The Oath of Support:
Swear your loyalty, brave reader. A single Power Stone can change the fate of a kingdom—and this tale.
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Chapter 2: The Morning After
White Harbor, 280 AC
The first light of dawn crept through the narrow window of the private chamber in White Harbor's New Castle, casting a pale grey glow across the stone walls, their rough edges softened by flickering shadows. The hearth's fire had crumbled to ash, leaving a chill that prickled Lysa Flint's skin, sharp as a winter breeze. She stirred in the wide bed, her body warm beneath thick wolf pelts, their musky scent mingling with the faint tang of spilled wine. Brandon Stark's arm lay heavy across her waist, his breath steady, warm against her neck, his broad frame a solid weight beside her. Her long black hair spilled over the furs, a cascade of midnight waves framing her face, her grey-green eyes sharp as she woke, glinting with purpose. Her unmatched beauty glowed in the dim light, her skin pale as moonlight, her lips full, her cheekbones high, a vision that could halt a man's breath.
Brandon stirred, his arm pulling away as he groaned, his voice rough, gravelly with sleep. "Gods, my head's a blacksmith's anvil," he muttered, sitting up, his dark hair a tangled mess, strands falling over his brow, his grey eyes bleary under heavy lids. He rubbed his face with calloused hands, blinking at the room—the tangled wolf pelts, their grey fur matted from the night, the empty silver goblet by the bed, its rim stained with wine, Lysa beside him, her beauty striking him like a thunderbolt. Her skin was flawless, pale as fresh snow, her hair a wave of night that caught the dawn's light, her eyes fierce yet soft, like a wolf's gaze before the hunt. Her presence filled the room, her beauty a force that drew his eyes, held them, even through the fog in his mind. "Lysa, was it?" he said, his grin reckless, his voice warm but edged with confusion, his brow creasing as he studied her. "What in the seven hells happened? Did we… sign something? A paper, a quill?" His voice faltered, the potion's haze clouding his memory, his eyes narrowing, suspicion flickering like a candle in the wind.
Lysa sat up slowly, pulling the furs to cover her chest, her movements graceful, deliberate, her smile calculated to disarm, hiding the triumph that surged like a river in her chest. "My lord, we shared wine, and… more," she said, her voice soft, low, a caress that soothed his doubt, her eyes lowered, playing the shy maid with flawless skill. Her fingers brushed the weirwood pendant, its wolf's head grounding her ambition, a silent vow to her child, son or daughter, who'd stand tall in Winterfell's great hall, their Stark blood pure as the First Men. The locked chest under the table held the document, Brandon's signature smudged but binding, a secret marriage that secured her child's claim to the North. "The feast was wild, my lord," she added, her tone sweet, her intelligence shining as she deflected his suspicion, her words smooth as polished stone, crafted to keep his mind clouded. "The wine carried us away, nothing more. Just a night's heat, lost to the hall's roar." She tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder, its dark waves catching the light, her beauty a shield that softened his gaze, her smile a lure that banished his doubt, his grin returning like a reflex.
Brandon laughed, a rough, warm sound that echoed in the small chamber, leaning back against the carved bedpost, its wood etched with mermaids, their tridents raised. "Too much bloody wine, girl, and you're bold as a wildling beyond the Wall. Trouble, but the kind that makes a man forget his name." His eyes roamed her face, her full lips, the curve of her neck where the pendant rested, her beauty pulling his gaze like a tide, holding it despite the haze in his mind. "Gods, you're prettier than Barbrey Ryswell, and she's a storm of fire and steel. Prettier than that Dornish maid I met in King's Landing, too, with her olive skin and sharp tongue. Did I promise you a castle, Lysa? A dragon's hoard? A ride to the stars?" His tone was teasing, his grin wide, his recklessness sparkling in his grey eyes, crinkling at the corners, his charm as natural as breathing. He leaned closer, his breath warm, spiced with wine, his hand brushing a strand of her hair, his fingers lingering, drawn to her beauty, her presence a magnet he couldn't resist. "You've got a face to start wars, girl. Lucky I'm not a king, or I'd be doomed."
Lysa's smile widened, her eyes meeting his, her beauty a weapon she wielded with precision, her intelligence guiding every glance, every word. "No castles, my lord, just wine and a dance in the dark," she said, her voice low, playful, her tone a delicate balance to keep his suspicion at bay, her mind racing with plans—flee to the Wolfswood, hide her child, wield the document when the North's unrest boiled over. She leaned forward slightly, her hair brushing his arm, her beauty softening his gaze, her intelligence ensuring the potion's fog held, her plan as solid as Winterfell's granite walls. "The feast was a blur, my lord. You were the wild wolf, and I… I was caught in your storm." Her words were a lure, her smile a spell, her beauty a distraction that kept his thoughts scattered, his laughter loud, his doubt buried.
