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Chapter Text

Jon
The last thing he remembered was the snow falling over Castle Black, as he bled out from his wounds. Wounds given to him by his brothers, his own men. All of the sacrifices he had made, all his efforts were undone by a handful of men sworn to him.
He remembered them chanting ‘For the Watch’ as they drove their daggers in his body. Jon would laugh if it wasn’t so sad. ‘Bloody fools, all I did was for the good of the Watch. For the good of us all.’
The Lord Commander lamented his men’s foolishness and his own. He should have never sent away all of his closest friends from his side. The Freefolk respected him, but most of the remaining brothers had been ones who had cast their stones for other men. ‘Gods could they really not see?’ They needed the wildlings. Had they left them on the other side of the Wall, they would attempt to cross, desperate to escape from the Others. It would only lead to more dead. Worse many of them would be slaughtered by the Others and become their thralls.

The monsters had too many bodies as it was. Another hundred thousand would leave them little hope for victory. Little more than five hundred brothers had remained alive after the great ranging. Too few to hold the Wall.
Then there was the Boltons. The elder had killed Robb, and was a ruthless ruler, bringing down an iron fist against the people Jon’s House had watched over for generations. Worse was his bastard. The little monster was worse than even the darkest fears Lady Stark had about Jon. And Baelish had given him Arya, his little sister as a bride to dishonor.

In the end he had failed. He failed his father, he failed Robb, and finally he had failed Arya. Gods only knew what horrors awaited his little sister now, with nobody left to protect her from the cunt.
How he wished he was back at Winterfell; he would take Lady Stark’s quiet loathing for a lifetime without complaint if it meant he could gaze upon the smiles of his family one more time. One more spar with Robb, one more chance to teach Bran archery, Arya to swing a sword. Another chance to ruffle the hair of baby Rickon, and to tell Sansa that he loved her as he did the rest of his family. He wanted most of all to make Father proud of the man he had become.
Jon felt as if he was walking for days, yet the darkness hardly diminished. A long walk to the afterlife, so that he may fully grasp the scope of his failures. The only relief he had was that soon he would meet Father and Robb again. And Bran and baby Rickon. Even Lady Catelyn would be there, along with all the people he had failed. Would they welcome him, or would he be an outcast as he was in life.
The darkness receded and turned into a thick mist, which rapidly cleared until he could make out his surroundings. Many trees older than he knew surrounded him forming a dense canopy over which he could see rays of light break through the mist and leaves. The cold air smelt of dew, refreshing as a spring morning in Winterfell.

Before him was a dark pond above which towered a white tree with red leaves. Upon the trunk was carved a sullen face, its eyes red with dried sap.
Jon knew this place. He had spent many an hour here away from the steely gaze of Lady Stark. The Winterfell godswood had always given him peace, and now he had been summoned here after death.
As he approached the heart tree, he made out a figure in the mist, praying in front of the weirwood tree. As he moved closer, he could make out wavy auburn hair, and crossbow bolts sticking out of his back and shoulders.
Jon tried calling out to the man, but as he spoke a tempest blew and carried off his words to the winds, even he couldn’t hear what he had uttered. Suddenly the man turned, and Jon was faced with piercing blue eyes that recognized him. And Jon knew the man as well, it was his brother, who he knew to be dead since many moons past. Robb’s gaze softened and tears began welling in his eyes as Jon shook off his shock and moved to embrace his brother and friend.
“Jon… how… why are you here?” Robb asked, as he broke from Jon’s embrace, his face a mixture of delight and sorrow. Then his gaze dropped down towards Jon’s chest, and the joy disappeared.

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Robb
He knew not how much time had passed since he felt Roose Bolton’s blade pierce his heart. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was his mother slicing open the jester’s throat, before clawing her face in grief allowing a Frey to slit her throat.
As he drifted in the darkness, he could hear the whimpers of Greywind in the distance, before pain sharper than the dagger in his heart coursed through his body, and Robb knew, his companion was gone.

The next thing he was aware of was walking through darkness as he remembered his life in his mind. The memories of Winterfell and his family, made him sob in sorrow, yet no voice escaped him in the void, only his ragged breathing echoed in his ears.
He wished to be back in Winterfell, before that accursed royal visit, that split their family. He wished he could spar with Jon again, go riding and hunting with him, and a Theon who wasn’t a traitor. The three of them spending an evening in a tavern singing and drinking. Teaching Bran and Rickon how to fight, ride and hunt and watch them grow to be strong. He wanted to spoil his sisters again, and hear his parents’ voices one last time. But most of all he wanted to say to them how sorry he was. To Father and Mother, for failing their family and the North, to Jon for letting him go alone in little more than exile, to Sansa and Arya for allowing them to be prisoners to monsters of men, and to Bran and Rickon for failing to protect them.

As he walked in darkness, he relived every battle, every choice, every consequence of his actions. It had been a mistake to send Theon to treat with his father. He should have known Theon’s eagerness to prove himself, a Stark or a Greyjoy mattered little to his friend, the lad wanted to belong somewhere. He must have been putty in his father’s hands when a chance to belong was dangled in front of him.

The whole business with the Frey’s was a mistake from the start, though they were left little choice after uncle Edmure had sallied out and gotten beaten by the Kingslayer. Perhaps he should have had the crannogmen help them through the swamps and ride with them towards the Whispering Wood. Though the battle itself had been a great success, and Bolton had performed his role of delaying Tywin Lannister’s host splendidly with little losses, Robb should have been more prepared for the Kingslayer. Half a dozen men from his personal guard had been struck down by the knight. Oathbreaker he may be, but his skill with a blade was greater than most. Eddard and Torrhen Karstark as well as Daryn Hornwood had been slain by him in mere minutes as the lads fought to protect Robb. Their deaths never stopped weighing on him, along with the consequences. Lord Karstark had thirsted for vengeance against Jamie Lannister and with Lord Halys dying at the Green Fork, House Hornwood was left without heir.
His treatment of uncle Edmure had been a little harsh with hindsight. One defeat against a superior force didn’t make one incompetent. And keeping plans from one of his chief commanders was a blunder on his part. Looking back, the whole plan of raiding the Westerlands to lure Tywin had been risky, for if he had besieged Riverrun, Robb would be cut off with only his cavalry with him. He should have retreated after Oxcross, or maybe tried to rally some of the lords of the Westerlands to support him, with promises of freedom from Lannister rule. Even that would have been a risk, as not many would be brave enough to defy Tywin Lannister, less so when they had men with his host.

The best course of action he could have taken in that point in time was to treat with the Tyrells and marry Renly’s widow. But that course had been locked away by his own mistakes, as he had taken Jeyne Westerling’s maidenhead, and married her to preserve her honour. Milk of the poppy and enough wine to last him a week combined with a pretty girl eager to please, made him forget his duty and vows.

Jeyne was kind, pretty and learned, and Robb had found himself develop feelings for her. Had circumstances been different, he wouldn’t have minded her as his wife, yet that one night had cost him the Freys and their four thousand men. If only the Westerlings had switched places with that godsforsaken house. Ser Raynald had been a good man, probably dead at Grey Wind’s side, and Rollam was a kind boy who would grow to be a fine knight. Lord Gawen had been taken prisoner during the battle at the Whispering Wood, but had given all the support he could to his new family. The Lady of House Westerling had always made him wary, however. She reminded him of Bolton, a schemer. Only the gods knew what happened to them after he had died.

His short campaign in Lannister lands had been the beginning of the end for him. After returning to Riverrun, he had learned that Edmure had driven back Tywin’s host, and inflicted heavy casualties to the Lannister army. The old lion had then turned tail to the Tyrells and allied with them against Stannis, while Theon had burned Winterfell along with his two little brothers. Then his mother had freed the Kingslayer, and Rickard Karstark in a blind rage had killed Kevan Lannister’s sons, and honour demanded he lose his head. He couldn’t blame a mother for trying to rescue her daughters, but she had given up the biggest advantage they had, and cost him the Karstark host in the process. Worse, their seat was taken, which meant that Robb had to curry favour with the Freys for the use of that damn bridge. His final mistake.

The darkness began to recede. Hopefully he would be together with Father, Mother and the boys. Hopefully they could forgive his foolishness. If there were any of his men waiting for him there, he would beg their forgiveness, for he had failed all who put their faith in him.

He wasn’t greeted with a crowd of wroth spirits, but the place was intimately familiar. He had visited it countless times, consoled Jon after Mother had pushed him too much, bathed in the pool, watched Father polish Ice as he prayed to the Old Gods. Robb was finally home, yet he was still alone.

He made his way before the Heart tree, the sullen face carved in it gazing at him in silence. Then the young King dropped to his knees. He didn’t need to be strong anymore. Nobody was here to think any less of him should he let his emotions show. Finally, in death, he could grieve all that he had lost.

Robb knew not how much time had passed as he grieved all he had lost when he heard footsteps behind him. He rose from his knees and turned to the stranger, yet staring back at him was his brother’s face.
Jon had spoken something, but a gust of wind had taken the words with it, but Robb cared not. He could feel tears forming in his eyes again, yet he cared not. He only wished to embrace his brother, praying that the Gods weren’t playing a trick on him.
His prayers were answered when he felt his brother return the embrace. But then he remembered. He was dead, and this was a place for the dead. Dread began to build in his chest as he broke the embrace.

“Jon… how… why are you here?” he said, his voice trembling. He had hoped that Jon was dreaming, had done some ritual to commune with the dead, anything but what he feared, yet when his gaze dropped towards his brother’s chest, he had received his answer. His clothes were tattered and wounds were visible from the holes.

Robb dropped his head in sorrow, but then he felt a hand grasping one of his shoulders. He lifted his head and saw Jon’s face with a sad smile on it, unshed tears in his eyes as he spoke with a trembling voice. “Robb… I missed you brother. I…. I am sorry.”
Robb was confused. Why would his brother need to apologize to him. Robb had blundered his way through the South while Jon had been stuck at the Wall, all but banished from his home and family. If Robb had stood up to his mother, convinced Jon to remain, how different would things be?

“What do you have to apologize for, Jon? It is I who failed our House.”

Jon’s lips made a thin line as shame showed on his face. “I failed to protect Arya, just like I failed to protect Bran and Rickon. I watched as the Boltons took over our home, after killing you. But I convinced myself to do my duty. Winter was coming, and things beyond the Wall were worse than we could have imagined. Yet when that monster Ramsay sent that letter, I couldn’t stand by. For that I paid with my life.”

