The Oath of Support:
Swear your loyalty, brave reader. A single Power Stone can change the fate of a kingdom—and this tale.
__________________________________
Chapter 1: The Feast of Ambition
White Harbor, 280 AC
The great hall of White Harbor's New Castle roared with life, a storm of sound and heat that pressed against Lysa Flint like a heavy cloak.
Torches burned bright along the high stone walls, their flames dancing, casting long shadows over tables groaning under the weight of roasted boar, glazed with honey and cloves, baked apples bursting with cinnamon, and dark rye bread, its crusts cracked from the ovens.
The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meat, spilled wine, and the sharp edge of ambition.
Lysa stood near a tall pillar carved with mermaids, her heart thumping like a war drum, her grey-green eyes scanning the crowd. She was twenty, a woman grown, but no highborn lady.
Her green dress was plain, its hem worn from the muddy roads to White Harbor, yet her beauty made it glow. Her long black hair fell in soft waves, her skin pale as moonlight, and her eyes sharp as a wolf's, missing nothing.
She was the daughter of Ser Wyman Flint and Alys, a healer from a northern village, and tonight, she was a hunter, her prey the heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark.
In her sleeve, hidden by a fold of cloth, Lysa clutched a small glass vial, its contents clear as water but heavy with power. Moon's tears, her mother Alys had called it, a potion written in her leather journal, now tucked in Lysa's satchel, wrapped in linen to keep it safe.
Moonflower petals to cloud the mind, valerian root to calm the heart, frostwort leaves to hide the taste—she'd mixed it herself, her hands steady from years of learning Alys's herbal craft. The potion would make Brandon eager, reckless, his thoughts a fog, just enough for her plan to work.
She had spent weeks preparing, ever since her friend Mara, a merchant's daughter with a laugh like bells, secured her an invitation to this feast.
Tonight, Lysa would bind Brandon to her, not with love, but with a document and a child. Her child would be a Stark, a true heir, son or daughter, to claim Winterfell and lift her above her minor Flint status, a name that meant little in the North's vast halls.
The hall was packed with northern lords—Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys—mingling with southern guests, their bright silks clashing with the North's somber wools and leathers.
Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, sat at the high table, his face stern as granite, his dark eyes fixed on his eldest son, Brandon.
Rickard's plans were whispered across the North: betroth Brandon to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, Lyanna to Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. Southern alliances to tie House Stark to the south, to the Iron Throne's games in King's Landing.
But the North grumbled, and Lysa had heard it from peddlers hawking furs in White Harbor's markets.
Greatjon Umber, his voice booming like thunder, called it a betrayal of Stark blood, pure as the First Men who carved the Wall with bronze and magic.
Lord Karstark, lean and grim, spoke of winter's strength, not southern softness.
Lysa saw her chance in that unrest. A child of pure Stark blood, born of her and Brandon, could rally the North's old ways, an heir to Winterfell, whether boy or girl, to stand against Rickard's southern dreams.
Her fingers brushed the weirwood pendant at her neck, its surface smooth, warm, coated with sap she'd mixed into the lacquer. Alys had taught her to pray to the Old Gods, to honor weirwood trees with their red eyes and carved faces.
The pendant, etched with a wolf's head, was Lysa's promise to her child—a symbol of their Stark destiny, a tie to the North's ancient heart. She'd carved it last month, alone in her rented room near White Harbor's docks, whispering prayers as she worked, the sap's bitter scent stinging her eyes.
She'd spent hours shaping the wolf, its jaws open, its eyes fierce, then soaked it in weirwood sap, a ritual Alys had shown her to call the gods' favor.
Now, it hung heavy, a reminder of her plan, its weight grounding her as her heart raced. She was no innocent girl dreaming of love.
She was a woman with ambition burning in her chest, ready to risk everything for her child's future. Guilt flickered—using Alys's teachings for deceit, betraying a man's trust—but she pushed it down, her dream of a Stark heir stronger than doubt, a fire that warmed her against the hall's clamor.
