Chapter Text
Rickon
"Again.”
Rickon is going to wipe that smug grin off Theon's face, even if it is the last thing he does. But, even if it pains him in every little piece of his body he obeys, repeating the familiar movement to draw the bowstring taut, the arrow feather tickling his cheek. He breathes as Theon has told him, feeling the man circling him, examining his position in extreme detail. At least, Theon has decided to not mess with Rickon while he is holding a weapon, and instead takes his New duty as a teacher solemnly. Or, at least, as with much solemnity as Theon Greyjoy can handle, the whispers of a Rickon that knows the man better whispers, amused.
The hands come to his elbows, guiding them silently to where Theon sees fit, and Rickon bites the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to shove him off. He asked Theon for help, he can't regret it now. Besides, as much as Rickon hates to admit, he is getting better.
In his first life, Osha taught him to fight with the spear, to handle axes and daggers. The bow and arrow, as useful as they are, were never Osha's strong suit.
In this life, he seems to have focused more on the sword, as strange as it sounds, for he had never held one in the life before, training under the harsh gaze of Sir Rodrik Cassel and the merciless blows of his brothers. Rickon is not the most talented with the sword, but Sir Rodrik persists that hard work is as good as natural talent.
Yes, he thinks, tell that to Robb and Jon, smug as they are in their victories.
Archery in this life He knows the basics, and he is better than Bran, at least, but that is nothing to boast about. He is, thanks to the Gods, as good with them as Robb and Jon.
He wants to be better. He needs to be better.
And who better to teach him than Theon Greyjoy, who in both lives Rickon remembers him as a very good Archer, the best around.
Ramsay had said so, too, and that wouldn't do, would it? I took care of that.
He bites harder, the familiar taste of blood slowly making itself known in his mouth, as Theon's hand is placed on his back.
“You are too tense, Rickon.” He says, amusement in his voice. “I swear that Bran is not hiding behind the wall.”
Gods. He almost drops his arms, ready to turn and face the asshole, but Theon is quick to keep him in place. And Rickon is aware enough to better not risk it.
“I'm not scared of Bran.” He spats, at last, eyes landing on the target, which Theon seems very insistent on placing in a worse place every day.
“You could have fooled me.” Theon says dryly, hands finally away from Rickon's back and elbow, and he thinks he can breathe once again, the places the man has touched burning as much as the wound in his shoulder had.
Rickon grunts, refusing to answer more than that, and focuses on the black spot where his arrow must land.
He breathes in, he breathes out, and he lets go.
He feels the whisper of touch in his cheek, hears the sound of the arrow cutting through air and then one of it piercing the cloth and then wood. He lowers his bow, tilting his head to the side, ignoring how Theon comes back to his side.
“Better.” He says, so smug about it, as if it was his arrow.
“‘S not as if i was bad before.” He bites out, frowning to the arrow that, to his misery, landed vaguely to the left.
“But now you are better.” Theon declares, and he bumps his shoulder into Rickon's in a friendly gesture that has Rickon tightening his grip on his bow. “Thanks to who?”
He rolls his eyes, rolling his shoulders to take out the tension. He is not answering that. Instead he turns, just in time to see the uncharacteristic gleam of worry in Theon's eyes before it is replaced by the usual smile.
Rickon doesn't understand.
Because while he wants to be the best he can with the bow, while he wants to have control over the damned thing that killed him, he can't deny that he wanted time alone with Theon. Because, while he wants many things, most of all he wants to understand.
There are many things that he had never known, that to this day Rickon is in the dark, because, at the time, he was too little to be told. He doesn't know many things because he was little, because he was too far away, because he had been left.
And even when Theon had taken Winterfell, when he had killed Sir Rodrik and taken them prisoners, nobody ever truly explained to Rickon why.
He didn't understand then, and while at this age, with this life, he knows things that before he didn't, he still doesn't understand because–
Because we were brothers, weren’t we?
His throat feels in a knot as he watches Theon take his own bow from where it rests against a rock, sliding his fingers along the bowstring.
He doesn't know much about what or how things happened, that is true, but he knows what things he can try and stop. Bran's fall, first of all, maybe the easiest yet Rickon's heart beats off by just even thinking of it, the Black eyes of ravens that are not there weighing on him. The other is Theon. He doesn't know how he will stop the treason, first of all because he doesn't know why it happened, but by the Gods he swears he will prevent it.
That means spending time with Theon, even if it burns and pains him.
He watches as Theon draws the bowstring taut, watches the fluid movement and how far the arrow reaches his cheek, and crosses his arms when Theon gives him a quick smile and wink before letting go, the arrow flying as it lands perfectly on the target.