Robb realized that Jon had lived past him. He had died at a later date, yet they were now at the same place.
“Jon, slow down. Tell me all that happened.” Robb said. He needed to know, just how much his failures cost.

They sat on the roots of the Heart tree and Jon began his tale. He spoke of his arrival at Castle Black, of meeting the new recruits. How they had started off despising each other, before the blacksmith Donal Noye had broken through his stubborn skull, explaining the privilege Jon had lived with, compared to those commoner boys. As he spoke of Grenn and Pyp, of Halder and Todder and Samwell Tarly he showed a nostalgic smile and Robb knew, his brother had been fond of those lads. Jon spoke of the bond that had blossomed between the group, and Robb felt happy for his brother, yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Jon had gained comrades, men to share his troubles with, while Robb had bannermen. Men willing to die for him, yet even with the friendships he had build with the Smalljon and Dacey even Raynald near the end, the difference in rank brought with it a distance he didn’t have with Jon, or Theon before he turned traitor.

Jon continued his tale by remembering when he spoke his vows, and finding two dead rangers. But then his tale turned grim. The corpses had come back to life, and had attacked the Night’s Watch members while they rested. One of them nearly killed the Lord Commander before Jon had thrown a torch at the monster, which had burst into flames like dry kindling. The other corpse had cut a bloody path through half a dozen rangers, including a Ser Jaremy Rykker, before Ghost had torn apart the corpse.
Apparently while Robb was calling in his banners, the Others had returned. Jon had been given the House Mormont ancestral blade as reward for rescuing the Lord Commander, but then news of the South had reached them, and Jon had made to desert the watch, before being stopped by his friends, who didn’t wish him beheaded as a deserter.

“Don’t feel guilty about that Jon. I should have kept you from going there in the first place. Gods know I could have used your help.” Robb said, seeing the expression his brother was making. The years growing up together had given him an uncanny ability to know just what Jon was thinking from just a gaze. An ability Robb knew his brother shared.

“Lady Stark would have never allowed it.” Jon said with a somber voice.
“Bugger that!” Robb exclaimed. Making Jon’s eyes widen in surprise. “I was Lord of Winterfell then, I should have stood up for you, brother. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, as Father used to say.”
Jon gave a dry chuckle. “Aye, in the end, all of us were lone wolves.”
Robb returned the laugh. Not of happiness, but to not let sorrow overwhelm him.
A few moments of silence and Jon continued his tale. He spoke of the ranging they had undertaken. Three hundred men had gone Beyond the Wall. His brother told of his role there. He told of being captured by the wildlings, pretending to turn his cloak and climbing the Wall with them. And then he told of the wildling girl he had grown fond of. ’A beauty kissed by fire’ Jon had called her.
Robb could hardly believe his ears. His dour brother, had found love. “Must have been a great beauty, to get Jon Snow to drop his breeches.” He teased, a grin appearing on his face.
Jon reached with his arm and pulled a crossbow bolt sticking out of his shoulder. The pain made Robb scream, but as the bolt was removed, so did the pain disappear. “Why in the bloody hells did you do that for.” He screamed at Jon, who looked at him with a pout.

“You were being a smartass again.” Jon answered
“You could have killed me; you know you aren’t supposed to pull out bolts before you can treat the wound.”
“Robb, we are already dead. My wounds aren’t bleeding and neither is that stab wound on your chest.”
That was right, Robb had almost forgotten. They weren’t among the living anymore. He sighed and began pulling out the bolts remaining in his body. The pain was great, but it disappeared quickly, and he appreciated the freedom of movement he gained by removing them.

“So, what happened next, surely the Night’s Watch didn’t approve of a wildling lover for one of their members?”
“I made a choice.” Jon said. “The wildlings attacked Castle Black, and I fought for my men.” Jon’s head dropped into his hands and he rubbed his eyes. “I found her after the battle you know. She was barely breathing, with an arrow sticking out of her chest.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “She died in my arms, Robb! The girl loved me, and I loved her, but I chose my duty over her in the end.”
Robb placed an arm around his brother’s shoulder. He understood extremely well, the pain of choosing your duty when it lies opposite your heart. He had chosen duty every day by not exchanging the Kingslayer for his sisters. “I know how you feel Jon. The pain is excruciating but we are Starks of Winterfell, we always do what is right. Just as Father taught us.”
Jon lifted his head and managed a small smile while drying his eyes. “Aye, we always do. Ended up here for it all the same.”

“Our mistakes always come around to bite us in the arse, brother.” Robb said. And he shared with Jon his regrets and mistakes that had led to his death.
“So, you married the lass to avoid dishonoring her, at the expense of your own honour. And that started the events that ended up killing you.” Jon chuckled. “Seems to me like the worst outcome that could have happened with every event happened repeatedly. You bedded the lady while drugged and drunk, Lady Catelyn freed the Kingslayer, Lord Karstark decided to kill some Lannister boys, and Theon decided to burn our brothers and sack our home, right after the other. And in the end, you still had to be betrayed by your bannermen at a wedding, under guest rights.”

The way Jon put it; Robb couldn’t help but laugh. He had gone through some shitty luck the last few moons. But then Jon continued. “I however cannot blame luck for my death.”
“What happened, Jon?”
Jon continued his story. He recalled the defense of Castle Black, baiting the Thenns to climb the ladders up the Wall, before setting them on fire, bringing chunks of ice down on the ones yet to climb. He continued by mentioning the stand of Donal Noye, dying along with a giant in single combat, and blocking the gate to cut off any wildling reinforcements.
Stannis had come and routed the rest of the wildling host with his knights, and then they had parlayed.
“You saw actual giants with the wildlings?” Robb asked in wonder.
“Aye, hundreds of them, along with their mammoths. A number of wildlings were skinchangers as well.” Jon replied.
Robb couldn’t help but be amazed at the things living beyond the Wall. His amazement turned to dread when Jon had spoken about the Others, however.
Robb already knew about their return due to Jon’s earlier tale, but now Jon went into greater detail. Samwell had managed to kill one. A strike from a dragonglass dagger had shattered the monster like ice, while regular steel had shattered when struck by their crystal blades.

The monsters, Samwell had described to Jon as tall and gaunt, with flesh as pale as milk, with cold blue eyes that were bright as stars. The wights Jon had fought had shared the blue eyes. The rangers hadn’t possessed such eyes while alive.
Grenn had seen them in battle and had called them inhuman, elegant and dangerous, moving with impossible speed and grace as their crystal blades had cut through the rangers as a scythe through wheat. The air grew colder as they approached and all light dimmed as snowy mist followed them.

The creatures had given no quarter, slaughtering all before them and then raising them as their thralls.
And such beings had begun their march south with countless corpses as their army. All while the people of Westeros had battled one another for petty greed and power.
Jon continued his tale of what happened after the battle. Janos Slynt who had been sent to the Wall by Tyrion Lannister and Alliser Thorne had arrived at Castle Black, and had Jon arrested for killing Qhorin Halfhand and deserting, and had been thrown in an Ice cell pending execution.

The maester of Castle Black had spoken in his defense, vouching for Jon’s honour and his capability and merit during the defense of the castle. Unable to have him hanged due to his popularity with the rest of the brothers, they had sent him on a suicide mission, to assassinate Mance Rayder, the king beyond the Wall during a parley.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to accomplish his mission, however as Stannis and his knights had charged through the wildling camp, routing them.
After the battle Jon had been offered the Stark name and Lordship over Winterfell if he bent the knee for Stannis, as Robb had been killed at the Red Wedding.
Robb felt odd, listening to events that happened after his death, but in a way It was intriguing.

Jon admitted shamefully that he had been tempted to accept, as being a legitimate member of House Stark had been his deepest desire, and ruling Winterfell had always been an impossible dream to him. In the end he had refused, as bending the knee to Stannis would have meant allowing his red priestess to burn the Heart tree, and he couldn’t cut that connection to his family for the sake of power.
At that time Robb interrupted him. “You know Jon, Winterfell and the North were already yours by that point.” He said.
Jon just stared at him with his mouth agape. It took several moments to compose himself. “What do you mean?”

Robb gave him a smile as he answered. “After I received word about Bran and Rickon, I had you legitimized and made my heir. By my own authority, you, Jon of House Stark, first of your name, were made King in the North and Trident after my death.”
Robb could almost feel the gears turning in his brother’s mind, as he processed the information.
Finally, Jon opened his mouth “But I had sworn myself to the Night’s Watch, I couldn’t be your heir.”
“By my authority as king, I freed you from your oath to the watch. I needed you with me Jon. I sent Lord Galbart and Lady Maege to bring you to Riverrun, but I guess they didn’t arrive in time.”
Suddenly Jon burst into a fit of laughter. Robb had seldom seen his brother laugh so hard, or for as long a time.
“Why are you laughing?” Robb finally asked, annoyed.
“It is just hilarious. I had been freed from my oath, yet I was elected Lord Commander.”
Robb took a moment to process the information, and suddenly he joined his brother in laughter. “You really managed to do well for yourself Jon, I don’t think there had been a Lord Commander as young as you before.”
“Not as well as King in the North.” Jon chuckled, punching Robb’s shoulder.
“Our bannermen didn’t want to swear fealty to a mad, inbred cunt like Joffrey, especially after he had father beheaded.”
“Aye, only his mother could mourn the death of that monster.”
“The cunt died?” Robb asked astounded.
“Aye, poisoned on his wedding day. The purple wedding, they called it. On account of his face turning purple when he suffocated.” Jon answered, the ends of his lips curling upwards.
“Serves the little shit right.” Robb replied. He couldn’t help but gain a small measure of satisfaction by learning about the death of the person that had Father killed.
“What else happened of note?” Robb asked.
Jon began recalling the events after getting elected Lord Commander. He had let the wildings through the Wall, in exchange for helping defend it against the Others. The additional manpower had allowed him to begin restoration of the abandoned castles along the Wall. But he had made a mistake. He had sent his most loyal friends away, to different castles along the Wall. Grenn and Pyp he had sent to Eastwatch, Halder and Todder to the Shadow Tower, Iron Emmett and Edd to Long Barrow, along with a group of spearwives.

