Chapter 3: The Flight to Shadows
White Harbor to Wolfswood, 280 AC
Lysa Flint rode west from White Harbor, the dawn sky heavy with clouds, grey as a wolf's pelt, the air sharp with the promise of snow. Her brown cloak's hood was pulled low, hiding her face, her black hair tucked beneath, damp with mist that clung to her skin. The horse beneath her, a sturdy bay mare named Dusk, bought with Brandon Stark's gold, plodded through muddy trails, its hooves sinking into the soft earth, each step a dull squelch that echoed in the quiet. The Wolfswood loomed ahead, its dark pines and ancient oaks stretching like a fortress, their branches swaying in a wind that whispered secrets only the Old Gods could hear. Lysa's satchel bounced against her hip.
Her heart racing, triumph from the White Harbor feast battling fear. Gossip could spread like wildfire, reaching the Tullys or Rickard Stark, whose wrath could crush a Flint girl who'd dared to bind his heir with ink and blood.
The northern air bit her cheeks, carrying the scent of pine, wet earth, and distant woodsmoke from village hearths. The Wolfswood was no gentle forest—it was a wild, living thing, its shadows deep, its paths twisting like veins through the heart of the North. Wolves howled far off, their calls weaving through the trees, answered by the sharp caws of ravens perched on gnarled branches, their black eyes watching Lysa as if sent by the gods. The North felt alive, its pulse in the wind, the trees, the tales carved in stone and sung by fires. Villagers here prayed to weirwood trees, hung bones on their doors to ward off spirits, and whispered of the Wolf of Winter, a Stark warg who'd unite the North in times of strife. Lysa clutched her weirwood pendant, its wolf's head warm against her skin, a vow to her child, an heir pure as the First Men. The North's spirit fueled her ambition, but danger lurked—every hoofbeat could draw eyes, every stranger a threat to her secret.
Lysa avoided the King's Road, where merchants' carts rumbled and knights rode with Stark banners, their tongues loose with tales of the feast. She chose hunter's paths, narrow and overgrown, where brambles snagged her cloak, thorns pricking her hands, and mud clung to her boots, heavy as guilt. Her mare snorted, its breath steaming in the chill, and Lysa patted its neck, her fingers trembling, her eyes scanning the shadows for movement. She'd planned this escape for weeks, mapping routes in her mind, sketching paths on scraps of parchment burned after use. She traded small salves—comfrey for cuts, mint for aches, chamomile for sleep—with farmers for bread, cheese, and apples to stretch her gold, her voice soft, her hood low, her lies ready. Each night, she slept in haylofts, abandoned sheds, or under pines, her cloak wrapped tight, her dagger close, waking at every rustle—a deer's step, a branch snapping—her mind conjuring White Harbor guards, Tully spies, or Brandon's laughter turning to rage if he remembered the document, the hazy marriage, the night she'd taken his seed.
She rode through fog, the air thick, muffling Dusk's hooves, the forest closing around her like a cloak, its silence both shelter and threat.
On the first day, a storm broke, rain lashing the trees, turning the path to a river of mud. Lysa huddled under an oak, its branches creaking, her cloak soaked, her teeth chattering. Lightning cracked, illuminating the Wolfswood's jagged pines, and thunder rolled, deep as a giant's roar. She whispered prayers to the Old Gods,The storm passed, leaving the air cold, the ground slick, and Lysa rode on, her mare slipping but steady, her heart pounding. She thought of Brandon's grey eyes, his reckless grin, the gold he'd pressed into her hand, unaware of the seed he'd left, the document that bound them.
The second day brought a peddler's cart, its wheels creaking through the mud, the driver's voice humming a tune about lost loves and broken swords. Lysa slowed Dusk, her hood low, her breath shallow, her hand on the pendant for strength. The peddler was old, his beard grey as ash, his cart piled with furs, pots, and bundles of dried fish, but his eyes were sharp, glinting like a hawk's as he turned. "Ho, traveler!" he called, his voice rough but warm, his cart blocking the narrow path, forcing Lysa to stop. "Where you headed, lass? Wolfswood ain't kind to lone riders, 'specially maids." His gaze lingered, and Lysa's heart jumped—she'd seen him at the feast, selling trinkets near the Manderly table, close enough to hear her name whispered by Mara, her friend who'd secured her invitation.
