9 Northern Friendship

Chapter 9 –

A grin plastered on his face, Caelum hopped from one cobblestone to the next, narrowly avoiding a puddle of questionable origin. "Bet I can hear farther than you can see, Luke!" he chirped, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Luke chuckled, ruffling Caelum's hair. "Bold claim, Caelum. Care to wager a honey cake on that?"

Caelum's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Only if I win two!" He tilted his head, closing his eyes in concentration. The usual cacophony of the market dwindled, replaced by a faint singsong melody and the rhythmic squeak of a wheelbarrow.

A satisfied smile spread across his face. "An old woman by the baker's, humming to herself! I think her cart's stuck." He bolted towards the scent of fresh bread, Luke trailing with an amused sigh.

Sure enough, they found a stooped figure wrestling with a stubborn cartwheel. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of her eyes as she struggled, a melody escaping her lips in short, breathless hums.

"Need a hand, Grandma?" Caelum called out, skipping towards her. 

The woman paused mid-grunt, surprise softening her features. "Bless your heart, young one! Just this pesky wheel... won't hold its place."

Luke stepped forward, his long strides quickly bridging the distance. With a practiced heave, he reattached the wheel, tightening a few spokes for good measure. The old woman clapped her hands, relief flooding her face.

"Well now, that's the kindest help I've had all day!" she chuckled. "What might your names be?"

"I'm Caelum," he declared proudly, a hand resting on his hip. He gestured to Luke, "And this is my friend, Luke!"

The woman's eyes warmed at the introduction. "Well then, aren't you a lucky lad!" She fished a still-warm apple pastry from her basket. "Here now, a reward for kindness."

Caelum accepted the treat, his grin impossibly wide. "Kindness?" he echoed, licking his fingers. "It was nothing!" 

Just before they turned to leave, Caelum caught a flash of worry in her eyes as she glanced at her remaining stock. "Ma'am," he piped up, "if we can help you sell those, we wouldn't mind!" An eagerness filled his voice as he nudged Luke. "What do you say?"

Luke met the woman's grateful gaze and smiled. "Sounds like a plan to me."

For the next hour, Caelum's cheerful voice rang amidst the market clamor, enticing passersby with promises of the "sweetest tarts in all of Harrentown!" Luke, with an amused twinkle in his eye, bantered with potential customers, ensuring the old woman got a fair price for her goods. By the time her basket was empty, the warm glow of the afternoon sun had settled over the market square.

The woman wiped her brow with a flourish, offering them each a heartfelt hug. "May the Seven bless you both, kind lads. A bit of good fortune goes a long way."

With full bellies and hearts to match, Luke and Caelum waved goodbye, ready to resume their adventure. Days like this had become their routine. After that first chaotic day at the tourney, Luke had steered them towards the quieter corners of Harrentown. They'd chased runaway piglets, soothed a scared kitten, even helped a flustered scribe find his misplaced inkpot. It was far from the knightly battles Caelum had initially imagined, but the joy in his eyes shone brighter with each act of kindness.

"Alright, Caelum" Luke said, breaking into Caelum's thoughts, "where to next?"

Caelum hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes in focus once more. It was a game now, testing his powers for good. The familiar buzz of the market surrounded them: a blacksmith hawking his wares, a mother scolding a giggling child, the jovial laughter of a tavern crowd. Ordinary sounds of ordinary lives. He listened closely, searching...

And then it came: a grunt of exertion, sharp and strained, followed by the hollow clang of steel on steel. It emanated from the direction of the tourney grounds, cutting through the usual festive clamor.

A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. The tourney grounds... the crowds, the noise... memories of that overwhelming first day threatened to creep in. But then he straightened, a determined glint in his eyes. He'd come a long way since those first overwhelming moments. He wouldn't let fear stop him now.

"Luke," he said, his voice steady, "Someone's struggling. Sounds like a fight."

Something else snagged his attention then, muffled beneath the clash of steel and taunting words.

"...think you can fight a knight, mud-dweller?" A voice sneered, followed by the clang of steel.

"Go crawl back to your ditches, frog-eater!" Another voice joined the fray.

A loud vibrating clang and another grunt. "...bet you northerners can't even hold a proper sword!" 

"Luke," Caelum said, unable to mask the urgency in his voice, "Three people are attacking someone, near the tourney grounds, by the preparation camps I think." He pointed towards the sounds of struggle, his gaze meeting Luke's. "We have to help!"