Robb couldn’t imagine the two men had been wroth with their posting. Jon had sent one of his last friends at Castle Black, Sam, to Oldtown to become a maester to replace maester Aemon.
After that the only men loyal to him at Castle Black had been his steward Satin, as well as a batch of new recruits. It had been then that he had received a letter from Ramsay Bolton. The bastard had been given Arya as a bride; however, she had escaped, and Jon had been given an ultimatum to bring her back to her husband or face the armies of the Boltons and their allies.
It had been then that Jon had finally decided to break his oaths. He had called an assembly, summoning the officers of the Night’s Watch along with the chieftains of the wildling clans, and announced his intention to ride for Winterfell, to join Stannis in battle. The wildlings and many of the regular Night’s Watch members had given their support, but many of the officers had shown distaste for his decision.
That had been when, upon returning towards his chambers, he had been greeted by a sign with ‘Traitor’ written on it. A group of his men had ambushed him, and pushed their daggers in his body, chanting ‘For the Watch’ as they committed the deed.
As Jon finished his tale, Robb was filled with fury. The man who betrayed them, Roose Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. His bastard wed to Arya. Even Robb had heard about the tastes of the monster, and he dared not even think of imagining what his sister had endured with him.

“If I see that bastard, I will make his end long and painful. A monster like that doesn’t deserve a quick death.” Robb had said after a moment. Fury and venom filling his voice.
It was then that a tempest blew around the brothers. The water from the pond began to flow, forming a small creek around the Heart tree, and the ground rumbled as if it was moving. Rain and thunder fell around them and trees caught on fire, yet the Heart tree was undisturbed. Robb heard a voice come from the face carved in the Weirwood.
At first he thought his mind playing tricks on him, but as he gazed towards his brother, he saw his face, pale and aghast and he knew that it wasn’t some trick. “Wake us”, “Protect your realms”, “The enemy comes”. It was as if many were speaking, overlapping with one another, yet the voice came from the Heart tree.
And then as if it had been a lie, all was silent. Robb exchanged a glance with Jon, but suddenly the Heart tree was alight like the sun and darkness took him.
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Chapter Text

Robb

The sun shone in his eyes as Robb woke. Moments passed before his mind remembered what had happened. His eyes snapped open as he rose from his bed quickly. The surroundings seemed familiar, and it took little time to remember his old chambers in Winterfell. They seemed a little larger than he had remembered.

Suddenly he noticed his reflection on the dressing mirror next to his wardrobe. All thoughts from his mind stopped as he walked towards his reflection. His gaze traveled around his feature, as his hand travelled over his face.

What stared back at him from the mirror was a young, almost child’s face. Gone was the young man with a trimmed beard and in his place was a boy without hope of growing one for years to come.

Robb could do little except sit on his bed in shock as his thoughts spiraled in his mind. For a short moment he believed he was dreaming, a last fever dream of a dead man, yet he remembered the godswood, seeing Jon there, and the wounds upon his body as they told each other the tales of their lives and deaths.

He wondered if perhaps he had dreamt the whole thing, Father going to King’s Landing as hand, his death, Robb becoming King in the North, his death, even the vision with Jon but, he could still remember the pain from the bolts burying themselves in his flesh, as well as the coldness and glee of Roose Bolton as he pierced his heart with a dagger.

No, it couldn’t have been a dream, but then that would mean that he had been made a boy of one, maybe two and ten. Suddenly he remembered the ancient voices from the Heart tree and chills moved across his body. A single thought hit his mind like a hammer. Jon! And then Robb ran.

His smaller body took a short while to get used to again, as he stumbled, struggling to keep his balance. He almost ran into several servants, who were off doing their daily duties in the keep. He knew all of them, several had been gone from his family’s service for a long time.

Making his way to the courtyard he caught a glimpse of Father climbing to his solar. His hair with fewer hairs of grey and his face younger than he remembered.

In the practice yard he saw Jory, younger than he remembered him, train with Alyn, Desmond, Hallis and Harwin, all of who looked to Robb as if taken from his past. Ser Rodrik was overseeing them, his hair silver, yet his mutton chops barely longer than sideburns.

In the archery range along with several guards stood Theon, who looked every bit the green boy he had been before becoming a man. Robb wanted to laugh, caring not if the people of the castle think him mad.

That is when he saw a dark-haired boy, wearing a black doublet and dark grey breeches. The boy stood in the middle of the courtyard, and to Robb it seemed as if he was in awe. He knew exactly who the boy was, for there was a single man who had locks prettier than any girl.

Robb smiled as he sprinted towards his brother, and placing both hands on Jon’s shoulders he greeted. “Snow, ready to train?”

Jon turned towards Robb, and upon seeing his brother’s face, he knew. It hadn’t been a dream.

“Robb please tell me that you remember.” Jon pleaded.

Robb sighed. “Wake us. Protect your realms. The enemy comes.” He repeated the words he heard from the Heart tree and Jon’s head drooped as he sighed as well. “It wasn’t a dream then.”

“Aye, and we are little more than boys, apparently.”

Jon smiled then. “Boys we may be, but we have a chance to do better.”

Robb returned the smile at his brother’s words. He was right. The Old Gods had given them an incredible boon. They would not waste it.

He grasped the arm of Jon. “You’re right brother. We have much to do. Let us-“A familiar voice interrupted Robb.

Boys! You’re late for your lessons. An older man approached them from behind. He had grey eyes and thinning hair. Upon his body was a thick, grey robe made of wool with large sleeves. Robb had last seen the good maester of Winterfell when he rode South, to save his Father. He had grieved for the man who had raised all of the Stark children as a teacher.

Now that old man was approaching them with a scowl on his face, clearly displeased by the pair’s neglect for their studies.

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Luwin

His charges behaved strangely today. He was aware that the boys preferred the yard instead of the library, but Robb was the heir to Winterfell. It was required of him to be educated in the ways of administration, politics and diplomacy.

Jon was Lord Stark’s bastard, but the North was large, and many holdfasts had been abandoned or lost with the Houses inhabiting them disappearing from the world. He too needed an education befitting a lord.

Today, however, the pair looked especially annoyed to take their lessons. As they followed him to the library, he couldn’t help but hear them whisper at one another. With his age, Luwin’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but he couldn’t help overhearing a few words. Time, return, the Old Gods, Weirwood, slumber, people.

It all seemed like gibberish to the maester. Perhaps it was some game the brothers were playing. Young minds did tend to have a vivid imagination.

Luwin chuckled at himself as he thought how he had dreamed of learning magic as a boy and a feeling of nostalgia washed over him as his charges whispered to each other animatedly. Ah to be young again.

They entered the library and sat on the table; thick dusty tomes spread around it. Somebody had forgotten to put away their reading material again. If he found out, who was it, Luwin would have them clean the rookery for a fortnight.

The brothers sat across from him, and gazed at him with dull looks. It was apparent to him that they took no enjoyment from learning, but it was common for young boys to prefer the legends of knights to books on geography and histories of Houses and families.

Still, they needed to learn, and Luwin took some satisfaction from his charges’ boredom. It was time to review what they had been learning the past week.

“Last week we finished learning about the noble Houses of the North. It is time to see if you remember anything.” Luwin said as he smiled at the boys. He was greeted with exasperated sighs.

“Very well, maester Luwin, ask away.” Robb replied.

“It is good to be confident, young lord. But we shall start with Jon.”

The dark-haired boy just rolled his eyes before answering. “Ask away maester.”

“Tell me about the houses from the Wolfswood, and their overlord.” It was a difficult question, but Luwin did want to push his students to better themselves.

He however, did not expect the answer. “The noble House that oversees the Wolfswood is House Glover. They hold the title Master of Deepwood Motte and their house words are Ironclad Honour. Houses sworn to them include House Forrester, Woods, Branch and Bole. House Forrester….” The boy was reciting the houses and their words, as well as their seats and words.

Luwin even asked things Jon wasn’t supposed to know like number of men they could bring in war, what they produced or the estimated population of their lands in an attempt to humble the lad, but in the end Luwin was the one humbled. The boy answered each question correctly, never changing the mildly disinterested look on his face.

Luwin had to concede to Jon. He had learned well. He could only hope Robb knew as much as his brother.

“Very good Jon, you have shown your knowledge about the Northern houses. Robb, your turn. Tell me about the noble houses in the northern mountains.”

As Luwin asked the question, he felt a chill rise through him. Robb was smiling like the cat that ate the cream. Jon was giving him a pitying look.

“The northern mountains are inhabited by around forty clans. Principle among them are the Wulls, the First Flints, the Norreys, Burleys, Harclays, Liddles and Knotts. Other clans of note are clan Wilde sworn to the Wulls…” Robb continued giving a lecture about the various clans in the mountains, their liege lords their culture, population, any materials of note a clan produced as well as their location, seat, and responsibilities as Stark bannermen. Luwin could swear he hadn’t gone in such detail about the Houses that were sworn to the Starks, yet both boys showed deep knowledge about their father’s bannermen.

“You boys have proven that you have mastered the knowledge about the northern Houses, so we shall move on. Because we are short on time, we will speak today about the Night’s Watch, the Wall, and the Gift and new Gift, as well as the lands beyond.”

The chill ran through him again, but this time it was the other brother smiling at him. And Robb was giving him a pitying look. “The Night’s Watch was founded at the end of the Long Night, after Bran the Builder built the Wall…”

Luwin was convinced that something strange had happened to the boys. Jon was giving a lecture about the Night’s Watch, the Wall, as well as their holdings and the lands beyond. The boy had an uncanny grasp about the current capabilities of the order, as well as their military strength, and the state of the Wall. He gave a brief account about the lands of the gift and then Robb had taken over, giving a detailed account about the various villages and abandoned holdfasts.

Suddenly the brothers began discussing ideas about the rebuilding of the Gift and restoring control and protection to the countless smallfolk that called the area home. Luwin felt as if he were in a fever dream. Now they had brought a map out, and had begun marking villages and holdfasts, and were planning the construction of roads and infrastructure.

A voice in his head told him that his charges weren’t just playing at rulers. If he was being honest, the discussion they were having felt as if two seasoned lords were making plans for their lands. Even some fully fledged lords showed less insight than the pair of two- and ten-year-olds sitting across from him.

Luwin was brought back from his daze by Robb’s voice. “Are you certain of the locations?”

“Aye, Rayder gave them himself, and scouts confirmed them.” Jon replied.

