The crypt is filled by the cold of the North. Humid earth beneath her feet, Lyanna stands before the statue of her father. Next to it is Brandon's. Somewhere inside of her there is a sliver of remorse, of mourning for these people that she's known so little of. She doesn't even remember their faces. Her fingers brush the cool stones. At least Eddard got to know them.

"My Princess, what are you doing here?" Vayon Poole asks, coming down the steps. "The King requires your presence."

It is on the tip of her tongue to send the old man away. Eddard wishes to speak to her of things she doesn't want to know. He'll tell her that he goes to war for her, for their people. She doesn't want to hear it. All her life people have been leaving her. First her mother and Benjen, then father and Brandon, now Eddard. Can she not keep at least him? Why must there be war and fighting and killing?

"I hear and obey," she murmurs, lifting her skirts slightly to step over a small puddle. The North is her home, and Lyanna loves her home. Can they not all live without destruction? Winterfell has been the seat of the Stark for ages. The Kings of the North. Lyanna thinks on that as she climbs the stairs one by one, her pace slow. As if she may hold back the unpleasant news if she delays seeing her brother. Eddard Stark, King of the North. They are Starks with winter in their bones and ice in their veins. It is to them that the dwellers of these frozen lands bow.

She reaches the hall too fast for her liking. Would that the journey had taken longer. Eddard sits upon his throne, silver eyes fixed upon her as she enters. "Come Lyanna," he calls, extending his hand. Once she would have run in his arms, seeking protection. Not now. Now she's grown. And she must share these burdens of his the best she can.

"My King," she bows, coming to stand before him. The crown rests atop his hair, the same hair as hers, as father's and Brandon's. But not mother and not Benjen's. At least that's what she's always heard. "You wished to see me."

Eddard nods. "I know news of war is always ill-received, even more so by you, sister mine." Lyanna loves peace, she does, and makes no secret of it. "Yet it is unavoidable. The Targaryens are drawing near, with their hosts and dragons. This fight is ours."

The Targaryens. Lyanna feels the blood chill in her veins. They are a noble family from Valyria. Long ago they have come to Westeros, making Dragonstone their seat. Then they formed an alliance with the Martells and Tyrells. That happened two hundreds of years ago. Now their power has grown, enough so that they've set out to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. They say that the beasts they ride on can swallow a horse full, breath fire and cloud the sky when they spread their wings. How does Eddard hope to win against them, she knows not.

"Who rides with you?" At the very least she would know him well protected. Armoured and carrying a sword. Even that won't offer him enough protection against the dragons and the Dragonlords. The North has been calling forth its strength, bannermen of her King, Lords of his court.

"All who must," Eddard replies. "That is not why I called you." He sits up, paces towards her and looks into her eyes. "I leave Winterfell into your capable hands." Naturally, he would. Lyanna is his only close kin.

For some reason Eddard has yet to wed, nor has he pushed Lyanna in such a direction. She suspects it is because he would keep her close still, even for a few more years. They are the last of their line. The Wolves of Winterfell. Lyanna thinks on old stories she's heard from Nan. She thinks of Bael the Bard, the wilding who had a son by Brandon Star's daughter. She'd been the last of her line, and the wilding had taken her from her father's castle. For this reason they call that Brandon the daughterless. They have gone through this before and emerged triumphant. Bael's Lady gave birth to a son who would later kill his own father. She looks to Eddard and sends a prayer to the gods in their forests.

"I am most honoured," she tells him. Lyanna Stark, with winter in her bones and ice in her veins, Lyanna on whose shoulders rests the weight of the world, Lyanna who has never known what it is to live without sorrow; Lyanna Stark stands with her back straight and her mouth set in a thin line. Bloodless lips press together tightly.

"It is not forever," Eddard assures her, kiss her brow. She still does not quite reach his chin. Lyanna holds onto him. "I shall be back before you know it."

"Would that you didn't leave at all." Others can fight in his place, she wants to say, but doesn't. Eddard is no coward, he won't run from a fight.

Damn the Targaryens and their dragons and them not being able to keep to Dragonstone. Lyanna has heard that it is Rhaegar Targaryen who leads them. The eldest of the Targaryen siblings. Viserys comes next, a cruel man who loves death and torture. Then there is a woman, skilled with her thin long sword of black steel. Daenerys Targaryen, they whisper, fights better than most men. And in this moment Lyanna hates all three of them for their ambition and the losses she'll undoubtedly suffer. The North will be lit by dragonfire, bright and all consuming and rivers of blood would run where once clean water had been. Again, Lyanna finds anger beating viciously inside of her, like a living, wild thing. All that she's ever wanted was peace and happiness. The gods have closed their ears to her prayers, as they will when the Targaryens come.