"I'm a widow, seeking kin," Lysa lied, her voice steady, her grey-green eyes meeting his, hiding the storm inside. "My husband died at sea, a merchant from Gulltown. I've a cousin in a Wolfswood village, a farmer." The words came easily, practiced in her mind, but her fingers tightened on the reins, ready to spur Dusk if he pressed, her dagger hidden in her sleeve, its weight a comfort. The peddler squinted, his lips pursed, his hand scratching his beard, the gesture slow, deliberate, his eyes flicking to her satchel, her clean hands, her mare's sturdy build.
"Sad tale, widow," he said, his eyes softening, but a flicker of doubt remained, sharp as a blade. "Seen you before, maybe. White Harbor, at the feast? Pretty lass like you stands out." His tone was light, but his gaze was heavy, probing, and Lysa's stomach twisted, her smile forced, her mind racing for a lie.
"You've a good eye, but I wasn't there," she said, her voice soft, her hand brushing the pendant, its wolf's head grounding her. "I came from Widow's Watch, sold my husband's goods, bought this mare. Just passing through." She pulled a small jar of frostwort balm from her satchel, its cool scent sharp in the damp air, and tossed it to him, waving off his copper. "For your knee, goodman. It hurts in this weather, yes?" Her smile was warm, disarming, but her heart pounded, her eyes sharp for any sign of pursuit.
The peddler caught the jar, his brows rising, his fingers rubbing the balm, his nod slow. "Kind of you, lass. Safe travels, then. Wolfswood's full of wolves, and not all got fur." He chuckled, his cart creaking as he moved aside, but his glance lingered, sharp and curious, and Lysa's skin prickled as she rode past, her mare's pace quickening, the forest swallowing the cart's noise. The peddler's eyes stayed in her mind, a warning to guard her secrets, to trust no one, not even a kind face offering a smile.
Later that day, Lysa met a hunter, his bow slung across his back, his cloak patched, his face weathered by wind and sun. He stood by a stream, skinning a deer, its blood staining the grass, his knife flashing in the weak light. "Lost, are you?" he said, his voice gruff, his eyes narrowing as Lysa approached, her mare snorting at the blood's scent. "No place for a lone woman, these woods. Wildlings been seen, and wolves don't care for widows."
"I'm seeking a village," Lysa said, her voice steady, her hood low, her hand on the pendant. "I've kin there, and gold to pay my way. Point me west, and I'll trade a salve for your trouble." She offered a comfrey paste, its earthy scent strong, and the hunter took it, his fingers rough, his nod curt.
"West, two days," he said, pointing with his knife, blood dripping from its blade. "Village called Thorn's Hollow. Careful, widow. Stark men ride these paths, looking for troublemakers. Keep your hood up." He turned back to his deer, dismissing her, but his words chilled Lysa—Stark patrols, loyal to Rickard, could recognize her, could ask questions she couldn't answer. She rode on, her heart pounding, her eyes scanning for banners, for hoofprints in the mud.
The third day brought a near-miss, a patrol's horn sounding through the fog, faint but close, hooves thundering on a nearby path. Lysa spurred Dusk into a thicket, thorns scratching her hands, her breath held as three riders passed, their cloaks grey, their shields bearing the Stark direwolf. They spoke of White Harbor, of Brandon's betrothal, their voices low, their laughter rough. Lysa crouched, her mare still, her heart a drum, the pendant warm against her chest. The riders moved on, their horns fading, and Lysa exhaled, her body trembling, her mind sharp. She'd been lucky, but luck wouldn't last. Thorn's Hollow was close, her sanctuary, her child's cradle, and she'd reach it or die trying.