Luwin’s amazement was only dwarfed by his curiosity as he followed to where the lads were speaking. His eyes immediately noticed the changes to the map. The land beyond the Wall had been left empty, yet now rudimentary markings decorated the vast empty space. Cones for trees, triangles for mountains, rivers were mapped as well as alterations for the shape of the land. And there were many settlements, too many for such a barren land. They had even named the various places and geographical locations.

“Boys, what have you done to the map?” Luwin yelled out in shock.

“Oh, don’t worry, maester. Jon was just filling me in about the lands and people living beyond the Wall.” Robb answered as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Luwin’s mind was spinning. His head hurt. He took a deep breath, and then another. A small part of him was screaming at him to study the modified map, but a lot of him was saying that the boys had ruined a very expensive piece of parchment.

“And how does Jon know what lies beyond the Wall.” Luwin scoffed. The answer made him wish he had fainted a little while ago.

“Well, I was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It’s a given that I know these things. Though I did befriend quite a few wildlings who shared much with us.”

Luwin’s hands began to shake as he moved one to the boy’s forehead. There was no fever, and Luwin didn’t remember any head injury to the boy.

Robb must have noticed the maester’s shock, as he called him. “Maester Luwin. We aren’t the boys you know. The Old Gods have brought us back from our deaths to our past, so that we attempt to save the realms of men.”

Luwin sincerely hoped that the boys were making a fool out of him. Because if they spoke the truth, many things he thought true would change and no man wants to live in a lie.

“We must fetch your Lord Father.”

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Eddard

Ned had just finished going through the scrolls from ravens that had arrived during the night. Several requests from different bannermen, one from Benjen at the Wall, and a few reports of trade, harvests and estimates.

Nothing out of the ordinary for the Lord of Winterfell. He stretched on his chair, and took a sip of the tea a serving girl had brought him. The mint refreshed his mind as he went through report after report.

The door to his solar slammed open, and maester Luwin entered, his breathing ragged as if he had run his heart out to get there. Ned could think of few things that would make the usually calm and collected Luwin run, and a feeling of dread began to form in the pit of his stomach.

“M-my Lord, the boys…” Luwin stammered out between breaths.

“What has happened, maester? Speak. Now.” Ned questioned, as he rose from his chair. There were few things that would make the usually calm maester act in such a way. He had known that Jon and Robb were due to have their lessons at the time. He was worried.

Luwin regained his composure, but was now fidgeting. “Luwin, what happened to the boys, out with-it man.” Ned commanded.

“Well…. It would be easier to show you, my Lord. Follow me to the library.” The old maester said.

Ned prepared himself for the worst. He had expected some sort of accident, one or both of his boys injured or worse. What he didn’t expect, was Robb and Jon standing above a table, overlooking a map of the realms, deep in a discussion.

Ned could help but be amused at boys barely two and ten discussing like little Lords. The serious faces they wore on their childish features was endearing. Maester Luwin moved to call the boys, but Ned pulled him back, gesturing to him to keep quiet.

He was curious about what they would speak about.

“The Stony Shore is a weak point, as is our entire Western coast.” Robb spoke.

“Aye, Sea Dragon Point has many ruined holdfasts, and the smallfolk there are dispersed, living in small hamlets all over the woods. The Shore though…” Jon spoke as he trailed off in thought, stroking his chin.

“The geography makes it difficult to defend the small villages spread around it. Our biggest port is on the opposite coast, even if we had the ships, it would take at least a moon if the winds are kind to send a fleet there.” Robb added.

“What about House Fisher? They used to rule the region in ages past.” Jon asked.

“That they did, though they’re impoverished now. Their keeps have long since been destroyed, and now they live in one of the villages mostly trading fish and pearls.”

Jon continued to stroke his chin as he was thinking in silence.

Ned glanced at Luwin, his face the picture of confusion. The old maester just shrugged, and then cleared his throat, getting their attention.

A look of surprise was on the faces of his young sons, and then a flash of guilt and sorrow, before they smiled at him.

“Father, may we speak to you in the godswood?” Robb asked and Ned agreed, confused about why the sudden whim of his eldest.

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It was late when he entered the bed chamber. Cat was already asleep, and Ned felt tired. Today had been a strange day to say the least.

Ned changed into his smallclothes and lay down next to his wife, as the events of the day played themselves in his mind.

He had known something had been amiss when he saw Jon and Robb standing above that map. What followed was difficult to believe. He had accompanied the boys to the godswood, expecting them to come clean about some mischief. Instead, they had claimed that they have been returned to their childhood after dying some years into the future.

Had they spoken as such anywhere else, he would have taken it as a child’s fantasy, but they had specifically brought him to the place where they would never tell a lie.

After their revelation, their behaviour made sense. Somehow, the Old Gods had sent his grown sons from the future into their children’s bodies. They had shared their stories with him, and Ned was lost for words. Robert’s children not his own, but bastards born of incest. Ned himself beheaded for treason by Joffrey after he had found out the secret and tried to take control of the keep. The realm fractured into warring factions, embroiled in civil war.

Then there were the wildlings beyond the Wall. The GreatJon had given reports confirming Jon’s claims. There had indeed been a steady increase in raids by them. What was more worrying however, was the things chasing them. The boy claimed that the Others had risen again and were slaughtering their way South, rising up their victims and any dead they came across as thralls to their will.

He had described the wights as remorseless, merciless husks, that never tired or died, unless burnt or dismembered.

If that were true, Winter was indeed coming for them. Luckily the boys had said that the events that would start their troubles were still a couple of years away. It gave them time to prepare.

After hearing their confession in the godswood, and he could justify himself believing his sons’ words, Ned had brought them to his solar, where they spoke in more detail. The North as it was, wasn’t prepared to bear the events to come. They needed to build their strength and they had a limited time for it.

Robb and Jon had asked to have their lessons with maester Luwin canceled, on account of them already being taught by the man in another time. Instead, they would need his help with what they claimed the Old Gods had asked of them. The ancient protectors of the First Men had been in slumber, waking too late to assist the realms of men against their enemy. They needed information. Information on the Old Gods, information on the Others, and information on the Long Night.

They would comb the library for any and all books on the subjects while Ned wrote to his bannermen for any additional information as well as beginning to take steps to reinforce the North as a whole.

The first step would be to rebuild Moat Cailin. They would need the fortress in case of an attack, as well as to rally any assistance to the riverlands, should war visit them as in the other time. The boys had been correct that the western shore had been a weakness of the North, and with the ironborn subjugated, fortifying it hadn’t been a priority. Bear Island, The Stony Shore, Sea Dragon Point all would need to be fortified, ports built and ships constructed. Cape Kraken and Flint’s Finger would also need fortifying as well as the Holdfasts near the sea such as Deepwood Motte and those that were near navigable rivers and lakes such as Torrhen’s Square, several holdfasts near the Rillwater and the Eyes and Barrowtown.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Gods help him with Barbray Dustin. The harpy would do anything just to spite him, and her cooperation would be hard to gain. He would need some way to convince her.

Then there were things outside of the North’s control. They needed men. Good, fighting men, trained in combat. Jon had known some that would join the Night’s Watch in the future, men he wanted as a retinue. The boy he had raised as his own, and in his heart believed him no less a son than Robb, didn’t plan on joining the Night’s Watch this time around, as they had betrayed him and were the cause of his death. Still Jon refused to abandon the few good men at the Wall, such as Benjen, the old Bear, the maester of Castle Black, the blacksmith there as well as a few veteran rangers that had treated him well. The duty he had felt as Lord Commander, even though he no longer carried the title. Ned had felt extremely proud of the lad when Jon had told him of his election in the future.

The Night’s Watch was a separate problem. Few men wished to swear themselves for life to an order that required them to swear off their name and claims, cut ties with their families and create none of their own and live in the coldest part South of the Wall. Thus, the ancient order was undermanned to the point that of the nineteen castles built to guard it, only three remained garrisoned, and the three Castles combined had little less than a thousand men, mostly criminals.

 The gift remained wild and untamed, smallfolk lived in small villages, hamlets and homesteads without any protection or order. Holdfasts from days long past had been turned into ruins, such as Queenscrown.

Those people needed protection, as much as from wildlings as from bandits.

Jon had suggested that the Lord Commander be called to the council, and come to an agreement where holdfasts in the gift would be settled by northern nobility, and a portion of the taxes would go fund the Watch. He had also argued that if the oath of the Watch would be for a time of a few years with an option to extend, rather than for the duration of your life, more people would be willing to join, and some may decide to spend their lives as a Night’s Watchman.

Jon had explained that even though he held great respect for the Night’s Watch, he couldn’t swear the oath again. Not after he had been betrayed by his men. The boy had asked Ned if he could be given Queenscrown to hold and develop into a stronghold.

Robb had even suggested that Jon be made Protector of the Gift, and be overlord to all the Houses that would keep holdfasts in the region, just as the Glovers held the Wolfswood, the Manderlys the eastern coast and sea and as the Hornwoods held the Hornwood.

That would leave Moat Cailing for Bran. In the future the lad would be tasked with keeping the Southern borders of the North safe and protected from threats.

Cat had placed her head on his chest. Using it as a pillow, with her arm embracing her husband. Ned couldn’t help but smile at his wife, a woman who had been married to him by convenience and alliance, yet in the long years of marriage love had bloomed between them. She would likely oppose the decisions Ned and the boys had made today, especially any idea of giving Jon such power. She would demand Rickon or Bran be given the fief, with the remaining one given the Moat.

That was one headache he would leave for later. That night as he slept, he dreamt he was running in the woods, the taste of blood filling his mouth

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Catelyn

Winterfell seemed unusual of late. It was as if the air itself around the castle had changed recently. But most of all, her first born had changed. Where before he was always smiling and running around, now he brooded and spent all his time with the bastard either locked up in the library, training in the yard or exploring the castle’s abandoned areas.

At first Catelyn had written it off as the boys’ curiosity as they played at adventurers, but one day she had managed to glimpse them training with Ser Rodrik. She had seen men of all ages practice in that yard and she could remember her brother Edmure fumble around the practice sword when he first started learning to fight.

Yet, these children radiated an air of confidence and their actions were swift and decisive. She had been mesmerized by the bout and couldn’t help but be filled with pride at her little boy. Barely two and ten and so talented with the sword. A yelp took her out of her thoughts and she saw Robb on the ground nursing a newly forming bruise on his hand, with the bastard looming over him, victorious.

