262 AC

In the godswood a fine layer of snow layered the ground and dusted the blood red leaves of the Weirwood. Slowly the snow fell, growing higher and higher on the branches of the creaking woods as well as the shoulders of a solitary figure. Before the weir wood she knelt, not a single shiver wracked her slim form as her footprints in the snow behind her grew so shallow as to be unnoticeable. Soon there would be new ones in the snow, following her past steps to find her and chide her for her recklessness. It was unavoidable that she be found, but for now she relished her moment of piece before the heart tree.

"I have always been faithful, despite the hardships my family has seen." The figure finally whispered, gaze focused directly at the old weeping face of the heart tree. "My husband has always shared that faith. Together we were two rooted trees spreading and strengthening our wood against all that would chop us down…"

Here she paused and her eyes grew distant with a fond sadness. "But my husbands feet find their way before the gods less and less, and the maester whispers into his ear more and more. His eyes turn south, his blood grows warm, and I find myself staring into eyes stranger to me than when we first wed."

A cold wind burst from the east, the whole of the godswood seeming to creak under the unyielding rush. Despite being shielded by the looming white of the heart tree, the figure rocks back from the force of the gust and her hood slips from her crown. Dark hair spills out and whips about her face, and soft grey eyes continue to stare unblinking into those weeping eyes, despite the sting.

"Our people starve and freeze, and we grow poorer for it. I dream we will be lords of nothing but the dead, like the Others that once ruled the Long Night. I know he believes the south is the solution, but in my dreams…we are ice, and the south will do nothing but slowly melt us until we are nothing but water, malleable to their whims." She rather spits her last words as a cold hand comes to rest upon her nearly flat belly, "He would use our children in his reach, to fuel his ambitions. My first child only just quickens in my belly and already he speaks of betrothals to the south. I may not have much power in this world, but I already love this child with everything I have…and if the love of a mother is worth anything then perhaps you will hear my prayers…"

Her whispered words have no echo but in her own mind and she soon shuffles forward to press her forehead to the heart tree. The bark is like cold stone to her forehead and as her tears fall they mirror the weeping face before her. "Please, please, if you still listen, show me the way to turn him from this path. Show me the way to keep my children safe, to keep the North safe."

In the distance a voice calls, and the soft sound of running footsteps draw nearer. As her friend and servant draws nearer she remains still and silent, bark chaffing her forehead, eyes stinging and ears pricked for an answer. She prays the gods have heard her, she prays they will send an answer, she prays so strongly and single-mindedly that she does not realize she needs to take a breath. And yet, as the realization comes upon her, she cannot force her chest to rise or her eyes to close.

The calls of her servant grow distant where they'd once grown closer, her vision grows dark where the white of the heart tree had been and still her chest does not rise. The cold is a numbness that spreads from tips of toes to tip of nose, and still she does not move, cannot move. Eyes stare at her from the dark, odd and too intelligent to be in the face of a child. She is not afraid when it reaches for her, but filled with love.

As the child touches her face she blinks and the vision is gone. With a rasping gasp she flings herself from the trees base falls to the ground coughing and shuddering. Her handmaidens terrified face floats into view above her, but all she can see is the red eyes of the child, her child. As the black spots leave her vision and sound slowly creeps back into her ears a hand lifts to touch the warmth of her cheek where the child had touched her, and Lyarra Stark smiles.

—

On a cold winter night 6 months later, just before the break of dawn, two squalling children were born. In her tired arms Lady Stark holds the first with slight confusion, a boy with steel grey eyes and a tuft of black hair upon his head. These are not the eyes that'd looked at her from the heart tree, and she looks up at the other child being washed gently by the maester in hope. She can hear Maester Walys whisper fervently to her handmaiden Kenna who stands beside him, and they both look at her second child nervously.

"What is it? What is wrong?" She said hoarsely, panic swiftly gathering in her stomach. Why won't they let her see her other child?

"Nothing Lady Stark," Maester Walys said with some hesitance, "You have a healthy baby girl."

"It's just…" Kenna murmured, her hands twisting fitfully as the Maester brought her other child to her, "Her eyes m'lady…they're—"

"Red." Lady Stark said with awe as her second child replaced her baby boy in her arms. "Her eyes are as red as the Weirwood's sap…"

"…at least the boy is normal." She heard Kenna say quietly, holding her son.

"Yes," The Maester said with a sigh, "We would not want any unsavory comparisons between the heir to winterfell and…that targaryeon sorcerer."

Kenna gave a muffled gasp sounding like the word 'bloodraven,' as if the comparison had not occurred to her until that moment. Lady Stark ignored their whispers as she stared into the eyes she'd seen once before, alone but for the company of the gods. She let their nonsense slip into the background as she became acquainted with her younger child, just as she had her son. She stroked her black tuft of hair, same as her brother, and her soft pudgy skin. "So pale and delicate…like the first summer snow."

"…called?" The tale end of a question drifted into her little bubble of silence. "Lady Stark? Have you thought of what they will be called?

"Yes," She said finally looking up and at her boy held in Kenna's arms, "Brandon, for my boy, and for my girl…"

Lyarra pressed a kiss to the delicate skin of her daughters forehead, "Edwyna."

"Edwyna? After Edwyn, the Spring King?" Kenna asked in surprise as the Maester wrote down their names in the family book. "A strange name for a child born in winter, if you don't mind me saying m'lady."

Lady Stark smiled at her confusion, "Edwyn was a King of Winter, not of spring. He reigned for near on 60 years before his son Torrhen took his seat, that would be an unprecedented long spring, don't you think? He was named the Spring King because he brought prosperity and food to his people. We still leave one field fallow, as he taught, to this day."

"Yes, a good king by all accounts. Two strong fine names my lady, well chosen." Maester Walys gives her a tight smile. Lyarra has no doubt he is less than pleased she'd named both her children after kings of winter, blatant symbols of Northern independence and a rebellion against his southern ambitions. "They are thus recorded in the Stark family tree, gods be good."

Lyarra closes her eyes and relaxes, "Yes, gods be good."