Brandon's laughter softened, his eyes narrowing again, a flicker of suspicion returning, his hand pausing on her hair. "A paper, though… I swear I saw a quill, ink, something," he said, his voice slower, his brow creasing deeper, his grey eyes searching hers, probing for truth. "Did we write vows, Lysa? Some drunken jest? You're too clever for a simple maid, aren't you?" His tone was half-teasing, half-serious, his recklessness tempered by a spark of wariness, his hand dropping to his side, his gaze sharp despite the potion's haze.
Lysa's heart jumped, but her smile held, her intelligence a shield, her beauty a sword. "No vows, my lord, just wine and whispers," she said, her voice steady, her eyes locked on his, her beauty softening the moment, her hair gleaming as she tilted her head, a calculated gesture to distract. "You spoke of wolves, of Winterfell, of battles, but no papers. The goblet was our only bond." She gestured to the empty goblet, its silver glinting, her tone light, her intelligence weaving a lie as smooth as silk, her beauty holding his gaze, pulling him back to ease. "A maid like me knows only songs, not scrolls, my lord." Her laugh was soft, musical, her eyes sparkling, her beauty a veil that hid her triumph, her ambition a fire that burned for her child, son or daughter, the Stark heir who'd claim the North.
Brandon's suspicion faded, his grin returning, his laugh loud, reckless, shaking his head as he stood, his broad frame towering, his leather jerkin crumpled, his sword belt tossed on the floor beside the goblet, its leather worn from years of sparring. "Gods, you're a clever one, Lysa. Too clever for a maid, but too pretty for trouble." His eyes lingered on her face, her lips, the pendant at her neck, her beauty a vision that burned in his mind, even through the haze. "A night with you's worth a hundred feasts, but I'm bound to a Tully—red hair, blue eyes, dull as a septa's sermon." His voice hardened, his grin fading, a Stark chained by his father's iron plans, his recklessness chafing at the thought. "Father'd have my hide if I mucked that up. Southron alliances, he says, for power, for the Iron Throne's games. No papers, no vows, just you and me, tangled in furs, aye?" He winked, his charm a reflex, his hand brushing her shoulder, drawn to her beauty, oblivious to the document, the child, the trap she'd woven with her potion and cunning.
Lysa rose, smoothing her green dress, its laces loose from the night, its hem worn but clinging to her curves, her hair falling in waves, her beauty radiant, commanding the room, her presence a force that turned heads, stopped hearts. "No trouble, my lord," she said, her voice trembling just enough to seem earnest, her mind racing with plans—vanish to the Wolfswood, raise her child in secret, strike when the North's pride flared. She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his, her smile a lure, her intelligence guiding every gesture, her beauty softening his gaze, ensuring the potion's fog held, her plan unshaken. "Just a moment, lost to wine and fire," she said, her voice low, her beauty a spell, her hair brushing his arm as she moved, her ambition burning for her child, son or daughter, a Stark heir to rally the North's old ways.
Brandon's eyes followed her, his grin softening, his hand lingering on her arm, his fingers warm, rough from swordplay. "You're a vision, Lysa. A man could lose himself in those eyes, drown and not care." His voice was warm, his recklessness sparkling, his charm a tide that pulled at her, though her intelligence kept her steady, her ambition her anchor. "But I'm promised to a Tully, and Father's voice is louder than wine. Red-haired fish, proper and prim, gods help me." He laughed, shaking his head, his hand dropping, his eyes still on her, her beauty a memory he'd carry, though he'd never know her plan, her child, her triumph.
A knock came at the door, sharp and sudden, Mara's voice cutting through, bright and nosy. "Lysa? You in there? Are you well? The feast was madness, and I saw you slip away!" Mara's tone was eager, her footsteps shuffling outside, her curiosity a danger Lysa had anticipated, her intelligence ready. Lysa's heart jumped, but her smile held, her mind quick as a wolf's. "I'm fine, Mara, just resting," she called, her voice sweet, her hand clutching her satchel, the document hidden inside, her beauty a mask that hid her triumph. "Too much wine, I needed quiet." Her tone was light, disarming, her intelligence deflecting Mara's prying, her ambition unshaken.