Fury built up inside her as she trudged her way in the yard to the confused looks of everyone around her. She said nothing as she walked up to the bastard and slapped him with all her strength and as the boy’s head snapped to the side from the impact, immediately a small part of her winced in regret. ‘You hit a child with all your strength for trying his best in practice, you should be ashamed of yourself, Catelyn.’ The voice of the small part of her echoed in her mind, but in her anger, she ignored it.

Suddenly the entire courtyard was silent. The usual sounds of labour were nowhere to be heard, and she found her anger slowly evaporate as she noticed the numerous eyes locked onto her.

As the lady of a major house, Catelyn was no stranger to stares, no matter the emotions conveyed in them and had no issue ignoring them, yet she couldn’t ignore two pairs of piercing eyes, one pair a rich blue like her’s, the other a dark gray like Ned’s.

In the bastard’s eyes she could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface of that sullen look he shared with his father, yet there was also disappointment. The bastard looked at her the same way Ned would when she showed her lack of understanding for the Northern ways show, or when she let herself think of the Northmen as anything lesser than the Southern Nobility.

It had been years since she had received a look with that much disappointment from Ned, yet she cared little for the opinion of the bastard. What gave her pause was that the same emotions were shared by her son. It was as if she was standing before Ned in the Great Hall and was being judged for an afront.

Confusion replaced her anger. She noticed Robb exchange a look with the bastard, and she noticed the small frown before a look of resignation appeared on his face, followed by a small nod, too small to notice if not being watched closely.

“Ser Rodrik, by your leave, I would like to be excused.” The bastard spoke suddenly, and she saw the burly older man with sideburns nod.

The bastard then turned towards her and bowed slightly. “My lady.” He greeted before turning on his heel, and after a few moments she lost him in the people moving around.

Next, she felt a hand grabbing hers and pulling her away from the yard. It took a moment for her to realize that Robb was taking her away from the eyes of the servants.

She was about to ask her son where he was leading her, when she saw the tall trees all around them. They were in the godswood.

Robb gazed at her for the first time since leading her here. The disappointment in his face was visible to her, even behind the stoic mask. A child did have trouble masking their emotions as well as adults did after all.

“Mother, why did you hit Jon?” Her son asked. His child-like voice holding an authority she didn’t expect, or even know the boy was capable of.

“Because he could have injured you. He should know better than to strike the heir of this castle.” She said, and a frown appeared on Robb for a moment before his eyes widened slightly as if he had come to a realization.

“Bruises and injuries happen in the training yard, mother. If people are afraid to strike me, how will I know where my weaknesses lie? Besides, Jon has always been better with the sword than me, even with holding himself back to avoid rising your ire.” Robb said, his words sounding like a lord admonishing his subjects.

“I won’t let a bastard harm my child. No matter how you feel about him. I forbid you to practice with him from now on. I will have Luwin assign a tutor to the bastard as well. I won’t have him poisoning your mind and using you for his gain.” Catelyn spoke, driven by a sudden burst of anger. She knew the boys were close, but she wouldn’t let a bastard dig his claws into her son. Not when he was a threat to Robb’s future rule.

“Jon is my brother, Mother!” Robb yelled out. “That will not change. No matter what. We will continue practicing and learning together. I will speak to father about it today.”

“He is a threat to you Robb. He is a bastard and will use you and then rob you of your birthright. That is all they are capable of!” Catelyn screamed in the heat of anger, but immediately after the words left her mouth, she felt guilt. She was no stranger to scolding her children but she rarely had a need to raise her tone.

“A person’s status at birth has nothing to do with what kind of person they become. Jon cares for all of us. He would give his life to save any one of our family. You would easily realize this if you could set aside your hatred for him for but a moment.” Robb bristled and then began walking away from Catelyn. As his back turned for a moment, she could see a young man but still grown, clad in armour and well built, with a crown of bronze with nine black iron spikes upon his auburn hair. A fur cloak fluttered behind him as he walked away. Catelyn blinked and shook her head, and all was before her was her son, a boy gazing at her with a look of pity.

“I truly do hope you can accept Jon this time around.” Was all her son said before she was left alone in the godswood, with only the heart tree’s gaze upon her.

                                              ________________________________________

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon couldn’t get the incident with Lady Stark out from his head. He didn’t remember her ever striking him previously, but he had known to always hide his true skill when practicing with Robb before. It seemed that the few years spent with friends as equals had dulled the instincts that he had cultivated during his childhood at Winterfell.

He had known that he was now a child again, yet he was too different from how he had been just a short five years ago in his mind. He could never return into that shell, swallowing his dignity and pride to avoid raising her ire. He had fought against men and giants; he had killed a wight. Lady Catelyn Stark’s ire wasn’t a source of fear anymore.

“Still brooding, brother?” Robb’s voice interrupted him as he absentmindedly went through one of the old books from the library in the First Keep.

“I’m not brooding. I’m busy.” Jon replied curtly, going back to the book. Trade reports from times when the Starks were still Kings. A dry read filled with ledgers and reports.

“Aye, and I’m a Lannister.” Robb added as he went near him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come, lets get out of this stuffy place. The books won’t disappear if we take a break.

“I’m fine Robb, I just want to finish this.” Jon protested, but his brother didn’t seem keen on listening as he failed to remove his hand from Jon’s shoulder.

“I let you brood enough last time around, come, let’s go for a ride, we’ll be back before Father misses us.

Jon sighed. He could have stubbornly refused and stayed alone, as he knew Robb couldn’t best him in stubbornness, but in the fortnight, they’d been back in the past, they seldom had time to just enjoy their new life. This was a precious time, where everything was fine and life was happy. So, he relented.

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His cloak fluttered in the wind as he made up ground to Robb. His brother was in the lead, but he wouldn’t be outridden.

Robb cheered and laughed as he steadily kept his lead while they approached the place, they agreed they would race to.

“I win again, Snow. Better luck next time.” Robb said teasingly, as Jon arrived at the hill.

“You’ll eat my dust one of these days, Stark.” Jon replied, pretending to pout, but smiling after a moment. Robb had always been the better rider but with a sword Jon was clearly better. One brother made up for the shortcomings of the other, and they kept each other in check, always testing their decisions.

Today had been a rare day they had decided to purely enjoy, so Jon did just that. He looked up and saw a rich blue sky with barely a cloud on it, the summer sun shining brightly and giving warmth to Jon. A few years at the Wall, and he had forgotten what the sun’s warmth upon one’s skin felt like, so he embraced the rays falling on his face as he smiled, closing his eyes.

“I’ve missed this.” Robb said suddenly, making Jon look at his brother. “Father as Lord of Winterfell, us sparring daily, and going on rides like this. I cannot count the number of times I prayed for just one more day with our family together, yet what we’ve been given is so much more.”

“Aye.” Jon replied. “I missed the lot of you every moment I spent at Castle Black and Beyond the Wall. I had given up hope of seeing our family again when I swore my vows but it would seem that the Gods have deemed fit to give us a boon. Our family will not be shattered again. The North will stand strong against all that would threaten her.” He vowed.

Robb clasped a hand to Jon’s shoulder as he gave his brother a warm smile. “This time the pack stays together. Father will live to a ripe old age, Bran will be a knight and Sansa will marry a good man, not that little shit borne of incest. You and I will make sure of it. Come Lannisters or Others we will defeat them.” As he spoke Robb’s eyes shone with conviction. The same that Jon shared.

Jon pulled out his waterskin and lifted it in the air. “To a better fate, brother.” He said, before drinking heartily.

Robb pulled out his own waterskin and returned the toast. “Now, lets go back before Father sends out riders to search for us.”

Jon chuckled. “Race you to Winterfell then.” He said, before spurring his horse and taking off. He couldn’t help but laugh as his horse galloped into the woods, with Robb’s protests about Jon cheating barely audible behind him.

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As Jon rode through the wolfswood, he felt a presence. It was uncanny, a familiar presence, drawing him. He slowed his horse, as he took a path that went deeper into the forest. It was as an itch he couldn’t scratch; he was compelled to follow the presence.

“Jon, where are you going? This path leads deep into the forest.” Robb spoke out, snapping Jon out of his thoughts.

Jon stopped his horse and looked to his side just as Robb rode to him. “Can you feel it brother?” Jon asked.

Robb’s face was filled with confusion, before suddenly jerking, his gaze focused towards the place the presence was calling him. “Let’s ride.” Was all he said, before both spurred their horses forward into the forest.

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The road became a path, the path became narrower, less traveled and the foliage became denser as less light shone past the dense leaves. Ancient oak and ash and beech trees surrounded them, their size a testament of their age.

The pair dismounted as the path became too narrow to ride. They were being called and they were getting closer. Jon could feel it. Every passing moment he felt a familiar warmth.

Suddenly a small clearing appeared and in it was a giant weirwood tree. It easily dwarfed the one in the Winterfell godswood, its branches covering the entirety of the clearing, with red leaves covering the ground and sky. A few rays of sunlight shone past giving the place an almost otherworldly appearance that awed Jon. On the Weirwood tree was a carved face, on it a warm, welcoming smile. Red sap trickled from the carved eyes as if the tree was welcoming long lost family.

Jon could feel himself relax, and he saw Robb’s expression soften. The place offered nearly the same feeling of comfort and safety as Winterfell, and Jon could feel the presence of the Old Gods. They were here, watching them, waiting to see what the pair did.

So, Jon acted. He made his way towards the tree. And Robb followed, sensing what Jon planned to do. In front of the Heart tree, the brother’s both extended a hand, and touched the tree at the same time.

For a moment, nothing happened. Jon felt confusion. He exchanged a glance with Robb, who shared his expression. Had they been wrong?

But then, Jon could hear the waves crashing on the coast, the winds blowing through the leaves, the ground shaking and the fire burning, and the weirwood was lit like a star.

“Blood of the First men.” A familiar voice, ancient and powerful spoke. The same voice they heard in that place where they met before being sent back. “You have fulfilled the pact. We have awakened. Let magic flow again into the world.”

Suddenly, the air felt different. Somehow easier, richer more refreshing. The world seemed as if it had gained colour. A feeling of relief washed over Jon, as if he had been holding a breath since he could remember.

He closed his eyes, and basked in the few stray rays of sunlight passing through the leaves, feeling warmth build in him.

Jon heard leaves crunching behind him, and the horses neighed in terror as they tried to escape from their binds.

