Irreversible Changes

The Heart Tree in the Lands beyond the Wall – 270 AC

Far beneath the frozen earth, beyond roots older than memory, a man of bone and shadow watched the world through eyes not his own.

The weirwoods whispered.

He listened.

A raven perched upon his shoulder, three-eyed and ancient, its claws digging into his shoulder as though to remind him of the weight he bore.

Today, the river of time stuttered.

In the storm of memory and dream, two new threads shimmered into being. Not south where kings rose and fell. Not in Dragonstone, nor in Summerhall's ashes. No—this was north, in the heart of Winterfell. Stark blood. Stark faces. Stark cries, newborn and sharp in the cold morning.

Two children. A boy and a girl. Bastards. Snow.

But the roots whispered uneasily.

"They were not meant to be."

Their presence curled like smoke across the skein of time. He saw visions blur—some paths twisted around the boy like ivy, impossible to follow.

"Who are you?" he whispered, voice dry as dust. "What hand guides you?"

No answer. Only the wind through ancient leaves.

He considered them long.

"They were not part of the song," he rasped to the raven. "But perhaps… they are part of the harmony."

The raven cawed once. Not warning. Not welcome. Just acknowledgment.

The song had been changed but only so slightly. The dragons would still fall with two hatchlings retreating to the city of the many faced god. The stag would still rule and the lioness would still cuck him with her brother. Brynden's successor would still be born. The others would still come. And with that... opportunity came.

All was well.

Bloodraven sat back in his tangle of root and rot, and he watched.

He would always watch.

**Scene Break**

Winterfell – 280 AC

The Godswood, beneath the old weirwood

The sun was dipping below the walls of Winterfell, casting a golden-red light through the leaves of the ancient weirwood. Its red eyes watched in silence as Lyanna Stark paced beneath its boughs, boots crunching old frost and fallen leaves, her hands clenched into fists.

Lyarra Snow sat cross-legged on the roots, arms wrapped around her knees. She didn't interrupt. She knew Lyanna well enough by now.

"He talks about me like I am a damned prize horse," Lyanna snapped, whipping around to face her. "As if my feelings don't matter at all. As if I'm just… some southern brocade-draped bride to be gifted to him by his friend."

Lyarra tilted her head. "Robert Baratheon again?"

"Who else?" Lyanna scoffed. "Father says he's handsome and rich and brave. Benjen says he's charming. Ned says I should give him a chance. But none of them see it. None of them listen. Atleast Benjen has the excuse of not really knowing Robert but Ned? Gods know I love him but Ned lived with him for the past 7 years!! How can he not see that Robert and I will never work out?"

She paced again. "Robert is reckless. Drunk more often than not. The only love he knows is shouting it over wine and whores. He doesn't know me. Doesn't even want to."

Lyarra picked at a piece of bark absently. "What would you do, if you could choose?"

That brought Lyanna up short. She looked at Lyarra, then slowly lowered herself to the root beside her. "Run. Ride. Choose my own path. Maybe someone who sees me as more than a womb and a pretty face... No what Robert desires is to be able to claim he tamed the famed she wolf of the North..."

She gave a bitter laugh. "Not that it matters. A Stark daughter's duty is to marry and bear sons. No room for wolves to roam free."

Lyarra was silent for a moment. "You're more wolf than any of us," she said at last. "I think that's why it bothers them. You don't fit into the little cage they've built for you in their heads."

Lyanna blinked at her, startled. Then smiled faintly.

"I wish you and Torrhen weren't bastards," Lyanna said softly. "The others are good brothers, but you two see me. Really see me. You don't pretend. You don't lie."

Lyarra's mouth quirked. "We have less to lose. So we're allowed to be honest."

They sat together in silence as the wind whispered through the godswood, cold and steady. The red leaves fluttered around them like falling blood.

"You ever wonder if the gods are listening?" Lyanna asked.

Lyarra shrugged. "If they are, they've got a wicked sense of humor."

Lyanna laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh.

"I'm not marrying Robert Baratheon," she said at last. "Even if it starts a war. I won't do it."

Lyarra looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Lyanna…"

"Promise me," Lyanna said, turning to her. "If it comes to it—if I disappear, if things go wrong—you'll remember what I said here. You'll try to understand."