Lysa's eyes found Brandon, standing near a pillar across the hall, laughing with a Manderly knight, his broad hand clapping the man's shoulder.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied loosely, strands falling over his brow, and grey eyes sparkling with mischief.
At twenty, he was the North's wild wolf, his sword arm unmatched, his charm a danger to maids and ladies alike.
Lysa had seen him from afar, riding into White Harbor with his father, his cloak flapping, his grin flashing as serving girls blushed and giggled.
He was reckless, wild as the tales of Theon the Hungry Wolf, a Stark king who sailed across the Narrow Sea to burn Essosi ships.
That recklessness was her weapon tonight, her path to power, a crack in Brandon's armor she'd slip through with moon's tears and cunning.
"Lysa, you look like a ghost!" Mara's voice cut through her thoughts, bright and loud, like a sparrow's chirp.
Mara appeared at her side, her round face pink from wine, her yellow gown glittering with beads, a show of her father's wealth from trading silks and spices.
"Come dance! The lords are watching, and you're too pretty to hide in the shadows."
Lysa forced a smile, her heart steadying, her fingers tightening around the vial. "Not yet, Mara.
I need to speak with someone." Her voice was soft, but her mind was sharp, a blade honed for this moment.
Mara was her key to this feast, her friend who thought Lysa shy and sweet, a girl who mixed salves for headaches and prayed to trees.
The truth was darker, hidden in Alys's journal, in the vials of moon's tears Lysa carried, in the ambition that burned like a fever.
She trusted no one with her plan, not even Mara, who dreamed of marrying a lord's son and wearing velvet.
Lysa's dream was bigger—a child to rule Winterfell, a legacy to outshine the Starks themselves, an heir to carry her name into history, son or daughter, it mattered not.
Mara pouted, her lips glossy with wine, her beads clinking as she tossed her head. "Fine, but don't hide all night. Father says Lord Manderly's son, Wendel, is looking for a wife, and he's fat but kind!" She giggled, twirling back to the dancers, her gown catching the torchlight like a burst of sunlight.
Lysa watched her go, her smile fading, her eyes narrowing as she turned to the serving table, where pitchers of wine gleamed like rubies under the torchlight.
A boy, no older than twelve, poured for a lord, his hands quick but careful, his tunic patched but clean.
Lysa waited until the lord turned away, distracted by a lady's laugh, then moved, her steps silent, her dress whispering against the stone floor.
She slipped the vial from her sleeve, uncorking it with a flick of her thumb, and poured the moon's tears into a silver goblet, the clear liquid swirling into the dark red wine, invisible, deadly in its subtlety.
Her hands were steady, trained by years of mixing Alys's herbs—comfrey for wounds, yarrow for fevers, chamomile for sleep, now moon's tears for power.
She'd tested the potion twice, careful as Alys had taught her. The first time, on a peddler who drank too much ale, watching him slur and laugh, agreeing to sell his furs for a penny before forgetting the night.
The second, on Mara's cousin, a sailor with a loud mouth, who'd danced with her, promised her a ship, and woken with no memory, his head aching.
Brandon would be the same—eager, passionate, his mind a fog by morning, the document signed, her child conceived.
She'd prepared for weeks, buying moonflower from a Braavosi trader, valerian from a healer's stall, frostwort plucked from the Wolfswood's edge.
She'd mixed it in her room, the window open to let out the fumes, her hands trembling only once, when she thought of Alys's gentle smile, her voice warning against harm.
Guilt had stung then, sharp as a needle, but Lysa had buried it, her ambition a shield, her child's future a star to guide her.
"Boy," she called, her voice sweet as honey, her smile warm.
The serving boy turned, his eyes wide, freckles dark on his pale face, his hands clutching the pitcher. "Take this goblet to Brandon Stark. Tell him it's from a lady who admires him."
She pressed a copper coin into his hand, her fingers brushing his, her smile disarming, hiding the storm in her chest.
The boy nodded, his face brightening at the coin, and scurried through the crowd, his small frame dodging lords and ladies, the goblet steady in his hands, wine sloshing but not spilling.
