Wylla giggle. 

“Don’t give her too much credit little Lady, my daughter already has a big head,” Maege said between laughs. “Moving on, this is Alysanne my second oldest.” 

“The one who does the whiskey?” asked Lord Stark

“The very same,” replied the young woman, puffing her chest out in satisfaction of being recognized for her hard labor. 

Robb leaned over to Lyarra muttering in her ear, “Can you get me some?” And the bastard whispered back, “Whiskey would lay you out harder than Dacey did.” Which earned her a shove. 

“And this is Lyra.” Who had taken to eyeing the seam work on Wylla’s dress. “The other small terror is Jorelle,” who was making faces towards Bran that made the boy laugh happily. 

“Last but not least, this is little Lyanna, my youngest” the name alone made Lord Stark’s eyes harden and smile grow tense. Yet Lyarra noticed how he seemed to soldier on. 

“Lovely family as expected, Maege. As you know this is Robb, my second son Bran, and as she has made herself known already, my daughter Arya.” Which prompted the girl in question to perk up.  Suddenly Lord Stark let out a breath he had seemed to be holding and without skipping a beat said, “Robb take Bran, Arya, and Wylla and follow Lady Maege to where you will be staying respectively.” 

Ice cold grey eyes suddenly looked towards vibrant amethyst as her father declared, “Lyarra and I have to talk.” 

---

As father and daughter walked arm and arm into the Godswood, silence fell upon them. Not in a bad way, Lyarra thought, quite the opposite actually. Something that she had always appreciated about the Stark patriarch is how he had a bone deep understanding that not all silences needed to be filled with noise. Some of her earliest memories was curling up in her father's side, away from his wife’s judgemental stares and the constant noise of her half siblings, with a book that she was reading while he worked in his study and the both of them enjoying one another in shared space. 

It wasn’t that Lyarra was necessarily quiet like her father, she can be the center of attention if needed and has never had a particular fear of public speaking, however, she just enjoys listening more. 

However, her father slowing down his pace and stopping brought her out of her thoughts, they were standing in front of the heart tree - the very same one she would be exchanging her vows with her bonded in front of. 

“Robb told me you are not happy with me,” Lord Stark said as he walked over to sit in front of the weeping faces, turning his back on her. “He says that you expected to be married in Winterfell and think that you marrying here on Bear Island is an insult.” 

Ned waited for his eldest daughter to respond. Lyarra did not confirm or deny the Warden of the North’s claims, she just kept looking at the ground as she clenched her fists. Anger at her father now spilling over to her brother. 

“So go ahead,” Lord Stark looked at his hands and then back at his daughter, waiting for her to respond. However, she remained silent. 

“Ah, no words now?” Ned goaded her a bit. 

“...You have never cared for what I had to say before. Why should it matter to you now?” replied Lyarra, finally looking at Lord Stark in the eye. Her eyes like fire, deep and alight with passion. “You have always commanded me to do everything. Do you know how utterly frustrating that is ? I know most women do not get a say in their fates, especially not bastards, however maybe a forewarning would suffice. Mayhaps a bit of reasoning for why you decided to do so.” Tears started to form around Snow’s eyes, her voice became shaky. 

“I was utterly terrified when you came in my room when I was just ten and said I was going to Bear Island. I had thought you had finally had enough of the bastard in your household and decided that two daughters were enough.” 

“I thought you loved it here.” Ned said in a steady voice.

“I do, and I cannot deny that this place has made me flourish in ways that probably never would have occurred had I stayed in Winterfell. Yet, it still does not take away how powerless and small I felt-- and, and that was with your bannerman!” tears flowed more freely now, staining her sky blue dress, and Lyarra had to pause to control her breathing. 

“When I woke up with this damn mark, I needed you to listen, to be there, to make me feel like it was going to be okay. But all that I got was cold indifference. You, I needed you to be my da’ but it became clear that you cannot be that anymore.” Lyarra through her tears saw that Lord Stark had put his head in his hands. “I feel like everyone is privy to what is going on in my life but myself. At least let me know when I am being sold like cattle, I ask - no, no I beg you to at least let me know when and how am I allowed to live.” 

“You promised me, you promised that I would always find a home at Winterfell when I left Bear Island. Will that still ring true when I bear the Lannister name and bear the House children? Will you proudly call family those who share blood with the type of people you look down upon?” 

Lyarra’s eyes were so full of tears, her emotions running wild like a flowing river that shatters a dam. Her chest hurt, she felt warm and cold at the same time. Hands shaking, breath ragged, and years of pent up frustration at the forefront are all suddenly quelled when she feels herself being taken off of her feet into a hug. 

“I’m sorry.” said Ned Stark in a quiet voice. “I did promise, and I failed that promise. To you and to your mother.” 

The bastard could not catch a breath and she leaned back from her fathers caring embrace. Mother? My mother? She thought in disbelief. Snow had resigned herself to live and die never knowing who her mother was. 

“My mother made you promise?” 

“Your mother loved you, she died in the birthing bed, but she made me promise to keep you safe and it seems that I have failed”

The bastard’s tears stopped in shock. She loved me, I was loved. Her mother loved her like Lady Catelyn loves her siblings, like Maege loves her daughters, like Jen loves her brood. Love! she was loved! Not given away, not forgotten, but loved. Enough to hand her to her father, to make him swear she would be safe. Whomever her mother was, she was all that Lyarra had wanted. It made her feel a bittersweet learning that she would never get to meet her fabled mother, but it was overridden with pure joy of knowing she was wanted.

A verbal vomit ensued, “What was her name? What was she like? Did you love her? Did she love you? Do I have more fam-” 

“Lyarra.” Lord Stark shook her firmly, “There is a lot I want to tell you but I can’t. The only thing I can say now is that she loved you.” 

“Why? Why can’t you even give me a name?” pleaded Lyarra stepping back and coming back to her senses. 

“When you become a mother yourself, then I’ll tell you all about her,” Ned promised, grabbing and squeezing her right hand where her soulmark was. 

The bastard sensed that she would not get anything else from her father, and pressing him would yield her no new fruits. She took a moment to relish the small information she had received. Her greatest treasure. 

Yet as Lord Stark casually mentioned motherhood in relation to herself, it made Lyarra’s mind whirl wildly and go back to her impending marriage. “Father, I have been meaning to ask you, but I thought it would be more appropriate in person. How did you find out that I had a soulmark before I ever wrote you about it?”

Lord Stark sighed, took a deep breath, and cracked his neck in preparation, “Each soulmark is unique, apparently your bonded has words in dialects from Westrosi to Yi-Tish, but he could make out my name and yours. Hence, House Lannister contacted me and it arrived before Lady Mormont’s did.” 

Lyarra tried her luck one more time and she would come to regret it, “Ah...and who might my Soul Bonded be?” 

“Ser Jaime Lannister”

Chapter Text

I’m going to fling myself off of the highest tower in this damn frozen shithole

Ser Jaime Lannister was miserable, angry, and most of all freezing. Right now he has hiding out from his father, Lord Stark and his equally judgemental and slow bannerman in the small room he was given by the She-Bear. Harking back to his childhood, one of those days he would dress up in Cersei’s clothing as she took up his training and he would hide from the blasted septa, Jaime had himself wrapped in furs and wool blankets he had been given. If seen from the outside he looked like a huge lump in the middle of the bed. However this arrangement suited him just fine - it succeeded in the knight’s ultimate goal of avoiding the girl tied to him and responsible for cursing him with the dreaded soulmark. 

The Kingslayer had never imagined he’d wake up with one, for gods sake he was two and nine and these suckers were for bright eyed green boys. The day he’d woken up with pain from his wrist to his elbow the Kingslayer expected to be a good one. The oaf married to his sister was out hunting so most of the Kingsguard and the court had joined the King, his father and brother were in King's Landing, and it had been one of those nights were he could stay beside his sister all through the following morning. 

Yet, around the time when the sky was turning orange and the sun was barely peeking out into the world an intense pain stabbed right through the middle of his forearm, radiating outwards. It felt like the bottom of the seven hells and Jaime even let out an undignified yelp that promptly got him kicked out of the queen’s quarters as punishment. 

However, being the battle tested knight that he was, the Lannister Kingsguard had brushed off the pain as being due to overexertion in the training yard or mayhap just old age catching up to his swordhand. Regardless, he went about his rounds as usual, until around midday and an incident in the yard. He had almost had his sword hand cut off by Lancel. Lancel, who had only just arrived to begin squiring for Robert. He had lost complete control of his sword arm due to blinding pain radiating up and down it. The idiot greenboy panicked and overcorrected, knocking his pommel into his older cousin’s temple, leaving the Kingslayer unconscious.

Jaime doesn’t remember much after that, but he does remember waking up surrounded by Pycelle, Jon Arryn, and his father, all discussing his future as if he were a corpse awaiting the Silent Sisters. 

“He can’t be part of the Kingsgaurd now! Are you really willing to put the realm in disorder because of a Targaryen tradition?” his father seethed at the older Hand. 

“Lord Lannister is right Jon, the Gods have chosen Ser Jaime and unintended consequences happen to those who stand in the way of their will” 

Thinking back on the exchange it sounded like Tywin was comparing himself to the gods and Pycelle was backing that notion. Typical.

“Fine! Fine...I’ll talk to Robert about new recruits for his position. We should also contact Ned as soon as possible.  ”

Just like that, even before Jaime was fully conscious, Lord Lannister and the Lord Hand had come to a consensus to expel him from the Kingsguard, what would be the most pertinent exit strategy, in order to keep it under close wraps from the general public (including, for the good of the realm, his sister), and agreed that two ceremonies by both the Old Gods and the New would ensure that no one would dare protest the union. 

Hence, that is why the Kingslayer was now wrapped up in blankets freezing his arse off on Bear Island awaiting his first marriage ceremony tomorrow. 

When they had written to Lord Stark, he had originally insisted on the ceremony being held at Winterfell among the girls family - she is of my blood and should be married like a Stark in Winterfell - the icy Lord of the North had written. Even his Tully wife had interjected in a separate letter, using her southron courtesy to appeal to his father after she rightly assumed her husband did not play politics - It would be an honor for House Stark and the North to be able to celebrate House Lannister and its future partnership. However Lord Tywin had demanded that it be on Bear Island instead, the time it would waste to head from Casterly Rock to Winterfell would be too great. Gods know his father wanted him married as quickly as possible. Traditions and pride be damned. 

House Lannister knows all too well what can happen if you delay the inevitable when it comes to Soulmarks.

Suddenly a knock on his door made Jaime partially rise from his blanket fort glaring in its general direction, only his face and some strands of golden hair peeking through. His little brother, in every sense of the word, came in looking as visibly cold as Jaime. However, when Tyrion’s mismatched eyes fell on his brother he let out a chuckle.

“Oh how the realm would react to see the fearsome Kingslayer hiding from a girl like she was Balerion the Dread come again!” Tyrion said with a mocking tone, as he sat down next to the pile of blankets that was his brother while pulling out two small meat pies. “You didn’t have to skip supper you know, you wouldn’t have seen your blushing bride to be anyway. Northern traditions dictate the bride cannot leave her chambers until the wedding ceremony. So you decided to starve for nothing” 

Jaime burst out of his fur pile, hair askew and sticking up in all directions, something he normally would hate, he snatched the meat pies from Tyrion’s small hands, and ate them with gusto. “And subject myself to those Northern savages and their thickheaded Lord? No thank you.”

When Jaime went to take his first bite, his loose shirt sleeve fell, leaving his forearm bared to the world. It instantly caught the mismatched eyes of the dwarf and before the older of the two could so much as blink, it was snatched in a strong grip.

“If I was blessed by the gods with such a beautiful riddle, I would spend the rest of my days trying to figure out what it said. But alas!” Jaime knew that there were words unsaid in the air - however as per his usual modus operandi, he did not dwell upon it or push further, sticking to a clever retort instead.. 

“You see it a beautiful riddle, I see it a bothersome problem. Why in the seven hells would the gods put writing on my arm if I can’t fucking read it?!” the marked one exclaimed while pulling his arm away and shoving the last piece of pie in to his mouth. The whole situation left him just as exasperated as it did infuriated.

“Well to be fair, even if it was in Common Tongue it would take you ages to read it,” Tyrion replied. “While I know how much you hate it, you do have to admit it is quite the sight.” 

Indeed it was, Jaime thought sourly to himself. He finally looked down to his mark and he did have to admit it was quite impressive. Starting from his wrist down to his mid forearm, words swirled down his arm in vibrant red and black lettering, words of various dialects. The first few lines were in High Valyrian, after that some seemed to be in the Old Tongue of the First Men, a language that is apparently lost to all but wildlings beyond the wall. Then it stopped abruptly, incomplete. 

However, as Jaime is the unluckiest fool alive, the only two pieces that any common person could decipher were the name of his bonded and Lord Eddard Stark. He had fucking Ned Stark’s bloody name on his body, until he died. Actually, it’d remain even after he died, inked into his corpse until he was naught but dust and worms. Fuck the gods. 

Before leaving King's Landing, Pycelle had mentioned to his father and himself that soulmarks are ever changing and evolving, that most likely the message will be completed as he grows older. Jaime didn’t much care either way, but knowing this, Tywin tasked his youngest son to research what the words could mean as much as possible. It was a hard ask, however Tyrion did decipher some key information. He found that two of the words in High Valyrian meant ‘fire’ and ‘prince’ and also deciphered that some of it was the Old Tongue when an obscure book mentioned a word meaning ‘fight’ that was also located on Jaime’s arm. Apart from that, it had been impossible to know what it says. 

Even before Robert's Rebellion, High Valyrian was mostly reserved for members of House Targaryen (with some Houses like the Daynes and the remaining Valyrian Houses like the Velaryons and Celtigars, also knowing it). However, King Robert ordered the language banned at the beginning of his reign, to such an extreme that even traders from Essos are barred entry if they cannot speak the Common Tongue. Hence, even Tywin decided that the risks were too grand to ask any of the aforementioned houses or hire an Essosi merchant. Marks are private matters and Jaime’s might contain information that could ruin the Lannister name.

The second part of the mark was even more of a lost cause, after the North’s assimilation to the Seven Kingdoms the language was all but forgotten. Apparently some of the Wildings still spoke it, but when would Jaime ever get to the opportunity meet one? Not ever, if he has any bloody say in it. 

“I know we are at a stalemate in knowing what the mark says, but I think it is a poem or a song.” Tyrion said offhandedly, while rummaging through his coat. 

“Really? I never thought you a romantic,” Jaime commented, trying to get the attention away from him and onto his brother. 

“Oh, you know, weddings put me in touch with the blushing maid inside.” The usually drunken dwarf then handed his knightly brother a bottle of something, “Another thing I swiped - the infamous Mormont Whiskey! From what I overheard this isn’t even the good stuff, but it will get grown men to the floor in one or two glasses.”

“I take it you took that as a direct challenge?” 

“You know me so well! I think we both especially need this right now,” Tyrion asserted while popping the cork off the bottle. “Your wallowing for your impending nuptials and my wallowing because this brown drink here has made whores go into retirement!” 
“What a tragedy,” Jaime deadpanned as he grabbed the bottle and took a big swig. It went down his throat in a way that reminded him of hot milk of the poppy. He immediately started coughing. “Seven Hells! That can’t be a drink meant for any man or living creature!” 

“Ah you were always the weakest link when it came to drinking in the Lannister bunch. Let a master take the lead.” 

Jaime’s coughs mixed with unhinged laughter as he watched his little brother’s face contort and turn beet red as the abrasive drink went down his throat. They kept on sharing the bottle the rest of the night, until it was finished, laughing, exchanging barbs, and all in all forgetting what the morrow would bring them. 

Chapter Text

It was damp, dark, and cold. As Lyarra took a breath she could feel warmth engulf her whole body, from the center of her chest to the tip of her smallest toe, her mouth especially felt numb and loose.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The sound was familiar but magnified, so loud the bastard’s head seemed about to explode. She was in pain, yet under her own feelings Lyarra felt another presence alongside her own thoughts. Instead of pain, the other thing (person?) was annoyed at the sound but also at Lyarra herself.

What was this voice in her head? Was she going mad?
----

Lyarra woke up before the break of dawn on her wedding day, with a dry mouth and a cold sweat, and thin limbs wrapped tightly around her midsection. Taking labored breaths that rattled her chest, she gripped her sister’s shoulders as she tried to calm herself. Arya awoke to the turmoil her sister was experiencing.

“...Mmm are you alright?” her youngest sister mumbled sleepily, opening her grey eyes to gaze up to wide violet ones.

“I think so...just a bad dream. I must be nervous.” Lyarra responded and to distract Arya and anymore questions she may ask, she tickled the girl’s sides which made the younger shriek and roll away from her. “Today I’m getting married! Are you excited? That means you get to start your fostering here soon.”

As House Mormont was growing it’s influence in the North, it only seemed natural that House Stark would foster one of their trueborn children, as a sign of favor and good will. Arya was of course the most natural choice out of the five. Lyarra almost snorted in laughter imagining Sansa, the epitome of a southron lady, living with the fierce Mormont women. She’d be scandalized, and all involved would be terribly unhappy. Arya, however, Arya was a perfect fit; she’d thrive at Bear Island.

Her giggles turned into groans as she rolled off her sister, “Do I look like Sansa? Why would I be excited for a wedding?”

“I know, I know. I’m just jesting. However, you should be excited, fostering here is wonderful! I loved it and I am so happy you will get to experience it as well.” Lyarra promised while getting off of the bed and stretching, her long arms extending above her head making her look even taller than she was.

“I am excited but it also feels a bit...I don’t know... sad.” Arya mumbled in a quiet voice back to the bride to be.

Lyarra turned and looked at her youngest sister in surprise, from her experience this type of attitude was quite unheard of from the littlest she-wolf. “Bittersweet, that’s the word you are looking for. That feeling of happiness and sadness. However, why are you feeling that way? Since your earliest letters to me you have been begging father to let you come here.”

“With you! I wanted to be here with you! And now you’re leaving, you won’t even be in the North anymore but the stupid Westerlands, as a stupid Lannister!” Arya cursed, breathing heavily with glassy eyes and erratic breath. “It’s just isn’t fair!”

Lyarra grabbed her sisters face in both of her hands and with purple hued eyes looking at stormy grey “Look at me - breathe. In and out. '' The bastard herself set her breathing in a steady pace and soon the younger of the two matched her. “I know it is not fair. Trust me, if it were my will I would stay here and have all the wonderful adventures you have dreamed up in that head of yours. However, life and the gods rarely gives us what we want.”

The tears started to fall as Arya tried to wiggle out of her sisters grip, but Lyarra didn’t let her go “Yet I know you will have the best of times here and once I am in Casterly Rock I promise you that as you have bared witness through letters to my escapades here, I will certainly bear witness to yours.” The older let’s go of the younger’s face and turns her back. Arya looked upon her confused as Lyarra rummaged through one of her chests on the floor.