Theon's grin makes him groan out loud, feeling warmth in his cheeks as he snatches another arrow and stomps over Theon's side, getting in position.
Lyanna
The first time, back when she was the youngest of the sisters by years, back when Jorelle was another sister far too old, far too fast for Lyanna to catch up with, she had never set foot in Winterfell, not until after the Battle of the Bastards. That Winterfell was gray, but not in the way that most things in the North were gray. Winterfell was gray in a way that spoke of loss, of years past. As if no matter how much the Starks tried, they couldn't erase all the things that happened in the castle, all the things lost.
Lady Stark had told her, when the castle was filled by people of all places, waiting for a battle that belonged to songs and tales, that no matter how many people arrived, how much life, song and chatter grew inside the walls, the place still felt terribly haunted.
Lyanna had thought that she understood, for the Bear Keep that she had led for years had lacked the warmth that she so clearly remembered it had before the war.
And now she is there, dismounting her horse as she looks up to the receiving party that awaits them, and Winterfell stands fairly gray still. But it is different, she can feel. There are many unfamiliar faces, faces that must have been the ones that had haunted Winterfell, and the remaining Starks, so strongly.
As some men take the horses away, Jorelle is the one to approach the Stark family first, doing the courtesies that are proper, ones that Lyanna is quick to imitate, unable to tear her eyes away from the couple that smile at them.
Lord and Lady Stark, she knows. They had been mere ghosts to her, haunting Winterfell, haunting their offsprings, and haunting Westeros as only they could. Lord Stark, the Ned Stark, looks very much like Jon Snow had, imposing in a solemn way, even as he smiles down at them, not unkindly.
And where Lord Stark looks like Jon Snow will, Lady Stark resembles the young woman that Sansa Stark will become. There are key differences, of course, they are not the same. But the most striking ones are how Lady Catelyn lacks the hard edge that had taken her daughter's beautiful face, and that Lord Ned's eyes shine with something that his bastard's own ones won't have in an uncertain future.
“Lady Mormont,” Lady Stark greets, nodding towards them. “, and Lady Mormont.”
“Jorelle and Lyanna will do, my Lady.” Jorelle chirps happily, her cheeks flushed a beautiful Pink as she answers Lady Stark. “House Mormont is deeply honored and grateful for taking us in, my Lord, my Lady.” Both of them bow down, and as Ned and Catelyn Stark do the proper greeting and exchanges, Lyanna's eyes can't help but trace their faces, looking for more traces of Lady Sansa, of Jon Snow, of lady Arya and the one many had called Bran, but who hadn‘t recognized himself as such.
A man offers them bread and salt, and Lyanna's hands do not tremble as she takes them, even if her eyes look towards Lady Stark, whose eyes shine at her. Both things taste like ashes in her mouth.
The pleasantries and the welcome comes and goes in a blur for Lyanna, and it is not until Ned Stark, the man her mother had held dearly to herself and spoken so well of, is signaling them to meet his children that she can comes to herself.
She had never met Robb Stark, she had hear the stories and read the letters that spoke of him, enjoyed the songs while they were of victory and hope, as scarce as bards are in Bear Island, and painted to herself an image of this great king of Winter that her mother and sister had followed south so readily, so proudly.
Somehow, she imagined him taller. Broader, as often the northern men are, but while of wide shoulders, Robb Stark is not broad. Not yet, at least. Jorelle had spoken often of his eyes, an icy blue that hosted the cold of their realm, and she had done them justice, for even the warm smile that he gave them cannot melt the cold in them, even if they shine. Alyssane had spoken of fiery red curls, but for a woman that had encountered not a single red head in her life Lyanna guessed any shade of red is a fiery red. Robb Stark's hair is not as eye-catching as his sister's, but darker, a blend between the dark of his father and the auburn of his mother.
Like old blood, she thinks to herself, a brownish red that speaks of an old battle.
He is tall, that she can concede, and he is handsome, freshly shaven and well dressed, with a strong jaw and a straight nose.
But she sees no King in him, not the king that her family had spoken so highly of in their letters, the king they were willing to kill and die for.
But Jon Snow didn't look like a King, either, she muses, not until we made him one.
Maybe it is the same for Robb Stark, maybe it is like Jon Snow, like Lady Sansa, like Lyanna herself. The leader is not there until it is needed, until it is made. She wonders if he could still be the king that her family had followed, if she could see the King in the North with her own two eyes.
If, at seeing him, she could understand–
“Sansa, our first daughter.”
