Crowns and Cruel Intentions || Game of Thrones

8| 𝔩𝔶𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔞

winterfell, westeros

— LYANNA HELD HER SKIRT IN FISTS TO KEEP FROM TRIPPING AS SHE RAN THROUGH THE HALLS. Her hair flew out loose behind her, as she'd had no time to do anything with it before Jon came pounding on her door. He was on her heels now as the two rushed into Bran's room to find themselves surrounded by their parents, siblings, Maester Luwin and Bran's Septa. The boy himself lay still in his bed, eyes closed and features relaxed as if he were only asleep. When Lyanna met her mother's eyes, she found panic there, and lifted a hand to her mouth.

"What happened?" Sha managed softly.

"He fell." There was a rough edge to her father's voice, likely a result of holding back panic, but there was no harshness directed at her. "He must have been climbing the old tower. That's where we found him."

Heart pounding in her chest, she sat on the edge of the bed, taking her brother's hand gently as Maester Luwin stepped away. He hesitated before speaking. "It is too soon to tell if... if he will survive. He should be kept under watch until we can be certain he'll wake."

Lyanna's lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged. She pressed her mouth into a hard line again as her eyes stung. "Hey Bran," she managed finally, her voice quiet. "You're gonna be okay. Just... just hold on, alright?" She swallowed hard. "Everything's going to be..." she couldn't force herself to say the word fine. It wasn't fine. Not when Bran could die. She felt a hand on her shoulder and immediately knew it was Jon. No matter what Catelyn thought of him, he'd always been there for Lyanna. She pulled herself to her feet, turning away into her brother's embrace. He'll wake up. She told herself harshly. Everything is going to be fine.

Unable to stand around during a time like this, Lyanna soon found herself in a mostly-empty courtyard, relishing the cold breeze that pierced her skin. Her dress was a simple forest-green with a bit of gold embroidery around the waist and draping sleeves. She walked with her hands behind her back until she reached one of the training dummies. Then she brought her arms to her sides, her left hand gripping the sheath of a shortsword. Bittersweet. She'd first heard the sword's name when she was twelve years old, when her father first gifted it to her.

She knew she wasn't supposed to, but Lyanna couldn't help the sharp pang of jealousy that sprung up inside when she watched Robb and Jon train. A lady wasn't meant to wield a sword, but why did she have to be a lady? The warrior queen Visenya was not, and she became a legend. So, in a stroke of impulse, she'd gone down there after dark, picked up a discarded training sword, and mimicked the movements Ser Rodrik had been teaching the boys. At first, she could hardly lift the sword. Next came the struggle for balance. Slowly but surely, she began to trace sloppy patterns in the air. She cut herself a couple of times, but kept going anyway. She didn't realise there was someone watching her as she returned again and again and again until she perfected each move. Not until she swung the sword and heard it collide with another. She dropped it quickly, stepping back at the sight of her father, eyes wide.

She expected him to scold her, but instead, he just put his own sword, Ice, away with a smile. "You're a hard worker, Trouble. It's paying off."

She blinked. "You're not... You're not angry?"

He tilted his head. "How could I be angry with you, Lyanna? In twelve nights, you've learned what takes most boys a whole year."

"But I'm not allowed to." she mumbled, slightly bitter now.

"Who is Lord of Winterfell and the North?"

"... you are?"

He nodded. "That's right. I decide what's allowed and what is not. And I say you need more than just a teacher." Though she'd been confused, he led her down into the crypts where she waited as he reached for something behind the statue of his sister, his daughter's namesake. The shortsword didn't look so short in the young girl's hands, but she stared at it with awe anyway. "Your aunt wasn't always too keen on rules either." her father said with a small wink. "It's called Bittersweet. It's yours now."