Mara laughed, her voice muffled through the door. "Wine's a devil, aye! Father's still snoring, and half the lords are green as limes. Come find me later, Lysa, I want tales!" Her footsteps faded, her chatter trailing off, and Lysa exhaled, her intelligence shielding her from exposure, her ambition a flame that burned brighter. Brandon chuckled, his eyes on her, her beauty holding his gaze. "Your friend's a sparrow, all chirp and no pause. You're quieter, but sharper, I'd wager." His tone was teasing, his grin reckless, his hand brushing her hair again, drawn to her beauty, her presence a spark in the dim room.
Lysa's smile was soft, her eyes sparkling, her intelligence guiding the moment. "Quiet keeps me safe, my lord," she said, her voice low, her beauty a veil, her ambition a vow to her child, son or daughter, the Stark heir who'd rise where she could not. A servant's knock came next, a young boy's voice, hesitant. "My lord, your horse is ready, and Lord Manderly asks for you." The boy peeked in, his eyes widening at Lysa's beauty, his cheeks flushing as he stared, her hair gleaming, her face a vision. Lysa turned away, her hood up, her intelligence noting the risk, her beauty a danger in the waking castle.
Brandon waved the boy off, his grin wide. "Tell Manderly I'm coming, lad, and stop gawking." He turned to Lysa, his eyes warm, his recklessness sparkling. "You've got that boy half in love already, Lysa. Gods help the North if you stay." He pulled gold dragons from his pouch, their edges glinting in the dawn, and pressed them into her hand, his fingers lingering, his grin boyish. "Buy a dress to match those eyes, or a horse, or whatever maids dream of. Keep this quiet, aye? Father's got enough to fret over without tales of me and pretty maids." His tone was light, his eyes on her, her beauty a vision he'd carry, oblivious to her plan, her child, her triumph.
Lysa's fingers closed around the gold, her face calm, her triumph a fire in her chest. The coins were dust—her prize was the document, the child in her womb, a Stark heir to claim Winterfell. "Thank you, my lord," she said, her voice soft, her eyes lowered, hiding her ambition, her intelligence weaving the moment, her beauty a cloak that hid her strength. She'd vanish before gossip spread, her child safe, her marriage a secret blade. Brandon grabbed his cloak, tossing it over his shoulders, the wool flapping like a banner. "Stay out of trouble, Lysa," he said, his grin reckless, his eyes lingering on her beauty, her face etched in his mind. "No tales, or I'll have to find you again." He laughed, stepping out, the door creaking shut, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, heavy and sure.
Lysa moved with purpose, her ambition a drumbeat, her intelligence a map guiding her every step. She knelt by the chest, unlocking it with steady fingers, pulling out the document with care, its parchment crisp, its ink black. Brandon's signature sprawled, bold and wild, her name neat below, a vow to her child's future, a Stark heir, son or daughter, destined to stand before Winterfell's weirwood, their blood pure, their name a rallying cry. She folded it, tucking it into her satchel, her fingers brushing the pendant, envisioning her child in Winterfell's great hall, their Stark heritage a crown, their rule the North's salvation. Her ambition soared, her intelligence planning each step—flee today, hide in the Wolfswood, raise her child in secret, strike when the North's pride burned brightest. She packed swiftly, her movements precise, swapping her green dress for a plain brown cloak, its hood hiding her face, her beauty a risk in the stirring castle. The gold coins clinked, enough for a cottage, food, silence in a remote village. The bed's tangled furs held Brandon's warmth, but her ambition burned hotter, her intelligence her guide, her beauty a tool to wield or conceal as needed.
The New Castle was waking, its great hall a chaos of the feast's end—servants sweeping spilled wine, their brooms scraping stone, the air thick with the scent of stale ale, roasted meat, and sour sweat. Tables stood cluttered with gnawed boar bones, apple cores, broken rye bread, their crusts scattered like battlefield debris. Dogs snarled under benches, snapping at scraps, their growls mingling with the groans of lords stirring from wine-soaked sleep, their cloaks crumpled, their faces pale as parchment. Lysa slipped through, her hood up, her beauty drawing eyes despite her plain cloak—a guard's lingering stare, his hand pausing on his spear; a maid's whisper, her broom stilled as she gaped; a young Manderly knight, his goblet frozen mid-sip, his eyes wide as her hair caught the torchlight, its dark waves gleaming like polished obsidian. Murmurs followed her—"A maid with Brandon, bold and beautiful, prettier than any lady"—and she quickened her pace, her intelligence dodging danger, her ambition a shield that kept her focus sharp. In the hall's corner, Greatjon Umber's voice thundered, his fist slamming a table, wine cups rattling, their red contents splashing like blood. "Stark blood stays north, not south with Tullys or Baratheons!" he roared, his beard bristling, his eyes blazing. A Vale knight in blue silk stumbled back, Umber's shove sending him sprawling, his cup staining the floor, a red pool spreading. The crowd gasped, then laughed, servants scurrying to clean, but Lysa noted the spark of unrest, her child's future tied to such northern pride, her ambition fueled by the North's defiance, her intelligence cataloging every word, every glance.