He turned around, his hand on the hilt of a dagger and he saw Robb doing the same. But then, he saw what awaited them. A large direwolf, much larger than what Ghost had grown to when he last saw him stood in front of the pair. Its fur was a pale brown with grey on her legs and around her eyes and mouth. Pale blue, almost white eyes glimmered in the light falling through the leaves. What was truly astounding was the large belly she was carrying.

“It can’t be…” Robb muttered suddenly. “I-it’s too soon….”

“Robb? Do you know this wolf?” Jon asked, though he already knew the answer. Anxiety filled him, as questions began forming in his mind about the meaning of what was happening before them.”

“She’s the mother… Of our wolves, the one we found dead.” Robb answered, his face pale with shock.

The female direwolf took Robb’s answer as a cue to approach the two boys. Jon and Robb were used to the presence of direwolfs, yet this was the first time they were in the presence of an unknown one.

Every instinct Jon had told him to run, fight, move…. Do anything, but he willed himself to remain still as the direwolf now stood just in front of their faces. Gods she was as big as a horse.

She sniffed and snorted at them, and Jon felt the warm air blow away hair from his face. All he could hear at the time was his heartbeat as what seemed to be an eternity passed before he felt a warm, wet and sticky thing pass on his face.

It took him a moment to realize that the direwolf was licking the pair with her tail wiggling. A good sign. But his questions remained. There was still time to pass before they found the pups that would turn into their closest companions. Why was this direwolf here. Perhaps this was another litter, but he knew it wasn’t so as he could almost sense the presence of Ghost inside the belly of the beast.

As if to answer him a gentle warm wind blew and rustled the leaves of the Heart tree. “Loyal companions for our loyal champions, magic will return to the world, as will beings lost to legend. Prepare yourselves sons of the First Men.” A voice spoke through the wind. Unlike the rough and ancient one from before, this one was comforting, gentle, as if a mother was soothing him.

Jon gazed upon Robb, who returned it and after a moment they exchanged a smile as both had a conviction in their hearts. Everything will go well.

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Bran

The day had begun poorly. He hadn’t slept well last night. Nightmares about crows pushing him off of the broken tower then one with three eyes buried itself in his head, but at the end a giant wolf had grabbed the crow and pulled it out, devouring it whole. The last thing he remembered was the wolf licking the wound the crow made, healing it.

There was no time to dwell on strange dreams, however. Robb and Jon had promised to teach him how to string a bow even if he was too little to draw it himself. Perhaps he could get them to take him riding around Winterfell if they could spare the time. Father had been adamant to not disturb his older brothers. ‘Special task’ he had said, but Bran knew the older boys would relent if he asked hard enough. Arya was stuck with the septa and Sansa; she would be fuming when she would learn that he had gone riding with her favourite ‘big brother’.

He dressed himself in a hurry and ran out the keep. He ran across the western outer wall, the fastest way to the First keep, where Robb and Jon spent their mornings, reading through dusty tomes about something Father wouldn’t share. But he saw something in the distance. Two horses riding away from the gate. He could make out auburn hair on the head of one of the riders, and dark, almost black hair on the other.

Disappointment filled him as he realized that his brothers had gone off on their own. Suddenly he remembered a conversation he had overheard from a pair of servants about Mother striking Jon for beating Robb in a spar, maybe Jon was running away and Robb went to stop him. He needed to talk to Father.

He climbed down the wall, and ran towards the Great Keep, to get to his father’s solar. He dodged patrolling guards and servants and just about made it to his destination, but then a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Maester Luwin’s voice boomed behind him. Dread filled Bran as he remembered that he had skipped out on lessons today.

“I wanted to speak with Father.” Bran muttered. “I-I think Jon ran away.”

The old maester just gazed at him as if he had grown a second head for a few moments, before bursting into laughter.

Bran felt annoyance build inside of him at the maester’s reaction. “Its true maester, I saw Robb ride after him to the North just a little while ago. Jon must be running away to join the Night’s Watch” he pleaded.

Luwin managed to stop himself from chuckling. “Oh, lad, Jon isn’t running away. He and Robb have probably gone out for a ride to clear their heads. Your brothers have many new responsibilities now, some of which you will share as you grow older. Now, let us begin your lessons and you can ask your brothers all about their ride when they return.”

Bran was being led to the library by Luwin, but he still couldn’t help but feel that something was amiss.

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The sound of horns startled Bran, as he was barely awake. Maester Luwin’s lectures about sheepherding at the Sheepshead hills by House Woolfield was a chore to follow. As the horns sounded again, he gazed upon the maester pleadingly, bringing the old man to a sigh.

“Fine, you are excused, lad. We will continue tomorrow.” Luwin said, as a large grin appeared on Bran who sprinted off towards the northern ramparts.

The sun was beginning to set already as Bran made his way to the gatehouse. Inside Alyn was scrambling the guards under his command, puzzling Bran.

“Alyn, what is happening? Why is everybody running around?” He asked.

The ginger-haired man, one of the most promising guards in his father’s guard looked at him with pity. “Your brothers are being chased by some monster, I’m gathering a party to ride and save them.”

Dread filled Bran as he ran to the window. Outside, in the fields beyond the castle he saw two riders, Robb and Jon, followed by a dark shape easily as large as their horses, but it ran with a grace than that of horses.

At the gates Alyn had gotten five riders and himself armoured and armed as the gates opened, and the guards galloped towards his brothers.

Then the oddest thing happened. Robb and Jon slowed their ride and stopped, and the monster approached them and then sat down on its haunches between the both of them. The sight gave pause to Alyn’s party, who also slowed down.

Bran could see Robb speak to the guardsmen, and then they all made their way to the gate, the monster in tow.

As they neared the gate, the monster’s features became more visible. A large brown and gray wolf with a rather large belly. It took a moment before Bran realized, his brothers had brought home a direwolf, and judging by the large belly she was with a litter inside of her.

Father had arrived then, looking a little out of breath, and surprised at seeing Bran there. As he gazed over the rampart, Bran saw the surprise form on his face, but quickly his gaze hardened into knowing stoicism. He felt as if there was something his brothers and father were keeping from him and perhaps everyone else. Luwin might know things as well, given his reaction to Bran’s fears earlier.

He would need to find a way to coax the answers he sought.

The riders entered the courtyard. Bran could feel the horses’ fear and anxiety in being close to a dangerous predator and the direwolf seemed every bit as fierce as Old Nan’s tales. As he gazed into the eyes of the beast, however, he found little danger, it almost seemed caring.

Robb and Jon dismounted, and the direwolf followed behind them as a nanny. They approached Bran and Father, as they waited surrounded by guards who could hardly hide their fear. A direwolf had not been seen in the North in many lifetimes, and none of them were prepared to meet such a beast.

Oddly enough, Robb and Jon seemed at ease being followed by her, as if they were used to the occurrence. A they stood across Father, the wolf sat on its hind legs. Even sat down it still towered over his brothers, and it stood a little higher than Father as well. The older boys carried smiles on their faces as Robb spoke. “Father, the Old Gods have given us a gift. Our house’s sigil manifest.”

“Aye, she is yours, father, her litter is for us, however.” Jon added almost excited by the thought. Bran couldn’t help but feel a little giddy by his brother’s words as well. If it was true, he would have a direwolf of his own. Maybe he could ride into battle. Become a legendary knight who rode a direwolf.

Father looked in awe, as he approached the beast. Bran could see him extend a trembling hand at the direwolf, who lowered her head as if giving permission to be touched. As soon as Father’s hand touched the fur on her head, his trembling stopped, and a faint smile could be seen on his face.

“Ned what in the seven hells is that beast!” A yell startled all that were surrounding the sight. From the entrance to the keep came Mother, with baby Rickon nested in her arms and Arya and Sansa hiding behind her. “Robb get away from it, now! Guards, shoot it. What are you waiting for!?” She commanded.

Father sighed as he turned towards her. “Peace my lady. Nobody is to harm her, and she will not harm us either.” He spoke with an almost childlike glint in his eye. “The boys have brought a great boon to our house. A direwolf, carrying a litter of more direwolves. Surely the Old Gods have blessed us.”

At Father’s words, Arya ran off towards the beast, and climbed on its back. The large direwolf seemed annoyed, but accommodating as Bran’s sister shrieked in joy.

“No fair, I wanted to ride her too. Bran said as he climbed on her back behind Arya.” He yelled out in mock anger, but as he sat on the furry back of the direwolf, any annoyance he might had felt lay forgotten. A direwolf rider. That would be something.

Chapter Text

Theon

Things had become strange recently. Life had been good at Winterfell, well as could be expected for a hostage like him, even though Lord Stark had always thought him his ward instead. There were pretty girls he could lay with and Robb had been easy to get along with even with being four years younger. His bastard brother, Jon, he didn’t like as much, but the lad could swing a sword with the best of them. He certainly didn’t let the age difference show in the spars they had before.

Lord Stark’s eldest daughter was a rare beauty too. A part of Theon, somewhere deep and dark inside him sometimes whispered for him to take her as a salt wife and bring her back to Pyke, and he feared had he seen a real chance, that voice would convince him. So, he had stayed away from her, hoping to avoid the temptation. The serving girls and commoner girls, he didn’t easily control himself with. Most were eager to lay with a noble, and the rest could be persuaded with a few charming words.

Theon even grew to be fond of the little Starklings, both of them running at his heels asking for help with their archery. Some days he would even relent and spend an hour or two showing them proper posture and telling them some tricks to make aiming easier.

Life had been satisfactory. Until recently that is. The dreams had started first. When they began, he was back at Pyke, a child again. A voice kept calling him deeper into the bowels of the castle. A deep whisper, as if speaking through water, filled with malice. As if Theon was just its newest toy that it would use. Despite his better judgement he had followed, almost unable to resist the call of the voice. As it grew louder, he could make out corpses piled in a storeroom, all of them long dead and decaying, as if they had been pulled out from the depths of the sea. A wolf’s howl had echoed in his mind, and he had awoken with a start.

That night he had drunk himself silly and didn’t dream. The dream had appeared again soon enough. This time it was his oldest brother, Rodrik that appeared. His body butchered and bloated; Theon imagined that it was how he looked like after he had died during the rebellion. Disregarding what feelings he might have had about his brother, the specter held nothing but anger and disappointment for his brother. ‘Greenlander dog’, ‘Traitor to your blood’, ‘Coward’. Rodrik scolded Theon for growing soft during his years in captivity, calling him a disgrace of an ironborn. A growl that shook the castle had awaken him that time.