She takes her eyes away from the King she never knew to the Queen that could have been, and it takes her by surprise to see bright and big open blue eyes instead of the guarded and stern ones she had come to like. Lady Sansa seems terribly young as she courtesies, wrapped in a pretty blue dress with winter roses embroidered in it, long and shiny auburn hair braided in the simple northern style that both Jorelle and Lyanna carry.
Her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, her smile a pretty one that cannot hide how happy she is to see them, and it is quite a sight to behold.
A Lady far too different from the one that had come to her Island, which feels like yesterday and ten years agos. Her stomach turns inside her.
Jorelle is ready and eager to sing courtesies with the Lady, taking her hands and praising the embroidery in her dress, and how lovely her hair is. Lyanna watches, terribly lost. Her sister seems eager, her own cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with joy. Maybe it was good for Jorelle to come, seeing that Lyanna's throat is unable to utter a single word. Lyanna is never without words. Never.
Lord Stark guides them to the next, and Lyanna tears her gaze away from Lady Stark, Lady Sansa, ready to face Lady Arya.
She doesn’t, and her mind tries to come with an answer.
Memories of her past life insists that Lady Arya comes after Lady Sansa, then Lord Brandon and lastly Lord Rickon. But the memories of now, of the Lyanna that is older and a twin, speaks to her with irritation, deeply annoyed, naming Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Rickon Stark, Arya Stark–
Rickon Stark.
Gray eyes are frowning at her, as if he doesn't know what to do with Lyanna as much as Lyanna doesn't know what to do with him, before he courtesies in a way that makes Lady Sansa blush and berate him in a whisper.
He is tall, the same height as Lady Sansa, with the same shade of auburn hair that screams to be seen, a mess of curls crowning his head.
Twins, her mind supplies, the bells of Winterfell rang for the first daughter of Ned Stark from dawn to dusk, and a Hunt was held for his second son, during the night.
Jorelle bows and Lyanna does the same, unable to tear her eyes away from the boy in front of her. He holds her gaze, eyes squinting at her in suspicion before they are taken to Lady Arya, who is so short and tiny it almost takes Lyanna out of her surprise by Rickon fucking Stark being far too fucking old.
Her own bow is in the middle of the way between Lady Sansa's and Lord Rickon's, not perfect, but not the careless thing that the young Lord had done, and she doesn't take long to ask if it is true that her mother had fucked a bear. Not with those words, but the message was clear.
Lady Sansa's little scandalized ‘Arya’ is easily drowned by Lord Rickon's snort, both that are quickly silenced by their own mother, berating her younger daughter and her second son before asking Lyanna and Jorelle for forgiveness.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady.” Jorelle says easily, eyes shining with amusement as she glances at the little Lady. “It is something that both my mother and my sister proclaim loudly, often, and proudly. Is something that cannot be proven, but that cannot be refuted, either.”
The last one is Brandon Stark, who had been So terribly tall in his early adulthood, but now is even shorter than his sister Arya. His eyes are big and curious, and it is easy for him to make Jorelle laugh and smile. Not that it is a difficult task, Lyanna thinks, even as she can feel her own mouth fighting a smile of her own.
Cute.
But her eyes leave this child, who one day will lose everything that makes him Bran, even if his siblings cling desperately to someone that is not more than a memory, and wonders away, to the other people that watch the welcome of the Mormont twins, until she lands in gray somber eyes looking from the shadows.
Jon Snow frowns at her, arms crossed in his chest, but Lyanna doesn't falter and she frowns back, heart tightening for the King she had crowned.
Dinner is an interesting affair. It is loud and warm and full of food, a banquet held in honor of their guests. The laughter rises and blooms in the hall, and Lyanna finds herself sitting between Lady Stark and Lady Sansa. Her, Jorelle and the Starks sitting at the high table, able to watch the rest of the Hall.
It is… nice, and she can understand better the sadness that had haunted Lady Stark, back in her time. No matter how much people crowded the hall, it never was this warm, this Lively and nice. Even the candles seem to shine brighter, casting an Orange light upon them all.
“Do you know how to fight?” The high and brash voice makes itself known upon the chatter of the Hall, and Lyanna looks towards her left, passing the twins to lock eyes with Lady Arya.
“I do,” she answers, curious as the Lady's eyes get big and her smile gets broader, and the young Lady looks at her sister.
“I told you they did!”
“We did what?” Asks Lyanna frowning, before Lady Sansa could say anything.
“Fight!” Lady Arya answers easily, and she moves, all but laying in her brother's lap so she can be closer to Lyanna, an arm resting in the table and the other in Sansa's armrest. Rickon doesn't seem to mind, picking at his food with a frown, long arm twisting above his sister's body to reach his plate. “Do you know archery?” she asks, a glint in her eyes that spikes Lyanna's interest.
