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.
His lips tightened into a grin and came down upon hers once more, parting only when their breath needed catching. "You are nothing like Ros, Lyon Stark."
"Tonight then." She said, smiling wryly. They separated and she brought her attention back to her horse, heat still flowing through her legs as she took the reigns and brought the horse out of the stable before mounting Balthasar. White with Auburn and brown speckles, he was as fast as the wind and took little time in catching up with the tail of her father's assembled men. Soon she was beside her brothers and their horses. Not long after she caught sight of Theon, and rode on in silence as she caught him grinning widely.
The stump in which the executions were held was located just outside of Winterfell's wall, a solitary figure in the midst of rolling hills and dense forests around it. Every horse could be heard on the frozen ground, a strange rhythm that lulled her mind to sleep. It was the realization that a man was to die today that seemed to bring the frost to her breath instead of the North's climate, but by now she was accustomed to the feeling. A man was to die today. All she could do was watch the hills and the trees before it happened.
The horses slowed at the site, all too familiar with the deed that was about to go on. Balthasar slowed to a stop like it was an old routine, and Lyon slid from his back and handed the reigns to one of the soldiers. Bran came off of his horse, tailed by Jon and Robb. Falling in step beside her brothers she stopped some ways from the stump. But no matter how far she went it was still close enough to taste the blood in the air.
Today Lyon would be the only woman to taste the deserter's blood on the air.
"The first time I set foot out here I had just celebrated my tenth name-day." She folded her hands behind her back. "Strange to think that was ten years ago."
Bran turned his eyes to her, but she could only stare at the bloodied stump. "But you're..."
"A woman." She finished for him. "I was too curious for my own good. Needling and whatnot were fine and all, but I had always admired father. So I wanted to be a part of this too; I wanted to be like him."
"What did you do when it... happened?" Bran asked.
The eyes of her brothers turned to her, and she pressed for a solemn half smile. "I prayed for the man, and then I walked over to my father and hugged him. And I told him I was sorry. He didn't know I was hiding in a bush nearby until I emerged."
"You apologized for hiding?"
"No, I apologized because he swung the sword."
He didn't say anything after that, and Jon and Robb were just as silent. They knew the story as she had told them when they first came to bear witness.
The cold wind nipped at their faces but it wasn't anything they were unused to. A few strings of honey hair came from her braid, and she pushed them behind her ear. Out of sight, out of mind, and she pulled her hood over her head.
"Excuse me," Lyon said to her brothers, leaving their sides as she strode toward their father. He was ready by the stump as his men dragged the deserter forward. She stopped by his side, watching while they hauled the young boy forward.
"Bran is doing well." She told him. He showed little expression. "The north stands by you."
Lyon stepped away. It was not unusual that he was so silent on a day like this. No one wanted to execute a deserter, no one good, at least. Her feet carried her back to her place beside her brothers as the business began.
They hauled the young deserter forward, pushing him up to the stump. Stubble did not line his chin, yet he didn't look any older than she. He was gangly from starvation and malnourishment, and his fear could be seen in the way his head did not lift and his shoulders meekly fell forward. Many carried the same expression at the moment they were sentenced to die, but in his eyes, there was more.
"White Walkers. I saw the White Walkers. I saw them." He rambled on as he was shoved forward. The deserter met the Lord of Winterfell's eyes. "I know I broke my oath. And I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the wall and warned them. But I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers. People need to know. If you can get word to my family, tell them I'm sorry. Tell them I'm no coward."
Ned Stark gave a curt nod in acknowledgment to the young man's request before his legs were kicked out beneath him and he was bent over. From beside him, Theon held out the sheath that contained the ancient blade, Ice. With two hands Lyon's father withdrew the blade and plunged the tip into the dirt, bowing his head.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, first of his name-"
Jon whispered to Bran, "Don't look away. Father will know if you do."
"-Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."
Lord Eddard Stark raised Ice over his head and sent the blade upon the neck of the deserter. No noise came save for the squelch of steel against flesh. The head upon the stump toppled to the ground, blood squirting from the severed neck. Lyon watched long enough for the head to still and for the body to collapse before turning her eyes to Bran. As far as she could tell he hadn't even blinked, he was standing so still.
"You did well," Jon said to him.
Lyon's hand fell on Bran's shoulder. "Come, back to our horses. We need not dwell here any longer."
He did not reply, only dipped his head and walked toward his mount. Her hand stayed on his shoulder before sliding off to allow her to pull herself onto Baltasar.
Lyon caught her father in the corner of her eye as he strode toward Bran and the two of them spoke quietly. The others had already begun hauling themselves onto their own horses, and the deserter's body was quickly being disposed of.
"You look as though you held that ax yourself." Robb's horse trotted up to Baltasar.
"That's my face." Her wisecrack managed to tilt my brother's lip. "Still don't look as ugly as you."
"We're siblings, you're not that far off."
Once such a comment would have given her reason to falter, but her lopsided grin held tight. "Very true, Robb. Still prettier than you, though!" Her hand swept back and hit the rump of the boy horse. The mare snorted before taking off with an alarmed Robb atop.
Her laughter trailed off, a sound that filled the grim silence in the air. Soon enough that too was drowned out, as a wolf howled in the distance.