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He had begun to spend more time with Robb after that. Even Snow was better company than remembering the dreams. Almost daily he would take them to taverns, but while he had been a man grown, the brothers were but children still. Soon enough Lord Stark had chastised him, and had forbidden them to go out more than twice per sennight.

And then another dream. This time Maron, his other older brother. They were in the throne room of Pyke, the place where his future had been decided. His brother had half his face crushed and was missing an arm past the elbow, his leg bent in an unnatural way. There were spikes sticking out of his body, but there was no blood. He looked as if he had died at sea and had been fished out a moon later. His skin was pale and lifeless, unlike his healthy tanned appearance when he was alive. His hair was damp and falling down his face, algae mixed with his locks. Water moss had begun growing upon his body, especially his armour, the gold kraken scarcely visible beneath.

Unlike Rodrik, Maron hadn’t attacked Theon with words. He called for him to remember his family, the Ironborn way of life, and the Drowned God. He told him that the Starks weren’t is allies, merely using him as a pawn to control his father.

“Do your duty as a Greyjoy.” Maron had told him, extending his intact arm. “Take my hand and accept the blessings of the Drowned God.”

Corpses appeared while Maron waited with his arm extended. On them he could see the sigils of many houses of the Iron Islands. He could see Botley men, Sunderlys, Saltcliffes, the extinct Hoares, Humbles, Ironmakers, Myres and Greyjoys as well as many other sigils and many more without livery adorning them. All of them were chanting ’What is dead may never die.’ All of them decaying and bloated, the same as his brothers.

The voice appeared in his head again urging him to take Maron’s hand, become a servant of the Drowned god. It promised him strength, power, women, respect. All things he wanted. Respect most of all. He knew many of the Northmen held little respect for Ironborn, they were great sailors and fighters at sea and they were feared. But respect was not as easily given as fear. His people were despised, even by a people largely shunned South of the Riverlands as the Northmen.

Theon had a feeling of dread, as if something bad was coming, but as the voice in his mind spoke, so did the feeling. He felt more compelled to listen, to obey. He began to extend his hand when light descended in the Throne room. A pack of giant wolves appeared and charged, driving back the corpses, and his brother, who shrieked like no man should be able to. As the wolves passed, the corruption was lifted, and lush grass grew on the wet stone floor of Pyke and then he woke.

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That day things had become different. Jon had always seen him with a measure of hostility, though he could swear now it was close to hate, mixed with pity. He wouldn’t care for the opinion of a bastard, but he wouldn’t be pitied by him. So, he had challenged him to a spar, to beat the pitying look out of Snow. A part of him admonished him for wanting to beat a child, but his pride demanded it. The voice in his hand demanded it as well and Theon’s blood boiled for satisfaction.

“Fine, Squid.” The bastard had said. “We will fight tomorrow.” Snow had then left. Theon smirked, but as he looked at Robb, there wasn’t any warmth in his friend’s eyes. No there was hate. As if Theon had done something unspeakably bad to him. Theon tried to approach and ask his friend what had him miffed, but the boy just turned away and left, the same way his brother had a moment earlier.

His brother’s words began to echo in his head. Flashes of the Starks ridiculing him, and laughing in his face began to appear, and Theon’s anger grew. So, he left the castle, and drank himself into a stupor.

He had returned past sunset, hungover and with a headache. He staggered into the great hall, and was met by Lady Stark’s disapproving gaze. She had always been courteous enough, more an aunt than a mother, but she had never approved of his less than chivalrous habits. With her were Sansa, Arya and Bran, with baby Rickon nested in her hands.

There had been an uncomfortable heaviness in the air, too uncomfortable for Theon, who took a piece of bacon, some bread, a slice of pork and left in a hurry. Some fresh air would help clear his head. Maybe he could go for a swim in the pond in the godswood. As he made his way across the courtyard, he saw light shine from the window of Lord Stark’s solar. He respected the Lord of Winterfell, that man did his duty, had the respect of all around him and had a happy family waiting for him. Sometimes Theon wished he was born in the North, to a direwolf instead of a kraken, but such thoughts quickly disappeared as the voice chastised him for betraying his kin.

He went to his chambers, eating his few scraps of dinner by the window. The cold fresh air helping the headache.

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The next day had confirmed Theon’s belief. Things had indeed become strange. Just two days ago he could easily match Snow in a spar. That day, he had been thoroughly trounced. Every strike he had made had been quickly parried, and the counters had been devastating. He would surely be nursing a few bruises after that, but what was truly unsettling was that every time the bastard had struck him, Theon could imagine himself being cut apart.

As he lay on the ground, he could see the two brothers leave, sullen and cold faced, but he could swear he could see satisfaction in their eyes.

After that, the boys had seldom appeared in the practice yard. He would barely see them during meals, as they had all but locked themselves in the library of the old keep. Whenever he could meet them, they would hastily excuse themselves, and walk away, leaving him confused. What in the world had changed. At least the anger in their eyes when they saw him seemed to have lessened.

That evening he had decided to visit Lord Stark and speak to him about the boys.

“Lord Stark, may I speak with you?” Theon asked as he entered the lord’s solar.

“Aye, lad. What is it?” Lord Stark replied.

“Its just that, Robb has been distant lately. I never did get along much with Jon, but recently they have been avoiding me. They don’t even have drills in the practice yard these days.” Theon asked, a little flustered to be complaining to his keeper.

Lord Stark smiled at him; his eyes filled with understanding. “The boys have an important task. When it is complete perhaps things will return to how they were between you.” He had known something. Something they wouldn’t tell him.

“Perhaps I can assist them with their task, my Lord.” Theon pushed.

Lord Stark sighed. “One day, you will be Lord of the Iron Islands. Tell me, Theon, how much do you remember of your father, of Pyke?”

Theon blinked in confusion. Lord Stark gazed at him with those piercing eyes the Starks all shared, as if they could peer right into your soul. Recently, Robb and Snow had mastered that look as well, he remembered. He fidgeted, before finally speaking. “I remember little, most of my memories are during the rebellion, so he was cold, distant, more so after Rodrik died. He wanted to keep to the old ways of our people.”

Lord Stark nodded. “And what do you remember of the Ironborn ways?” He asked.

Theon’s eyes shifted uncertainly. Why was he asking him these questions. Had his father rebelled again, was that why things had changed? “M-My father told me that an ironborn needed to be strong, to earn what was his. The sea is our domain and none are our equal on the waves. Our people are hardy and fierce, as strong as iron. Our captains are Lords on their ships and few ships are better than our fleets.”

“And did your father tell you anything of the Old Way?” Lord Stark asked again.

“Only that it is what made our people strong, brought prosperity to the Iron Islands. The New ways would make our people docile and meek, merely sheep to be slaughtered.”

Lord Stark sighed. There was disappointment in his voice. “It is my fault for not teaching you about your people sooner. I have taught you along with Robb about the responsibilities of a Lord, and his duties, but you know not the people you would rule. The Old Way is the way of raiding and pillaging. Paying the iron price as your people would say. It means taking what you want as long as you are strong enough to take it by sword. Men and women taken from their homes, made thralls or salt wives, no matter if a woman is married or a mother. Raping “Greenlander” women without consequence and piracy. Putting villages to the torch after slaughtering the people. These are the Old Ways your father wants.”

Theon was taken aback. Lord Stark had spoken harshly of his people’s ways. Fury began to build in him, and he could hear the whispers of the voice grow louder. “Stupid Greenlander, what could he know of our ways.” It spoke. “They want to leash us and make us their dogs. They are afraid of our might.”

Theon’s anger grew at the words, but then he heard Lord Stark speak. “What kind of man do you want to be, Theon?”

That single question was like pouring water over a fire, his anger doused, the voice silenced. Theon didn’t have the answer. He just gazed in front of him.

“Think on it lad, learn who you are, and learn about your people, I will have Luwin teach you.” Lord Stark spoke, and with the final words, Theon knew he was telling him his audience was done for tonight.

That night he dreamed. Again, at Pyke, this time on the shores of the island, with both his brothers as well as his father and uncles were present, the latter not yet decayed or exposed to the sea. Behind them, were bound the Stark family, held by living corpses of men bearing sigils of his father’s bannermen. Then they began pushing their heads into the water. Robb struggled, but was overpowered by his undead jailers. Jon and Arya as well. Sansa cried and begged for Theon to help them, but he was unable to move. It was as if he was a spectator in his own body, something else controlling his movements. They were drowning them, even the babe. Lady Stark just gazed upon him silently, grief and fury in her piercing blue eyes. Then as her head was being pushed underwater, she cursed them with words he would never have expected the dignified woman to utter.

Finally, he stood in front of Lord Stark. He was struggling against his captors, but they proved too much for even the rugged northman. They only kept him kneeling, with his legs submerged, as if waiting for an order.

Then his father’s voice echoed all around him. “Prove yourself, my son. Renounce the greenlanders and embrace our ways. Kill him and prove yourself a servant of the Drowned God.”

At those words, Theon’s body moved, grasping the lord by his hair, and pushing his head down under the waves. The man struggled, just long enough to utter his final words, before he drowned. “Is this the kind of man you want to be?”

He awoke before there was any light in the sky, drenched in sweat, his heart thumping in his chest.

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After that night, Theon had taken to learning about his home in detail. What he had found was enlightening. Maester Luwin had been pleased by his initiative to learn and had provided many accounts of his people. The majority of the accounts were reports of raids made by their warriors. Villages slaughtered, pillaged and razed, the only survivors taken as thralls and salt wives for the raiders and their Lords. Bodies of children left on the shores, drowned as sacrifice to their god.

Some accounts were tamer than others, but accounts of his uncle Euron made his skin crawl. He barely remembered his uncle, but reports of his deeds made his desire to meet the man, disappear. Besides the usual death and destruction his people wrought on the mainlanders, Euron had been particularly inventive in his cruelty.

While others simply murdered and raped and pillaged, he would go out of his way to maim and dismember his victims. Men had their manhoods removed while watching ironborn have their way with their wives and daughters, before having their eyes burned out by his uncle. Women would be raped and then hot iron rods inserted to make sure they would bear no children.

They would take salt wives and rape them as their families were hanged or drowned in front of them, only to later get tired of them and throw them overboard.

Theon had been indifferent to cruelty growing up. As a child on Pyke, he had been no stranger to sacrifices to the Drowned god or executions on his father’s orders. Nor did he care much, or know much about smallfolk. The tales he had been reading had made even him feel pity for the poor sods.

