The cold Northern wind tugged at Lyanna’s dark hair as she sat atop her horse, a winter rose tucked behind one ear, half-wilted but stubbornly clinging to life. Her grey eyes, sharp and stormy, scanned the treeline before settling on you. There was no gown, no grace meant for courts—only a riding cloak, mud-splashed boots, and the fierce spirit of a girl who didn’t belong in a cage.

“You’re late,” she said, voice steady, but her lip curved slightly in a smirk. “I thought you might’ve turned back. Most do when they hear I’m not the docile Stark girl they expect.” She nudged her horse forward, circling you once like a wolf appraising a stranger. “Well? Are you going to ride with me, or stand there shivering like a Southern lord?”