She casts a glance towards Lady Sansa, who is frowning at her sister in disapproval, and then to Lady and Lord Stark, both deep in conversation with Jorelle at their other side.
It is not common, she knows well, for women to fight. Not only uncommon, but frowned upon.
I won't be by the fire while the men fight for me.
It had angered her, for them to want her to do so. An axe had been put in her hands as soon as she could handle it, bow and arrow as soon as she had requested so. She had ruled Bear Island for years, she had fought to defend it for the same time. Her mother and sisters had been fierce warriors, had fought alongside Robb Stark, and had died with him. Everyone seemed to forget that, even her own advisors, it had seemed, and it had seeted her with rage.
But the life she had led here, the Lyanna that is older and had grown in a time of peace, surrounded by those very warriors she held dear, she knew nothing of the injustice she had faced in another time. And how strange it is, to have the anger of an injustice that hadn‘t happened, the need to prove herself when there is nothing to prove.
She remembers how angry she had been, and how Lady Arya and Lady Brienne had been a fucking breath of fresh air.
She can see in the eyes of this Arya, that she has the same hunger she herself had felt, that she sometimes still holds.
And she is no longer a lonely, angry child, even if most parts of that Lyanna, the one she will forever be, has taken over the one that had lived this life. She is settled here in ways she wasn't before.
“The wildings come to our coasts,” she speaks after breathing, now both Lady Sansa and Lady Arya looking at her intently. “And we must defend our Island, my lady. Both men and women.”
The young Lady smiles, utterly amazed, hair sticking out of her braids, and Lyanna can't help but think back of the Arya Stark that had arrived Winterfell, the one whose dark hair had been braided sternly, whose voice was clear yet low, the woman whose steps could not be heard and whose sword was quick and deadly.
Once again, she wonders what paths had taken the younger Starks to end like they did.
“I wish I could do that.” Lady Arya says, biting her lower lip before trying to get closer. “Are you good with archery?”
Lyanna scrunches her nose.
“I'd rather use an axe,” she says dryly, “But Jorelle is very good with them. She is good for the finer things.”
Lady Arya looks behind her and Lyanna follows her gaze, turning so they can both look at Jorelle. She is talking still, answering whatever Lord Stark had asked, and it must be important, for her face is solemn.
“... it worries us. They are coming more often, but they are… they're getting desperate.” She is frowning, as if she is not sure if desperate is the right word. “Years back they had been more cautious, or more organized. Now they just seem to be eager to reach the Island.”
From Jorelle's side of the table, Robb Stark is frowning in thought at what she is saying, but little Bran seems as amazed as Lady Arya had been.
She must be telling them of the wildlings, then. Good, better have that out of the way as soon as possible.
“Benjen had said something similar, as did Jon Umber.” Is what Lord Stark says, deep in thought, but Lyanna cannot see his face to tell more.
“Maybe they're running from something.”
Lyanna turns her head back to her side of the table. It was Rickon, who Lyanna just knows will be a thorn in her side for the foreseeable future, who had spoken, a frown in his face as Lady Arya twisted herself to see his face.
“From what?”
Gray eyes look at the young girl, and then they go to Lyanna, something knowing in them that has her clenching her jaw, before he looks down at his sister, amusement in his eyes.
“Winter, and all the things that come with it.”
“The Lord is not wrong.” Lyanna says, watching carefully the face of the young Lad, the way he turns towards her. “This might be the longest winter in many years.”
“The darkest, too.” The young Lord ads, looking back at her, even if he bends Down to whisper at his sister. “Who knows, maybe they are running from spiders made of Ice…”
“Rickon…”
“Towering, dead giants…” he keeps going, even as Arya berates him, saying she is too old to believe such things for babies, even when Lyanna is sure she is as pale as a ghost, even if her heart is beating far too fast, if her fingers grip the edge of the table too tightly . “Creatures whose touch is as cold as ice!”
At that, Arya groans out loud, dropping like dead weight upon his brother, ignoring her sister's scandalized calling.
All the way, Rickon keeps her gaze.
He knows.
Myrcella
Myrcella side eyes the bard as he stands unsure in his place, thinking back to the handmaids that must be coming and going in her rooms, filling her chests with the appropriate clothing for the North. She recalls little of her time there, the lands gray and dull, unkind both in weather and terrain. Compared to all the beautiful things she had seen, how could she make rooms in her memories for such a plain place?
