I know some things that you don’t
I’ve done things that you won’t
There’s nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home
I was waiting for my hearse
What came next was so much worse
It took a funeral to make me feel alive
Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?
Baby, you got a heart so big it could crush this town
And I can’t hold out forever, even walls fall down
Roderick and Lyanna, modern AU.
“You’re kidding me, right?” she didn’t think for one second that he was serious.
“I may be the Lord now, but that only means that I’ve got to uphold the bargains our father made,” he raised his glass in a mock toast. “I hope you’ll enjoy Riverrun.”
Lyanna knocked back a shot of whiskey. “I’m not doing it.”
“Traford Tully is not the worst choice,” he was sober enough not to add that the young heir was not the best choice either. “You must realize. You have no future with Wulfic.”
Lyanna did not answer to that. Instead she poured another glass and raised it to toast her brother, “To you and the Regana then!” The drink was less bitter than the words.
He stared at her. He wanted his own impending union as much as she desired hers. He’d glare at her except he couldn’t find the energy and it had never had any effect on her anyway. He drank from the bottle as he replied to her toast. “Touché, sister.”
Lyanna just left.
There was one year when most of the noble children born were twins. The year they called Of Twins and Sorrow. The year when they lost their mother and received in return a twin pair of siblings.
Roderick himself did not have a twin, but he had Lyanna. They were born in the same year, scarcely fifty weeks apart. They were the only ones that were old enough to remember Mother, the rest were far too young.
He may be talented with the bow, but he was no novice with the sword either. Nobody who was to inherit Ice could afford to be such. Nobody who had a sword-master such as Lord Stark for a father could afford to be anything less than a master himself.
Still the Storm of Winter was more reckless than he had any right to be. As he stared down the band of wildlings he grinned as he swung his sword, “Come along,” he taunted ignoring the fact that they were a group of twenty and the two rangers he had come this side of the Wall with were not with him at the moment.
He was wild, the young heir of House Stark. Untempered and rash as he lashed out in every direction seeking opposition and challenge against which to test his skills. His anger burned bright and cold as a sun in winter, and he never thought of the risk he chose to face or the price he might have to pay.