The Wolfswood deepened, its trees taller, their roots twisting the path like gnarled hands, their branches blotting the sky. The air grew colder, snow flurries dancing in the wind, dusting Lysa's cloak, melting on her mare's mane. Wolves howled, closer now, their calls answered by others, a chorus that sent shivers down her spine, yet stirred her heart—her child would have wolf's blood, Stark blood, fierce and free. She passed a broken shrine, its stones mossy, carved with runes of the First Men, a relic of the North's ancient heart. Villagers here hung weirwood branches over their doors, whispered prayers to heart trees, and told tales of wargs and greenseers, Starks who ran with wolves, who saw through raven's eyes.
Lysa reached Thorn's Hollow at noon on the fourth day, the sun weak, its light barely piercing the forest's gloom, snow flurries swirling like ash. The village was small, a cluster of timber cottages with thatched roofs, their walls weathered to a dull grey, streaked with moss, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Dogs barked, their yips sharp, and children ran in the muddy square, swinging sticks like swords, shouting of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, or Cregan Stark, the Old Wolf who'd marched south. A stone well stood at the center, its rim worn smooth, moss clinging to its cracks, a bucket dangling from a frayed rope. Beyond it, a godswood loomed, its weirwood tree stark against the pines, its red leaves like blood, its carved face solemn, watching with eyes that seemed to pierce Lysa's soul. The air smelled of woodsmoke, damp wool, roasted turnips, and leather, a northern village alive with work—farmers hauling grain, hunters skinning rabbits, women weaving baskets, their hands rough, their faces lined by winter's bite.
The northern atmosphere was fierce, unyielding, a land shaped by cold and blood. Snow dusted the ground, not yet deep but a promise of winter's grip, the wind carrying the howl of wolves, the screech of owls, the rustle of deer in the underbrush. Villagers wore furs and wool, their boots caked with mud, their voices low, speaking of Stark honor, of the Wall's shadow, of wildling raids whispered in peddlers' tales. They hung bones and weirwood twigs on their doors, offerings to the Old Gods, and gathered at the godswood to pray, their whispers blending with the wind, tales of wargs and greenseers, of the Wolf of Winter who'd rise when the North bled. Lysa felt the North's pulse, its strength in her veins, her child's veins, son or daughter, who'd grow with this land's heart, hidden in its shadows.
The villagers stared at Lysa, her cloak dusty, her mare lathered, their eyes curious but wary, strangers rare in these deep woods. She dismounted, tying Dusk to a post by the well, her hood low,She needed a cottage, a sanctuary to hide her child, to raise them in secret until the North was ready for a new Stark heir. But first, she needed the village head, the man who'd sell her a home, who'd keep her secret for gold. She approached a woman by the well, her hair grey, her hands wet from drawing water, her apron stained with flour, her eyes sharp as flint. "Good day," Lysa said, her voice soft, her smile warm but cautious, her hand brushing the pendant. "I'm Lysa, a widow seeking a home. Who leads this village?"
The woman squinted, her lips tight, her bucket sloshing as she set it down, water spilling on the mud. "A widow, alone, riding fine horse?" she said, her tone sharp, her eyes scanning Lysa's cloak, her mare, her clean hands, unmarred by farm work. "We don't get strangers here, not without cause. What's your business, girl?" Her voice carried suspicion, a northern trait, the Wolfswood's isolation breeding distrust of outsiders, especially a woman with no kin, no clear purpose.
"My husband died at sea," Lysa said, her hand tightening on the pendant, its wolf's head grounding her, its warmth a vow to her child. "I've gold to buy a cottage, to live quietly. I mean no trouble, only a home." She pulled a copper from her satchel, offering it for goodwill, her smile steady, her eyes meeting the woman's, hiding the triumph inside. The woman's eyes softened at the coin, but her frown lingered, her fingers rough as she took it.