Luke's brow furrowed. "A fight?" Concern etched his voice. He probed further "Can you tell more, Caelum? How many are fighting? Are they using weapons?" 

Caelum focused harder, straining to parse out details through the chaos. "Three against one, Luke. It sounds like... like swords, but practice ones, maybe." He hesitated, then added, "And they're being mean. Calling him names…" He winced as another insult pierced the din.

Luke knelt beside the boy, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The tourney grounds, Cael... it's going to get louder there soon, more crowded. The jousts for the day are about to begin soon. Are you sure you're ready for that?" He didn't doubt Caelum's courage, only his ability to handle the strain from the noise, after his earlier struggle.

Caelum met Luke's gaze, determination burning in his own blue eyes. "The other boy... he needs us, Luke. I can do this." His small voice was unwavering. "I have already managed controlling what I hear, I will be fine!"

A flicker of pride warmed Luke's gaze. This boy with his oversized heart never ceased to surprise him. "Alright then," he said, rising to his feet. "Lead the way, brave knight."

They hurried towards the edge of the tourney grounds, near the encampments of the High Lords of the realm and the Knights they accompanied prepared for their fights. 

The sounds of the fight growing clearer with each step. 

Luke glanced at the sky; the crowds would soon thicken as the day's jousts drew closer. 

He could feel Caelum's focus intensify beside him, a small hand gripping his sleeve as they neared the edge of the tourney grounds.

With each step closer, the chaos of the tourney grounds intensified. The clang of armor, the neighing of horses, the roar of the assembling crowd – a cacophony that threatened to overwhelm. Yet Caelum pressed forward, his small hand tight in Luke's larger one.

As they passed through a section of the encampment, Luke's gaze snagged on a tourney sword propped against a tent. He needed to be ready for a fight. 

He couldn't hear the fight as Caelum did, but he saw the unwavering determination in those young eyes. 

With a swift motion, he snatched up the sword, its familiar weight settling in his hand.

Ahead, he caught sight of Ser Vortimer Crane, resplendent in polished armor. 

A sneer twisted in Luke's gut. 

The knight was a brute, his son Parmen no better – a fact that stung more with each passing day.

Parmen stood nearby, assisting another knight on his horse, Ser Quentin Tyrell. 

A knot formed in Luke's stomach as he spotted a familiar figure near the Tyrells, Meredith. Her gaze fixed on Parmen. Her recent coldness towards Luke cut deeper in that moment. 

They had spoken in just clipped words when she had come to the inn to drop Caelum off after the incident at the buttery. She had done most of the talking, her words cutting, but not quite accusatory when they had spoken.

Beside her, young Willas and Garlan cavorted with other highborn children. Luke tightened his grip on the sword.

Now was not the time.

They pushed on, Caelum guiding them with deft precision.

Finally, they broke through the last of the tents into a clearing, a little ways into the forest behind the encampments. The clearing sat just far enough from the main encampments that the clash of steel and roar of the crowds faded, replaced by an uncanny quiet. 

It was the perfect place for an ambush, Luke realized, a chill running down his spine.

And there they were. A lone figure, short even for his age, stood with his back against a tree. 

Despite his tattered green tunic and mud-streaked leggings, the boy held himself with a strange dignity that stood in stark contrast to the trio surrounding him.

His face was that of a Northerner, Luke realized.

"...think yourself a warrior? Not even a proper sword!..." A sickening thud followed, then a grunt of pain from the lone figure.

"...go back to your swamps, frog-eater! This is a tourney for knights!" Another jeer sliced through the air.

Luke held Caelum back, a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. His gaze swept the clearing, assessing the situation. The outnumbered boy was a flash of weathered green amidst his attackers. Despite their taunts, he was surprisingly skilled. A parry here, a quick sidestep that turned one squire's blow against another – the boy was good.

Yet, there were three of them. Fatigue was setting in, each deflection a fraction slower. A clumsy swipe forced him back a step. A cruel shove sent him stumbling, nearly tripping him to the ground.

The squires were quick to seize their advantage. They closed in, jeers turning to triumphant smirks. The boy, back against the tree now, raised his practice sword. It was defiance, not bravado, in this uneven fight.

"Luke, we have to help!" Caelum's voice trembled, urgency lacing his words.

Luke squeezed Caelum's shoulder, his voice low. "Stay close, Caelum. Keep your eyes open. And if anything happens…" He unbuckled the hunting knife at his own belt, thrusting it towards the child. "Take this."