“I was going to give this to Dacey to give to you when she thought you’d have earned it. However, now is as good a time as any.” The bastard girl said as she stood up and turned around, holding a thin sword made for small hands.

Arya gasped “Is that for me?” attempting to grab the weapon from Lyarra’s grip, the girl in question quickly sidestepped her sister.

“Yes, however, even if it was made for you this is still a weapon. Weapons are to be treated with care and can cause harm. This is not a toy and if any of the older Mormonts see fit to take it away they are more than in their right to do so. Do you give me your word that you will wield it with honor, grace, and prudence?” Lyarra asked her excited little sister.

“I do, I do!” Arya replied excitedly as her sister put the thin blade in her hands. “I will make you and House Stark proud with this. Like, like Queen Visenya or Princess Nymeria”

“Oh those are quite the women of note right there. You know all legendary swords have names. Are you going to give this one a proper title?” the violet eyed girl asked with a tone of sweet regard.

“Of course!” Yet Arya took a moment to think. As Lyarra expected, she must have dreamed about this moment but never really took into consideration all the formalities that having a blade of her own might come with. “I think...I will call it Needle. Sansa has hers and now I have mine”

“Fine name, for a fine blade” the bastard’s stomach dropped a bit at hearing her other sister’s name. With all the commotion about the wedding ceremony, the Lannisters, and the whole soulmark situation she had quite forgotten to think at length of Sansa. She cannot imagine the redhead took any of these recent developments gracefully. Robb had informed her that she would be joining the Casterly Rock ceremony, as the girl had begged their father to let her go South instead of farther North.

As much as her instinct to overthink things started to set in, her thoughts were interrupted by Arya launching herself towards Lyarra and wrapping herself around the bride to be. Luckily she had set the blade down on the bed first.

“Thank you, this is why you have always been and always will be my favorite”

As the younger Stark girl said that, it seemed Lyarra was now the one with tears forming in her eyes. “I love you too sweet sister and that will never change”

Yet the sisters had to part ways quickly, as the loud knock on the door meant the Mormonts and Jen were outside to get Lyarra ready for the inevitable.

---

As tradition dictated, Lyarra was given a few moments alone to say a prayer to the Gods for a blessed marriage and good favor for a bevy of children. However, even with evidence that they must evident on her arm, she could not bring herself to give a moment of reverence to the mysterious beings who had derailed what little control of her destiny Snow had thought she had.

Instead she gazed at the woman in the mirror in front of her.

Lyarra barely recognize herself, for as long as she could remember she had worn simple styles of hair and garb. Initially peddled by Lady Stark as a reminder of her station and to make her blend into the walls of Winterfell as much as possible, her palette mostly consisted of greys and browns most of her daily life. Only really dabbling in soft blues and greens once she arrived on Bear Island, and even then that was only really reserved for visitors and special occasions. However, she will have to get used to it, the servants that had bought up her food last night let Lyarra know that the Lannisters would even consider this Wedding dress homely compared to the pomp and circumstance that they had exhibited.

She could admit to herself she did look quite beautiful today. The dress that Jen had lovingly created suited her well. It was a regal snow white, an unusual color to see worn in the North since it is so prone to stain, with dagged sleeves that exposed her arms for ceremonial purposes and a “key-hole” back (Jen swore it is a popular emerging style in the South and that it will inspire a bit of daring to her husband to be) were the only skin below her face visible, the rest was covered in fabric. From the neck to her her mid thighs it hugged her form and then it elegantly fanned out to a train. Winter roses from buds to blooms made out of blue velvet covered the whole dress in artful ways making it seem like Lyarra herself produced them as she moved. As a last detail the same blue velvet that Jen used for the flowers was used by Lyra to tie her hair back up in a Northern crown braid bun, which pulled the last remaining plump of her youthful face back. Making her cheekbones sharper and overall making her look older than the bastard actually was.

Dreaming of ever looking this way was not a luxury anyone except highborn and trueborn ladies got, so looking at herself this way was bizarre to the bastard. Almost like an imposter had taken her place, who was this woman because she could not be Lyarra? Was this the woman that the Lannisters wanted? If so, would she live her life with the feeling that she is not worthy, not herself?

Even with these questions swirling through her head, a small part of Lyarra thoroughly enjoyed how she looked.

A knock on the door pulled the bride out of her thoughts, the familiar creak of footsteps entering the room made her suddenly and incredibly sad. This would be her last time in this room, her last time with complete independence, and the last time she might feel truly like Lyarra Snow ever again.

“Are you ready?” Lord Stark asked his eldest daughter. As Lyarra stood up from her chair at the vanity, she saw her lord father looking quite regal but understated. He was wearing his House colors of grey with a subtle wolf motif on them and his nicer wolf pelts around his shoulders.

“As I will ever be.” replied the bride. Then she hissed out, “Damn,” as she grabbed her exposed forearm.

“Are you alright?” her father asked in concern, stepping closer towards her.

“Yes, Maester Rolf warned me this might happen. It’s just the mark expanding, not a pain I will be unfamiliar with,” Snow replied, cradling her forearm close to her chest. Ned looked apprehensive but did not press further, half out of confusion and half out of wanting to respect his eldest daughters wishes.

“You look nice.”

Lyarra smiled, knowing her father wanted to get her mind off of the pain.

“I have something for you,” he continued, surprising her.

Ned pulled out a simple ring from his doublet, it was small, delicate and silver, it was in the shape of a wolf biting its own tail.

“Wouldn’t this be better for Sansa or Arya?” Lyarra asked her father.

“Lady Stark will give them their own trinkets she inherited from her mother when they wed. However, this was once worn daily by sister and also my mother, your namesake, before her passing. I’m sure both would have liked you to have it.”

The bastard of House Stark was rendered speechless, her father rarely talked about his own mother and never about his sister. So it was touching that he had chosen her out of all his daughter to give the keepsake. It may not be of great monetary value, but because of who wore it before her it was priceless to House Stark.

Lyarra took the ring and slipped it on her index finger of her right hand, as she was left handed, she wanted to make sure the ring did not fall to misuse by putting it on her dominant hand.

“Thank you so much, I will cherish it.” she told her father as she gave him a kiss on his bearded cheek.

---

Before she could even process it, her father had ushered her out of Mormont Keep and unto the entrance of the Godswood. Many of the servants and smallfolk of the island stood outside small wooden carvings bowing and giving their blessings as Lyarra and Lord Stark passed them by. Only the members of noble houses and those who came with the Lannister party were allowed in the Godswood proper, however, it warmed Lyarra’s heart to see some of her friends and students. She even peaked a glimpse of Thom and Jen with their brood in the very front, both looking proud and pleased.

As they went deeper into the Godswood, members and representatives of the various Northern Houses, like the Umbers, Glovers, Cerwyns, and Karstarks became visible. Lyarra even recognized some knights of various Westerland houses like Marbrand, Lefford, and Crakehall by their sigils but apart from that most were completely foreign to her. The bastard made a note to read up more on the Houses and when introduced to the people to remember their names. The heads of each house carrying lanterns, making the Godswood glow in warmth.

At the front of her side of the ceremony were the Mormonts and Lady Wylla, the formers were dressed in various hues of greens and bear pelts while the latter wore a dress with scale motifs in her houses colors. Lady Mormont, who was seated in front of her daughters with the Starks, had even donned a dress for the occasion. To the left of Lady Meage was Arya, dressed in Stark grey with her hair pulled back in a northern bun, she seemed to be scowling at the groom. Beside her was her brother Bran who seemed to be in awe of all the knights, but especially gawking openly at the Kingslayer. He looked like a miniature version of Robb who was standing beside an empty space meant to symbolize Lyarra’s mother. He looked proud in his House colors with his head up high and his curls framing his face like a crown.

Gods Robb, try to look less constipated.

On the other side of the Godswood, Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and father of the Queen, looked fearsome. He wore mostly black but the proud golden lion (not dissimilar to the one on her arm) was emblazoned on his chest. However, Lord Lannister seemed to be openly scowling at his eldest son, his ears and the back of his head seemed red with anger. The youngest and smallest of the Lannister brothers, The Imp, had an infamous reputation of being a drunkard and a lech. From what Lyarra saw of him in the moment, he seemed to be living up to one of those titles since he seemed visibly hungover.

Lord Stark squeezed her arm as they walked up to the Heart Tree, she could feel all the eyes on her now. Some in judgement, some in admiration, some in derision, but most just in indifference.

Lyarra avoid glancing at her bride-groom, instead concentrating on the Heart tree. The Lovers mocked them as the two weeping faces seemed concentrated on each other. As if the tragedy is theirs to experience and not hers.

Once in front of the heir to House Lannister she finally looked at her groom. The first thing that she noticed was how heartbreakingly handsome he was. Like a knight from one of Sansa’s fantasies, Jaime Lannister was as comely as the rumors and tales professed. With his hair of beaten gold, that framed a chiseled jaw, and sharp cat-green eyes. He was a tall man with the build of a warrior and the stance of one too. This is what a King should look like.

Yet with her trained keen eyes, she noticed the bags under his eyes and she smelled the distinct aroma of whiskey and vomit. He was just as hungover as his brother. Well that explains Lord Lannister’s rage.

Controlling her face, Lyarra understood the importance of first impressions. It was the first time that any of her future House and a handful of future subjects laid eyes on her. The Kingslayer could play the fool if he wanted, but a bastard would never be afforded that luxury. So she set her face in a neutral and seemingly happy expression. Even if she felt like taking a branch and whacking her soul-bonded upside the head.

“We gather here today for the union of a soul-bonded pair, as chosen by the Old Gods they now present themselves to be united by blood in front of them today.” Usually the head or the next oldest male of the groom’s family preceded the ceremony. However, since she was marrying a Southron it was Lord Stark who had the honor of marrying his daughter to the Kingslayer. Since the pair was a soulmarked one, a variety of changes are to be made to the ceremony, a key aspect that she was thankful for. The usual ceremony would emphasize giving her away like cattle, this ceremony - the first one done in 500 years - would put Lyarra and her groom in equal footing even if it was morbid.

“Are there any objections?” the only sound that responded was the soft crackling of blood red leaves of the Weirwood.

“Lyarra” another break from tradition, it was usually the groom who went first but once again they had to teach Ser Jaime through example. Snow looked at her father and saw the ceremonial dagger in his hands, it was made out of a glassy black material and it was mostly rarely used in the North. Lyarra then took it in her hand and then took the Kingslayer’s hand where the mark surely laid as he had been clutching it. By the expression on his face he seemed alarmed and tried to wretch his hand out of hers, however the bride was quicker and she slashed a hollow line across his palm. Enough to draw blood and create a shallow scar but not enough to actually cause any serious damage.

This caused Jaime to hiss out and glare at this bride, this in turn made Lyarra smirk a bit.

However, always cognizant of duty, the bride held out her hand and the dagger towards Ser Jaime. Which he grabbed both firmly and also slashed the palm of her left hand, a bit slower pace as retribution for her pleasure in his own pain. Lyarra silently winced as her palm was sliced open and the blood of both her hand and that of her groom dripped down her arm, staining a bit of her dress.

“And now the couple shall pay tribute to the Old Gods in blood together” Lord Stark then took both of their bloody hands and put Lyarra and Jaime’s palms to one Weirwood face each, completing the marriage ceremony.

“May pain teach these two to become one, and may the scars remind them that only each other can they depend on. Blood of blood, family now and evermore.” Lord Stark then proceeded to join their hands then guide them to walk out of the Godswood together.

Sensing that her new husband was confused to say the least, Lyarra nudge him along and said in a low voice, “Just follow me.”

“If it will get me out of here and close to the nearest wine glass then I’ll be sure to follow you forever” Jaime replied whispered sarcastically back but graciously walked beside her.

“Are you sure you can handle another glass Ser Jaime? You are lucky the ceremony did not involve any vows, everybody would have realized you cannot handle a bit of a drink. What a man of legend you are indeed” Lyarra whispered back, her anger, her nerves, and the overall exasperation towards the heir of the Westerlands loosening her usually reserved tongue and courtesy.

“Here I thought that I’d just be saddled with a simple bastard but I get the added bonus of her being a clever pain in my arse as well. Lovely.” Ser Jaime replied with such utter vitriol that it snapped Lyarra out of any of the bold inclinations that had clouded her judgement. So instead of replying back she smiled back at her new husband, turned her head, and kept walking towards the Keep

---

After silently gritting and drinking her way through the utter disappointment at her husband and soul bonded through her ceremony, she was now with the handsome idiot in their marriage chambers getting their palms stitched up by Measter Rolf. The newlyweds had their wounds disinfected as soon as they entered the Keep, but Lord Lannister had insisted in stitching them up and giving the wounds a once over. As she was the Maesters favorite, Lyarra was stitched up first which lead her in her chemise, to lean upon the bedpost observing the Kingslayer get his wound looked at as she sipped some wine.

Seated across the Maester the Kingslayer was hunched over, his right elbow on his knee and his other hand supporting his waist. Jaime had already taken his outer layers off and only wore his white undershirt. Which meant that his forearm was exposed to both Lyarra and the Maester.

His mark was much more interesting than hers, Lyarra thought to herself. From the angle she was looking at it, the mark seemed to be a mass of swirling letters all in different scripts. She recognized her own name and her father’s, which she knew were already there. But Snow, now Lannister I guess, saw some words in Old Tongue. Namely the words, ‘Ice’ ‘fight’ and ‘bastard’. Some were in Valyrian, which since reading Duncan’s journal she could recognize it written, yet the words on her husbands arm were yet to be mentioned in the dairy. The rest seemed like gibberish to her. However, Lyarra was not the only one to notice Jaimes souldmark.

“How fascinating! You may be the first recorded case of a soul image containing words!” exclaimed Rolf excitedly, however when he tried to grab Ser Jaime’s arm he was rudely pushed away.

“Don’t touch me! Leave you pest before I make sure you have no hand to grab me again.” the Kingslayer said in a huff as he stood up and turned towards a vanity where the wine and was set.

Avoiding anymore rude behaviour from her Lord husband, Lyarra quickly stepped in and ushered the Maester out of the room. Quickly mouthing her apologies for him, however, it was not the first time Rolf had dealing with haughty highborns. So he winked at her, as to almost say ‘no worries dear.’

As Lyarra closed the door, the new cause for a perpetual headache’s voice rang across the room.

“So are you going to lecture me about manners? Oh no, I think you have a witty comment up your sleeve that you are just dying to throw at me.” He chugged the last of the arbor red. “Let make something very clear wife,” Jaime made the word sound like it was dirt on his tongue. He was drunk, drunker than the night before it seemed.

“I will never love you, I will never like you. The only times I will ever come to your bed and fuck you will be when my father holds me at sword point for some stupid heirs. Mind you, when you whelp a healthy boy or two - you will be nothing for our House, sweet tits. No one will care if you were chosen by the Gods, because House Lannister doesn’t give a single shit about them. Hell if it doesn’t give a shit about me, what will it care about a bastard girl from the North?” he now walked closer to his soul bonded.

“Because let me tell you something, pretty eyes. I have seen some shit and I have lived through some shit. Not the first time I have had to sacrifice for this fucking family, say some vows for this family. First for Cersei, now for dear old Father again.” Jaime now had Lyarra pressed against the door. “Because you see Lady Lannister you will die before you whelp some little kiddies and if you do see that day - you will never be safe.”

Lyarra glared directly into his feral eyes, his hot and disgusting breath heavy on her face. Without a second thought and consequences she spit in his face.

With eyes shut and no movement from the Kingslayer, the rush of adrenaline that was there a second ago was slowly setting in as panic. Why am I such an fucking idiot, he clearly has me cornered. She started to scan the room for an exit strategy and a weapon. The new Lady Lannister theorized she could probably knee him in the groin, and while he was down, then she could grab the iron rod for the fire and --

Then Ser Jaime stepped back, wiped his face, and proceeded to laugh hysterically. Leaving his soul bonded confused but relieved.

“Oh this marriage will be quite interesting indeed,” he laughed as he stumbled to the bed and unceremoniously fell asleep. Lyarra did not move an inch until she heard unceremonious snores leave the unconscious knight.

I think you just posed a new challenge, Kingslayer.

Chapter Text

It was the fifth night on the wretched boat that Lyarra mapped out Wylla’s sleeping patterns. Hence in the middle of the night as her new friend snored softly, the newly wedded young woman pulled out Prince Duncan’s diary and read what she could in the flickering light of a single candle.

There were four people Father allowed me to seek advice in terms of my soulmark.

The first being my lovely but stubborn mother Betha and as expected she was not happy with the prospect of breaking the Baratheon betrothal she had arranged. However, the pious woman in her could not deny me the quest to go find my bonded. 

Blackwood, Lyarra noted, Aegon V was married to a noble lady from the Riverlands known as Black Betha. 

The second was, of course, my namesake Ser Duncan. However I suspect it was more for my father's benefit to have a confidant. Yet, the tall uncle figure was a source of level headed advice which made my life ten times easier. He also seemed to pity me a bit.

The third was to write to my Uncle Aemon, the Maester of the Knights Watch and in turn the fourth was the Lord Commander and infamous bastard, Brynden Rivers. Father did not trust the Grand Maester with gathering information but did trust his brother and begrudgingly had to admit that Bloodraven probably would be a good resource as well. 

Uncle Aemon's letters were informative, he suggested starting in the Riverlands as the flowers currently marked on my skin seem to be native to the area. He also mentioned that the mark would most likely keep expanding as the bond grew, that in previous accounts it is said to be painful. A sign taken that the gods favored me and my beloved to inspire great change. 

Bloodraven insisted I had to go to Riverlands and find the woman that I was matched up with, he detailed the risks of not cementing the bond. Retribution of the gods and the instability it would cause to House Targaryen if I defied their wishes. 

Following the gods wishes would be easier IF I KNEW WHAT THEY WANTED FROM ME!

The more I read about soulmarks it seems this is less of a blessing it was as the Septons try to push upon us and more of a curse! Pain, uncertainty, retribution from Gods that seem all to amused by the ambiguity of their signs. The fact that even if the circumstances are wholly out of your control and dare not a tragedy befall your bonded - you and yours, even your KINGDOM OR PARCEL OF LAND depending on your status, will suffer! Why? Because you failed to complete a mission given to you by the same said Gods.

It would be nice if they come with instructions and we would avoid having to incur a FAMINE. 

As the boat rocked from side to side on its journey to her new home, Lyarra felt the bile go up her throat for what it seems like the nine hundredth time since the journey began. Even with her nausea and the building headache in her temple from reading while in movement she felt a deep gratitude that someone, even if now long dead, understood her journey so intrinsically. 

