Lyanna's already sour mood soured further. Giving a simple nod, she walked past the servant and arrived outside her father's solar. The door to Lord Stark's private chamber was left slightly open, just a thin crack, enough to hear the loud voices from inside.
Brandon?
Hearing her elder brother's loud, roaring voice, she waited to open the door and just listened to what was going on inside.
"...It's you who's lost your wits, Father! You told me to wed that redheaded girl, and I bowed my damn head and agreed. I've followed every command you barked, and tried to make you proud, and the one time I ask something of you, you turn your back? Wylis was meant to ride out as a Knight of House Stark, not some nameless muckboy in a stable! And now we've lost him. Gone, most likely for good. You think he'll come crawling back to this frozen dung heap after that insult? He'll be knighted in the South, honored by the king while we're left with your clever little plan and nothing to show for it but silence."
"Are you done?"
"No. I won't hold my tongue while you tear this house apart. What good are your southern ambitions, when they tie us to filth? You handed Lyanna to Robert Baratheon, that rutting brute—That drunkard swine bragged to my face about a bastard he sired in the Vale—then took three whores to bed and left each with his seed! That's your choice for her? A man with no honor, no care, only a name he didn't earn—And if that filth's good enough for her, then why not Wylis? He's ten times the man Robert is! I'd sooner trust him with her than that drunk oaf."
Outside, Lyanna's eyes widened at that declaration. She questioned if Brandon already knew about her and Wylis' affair. Whatever it was, she felt touched and excited.
Lord Stark's footsteps echoed, and then the creaking of a chair rang. Likely seated, the man responded to Brandon. "You reckon my southern ambitions are foolish? You've never had the weight of the title on your shoulders. Too busy roaming, chasing women, hunting, living like a boy with no care. I see the faces of the smallfolk when they come to me—empty, hungry. They cry—We have no food, my family is dying—Son, daughter, wife, father... someone's always dying. The North is a land of suffering, and we need grain. Grain that only grows in the south. And as for Wylis..."
Creak!
The sound of something opening came, a drawer perhaps. Then a faint thud.
"Read these—They were found when Wylis was building his abode inside the stables."
"And what of it? So the boy sketches a bit—does that strip him of honor? I see nothing here that makes him unworthy. You should've knighted him long ago, and you bloody well know it—"
"I can't." Lord Stark's serious voice came. "I showed the Maester these drawings—this one here, with the long lines—it's a new way to bring water to every room in a manor or castle, the Maester said. Wylis sketched it himself. He planned a way to fill the rooftop tanks using horses and gears like those in the watermills down south. The lad's never been south before, yet he dreamed it up on his own. His curiosity would have led him there, even if he were a knight. I see his worth, Brandon, and if he comes back, I'll give him more than just knighthood."
"And what if he never returns?"
"Aye, I share your fear. I never imagined he'd take the tourney by storm. But that matters little. Should he return, I'll have seen where his true loyalty lies—with the North. He's a good lad, aye, but meant to shine like a star—too bright. Had I given him his due too early, pride would have swelled in him, and you'd never have been able to make him yield, Brandon." Lord Stark turned the pages, the sound was loud.
"He made more drawings, then stopped. He never forged what he drew once he knew someone had seen it. He holds these things to himself, greedy for them. Wylis will never be a servant, I've seen enough to know that. Still, he must be shaped to be a proper vassal."
Now much calmer, Brandon spoke back. "And what of Lyanna? Robert can never give her the happiness she deserves."
"We need this, Brandon. You need this. If we don't build stronger bonds with the South, our people will never prosper—they'll starve. Eddard and Benjen will marry, too. Maybe someone from the Reach, or the Westerlands. That's how I'll make sure the North thrives."
Outside, Lyanna had heard enough of it. Her fists clenched, and her opinions were different regarding Wylis. She had seen firsthand that Wylis was intelligent, more than she or anyone else knew. She had heard him talk about strange ideas. She loved listening to them. Yet, Wylis worked honestly as a stableboy every day. There was no need to test his loyalty in her eyes.
"Father?" She finally stepped into the solar, eyeing the two men. "You called for me?"