And then he charged.

His bellow split the air. The squires, surprised by the sudden intervention, whirled around. 

Their taunts died as they registered this new challenger, a tourney sword gleaming in his hand. His voice cut across the clearing, "Three against one? That's a craven's fight."

A flicker of uncertainty clouded their arrogance. Then, one sneered, "Look here! The mud-boy found himself a champion! A Reacher, from the looks of him, a little farmhand, is that all you could find?"

Luke's lip curled. "I am a page," he retorted, his eyes narrowing. "It seems you boys haven't learnt your numbers. What? Your knight doesn't know his either? Can't even win a three-on-one, against one younger and shorter than you to boot?" He flicked his sword in mocking emphasis.

The northern boy, startled by Luke's sudden intervention, snapped a grateful nod in his direction. Then his gaze darted past Luke and widened in alarm. "Behind you!" he shouted, his voice hoarse.

Luke felt his heart stop.

Caelum. In his haste to help, he'd moved too close to the fray. The youngest squire, seeing a chance to break them up, lunged forward with a vicious grin.

Caelum reacted with surprising agility. He ducked and darted, barely evading the clumsy swipe of the tourney sword. But he couldn't avoid the mad grab that the squire made. 

He was caught around the neck. Luke's heart thumped in his chest.

Caelum had dropped the hunting knife in his haste.

"Lookie here, the numbers are three on three me thinks… well, three on two and a haAAAAA" He screamed, his grip on Caelum loosening as Caelum bit down on his arm with surprising strength. "Sunova! I'll kill you, ya little rat!"

Luke breathed a sigh of relief.

The northern boy surged forward, pushing Caelum roughly behind him. "Get back, child!" he snapped over his shoulder, his voice strained with exertion. "This isn't your fight!"

They resumed their defensive stance, their backs pressed close, the clearing now a whirlwind of flashing steel and desperate grunts. 

One of the squires, eyes narrowed in rage, charged towards them. His sword whipped through the air, aimed at the boy's shoulder.

"You little rat!" He spat, "Bet those swamp-dwellers taught you to bite, eh?"

Luke surged forward, intercepting the blow. "Watch your tongue, squire," he hissed, "Or I'll cut it out myself."

Just then, a new voice, sharp and clear, cut through the chaos.

"What's this? Three grown men against one, and a child?!" The voice was undeniably feminine, laced with contempt. 

Then a blur of brown and steel charged into the clearing. A girl, small yet with the bearing of a warrior, met the squires' surprised gape with a defiant glare.

With a quick twist of her wrist, she disarmed the man who had been aiming for Caelum's head, the same one who Caelum had bit. "Lord Reed is my father's bannerman!" she declared, brandishing her practice sword. "You'll answer for this!"

The confrontation ground to a stunned halt. Even amidst the ringing of steel and the boys' ragged breaths. Luke felt surprise that the boy who he had been helping was a Lord in truth.

Clearly, the idiot squires realized that too.

A flicker of recognition shot across the eldest squire's face. In a hissed whisper, he choked out, "That's Lady Stark…" Panic laced his voice. "Milady, a misunderstanding, truly… we meant no harm… My Lord… we're sorry!"

Too late. Lady Stark wasn't one for parleys, it seemed. 

She charged, her cry of "Craven! The lot of you!" echoing through the trees. 

Practice sword flashing, she unleashed a whirlwind of fury. 

Luke watched in a strange mix of admiration and awe. This small slip of a girl, no older than he was, was a force to be reckoned with.

The eldest squire fumbled to raise his own weapon, eyes widening as she closed in. "Didn't mean nothing by it, Lady Stark... we'll be leaving now..." he stammered, a desperate edge to his voice.

But retreat wasn't going to be easy. 

Lyanna pressed them hard, footwork surprisingly deft. 

Each parry forced them to stumble back. A startled yelp pierced the air as her practice sword found its mark, a stinging blow across a squire's knuckles.

Seeing their disadvantage, not wanting to fight a noble lord and lady, the squires broke and ran. 

Curses mingled with panicked gasps as they scrambled into the undergrowth. 

Lady Lyanna didn't give chase. 

Instead, she raised her sword with a defiant tilt of her chin. "Tell your masters a she-wolf sent you running!" Her voice rang out, a final triumphant farewell.