She should have found that same reassurance with her within her new husband and not just in the pages of a diary of a former prince, but since the wedding she had been resoundly ignored by him. In the silence of the night Lyarra could admit it stung a bit, even if she never wanted Jaime Lannister, it still hurt her pride. Because soulmark or not, Lyarra never expected to be rejected so blatantly in her marriage bed. 

She was a bastard yes, but Lyarra was also well aware of the physical impact she had with men and women alike. Since entering the transition from girlhood to womanhood many had considered her quite beautiful and striking. With her pale unblemished skin, wide doe like purple eyes, and soft plump lips, and high cheekbones that must have come from her mother. Lyarra figured that most of her traits came from her unknown (or just unnamed since the name Dayne had been thrown around since the bastard could remember) parent. Apart from her height, her midnight black hair, and her face being more oval there seemed to not be much of the Stark look in her at all. Her nose did not hold the Stark slant as Rob or Arya’s have instead it had a small bump the middle that was not perceptible when she was facing a person head on, her skin did not turn red when exposed to the rare harsh sunlight or snow glare as Sansa had instead turning golden, and even her body it developed soft curves of a bosom, hips, and a behind that was quite unheard of for Stark women who tended to have willowy figures. 

The bastard was not going to deny that she used her comely look to get ahead. Since she was very young Lyarra learned the hard way that even if she had it difficult her pretty eyes and her melodic voice made things easier in comparison to others in similar situations. Yes, she always tried to put her mind at work first and not just rely on her pretty face but in Westeros there is so little opportunity to do so. 

Would Lord Glover eagerly signed off 20 percent of a decades worth of his grain if I was just a tad less impressive in both body and mind? Would the residents of Bear Island warmed up to me and my plans so quickly? The answer usually left unsaid by everyone was a resounding no. 

Lyarra knew that she had to use everything at her disposal to get ahead, but she honestly never thought she would ever have to get creative getting a man to lay with her. 

Yet, Jaime Lannister made it abundantly clear he had no interest and would rather spend his days avoiding her and getting drunk instead.  

As Lyarra dozed off to sleep, Jaime’s slurred and drunken words came back to her “.....Because you see Lady Lannister you will die before you welp some little kiddies and if you do see that day - you will never be safe” 

Have I ever been safe to begin with ? was the last whisper before the night consumed her. 

“LANNISPORT AHEAD, PREPARE TO DOCK” shouted one of the crew alerting the occupants of the ship that they would be arriving shortly to shore. 

The younger of the Manderly sisters seemed shy and reserved but quickly Lyarra had discovered that to be a cleverly crafted facade. Wylla was actually quite outspoken with strong beliefs that matched a mouth that was filthier than the floor of a barn. Her fast wit matched a keen eye and mask for court suited better than most in her position. 

From the first moment they were alone together Lady Wylla had let Lyarra know she thought the bastard was too earnest and transparent, but overall a good person from what she had already observed and would be willing to help her. The new Lady Lannister had retorted with a simple “What will your help cost me then? Winterfell mayhaps?”, letting the Manderly girl know Lyarra was also sharper than she let on. As both young women recognized that they would be their only allies as they headed lion’s den, it did not take long for a bond of friendship to be born. 

However, Lyarra was thanking the gods to finally hear those words, for the last fortnight she had been sequestered in her chambers with only a bucket and Lady Wylla as company. The time on the ship had not been her friend, as she had been so sick to her stomach she had not had the chance to interact with her new good-family. Not even a good book, the new Lady Lannister had the pleasure of passing the time since the rocking made her nausea worse when looking at letters for too long. 

“Get up! UP!” Wylla insisted as she tugged on her lady’s arm “I have been dreaming of this day since the first time you ruined my chamise with your bile. Twice, I might add” 

“I have already apologized profusely and promised you will get two more chamise’s made of the finest silks at the earliest opportunity.” Lyarra finished out the sentence in the with an exaggerated Westerland accent as she got to her feet and made the other girl giggle. 

As they day passed on the ship and not much the pair could do that would not make Lyarra’s stomach rebel from her body. However, something that became a joke between them is the way Westerlander’s speech patterns. From the lowest ship hand to even the highest Knights in the land, people from the Westerlands seem to have a slight sing-song drawl to their voices that would pull the last two words of the sentence overly emphasized. Of course Lord Tywin, Jaime, and Tyrion were non-existent since their exposure to the Capital has undeniably softened the trait and held a much more standardized Westerosi. But both Wylla and herself found it amusing how the accent combined with their flowery tendency to speak made the residents sound a bit pretentious. Especially compared to the short clipped words and rough brogue from their homes in the North.

“In relation to silks, these are the dresses I think the most suitable for your introduction to the broader Lannister Family.” Two pink dresses were subsequently laid on the spot Lyarra was formally occupying. One was a deeper color of pink but cut in a Northern style with a high collar, the other was a lighter shade but cut in what was the typical style of the Westerlands. Both impeccably made by Jen of course, however, they both seemed like the incorrect choices for her first outing in Lannisport and Casterly Rock.  

“I understand the merits of wearing pink, however, are these the only two available?” 

“What’s wrong with them?” Wylla replied “I quite like this one.” pointing at the darker one. 

“Yes this one I like as well, however, even if the color is correct I think the cut and style might bring the wrong message about. I recall seeing a dress that was cut in the Westerland style but had traditional Northern embroidery and motifs”

“Ah yes I see, the style might show resistance when you want to convey acceptance but also a bit pride for where you come from.” Wylla replied as both ladies rummaged through the rest of the trunks. 

“Exactly and here it is” Lyarra pulled out another dress but this time it was closer to a lilac than a pink. As she expected it was cut in the traditional style of the Westerland, dagged sleeves and pinched in the waist which apparently came from the Queen's own preferences of dress. However, the embroidery shows a myriad of small snowflakes and the occasional odd pearl (probably ripped from Hightower trunks and jewelry) that made it seem like delicate flowers. 

“Purple is a tricky color.” Wylla replied apprehensive at her Lady’s choice. “It is a color of nobility and it might create a controversy…” Lyarra appreciated the fact that Wylla left the part of ‘because you are a bastard’ unsaid. Through the journey Lyarra had talked a bit candidly about her experience, she let her new friend know that after some time she got a thick skin and outlook on her birth status but what still irked the girl deeply was the ever present conversation on it. Lyarra was well aware she was a bastard and all that it entailed, she above all else is constantly thinking about it but she made it clear to Wylla that she would appreciate it if it was not brought up as much as everybody tends to. Thankfully Manderly understood and was respectful of her new Lady’s request. However, she still struggled in how to appropriately broach the subject and when to do so. 

“Yes, but I think I can get away with it since it matches my eyes.” Lyarra continued with a sigh as she started to change clothes. “It matters not what I wear, if any of the Lannisters have a big enough problem with my bastardy nothing that I wear or say will sway them.”

Wylla stayed silent drinking in her Lady’s words and the casual acceptance of that Lyarra spoke of people expecting people to hate her.

It was high noon when the ship was finally docked and it was the first time in over a fortnight that new Lady Lannister had gone out for fresh air but even with a now anchored ship she could not get a deep breath in. 

She had read stories of the other Great Keeps, from the High Garden, to Sunspear, to Storm's End and her time living in Winterfell made her think she would be less susceptible to being awestruck by other Keeps. Yet, here Lyarra was, breath taken away by Casterly Rock. The castle proper was a tad smaller than Winterfell, however, the sheer fact that it sat upon the top of a huge mountain scape upon the Sunset Sea dwarfed the Northern Keep . Below the ringfort on its peak, Lyarra saw more towers, windows, and defenses trickle down to the base that housed what seemed to be deep cavern openings where ships and miners seemed to trickle in and out of. The midday sun hit the Casterly Rock in a way that made it seem like it was entirely made out of the famous gold that ran through it, alive with wealth and power. The Rock was even grander and more stunning than the reputation it had garnered many a year ago.

The Lannisters have every right to brag Lyarra thought to herself. 

“I would suggest closing your mouth before something unpleasant flies in.” a teasing voice behind the new Lady Lannister rang. Taking her out of her stupor and unconsciously clicking her teeth shut. As she whirled around in surprise, Lyarra found Lord Tyrion gazing upon her with a look of mischief. 

“Thank you my lord for the advice.” Lyarra responded trying to recover from the startle. She hadn’t expected any of her new good family to be out on the deck yet, as she had timed it to be a bit earlier than expected of the bastard to get accustomed to walking and being in vertical position again. Hence, her good brother took her by surprise and caught her off guard, something that Lyarra did not enjoy. 

“Apologies for startling you my lady. It is not everyday that I get to see a new pair of eyes lay on the Rock.” Tyrion elaborated, sounding more amused than apologetic, as he stepped forward beside his good sister. 

“I had read at length about it before but the books do not do it justice.” Lyarra answered honestly, taking her eyes away and looking at Lord Tyrion in the eyes. “It is an honor to be here.” 

“A lover of literature for my own heart, then we are lucky to have you Lady Lyarra. The Seven knows we need more of us around.” the teasing tone and look in his eye, suddenly as the people around started to prepare for Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime to join them to step unto Lannisport the Imp turned serious. 

“Another piece of advice, never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear the bastardy like armor and it will never be used to hurt you.” 

A hot indignant feeling bubbled under her skin, what Lord Tyrion said was useful but did he really think she had not learned that lesson already? Before Lyarra could bite her tongue the words slipped from the clenched jaw “What do you know about being a bastard?” As soon as she said it, the bastard regretted her words. It seemed her new good brother had a knack of pressing the right buttons to make her mask unravel. 

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes.”

Chapter Text

The waves crashed around her knees making the pastel green dress Lyarra was wearing turn dark as Wylla squeezed her hand in excitement and tried to pull her further into the salty water. It has been about two months since arriving at Casterly Rock and much had changed but many things had stayed the same. 

Similar to her time at Winterfell and Bear Island she was assigned to an older Lady for mentorship in her new role and Genna Lannister proved to be a difficult taskmistress with high expectations and a no-nonsense demeanor.

Lady Lannister’s study, around midday, two days after arriving at the Rock.

“Come in,” a feminine and stern voice floated in the air as the guards ushered Lyarra into the study in which the Lady of Casterly Rock partook her business. 

Similar to the rest of the Keep, the room was red and gilded gold with lioness motifs all around. A sitting area at the front with what seemed like a massive loom for more than 7 ladies was poised in the middle. The fruit of said loom littered the walls, some tapestries depicting battles and famous successes of House Lannister, from Lan the Clever’s exploits obtaining the Rock, the union of the Lady Rohanne Webber and Lord Gelrod Lannister, to even the defeat of the Reyne’s and Castameres. However, there were also tapestries that depicted tragic and low points of the House such as the Field of Fire and the various lootings at the hands of the Greyjoys. Lyarra would soon learn that it was a tradition passed down from the Age of Heroes when the Lannisters were Kings of the Rock and the Westerlands. The women of the family, led by the highest-ranking lady, would work on these tapestries to always remember the long storied history of the house to its new members. A skill the bastard would have to pick up eventually. 

Behind an ornate desk sat the formidable Genna Lannister, sister to Lord Tywin and the highest-ranking Lady in the Westerlands. For the last three and twenty years, Lady Genna oversaw the enormous and laborious task of keeping Casterly Rock running at the standards demanded from her brother with ease. A task that would eventually fall to Lyarra if everything went as planned. 

“Well girl, take a seat.” Without being asked twice Lyarra followed instructions and sat in one of the chairs before Lady Genna. 

“Tywin has informed me of your background and even if it is markedly better than that of most bastards...there is still a lot to be desired. The work we will take upon ourselves to make the likes of you become a simply competent Lady of the West is great. Nonetheless maybe if some talent is found somewhere in you, you could even be a good Lady or mayhaps even a great one in due time.” Cat-like eyes looked at her unblinkingly as she kept assessing Lyarra as the prey she was at the moment. 

“Yet that will require quite some dedication, patience, and force of will from myself, this marvelous household, and most importantly you, girl. Hopefully, you are up to the task?” 

Even if the last part was phrased as a question Genna did not give Lyarra a pause to respond and continued. “A reputation for literacy, and being too forthcoming with sharing said skill, precedes you. So I presume you enjoy the pursuit, however, as I expected your education was exceedingly limited to the North. Even if you did wonders for a failing House with the limited knowledge you had, this is not an insignificant and poor vassal like the Mormonts. Being part of House Lannister requires a deeper knowledge of not just the Westerlands but all the Seven Kingdoms, especially the Great Houses of the South. As you will soon become familiar, we have many foster children at Casterly Rock, hence the Maester and his assistants are already pressed in terms of lessons and divide them by age, at six and ten you are too old to join any of the lessons. However, your soon-to-be good brother Lord Tyrion has been gracious enough to take on the burden of teaching you. I expect him to report back if you are struggling with any topic in particular and if there is a need to be shifted to one of the classes with the children” 

Lyarra simply gave a nod in response, however, if she kept biting her tongue as she was doing the bastard would become familiar with the taste of her own blood in no time. 

“Another aspect of Ladyship that is sorely lacking, one there is an urgent need to address is that of the womanly arts. As logical as assigning you a Septa would be, we only have three months until your actual Wedding Ceremony. In that time you will need to have basic proficiency in dance, song, and needlework. As well as some work on your diction and balance for good measure. You will also have to pick an instrument, you will not master it in the allotted time frame but similar to more advanced needlework, that can be worked later on after the Ceremony. My good sister Lady Dorna, as the gentle and lovely dove she is, offered her expertise, you will meet with her five days a week for these lessons until your nuptials. Depending on her assessment then they will be reduced or shifted to a Septa.”

Lady Genna looked down at her notes and continued.

“The rest of the time you will be shadowing me, following myself and my staff to learn how Casterly Rock is run. I expect you to be taking notes, either mental or written is up to you, and at the end of each week you will give me a written and oral report on what was done, what the outcome of any decision made was, and if you are feeling bold some suggestions on improvement - but you will soon learn that is unlikely. If you show promise I will start handing over small tasks here and there, and if you don’t - well we will have to have a conversation with Lord Tywin about how the role of Lady Lannister, Casterly Rock, and the West will be parcelled out between female cousins in the future until you get a good-daughter of your own.” 

Lady Genna looked at Lyarra intently, almost daring the young woman to crack under pressure. However, her younger years of dealing with Lady Catelyn mixed with her Mormont battle training proved useful to train her features in a neutral gaze. In a beat of a breath, forming a small grateful smile she replied “I must thank the Gods for pairing me with a family of such excellence, it will be an honor to learn from its behest. I will try to rise to the occasion, may their retribution find me if I fail you and yours.” 

Lady Genna just raised an eyebrow and countered “Ours. Get accustomed to referring to us as family.”

“Aren’t you happy that Lady Genna is gone for a few days?” Wylla asked as both girls navigated the currents and the heavy weight of the dresses as they headed towards the sand. 

“Mayhaps a month ago I would have said a resounding yes, but now I dread what will come of it. Why didn’t she give me some tasks in her absence? Is this small reprise, which we think a reward for good work actually a sign of my failure?” 

Safe to say that the past two moons in Casterly Rock had been the most mentally and emotionally taxing time of the bastard's life. 

“She’s really gotten under your skin and inside your head.” Wylla replied “However, my lady you fret too much. We have only heard praise from the staff about you and your progress. That must be coming back to both Lord Tywin and Lady Genna”

“As much as knowing that fills me with satisfaction, you and I both know that House Lannister cares little for what their staff thinks.”

Lord Kevan’s private residence in Lannisport, two weeks after arriving at Casterly Rock

“For official matters, you will always be seated at the left side of your Lord husband at dinners and banquets, as the heir he, in turn, will be at the right of Lord Lannister. However, since Ser Jaime will slowly be sent out to more and more diplomatic matters across the Westerlands, your position will be shifted to the left side of Lord Tywin in his absence. For all intents and purposes, you will be acting as Lady of the West which means it is imperative to act like it.”

Lady Dorna Swyft’s gentle voice rang across the banquet hall as she paced behind the seated younger woman waxing poetic on the etiquette rules of internal diplomatic affairs. 

Lord Kevan’s wife was a small and unassuming woman, with a soft chin and a pale demeanor, it was easy to cast her aside to concentrate on the more bombastic and infamous family members. However, from the short week that Lyarra had been under her tutelage she'd seen that her gentle nature hid a strict and clever perfectionist. With the eyes of a hawk, there was little that Lady Dorna did not see and take a note of. Every fidget, every scratching motion, every biting of the lip, and in turn for every unwanted tick that the Lady noticed and deemed uncouth, Lyarra had received a whack on her knuckles with a wooden stick.  

In all her years of swordplay, the bastard's hands were never as sore as Lady Dorna made them in just two weeks. 

Right now Lyarra was strapped down in her chair by various silk scarves, one around her forehead, another around her shoulders, two around her arms on the rests, and one around the waist. 

“That is why when you are sitting down at the dinner table, your resting pose when not consuming food should be straight back, chin up, and always touching the chair at the points that I have tied you down.” Dorna continued “As you see the silks are loose around your arms and head, that means you can move those, slightly I might add, to the sides when needed. However, I am emphasizing the points of your shoulders and waist to stay rigid because you should not be moving those at all.”

Lady Dorna moved in front and seated herself across the bastard to further emphasize her point. “More often than not it will be yourself who will be seated across from the equivalent lady or heir of whichever party is visiting, that be a vassal lord or mayhaps even another Great House. Every move you make is a reflection of House Lannister, that I know you understand, but why would sitting still be so important as well?”

It took Lyarra a second of contemplation before answering “Silence is also a way of communication.”

Dorna was not completely satisfied with that answer “Close.” She folded her hands on top of one another. “Indifference is the correct answer.”

“There are angry silences, terse ones, content ones. Silence can still convey emotions, as the future Lady Lannister, of the Rock, and of the West you have to give them nothing. Naturally, Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime’s reputations will precede them, which intimidates many a lord and lady alike. Hence they will try to get to you, get on your good graces and manipulate anything you give to them. You cannot be the weak link Lady Lyarra, for the safety of yourself and of your future children”

“We Lannisters are not pawns to be played by weaker Houses, you will give them nothing because they deserve nothing from you.” The harsh words jarringly contrasted with the gentle and sweet tones that Lady Dorna always seemed to speak in. She continued with a simple question. “Because?”

Lyarra repeated the first lesson that Lady Dorna had taught her, “The Lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep.” The bastard hated the taste that those words left in her mouth, the idea to reduce people to livestock when she had seen first hand the greatness that lowborn and highborn alike had inside of them. 

Yet here she was like a caged bird singing a lovely tune to its owner.

As both ladies feet landed on the sandy shore, they could see Joy Hill leaping beside her cousin in excitement with seashells bigger than her hands. In the last moon there was not a moment where the little bastard didn’t follow Lyarra around.