"Jonel's the elder," she said, pointing to a tall man across the square, his beard black streaked with grey, his tunic patched but clean, a hatchet at his belt, his stance broad, commanding. "He's by the smithy, talking to hunters. Mind your words, widow. Jonel don't trust easy, and neither do we." She turned back to her bucket, her eyes following Lysa, her whisper sharp as Lysa walked away, "Strange, a widow with gold, no kin."
Lysa wove through the square, her steps slow, her hood low, villagers' stares heavy—a boy herding goats, his stick tapping the ground; a girl carrying firewood, her braid swinging; an old man sharpening a knife, his eyes narrowed. The air buzzed with village life—hammers clanging at the smithy, women bartering apples for wool, children chanting a rhyme about Cregan Stark's axe. Lysa approached a young man by a cart, his hands stained with sap, unloading logs, his breath steaming in the cold. "I seek Jonel, the elder," she said, her voice soft, her smile cautious. "I'm a widow, needing a home. Where's he at?"
The man wiped his brow, his eyes wary, his axe resting on the cart, its blade glinting. "Jonel's at the smithy," he said, his voice low, his gaze flicking to her satchel, her mare tied at the well. "What's a widow want with him? You got kin here?" His tone was blunt, northern, testing her, and Lysa's heart steadied, her lie ready.
"No kin" she said, her voice firm."I'll pay for a cottage, a quiet life. Point me to him, and I'll trade a salve for your hands—they're cracked." She offered a mint balm, its scent sharp, and the man took it, his nod curt, his finger pointing to the smithy, where smoke rose, the clang of iron loud.
"Over there," he said, rubbing the balm, his eyes softening but still sharp. "Careful, widow. Folk here don't like strangers stirring things." He turned back to his logs, dismissing her, but his glance lingered, and Lysa moved on, She needs to be cunning to survive.
The smithy was small, its forge glowing red, the air thick with charcoal, iron, and sweat. Jonel stood with three hunters, their bows slung across their backs, their cloaks patched, their voices low, talking of wolf tracks near the village, of wildlings seen beyond Last Hearth. Lysa waited, her hood low, her satchel close, her eyes sharp for prying hands, her heart steady despite the villagers' stares. Jonel turned, his eyes hard, sizing her up like a merchant weighing goods, his hand on his hatchet, the hunters falling silent, their gazes cold, northern men who saw threats in strangers. "What's this?" he said, his voice gruff, his beard twitching, his stance broad, filling the space.
"I'm Lysa, a widow," Lysa said, her voice firm, her grey-green eyes meeting his, her hand brushing the pendant, its wolf's head a silent prayer to the Old Gods. "I seek a cottage, a home for myself. I've gold to pay, and I'll keep to myself, no trouble." She stood tall, her cloak dusty but her beauty clear, her posture steady, her mind sharp, ready for his doubt, his questions.
Jonel frowned, his eyes narrowing, his hand tightening on the hatchet, his voice heavy with suspicion. "A widow, alone, with gold, riding into Thorn's Hollow?" he said, his tone sharp, his gaze flicking to her satchel, her mare, her clean hands. "Where's your kin, girl? What's a lass like you doing in the Wolfswood,Speak plain, or you'll find no welcome here." The hunters shifted, their hands on their belts, their eyes like wolves, and Lysa's heart pounded, but her face stayed still, her lie smooth.
"My husband was a merchant, lost at sea, a Gulltown man," she said, her voice steady, her eyes locked on Jonel's, hiding the triumph inside. "I've no kin left, only gold from his trade, enough to buy a cottage, to live quietly. I'm no threat, elder, only a woman seeking a home." She opened her satchel, showing a glimpse of gold dragons, their edges glinting in the noon light, enough to buy silence, loyalty, a future for her child. Jonel's eyes widened, his frown easing, greed softening his suspicion, his hand loosening on the hatchet.
"Gold talks, widow," he said, his voice slower now, weighing her words, his eyes flicking to the coins, then back to her face, her beauty, her steady gaze. "Got a cottage, old Meg's place, empty since she passed last winter. It's at the village edge, near the godswood, hidden by pines. Needs work—roof leaks, hearth's cracked, floor's rotten in places—but it's sturdy, good for a woman who keeps quiet. Ten gold dragons, and it's yours.
