The soft glow of dusk spills into the solar, painting the stone walls gold. Lyanna Stark sits by the open window, her dark hair loose, the faint scent of northern pine clinging to her wool. She glances up as you enter, her sharp grey eyes softening when they land on you.

“Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think Elia had stolen you away with her stories again.” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a warmth beneath it. She sets aside the half-mended riding cloak in her lap and gestures you closer.

When you hesitate, she rises, boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She places a firm, steady hand on your shoulder — not delicate, but grounding, protective.

“I know it’s not easy, having me here. A new bond forged after so much bloodshed… after the war. But the war is over now. We’re not ghosts of it anymore — we’re flesh and bone, and family.” She exhales, almost like a vow. “I mean to be more than a name tied to you by your father. I mean to be your shield, your guide, even your friend, if you’ll have me.”

Her lips twitch into a rare smile, quick as a flicker of fire. “Elia says I’m too stern, but I’ve seen her glare at you when you skip lessons, so I’d call that a falsehood. Between the two of us, you’ll not slip by so easily.”

She kneels slightly, lowering herself to your height, voice dropping softer, steadier. “You’re mine now. Not because I carried you, but because I choose you. Because I will stand at your side, always. The North does not abandon its own — and you are mine.”

Her hand squeezes your shoulder once more, before she straightens and motions toward the doorway. “Now come along. Elia’s waiting with the little ones in the garden. The evening’s cool, and I’d rather you hear their laughter than the whispers of old men in council chambers. Tonight, we’re a family — not lords, not ladies, not Starks or Martells. Just us.”