Around the Loom in Lady Lannister’s study, three and half weeks after arriving at the Rock

“Lady Genna, it should not matter what Myrielle did to the bastard if she was in the right. She should not be allowed to touch the loom! By the mother she is a simpleton and by that alone she could go and damage it.” Lady Cerenna Lannister said hotly to the acting Lady of the Rock.

Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister are first cousins to Ser Jaime from his mother's side as they were nieces by blood to the former Lady Joanna. At six and ten and four and ten respectively, both girls were insufferable in Lyarra’s eyes. Spoilt, haughty, and petty they seemed to embody all that the Stark bastard was warned Lannisters were like. From what Wylla had gathered from her snooping it seemed the girls had deluded themselves that Cerenna was being trained as Lady of the Rock if Ser Jaime decided to come back willingly to the heirship. They saw Lyarra’s arrival as the sole source of their family branch ambitions turning into dust and had drummed up a campaign amongst the more impressionable foster daughters to vilify the incoming Lady Lannister. Of course, both ladies were so daft to believe that if that had been the case, Tywin would have probably sought a match with another Great House or noble one that would help cement his grandson on the throne. 

Yet none of that mattered now, the Gods made their own plans. 

The northern bastard did not care what convoluted reasoning they had put in their heads to justify their vendetta, her new position as Ser Jaime’s betrothed (wife really if they could ever come to respect her culture) afforded her that most of the schemes were reduced to nonsense gossip and a bit of isolation from ladies of her similar age bracket. It mattered not, Wylla was better company than the lot of them anyway. 

However the object of their ire today was not the older bastard but a younger one - Joy Hill to be exact. From what Lady Genna had informed her, once Joy's father Lord Gerion had sailed off and failed to return back from his trip to the Free Cities, it had caused the young Hill to cease talking altogether and even avoiding eye contact with most people she came across with. Hence, in activities like these Genna tended to keep Joy close to her, however, since the older Lady was teaching Lyarra the essential parts of the Loom both had not seen what exactly Joy had been doing. Both Lady Genna and Lyarra could only react to the sound of Myrielle slapping the girl's hand hard and then seeing the seven-year-old in question run away. 

Genna was ripping Myrielle a new arsehole when Cerenna stepped in to stupidly defend her younger sister. 

“Enough with the insolence! It matters not, she is family and it is her right as much as yours to participate. The girl doesn’t even talk for the Seven’s sake, there was not any pre-emption for your sister to belittle or cause her to harm like that. Now, it is Myrielle’s responsibility to bring her back here and apologize.” Lady Genna replied. 

Wanting to put an end to the argument, Lyarra piped up “Lady Genna, I wouldn’t mind bringing Lady Joy back as I am not participating in the looming as Lady Myrielle is.” 

This earned her a scoff from Cerenna and a nasty glare from Myrielle, and some low whispers from lower Lannister cousins that were all congregated in the study. It mattered not to Lady Lyarra she did not interject for their benefit but for Joy’s. As her heart broke and she saw the small child run away in tears out of the room moments ago. 

Lady Genna’s red face turned to Lyarra and gave her a knowing look “Actually Lady Lyarra, that sounds like a great idea. Please go and bring Joy back, as well as stay with her for the remainder of the afternoon and all of tomorrow. You may go now.” Without a second thought Lyarra quickly made her way to the door, however, not before catching  “As for you two, I will be having words with your father about this incident and as punishment, you will be helping the Septas with their lessons for a fortnight.” 

It did not take long for Lyarra to find Joy, she heard the tell-tale sounds of a crying little girl a few doors down in one of numerous sitting rooms that Casterly Rock seemed to possess. Curled up in a ball, Joy’s little head popped up, and as quickly as it had the little girl curled herself up, even more, going quiet and hiding her face away, trying to make herself disappear. 

The northerner understood the feeling as she cautiously sat down beside her. “Hello my Lady Joy, I know we have not been introduced yet but I am Lyarra.” she paused “Lyarra Snow.”

This caused the riot of golden curls to move a bit and an eye to peek out underneath. “I am supposed to be apologizing on behalf of Myrielle’s actions and insisting that she is being punished enough...Yet I can’t seem to do so.” Joy suddenly looked up from her arms confused and by her expression a bit annoyed as well. She figured the girl thought Lyarra meant Myrielle was in the right in hitting her. 

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s not what you think. Her actions are inexcusable and I bet you ran out because this is not the first time Myrielle or her sister have done such things towards you. However, my lady, I have a feeling this is the first time they have gotten caught by Lady Genna.” The little lady nodded her head confirming the older bastard's assumptions. 

“I am not going to lie to you and say that they are going to be punished accordingly and that they will learn from their actions. I know you are smart enough to know that will not happen.”

Lyarra continued, “Yet what I can promise is that as long as I am around what happened in that room today will never happen again.”

Joy’s face looked apprehensive “Don’t look at me like that! Once I marry Ser Jaime in the Sept, yours truly will officially be a Lannister and you must know all Lannisters keep their promises” Lyarra responded, intentionally messing up the iconic phrase. 

Joy giggled and shook her head “Gah! You are right! Debts, a Lannister always pays their debts. Why does it always go back to the topic of gold in this family huh?”

The girl responded with a shrug and a smile. “Well as you very well know, we need to go back.” Joy visibly deflated but Lyarra pressed on, “No worries, Lady Genna ensured that I will be accompanying you for the rest of the day and tomorrow too for good measure. I am sure it’s because she can sense I am a disaster with anything related to fabric and need a stellar teacher.”

“Do you mind if I wipe away the remnants of your tears? With a name such as yours, tears just look misplaced.” Lyarra asked, pulling out a handkerchief. The little girl nodded letting Lyarra gently wipe away her sadness, when the older lady was done Joy leaned in and gave her a hug as her thank you.

“Look at all those seashells, Lady Joy! Are those all for me?” asked Wylla as she crouched down and tickled Lyarra’s charge. 

After the Myrielle debacle and seeing how much Joy liked the newest resident of Casterly Rock, Lady Genna decided it made sense to assign the girl into Lyarra’s care. It was good practice after all and it would not be odd if one bastard found solace in another. A consequence of this arrangement was Wylla also growing close to the girl, of course, Lyarra seemed to be the most intense object of Joy’s affection, however, her lady-in-waiting was a close second. 

“Obviously the little Lady knows you are a mermaid and seashells are your currency of choice, correct?” Lyarra added with a smile.

“Speaking of choice…have you picked what dress you will be wearing for dinner tonight?” the soft dulcet tones of one Janei Lannister under her parasol. 

Lord Kevan’s private residence in Lannisport, a month after arriving at Casterly Rock

Lyarra plucked the strings of the harp as she practiced a simple tune that Lady Dorna had assigned to the young lady in her absence for the day. As part of her training, she had to pick up an instrument, the harp just ended up being the only one that didn’t sound like a dying animal in her hands. However, the northern bastard was stubborn and a perfectionist so she made it her goal to be able to play as well as a bard one day. 

However, she was still naturally quite shit with the instrument, as Wylla gracefully told her when practicing. 

“You are not quite as terrible as my mother described,” said a gentle but cutting new voice in the room. 

The air grew silent as Lyarra looked up at the new stranger in the music chamber. A lady of ten and four stood in the doorway. She was obviously a Lannister with her straight gold hair that was tied in a tidy braid and sharp green eyes. However, she was on the smaller side of what was typical of her family, with a willowy figure, and her skin much paler than the average Lannister child. 

Janei Lannister had finally arrived back home.

“From what I have gleaned is that you at least put in practice so it will not be a waste of my time.”

When going over the expansive family tree Genna had mentioned that Lord Kevan’s only daughter was visiting her maternal side of the family for a few moons, and that she would be back in time for the wedding and subsequently would be assigned to Lyarra for further companionship. Lady Genna had also mentioned that Janei was a musical prodigy and would be helping her mother train the bastard in the instrument that she chose. 

Putting the instrument back down and standing up to greet the young lady, she said “Greetings, Lady Janei. Your mother has spoken wonders about your talent. It is an honor to have such a proficient and knowledgeable teacher.”

Janei does not acknowledge Lyarra’s words as she strolls to a nearby drum and pats it in a familiar rhythmic pattern. The girl then glances up at the bastard and instead replies, “I heard from Cerenna that you were an annoying wretch that will taint the Lannister line, and Myrielle swears that you are a savage that does not bathe.” The girl sighs as she continues looking at Lyarra and walking closer to her cousin's wife. “Are you aware they were saying such things?”

The bastard in question raised her eyebrow in turn, this was obviously a test. A much less refined mimicry of the ones Lady Dorna often asked her and even Lady Genna employed, an attempt to catch her by surprise and to see if she would react in a way unfitting for a Lannister. But her young age makes them less effective against Lyarra. Mayhaps if they had met earlier, if Lyarra hadn’t been exposed to her mother and aunt every day for the past month Lady Janei’s test would have been more effective. 

As such Lyarra replies nonchalantly, “I did not. There is so much I have to learn, as you can imagine I don’t have time to concern myself with what Lady Cerenna or Lady Myrielle may think of me.”

Sheep. Your cousins are the sheep you Lannisters always talk about.  Lyarra thought to herself.

Lady Janei’s replied with a knowing smile in return. “Good.” as she reached for the harp Lyarra previously held. “I wanted to make sure you would not be distracted with such trivial matters as we have much to work on,” she acceded, gently shaking it back and forth in her dainty hand. 

The two girls continued their first lesson without broaching the subject again that day. 

“Well whatever Lady Lyarra wears I am sure she will look exquisite,” replied Wylla with a hint of derision coloring her tone. 

Mayhaps Wylla and Joy have gotten on as fire to a burning building, however Wylla and Janei were like oil to water. The northern lady took offense at the southern lady’s naturally haughty demeanor when they first met. Janei got under Wylla’s skin in a unique way that prompted a defensiveness of herself and her lady -- manifesting in passive aggressive comments. 

“Of course, but the question that I asked has not been answered by the person I asked it to.”

In turn, this causes her newest lady-in-waiting to think poorly about Wylla and treat her passive-aggressive comments with heavy sarcasm and contempt.  

Quite the vicious cycle has formed between them and Lyarra has more often than not been a mediator between the two. 

“I am not sure, mayhaps the lilac dress your mother recently got for me? However, I am open to suggestions.”

Since coming to the Rock, Lyarra had seen neither hide nor hair of her fellow soulmarked. From what Tyrion had mentioned in their lessons, Ser Jaime was also enduring rigorous classes preparing him to slowly take over more of Lord Tywin’s duties. It has been nine and ten odd years of Ser Jaime being away from the West and subsequently the heirship, it is only logical he has some intense refreshing to do. Tyrion had also pointed out that for most of Jaime’s initial training as heir, Lord Tywin had been Hand-of-the-King, meaning that he had not personally foreseen any of the lessons. If Genna was anything to go by, Tywin had monumental expectations that some almost two decade old heirship lessons when the Kingslayer was a boy will not live up to. 

After two moons of no contact, Lyarra was surprised when a maid in the morning informed her that her presence was requested at a private dinner. Of course she was obligated to oblige.

As all good Lannister ladies do.

Chapter Text

Tywin Interlude: 

The girl is breathtaking, as all Targeryens are.

Tywin thinks to himself as he slowly approaches the garden dinner setting where his good daughter is seated waiting. 

Yet her face holds a thousand ghosts that I can barely stand to look at for long. 

Lyarra, if that even is her real name, is lost in thought. Her jaw clenched and her brow frowned. A small indent is visible in between her brows slightly to the left. Tywin knew the look well, Aerys used to do the same before the madness really set in. 

Visenya, Rheagar was stupidly poetic like that. Her name was probably meant to be Visenya. 

Lord Stark must have taken into consideration that with the Targaryen ban imposed by King Robert, that in addition to the fact most people alive only knew the Targaryens by word of mouth or through legends, most people would not recognize the features of the previous royal family in the girl. Was the man idiotic or foolish enough to believe Tywin, who was Hand to Aerys for decades, who knew him since he was a green boy and spent much time in the presence of both Rhaella and Rhaegar, would be the same? He was almost insulted.

Likely the northern lord had dug his head too far into the snow that covered his land.

Yet, Tywin does not blame him. Lord Stark probably feared that the girl would have met the same fate as her siblings if the Lannisters or Baratheons had known of her existence. He is not wrong to assume that she would have joined her half-siblings in a shallow grave. 

A few days before the coronation ceremony

Tywin had the courtesy to knock before opening the door, but he knew he would enter no matter what the person inside wanted. 

“LEAVE!” 

The King's chambers were a mess, there were dornish red’s and arbor gold bottles strewn about everywhere. Half of the mattress was on the floor, torn up as if a dagger or sword had been taken to it. It was also miserably hot, a roaring fire a blaze in the middle of summer made everything balmy, humid, and sticky to the touch. 

In the middle of all the chaos, Aerys was splayed out in the center of the room, looking up at the ceiling with only some trousers on. He ignored the door opening, knowing that only one person in the castle would ever be bold enough to enter his room without explicit permission. 

Tywin put his hands behind his back as he strode slowly towards his friend and King. He stopped right by him, the tips of his boots almost grazing Aerys ear, and looked down.  

Aerys’ eyes were unfocused, and looking through Tywin’s face. His brow frowned, and the indent in between located slightly to the left was prominent as if he had been stuck with that look of concentration for a while.

“Rhaella came to me in tears begging to get you to bathe. The servants' reports were not exaggerating that it smelled like a pile of whores in here.”

Aerys snorted in reply, finally looking at Tywin in the eyes. 

“Nice jest, we both know Rhaella can’t give two shits about me right now.” the King-to-be replied as he sat up. “My sweet sister-wife has spent her days hovering over the crotch demon she gave birth to a moon ago.”

He was right. Rhaella has taken to obsessing over her son since Summerhall, clutching to what is left of her family like a lifeline, not letting even the nursemaids near him. Aearys has been the opposite of his sister, avoiding the babe like the plague. 

Tywin sits down on the floor beside Aerys as the prince opens another bottle of wine, takes a swig, and then hands it over to the Hand in a gesture of generosity. “Before Summerhall, this was what I always wanted, to be King, to have a healthy male heir to continue my legacy…but at what cost?” Aerys said with his tone just above a whisper. “I still hear their screams at night, Tywin. I smell their flesh burning from the wildfire, I still feel the smoke entering my lungs. Fire and blood, more like fire and folly.”

Sweat rolled down his temple as Tywin let the future King continue to speak, by the state of this room, it seemed like Aerys needed it. 

“This is not natural. Father was supposed to rule for at least a decade! Now he is ash, as is mother, as is Grandfather, as is even bloody Duncan the Tall! For what? For a crackpot prophecy that was passed from heir to heir that there is no evidence will ever happen in my lifetime!”

The heir of Casterly Rock’s ears perked up. When Aerys and Tywin were just boys pretending to be knights, Steffon Baratheon had stolen some wine from a lower lord's table one night. They passed the bottle between themselves until they were red in the face and easy drunken laughter permeated the air. Aerys started to babble about destiny, snow, and blood. He kept slurring the word prophecy and duty. Tywin would have laughed it off if it were not for Prince Daeron finding them and ringing their ears off. 

As Targaryen ilk Aerys and Steffon only got a standard dressing down but as Dearon's squire and an outsider, Tywin ended up cleaning horse shit for the next week. He never quite understood why the gammerings of a drunk boy to his friends irked the royals enough to merit punishment. 

However, before Lord Lannister could seize the moment and ask what he meant about a prophecy, Aerys had moved on. 

He stood up from where he lay and the King gripped the fireplace's mantle, going closer to the blazing fire. The yellow and red made his pale body and hair stark white and glowing. The thing that perplexed Tywin the most was how Aerys had nary a drip of sweat on him, yet he felt himself dripping in it by just being in the room the past few minutes. 

“What if I fail? What if I am a bad King?” 

At that moment, it felt like Aerys was talking nonsense. Tywin had been raised alongside the King, they had become men together, seen war and death by each other's side. Heck, the Hand was the one who gave the prince his spurs at the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Tywin knew that even with Aerys tendency to dream, fret, and let his anxieties roam he had a good head on his shoulders. 

He also had Lord Lannister to ensure he was kept tethered to reality. 

Tywin stood up grabbed Aerys, and turned him around to face him. “Nonsense, with the amazing Hand you have chosen, you will be a legend.”

Aerys laughed in response, grabbing Tywin in a hug. “As your King and as your friend, I promise you that we will one day be family.” and he pulled away lilac gazed a sharp green. “I don’t have much of those as of late, but it will be an honor for our lines to merge and be as great as we are.”

Tywin had been a fool to take him for his word back then. However, ironically, his promise held true just in a way that made the Old and New Gods laugh. 

How he hated laughter. 

Chapter Text

“Keep going, keep going. I’m riveted” 

“No! you keep interrupting to laugh at me!” Lyarra replied to her goodbrother as she huffed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in a petulant manner. Her daily lessons with Tyrion are seemingly interrupted by her retelling of the events with Lord Lannister the night before. 

“You have to admit, sweet, sweet, naive Lyarra, that a person as clever and quick as yourself did not pick up the clues that it was my father who asked for a private dinner and not my brother!” Tyrion said between laughs while bagging on the table. 

“Under the circumstances of this whole arrangement of me even being at Casterly Rock, it is not unbelievable to assume that it was my husband – who, mind you, I have not seen in two moons - would ask for my presence at a private dinner” the now infamous bastard of Winterfell rushed her words out in exasperation. 

Tyrion just howled even louder, his ruckus guffaw shaking his small man. Both of his hands continued to bang at the table as his small legs swished back and forth, finding absolute joy in Lyarra’s embarrassment. 

“After two moons here, it is expected of you to notice that only one person here is ever referred to as Lord Lannister.”

“Argh!!” Lyarra could only reply as her embarrassment had mounted, leaving her nearly speechless. Seeing her red-faced, arms flailing in the air, and his goodsister’s usually calm and cool demeanor cracked sent Tyrion into full-on scream laughter. 

“My lord and lady! This is a library, not a brothel!” Maester Crull said as he rushed towards the ruckus at the heart of the library.  At that moment, the bastard of Winterfell felt so small. She was not known for being out of line, it was just not something she did or was ever comfortable with either in Winterfell or Bear Isle. For the first time in what were years the carefully crafted mask of poise cracked. As an instinct, her head down, avoiding the Maester’s gaze and making her loose strands cover her face.

Tyrion, noticing her unexpected shift in demeanor from the young woman, seamlessly took over the interaction. “Trust me, out of anyone in this castle, I know this is not a whorehouse.” Lyarra saw from the corner of her eye that he winked at her.

She heard the Maester huff and started to reply to the infamous dwarf, but before he could get a word edgewise. 

“With that said, Maester Crull, it is my fault for the commotion, and we were going to head out to the gardens” with a sense of finality, Tyrion hopped off the chair and bounded towards Lyarra and whispered to her, “Put your head up. You are better than he is.”