"Decided to join us at last, have you? Had your fill of listening from the door?" Rickard's eyes softened as he looked at his daughter's still face.
"No matter now. Better you heard it true from me. You asked me more than once to make Wylis a knight. You deserve to know why I refused. Knighthood's no gift to be handed out lightly, and once it is given, the man must live by it and repay it. I chose not to knight him to give him a chance to make his own way—down south, if he will. If he serves another lord, well, that's his choice. It stings my pride, but a man must follow his own path."
Lyanna couldn't find the words to respond. There was too much going on in her head. She truly feared that Wylis would choose to remain in the South. But again, she feared for her own future as well.
"I summoned you for more than pleasantries. These whispers—they've gone unchecked for too long. The folk of Winter Town see you and Wylis as something fated. A perfect pair, they say. They may think so, you may think so, but that can never be true, for ours is a house of old blood and heavier burdens. You are a Stark. Wylis is not for you—not now, not ever. You are promised to Robert, and until that vow is sealed, you will not see Wylis again."
Lyanna's expression went from hopeful to hopeless in an instant, and then furious. Her heart thumped in her chest as if mocking her for even dreaming of running from her fate. She felt the air suffocating her, the walls around her collapsing. Her worth was nothing, just a useful mare to be sold to some whoring man.
Her breath hitched, eyes blazing. "I hope you never find peace—neither in this world nor the next. Burn in hell, for all I care! All of you!"
Bam!
Lyanna cursed her own father and stormed out of the solar. She never had a restrained tongue and at that point, nobody was surprised.
Left behind, Brandon also stared at his father, but not with as much fury.
"You'll regret this, Father."
"I know what I'm doing."
####
Seven days had gone by. Neither Wylis beheaded Wenda, nor did Wenda run away from him. She did try initially, but each time he caught her, hogtied her, and brought her back to his camp. He never touched her, and just made small talk now and then.
Eventually, she just stopped running, and the chatter between them grew more. She cursed the King and his family a lot, and Wylis merrily joined in. Their combined hatred for the Prince was something extraordinary.
They didn't plan to. But a friendship silently formed between them. And Wylis cleaned up the entire Kingswood of bandit presence, collecting a total of twenty skulls out of there alone. It being hard to travel with them, he handed the twenty skulls to the Gold Cloak of King's Landing after getting them verified.
After that, he made his way westward, towards the Westerlands.
Wenda said that she knew a few bandit groups from that region, and he was very much delighted to kill them. It wasn't easy. Sure, he received injuries here and there, but he tended to them carefully.
Days later, following the Gold Road, they arrived somewhere near Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden. The land there was hilly and mountainous, full of trees and valleys with small streams in some. It was the perfect place for bandits to hide and make camps.
Their destination was Lannisport, but they made plenty of stops on the way, gathering information. With the sun setting, they walked off the Gold Road, entered the forest, and set up a camp near a small water stream.
Being done for the day, with their heavier belongings left behind, they returned to the road and rode to the nearby inn to eat some light supper. Wylis left behind his massive sword, being too eye-catching. Instead, he carried a simple, short sword.
Even Wenda, usually wearing chainmail over her forearms and some leg armor, had ditched them for lighter clothes. A simple white, loose tunic, dark grey trousers, and high boots she usually wore. She kept her belt, though, holding a large dagger on it.
"So, what will the lady have today?" Wylis asked in a joking manner as he sat opposite her. It was a habit to tease her now as she hated being treated like a noble lady.
Wenda crossed her arms, eyeing her captor. The inn was small with an attached tavern where food was served to travelers. It was less than mediocre at best, but it was enough for the two of them.
"Stop with that nonsense or I'll chop your cock off in your sleep." Wenda threatened and looked at the serving girl. In a rare move, Wenda spoke softly. "Bring me a jar of ale and whatever's in the pot, girl."
When the girl looked at Wylis, he winked at her, which got her smiling. "Bring me fifteen boiled eggs, a whole chicken, roasted is fine, whatever vegetables you have boiled, and if you have fresh milk, I'll have a jar of it, boiled."
"..."
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