Storm's End, when I first arrived as Robert's bride in 278 AC, was a stark contrast to Winterfell, yet carried its own formidable majesty. Its ancient, unyielding stone, built to defy the tempests of the Narrow Sea, resonated with a different kind of strength than the deep, earthy roots of my Northern home. The air was warmer, laden with the scent of salt and rain, but the people… they were a puzzle I was determined to solve.
My Northern upbringing had prepared me for the practicalities of ruling a keep. I set about managing the stores, checking the harvest reports, ensuring the kitchens were efficient and the castle well-maintained.
The maester, a quiet, observant man, seemed surprised by my immediate grasp of the accounts and my insistent questioning on everything from the forge's output to the efficiency of the privy cleaner. I wasn't just here to be a decorative wife; I was here to be a Lady. A Stark Lady.
The Stormlords were a different beast. I quickly learned the older ones, men like Lord Grandison or Lord Estermont, viewed me with a mixture of awe and thinly veiled scandal. They were courteous, almost excessively so, but I could feel their discomfort, their silent judgment. I'd catch whispers about "Northern wildness" and "superstition" when I visited the godswood, or hear grumbling about "poor influence on the young ladies of the court" if they saw me inspecting the horses in the stables myself.
These were men who expected their ladies to host feasts and manage courtly graces, not to ride harder than their bannermen or spend time in the sparring yard. They wouldn't dare voice their disapproval too loud, not near Robert, whose love for me was boisterous and unquestioning. And certainly not near me, for they knew I carried a dagger and was not afraid to use it.
The younger knights and lords were a different matter entirely. They were split between resentful envy and raw, undeniable awe. When I stepped into the training yard – something I did often, with Robert's amused encouragement – their initial smirks would turn to wide-eyed disbelief. I beat them. Cleanly. Honorably. A woman, disarming them with swift, fluid movements.
It stung their pride, but it commanded respect. Some would fall half in love just from seeing me gallop across the plains, hunting with a ferocity they rarely witnessed in a Lady. They whispered of me as "the Storm's Wolf," a warrior-queen in all but name, an almost mythic figure. Even the arrogant ones, after a public defeat, would grow publicly sour, yet I could feel their private obsession.
Not all of them, of course. The devout lords, those clinging to the rigid tenets of the Faith of the Seven, were deeply uncomfortable. "This is not the place of a lady," I'd hear murmured as I walked past a sept. Some might even whisper that I brought dishonor to House Baratheon's name, their disapproval a silent, cold judgment that attempted to push against Robert's rule. But Robert was often oblivious, lost in his feasts and hunts, or too proud of my wildness to care. He trusted his maester and Stannis with the day-to-day governance, and rarely noticed the simmering resentments.
It was with the smallfolk that I found true ease, true connection. They cared little for courtly graces or southern piety. A lady who rode into storms, who hunted with the men, visited the sick in their hovels, tended her own horse, and spoke plainly, without artifice? That was a heroine. Old women would nod sagely, their eyes twinkling, saying, "She's got the wolf-blood, that one—but it ain't bad blood." Children would dream of being like Lady Lyanna—fast, fierce, and fair. Ballads, crude but heartfelt, would begin to pop up in taverns: "The Lady and the Lightning," "The Wolf and the Stag," "Iron in Her Veins."
The Stormlands, with their tempestuous weather and bold, often rebellious spirit, turned out to be the perfect place for a woman who rode into thunder with a sword on her hip and wild in her eyes. I was not just tolerated; I was, in their stories, already becoming a legend.
Robert, for his part, remained true to his word. He had promised me freedom, and he gave it. He gloried in my strength, in my untamed spirit, often boasting about my prowess to his friends. He genuinely admired my riding, my archery, even my skill with a blade in the yard.
Then came Ragnar's first nameday in 280 AC. No small affair, for Robert did nothing by halves. He had declared a proper tourney, seven days of jousting, melees, and archery contests, complete with minstrels and feasts. He had invited half the realm, and many answered his summons.
Lord Hoster Tully came from the Riverlands with his daughter Catelyn, already betrothed to Brandon.
Lord Jon Arryn rode from the Vale, bringing with him Ned and his trusted knights, Ser Vardis Egen and Yohn Royce. My own brothers, Brandon and Benjen, were there, of course, along with Howland Reed.
From the Stormlands, nearly every notable lord was present: Estermont, Fell, Grandison, Errol, Horpe. Even a few unexpected faces, like Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, graced the lists, drawn by Robert's reputation and the promise of a grand spectacle.
My heart swelled with pride for our son, and a peculiar giddiness for the tourney ahead. I was eager to participate. I would ride, I would win, and I would do it in honor of Ragnar.
That evening, in our chambers, as the sounds of the day's feasting began to fade, I found Robert polishing his warhammer, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Robert," I began, my voice firm, "I will be participating in the nameday tourney tomorrow."
He paused, lowering his hammer. His brow furrowed in a way that wasn't anger, but concern.
"Lyanna, my love," he rumbled, "that can be dangerous. These are seasoned knights, not just boys in the yard. It would be better not to."
I met his gaze, my chin lifted.
"Don't worry, Robert. You know how good I am. Better than most of your knights, if we're being honest."
A flash of pride lit his eyes at that, a boyish grin returning. He knew it was true. He had seen my skill. Perhaps, too, he was swayed by his desire to please me, by the fire in my eyes that he claimed to adore. He laughed, a booming sound that filled the room.
