Chapter Text
Winterfell, 288 A.C.
A feeling of all-encompassing uselessness overcame Lyarra Snow. Her worries weighed on her. Her Lord Father was at war, fighting the Ironborn. In addition, Lady Stark had been in labor since early this morning - “the battlefield of women,” they said. As Lyarra knew from the tragic fate of her nameless mother, it could prove fatal for both mother and child. To make matters worse, Sansa was also ill and confined to the nursery under the care of Old Nan.
However, the most painful thing was that Robb stopped talking to her after their argument. She had begged him to play with her, but he was too busy and refused. As the Stark of Winterfell in her father’s absence, he had many important duties following Lady Stark’s pregnancy. Vayon Poole, Ser Rodrik, and Maester Luwin may have done much of the work behind the scenes, but Robb was nominally the reigning Lord of the North. He had to hold court, affix the Stark seal to parchment, and attend their council meetings.
Lyarra loved her brother, and she admired his unwavering sense of duty. He embodied the Tullys’ values in the best way. She cherished him as the greatest sibling anyone could ask for. Yet sometimes she wished for a simpler life, one where they could remain innocent children unburdened by the harsh realities of bastards and trueborn. In reality, however, things looked different.
Everyone had dismissed a bastard’s offers to help and refused to let her contribute in any meaningful way despite her eagerness and her academic feats in Maester Luwin’s lessons.
Only Old Nan allowed her to assist, often tasked with chasing after little Sansa, who always escaped the nursery. While it was a slight comfort, Lyarra couldn’t help but wonder if this would be her fate - forever the beloved but overlooked bastard of Winterfell. A mere beneficiary of her family’s goodwill, but never able to truly help or prove her worth.
Lyarra couldn’t help but feel the sting of insignificance. She hoped for a chance to show Robb and Lady Stark that she could be more than just a ghost haunting Winterfell - invisible to guests and part of the furniture to its residents. Otherwise, her path seemed obvious - one day she would take over for Old Nan and care for Robb’s future children. That wouldn’t be too bad. Nonetheless, she longed for more. Yet now, Old Nan even barred her from the nursery due to Sansa’s illness. Lyarra felt no matter how hard she tried, she would always be confined to the sidelines while her family carried on without her.
The fear and isolation seemed to overwhelm her. What if Sansa did not recover? She was young and frail. Or what if Lady Stark and her unborn babe did not survive the birth? Father could happen anything on the battlefield, and they would remain unaware for weeks.
She knelt before the Heart Tree, its gnarled trunk looming over her, crimson leaves shimmering in the sunlight. Its face, carved into the bark, gazed down at her with a melancholy expression. For centuries, the Starks had knelt before this sacred tree, offering prayers to the Old Gods. And now Lyarra joined in their supplications, pleading for the safety of her kin.
Oh, Old Gods of Stream, Forest, and Stone, let Sansa heal and thrive. Oh, Old Gods of Stream, Forest, and Stone, let Father return triumphant and whole. Oh, Old Gods of Stream, Forest, and Stone, let Lady Stark and her child survive and receive your grace.
Father always said ritual was unnecessary to commune with the gods, because they saw all prayers before a Heart Tree. So, she waited for a sign. But nothing came - no rustle of the red leaves, no tears, no indication from the nameless deities.
She wondered if she should pray to Lady Stark’s gods. After all, her primary concern was the well-being of Lady Stark and her immediate kin. She jumped up, convinced it was worth a try. Father would understand. After all, he had constructed a modest Sept for Lady Stark, conceivably with the same purpose.
Lyarra marched across the stark white blanket of winter, tracing the winding path between the ancient trees. She passed the hot springs where Bran the Builder laid the foundations of Winterfell eons ago in an age of heroes like the first Sword of the Morning. Pressing onward, she reached the towering iron gates and left the Godswood to enter the main courtyard.
Without breaking her stride, she exchanged a quick nod with Fat Tom, who dutifully guarded the entrance of the miniature forest. Her steps took her past the kennels where Farlen, its master, chatted with Mikken, the blacksmith, and gave them a friendly nod as she swept by.
As she came around the southern corner of the Broken Tower, a ray of sunlight pierced through the heavy clouds and beamed down upon the entrance to the crypts, home to countless generations of Starks. A chill crept up Lyarra’s spine, fearing it was an ill omen. With determination, she hastened towards the domicile of the Seven nestled in the very heart of the Old Gods’ realm.
She knew Lady Stark would not be pleased to discover her presence there. But today, with her preoccupation, she couldn’t catch Lyarra.
So, she pushed open the gate and entered the empty hall. It was her first time here. There were numerous lighted candles, which went against her frugal Stark upbringing. That sentiment faded when she laid eyes upon the seven statues.
They stood tall, crafted from gleaming marble that seemed to glow in the light filtering through the stained-glass windows, illuminating their detailed features. As the light shifted and danced upon their faces, it was as if they were alive, watching over the grand hall with a haunting presence.
