Chapter Text
The people of Winterfell didn’t know what to make of Lyarra Snow. Oh, very few of them believed that she was Lord Eddard’s child. They remembered what Lyanna looked like as a child, and Lyarra was the picture of her mother.
For a little while, they watched her to see if she had any of the Dragon Prince’s blood in her veins. Within a few years, they realized that she didn’t. No, Lyarra Snow had a far more interesting father than Rhaegar Targaryen.
The first time any noticed it was the Greyjoy Rebellion. Lyarra had given her condolences to a baker in Winterfell for the loss of her husband. A few days later, a raven arrived informing the Castle of his death. Over the next several months, Lyarra would approach others, giving her condolences for fathers, brothers, sons. They all received news that their relative died. Soon, they took Lyarra’s word as truth. She had yet to be wrong.
Two short years later, a sickness swept through the North. Lyarra never became ill, but she was seen approaching some of the ill people to sit with them. Mostly the other people of the Castle, those who had no more family in the world, or whose family wasn’t present. Lyarra would leave their rooms once they died and find another lonely, ill soul to comfort. No one she approached made a recovery.
The few southern servants who came with Lady Stark thought the girl was cursed. Lady Stark certainly thought so. Removing Lyarra from her children as much as possible. She was seen and heard begging her husband to send the child away on several occasions. The Septa could be heard mumbling about the Stranger whenever Lyara spent too much time with her. The Septon avoided the girl entirely.
The people of Winterfell knew better. Lyarra Snow was blessed. She didn’t bring death, no more than any other person, she simply knew when it happened. The old gods had blessed the daughter of Lyanna Stark.
When Lyarra was three and ten, Lord Bolton arrived with his son Ramsey Snow, to seek a betrothal with Lyarra. The few Bolton servants that came with had stories, the kind that terrified you to your bones. Still, there had never been a Stark-Bolton marriage, they hadn’t worried.
A sennight later, Lord Stark announced the betrothal and the people of Winterfell felt nothing but fear for Lyarra, who looked at Lord Stark with betrayal in her eyes. The wedding would take place in six moons.
Old Nan led them in the preparations. Making warm dresses, and collecting food that would last, one of the guards added a small dagger to the collection, all this done slowly so that no one who could stop them would notice. When Lyarra disappeared one day, only to return at nightfall with six direwolf puppies, they knew it was time. Old Nan led her to the stables a few days afterward, the small white pup in Lyarra’s arms, where the horse was saddled and bags were filled. The last bag was pressed into her hands, with orders to leave so that she would not be married.
The people of Winterfell pretended not to notice the horse that night. None of them mentioned anything for several days. Lord Stark noticed five days after she left, and sent out riders. Lyarra seemed to have inherited her mother’s skills with a horse because the girl was long gone.
It would be years before any of them saw her again.
The dead had gathered at the edge of the forest before the wall. The small army of Northernmen and Freekfolk, who had been allowed to cross once the true threat was realized, stared at the unkillable army.
Obsidian was in rare supply and the soldiers were trying to make as many flammable arrows as possible, so the dead did not cross the wall of ice and magic.
It seemed hopeless, until one morning when the army arrived. Well, a rather small army. A hundred men and women on the backs of winged horses and chariots. Four people stood at the front, all with the same gold-brown eyes. Three girls and one boy. One girl in particular stood out, as many recognized her.
Lyarra Snow had come home.
The Bastard of Winterfell exchanged a few words with the Lord Commander before nodding to the blonde archers. Soon, the archers were spread atop the Wall, watching the collected army of the dead. Lyarra went up last, eyeing the army of blue-eyed skeletons.
Lyarra Snow had smiled at the gathered lords and freefolk. She raised a pale, small hand towards the army of the head, clenched it tightly, and all the dead stopped where they stood. She pulled the fist back and fissures opened up below the dead. Shadowy hands reached up and pulled the skeletons down into the darkness. Soon, only the others remained.
Lyarra simply looked to the side where a collection of blonde, blue-eyed archers stood waiting. She smiled and dozens of obsidian arrows were fired into the air.
The Others fell. One after another. Perfect precision from every one of the strangers with bows. Soon, all that was left was the Night King. Lyarra pulled back her own bow, with a perfectly shaped iron-tipped arrow. It hit the Night King square in the chest, shattering him on impact.
Lyarra waved an arm over the lands, and the fissures closed. The land was scared, permanently, but the threat was gone.
A collection of quick soldiers darted, gathering the arrow. One girl came out, on a caramel-colored horse with a black mane, and picked up the arrow that killed the Night King.
Lyarra didn’t look back at the lords. Her eyes fixed on Mance Rayder. “Your home should be safe now. I’m sorry we did not get here earlier.”
A tall man with green eyes and black hair, alongside a blonde grey-eyed woman guided Lyarra down from atop the wall.
“Lyarra!” Robb Stark, shaking like a leaf, looked at his cousin with shock. “What was that?”
Lyarra eyed her cousin. “My mother had a short affair with the God of the Underworld and the Dead. I inherited his gifts.”
“What?” Eddard Stark looked lost. As the various lords shared looks.
“Lyanna Stark f*cked Hades, the God of the Underworld. I am his daughter.” Lyarra shifted her eyes to the men from Winterfell. “Tell everyone I miss them, but I cannot stay in the north, nor see them anytime soon. I appreciate all the help you gave in raising me.”
The lords still stunned, stared as the small army gathered itself on chariots and were gone in a whirl of snow.
When the men of Winterfell returned home, the people of the North cheered. They had been right. Lyarra Snow was blessed, for she had ended the Long Night before it ever began.