Lysa stepped back, her breath shallow, her eyes following the boy through the sea of furs and silks.
Her heart pounded, but her mind was calm, a hunter's focus, every sense sharp.
She noticed everything—the harper's fingers plucking a mournful tune, the clink of goblets, the laughter of a Karstark lady, the scowl of an Umber man watching southern lords dance with northern maids.
The feast was a tapestry of power, each thread a lord or lady weaving their own plans, but none burned as bright as Lysa's.
She thought of Alys, her mother, whose journal held the secrets of herbs and potions, whose hands had healed cuts and soothed fevers.
"The North remembers its own," Alys had said, teaching Lysa to crush nettle, to pray to weirwood trees, to listen to the wind's whispers. Lysa clung to those words now, her pendant warm against her skin, her child's future a flame in her mind, son or daughter, heir to the Starks.
The boy reached Brandon, bowing low, his voice lost in the hall's roar, but Lysa saw him point to the goblet, then back to the crowd.
Brandon grinned, his laugh loud, his eyes scanning the hall for the "lady," his hand ruffling the boy's hair.
Lysa turned away, her face hidden, slipping toward the corridor leading to the guest wing, her steps quick but graceful, a shadow in the torchlight.
She heard Brandon's voice, slurred from wine, joking with the knight, his laugh warm, carefree. The potion would take moments—moonflower to blur his thoughts, valerian to warm his blood, frostwort to keep him steady, a delicate balance she'd perfected.
She moved faster, her dress brushing the floor, her pendant bouncing against her chest, its wolf's head gleaming.
The corridor was dim, guarded by a single man-at-arms, his Manderly sigil—a merman with a trident—shining on his breastplate.
He nodded at her, his eyes dull with boredom, thinking her a guest, and Lysa smiled, her key to the private room tucked in her palm, borrowed from Mara's father, who thought she needed a quiet place to rest.
She'd paid him gold, a small fortune saved from her father's death, to secure the room, no questions asked.
The chamber was in the guest wing, far from the feast's noise, a perfect stage for her plan.
She'd visited it that morning, checking every detail—the bed, the table, the chest, the fire—her hands shaking as she imagined the night ahead.
She'd swept the floor herself, laid fresh rushes, and stacked the hearth with logs, wanting no servants to gossip.
The room was her trap, baited with furs and candlelight, and Brandon was walking into it, his steps guided by her potion, her will. Guilt stirred again, a cold knot in her stomach—Alys's herbs were meant to heal, not deceive—but Lysa pushed it down, her pendant a talisman, her child's destiny a vow to the Old Gods.
Lysa unlocked the door, stepping inside, the warmth of a crackling fire greeting her, its glow softening the stone walls.
The chamber was small but rich, its walls draped with tapestries of mermaids swimming in blue waves, their tridents raised, a Manderly touch.
A wide bed stood in the center, piled with thick wolf pelts, their grey fur soft as snow, the bedposts carved with waves and fish, the wood polished to a shine.
A table by the window held a quill, ink, and parchment, and beneath it, a locked chest hid the Citadel marriage document, drafted by a maester for a steep price, gold she'd hoarded like a dragon.
Lysa had memorized its words: a marriage between Brandon Stark and Lysa, binding under Citadel law, needing only their signatures to hold weight.
She'd learned of the loophole—a signed document, even unwitnessed, could stand if unchallenged, a secret weapon for her child's claim, son or daughter, to Winterfell's throne.
Lysa lit candles, their glow casting soft light over the furs, the table, the chest, their wicks hissing as flames caught.
She checked the bed, smoothing the pelts, her hands trembling now, her breath quick.
This was no game, no dream of love.
She was twenty, untouched, her innocence a shield she'd guarded through years of leering men, of lords and knights who saw her beauty as a prize to claim.
Tonight, she'd give it to Brandon, not for love, but for her child—an heir to Winterfell, who'd carry her ambition forward, who'd wear the Stark name with pride.