Only then did she turn. Luke saw the fire in her eyes soften, a flicker of concern replacing her earlier fury. "Lord Reed…" she began, and he saw the surprise register on her face, "...are you well? They didn't hurt you, did they?"

The fury faded from Lyanna Stark's face, and Luke seized the opportunity. He rushed to Caelum, relief washing over him as he saw the boy was unharmed, save for a few scrapes. A flicker of defiance still burned in Caelum's eyes, but they softened when Luke crouched beside him.

Meanwhile, Lord Reed, the boy who had been so outnumbered, bowed awkwardly to the girl. His voice, hoarse with exertion, held a distinct Northern burr. "Lady Lyanna, my thanks ... I owe you a debt."

Then his gaze fell on Luke and widened in recognition. "And you," he stumbled, a flush creeping up his neck, "you both risked much today. My deepest gratitude."

Luke felt an answering flush on his own face. "It was the right thing to do, my lord," he managed, feeling every bit the farm boy at that moment.

Lyanna turned her attention to Caelum, a smile tugging at her lips. Luke saw a warmth there that hadn't been present during the fight – this girl, a warrior in one moment, could be so very young the next.

"And who might you be, little one?" she asked, her voice softening. "You fought bravely for your friend."

"I am Caelum, milady," he beamed up at her, as though he wasn't even winded by the fight they'd been involved in "This is my brother, Luke!"

Lyanna beamed down at him, and Luke glimpsed something like fondness in her gaze. 

He hadn't felt that from anyone, other than Meredith and their families.

"Well, Caelum," she said emphatically, "Both of you have been aiding my father's bannerman, a debt the Starks do not forget. Come, you must join us in my father's tent. Rest, perhaps… and food!" The latter seemed to be a particular point of emphasis, and a grin flashed across her face.

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The smell of freshly brushed wool and a hint of lavender filled the air as Meredith deftly fastened Willas' tunic. The young lord squirmed slightly, impatience battling the need to stand perfectly still. His enthusiasm for the upcoming jousts mirrored the thrum of anticipation throughout the encampment.

"Just a moment more, my lord," Meredith murmured, her fingers smoothing an errant wrinkle. "Wouldn't want to arrive at the viewing stand in disarray."

From the other side of the tent, five-year-old Garlan bounced beside his mother, Lady Alerie. "Will dragons come out next?" he asked, his eyes wide with wonder. "Do you think the Prince will joust today?"

Lady Alerie laughed, a warm, rich sound that belied the worry lines etched around her eyes. "Perhaps, Garlan. Now, hold still while Meredith works her magic."

Meredith smiled, but her focus drifted towards Lady Alerie and her grandmother, Lady Olenna, seated nearby on embroidered cushions. Their voices were a quiet hum, the cadence familiar, as she fastened the strings on Lord Garlan's tunics.

"...a shame, truly," Lady Olenna was saying, "the way the King seemed to ignore his own kin. One would think Princess Rhaenys..."

"...hush, Mother," Lady Alerie chided gently, "not with the children present." But her gaze darted towards the tent flap, as if ensuring they were truly alone.

Olenna waved a dismissive hand, the glint of her rings catching the dappled sunlight. "Bah! Mace has placed our most trusted guard outside, girl. No need to fret over little ears." A thin smile curled her lips. "Besides, it's the talk of the realm, no doubt the children have heard whispers."

Lady Alerie sighed, her hand reaching instinctively for Willas. "Perhaps, but…" Her voice trailed off, the worry evident in the gentle creases around her eyes.

Willas, sensing the shift in mood, tugged playfully at his tunic. "Mother, are we visiting the Dornishmen today? Will I meet Princess Arianne again?"

Lady Alerie's features softened. "Indeed we are, my love. Princess Arianne is a lovely girl, you have made a great friend, after the tourney." she replied, the fondness in her voice easing some of the earlier tension.

Lord Willas had made fast friends with the chubby little girl, and Meredith had even joined them in play alongside Princess Arianne's cousin Tyene Sand.

"Speaking of the Dornish. It seems the wolves have decided to wander out of their lair this season." Olenna Tyrell commented as she inspected Willas and Meredith's work on dressing him up.

"The Starks?" Lady Alerie's voice carried a hint of disbelief. "Surely they hold no fondness for the heat of Dorne..."