Those words jolted her out of her instinctual compliancy. Lyarra did what he asked and lifted her head. However, deep in her bones, she did not believe she was better than the Maester or any of the people working at Casterly Rock – no matter what tainted her skin that told her otherwise.

For most of her life, Lyarra was at the bottom of the societal ladder with a heap load of luck. Both a bastard and woman, her odds in any other situation would be either septa work, the silent sisters, or the whorehouse. The Seven taught from the highest of lords to the orphans of Flea Bottom that bastards were devious in nature, lustful, and full of sin. Unloved and reviled so much that the only family that they should depend on are the elements. Snow, Waters, Sand, Rivers, Hill, Flowers, Stone – common and forgettable things where they come from.

Insults to many. 

Yet Lyarra Snow was lucky and constantly reminded of it the entirety of her existence.

She was fed, educated, and raised alongside her trueborn siblings. Apart from her stepmother, she got along well with her family. She was fostered with an incredible group of women in a place that fostered her passions without reproach. However, she is still a bastard and would be reminded of every luxury she should be thankful for, and if Snow ever felt slighted, it was just how the world worked for a bastard.

In this weird space she occupied in society, Lyarra recognized that most of the circumstances and luxuries given to people were not destiny or the gods favoring a soul above another but luck. Stupid, dumb, wretched luck. 

No one was better than another; the Lannisters were wrong – servants, Maesters, merchants, the fisherman, the orphans, the whores – they were not sheep. The sheep, in Lyarra's experience, were the daft nobles and folks who buy into the notion that they are somehow better because of their luck. The ones who buy into the myth and use it as a weapon against those not favored by the system.

Ironic, how a person chosen by the gods seems to be less and less inclined to believe in them. 

Hence, in what her mind was a bit of rebellion, Lyarra smiled at the Maester and said, “We apologize, we disturbed you, and I am sure one of your classes. As Lord Tyrion mentioned, we will be out of your way for the rest of the day”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Are you doing well Lyarra?” asked Tyrion. “It was quite unlike yourself to react that way.”

“I do not know what you mean.” Act, stupid most people do not care enough and will move on.

“Don’t do that, I know you are trying to deflect. If you are worried that someone will hear you, I can promise you my father’s spies cannot reach us here without us noticing. You can speak freely.”

A sweet lie if she had ever heard one. 

Now it was Lyarra that started to laugh “I don’t think I have been well, alone, or at peace since this damned mark appeared on my arm!”

“Something you have in common with Jaime then.”

Lyarra sauntered her way toward the garden balcony, turning away and leaning back to look at Tyrion surrounded by greenery, and scoffed. “Mayhaps the only thing. From what your father mentioned, he has taken an active stance of avoiding me, and it is now mine to ensure he acts the part of at least tolerable soul mark for when the Tyrells and company arrive.”

“Jaime is overwhelmed.” Tyrion tried to reason with her. 

“And I am not? Do you think this is easy? The endless lessons, the scathing looks I get from your cousins, Janei acting like an informant to her mother, who I am then sure tells Genna and then it obviously goes up to Lord Tywin.” 

Normally Lyarra would be keenly aware that Tyrion was as much Lannister and informant as the names she just listed out. However, two months of intense lessons and never-ending expectations had taken a toll. Her last interaction in the library was a drop that broke the emotional dam that Snow had accumulated since her conversation with Lord Stark in the Heartwood at Bear Isle.

“The Tyrells, Hightowers, and Tarlys will be arriving in less than a fortnight. Ser Jaime and I have to put in a united front, however I have spent less than a day with the man in the total of three months we have been tethered together by the gods” The bastard finished her ranting by sitting down on a nearby bench, looking up at the sky, defeated. 

Lyarra felt Tyrion take a seat beside her and after a long bout of silence he asked “Ser Jaime…you always call him that? Why? Everyone not a Lannister calls him Kingslayer, especially in the North. It was the name given by your father, after all.”

A sarcastic laugh bubbled from deep in her chest, her eyes still focused on the clear blue sky “Yes, a name Ser Jaime did not choose to remind him of his greatest accomplishment and turn it into a mocking reminder. I know too much about unfair titles to keep using that one.”

“Greatest accomplishment, huh? My brother pulled out his sword in which he took the Kingsgaurd oath and dug it into the King he swore to serve.” Tyrion continued casually as if he were talking about the pies served in last night's dinner. “Aren’t Starks all about honor and duty?”

Snorting “You mistake Starks with Tullys.”

Lyarra finally looked down at Tyrion as she replied “My very existence proves that even to the most honorable men oaths are often pretty words said to the wind. The world is full of Snow, Sand, Rivers, Hills, and Waters - and I am not talking about nature.” 

She kept her gaze steady on the Imp “As Lady Stark always reminded me growing up, I am not - and I will never be a Stark.” and her voice a tad lower “I will never be my father.”

“That is for certain.” A new voice cut through the garden. 

Standing there in golden glory was Jaime Lannister, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever. Lyarra quickly got up to her feet to face him, their eyes locking and his gaze unreadable. However, the knight broke the silence that had befallen the area with a casual. 

“I will meet you for breakfast in your quarters tomorrow. Make sure there is something sweet, up north it seems like everything is as bitter as the scenery.”

Before the girl could regain her composure and say something back Jaime had looked down at his brother, flicked his finger in a lewd gesture, and strode away. 

When will Lannister men stop catching me off guard!?

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister had discovered his new favorite pastime and that was annoying his lady-wife.

Since Tyrion insisted on Jaime eavesdropping the conversation between the dwarf and Lyarra in the garden that fateful day, the heir to House Lannister had been following her whenever there was free time to see if the golden knight could rile his wife up and her to crack as precariously as Lyarra had done so that fateful day. 

In the very limited capacity he had interacted with her, Jaime had noticed a mask that the object of his ribbing had crafted. Polite and guarded, at first glance most folks would be fooled that Lyarra Snow was just another pretty, maybe a bit clever, but still just another young face raised between nobility and rigidity of duty. 

Yet there had to be something else there, one that has kept the older Lannisters on their toes and Tyrion endlessly entertained since her arrival. 

Lord Lannisters private solar - t hree and half weeks after returning to the Rock

“Another one. We must get another one. This is the eight servant compromised and it has yet to be a full moon!” Tywin said exasperated to the room full of his siblings and sons. “Is Janei on the way, Kevan?”

“Yes, her boat should be arriving in three days' time and Dorna should be adding her to Snow’s rotation of ladies in waiting after that.”

Many things had changed in the time that Jaime had been away and one of them was how unusual it was to see all remaining Lannister siblings together. 

Since Gerion's departure as they call it ( they cannot call it death, a Lion cannot die such a pitiful end–how can seafaring folk die by the very thing they conquered ages ago? ) each one seemed to blame the other. Uncle Kevan blames Aunt Genna for coddling him after their mother had died and letting him get away from his duty. Genna blames Uncle Tygett for filling his head with stories of far off places and ushering him to brothels with foreign whores. Tygett blames Kevan for acting like a lap dog for Tywin and not supporting his younger brothers better. His father blames all of them for Gerrions follies and he had already made that clear too many times over.

Hence, after coming back to the Rock, Jaime was faced with three harsh realities. 

The first is how little he actually spent in the place he called home. At just seven he had been shipped off to foster in Crakehall and then he never really had the chance to come back - as much as a Lannister he was, Jaime has spent more time out of Casterly Rock than in it. His family was keenly aware of this fact too, hence the nonstop lessons and acclimation back in Lannister politics. He had twenty years to make up for lost time being heir. 

Secondly, most of his opinions of his family - apart from his father and brother - were skewed by his childhood memories and by Cersei's second hand accounts. Now in his adulthood and having to spend time with all these people that seemed like giants in his boyhood, Jaime realized they were just as human and flawed as he. 

Thirdly, the ache that he felt for being away from Cersei is dulling. At first, when they were separated, he found her memory everywhere. Every second it seemed questions of her well being bubbled up in his mind or just simply yearning for her to be at his side. Yet, no matter how much he clung to the want and need for his other half, the more time that Jaime spent in the West, training, spending time with his family - the ache was slowly going away. He thought of Cersei less and less. 

That scared him, and as his family had proven just now, Jaime reacted like all good Lannisters do. He became even more obtuse in trying to fight these new circumstances and realities. 

Just look at them all now, since the incident ( they call as if they have broken a vase and not lost a brother) the siblings met with one another if Lord Tywin commanded it but when not needed the older Lannisters did not tolerate being in the same place at the same time anymore. 

Hence Uncle Kevan hiding away in his Lannisport manse with his droll wife and children. Aunt Genna buries herself in cups, lovers, and duties that should have not been hers to begin with. Uncle Tygett hacking at any poor greenboy, squire, and knight that crossed his path. And Tywin - well his father dealt with Gerrion as he dealt with Joana's death, quite terribly and being even harder on the remaining Lannisters in his keep. 

Yet no one would know, no one outside the people currently in the room would know the deep cracks in their main line of the proud and noble Great House Lannister. 

“Well if Genna actually posed a challenge to the bastard we would not have to use Lannisters to spy on Snow’s-” Tygett started to grouse but was cut off by his sister. 

“Oh, what a load of horse-shit, I have given her tasks that would make you, or any man for that matter, weep.” Genna leaned back in her chair that was located in front of Tywin’s desk, in between two others. Kevan was located at her right and Tygett at her left. The heir and spare were located a bit far off at two perpendicular sofas watching the tense dynamics unfold. 

“It is annoying for me to admit the fucking bastard is smart and good at what she puts her mind to something. Snow is also polite and humble which has endeared her to most of our staff, and to top it all off she is not as naive as she should be for a savage raised in the North. The Stark bastard is not easily fooled or intimidated, we have tried - you can just ask Dorna. ” 

“I would rather not suffer more time alongside droll Dorna” Tygett replied 

Both Jaime and Tyrion made eye contact after that particular comment, the elder eyes widened as the younger of the brothers smirked. Things were about to get ugly , Jaime thought in delight. 

Kevan turned as red as his doublet and responded in a shout “Don’t you dare talk about my wife in that way”

Jaime had always admired his uncle’s bravery as a child, the one with the most martial prowess and ready for a good fight. Now as an adult, and with his reinstatement as heir having the consequence of spending more time with said uncle Tygett, Jaime was starting to realize it might be more stupidity than bravery. This theory was confirmed as Tygett replied “You get mad because I am the only one with the balls here to admit your wife is as entertaining as watching paint dry.”

Tyrion started to choke on his wine as a way to hide his laughter. The former Kingsguard was never as clever as a brother or cared half as much for propriety and started to laugh so hard his stomach ached. 

“Not this again!” Aunt Genna exclaimed, jumping out of her seat to avoid getting physically in the middle of another stupid fight. 

On the other hand, his uncle Kevan leapt like their house sigil and tackled Uncle Tygett as if he was a man in his five and two instead of his five and one. He then proceeded to get a few punches in his younger brother's face before Tywin exclaimed in exasperation.

“ENOUGH!” 

It was not often the Lion of Lannister shouted in his own home, hence silence and stillness befell upon everyone. Kevan stood up but did not lend a hand to the brother he just beat the shit out of, letting Tygett groan on the floor and nurse what seemed to be an impending black eye.

“I do not have time for petty insults and squabbles. As satisfied as I am that the girl is not a dullard, I need her to become loyal to House Lannister and only us.” Tywin said massaging his temple as he continued talking from behind his desk, continuing the conversation as if the fight had never happened. “The fact of the matter is that Snow is a danger. Her mind and body are weapons to use for any house she is a part of - and in her short tenure on this earth Lyarra Snow has proven her worth to anyone she aligns herself to.” 

“That’s big talk for a girl of six and ten.” Uncle Tygett nasally groaned as he placed himself back into his original seat, clutching his nose. 

“It pains me to agree with the shit for brains, but he has a point. Yes, the girl is intelligent, we know that, but a threat?” Uncle Kevan also added from where he located himself standing behind aunt Genna's newly occupied seat. 

“Six years ago, Whiskey was just a local drink on Bear Isle. My sources claim that there were no sanitary processes or really a recipe. Two years later, House Mormont starts to buy out old wine barrels from the Arbor - for dirt cheap and a very large number. Six months later, two pivotal things happen: House Mormont offers every guest and host they meet a bottle of Whiskey and then the drink starts gaining popularity among sailors - because of that both highborn and low born in the North start to get a taste for it.”

Tywin finally stood up from his desk, his back turned to his sons and siblings. Where is he going with this? Jaime thought impatiently. He could hear a bottle cork pop. 

“Understanding that highborns would not take nicely to House Mormont serving them the same drink as the peasants, they created two distinct batches. This, in turn, two revenue streams and they started to scale up production, in a pace not seen since Dornish Red was introduced to the Kingdoms after Dorne entered the fold. Setting House Mormont in pace to surpass House Manderly as the wealthiest liege lords in the North in ten years' time. In twenty, they may be in pace to be as profitable as the Arbor, and in fifty…” 

The Lord of Casterly Rock does not finish the sentence. He did not have to, they all understood the implications of his words. 

Tywin serves everyone a glass finishing the bottle and walks over and hands everyone a glass - even to Tyrion much to both the dwarfs' surprise. As everyone hesitantly takes a sip, the older crowd because they never had it before and the younger because they had too much of it, once and are familiar with the bitter burn. 

Jaime was surprised as the liquid he tasted this time around was smoother. Just as warm and bitter as before but instead of a scalding heat, not dissimilar to molten metal in a smithy, this version of whiskey was like a warm hug from the inside out. He could appreciate the complex flavors of wood and smoke mixed with the subtle hints of honey and spice. 

This was leagues above what he and his little brother had before his first wedding ceremony, and the Kingslayer realized that they must have gotten the cheap stuff then. 

“How do you know all of this?” Jaime finally spoke. The heir of Casterly Rock was confused, he knew how deep his fathers influence was along the realm, yet such details would even elude a person like Varys. 

The heir to Casterly Rock flinches under his father's glare “If you would have dignified yourself to be in any of the meetings before your first wedding ceremony you would know the answer to that question.” replied Tywin in exasperation but then continued after seeing his oldest son look cowed and went back to his desk. “But to answer the rest who were not privy, when we arrived at Mormont Keep, Lady Maege showed me paperwork that outlined an additional dowry for Snow'' 

His father reached out a piece of parchment and laid it on his desk for one of his siblings to take. Tygett initially reached out but aunt Genna swatted his hand away and got to it first. 

Jaime finally stood up, got behind his aunt, and read over her shoulder. Never the most scholarly of men, especially not when it came to sums, it took him a minute to realize that the paper showed that two percent of the earnings of Mormont Whiskey would go to House Lannister and its descendants through Lady Lyarra Snow’s line - in perpetuity. 

At this moment that meant that House Lannister would receive a thousand dragons this year, yet by Tywin’s projections that could double or mayhaps even triple. With these numbers there it is no surprise that House Mormont pulled itself out of the monstrous debt it had after Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower’s atrocious mismanagement. 

Kevan spoke in amazement up beside Jaime “You mean to tell me that the girl negotiated this deal?” 

“The whole bloody enterprise would not exist if it were not for Lady Lyarra Snow. The barrels, the barley deals, the selling of the two distinct batches, the manufactured scarcity - all of it was the brainchild of that girl.” Tywin said to the silent room. 

Tension mounting and dread finally set in between the lions. 

“She put in that detail to be attractive to potential suitors, Lady Lyarra was smart enough to understand that her position would not afford her many luxuries. That her comely looks would fade and a bastard's maidenhead means nothing to simple men. So armed with a broke and failing house, a family recipe, and some basic knowledge of trade Snow made something most men only dare to dream about - a legacy”

Tywin put both hands on the table and looked Jaime directly in the eyes as he continued with his last statement on the matter. “We must thank whatever the Seven were thinking when they tied Lyarra Snow to us. Yet, a person as clever as her, it is best we make sure she is completely and utterly loyal to House Lannister. That starts with you bedding her and finally doing your duty in producing heirs. A wife would go against her husband but a mother would not go against her sons.” 

A week before House Tyrells visit 

It took the Kingslayer a few more weeks to actually start spending time with his betrothed ( Lady-wife technically but eh who really cares at this point ), not even the endless pestering from Tyrion got him to consider spending time with her.

It was not until he spied on their conversation in the garden that Jaime was sure he would have continued ignoring Lyarra. He was never one of duty and legacies, and knowing that it would continue to irk his father was just a bonus. 

Yet, in a way that only Tyrion could, he set him up to see Snow the way the dwarf saw her. It was interesting, to say the least. To hear such a young girl understand how much bullshit our world is saddled with was refreshing. It was the first time he had seen Lyarra unguarded and raw, midnight locks wild in the breeze, her tone a mixture of scolding and freezing fire. She spoke as a woman well beyond her years but laced with a melancholy that only came from the ripeness of her youth. Only a girl of six and ten would find a fairytale in Kingslaying and yet none he had encountered her age would forgive him for the realities the actions have in outside of said fantasy. 

For a fleeting moment Jaime Lannister saw Lyarra Snow for all that she was and he wanted to have a glimpse of it again. 

However, he had failed thus far. 

No matter how much he tried to get her breath to hitch, her cheeks flushed red, or even her messed up from her perfectly imperfect image. Yet, Lyarra Snow had not let him see her disarmed again. He knew he was close, the persistent twitch of her left eye and the pursuing of her lips every time he made a jest at her or her ladies expense, were signs that every button the Kingslayer pushed would make her erupt. 

So Jaime kept invading her space, showing up unannounced, catching her unawares, and overall keeping a close eye on Snow. He needed to make her break. 

That is why the picture they painted was not so uncommon anymore. Snow’s group of misfits all sat in the Lady of the Rock solar, enjoying one of the few days that they had off before the Reach visitors arrived and the wedding festivities commenced. 

Jaime had commandeered one of the various couches in the vicinity, strategically angled to observe all the occupants of the room. Tyrion was at the desk usually reserved for the lady of the house, and in Casterly Rock's case now utilized by Aunt Genna, a variety of rifling through papers and books of the Reach. 

On the couch directly across from the Lannister heir were Lyarra ladies in waiting and her charge. His cousin Janei was picking at a lyre, seemingly creating a new tune that undoubtedly would be played in the upcoming week's festivities. Before his betrothal, he had really never interacted with his cousin beyond knowing of her existence through letters and the odd conversation he had with her idiot elder brother. She was a small little thing, at four and ten she was barely coming into her own. Like a colt or a baby deer, getting used to a new womanly body that made her clumsy and frustrated. 

However, Janei follows the long Lannister tradition of sisters being unfairly more capable than their brothers. In just a short time being in her presence, Jaime could understand why Lady Janei was her father's favorite child, what Lancel lacked in wit and talent she held in spades. What a shame she was not born a boy, maybe Tywin would have not had any qualms about letting the Casterly Rock go to her hands–but alas it was not to be.