She reached the courtyard, its cobblestones slick with morning dew, the air sharp with salt from the nearby sea, the distant crash of waves a low rumble. Stableboys led horses, their hooves clopping, their breath steaming in the chill, while guards yawned, their Manderly sigils—mermen with tridents—glinting on breastplates. Lysa moved swiftly, her cloak blending with the crowd, but her beauty shone through, a beacon that turned heads—a groom pausing, his pitchfork still; a washerwoman staring, her basket slipping; a young lordling, his velvet doublet bright, stopping to watch, his squire nudging him, whispering of "the dark-haired beauty." Lysa ignored them, her intelligence guiding her steps, her ambition a flame that burned for her child, son or daughter, the Stark heir who'd rally the North's old ways. She overheard more whispers—"Brandon's maid, seen slipping to the guest wing, bold as brass"—and her heart raced, her intelligence pushing her faster, her beauty a risk she cloaked with her hood, her ambition her guide.
Beyond the castle gates, White Harbor bustled, its docks a riot of sound and motion—gulls screeching, their wings flashing white against the grey sky; fishwives shouting prices, their voices sharp as knives; sailors hauling nets, their curses mingling with the creak of ships, their hulls rocking in the harbor's swell. The air smelled of salt, fish, and tar, the cobbles slick with seaweed and spilled ale, the morning sun glinting off the water, a silver shimmer under clouds. Lysa moved through the streets, her cloak plain but her beauty radiant, her hair a dark wave under her hood, her grace turning heads—sailors pausing, their ropes forgotten; a merchant's son staring, his cart stalling, his apples rolling; a dockhand whistling, his mates laughing, calling her "a northern rose." She ignored them, her intelligence keeping her steps sure, her ambition driving her forward, her beauty a tool to wield when needed, a danger to hide when not.
She passed a crone selling fish, her hands gnarled, her face lined like old leather, her voice rough as gravel as she spoke to a boy, her words carrying over the dock's din. "The Wolf of Winter, lad, a Stark warg with a weirwood crown, his wolves howling, uniting the North against southron chains. Mark my words, he'll come, eyes red as blood, heart fierce as winter." Lysa's breath caught, her fingers tightening on the pendant, its wolf's head warm, her ambition soaring—her child, son or daughter, perhaps blessed by the Old Gods, their destiny tied to the weirwood's red eyes, their name a rallying cry. A raven perched on a stall, its feathers black as night, its eyes gleaming, watching her, and she nodded, her intelligence noting the sign, her ambition a vow to her heir's future, her beauty a spark that drew even the bird's gaze, its head tilting as she passed.
She reached a stable near the docks, its wooden beams weathered, the air thick with hay, horse sweat, and the faint tang of manure. The stableboy, lanky and pockmarked, gaped at her beauty, his cheeks flushing red as she approached, her eyes glinting, her hair catching the light, her presence a vision that stole his breath. "A fast horse," she said, her voice firm, her smile disarming, pressing gold into his hand, her fingers brushing his, her beauty sealing his silence. "No questions, no tales, or you'll regret it." Her intelligence shone in her tone, her ambition in her eyes, her beauty a spell that made him nod quickly, his hands fumbling as he led out a sturdy brown mare, its coat gleaming, its eyes bright. She checked the saddle, her hands quick, her mind calculating—ride west, skirt main roads, reach the Wolfswood by dusk, find a village to vanish in. She haggled briefly, her voice sharp, her beauty earning a lower price, the stableboy stammering, "For you, lady, it's half." She thanked him, her smile a weapon, her intelligence noting his loyalty, her ambition driving her forward.