"The quiet wolf, it seems, finds allure in the southern fire, my dear," Olenna chuckled, her eyes glinting with a amusement. "Or perhaps it's a play for power. One Stark strengthening ties with the Riverlands, the other with Dorne... ambitious for a brood best known for their furs and ice."

"It could have just been a dance, mother." Lady Alerie suggested.

"I don't think so, Eddard Stark, the one they call the Impassioned Wolf or some such romantic nonsense. Saw him myself, deep in conversation with Ashara Dayne." She leaned back, a sly smile teasing her wrinkled lips. "Though truth be told, it was rather more than just conversation. Sparks were flying, my dear."

With Garlan looking sharp in his miniature version of the Tyrell rose colors, Meredith announced, "The young lords are ready for the tourney, my ladies."

Lady Alerie's smile held a mixture of pride. "Wonderful, Meredith. Now, if you'll excuse us, would you be so kind as to check on the baskets of fruit and refreshments meant for the boys? The excitement of the tourney always puts a fire in their bellies."

"Of course, my lady," Meredith curtsied and took her leave. As she stepped out of the tent, the sounds of the tourney grounds washed over her – the clatter of armor, the neighing of horses, and the anticipatory roar of the crowd.

Lord Mace Tyrell, a figure of imposing girth crowned with a tumble of brown curls, was fixed in earnest conversation with Ser Quentin, who sat astride a magnificent chestnut stallion. The young knight's lance was firmly in hand, his jaw set in grim determination as his father offered last-minute counsel.

Nearby stood Ser Vortimer Crane and his red-headed son, Parmen. 

Upon noticing Meredith, Parmen's lips curved into a smile that sent a flutter of warmth through her. She returned the gesture shyly, the blush deepening on her cheeks.

"...a question of control, my boy. The lance finds its mark not through brute strength, but precision," he advised, his voice thick with the confidence of experience. "Remember, the tilt is half the battle. Unhorse your foe, and victory is yours."

Ser Vortimer Crane added his own insights, his tone seasoned with the weight of many tournaments. "Stay loose, Ser Quentin. Breathe, feel the rhythm of your horse. You've trained for this – now let the instincts take over."

Parmen broke from his father's side, that disarming smile aimed in her direction. But as if summoned, a flash of emerald silk caught his eye. 

A young lady, perhaps her own age, beckoned with a playful tilt of her head. Her name if she recognized her dress correctly was Lady Eleonora Ashford. 

Eleonora Ashford's presence wasn't a surprise – many highborn ladies craved the excitement of the joust and a good vantage point – but the way her eyes sparkled with mischief as they settled on Parmen made Meredith's fingers tighten.

"Ser Parmen," Eleonora said her voice a sweet contrast to her bold green gown, "would you be so kind as to escort me to the viewing stands? My father has secured us excellent seats..." 

Parmen hesitated. His gaze darted in Meredith's direction, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, he flashed Eleanor a smile that held both charm and warmth. "Lady Eleonora, I would be honored. It's been far too long since we've shared a proper conversation."

The twist of disappointment in Meredith's chest surprised her with its sharpness. He hadn't been cruel, hadn't mocked her. 

In truth, it was her own girlish fantasy that dissolved under the weight of their unequal stations. Part of her berated herself for the foolishness, the rest...the rest simply ached.

She still hoped that he would come to choose her over the Highborn ladies of the realm.

Meredith turned away and continued towards the open kitchens. She squared her shoulders against the faint sting of Lady Eleonora's laughter as it drifted behind her.

The bustle of the kitchen encampment offered a welcome distraction. Anya greeted her with a warm smile as Meredith approached.

"There you are, dearie! The basket's nearly ready. Just adding those lovely little honeyed fig rolls Lord Garlan is so fond of. Can you get the spiced biscuits Lady Alerie requested, they're on the table?" Anya's voice was a comforting balm, her focus on the task at hand drawing Meredith back into the practical reality of her role.

The task of retrieving the spiced biscuits became a blur of motion. Meredith's fingers moved with rote efficiency, her mind a whirlwind behind the facade of composure. The image of Parmen walking beside Eleonora, the easy charm of his smile, burned in her thoughts.

Anya's chatter faded in and out as Meredith went through the routine. It always struck her how little those of higher station saw the world beyond their own circles. Anya worried about the quality of the rolls, the right balance of sweetness to please young Lord Garlan.

Movement in the distance, a flicker of movement where the forest thinned near the edge of the encampment, broke her from her reverie. It was a distraction she welcomed, anything to erase the sting in her heart.