"Lysa's heart lifted, but she kept her face still, her mind sharp, her pendant grounding her. "Twelve," she said, her voice low, pressing the coins into his hand, their weight heavy, her fingers brushing his, her eyes locked on his, burning with purpose. "For the cottage, and your silence. No questions, no tales, no whispers to peddlers or Stark men. I want peace, elder, for me and my future." She paused, her voice softening, her smile cautious, her lie woven tight. "I've lost enough. Let me start anew."
Jonel's brows rose, his fingers closing around the gold, his nod slow, deliberate, his eyes still wary but bought, the coins a chain binding his tongue. "No one'll bother you, widow," he said, pocketing the coins, his lips tight, his voice gruff. "Cottage is yours. Settle in, fix it up, but don't stir trouble. We've enough with wolves creeping closer, wildlings raiding farms, and Stark patrols asking questions about strangers. Keep your head down, and you'll do fine." He turned back to the hunters, dismissing her, his voice low as he spoke of traps, of wolves to hunt, of wildling tracks. Lysa stepped away, her breath quick, her triumph warm,her child, who'd grow in the Wolfswood's shadows, safe from Tullys, Starks, and the world's prying eyes.
The cottage stood at the village's western edge, where the Wolfswood pressed close, its pines and oaks forming a dark, living wall, their branches swaying in the wind, their needles carpeting the ground. It was small, its timber walls weathered to a dull grey, streaked with green moss, the wood scarred by years of rain, wind, and frost. The thatched roof sagged, thick but patchy, straw loose in places, patched with fresher bundles, a sign of past care now faded. The oak door was heavy, its hinges rusted, creaking like a crone's laugh when pushed, its surface carved with faint runes, worn by time, barely visible. A single window, its shutters warped and splintered, hung crooked, letting in slants of weak light, its frame stained black by mildew. A stone chimney jutted from the roof, its mortar crumbling but solid, smoke stains blackening its base, a testament to winters endured. From outside, the cottage looked tired, forgotten, blending with the forest's gloom, its grey walls fading into the pines, its low roof barely visible from the village square, perfect for a woman who needed to vanish, to hide her child, from the world.
The area around the cottage was wild, alive with the Wolfswood's fierce beauty, a northern cradle for Lysa's heir. Tall pines loomed, their trunks thick, their needles soft underfoot, their scent sharp and clean, mingling with the damp earth. A narrow stream gurgled nearby, its water clear as glass, reflecting the grey sky, small fish darting in its depths, their scales flashing like silver. Ferns and moss clung to rocks, their green vivid against the forest's gloom, and wildflowers—purple heather, white yarrow, bluebell clusters—dotted the clearing, their colors soft, fragile in the cold. A wolf's howl echoed at dusk, answered by another, their calls weaving through the trees, a chorus that stirred Lysa's heart, her child's Stark blood answering. Ravens perched on branches, their caws sharp, like warnings or blessings, their black eyes following Lysa, as if the Old Gods watched. The godswood was close, its weirwood tree visible through the pines, its red leaves glowing like blood, its carved face solemn, a guardian for her child's future. The scenery was both beautiful and fierce, a northern sanctuary, its isolation Lysa's shield, its wildness her child's cradle, who'd grow with the forest's strength.
Lysa stood outside, her cloak flapping in the wind, snow flurries dusting her hood, her heart steady. The cottage was hers, but it needed work—dust thick inside, the hearth cracked, the roof leaking, the floorboards creaking underfoot. She couldn't do it alone. She returned to the village square, her hood up, her satchel close, and approached a group of women weaving baskets, their hands quick, their voices low, their eyes sharp as they watched her. "I need help," she said, her voice soft but clear, her Silver coins glinting in her palm, their weight a promise. "Clean my cottage, patch the roof, fix the hearth, mend the floor. I'll pay well, and I'll share salves for your aches.