At a vendor's stall, she bought bread, cheese, and a skin of water, her beauty earning an extra loaf from the old woman, who grinned, "For a pretty lass, take it, no coin." Lysa nodded, her intelligence cataloging the favor, her ambition focused on the road ahead. She mounted the mare, her satchel heavy with the document, coins, her child's future, its leather worn but strong, tied tight with cord. The city faded behind her, its stone walls giving way to muddy fields, their furrows dark with spring rain, then to scattered copses, their trees budding green, and finally to the Wolfswood's dark pines, their branches whispering secrets, their needles carpeting the earth. The air grew cooler, the scent of pine and earth thick, the road narrowing, its ruts deep, the mare's hooves steady. Her stomach churned, a faint nausea she blamed on the road's jostle, but her mind was clear, her beauty hidden under the hood, her ambition a flame that lit her path. Her child—son or daughter—would rise, a Stark to claim Winterfell, her intelligence their foundation, her plan their crown.
The raven followed, a black speck in the sky, its eyes on her, circling as she rode, its caws sharp in the quiet. Lysa smiled, her ambition unshaken, her intelligence noting the Old Gods' sign, her beauty a spark even in the wild, drawing the bird's gaze. The Wolfswood loomed, its shadows deep, its silence vast, a haven for her child, a shield for her plan. She rode on, the city a memory, the feast a shadow, her future a seed planted in her womb, ready to grow in the North's wild heart, her ambition a vow, her intelligence a map, her beauty a blade to carve her child's destiny.
Brandon's POV
Brandon Stark spurred his black stallion, Storm, along the muddy road north, the wind biting his face like a wolf's teeth, his cloak flapping like a raven's wings, its wool heavy with morning dew. His head throbbed, the feast's wine a hammer pounding his skull, his mouth dry as ash, but he laughed, the sound wild, reckless, cutting through the chill like a blade. The road to Winterfell wound through windswept moors, their grasses bending under a cloudy sky, their green tips swaying like a sea, the Wolfswood's pines looming in the distance, their branches dark, heavy with secrets. The air smelled of damp earth, rain, and pine, the North's rugged heart beating in every gust, every rut in the road. Brandon's grin flashed, his recklessness a fire that burned away White Harbor's haze, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief, his dark hair whipping in the wind, strands sticking to his brow. Lysa—what a girl, bold as a spearwife, her beauty unmatched, her grey-green eyes sharp as Valyrian steel, her hair a cascade of midnight that begged to be touched. Her kiss lingered in his mind, fierce and warm, her body soft yet fiery in the furs, her laughter a spark that lit the night, but the rest was a fog, wine and want blurring the hours, the potion's haze a veil he couldn't pierce. No matter. She was a night's fun, like Barbrey Ryswell, fierce and fiery, or that tavern maid last spring, her name lost to ale and laughter, her face faded but Lysa's vivid, her beauty a brand in his thoughts.
His father's voice echoed, stern as iron, cold as the Wall's ice: "Marry Catelyn Tully, boy, or I'll chain you to the Night's Watch, sword and all." Rickard's plans were carved in stone—Brandon to Riverrun, Lyanna to Storm's End, the Starks bound to southron lords with soft hands, sly smiles, and ambitions that stank of King's Landing. Brandon snorted, his teeth flashing, his heart a wolf's, wild and unbound, chafing at the chains of duty. "Gods, she'll bore me to death," he muttered, picturing Catelyn's proper curtsies, her red hair tied in neat braids, her blue eyes dull as a cloudy pond, her voice soft, proper, empty of fire. He'd wed her, aye, bed her, give her sons, but his heart would roam free, his recklessness a shield against Riverrun's stone walls, his charm a blade to cut through southron boredom. Lysa's face flickered in his mind—her beauty, her fire, the way her eyes held his, bold and bright, her lips curving in a smile that promised danger and delight—but he pushed it away, his thoughts turning to Winterfell, to sparring with Ned in the yard, their swords clanging, their breath steaming; to teasing Lyanna, her wild temper flaring like a storm; to drinking with Benjen, their laughter filling the hall, their cups raised to the North's strength. The gold he'd given Lysa was enough—maids loved coins, dresses, trinkets, and she'd keep quiet, her beauty a memory he'd savor on cold nights, her name a spark he'd forget by winter.
