Those bannermen were not always made of thread and cloth. There was a time when they were made of flesh and bone. Men with names, homes, families, and wills of their own. Reasons to follow that doomed horse and its rider into the field of battle, charging to the aid of those who had asked for it. Now they were just another piece of a long history. Many of them forgotten in name but remembered in still remembered in ways such as this.
“Do you have any brothers, my lord?–” The woman’s words snapped Legolas’ mind back to present. With it his focus shifted on to her, rather than the dead, as the elf turned to look at her once again. “No, no brothers. In sisters I have only one. She is younger than me, but has already found her home in a mountain kingdom far from here.” He is quite proud of this sister as well, and lets that pride show whenever he talks about her. “What of you, my lady? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
No brothers. Howunlucky for him, then. Her own brothers had been the light of her life. Brave Brandon, always fighting for her, defending her. Noble Ned, always the voice of reason, sacrificing everything so she could have a life. Baby Benjen, sweet and fair, always happy, always laughing. Maybe they had had some other sister, some other reckless girl who had run off and ruined everything. Maybe they had had no sister at all.
For a moment, Lyanna thought how difficult it must be to have a sister, to have someone one must constantly worry for and chase after. But not all sisters were like her. His sister sounded a fair measure more dignified than she had been (not a difficult goal to attain). Whoever she was, out in a mountain kingdom, some far off land, they had something in common. It was a small comfort to feel momentarily less alone in the world, to know that there were other people like her, at least in some respects. A brief attempt at a smile as she returned his gaze. His eyes were impossibly bright. “She must miss you terribly, then.”
A simple answer, given to her as the elf closed the remaining distance between them. Long strides carrying Legolas forward until he was standing next to the strange woman. Head tilting upwards so that the two visitors could take in the finely crafted details of the tapestry together.
It was hardly a surprise that this particular one had caught her attention first. It was one of the largest, and arguably oldest, in the hall. Though you could hardly tell there was any wear to it. Even years after its creation the carefully threaded scene still sprang to life before their eyes. Its colors bright enough to think that they could shine in the light.
“This would be one of many that tell the story of Eorl the Young, Rohan’s first king, and how this kingdom came to be.”
She couldn’t say she knew the story herself, but the Northern woman made a note to look it up. It certainly explained the bannermen– although they could have been marching off to do battle. That was the part of the tapestry that tugged at a loose thread on her heart, the part that made her think of Winterfell. In Dorne, she could have gone many days without feeling that prick, that small, endless bleeding for home. There wasn’t much in the desert that brought to mind red leaves and white bark and black stone quite the way that this tapestry did. It occurred to her that perhaps she had been looking for too long, that maybe she was boring her companion, but it seemed a small price to pay to feel close to something so far from her reach. It wasn’t just an ocean that kept her from home.
“Do you have brothers, my lord?” Lyanna turned to look at him finally, trying to imagine a row of blond men like himself. “Perhaps sisters?” She wondered, not for the first time, if there was a word for missing a place that no longer existed. Much like this tapestry painted an image of a time long past, Lyanna was certain that Winterfell was no longer how she remembered it.
Rumors had spread quickly around Meduseld about the foreigner staying with them. A woman that had come from a land far from their own, a place they know only as Dorne, if the whispers he hears all around him were telling the truth. Legolas was only a guest here himself, though he roams soundlessly through the Golden Hall with the ease of someone who has already earned the favor of their king.
The elf’s wandering stops, however, when he comes across the foreigner standing a hallway. Staring up at one of the many well decorated tapestries that that cover walls of this place with a curious look in her eyes.
“I know not how much you know of Rohan’s history, my lady.” The woodland prince began, his voice much lighter and kinder than those of Men. “But the Rohirrim have always sown their greatest moments and legends into these tapestries. Each one that you see hanging here will have a story or a name behind it.”
It was beautiful work. She had never seen anything like it, really. They wove tapestries in the North, of course, but nothing on quite such a grand scale. It was ambitious to fit so much onto one wall. Most of the tapestries of her youth– the ones Lyanna could remember– had focused entirely on wolves. Everything was snow and wilderness. This was no such scene. This held men and horses, great structures and far-reaching plains. They were brighter, somehow. Shining.
The Northwoman didn’t turn when she became aware of Legolas’ presence. He was a handsome man, to be sure, but nothing quite so incredible to behold as what adorned the walls. “Only what I’ve read in books,” she answered, grey eyes still making study of thread. “They didn’t mention much about craftsmanship. The use of color is fantastic. When you look closely, it’s never what you would expect it to be.” The same could be said of many things in life, and that’s what she liked most about it. These tapestries were an accurate reflection in more than one way.
The gesture elicited a stunned silence along with several rapid blinks. Her eyes had never looked so bright. The Northwoman sat very still, watching him, hands at her sides. It was possible that, even in Dorne, Lyanna would not have known what to make of such a gesture. So far from anything familiar, she hesitated to draw any conclusions. Was this a common thing among elves? They did not seem to her to be the most affectionate people, but at the very least the intent had to be a measure of comfort. He wanted her to feel better, to renew her hope, her faith. It was a level of empathy she had not experienced since leaving Westeros, not really.
For a moment, the implication of his attention– his recognition and compassion– overwhelmed her. Her throat felt thick and her stomach constricted. There was a familiar sting behind her eyes. Her instinct was to look away, to avert her gaze so he might not see the emotion there, but there was something about him… Perhaps the unearthly beauty common to his specie held her gaze, perhaps her own longing for some feeling of connection or closeness, or even her strong curiosity, her desire to understand him fully. Lyanna herself wasn’t sure why she was staring at him– and then it was embarrassment that caused her to look away.
It could not have been, she decided, a romantic expression. Legolas hardly knew her, for one, and more importantly, she was not the sort of woman men fell in love with. The only grace she possessed was a reckless one, and she was more wild than noble, all sharp edges and recalcitrance.