"Three women nodded, their eyes bright at the gold—Sera, a stout mother with grey streaks in her hair, her hands rough from years of work; Beth, younger, her face freckled, her hands calloused from farm labor; and Lila, thin and quiet, her eyes downcast, her fingers nimble with a needle. "We'll do it," Sera said, her voice gruff, pocketing a coin, her smile cautious but warm. "Meg's place is a mess, been empty too long, but we'll make it right, widow." They followed Lysa, bringing brooms, hammers, straw, and a bucket of mortar, their steps quick, their children trailing behind, curious, their laughter mixing with the wind. At the cottage, they swept dust, scrubbed the hearth, patched the roof with fresh straw, and hammered new boards into the floor, their tools tapping,"You staying long, widow? Thorn's Hollow's no place for soft folk," her tone light but probing, her eyes sharp.
Lysa smiled, deflecting, her hand on the pendant, its wolf's head grounding her. "As long as the gods allow," she said, her voice soft, her lie smooth. "I want quiet, a home for my heart." Sera hummed, her broom stirring dust, but Lila glanced up, her eyes curious, and Lysa's heart steadied, her satchel close, the document hidden inside, safe from prying hands. The women worked fast, their hands sure, transforming the cottage, its walls cleaner, its hearth solid, its roof tight against the snow. Lysa paid them silver, their eyes wide, their nods grateful, but their whispers followed— "Widow's got coin, too much for a merchant's wife." Lysa ignored them, her mind sharp, her child's safety her only care,who'd grow in this sanctuary, hidden from the world.
The next morning, Lysa sought a helper, someone loyal to manage the cottage, to cook, clean, and sew as her pregnancy grew, her body needing rest. In the village square, she found Myra, a sturdy woman in her thirties, her brown hair tied back in a tight braid, her hands rough from years of work, her apron stained with berry juice and flour. Myra was a widow, her husband lost to a boar's tusk two winters past, her eyes kind but sharp, her voice plain as stone, cutting through the square's bustle—women bartering wool, men hauling logs, children chasing a stray dog. Myra stood by the well, her basket heavy with wool, her shoulders broad, her stance steady, a woman who'd survive the Wolfswood's harsh winters, who'd keep a house through snow and storm.
"You the new widow?" Myra said, her tone blunt, her eyes scanning Lysa's cloak, her clean hands, her mare tied at the well. "Heard you bought Meg's place, paid Jonel a fortune. Need help? I cook, sew, clean, keep a house tight. Good at it, but I don't work for coppers, and I don't trust easy." Her voice was firm, her smile small but real, her eyes sharp, probing, a northern woman who saw through soft words, who'd ask questions Lysa couldn't answer.
Lysa liked her honesty, her strength, her plain speech, a woman who'd be loyal for gold, for trust earned, not given. "I've Silver," she said, her voice soft, her smile warm, her hand brushing the pendant, its wolf's head grounding her. "Help me, Myra, and I'll pay well, more if you're true. Start today, and here's a salve for your hands—they look sore, cracked by the cold." She offered a jar of frostwort balm, its cool scent sharp, and Myra rubbed it in, her brows rising, her fingers flexing, the salve easing her pain, her smile widening, a crack in her northern reserve.
"Good stuff, this," Myra said, her voice warmer, her eyes curious, her basket set down by the well, her hands resting on her hips. "Where'd a widow learn such tricks? You don't look like a healer's kin, not with that fine cloak, that mare. You're no farmer's daughter, Lysa, that's plain." She leaned closer, her braid swinging, her eyes narrowing, her tone light but probing, a test Lysa had to pass.
"My mother was a healer," Lysa said, her voice steady, her lie ready, her grey-green eyes meeting Myra's, hiding the triumph inside. "She taught me herbs before she passed, simple things—frostwort for sores, nettle for strength, yarrow for cuts. I'm no maester, but I know enough to help a friend." She paused, her smile soft, She needed this woman's loyalty. "Will you be my friend, Myra? I need someone I can trust, someone who'll keep my house, my secrets.