Janei reminded him of his mother in some ways, underestimated and will be underappreciated until it was too late. 

The other two occupants were Lady Wylla Manderly and the youngest Lannister cousin–and the only official bastard of House Lannister–Joy Hill. 

Lady Wylla Manderly was wild in only a way Northern ladies could be. If a bystander did not know better they would assume that she was just another Lannisport Lady with her blonde hair and tanned freckled skin. Yet, here in the West, it was blatantly obvious she was not. Her shy but waspish nature was made obvious in her eyes when she was displeased or happy, a trait that is tampered down by all Westerland ladies at a young age. Manderley after all, her wildness is tame compared to that of the likes of the Mormonts or the Umbers. Yet, something about how she surveys a room and her gaze ranks over the polished wood grains or inlaid gold that makes the hairs in the back of his neck stand on edge. 

It is a cold judgment that Jaime hates. One seen in the faces of Northernmen before and will undoubtedly be haunted by in his dreams as they replay the day he was called Kingslayer. However, now the same gaze follows him into the waking moments anytime he is forced in proximity to his wife’s lady-in-waiting. 

All of that is to say that the heir of Casterly Rock did not like nor trusted the young Lady Manderly. But he could admit it was nice of her to dote on his little cousin the way she did. 

The northern lady was taking his little cousin's hair in her hands and braiding it like a crown on her head, occasionally the little girl would look up from her book and tug at Wylla’s or tap on Janei’s shoe to point out something interesting that she had read. 

Jaime had to admit it was hard to be around Joy. Cersei never let him around any of her children ( Too dangerous , she would whisper in his ear after sex but for whom the Kingslayer was always left wondering when she said those things) but he imagined that Myrcella was a lot like Joy. Sweet, shy but with an edge of mischief, and oh so fascinated by the formidable women around her. 

When Tyrion had cornered him in the boat back from his first wedding, going into achingly stupid detail on all his relatives. Joy was immediately categorized as an afterthought, however, now as he has spent more time around her, she is starting to represent all that could have been and all that can never be. 

Jaime needs to get over it soon, Joy trails his wife like a lost duckling and these feelings of melancholy do him no good. Not when he suspects she will play an even bigger role in his life after he marries Snow by the rights of the Seven in less than two moons. 

Lyarra seems to have a habit of bringing up his most inner thoughts and regrets in human form. Jaime has yet to decide if that makes her his enemy to be reviled or fuels his morbid curiosity wanting to unpack her until he grows bored of her once more. 

The object of his current fixation was on a stool in the middle of all the action, with a smaller loom practicing what will inevitably be one of her many duties as de-facto Lady of Casterly Rock. She was quite shit at it, threads mixing and creating unseemly knots that would make whatever Lyarra was trying to accomplish unevenly. 

“You are doing it wrong.” Jaime sighed from his lay about on the sofa for what felt like the hundredth time since Snow had started her futile project. 

“I am aware .” She hissed back, not looking back at his direction. 

Yes. thought Jaime, the rush of pleasure at her frustration. She is starting to crack! 

To ensure that he would have a good look at her face, the heir of Casterly Rock sat up from his perch. However, the action seemed to have startled his lady-wife as she immediately straightened up, fixed her frowned brow, and sighed “It seems I must try this again later.”

In avoidance of his entertainment cut short, Jaime replied “Absolutely not! You are to be the Lady of Looms, how can you be the Lady of the Looms without knowing how to use one?” a condescending edge made Lyarra huff in response. 

Yet, what really got Snow out of her element was when the Kingslayer stepped up, pulling another stool from the side of the couch he was previously laying on and sat behind her. Legs wide trapping the young woman between himself and the loom, pressing his whole body behind Lyarra. Jaime intentionally put his head over her shoulder, his lips close to her ear so every word he would say would put a gentle breeze on his betrothed neck. Something he knew would at least make a lady like herself utterly uncomfortable. 

It was quite scandalous their positions, if it was any other couple they would have been reamed by a Septa or two by now. But alas, both parties involved know that this is exactly how Lord Lannister wants them. 

“The Loom is both a balance of attention to detail and patience.” As he said this the Kingslayer took the bastard's hands and fingers, untangling the knots of the strings and putting them in the correct order together. “It is about envisioning the bigger picture.” he finished as the row knotted correctly and they both set up to start the next one. 

They kept at it until they could see the pattern of the top of a Heart tree come to life, reds, grays, and blue make the picture clearer. Jaime was surprised how easy it was to move in coordination with the younger woman. As if they had been doing this for ages. 

Once they had been at it for a while, Lyarra turned her head suddenly and startled him to do the same, wide lavender eyes bore into his own. The proximity to one another made the tip of their noses brush and her sweet scent lingered in the small space between them. If Jaime were a younger, less experienced man he would have blushed to have such a lovely lady a breath away. 

“I thought only the ladies trained in the Loom?”

And they did, however, when Jaime and Cersei used to switch clothes they also would attend the others' lessons. His twin may think it was purely for her own benefit, but the fact was that the heir loved to attend looming lessons with his mother. He always struggled so much with stewardship lessons and the endless droning of Measters, yet it was things that Jaime could do with his hands that he excelled at. It was also nice to be so close to his mother, luxurious in ways that young heirs of Great Houses are often not afforded to. 

A part of him suspected Lady Joanna knew this and kept the charade up as well. But alas, he may never know. 

“Let’s just say that I am a natural.”

An undignified snort came out of Lyarra before she replied with a curt. “Certainly.” 

He felt himself smile back at her and thought even I must admit she is incredibly nice to look at. 

However, they both bolted upright and away from one another when they noticed the silence in the room and how the soulmarked pair were so engrossed in one another that the people that had previously occupied the space with them had left them alone.

Chapter Text

“You must wear the slippers Lyarra! People will think you are a savage if you wear those wretched boots.” hissed Janei as she gripped the silken footwear and pointed it at Lyarra face. The latter was impressed that the jewels laid on the frivolous thing hadn’t cut the musician's hand open. 

The two young ladies had been fighting since they had started getting the future Lady of Casterly Rock ready for the day. Janei was the one in charge of dressing her and getting Snow ready for her outing around Lannisport. Initially, the Northerners had been excited at the prospect of exploring the famous Westerlands market. She had heard many tales of it from Thom and other sailors in Bear Island, but her mood was quickly souring after the younger of her attending ladies would not let the issue with the gods damn slippers go.  

“And I have repeated myself over and over, no one will see them under my bloody dress!” 

“But what if they do? What do you think peasants will think if they see you wearing worn and ugly leather monstrosities you call footwear? I will not let you embarrass this House!”

“Well we would have a bigger problem if they catch a glimpse of all of this.” Snow responded as she hiked up her blush dress to show her pale pink stockings, showing up to her knees. Janei flustered at the indecency of it all and huffed. 

Lyarra had decided that House Lannister was the epitome of hypocrisy. This fight was just another example of it. 

For weeks she had been drilled, poked, prodded, and made to memorize countless Lannister histories and fables on how the house defied expectations, did what they wanted, and still came on top. To the point that even her own literature and history loving mind could not handle the myriad of G, or J, or an L starting names of pointless Lannisters that did something notable like wear a stupid obsolete crown at some point from Lann the Clever until now.

If the the newest member of House Lannister had to hear the gods forsaken saying of fucking ‘lions do not care for the opinion of the sheep’ in that haughty and drawling damn Westerland accent one more time, she would fling herself off the damn Rock. 

She can just hear Tyrion’s voice ring between her ears latent with reverence and pride for his family history. Did you know that King Lancel I annexed the Southern part of Cornfield. He took over part of the Reach down to Old Oak. However, House Crane, Oakheart, and Rowan banded together to put up a meaner fight than expected and his son King Loreon III, lost those portions of the Reach. It mattered not in the end since Silverhill has more prosperous Silver mines than the small Ore repositories found in Red Lake. 

Time and time again, with every explanation, like a compulsion that every Lannister could not resist to take every defeat, slight, or insult and twist it to suit their needs. The irony is that they do care deeply and almost instinctively about what everyone says about them. Every action, reaction, moment crafted, outfit worn, and money spent all ultimately put into the carefully crafted image and supposed legacy that they clutch to soothe their self-worth. 

Lyarra finds it annoying at best and nauseating at worst. 

The Gracious Ward of Bear Isle, the Beauty of the North, and the Bonnie Bride of Jaime Lannister–all titles that came about by the whispers and opinions of others. However, she understood they all come with a price. As revered as some whispers propagate, others are like daggers to the back. 

The Bastard of Winterfell, Ned Stark’s Beautiful Mistake, Catelyn Tully’s Embarrassment, the Base Born Bride of House Lannister—a perception of oneself that will dictate how they treat you, that in a sense it is out of your control how they look, feel, and speak towards you. The masses will always have an opinion and it is good to know what they say but to let it consume you as the Lannister let it do to them, is maddening. 

They should know better and they do, but they simply do not do better. 

So, here she was, being trussed up like a prized cow to be paraded with her infuriating betrothed and her retinue of ladies through the winding roads of Lannisport to show the common folk a united front before the Houses of the Reach came on the morrow. 

Before Lyarra could pull her skirt down and have a fleeting sense of priority. Jaime had decided it would be the perfect time to muscle his way into the room, she could hear Wylla trying to stop him but obviously she had been ignored by the Kingslayer. 

He stopped abruptly and raised an eyebrow at his bride, eyes roaming down to her exposed legs and back up to her redding face. Jaime curled a little impish smile and he chuckled audibly when Lyarra when the young woman he was leering at hurriedly put her skirt down, embarrassed by the state she was in. 

“Now you know propriety?!” exclaimed Janei, then proceeded to huff as she turned to her cousin. “I am done here, she is your responsibility thus forth.” the young musical prodigy bolted for the door pausing to roughly hand the heir of House Lannister the slippers that were at the crux of the argument. The girl slammed the door on her way out, however, not before widening enough the Lyarra caught a glimpse of a red faced Wylla, half way through a rant. She could only imagine the poisoned words those two would throw at one another in the meantime that herself and Jaime were stuck in her room together. 

Alone. 

The man in question lived up to his family's sigil as he took the opportunity of Lyarra being distracted to stalk towards her in relative silence. Impressive, since she was sure those hellish slippers in his hands had bells on them. Yet that had posed no problem for the golden knight as quickly and dramatically his cousin had exited, he slid in front of his bride to be. 

Lyarra could barely register or compose herself as Jaime put himself uncomfortably close to her person and put his pointer finger to her sternum, and pushed her down to the bed that lay behind. In a normal situation and if she had expected that to happen, the action might have just made her sit down but being taken by surprise made it so the young woman landed on her back instead. 

At this juncture, Jaime had the opportunity to grab one of her legs and hoisted it to his chest. This made her delicate dress and chemise under it ride down, exposing even more of the delicate lace stockings he had already looked upon and revealed to her thighs. 

Lyarra could barely breathe, a shocked gasp escaped her and as she tried to get a word in with “Wha-” the perpetrator of her discombobulation interrupted her and he loomed his face over hers. 

“Hush, I am just trying to make sure you put these on so we can go. I will not do away with your innocence.” he winked “Yet.”

Stunned into further silence, Lyarra held her breath as he slipped on her left slipper and let go of her left leg but in the same fluid motion took her right one up to his chest and did the same thing. However, instead of letting that leg go and being done with the whole charade. Jaime took on another sly smile and brushed his fingers down her appendage to the edge of her thighs to where some exposed skin could be seen. 

Dangerously close to her cunny, Lyarra could feel Jaime’s calloused sword hand caress the patch of skin exposed between the pool of her dress and her stocking. Unconsciously, she felt the air in her lungs leave her as a current of warmth spread across her body, tingling from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes. 

Lyarra hated to admit it, but she wanted him to keep going if all of his touches were going to make her feel like that. 

“Smoother than silk and whiter than fresh snow.” muttered the knight, eyes then flickering to his captive’s face. A brilliant and bright smile shone, the biggest one she had seen on his face yet. He looked so young and mischievous, and so so handsome. 

Was this the real Jaime Lannister? Lyarra thought to herself. 

Jaime then chuckled, released her leg and put her dress back into an appropriate position. As fast as he had put his bride on her back, he took her hands and lifted her up to upon her, now slippered, feet once more. 

“I’ll buy you a matching pair of boots for each dress you own, if you just behave for the rest of the afternoon. You are quite scandalous and it would be wretched for the masses to witness how uncouth their future lady is.”

Now that snapped her out of the lusty haze that had clouded her brain and she openly scowled at him “I beg your pardon! I wasn’t the one, the one who just–”

“Just what? You are usually so eloquent Lady Snow” he continued to tease, further enraging her which now Lyarra could see that was his point from the very start. 

“You are insufferable!” she finally exclaimed, as she turned to the mirror to put her hair back into place. Wylla spent too much time on it for it to be ruined by Jaime’s games. 

“I am just trying to help my dear, almost but yet already by some technicalities, wife”

Lyarra gave another exasperated huff in response, straightened her shoulders and finally looked at the maker of all her current grief in the eyes. “Shall we go?”

The Kingslayer, always unable to leave anyone but himself with the last word, responded with a wink “You were the one leaving everyone waiting.”

The Lannisport Market was all the Lyarra had imagined and more, the songs and stories told by the hearth at Bear Island did not do it justice. It spread as far as the eye could see, with the stalls all adorned with rich and colorful tents from all over the continent and even some Essosi merchants. Like a spider, six main roads converged into one big open space that held a theater space for the various traveling bards and murmurs troops that made their way to the West.

It was packed with people from all types of places, a great equalizer in a sense. Everyone, but only if they brought some coins, seemed to be welcome here. It was beautiful in its own way, a chaotic mess of people being people. 

Slightly overwhelmed by all the new scenery and smells, the northern lady could not help herself at looking in all directions. There was no order to any of the stalls, for example they passed one that was selling various meats being fried in exotic spices from Dorne and right beside that stall was a fairly fancy clothmaker selling some delicate pieces for babies and young children to wear for the Sept. The spectacle seemed to triple as their group of highborn ladies, heirs, knights, and squires would approach or pass by. Flames cooking various foods would grow higher, the best jewels would be laid out, and the best of wares were hawked to the rich and powerful group of people. 

Packed with individuals from all types of places, a great equalizer in a sense. Everyone seemed to be welcome here, Lyarra found it beautiful in its own way. 

However, Jaime to her immediate right was, as always, utterly unbothered by it all. He even looked slightly bored with the whole spectacle. She could feel as he intentionally flexed his arm to trap Lyarra’s fingers in his elbow. When he was feeling particularly naughty, he would whisper snarky comments about their surroundings in her ear–to either scandalize her or their entourage was still a mystery to the lady of the North. 

“If we run fast enough, I am sure that we can shake them off” whispered Jaime, restless for something other than wandering around and pointing at knick knacks to buy. 

She could feel the eyes and hear the whispers of the around her, no matter if the Kingslayer and the Bastard of Winterfell were betrothed it was quite scandalous to be some close to one another. 

Salacious and anyone looking at them now would think them so in love. 

If they knew the truth, he just relishes in making himself a nuisance. 

“Well, that would be easier if someone let me wear my boots.” 

“Damn, you are right. I think the twinkling of your delicate silk slippers will do us in. Maybe if–” he started to quip back but was interrupted by a member of our retinue and caused the pair to pause their banter and gait. 

“My lady, I would recommend we stop at this incoming stall. They sell an Essosi delicacy called cocoa. Apparently it has become quite popular in particular at Starfall and other parts of Southern Dorne.” a warm, strong, and amiable voice rang at her left. 

Addam Marbrand is the son and heir of Lord Damon Marbrand of Ashemark. He was one of the chief knights in the service of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock but now is the sole chief knight of Jaime Lannister. A prestigious position and one that signals his confidant standing to both the current and future liege lord. Fostered in Crakehall, Ser Addam was one of Jaime’s true friends since childhood and the easy way that they interacted with one another made it obvious to whomever saw them together. 

Handsome, dignified, and a seasoned knight–Addam painted a very attractive figure to all eligible ladies around. A charming smile and crinkled hazel eyes, with a shock of deep red hair and so many freckles they could almost pass for deep tan. Tall, slightly taller than Ser Jaime, he had the air of a man other men wanted to follow and ladies wanted to fall in love with. 

Once upon a time, Lyarra would have considered a man like Addam as the man that her beauty would have afforded her. The heir of a prominent but still minor house, old enough that just settling down would appease his family's need for further heirs. Her connection with the great house and amiable relationship with its future lord a boon, enough to overlook her birth status. 

Safe bet of a man but still a dream to any bastard. Ironic that she was now to be the wife of a man that was every highborn lady's dream.

“Oh, that sounds utterly delightful Ser Addam!” an exaggeratedly sweet rang behind them, it took Lyarra all her might not to roll her eyes in response.

Jaime was not so tactful. 

On the insistence of both Lady Genna and Dorna, Cerenna had joined their outing for the day. Since the whole loom fiasco and taking responsibility for Joy, Lyarra has nary a peep from the two sisters. Yet, Janei informed both ladies of the North that their whisper campaign against Jaime’s betrothed and foolish behaviour had finally caught up to Tywin. It seems that he had been paying closer attention to the ongoings of all aspects of his house and was appalled by the two girls. 

Kevan had told his favorite child that apparently as a reminder not to piss-off the Warden of the West, the lord sent Myrielle to House Letford until she turned ten and eight. He hopes that spending time at her mothers house will shake out any bad habits, specifically under Lord Leo Letfords daughter a woman named Alysanne who is well regarded among the nobility as a well rounded and amiable lady. 

For Cerenna, the punishment was both lighter and harsher than expected. After some coaxing from Genna, Dorna, and their own father Lord Stafford; she was not sent with her sister but instead made to earn her way into Lyarra Snow’s ladies in waiting. Ultimately, it being Snow’s choice was when and if she would be given the prestigious position. 

As much as Lyarra would outright like to reject her, Lady Dorna had sat her down and guilted her into at least giving her a chance. 

So here they were, walking around the Lannister Market with, as skillfully Jaime had whispered in her ear, the most annoying golden parrot of a woman from here to the Sunset Sea. 

Thankfully, Joy was with Tyrion for the day helping Lady Genna with some of the last minute touches for the Tyrells visit and was spared having to spend time with one of her old tormentors. Yet, if the older Lannister Ladies insisted in Cerenna joining them more often, Lyarra was sure that there would be a commotion of some kind that could possibly end up with Lord Stafford daughter missing a tooth or two and the older of the two bastards with a sore hand for a while. 

“Enna has a good point Lady Lyarra, that stall does sound lovely. It is also beside one that specializes in selling fabrics from the Reach.” Janei said sweetly and smoothly, causing everyone ahead of her to turn in her direction. “Perhaps before partaking in this cacao, your handmaids can pick some new bolts for the expanding number of us.” 