Lyarra hesitated… then nodded.

"I promise."

**Scene Break**

Winterfell – Early 282 AC

The Great Hall, midday, cold winds blowing in from the east

The raven arrived just past midday, black wings slicing the sky like a dagger. Torrhen and Lyarra were seated near the fire in the great hall, watching as Maester Walys broke the seal with furrowed brows. Their father was already at the high table, speaking with Benjen in quiet tones. Snow swirled outside the tall windows, and the crackle of the hearth filled the silence as the maester read.

Walys paled.

He handed the parchment to Lord Rickard Stark without a word.

Rickard's eyes moved slowly over the letter. His jaw tightened. He passed it to Benjen, then looked to his gathered children—trueborn and not—with a heaviness that settled like ice on the stone floor.

"Brandon has ridden south to King's Landing," Rickard said, voice low. "To demand Lyanna's return and for Rhaegar to be punished"

Torrhen stood. "Why? What's happened?"

Rickard hesitated.

"Prince Rhaegar has taken her," Benjen answered grimly, lowering the letter. "From the Riverlands. Lord Whent's men say she vanished with the Prince not three days after the tournament. And now… Brandon means to confront the crown."

Torrhen's mouth was dry. Lyarra sat very still, her gaze fixed not on the present but somewhere far away—in the grass of the tourney fields beneath Harrenhal's looming towers. Her breath caught in her throat.

She remembered Lyanna's fire-bright eyes as she watched the jousts. The way Rhaegar had ridden past the queen to crown her sister with blue roses. How her smile had been soft afterward, uncertain but not frightened.

Lyarra clenched her hands in her skirts.

"She went willingly," she said quietly.

Three heads turned toward her. Rickard's eyes narrowed.

"Or atleast I believe she did," Lyarra said. "She hated the idea of marrying Robert. She said once she'd rather run to Essos than wear his ring. If Rhaegar offered her a way out—"

"She would not be the first girl seduced by a prince," Benjen muttered.

"Nor the last to pay the price," Rickard finished, rubbing his temples. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice low and bitter: "You know… after everything, perhaps that is true. But it is too late now."

He stood and looked toward the south-facing window, where the sky was clear and cold.

"Everyone will assume the Prince kidnapped your sister. Brandon, in his foolishness, must already be at the gates of King's Landing. And I dread the king's reaction."

Torrhen moved to stand beside his father. "What will you do?"

Rickard looked older than he had the day before.

"I will ride south," he said. "I must try to salvage what I can… though I fear the fire is already lit."

Silence followed. The hearth crackled. Outside, a raven took flight.

Lyarra stared at the flames, and in her mind's eye, the roses at Harrenhal began to wilt.

**Scene Break**

War... it had all ended in war. Lyarra cried softly while holding a sleeping Torrhen- Her brother Brandon had indeed gone south and had been arrested immediately. Her father was already on his way south when the raven came, summoning him to the capital. And then the Mad King had done the unforgivable, burning her father alive and forcing Brandon to strangle himself before demanding the heads of Robert Baratheon and Ned.

She hated the idea that her brother was now coming north to call the banners but what else could they do? Not that it would matter to her and Torrhen in the end.

A moon ago, while Lyarra and Torrhen were in the Wolfswood hunting, a pack of rabid wolfs had attacked them, biting them in multiple places. Their guards while initially overwhelmed, saved the twins' lives but their wounds festered and by now Lyarra's and Torrhen's strength had declined so sharply that it was only a matter of time before the gods took them.

Lyarra wanted to cry out against the gods for the unfairness of it all. Her family had always been true to their words and just to their vassals and now within a year a family of seven threatened to be reduced to just one.

Lyarra began coughin heavily and within moments Master Walys and Benjen had entered the room but they could only watch with detachment in Walys' case and with horror in Benjen's case while Lyarra took her last breath. Minutes later Torrhen died peacefully in his sleep causing a lot of grief in Winterfell. They had been bastards yes, but they had been well regarded by servants and guards alike.

Grief would turn to amazement and horror alike when the twins would wake up during the burial, the new sets of memories in their heads causing the song to change until it was unrecognisable to those who had known of what was to come.