"Myra nodded, her eyes narrowing, her smile cautious, her curiosity a spark that could burn if fed. "Fair enough, widow," she said, her voice lighter, her hands picking up the basket, her nod quick. "I'll work for you, Lysa. Your cottage needs a woman's touch, and I need the coin—my boy eats like a bear, and winter's coming. But tell me, where's your kin? A widow's usually got someone, a brother, a cousin, a mother's kin to lean on. You're alone, far from White Harbor's markets, its warm halls. Why here, in Thorn's Hollow, with wolves at the door?"
Lysa's breath caught,her heart pounding, her lie smooth. "My husband was a merchant, lost at sea, a Gulltown man," she said, her voice soft, her eyes meeting Myra's, hiding the storm inside. "I've no kin left, only some Coins from his trade, enough for this cottage, a new start. I want quiet, Myra, a home for my heart, nothing more." She offered a silver coins, its weight heavy, its edges glinting, and Myra's eyes widened, her hand closing around it, her nod quick, her smile warmer but still sharp.
"Quiet's good, Lysa," Myra said, her voice steady, her basket swinging as she stepped closer, her eyes probing, her tone light but heavy with meaning. "I'll keep your house, cook your meals, mend your cloak, sweep your floors. But folk here talk, widow. Strangers draw eyes, and Coins draws tongues. You've got secrets, I can see it—your hands shake when you speak of kin, your eyes dart like a deer's. Keep 'em close, but don't expect 'em to stay buried in a village like this." She paused, her smile fading, her eyes softening, a hint of kindness breaking through. "I've secrets too, Lysa. Lost my man, raised my boy alone. I'll not pry, not yet, but I'll watch. Fair?
"Lysa nodded, her heart steady, her smile forced, her pendant warm, her mind sharp. "Fair," she said, her voice soft, her eyes meeting Myra's, sealing a bond, fragile but real. "Work for me, Myra, and we'll keep each other's secrets, build a home together. I've lost enough, like you. Let's make something new." Myra nodded, her smile small but real, her basket hoisted, her steps quick as she led the way to the cottage, her voice humming a northern tune about lost wolves and red moons, her braid swinging, her presence a comfort and a risk.
At the cottage, Myra swept the floor, her broom stirring dust, her movements sure, her eyes flicking to Lysa as she unpacked her satchel, hiding the document in a loose floorboard under the mattress, her heart pounding, her fingers trembling. Myra paused, her broom still, her voice light but probing. "You're careful, widow," she said, her tone warm, her eyes sharp, her smile teasing. "Hiding something? Gold, maybe, or a lover's letter? A merchant's wife keeps treasures, I'll bet." Her laugh was soft, but her gaze was heavy, and Lysa's stomach twisted, her smile forced, her lie ready.
"Just herbs and memories," Lysa said, her voice soft, its wolf's head grounding her, her eyes meeting Myra's, hiding the triumph inside. "A widow's treasures, Myra, nothing more. My mother's journal, her recipes, a few coins for winter. You'll see, when we work together." Myra nodded, her broom moving again, her eyes still sharp, but her smile softened, a crack in her suspicion, a step toward trust. Lysa watched her, her mind sharp—Myra was loyal for now, but curiosity could be trouble, a spark that could burn her secrets. She'd pay her well, share salves, win her heart, for her child's sake, who needed a safe home, a mother who saw every threat, every shadow in the Wolfswood's gloom.
Lysa settled into the cottage, her days filled with work to make it hers, her nights haunted by dreams and duties. She hung dried herbs—mint, yarrow, nettle, chamomile—on the walls, their scent sharp, masking the damp, their shadows dancing in the firelight.She used Alys's journal, its pages worn, its ink faded, to guide her through the early days. Each morning, she brewed nettle broth, its earthy taste strengthening her blood, She drank raspberry leaf tea, bitter but soothing, its steam curling in the cold air, easing her womb, preparing her body for the child to come.if She pregnant now,She calculated the moons, her child due in spring, 281 AC,with Brandon's grey eyes, her cunning, the North's blood pure as weirwood sap.