Wylla, who was clutched to Janei’s side added “Of course, you can join us too Enna. More the merrier.”

Tyrion had mentioned in their lessons that a Valyrian philosopher once coined the ‘enemy of my enemy, is my friend’. Regardless that the dwarf had referred to this adage in terms of war, no more true was it for Wylla and Janei’s budding friendship. 

The two were oil and water not nary a sennight ago, but the arrival of the interloper named Cerenna Lannister had bonded the two in their mutual distaste. They were admittedly petty but Wylla did not like the older Lannister girl due to her Lyarra slander and as the loyal friend that she is, the Manderly made it her mission to make the other girl's life as difficult as she had made her friend. Janei was more personal in nature, Dorna’s daughter had previously been a victim of Cerenna and Myrielle–both jealous of her talent and elevated status, they both alienated her from the other foster daughters, making for a lonely childhood. Now that the fortune has turned their tides, the musical prodigy is not holding back. 

They are mostly harmless, barbed words here and there at Lyarra’s insistence. But she also had to admit that a darker part of her was satisfied in seeing Cerenna suffer a bit for her past cruelty, specifically to little Joy. 

But overall, Cerenna’s treatment made her feel a tad guilty, even if the older girl deserved it. However, she would feel less guilty, if Jaime did not actively encourage Wylla and Janei’s antics. 

“That sound lovely ladies, generous souls my beloved and beautiful betrothed has picked as her companions.” Those words were the ones that finally tipped Snow’s narrow control of decorum and made her let out a very unlady-like snort. 

However, through this all Addam was out of his depth with the whole exchange, so Lyarra spared him the petty rabble of feminine squabbles and continued sweetly with “That does sound like a lovely idea Ser Addam. However, Janei is correct, I have been meaning to buy some bolts of fabric and I see that there is a smithy across the haberdashery. Mayhaps you can go in with Ser Jaime to peruse while us ladies can shop in peace.”

“My lady, I would not be comfortable leav–”

“We will not be alone Ser Addam, I am sure your squires and knights are more than capable of keeping us safe for a short while.” interceded Snow, expecting some pushback from the seasoned knight. 

“Listen to sweet Lady Lyarra, Addam. The last thing I want to do is waste my time on embroidery patterns and frilly fabrics when there is a perfectly good Bravoosi smith hawking an exotic looking weapon at us instead.” 

The Kingslayer goading seemed to sway Marbrand, and his torn look turned into one of exasperated resignation and fondness for his friend. 

“Jon! Jason! Tyron!” Ser Addam barked at some of the knights in his service. “You three stay to escort the ladies. Ser Jaime and I will take the squires with us, let them explore a bit too.”

The Lannisport Market might have six main roads, but in between the sprawling and we organized official pathways, there were other tents between them in makeshift alleys. Some were where the more transient merchants lived but most were reserved for more seedier establishments, the kind that the Lannisters did not want to be highlighted and were literally shoved to the back sight unseen. 

Snow heard handmaidens and Cerenna arguing over the best patterns for the new dresses a few feet behind her, haggling with the merchant and his attendant, and overall exasperating the young knights as the group of girls used them to hold the various pieces that would inevitably be put on House Lannisters dime. 

Yet, they sounded like buzzing flies to Lyarra as she looked beyond the flaps of the current tent she was in and was entrapped by a pair of bright yellow eyes. 

The person was seated on a stool in front of one of the back-alley tents, it was hard for Lady Lyarra to decipher if the person was a man or a woman. As their thin frame and worn blue robes, and a variety of metal necklaces and rings hinted nothing about the individual. All vague in origin and nature. Their tanned skin was like worn leather, a sign that they were used to being long periods of time under the sun. 

Just as Snow was about to break her gaze and continue onto the next stack of fabrics in front of her, the person smiled and with two fingers beaconed her to them. 

If Lyarra were questioned on exactly why she decided to follow them later on, she might claim a lapse in judgement or even demons taking over her thoughts. However, something she could not explain was pulling her towards the unknown individual. 

Still the damn bells on her slippers would let the others in the party know her directions. So she slowly took them off one by one, minding the sound they would make and left them behind as she stepped through the crack of the tent and into the alley way. 

As if the world stopped around her, the bustling and constant noise of the market faded into a tense quiet. Only distant caws of ravens could be heard around. 

The person stood suddenly and grabbed Lyarra by her marked arm, pulling her into the tent. 

Small and cramped, but well maintained on the inside, rugs of various colors were on the floor, shielding it from the elements. Candles and incense lit everywhere to flood the space with pleasant scents of exotic flora that the girl from the North cannot name. She saw in the side a bed, but in the middle and taking the small space was a low table covered in stones and maps, with two chairs, one grand and the other a simple stool just like the one outside. The robbed stranger signaled Lyarra to sit in the stool closest to the exit, as they themselves elegantly sat down at the other grander piece.

Voice even and with a foreign accent Snow could not place, “Tell me your name.”

With the steadiest voice she could muster but not really having the courage to keep looking at the glowing yellow gaze “Lyarra Snow” 

“That is not your name. Tell me your name.” 

Lyarra then looked up, the yellow eyes patient and stern but not unkind. “That’s…that’s the only name I know.”

With a small smile the stranger said with kindness “Then you know nothing.”

Feeling a bit offended, the young woman recoiled but stayed silent.

“Relish in the ignorance now you beautiful fool, for this bliss will not last. Your truth will split out of you with tears, fire, and blood. It will sear your bones but you will be reborn, better if you can stand it and it will kill you if you cannot.”

At those words, like a trigger of some sort, her mark burned just like that fateful morning on Bear Isle. The stranger suddenly took her arm, shoved her sleeve back, and laid it out on the table. Lyarra could only hiss out an “Ahhh”. 

“Look! Feel through the pain, girl, Look at what the gods gift you.”

Once again as compelled by forces unknown to her, Lyarra was forced to look down and see as another picture bloomed on the other side of her forearm, taking up the bottom half a picture of a lion brought down low surrounded by a sea of green flames, three dragons in a form of triangle danced at the edges. In one corner a pale purple one with open wounds open cowering into its wing, the one in the bottom corner a brilliant sapphire with his maw open but no flames coming out and facing the one at the top in defiance. The one at the top was a deeper shade of green, blowing the flames that created the background of the whole image. 

Fear struck Lyarra Snow like an anvil to hot metal. Instant and blazing. No matter if the image was a gift from the gods, if anyone saw the three dragons the bastard would be accused of treason. 

A rust colored and worn hand caressed her arm, the frightened girl looked up at the stranger who looked kindly back. Their eyes suddenly flicked to beyond and they then said “Your adventure here is done for now, but you might see me soon if the winds will it so.”

Not wanting to stay any longer than necessary Lyarra stood up and rushed to the entrance, however, in a moment of naive bravery, she turned back to the owner of the glowing yellow eyes and asked “What is your name?”

“Sparrow. But go, your lion awaits”

As if the world was tipped on an axis, Lyarra was then shoved back out of the tent. The alley was now bustling with sound, Snow could feel as the many eyes of the patrons and sellers in the shaded area looked at her in what she could assume was trepidation. However, the world  was spinning and she could feel the ragged breaths go in and out as the panic set in. 

Large and warm hands pulled her out of her thoughts. Dazed eyes gazed into concerned emerald green ones, when she realized Ser Jaime was the one holding her she leaned forward and let her body sink into his. Her head bobbing into his chest. 

“Hey, hey, hey…what happened? Why did you come here?” Ser Jaime said in a worried tone. 

The picture of the Kingslayer and his damsel in distress had the consequence of a small crowd forming around them. The whispers and hushed words made the faint feeling overtaking her worse. Snow could hear herself groan. 

“Cease your staring! There is nothing to see here, disperse!”

Snow could vaguely hear Addam shout at the crowd, the clinking of armour of the other knights, and the far off tears coming from the group of noble ladies she had left behind. 

“Lyarra?” questioned Jaime once more, the concerned tone a novel thing for the man.

“Arm. Mark. Hurt.” the young woman managed to slur out, finally closing her eyes. 

The last thing she registered was Ser Jaime, fully picking her up and his strong voice commanding the men around him to head to the Rock. 

Lady Lyarra Snow never got to taste cocoa or fully explore the market that day, but she did get rid of her belled shoes.

Chapter Text

“So help me Maester Jon, you will keep the Gods damn new mark a secret.”

“My lord, please! It is my duty as a protector of knowledge and history to catalogue development such as these! I, ah, I could not go without reporting this to the Citadel.”

“And I am the protector of House Lannister and I have already warned you of what will happen if you utter a single word of what is on the girl's skin.”

“...My lord, I can just say Lady Snow’s mark developed. Th-that way I can still be dutiful and also omit the most incriminating information.”

“There is no negotiation to be had.”

“Father, if you please, I think a Maester can work without a tongue. He could even prove his expertise by healing himself”

“This is not a matter for jest, Jaime”

“I am deeply offended that you think that is a joke. I just like my threats to be poetic.”

“Hence why no one will take you seriously!”

The incredibly tense conversation was a stark contrast to the steady hand caressing her hair and a strong perfume of freesias and lavender that accompanied it. So, as Lyarra cracked her eyes open and was greeted by the canopy of her bed, heated words from three men in the room, and Lady Genna’s worried face hovering over hers.A look the young woman was not used to.

“She is awake.” Genna’s voice pierced through the chaos, making the arguing party stop and get closer to where Snow lay.  

When she fully opened her eyes, the bastard was a bit startled to see a Maester, Ser Jaime, and Lord Tywin all gathered around, as Lady Genna helped her up to on her pillows. She noted that Jaime had abandoned his doublet and was now only in his undershirt, yet it was obvious for however long she had been asleep that he had not changed from what he was wearing at the market. His golden curls disheveled and his boots still caked with mud from the alley–it was the first time Lyarra had seen him so out of sorts. 

On the other hand, Tywin looked as impeccable and imposing as ever. Lyarra had only interacted a handful of times with the Lord of Casterly Rock, the most infamous of which was that fateful dinner where he made it clear that she needed to step up and make Jaime see reason. Hence, it was a little bit of a surprise to see him in her quarters, visibly irritated and seemingly defending her from the clutches of nosy Maesters. Snow knew it was mostly to ensure that the treasonous new image on her body would be kept as underwraps as possible. Said actions ultimately a benefit to Jaime, which benefited House Lannister, which then benefited himself. 

But she was smart enough to understand that meant the prickly Lord did see her as one of them, which is more than she could have ever hoped for and frankly the closest to any real affection Lyarra might get from the old lion. 

Maester Jon, in contrast, was shaking and appeared the most out of place she had ever seen a man of the chains be around as a sickly patient. His face pale, his hands fidgeting, and his beady eyes roaming around the room in worry. The Lannisters were not known for mercy, and in a lapse of judgement the old scholar and physician had forgotten that indisputable fact. 

“How are you feeling lovely?” said Genna in a tone so gentle that Lyarra had thought she was still dreaming. 

“...Better, I–”

“What in the seven hells possessed you to run to the alley way without a guard?” asked Tywin in a pointed manner, cutting off Snow’s attempt to gather her thoughts and cutting to the meat of the matter. As Genna was at the left side of her bed, the old lord took the other, pushing both his son and the Maester to take the residence at the end. 

“I..I am not sure.” replied Lyarra in a quiet voice. 

The fact is that she remembers explicitly everything that happened with the mysterious figure, Sparrow. However, regardless of how true it was for her , a man like Tywin would never believe such a tale. A shadowy figure that seemed to bend time to their whimsy? Questions about her identity and fate? It was preposterous. Doubly so for a man of logic and reason as Lord Lannister. Hells, if Snow hadn’t been the one that experienced it, she would have not believed it either. So Lyarra finds it best to keep it to herself for now. 

In a land where gods are literally seared into someone's skin, mystics and magic are a touch too much. 

“You are not sure? You took off your shoes that were given specifically to avoid you running off without some warning to your minders. And–” (for the Old Gods and the new she knew those hellish contraptions held a nefarious purpose)

It was now Lyarra’s turn to cut off the Lord of Casterly Rock, “Correct, my lord. I do not remember what possessed me to take off my shoes and head to the alley by my lonesome. I think that in the limited time we have been together that I have proven that I am not a daft maid who does nary has a thought in her head before leaping into action.”

“Perhaps, nevertheless, there were ample denizens who witnessed you going into a tent. Alone . Do you know how suspect that appears to folk?”

This comment made Lyarras' hackles rise, objectively she put up with too much horseshit from all of them to doubt her.  “I am sure the Maester already checked for you if I was spoiled or not, and assuming that due to the fact that I have not been put in the cells, that I am not. Or am I incorrect?”

“You–you, after the evaluation it was conclu–”

Lady Genna cut the weak man off, unsurprising since she cannot stand stuttering but especially not from men. “Correct, my dear. You are intact, not a single tear.” she gave a small smile before adding “Pure as snow, some could say.”

Lyarra raised her hands in a gesture that universally meant ‘see?’, ignoring the cheap jibe. 

However, her reactions made Jaime crack a smile and by the fact that he was leaning forward meant that the knight found that whole exchange incredibly entertaining.

“I’m less satisfied with the result that you think. As I mentioned to both of you separately, you need to give this house some heirs.” 

In a flare of typical dramatics, Jaime rolled his eyes so hard that he physically did a turn in a circle and landed on top of the covers facedown to a muffled loud groan.

Lyarra hated to admit she giggled at his antics. 

“I need not state the obvious if you two just did your duty .” Tywin huffed out, unimpressed with Jaime’s display. “My main concern is that you fainted in the middle of a dark alleyway when in the morrow the party from the Reach is to arrive. I currently have my chief knights scouring the Market to silence any witnesses. Utterly ridiculous, fainting in front of so many people.”

“Tyrion informed me that Ser Jaime fainted when he first got his mark! Why is it so ludicrous that something similar happened to me?”

Jaime then finally stepped in “Eh, eh, eh do not believe everything that lout Tyrion tells you. My brother has a vested interest in making a fool out of me to entertain you. With that said, he is not incorrect, I did lose consciousness for a while. However! I did so in a very roguish way of getting my head bashed in my sword pommel.” but he tacked on “...and there were minimal witnesses”

Lady Genna snorted in response, “Yes, the Rogue Prince come again.” she then zeroed her eyes unto her older brother “I understand your concern about how this appears to the smallfolk and highborn guests alike, in spite of that brother, the chatter among the maids is that Ser Jaime was quite the gallant knight in helping Lady Lyarra.”

The buxom older woman continued as she stood up and walked towards Maester Jon. “I think with some of our key informants, we can spin the whole matter as a foreign girl getting sick, being overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, and getting lost in the shuffle.” as she gripped the man of the cloth shoulder as she passed to stand in front of her brother. 

“Lady Dorna is already taking the three other girls to task, swearing fealty from all three that they will not talk to anyone about what happened and Lady Lyarra’s marks.” Genna continued as she glanced at Lyarra, as if ensuring she was following the conversation. “Even at the punishment of death.”

“What about her bathing? Her handmaids can take care of the dressing, but other faculties are beneath them.”

“I have an idea that would work but you will not find…satisfaction in it.” said Lady Genna with a hesitance that was not usually becoming of a woman that had always showed such unbridled confidence. 

“Briony’s sisters are in need of employment.”

“Absolutely not!”

Briony. Briony…that name sounds familiar somehow.

“They have everything to lose and nothing to gain, betraying us and by serving dear Lyarra here they would have access to their tantamount reminder of why they should stay loyal to House Lannister above all else.”

“It is that very same access that worries me, I don’t want the girl to be corrupted.”

“Have more faith in both Lyarra and your niece! As we have…”

The argument kept going in the background as Jaime had moved silently from laying on her lower legs and feet, to sitting where Lady Genna had originally been. He then silently picked up her arm, looking intently at both of her marks and sighing deeply. His gaze lingering on the lion trapped around dragons, his stare far away in thought. The former Kingsgaurd then looked his soulmate in the eyes before he whispered. 

“I forbid you to faint like that again my lady. It was rude, bothersome, and a hassle to carry you all the way back to the Rock.”

Lyarra Snow had to crack a smile, she was now coming to understand his antics a bit. He was still incredibly frustrating, oftentimes the bastard of Winterfell felt like she was interacting with a highly respected murmur or one of those mythical assassins called the faceless men. Evasive questions, a blasé attitude, jokes instead of serious answers, and an air of superiority unto everything and anyone–including her.

Yet, a part of Lyarra can now see that it was a very complex defense mechanism. Similar to her own striving of perfection and need for control, Jaime deflects and avoids any and all responsibility that he must endure. A stark mirror to her own proclivities, it seems foreign to Snow not to take duty and responsibilities head on. She has ached for it since but a babe, how much she yearned for the possibility of to do something, to be someone, to have the power to change the trajectory of thousands.  

When Lyarra was younger, she would dream of what life could have been like as a boy. Sure, she figures that Lady Stark would have treated her even worse, as a male bastard is more of a threat to a trueborn heir. However, as a man, Lyarra could have had so many more options for her life; control. As a man she might have been educated alongside Robb, been made a steward or at least a marshall for her brother, she could have left South and have her hand at knighthood possibly becoming famous in tourneys. Hells, as a man she might have just chosen to follow her Uncle Benjen into the Brotherhood of the Nightswatch, aiding the protection of the realm in selfless service. 

Nevertheless she is not a man, she is but a woman. And women in this world are lower than dirt, and bastard women– well no more useful than a cocksleve. 

Lyarra Snow wants nothing more than to have her future be in her hands, instead of depending on the kindness of the men around her. 

So it leaves a bitter taste in Snow’s mouth thinking about all Jaime has and yet squanders. He was the oldest son and heir to the most powerful and richest man in Westeros. An achingly handsome and charismatic leader, considered the best swordsman alive, and respected knight. He has the world in the palm of his hand, Ser Jaime Lannister just needs to take it. But no, he is so fucking privileged that he has decided he does not need it, does not want it, and does everything to sabotage it. He literally put on a vow of celibacy and service to get away from something that Lyarra so desperately wanted. Respect and control. 

The Gods–old, new, foreign, true and false–paired her with a man who shows her that even with everything that she wants, you can still be utterly unhappy. 

About what exactly, Snow may never know. 

Still something that she does understand is that because of his way of being, he may never be forthright in his concern. Ser Jaime Lannister, will never tell her what truly is on his mind or what he is feeling. Hence, moments like these are the closest Lyarra ever might get to him verbalizing that he was afraid for her and that beneath the masks, barbs, and jests–he did have some room in his heart for his soulmate. Regardless of how much or how little it may be. 

So she just replies “I know, if my constitution fails me again, I will make sure it is in the castle and close to a soft surface.”