For several heartbeats, she couldn't place the figures emerging from the trees. 

Then, a familiar lean stride and a flash of dirty blonde hair sent a jolt through her. 

Luke. 

And beside him, Caelum, his pale face seeming to glow amidst the green. 

Meredith's stomach lurched. What had brought them back so soon? Surely, Luke wasn't foolish enough to bring Caelum into the heart of a massive tourney when he was still learning to control his magic...

Her unspoken question was answered as two more figures followed the boys. 

A girl, undeniably Northern with her dark, flowing hair and a wolf sigil proudly pinned to her grey cloak. 

The way Caelum hovered near, speaking in animated tones that Meredith couldn't hear, made her feel irritated. 

The other boy, dressed in simple, earth-toned tunics, held himself with a wild sort of grace that spoke of a life lived beyond the confines of castles and walls.

A pang she refused to name shot through her as she watched Luke, place himself between his brother and the Stark girl. But then the girl smiled at something Caelum said, and a shy smile crept onto Luke's face as he replied. 

The sight was so unexpectedly sweet, so innocent, that a knot of tension Meredith hadn't realized she was carrying unraveled slightly.

Jealousy still simmered beneath the surface – of the Stark girl's easy way with the boys, of... of something else she didn't recognize– but the anger she'd carried for Luke, his recklessness earlier, began to ebb. 

He could hardly be called a fool when he clearly had managed to succeed at what he had set out to do. 

Suddenly, Meredith couldn't bring herself to be angry at him anymore.

Anya's voice pulled her back to the present. "Dearie, are those biscuits ready? Lady Alerie will be waiting." The older woman's brow was furrowed with the focus of someone balancing a precarious task.

Meredith blinked, then shook off the last vestiges of her daydreams. "Of course, Anya." Bustle and purpose became her shield once more. 

The tourney, with its clash of ambition and fleeting fancies, could wait. Here, in the reality of spiced biscuits and apple rolls, was where she was needed, and perhaps, for now, that was enough.

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The heavy flap of the tent barely muffled the growing roar of the slowly filling tourney grounds. 

Lyanna strode in, her boots scuffing the packed dirt floor. 

Lord Howland trailed behind, his tunic streaked with mud, followed by her new friends, Luke and Caelum.

Luke seemed a little wary of meeting her family, she had thought she had succeeded in calming the boy down, but clearly, she had been wrong. 

The little one, Caelum on the other hand was watching her wide-eyed, like she hung the stars in the sky. He was adorable.

"Well, sister, did you leave enough trees standing for the rest of us to practice?" Came the teasing voice of her elder brother. "Did you cool off enough?"

"There aren't trees here enough for that," Lyanna retorted, a touch of a smile fighting through the lingering scowl. "That oaf, Robert will need to beg before I forgive him." She reached for Benjen then, pulling him into a brief but fierce hug. His warmth eased a fraction of the tightness in her chest. She needed to forget about the oaf, and the dishonor he had already shown to her with the bastard he'd gotten back in the Vale.

Her words, however, had her father's eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. 

No doubt the 'oaf' referred to her betrothed, hardly respectful, but he chose to address Howland first. "My Lord Reed," the surprise in his voice was faint but unmistakable, "I had not realized you were at Harrenhall at all." Then, a flicker of concern shadowed his face as he noted the state of the other man's clothing. "You are unharmed, I trust?"

Lord Howland smiled. "A few bruises and a torn tunic, nothing more, my lord. I'd ventured to the Isle of Faces, thought to catch this famed tourney on my return North. Seems three young squires from the south found my travels and stature... inconvenient."

The older boy stepped forward then, a slight bow acknowledging Lord Rickard's authority. " Lady Lyanna... and these young gentlemen, Luke and Caelum" he gestured towards Luke and Caelum, "proved more than capable of driving those scoundrels off. I owe them my thanks."

Brandon's eyes danced as they swept over Luke and Caelum, the teasing grin back in full force. "Well now, did you hear that? Come on then, little kiddos, can you even swing a practice sword?" 

Lyanna bristled, loyalty to her companions flaring hotter than any leftover anger towards Robert. "Better than some sothern knights, I wager! Don't underestimate Caelum. I saw him nearly bite off one of those fools' whole hand off, I swear it!"

Her father's lips twitched, appraising her new friends. 

