Winter Is Coming

The Hand's Tournament

Lyra dreamed of home.

She dreamed that she stood once again in the courtyard at Winterfell, the King's party at the gate ready to depart. It was a cold day, grey and wet. The castle looked as forlorn as ever, but Lyra had never cared how it looked to strangers. It was her home, it was where she belonged, and she did not want to leave it. At her side stood Robb, looking rugged and grim. She turned from where she had been watching her father to meet her brother's bright blue gaze, and smiled as well as she could manage. He seemed old, a stern lord of a holdfast, though she could still see the young boy who had run and played with her in the woods surrounding the castle. She reached out and clasped his forearm.

"We will see each other again," she told him, fighting past the burning in her eyes.

"When?" he whispered. He looked more vulnerable than she knew he would let their parents see as he searched her face for an answer.

But she did not have one for him. She did not know when she would see him again, or her mother, or Winterfell. But she squeezed his arm.

"Soon," she promised. "You don't think you can keep me away for long, do you?"

Robb let out a small, soft laugh. "I wish you could stay," he admitted.

Lyra swallowed hard at that, and she could not stop the tear that slid down her cheek. "I do, too," she whispered, and her voice broke.

Robb cupped her cheek, his own eyes lined with silver, gently wiping the droplet from her skin. She closed her eyes, for a moment savouring the knowledge that, for now, they were safe, all of them. When she opened them, she smiled shakily, and said,

"I'm going to miss you, little brother."

He looked down for a moment, as if mastering his own tears, then met her gaze again with a spark of humour laced with regret.

"I'm not that little, you know," he told her. "I'm still only a year younger than you."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. She was going to miss this; this fun and laughter with Robb and Jon, the long evenings huddled around the hearth with the two of them and her father, discussing sword-play and battles and honour. She looked up into her brother's eyes.

"I'm going to miss you, too, sister" he said softly.

She nodded, and then she folded him into her arms, trying to hold back the tears as she held onto him as if she could somehow keep her family with her always. She rested her cheek against his fur-covered shoulder, and he held her close. She did not want to let him go, but she did let go. She had to let go.

They drew apart, and Lyra placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We will see each other again," she promised him once more.

He gave her a small, sad nod, and she squeezed his shoulder. She couldn't stand it, this ache in her chest, but she made herself turn away, made herself walk toward the wagon where her sisters waited.

"Lyra!" her father called. "We leave now."

"I'm coming, father."

She turned to look back at her brother when she stood by the wagon door. He remained where she had left him, a hand upon the hilt of his sword. She gave him a reassuring nod, and then she turned away, climbing onto the wagon.

"Lyra."

But the voice was no longer her father's. It was softer, deeper.

"Lyra, you must wake up."

She groaned, keeping her eyes tight shut, trying with all her might to cling to the image of her home, her brother. She became aware of a large, gentle hand on her shoulder, and the soft voice spoke again.