It was an awe-inspiring sight, yet Lyarra couldn’t shake the unsettling sense of unease lingering in this place. These halls of the South, where Andals ruled and Lady Stark hailed from, were not meant for her. The Sept was for Lannisters or Baratheons, not a northern Snowgirl. However, she pulled herself together, pushing through, making her way to the altar and kneeling.
She had no clue how to pray to the Seven Who Are One. Did she need help? Of a Septa? Or a Septon? Were the candles necessary? A sound behind her interrupted her musings. It was Septon Chayle, a kind man she often spoke with in the library when Maester Luwin canceled her lessons. He even taught her the words of many Great Houses. Such as the Arryns or the Hightowers.
“What brings you here, Lyarra? I don’t recall seeing you in this holy space before,” the Septon asked.
“I came to pray for Sansa’s recovery and a successful birth. But I don’t know how,” she admitted. She felt even more out of place. The thought of this being a foolish idea lingered in her mind.
“Come, my child! Together we shall pray for the Lady’s well-being and that of her children. Please fetch us seven candles from that ironwood chest.”
He gestured towards a massive chest, its dark wooden surface blending in with the shadows of the room, hidden from Lya’s notice until now.
As she retrieved the candles, Lyarra grew more at ease in Septon Chayle’s presence. His warm aura felt like that of a caring grandfather. He explained each aspect of the one God they would beseech - the Father for the protection of all children in Winterfell, the Mother for safeguarding her loved ones, the Warrior for aiding her Father and the King in their battles.
Lya absorbed every word attentively, following Septon Chayle’s every chant as she dedicated her prayers to the deity. Together, they addressed all seven faces, asking for blessings and guidance. As Lyarra lit each candle, she could feel the weight of discomfort lifting from her shoulders, replaced by a notion of hope.
It brought a feeling of calmness, allowing her to block out the nagging worries that plagued her mind. There were no divine signs to confirm it, but Lyarra thought this to be the correct decision. She had done everything she could, and that was all that mattered.
As she finished her last prayer to the Stranger, the doors of the Sept erupted open, and Robb barreled in, gasping for breath. Lya’s newfound calm shattered in an instant. Did something go wrong? Were her pleas too late?
“We have a new sister!” an excited Robb exclaimed, relieving her fears. “Mother has named her Arya! Come, Lya, you must meet her before Mother wakes up.”
He took her hand in his and led her through the cold courtyard and towards the keep. The siblings rushed inside the warmth of the heated walls. As they ascended the stairs to the family wing, a small red-haired figure collided with Lya’s legs. Robb quickly steadied her, preventing her from tumbling down the steps. It was Sansa, seemingly recovered enough to escape Old Nan’s watchful eye.
With Lyarra back on her feet, she scooped up Sansa for a piggyback ride. Sansa let out a joyous cry, “Lya! Robb! Come play!” Her older siblings exchanged an amused look before Robb attempted to calm the energetic two-year-old.
“Later, Sansa. Right now, we want to visit our new sister. Will you join us?”
“YEAH!” an enthusiastic Sansa said. Her volume causing Lyarra’s ears to ring. Wincing in sympathy, Robb said, “But we must be quiet, little sister. Being birthed is exhausting, and the baby is likely sleeping. Can you whisper so as not to wake her?”
“Yes,” Sansa said almost inaudibly. And so, the trio made their way towards their newest family member.
With gentle footsteps, they entered the newborn’s nursery. The room was dimly lit with soft sunlight filtering in through the curtains. Old Nan sat dozing in a corner, her steady breaths the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. Robb and Lya crept towards the crib where their little sister lay, peaceful but awake. When Lya caught her first glimpse of Arya, she couldn’t help but smile. The babe looked just like her - dark hair and gray eyes.
“Welcome to our family, Arya Stark,” Lya greeted her with affection. “I’m your older sister Lyarra. I suspect you’ll be even more of a troublemaker than Sansa.”
“Hey!” Sansa intervened, “I’m the Maiden herself.”
“Ha! Sure, Sansa! Father already has enough grievances with the two of us, Lya. No need to poke the fire and corrupt the babe just yet,” Robb said with a chuckle.
“Your brother is foolish, Arya. When you grow older, you will join us on our escapades. Father may grumble and chastise, but deep down, he loves it. Let me tell you a secret, sister to sister - beneath his stern exterior lies a soft heart. He only worries about us. However, I swear both of you will always be safe, because we’ll defend you if you ever find yourselves in peril, little wolves,” Lya vowed, gazing into the same gray eyes she would see reflected in a mirror while squeezing Sansa’s hand.
Robb wrapped his arm around Sansa and Lyarra’s shoulders. He gazed solemnly at his three sisters. His expression was stony, and anyone acquainted with their Lord Father would recognize the likeness: “We are a pack. We will shield each other always. Always remember: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”
And in that moment, Lyarra believed it. She was not alone, and the future did not seem as daunting. She had her family by her side, ready to face any challenges together. She would find her place within the family, and her siblings would always be her beloved pack. The gods had truly bestowed their blessings upon her. Little did she know of the upcoming challenges they had still planned for her.