The thought steadied her, but guilt flickered, sharp and cold.
Alys's teachings were meant for healing, for mending broken bodies, not binding a man with potions, not stealing his choice.
She pushed it down, her fingers tracing the pendant, its wolf's head fierce, whispering a prayer to the Old Gods. "For my child," she murmured, "for the North." The pendant felt warm, its sap-lacquered surface a vow, a promise to the weirwood trees watching from the godswood.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, heavy, uneven, a man's boots scuffing stone, a shadow passing under the door.
Lysa's heart leapt, her breath catching, her pulse a wild beat in her ears.
She smoothed her dress, loosened her hair to fall over her shoulders, its black waves catching the firelight, and stood by the hearth, her back to the door, the pendant gleaming against her chest.
The door creaked open, and Brandon's voice filled the room, slurred but warm, a laugh in his words, rough as gravel. "Well, who's this lady with fine taste in wine?"
He stepped inside, the door closing with a thud, the feast's noise fading to a distant murmur, like waves on a far shore.
Lysa turned, her smile practiced, her eyes meeting his, steady despite the storm in her chest.
Brandon's face was flushed, his grey eyes bright with the potion's haze, his dark hair loose, strands falling over his brow, damp with sweat from the hall's heat.
He was taller up close, his leather jerkin open, his sword belt slung low, a warrior's ease in his stance, his shoulders broad as a bear's.
"My lord," she said, her voice low, soft as a caress, "I hoped you'd find me." She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm, feeling the muscle beneath, hard from years of sparring, his sleeve rough with dust from the road. The potion was working—his gaze lingered, hungry, his usual sharpness dulled, his grin wide, boyish, almost sweet.
"Who are you?" he asked, his words slow, his hand catching hers, holding it, his fingers warm, rough from swordplay.
"Some northern flower, hiding from the feast?" His voice was teasing, his eyes roaming her face, her neck, the pendant gleaming between them, its wolf's head catching the candlelight.
He swayed slightly, the wine and potion mixing, his laugh low, warm, like a fire's crackle.
"Lysa," she said, leaving out her surname, her voice steady, her smile a lure. "A woman who sees the wolf in you." She guided him to the table, her touch light, her heart pounding like a storm, her breath quick but controlled.
He followed, his steps uneven, his goblet still in his other hand, half-empty, wine staining his lips.
She poured more wine from a pitcher, no potion this time, keeping his mood high, his laughter easy, his eyes fixed on her.
"You're bold, Lysa," Brandon said, leaning closer, his breath spiced with wine, his voice thick, his hand tightening on hers. "Most maids blush and run, but you… you're different."
"I'm no maid who runs," she said, her voice steady, though her stomach twisted, a mix of fear and purpose, her pendant heavy against her chest.
She leaned in, her lips near his, letting the potion fuel his desire, her breath mingling with his, warm and quick.
"I want something, my lord. Something only you can give." Her words were a lure, and he took it, his hand cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, pulling her into a kiss.
It was her first, and it burned like fire, fierce and wild. Brandon's lips were firm, urgent, tasting of wine and want, his beard scratching her skin, his breath hot against her mouth.
Lysa froze for a moment, her heart racing, her mind reeling at the intensity, then kissed back, her hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound, guiding the moment with a hunter's care.
The potion made him eager, his hands roaming her waist, pulling her closer, his body pressed to hers, his jerkin rough against her dress.
She felt his strength, his warmth, and a pang of something—desire, yes, but also sorrow, for a moment that could have been love in another life, for a man whose trust she was breaking.
Guilt stirred, sharp as a blade—Alys would weep to see her potions used this way, her herbs turned to chains—but Lysa buried it, her ambition a flame that burned brighter, her child's future a star in the dark.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her cheeks warm, her eyes locked on his, her plan unfolding like a map in her mind.
"Not yet," she whispered, standing, leading him to the table, her hand in his, her fingers trembling but sure. "First, a promise."
Brandon frowned, his brow creasing, confusion in his hazy eyes, the potion clouding his thoughts.