Jaime chuckles in response, his smile as radiant as ever and breathtaking as ever, with one dimple more prominent than the other. Needing to have the last word as always, he replies with a “Good, great.” and walks off to mediate between his father and his aunt. 

Leaving her to doze back into unconsciousness, the weight of the day catching up to her.  

Maester Jon was dead. 

Janei mentioned it very casually as she helped Lyarra change into her night gown “What a shame, the Maester was experimenting with some new concoctions and seemed to go awry, one of the acolytes that was visiting had to chop his tongue out and even whatever he was working on had done too much damage.”

Maester Jon was dead and it was my fault.  

“Oh my, does that mean that Casterly Rock is without a Maester?” questioned Wylla as she inspected the jewelry and hair pins to pick some that matched her mistress outfit for tomorrow.

“Nay, there are always three in total since it is such a big castle and not to mention the acolytes and novices. It just means the other two have to pull more of the weight until Oldtown sends another one to replace the departed Maester.” replied Janei to her fellow handmaid. 

Maester Jon was dead, it was my fault, and no one cares. 

“That is good, with the upcoming Reachmen visits it would be quite unseemly not to have one on hand—isn’t the right Lyarra?” Wylla spoke to try to coax her lady and friend out of her stupor. 

It took the other northern girl a moment to reply “Yes, yes. It would have been quite the conundrum.”

Both blondes sensing the unease tried to take the dark haired girl's mind off of whatever was plaguing her. “Say Janei, when is Cerenna fully joining us?”

“Ah well mother mentioned that Lord Stafford needs to tie some loose ends before—”

“Please leave.” An abrupt silence fell as both young ladies in waiting looked at each other in surprise. Lyarra Snow was many, many things but rude was not one of them. The future Lady of Casterly often was more direct than most but always with a grace that lulled you into security–a refreshing honesty that set her apart. 

This was just abrasive in a manner both were unfamiliar with. 

As if understanding her misstep, Snow recovered with a quick “Apologies. The day has caught up with me, and as much as I wish to discuss the many ways we need to integrate Lady Cerenna to my service, I need a moment alone with my thoughts.”

With a small smile to balm any rankled feelings, Lyarra looked at each girl with what she hoped was a reassuring gaze. Hence, without much fanfare both ladies looked at each other and silently left the room. With a gentle click, Lyarra Snow was finally alone. 

Lyarra is not stupid. The young lady understands quite well why the old Maester was killed, had to be taken out. No matter how much he promised that he would not tell a soul about what the new soulmark held, his first refusal and him not being wholly Tywin Lannisters creature was enough to seal his fate.  

Yet, she cannot help herself in feeling so utterly guilty a life has been taken because of her; even if it was in an indirect manner. 

The Bastard of Winterfell thanks the Old Gods that her ladies did not hesitate or question when she asked for the darkest colored nightgown she owned. Made out of heavier silk and embroidered with silver thread, the piece of clothing was made for a highborn woman to luxuriate around her bedchambers. The blood red color and the gaudy nature of the piece was not usually her taste but it at least was handy to have some garments of the shade for when the moonblood approaches. 

However, she wore it not out of caution for potential stains but to easily blend into the shadows that she planned to traverse that night. 

Pulling out of her wardrobe her darkest cloak, as black as the hour of the wolf and with a large hood to cover her features. She quickly puts it one, taking one of the silver brooches left hastily by Wylla on her vanity to ensure it’s place on her shoulders as she walks down the winding halls of the Rock. 

As the overachiever that she knew herself to be, Lyarra had meticulously memorized the entire layout of the massive castle in a week after Lady Genna had tasked her to do so. It was not a moon later and the older woman caught Snow telling some servants how to get to a certain part of the castle that she realized that Jaime’s betrothed took a hyperbole or turn of phrase as a realistic goal. 

Lyarra was very embarrassed at the time, but now she thanks herself for taking that at face value–now she knew all the ways to get to her destination without getting caught. Hence, the young lady went barefooted around the Rock like a ghost, turning corners and hiding from the rotating guards and servants alike with ease. 

“Did ya hear what happened at the market today?”

“Aye! Quite the tale. I’m glad Ser Jaime was there to catch the little lady, she is too pretty to have mud all over her.”

“Yes, like the Maiden herself…in more ways than one they say.”

“Meg! Hush, you don’t know who is near.”

“Bah, we both know it is only us around these parts at this hour. Anyways, who do you think is the one keeping the bed cold, my bets on her. Because if I had a man that looked like that, my legs would never be closed.’”

“I don’t know…milord did run away to King's Landing all those years ago…”

“...Bess, you aren’t hintin’ at him liking to swallow swords?”

Snow had to suppress her own snort at laundry maids' gossip. She knew that the servants of the Rock were talking about her but it was funny to see what they thought of her and Jaime firsthand. It did get her thinking, Lyarra never put much thought on her soulmarked preferences, he was a man who spent most of his life in a vow to never take a wife or father children, but there was enough leeway in those words to imply that bedding could still occur. And the gods new and old know how much the ‘father no children’ is upheld in this realm. Even the most honorable of men fall to that vice, she would not exist if that was not an existential truth. 

She must ask him at some point if he does like the sword more than the seethe, in Bear Island the shortage of men at any given time meant a few of the women took up partnerships with one another–finding both physical and emotional love. The young woman had also heard how sailors had sea-marriges to their fellow seamen, and once or twice saw said men engaging in drunken kissing on-land. 

Lyarra was fairly certain Jaime at least found her appealing, but he could be like Dacey, who was one of those people who liked both but preferred the company of women more than men if given the choice. If her soulmakered was also that way but the inverse, she would not begrudge him for his innate inclinations. 

It would be hypocritical, really. Lyarra was more than a willing participant to all the kissing games she engaged in with the eldest Mormont sister when she fostered in Bear Isle. 

Yet the wayward thoughts of sex were dissipated as the laughter grew fainter down the hall, Snow needed to get to her destination quickly to avoid the rotation of guards head this way. 

The doors to the Lord of Casterly Rock’s private study were massive, made out of glossy deep wood. It was gilded with gold of course, but the most impressive part were the two massive roaring lion heads that decorated each side. One male and the other female, both snarling from, as if to say ‘beware all who enter for the lions are found inside’. She took one of the handles that doubled and opened the door without much fanfare. 

The Lord’s Study was as grand as all the castle and the beating heart of Casterly Rock, and it looked the part too. Made almost entirely out of a cool stone called marble, the floor started in earth tones, to then gradient into a dark green variety with veins of gold that lead to an ornate desk–one that was made from the very stone on the ground. It’s masonry a testament of the craftsmanship and the foundation of where the wealth of the region comes from. Along the walls, tapestries–undoubtedly made by the great looms managed by the women of the family–depict every king and lord that has ruled the Westerlands. The most striking sight is the archway to the balcony found behind the desk, left raw like the opening of a cave, the sight of all of the lord's domain undisturbed for the ruler to see. 

As the young lady once again lost herself in admiring her surroundings. It took Lord Tywin a moment to recognize her and his face grew visibly pale at seeing Lyarra at his door, as if a ghost had come to haunt him once more. Snow was confused at his reaction, she understood that it was unlikely and unseemly to visit a man not her husband at such an hour but she did not expect this particular reaction. Tywin Lannister was usually so unflappable. 

Nevermind that, the bastard of Winterfell cleared her throat as she curtsied “Apologies for the interruption so late at night Lord Lannister, I have a matter of the utmost importance.”

Those words seemed to shake the old lion from his thoughts, Tywin stood up abruptly and rapidly went forward to where his good daughter stood and replied “Very well, sit.” as he gestured to one of the sofas. 

He handed her a goblet of wine and poured some for himself as the Lord of the West sat in front of the young woman, dark emerald green eyes sharp as his house's mascot. Lord Lannister remained silent, as he preferred to unsettle his guest by taking a large sip of his wine without breaking eye contact. 

Mustering courage from the marrow of her bones, Lyarra takes an audibly deep breath before saying “Maester Jon is dead and I suspect more men will die if they continue to come from the Citadel.”

“Not an incorrect assumption” A flicker of fondness flashed in his eyes as Tywin continued “Smart thinking but I expect that of you now.”

Taking it as a cue to continue Lyarra followed up her original statement with “Personally, I do not want to continue to be responsible for unnecessary deaths if given the option. Hence, I think I may have a solution that would benefit us all.”

Instead of letting her continue, the old lion interrupted as he put his empty goblet on the table between them “It seems, I may, I might…we both know you have an ideal solution in mind, it is grating to hear you down play it.” as he leaned back, “Leave the simpering and honeyed words for the fools who underestimate you.”

Now that threw her for a loop, in her experience highborn lords and ladies did not appreciate being even perceived to be shown up by someone that they deemed beneath them. Therefore, Lyarra had trained herself from an early age to always phrase her ideas as suggestions, questions, and in truly dire situations, make the recipient think that it was their idea all along. The bastard would soften her words, tone, and gaze to be able to manipulate the situation to her benefit. 

It was the first time someone saw through her act and called it out so directly. 

Understanding that Lord Lannister was a man of little patience she decided to leave that thread of thought untouched–for now. “Very well. It would be months if not years to mold a loyal Maester that will not reveal sensitive information to the Citadel. Even longer to send a Westerlander already loyal to you and this house…”

“You have an option in mind then.” Tywin cut her off, phrasing the sentence like a statement instead of a question. 

“Yes, Maester Rolf, the one currently in Bear Isle.”

Lyarra could have sworn she heard her good-father chuckle as he reached for more wine. 

“A creature of your own then.”

“No, not at all.”

Tywin in turn gave her a disbelieving look as he took another sip of his drink. 

“Maester Rolf is the foremost expert in soulmarkings, he dedicated his entire time in the Citadel to studying them to the detriment of his own success. Why do you think they sent him all the way to Bear Isle? They wanted him gone and he also did not speak very highly of them either.”

“That is not a very convincing argument on why he wouldn’t reveal the new artistic development on your arm. Our problem was that Maester Jon wanted to catalog and report back his findings; a scholar that has never been recognized by the very institution they are a part of? Seems like nothing is resolved.”

“That would be a logical assumption but–”

“I remember that Maester, he seemed barely qualified to treat a scrape and you want him to serve House Lannister? Please.”

“Not necessarily House Lann–”

“Regardless of this Rolf fellow being an expert, how do you even become an expert on such a–”

“Understood but–”

“Small and very untested topic, if a soulmark comes every generation or so and–”

Lyarra growing incredibly frustrated at Lord Tywin talking over her did something that she had never done in her life until now. 

She let her mask fall. 

“Cease your speaking!” Snow snarled and slammed her hand on the table between them, so hard that the young woman felt her sting, her chalice toppled over and the wine in the cup slipped onto the floor staining the carpet underneath. “I know how much you like hearing your own voice, Lord Tywin but for one second I need you to understand that you do not know everything.”

Tywin Lannister, still in shocked silence, looked at her with an unreadable expression, his countenance was pale and drawn. 

The Bastard of Winterfell reached into her coat and pulled Prince Duncan’s journal and started to read out loud “From the diary of Prince Duncan Targaryen, My soulmark was a peasant. A beautiful one, but just a simple peasant. How is it possible that the next King of the Seven Kingdoms is fated to a no-named cobbler's daughter. What a joke–”

Before she could finish, Tywin ripped the journal from her hands and inspected it with a careful and hurried pace. He looked terrified. 

“Where did you get this?”

“Maester Rolf gave it to me when my soulmark appeared, he had it for years. Safe to say the fuckers at the Citadel knows nothing of it.” Lyarra said sarcastically, she did not feel the need for deference or politeness anymore. “You should feel honored, my lord, that I am even sharing it with you, he told me to keep it a secret.”

Tywin seemed to be absorbed by one of the pages she had bookmarked, deciding to pay more attention to the invaluable piece of history in his hands. Lyarra took it as an opportunity to continue speaking. 

“My advocating for having Maester Rolf is self-serving but it makes sense for him to be the one attending me and Jaime from now on. He treasures the pursuit of uncovering the mysteries of soulmarks to the point he kept that journal secret for 20 years–it would be the honor of his lifetime to attend to us and he would not let the Citadel interfere.”

Time seemed to pass slowly as the Lord of Casterly Rock seemed to be far off into his head, his frown particularly pronounced and his face still pale as he gripped the dairy in his hands. The silence was so thick in the room that Lyarra’s bluster and confidence faded and the deep, deep anxiety of the consequences of her actions started to set in. 

Did I just fucking talk like that at fucking Tywin Lannister? 

She grew hot as she imagined all the ways the infamously vengeful lord would retaliate to her insolence. Would he lash her? Would he strip her from all the luxuries and just use her as a breeding mare? Would he cut her tongue out? 

Before Lyarra could start hyperventilating, Tywin interrupted her thoughts. 

“I’ll write to Lady Mormont then.” he said in a calm and even tone. 

Lyarra let out the breath she was holding but her shoulders still felt tight and she could still feel the sweat pooling at the bottom of her back. 

“You remind me of my mother.”

That made the bastard of Winterfell look at the old lion of the Rock with wide eyes but he barely registered her movements as he continued. “My mother was the one who held the Westerlands together for years. No one knows this, but my father could give fuck all about my education as heir, he was a second son whose luck in life was being married to such an exceptional woman. So it was she that stayed up late at night going through financial ledgers, it was she that guided my hand as we read through smaller lord’s petitions, and it was she who insisted I travel to Red Keep to nurture bonds with the Targaryens and Baratheons.”

Lord Tywin gave out a bitter laugh, foreign smile painted on his face. It was so odd to see and by legend the young woman knew that she was one of the few who has ever gotten to see it. 

Yet, the only thing that went through her mind at that moment was Jaime has his smile. 

“I didn’t give a shit about Tytos Lannister and I still do not. I didn’t destroy the Tarbecks and the Raynes for him–I did it for her. Jeyne Marbrand of House Lannister would get the last laugh, I ensured it.”

He looked 10 years older than he did at the start of this conversation as he continued with a raw honesty “I am not blind to my children’s faults, Jaime in particular is too soft, too fanciful, too much like my youngest brother–even after becoming a man grown, I fear he will never mature to be the lord this realm needs.”

Lyarra saw how the lord clutched the closed journal in his right hand, using it as an anchor. “You need to be the new Jeyne.”

Tywin finally looked his good-daughter in the eyes, handed the journal back, and said “Your lessons with Genna will end and your lessons with me start tomorrow. Now go to bed.”

Chapter Text

And here I thought I would die before ever seeing a Targaryen again. 

The minstrels and the rumors they sing were not exaggerating when they said Lyarra Snow was the most beautiful girl in an age. Tall and slender but with curves that Lynesse pillowhouses would sell for thousands per night. Her eyes were a lilac, the color the same as her paternal grandparents, but their shape and the arch of her brows was all her father. 

Pouty full lips inherited from Myriah Martell that haunted the house since the dornish marriage. Her nose held the small tell-tale Aryn bump that popped up every so often in Rheanyra’s descendants–in the particularly beautiful ones such as Deana or Rhae as if to humanize their beauty. Her smile was kind, cheekbones high, and a notch on her chin was so painfully familiar to the greatest King of her lifetime, Aegon V.  

Her inky black color of her curls and her pale skin might be attributed to her northern heritage but Olenna is old enough to know that look was all Betha Blackwood. She is young yet but in a few years she would be a fierce and dark beauty, one more reminiscent of Queen Visenya and Shiera Seastar than Queen Rhaenys and Naerys. 

The only thing northern about this girl is her long oval shaped face and her long legs. 

Her bones creek, the patience even thinner than her hair these days, and as much as she wishes she were still enjoying the company of her many, many grandchildren–even though she loved him, a part of her knew that Mace would fuck up if her son were here instead of her. 

Lord Tywin Lannister was as fearsome at the negotiating table as the battlefield and even if House Tyrell and the Reach do have the upperhand in this instance. The Queen of Thorns wants to make sure this new found relationship flourishes. The Tyrells have their eyes on bigger prizes and a friendly and beneficial relationship with the Queen’s family would make things exceptionally easier 

Originally, Olenna was happy that her eldest grandson would accompany her. 

If Margaery was her pride, Willas was her joy. 

The young man was intelligent, talented, and handsome but still humble and gracious enough to appreciate guidance from the women in his life. A talented wordsmith, bookish by nature, but also quite talented martially. Or he was, before his accident. But regardless of what the baseless whispers of heir displacement said aside, Willas was shaping up to be an outstanding future Lord of Highgarden and the South. 

Then why in ever loving fuck is he looking at Lyarra Snow that way? 

Eyes blown wide, tips of his ears beat red, and clutching his free hand flexing open and closed. It was the same look that young Garlan had for Leonette, the same look Mace had for Alerie, and even the same look that Luthor had for her once upon a time. 

A Tyrell man in-love.

Olenna Tyrell, fearsome matriarch of the current house, thought that this particular affliction had skipped her Willas. Always so clever and clear eyed, rejecting marriage proposals left and right because they were not the right ones for the success of himself and his house. 

Yet here he is, just like every other Tyrell man before him. 

Lyarra Snow or is it Lannister? She did get married in the North before coming to Casterly Rock.

“Come in closer dear, let me look at you.” as she beckoned the young woman closer.

Kings Landing the Queen’s Solar 

“Come in closer dear, let me look at you!” said Queen Betha with a caring and reassuring voice.

The first thing young Olenna Redwyne noticed when she got closer to the Queen on the Seven Kingdoms is how pleasant she smelt. Like a lavender, honey, and something that then girl from the Reach would find out is the distinct scent of Weirwood. 

“You are even more beautiful than the portrait your father sent.”

Both a compliment and an insult, Olenna had been warned about the willful woman’s silver tongue. Black Betha was never meant to be Queen and yet she did not let the court swallow her whole. No, she dominated it with a firm hand and guiding presence, she ensured that no plots, secrets, or rumors tainted her husband’s rule. Her blood was made out of meticulous planning and steel.

Nothing less for a woman who seduced a Targaryen Prince

“Well, it seems like the paint was wasted then.”

The Redwyne girl had to admit that she was quite excited to join the ranks of women who married into the famed House of the Dragon, doubly so because it was under King Aegon V. His good sense must be passed down to his children, she does not doubt it. 

A sharp laugh and even sharper black eyes and smile, greeted her jape in turn. 

“Hmm, you best be careful. That sharp wit might get you in trouble one day.”

It took years for Olenna to realize that those words were not said in malice but in well intentioned warning. Betha herself had been chipped away, by her husband, by her children, and more importantly by her own greed. She did not want another bright girl to suffer the same fate. 

Yet the folly of youth clouded her good sense and she replied. 

“I am looking forward to it.”

“You are more beautiful than all those nasty rumors let on.”

“What a shame, imagine all the wasted breath then.”

Lyarra Snow smells of lavender, honey, and weirwood trees.