But she does remember the people, some more than others. Most had seemed as dull and plain as their lands, stern and somber. The girls, the friends of Lady Sansa, had looked up at her with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, marveling at the very princess in front of them. She remembers Robb Stark, before he had been the terrible Wolf King that had enraged her brother, and he had been kind to her, smiling and answering all her questions, and she had felt like flying by his attention. Even if they had been quite simple in a lovely way, they had been kind and honest.
Her mother makes a sound that drags her attention back to the room, back to the Red Keep and King's Landing, to their rich gowns and prideful knights, to the poor lower streets and the smell of shit that surrounds them all, masked by sweet perfume. Nothing like the water Gardens back in Dorne.
Cersei Lannister is splayed out in the divan, a cup of wine dangling in her hand. Even in such a state she holds herself so gracefully, so elegantly, holds herself with such distant and golden beauty in her green emerald gown, long golden locks falling freely for once. She had driven Myrcella's companions away upon her entrance, smiling to herself at their hurried pace, and with a single glance had silenced Orland the Bard, his act of the Dornishman's Wife left unfinished, which irks Myrcella's more than the ushering of her ladies-in-waiting.
She holds her cup of water tighter between lithe fingers.
“You are unhappy with your Father.” Her mother says as if it is nothing, eyes drawn to her golden cup, feigning disinterest.
Unhappy is a way to say it, Myrcella thinks. She had not said a thing, for it is not her place. Arguing with Uncle Jaime, her real father, a sober knight, in the safety of the Water Gardens, surrounded by people who she knew would fight for her, is different. King Robert is a drunkard, one who loves the Lord Stark more than he loves his wife, and how would he react if his daughter says she has no interest in meeting the sober and stern northerners?
“I don't see why I need to go, why we all need to go.” She says truthfully.
“Your father has quite the love for the Starks, as you should know.” mother says, “A bond forged by the stern embrace of the Vale and strengthened by war and loss.” poetic, yet her mother says the words with barely hidden annoyance.
“Why doesn’t he send a raven?” She asks, tired as she takes one sweet from the table, “He is the King, if he says that Lord Stark must come to the Capital, then Lord Stark shall answer his call.” she says, and she herself is a little annoyed by the King's decisions.
She had liked the starry Eyed gazes of the young girls of Winterfell, how they all had swoon over her, how she had liked and swoon herself over Robb Stark, a youthful thing that she had long ago grown out of. It had been nice, even, the simple life at Winterfell, short as it was, away from King's Landing's lies and dance.
But how could she show her face at Winterfell, knowing all that will befall the Stark family? How shall she look at the eyes of Lady Sansa and hold her hands in blooming friendship, when it is her brother who will ruin the Lady's life? How will she look at the young boys knowing the terrible and unkind fates that await them? How will she try and greet Lady Arya, her own fate unknown to all of them, lost in the terrible guts of King's Landing? How shall she look at the eyes of kind Lord and Lady Stark, knowing?
— Most of the time, it is hard to look at her father's blue ones. —
There is mirth in her mother's eyes, eyes that are Myrcella's, that all in her family share except for the man her mother claims is their father.
“Oh sweet thing,” she says, and there is love in her face and words even if Myrcella amuses her. She had always loved them. “Your father shall do as his heart desires, and he will drag all of us with him, even if it is to the end of the earth.”
And wouldn't you too?, she wonders. Her mother and father are as similar as they are different, Myrcella has come to see. Both wicked in their own ways, loving in their own ways, broken in their own ways and, she wonders, if just a few things were different, if they had come to an agreement early in their marriage then how much people would have been better for it. Or worse.
She sighs, eating the candy with defeat in her heart, nothing sweet about the treat.
“I still don't like it.” She says after eating it, leaving her cup on the table, and Mother hums.
“Neither do I, sweetling, but we must persevere under the whims of men.” She smiles at her, beautiful and as sharp as valyrian steel. “Endure until we are the ones standing.”
But I don't want to be the only one standing, she thinks, I don't want to be alone.
They fall back into silence, just the two of them with a faint sound of the lute at the back, and she swears she will get Orland back into her hands, and she will have the Dornishman's Wife sung in its entirety. Her love hadn‘t liked it, as most Dornishmen, but it is the only thing Myrcella can cling to until she returns to her Sun, to her true home. And she can almost see herself in the place of the Wife, her own Trystan coming to her rescue.
She could almost pretend it was made for them.
With her eyes closed, she remembers the song and thinks back of sun-kissed skin, of soft hands cradling her face and eyes dripping with love as he whispers promises and sweet things.
She can almost pretend that her maids are packing for summer blessed lands instead of forsaken winter grounds.