"Promise?" he said, his voice thick, his grin faltering, but he followed, his hand still holding hers, his steps heavy, his boots scuffing the rushes.
Lysa opened the chest, her fingers steady despite her racing pulse, and pulled out the document, its parchment crisp, the maester's ink black and bold, the words a spell of her own making.
"A marriage, my lord," she said, her voice soft but firm, her eyes locked on his, burning with purpose. "A secret, for us, blessed by the Old Gods.
" The document was simple, stating a marriage between Brandon Stark and Lysa, binding under Citadel law, needing only their signatures to hold weight.
She'd paid dearly for it, gold saved from her father's death, a bribe to a maester who asked no questions, his hands shaking as he took her coins.
"Marriage?" Brandon laughed, his eyes unfocused, his hand squeezing hers, his voice warm, teasing.
"I'm to wed a Tully fish, girl. Red hair, blue eyes, all that southron nonsense." His tone was playful, the potion dulling his resolve, his laugh low, almost boyish, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Lysa pressed the quill into his hand, guiding it to the parchment, her fingers gentle but firm over his, her heart thundering, her pendant heavy, a vow to her child.
"For tonight," she said, her voice a whisper, her lips near his ear, her breath warm, "be mine."
She kissed him again, deeper, her body pressed to his, feeling his warmth, his strength, her hands on his shoulders, her fingers digging into his jerkin.
He signed, his hand clumsy, the ink smudging, his name sprawling across the parchment, bold and wild, like the man himself.
Lysa signed below, her name small but bold, her hand steady, her breath catching, her eyes burning with triumph.
She folded the document, tucking it back in the chest, locking it with a click that echoed in her ears, a sound louder than the feast's roar.
Her heart soared—her child's claim was secured, a Stark heir born of her ambition, son or daughter, destined for Winterfell's ancient seat.
Brandon pulled her to the bed, his hands urgent now, the potion and wine driving him, his eyes dark with want, his breath quick.
Lysa's breath caught as he unlaced her dress, his fingers fumbling but sure, his lips tracing her neck, her shoulders, the pendant pressed between them, its wolf's head warm against her skin.
She'd planned this, every step, but the reality was overwhelming—his weight, his warmth, the fire in his touch, the scent of leather and wine, the roughness of his hands, gentle despite the potion's haze.
She let him take her, her innocence given to the wolf, her body trembling with fear and purpose, her mind fixed on her child, the heir who'd carry her dream, who'd wear the Stark name like a crown.
Brandon's passion was fierce, his hands roaming her skin, his voice soft as he murmured her name, "Lysa, Lysa," like a prayer, his breath hot against her ear.
She felt a pang of sorrow, for a man who'd forget her by morning, for a moment that could have been love, for the trust she'd broken with her potion.
Guilt surged, cold and sharp—Alys's herbs were for healing, not this—but her ambition held her steady, her pendant a reminder of her vow, her child's future a light in the dark.
When it was done, they lay tangled in the wolf pelts, exhausted, their breaths heavy, the fire dying to embers in the hearth, its glow fading to a soft red.
Brandon's arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, his face buried in her hair, his heartbeat slowing against her cheek, strong and steady.
Lysa hugged him back, her body aching, her mind racing, her fingers tracing the pendant pressed between them, its wolf's head a silent vow.
She'd done it—her child was conceived, the document signed, her path to Winterfell begun.
Guilt flickered—betraying Alys's teachings, using Brandon's trust, twisting her mother's herbs into a weapon—but pride drowned it, a fire in her chest, warm and fierce.
Her child would be her greatest creation, a Stark to claim the North, an heir with the blood of wolves, whether son or daughter, destined to rise where she could not.
They fell asleep, the candles guttering out, the room dark and warm, the feast's distant roar fading to silence, like a storm passing over the sea.
Outside, White Harbor slept, its lords and ladies unaware of the seed planted in the dark—a child who'd shake the North, born of ambition, blood, and a mother's unyielding will.