With a curt nod, he addressed the boys directly. "Luke. Caelum. You have my gratitude, and that of House Stark, for coming to Lord Reed's aid. Should you ever find need within my power to grant, consider it offered."

Luke flushed, the wariness in his eyes turning to bashfulness. "My lord... We, uh, we just did what was right." He nudged Caelum forward. "He was the one... the one who saw them first, wanted to help..."

Caelum, simply beamed up at Lord Stark. "It was the right thing to do!" he declared, his cheeks as bright as the Stark banner fluttering above. "We were happy to help!" 

Lyanna felt a rush of warmth for the boys. 

So different in temperaments, yet both with earnestness to be honorable, the pampered squires they'd faced lacked. They were just like Ned. 

Which reminded her…

"Where's Ned?" she demanded, tilting her chin. 

A knowing smirk spread across Brandon's face. "Where do you think, little sister? Sparring practice, perhaps? Or maybe..." his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "practicing his sweet words with a certain Dornish lady?"

Lyanna's cheeks burned. Not just with embarrassment, but a hot spike of envy she couldn't fully explain. 

Ned, quiet and responsible Ned, got to write his own story, to feel the flutter of a heart not bound by duty.

"Don't be crass," she snapped, but it lacked conviction. If only for a day, a tourney, a chance meeting in the woods, she would swap her wolf skin for the fiery freedom Brandon teased of. 

To make her own choices, carve her own path... it felt as distant and impossible as a dragon soaring over the Wall.

"Brandon, Lyanna," her father cut in, his voice was calm but held an undeniable edge, "That will be enough." A swift glance was directed towards Brandon, a silent rebuke at his son's tactlessness in front of both a bannerman and unknown guests.

Turning back to his daughter, he spoke with a firmness she rarely faced. "Go and get a change of clothes, Lyanna. The jousts will soon begin. And before you ask," he held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests, "Lord Reed will have a seat of honor among our kin. No need to worry for his comfort."

Lyanna's chin jutted out in a familiar display of defiance. "Thank you, Father," she said through gritted teeth, "but I invited Luke and Caelum to join us as well."

"Those boys..." her father began, clearly searching for the right balance of authority and reason, "They are no doubt brave, but not suitable company for..."

"You don't get to choose my friends, Father!" Lyanna cut him off, the fiery spirit he'd raised now a wildfire. "you've already decided my betrothed, oaf that he is, but you don't get to choose my friends... not anymore!"

Rickard stood his ground, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. 

Brandon, wore a grin that spoke of amusement, she knew he had her back should she need it. 

Even little Benjen looked at Lyanna with awe bordering on fear. 

Finally, Lord Rickard spoke, his voice lowered. "Very well. They will sit with us." It was a concession, not surrender. "But, daughter," his tone brooked no argument, "this ends here. Such displays will not be tolerated anymore."

With a curt nod and a barely muttered, "As you wish, Father," Lyanna spun toward the protesting Luke and the bewildered Caelum. "Come on, both of you!"

Outside the tent, Luke spluttered, "B-but Lady Lyanna, you're going to get dressed and we .."

"Not that!" Lyanna cut Luke off mid-protest, throwing him an apologetic glance before her eyes found Caelum's. Her cheeks flushed.

Caelum, however, just looked adorably baffled.

She calmed herself, as they reached her tent.

"I need your help, both of you." Her voice took on a conspiratorial tone as she dropped to a crouch. "I'm going to sneak into the tourney. As a 'Mystery Knight'."

Luke sputtered again, this time a mix of shock and exasperation. "Lady Lyanna, you... you can't! Tourneys are dangerous! And... and..." He stumbled for words, a sense of protectiveness he likely hadn't even recognized in himself rising to the surface.

Caelum, on the other hand, piped up, "Why?" His big eyes sparkled with more excitement than concern.

Lyanna knelt in front of him, her eyes meeting his with fierce determination. "Those bullies who attacked Lord Reed... those squires," she spat the word, "These southern Knights, they talk of chivalry, but they act with no honor. I want to show them what true valor means."

"We're from the South too you know," Luke said, getting himself under control. "Heck both of us want to be knights!"

"Ughh" Lyanna groaned "obviously, you're different! You'll be great knights I am sure. Now are you two helping me or not?"

Luke and Caelum shared a look.

Caelum gained a mischievous look on his face, and she knew she had all the help she was going to need.

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(A/N) Lyanna Stark is 14 here. This was a fun chapter. Almost a character study into her.