The feast had been a storm, a clash of north and south, a hall packed with lords and ladies, their voices loud, their plans louder. Southerners pranced in silks—Vale knights in blue, Riverlanders in green, their smiles false, their hands soft, their words dripping with King's Landing's honeyed poison. Northerners bristled like boars, their wools and leathers dark, their faces hard, their loyalty to Stark blood fierce as winter. Greatjon Umber had roared, his voice a thunderclap, his fist smashing a table, wine splashing like blood, his beard bristling as he cursed southron alliances. "Stark blood's pure, forged in the Wall's ice, not diluted by Tully fish or Baratheon stags!" Lord Karstark, lean and grim, had nodded, his eyes cold as frost, muttering of northern strength, not southron games, his hand gripping his cup like a sword. Brandon had laughed, clapped their shoulders, shared their ale, his charm a bridge between tempers, but their words stuck, a burr in his mind, sharp and nagging. The North didn't bend, didn't kneel, and Rickard's plans stirred trouble, a storm brewing in the halls of Winterfell, Moat Cailin, Last Hearth, a storm Brandon would face with a sword in hand, a grin on his face, his recklessness his armor.
The road climbed, mud sucking at Storm's hooves, the moors giving way to scattered villages, their huts low, their thatch roofs sagging, smoke curling from chimneys like grey ribbons, children peering from doorways, their eyes wide at Storm's size, their hands clutching sticks or rags. A girl, no older than ten, waved, her braid bouncing, her smile bright, and Brandon waved back, his grin reckless, his charm a reflex, his laughter loud as she giggled, her friends joining, their voices a chorus in the morning's quiet. He passed a blacksmith's forge, its hammer ringing, its fire glowing, the smith pausing to nod, his face soot-streaked, his eyes respectful, recognizing the Stark sigil on Brandon's cloak, the direwolf snarling. Brandon nodded back, his recklessness tempered by duty, his heart swelling with the North's loyalty, its strength, its pride.
A roadside shrine caught his gaze—a weirwood stump, its face faded, its red eyes barely visible under moss, its bark cracked by years of wind and rain, its branches long gone, a relic of the Old Gods standing silent in a field of grass. He slowed Storm, his eyes lingering, his recklessness pausing, a flicker of respect for the North's ancient heart, the gods his house honored in Winterfell's godswood, their weirwood alive, its leaves red as blood. He snorted, shaking his head, urging Storm faster, the wind cold as winter's breath, the shrine fading behind him, its weight a whisper he ignored. "Old Gods, old tales," he muttered, his voice rough, his grin returning, his recklessness drowning the moment's pull, his thoughts on Winterfell, on home, on the life he'd live, Tully bride or not.
A peddler's cart rolled by, its wheels creaking, its driver a wiry man with a grey beard, his cloak patched, his voice reedy as he sang, his words carrying over the wind. "The Wolf of Winter, a Stark warg with a weirwood crown, his wolves howling, uniting the North, breaking southron chains with fang and fire." Brandon laughed, shaking his head, his hair whipping in the wind, his grin wild, his recklessness a flame that burned away the tale's weight. "Stories for children and crones," he said, his voice loud, his eyes on the road, the peddler's song fading, the man's cart a speck behind him. He spurred Storm, the stallion's hooves pounding, the mud splashing, the Wolfswood's edge rising, its pines tall, their shadows deep, their silence vast.
He passed a stream, its water clear, bubbling over rocks, its banks lined with reeds, a boy fishing with a stick, his face focused, his hands steady. Brandon slowed, his grin softening, his thoughts drifting to Benjen, his little brother, who loved streams, who'd fish for hours, his laughter bright. "Catch a big one, lad," Brandon called, his voice warm, his charm a spark, the boy looking up, his eyes wide, his nod quick, his smile shy. Brandon laughed, urging Storm on, the stream fading, the road climbing, the moors giving way to hills, their slopes gentle, their grass dotted with wildflowers, their colors faint under the grey sky.
Lysa's face flickered again—her beauty, her fire, the way her eyes held his, bold and bright, her lips curving, her hair a wave he'd wanted to touch, her voice a song he'd wanted to hear again. He shook his head, his grin fading, his recklessness pushing her away, her memory a spark he'd let die. She was a maid, a night, a moment, her beauty a star he'd seen but wouldn't chase, her name a whisper he'd forget. The gold was enough, her silence bought, her beauty a memory for cold nights, nothing more. He didn't know her plan, her child, her triumph, the seed he'd left in her womb, the Stark heir, son or daughter, who'd shake the North, who'd wear a weirwood crown, who'd howl with wolves. He rode on, the Wolfswood's shadows deepening, Winterfell calling, his heart wild, his recklessness a fire, oblivious to the storm he'd sparked, the child he'd never know, the future he'd shaped in a night lost to wine and want.