At dusk, she gathered herbs in the Wolfswood, her cloak blending with the shadows, her basket heavy with yarrow, mint, frostwort, and wild garlic plucked near the stream, its water cold, its banks soft with moss. The forest hummed, wolves howling, a chorus that stirred her heart,She moved silently, her boots soft on the needle-strewn ground, her eyes sharp for villagers, for spies, for wildlings whispered in hunter's tales. The Wolfswood was alive, its air thick with mist, its trees whispering, their branches swaying like arms reaching for her child,who'd grow with its strength.
She prayed at the godswood, the weirwood's red eyes watching, its sap dripping like tears, its carved face solemn, ancient, a guardian of her secrets.
She traded salves with villagers—a comfrey paste for a hunter's wound, a mint tea for a woman's fever, a chamomile salve for a child's rash—earning bread, wool, and eggs, her hands quick, her smile warm, her hood low to hide her face. The villagers whispered, their eyes sharp, their voices low— "Widow's got skill, too much for a merchant's wife," "Where's her kin, her man's kin?"—and Lysa kept her distance,She learned their names—Torren, the blacksmith, whose hammer rang like a bell; Ellyn, the crone, who told tales of wargs by the fire; Jory, the boy who herded goats, his eyes wide at her salves. They were her shield, her risk, a village that could hide her or betray her, and Lysa walked carefully, her cunning a blade.
Lysa's days blended into a rhythm, the cottage her sanctuary, the Wolfswood her shield. She joined the village's market day, a small affair in the square, where women bartered apples for wool, men traded furs for iron, and children ran, their laughter bright, their games of Stark kings and wildling raids echoing through the mud. Lysa stood by her mare, offering salves, her hood low, her voice soft, her eyes sharp for strangers, for peddlers who might know her face. A crone, Ellyn, approached, her back bent, her eyes milky but sharp, her hands clutching a basket of turnips. "You're the widow," she said, her voice a rasp, her gaze piercing Lysa's hood. "Got a salve for my joints? I'll trade a tale, widow, a true one—of the Wolf of Winter, a Stark warg who'll rise when the North bleeds."
"I've a frostwort balm," she said, her voice soft, her smile cautious, offering the jar, its scent cool. "Tell me your tale, goodwoman, while we trade." Ellyn nodded, her hands taking the balm, her voice low, weaving a story of a Stark boy, grey-eyed, who ran with wolves, who saw through raven's eyes, who united the North against southron kings. Lysa listened, her heart pounding.
She met Torren, the blacksmith, his arms thick, his face scarred, his hammer shaping a horseshoe, its clang echoing through the square. "Need iron, widow?" he said, his voice gruff, his eyes sharp, his hands stained with soot. "Your mare's shoes are worn. I'll fix 'em, for a salve—my back aches from the forge." Lysa nodded, offering a yarrow paste, its scent sharp, her smile warm, her hood low. "Good work, Torren," she said, her voice soft, her eyes meeting his, building trust, a shield for her child. Torren nodded, his hammer pausing, his gaze curious, but he asked no more, his work resuming, the clang a rhythm in the village's heart.
Lysa's nights were quiet, the cottage creaking, the forest alive outside, wolves howling, owls screeching, the wind carrying whispers of the gods. She sat by the hearth, the document in her hands, its ink a vow to her child, who'd rule Winterfell, who'd rally the North against southern schemes.Her pride burned brighter, her child's future a light in the dark, a Stark heir who'd rise where she could not, who'd wear the North's crown, born of ambition and blood.She dreamed of wolves, their grey eyes like Brandon's, their howls calling her child.
She woke,her prayers to the godswood fervent, the weirwood's red eyes watching, its sap dripping, its wind whispering, "The North remembers." She hid the document, her fingers trembling, and slept, her dreams wild, her child's destiny a flame that warmed the Wolfswood's gloom, a Stark heir who'd shake the world, born of a mother's unyielding will.