Book 1: Prints in the Snow

Chapter II • Misfortune

Since Lyon's first execution, she had served as her brother's watchers, nurturing them in ways neither their mother or father could. Catelyn Stark did not attend executions, and it would not serve her father nor brothers well if they were coddled by their father. So it was Lyon that spoke of death as death's hand took away the glistening light of life as best as she could.

"Are you ready, Bran?" Lyon checked his horse over, eyeing the harness and saddle that covered the creature. All seemed to be in order.

"Yes."

His answer contradicted everything he must've been feeling. Bran's words spoke differently than his eyes, as she had seen happen with her brothers before him. She turned to face Bran and knelt to a single knee, setting her hands upon his fur covered shoulder.

"You are not, and neither were Robb or Jon. What father wants you to see serves a purpose. He believes you are strong. As do I." His downcast eyes lifted to hers. "Bran Stark, I believe in you even if you do not. And when have I ever been wrong?"

Bran's eyes lowered. "More than you tell me... Probably."

"Hey!" His wit was quick, but her hand was quicker and lightly whacked the side of his head. "That's not very nice." Even as she said it she was smiling, and eventually so was he.

"Neither is hitting your little brother, Lyon." Robb's voice was behind her, as was the sound of his horse's trodding against the dirt.

Lyon straightened, a hand on Bran's shoulder to steer him toward his horse. "It was a love tap." She faced her oldest brother with a grin. From atop his horse, he looked the part of a true Stark, covered in thick black leather with a fur collar, his black hair curling around his strict jaw. She did not resemble him like she resembled Sansa, she thought, not for the first time.

"Of course it was. Where is Balthasar? Father tells me you're coming with us."

As Lyon helped Bran onto his horse she made a quick gesture to the stables. "He is stabled. Take Bran with Jon, Theon, and father, I will follow close behind."

Robb nodded in acknowledgment and grabbed Bran's reigns once he was steady, guiding the horse through to the assembled men for the execution. As they went past Winterfell's iron gates her feet took her to the stables where the speckled steed stood, white mane tangled with braids and loose hairs. Lyon took a step toward her mount, but broad arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her back. Fear was her first instinct, but when she felt moist, warm lips upon the naked nape of her neck she found herself trying to holster a giggle.

"Shh, if you don't quiet then they'll hear you." Theon murmured into her neck, then spun her and pressed her back to the wall. "But I do like hearing you when you're louder.."

"That's very charming, Theon." Lyon pushed his chest, but his flirtations only brought her closer to him. Theon Greyjoy was, by far, the most insufferable flirt she had ever met, but he could warm a bed well enough.

"You love it."

She took his stubbly chin between her fingers and brought his lips down to meet hers, taking his bottom lip between her teeth. His chuckle brought a chill colder than the north but brought a desiring warmth elsewhere. Lyon was breathless when they parted, and Theon's grip only tightened.

"My father is waiting for both of us. They've probably left by now."

"I doubt they'll miss us too much."

"I have to be there for Bran." Theon was silent. "But tonight I would gladly accommodate to your needs... or perhaps Ros will instead." She added flippantly and went to move away.