"Aye, that you are, my wolf! Better than most, by the gods! Very well, then! My Lady will ride in the lists for our son!" He pulled me into a great bear hug, seemingly delighted by the prospect.
The next morning, at breakfast, the Great Hall buzzed with anticipation for the nameday tourney. Robert sat at the high table, flanked by his brothers Stannis and Renly. My own brothers, Brandon and Benjen, and Howland Reed were there. Jon Arryn and Ned were present, along with the high lords of the Stormlands, and distinguished guests like Lord Hoster Tully and his daughter Catelyn. Ragnar, still in his nursemaid's arms, gurgled quietly, his unnervingly keen eyes taking everything in.
The conversation flowed, touching upon Ragnar's unusual precocity and the upcoming games.
Robert, flushed with ale and excitement, slammed a fist on the table, rattling the plates.
"By the gods!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the hall.
"My Lyanna and I will both ride in the lists for our son's nameday! We'll show them what Baratheons and Starks can do!"
A stunned silence fell.
Then, the murmurs began.
Jon Arryn, ever the level head, cleared his throat. "Robert, my boy," he began, his voice laced with caution. "With all due respect, perhaps that is not wise."
Lord Estermont, a stern, grey-haired man, added, "My Lord, the lists are no place for a Lady, even one as... spirited as yours. It would be detrimental to her standing, to House Baratheon's name."
Stannis, ever practical and blunt, spoke next. "It sets a dangerous precedent, Robert. The Faith would not approve. It would invite scorn from the south."
Even Brandon, my own hot-headed brother, seemed hesitant, though his words were softer. "Lyanna, you are fierce, but public tourneys... this is different."
Ned, ever quiet, simply looked at me, a profound concern in his eyes. Howland Reed, small and observant, remained silent, but his gaze was as heavy as the others.
The arguments came from all sides. "Improper." "Unladylike." "Dishonorable." "The Faith." "What will the realm say?"
Robert's grin slowly faded, replaced by a deep, angry flush. He looked from face to face, the weight of their disapproval pressing down on him. He had agreed to me, alone in our chambers, but faced with the collective judgment of his family, his most trusted mentor, and his most powerful bannermen, his will buckled.
Finally, he slammed his fist down again, this time in frustration. "Enough!" he roared, his voice shaking the hall. He turned to me, his eyes clouded with a mix of fury and forced resignation. "Lyanna," he said, his voice flat, "you will not participate in the nameday tourney. I forbid it."
The words struck me like a physical blow. The cage, which had seemed to open for a fleeting moment, slammed shut with a sickening clang. My jaw tightened, my gaze freezing on Robert's face. He had promised me freedom, promised he would never betray me. And yet, here he was, publicly shackling me, denying my spirit.
Days folded into weeks, and weeks into months, the sting of that morning lingering beneath my skin. I continued my rides, my hunts, my practice in the yard, but the joy was muted. The freedom Robert afforded me within the castle walls now felt like a cruel mockery, a compensation for the larger liberty denied.
Ragnar, nestled in his nursemaid's arms, watched me, his blue-grey eyes unnervingly intelligent. He gurgled, a soft, innocent sound. He was a curious child, different.
And even in the depths of my love for him, even as I cherished my unusual freedom in the castle, the constant reminder of that unspoken limit, that firm line in the sand, fueled a familiar whisper of unease. The cage, even a gilded one, was still a cage.
One warm afternoon, not long after Ragnar's nameday, I sat in the castle gardens. Robert was there, proudly showing Ragnar a trick with his falcon, a magnificent bird he'd trained in the Vale.
Ragnar, now a bustling toddler, watched with wide, intelligent eyes, pointing at the falcon's graceful arc. Robert, for all his bluster, had a gentle hand with the birds and a surprising patience. He looked truly happy, teaching our son, his large hand guiding Ragnar's small one to stroke the falcon's feathers. It was a glimpse of the man Ned had described in his letters, the one who found joy in simple things and the bond of family.
Our life was good, in its way. I had a loving husband, a remarkable son. Yet, the longing for something more, for a path truly my own, never quite faded.
Just then, Maester Cressen approached, a scroll in his hand. "My Lord, My Lady," he said, bowing. "News has arrived from Harrenhal."
Robert straightened, his eyes lighting up. "Speak, Maester! What news?"
"Lord Whent is hosting a grand tourney next year to celebrate the name day of his maiden daughter." Cressen announced, his voice filled with awe.
"Knights from all Seven Kingdoms are expected to attend. The prizes are said to be beyond measure. A true gathering of the realm's best. Spread over ten days, it will be the greatest tourney of the century, my lord!"
Robert let out a roaring laugh, his eyes shining with anticipation.
"By the gods, Lyanna! This will be a tourney for the ages! The Blackfish will be there, and Ser Arthur Dayne, perhaps even the Dragon Prince himself! I'll break a hundred lances!" He turned to me, flushed with joy, as if sharing a triumph.
I smiled-because that's what was expected-but inside, my heart, however, felt a familiar ache. The bars of my cage, now visible again, felt tighter than ever before.
A tourney for the ages. And I would watch it from the sidelines, sewn into silks and smiles ?
Robert's laughter, warm and thunderous, as if the world itself celebrated with him. He was already on the field, shattering lances beneath the banners of a thousand lords, his glory assured before a single horn had blown.
He didn't notice the silence blooming beside him.
Let him revel. Let the bards compose their songs. This time i will not be part of the audience.
A storm may rage loud, but the North breeds silence.
And wolves, when caged, do not forget the feel of snow beneath their paws.