As he came to understood why the other kingdoms held a great dislike for ironborn, he increasingly sympathized with his grandfather’s decision to embrace change and slowly let the Old ways die.

An essay made by some maester made the argument that the Iron Islands had not the means to support their population, thus they depended on imported goods such as food, fabric, wood and medicine. For that reason, the ironborn raided the coasts, and pillaged all they could find. Yet Theon remembered little of food and fabric being carried out of returning ships. Only coin, weapons and people were being delivered by raiders.

Quellon Greyjoy had decided to use the massive fleets of his lands for trade or as escorts to mainlander trade fleets, which would bring wealth and supplies back to his people. His father had turned away from such ideas, embracing the old ways of paying the ‘iron price’.

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Sounds from the courtyard took him out of his focus. Something was happening down there that had men running around in a hurry. So, the heir of the Iron Islands closed the dusty old tome that Luwin had set aside for him that day, and hurried down.

He made it just in time to witness Robb and Jon ride past the northern gate, with a massive wolf trotting on their horses’ heels.

Lord Stark was there to welcome the boys, along with Bran and some guards. All of them were in awe of the massive wolf, seemingly not paying any heed, nor feeling any danger from the men armed and ready to attack the beast.

“Father, the Old Gods have given us a gift. Our house’s sigil manifest.” Robb had spoken, a shadow of a smile on his lips visible as he spoke. Lord Stark’s eyes widened as his mouth almost gaped in surprise.

“Aye, she is yours, father, her litter is for us, however.” Snow added, a hint of joy in his voice, a rarity to the usually sullen lad.

That was when Theon took a real look at the beast. The direwolf was the one that had woken him from one of his dreams. Suddenly he realized a new meaning to the dreams he was having. Lord Stark’s words from his last dream rang in his mind, as he felt the deep blue eyes of the direwolf peer into him. They were so pure, such a cold blue they were almost glowing, and they were giving Theon a knowing gaze. He couldn’t help but shudder beneath it.

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That night there was a different dream. He stood in front of his father and brothers, their gazes cast down. It was as if they were in a daze. Suddenly, his brothers jerked up, and rushed him, grabbing him by his arms. They held him tight, and he could feel pangs of pain from the grip. His father’s gaze lifted and looked at him, though it felt as if he didn’t see Theon there. “The Drowned God claims you. You have the privilege to be chosen as his servant.” He spoke, as his brother began dragging him. A ship appeared on a beach. The planks were wet and rotting, the sails ragged and covered in sea weed. He could see several holes on the hull, as if she had been sunk in a battle. Theon knew, he would be lost if he boarded the vessel, bound to the Drowned god and his ways forever. Lord Stark’s voice boomed in his mind again, loud as waves crashing during a storm.” What kind of man do you want to be Theon” it boomed. Over and over, it repeated, until it didn’t sound like Lord Stark anymore. It was ancient, powerful… natural. To the side, Robb appeared, then Jon. Only, it wasn’t the children he remembered. Aye they still looked much like them, but taller, older, stronger, as if a few years had passed. He saw scars on their faces and arms, and armour on their chests. Robb was wearing a plate with his family’s direwolf on it, a fur cape flowing down, held by a direwolf’s head pin. A beard had been neatly trimmed on his face. On his head rested a bronze circlet covered in runes with nine black iron spikes shaped like longswords on it.

Jon was clad all in black, his beard and hair messier than Robb, he wore no crown nor any fine cloaks or clothes. He looked as every member of the Night’s Watch that had visiter Winterfell since he had been there. At his side however, was a blade with a white wolfshead pommel with ruby eyes. What little he could see from the blade was a ripple pattern he had only seen while carrying Ice for Lord Stark as he beheaded criminals. A Valyrian Steel sword.

 At their sides were direwolves. One was as grey as smoke, with deep yellow eyes, the other as white as snow with eyes the colour of weirwood sap. Behind them appeared Lord Stark, Ice on his back with the direwolf from the courtyard making up the rear. They looked in confusion at their surroundings, before their gazes settled on Theon. He saw the hostility in the boy’s eyes, before they noticed the men holding him. Robb’s face paled in surprise, Lord Stark’s as well. Jon only narrowed his eyes, as he gripped his sword.

“Get away from them, Greyjoy.” The dark-haired young man ordered. Robb and Lord Stark turned their heads towards Jon, but one look exchanged between the three had all of them prepared for battle, the three direwolves all bristling and growling at Theon’s direction, though he believed it was more aimed towards his brother’s than him.

Theon’s heart thumped. He needed to make a choice. It was the hardest choice one could make. His blood on one side, a father that had lost him due to his folly. Brothers that had perished for the same mistakes. On the other side were people he had grown up with. The man and boys he rode his first horse with, learnt to use a bow, hunted his first kill with. Friends he could brag about his latest conquest in Wintertown to. Good, honourable men, ones who wouldn’t loot and pillage or rape and slaughter villages and towns and enslave the survivors.

Before he had even thought about it, he had stopped moving. His brother’s had begun to drag him. He knew what sort of life he preferred. A good, peaceful and prosperous life, with a loving family to stand by his bedside when he grew old and grey and was ready to meet the gods. A life of pillaging and killing to feed himself until the next raid and eternity as a servant of a god relishing pain and suffering didn’t seem as desirable as his father had claimed.

So, he stood his ground. Shocked looks appeared on Maron and Rodrik’s faces, and his father was furious. “You betray your own blood?” He asked, voice trembling with rage. “You couldn’t have become a bigger disappointment.” He added with a growl.

At that moment drowned corpses began charging out of the battered ship, as a voice as if from beneath the waves spoke. “You refuse my grace. You will die like the mutts behind you.”

Two shadows passed him, tackling his brothers. The direwolves standing at his friends’ sides had moved without sound, and tore the throats of his dead brothers. Behind them, Jon and Robb charged past him, swinging their swords with deadly precision. Lord Stark was only a step behind them as he swung his massive Valyrian Steel greatsword in broad cleaving stokes, each dismembering at least one of the dead men.

In the fray, he found himself pushed down, with a man on top of him, a dagger covered in corals in his hands as he began to thrust it at Theon’s heart.

Theon fought for his life, for he had a feeling that a wound from that dagger, would doom him to an eternity of service to the Drowned God, just as it had his family. He realized he was stronger than his opponent and struggled the dagger from his grip, as he got back on his feet. It was then that he saw his opponent’s face.

His father, fighting him in a frenzy, only hate in his eyes. The shock made him slow to react, as a punch brought him back on the ground, with Balon struggling to get the dagger.

Theon struck with his fists; however, his blows didn’t even faze his father, who took the dagger from the ground and was again trying to kill his son.

With the last of his strength, he pushed back his father’s arms, the dagger inching away from his heart with every beat, but his father had the advantage as he leveraged more weight against Theon.

“Father, stop this, would you truly kill your own blood?” Theon begged.

“A faithless cur like you is no son of mine. The Drowned God has given life to our people, our fleets prosper because of his grace. You have brought shame to our House; it is my duty to sacrifice you to him.” His father replied in a voice filled with madness.

Theon managed to unbalance his father, pushing the dagger to one side as his father fell on top of him. He then delivered an elbow to Balon’s face, making him drop the weapon. A strike with his fists had his father sprawled on his back, and then the young man returned all the blows he had received with vengeance.

“This god of yours has crippled our people.” Theon grunted as he continued pummeling his father’s face. “Our children are starving, while our men sail to rape and pillage, bringing back trinkets and baubles and slaves they had fancied.”

He grabbed Balon by the decaying collar of his doublet, and headbutted him. “None dare trade with us for fear of being raided on route to their destination. The iron we offer sits useless in our stockpiles as there is no one to buy it, for we prefer to take what we want.” Another two blows followed. “Our lands are being worked by thralls, who die of exhaustion, while ironborn think sowing and harvesting a task beneath them, so they starve should they fail to gather enough thralls to make the harvest.” He spoke between gasps, as his fury faded, foul smelling blood dripping from his fingers. His father’s ruined face only stared at him silently with contempt.

“I will take my birthright as ruler of the islands, and bring true prosperity to our people. Our coffers will be brimming with food and coin, and our fleets will tower over all that would challenge us. But we will not live as petty bandits, scrounging for scraps from the mainland, we will trade, sail to new lands and become greater than ever before.” Theon spoke as he rose, his words echoing across the shore, as he found a goal to strive for.

He took several steps away from his father and surveyed the battle before him. The number of corpses had hardly lessened, every man cut down by his friends and their father being replaced by two more poor sods charging out of that accursed boat.

He staggered forward, and then a howl echoed all around him. Lord Stark’s direwolf joined the battle, ripping apart bodies that had threatened her master. Then a faint chime began to sound beneath him, as a silvery ray of light descended and broke the overcast sky of Pyke. From the light, a bow and quiver descended, the bow a silvery white with blood red lines running through it. He took it. The weapon was lighter than any bow he had lifted, and he recognized the weirwood used for its creation. The quiver was bronze inlayed with silver, and each arrow was made from weirwood, with dark almost crystal tips.

Suddenly a pair of drowned men charged him giving Theon no time to admire the masterful craftsmanship of the weapon, instead he took to arrows, and quickly drew and loosed the first one, hitting the closest enemy right through the heart. It was then that something strange happened. The man burst into flames, as he shrieked an inhuman sound. Theon had no time to wonder at the event as he repeated the action, finishing the last enemy who died screaming as his companion.

He then began loosing arrows with haste, protecting the backs of the Starks, as the four men and the direwolves held a line against a hoard of drowned.

It wasn’t long before Theon was down to his last arrow. An enemy was sprinting to the side of Robb, who was occupied by two drowned already. He took aim, but then a gentle wind blew, carrying a single red weirwood leaf. It flew to the deck of the ship, and stayed stuck on its mast, as if creating a target for him to aim for.

In a flash he lifted his aim, and loosed the arrow, which soared through the air in an arc and buried itself halfway into the wood.

A deep howl of pain echoed as the shore shook, the drowned shrieking as they dropped to the ground flailing as if on fire.

A blazing white flame burst from the arrow, engulfing the ship in the blink of an eye, turning it to cinders. The drowned all became dried husks as they turned to ash, leaving Theon alone with the Starks and their wolves.

There were questions he wanted answered, but something dragged him towards the remains of the ship. He rushed towards it, and like a madman began to throw around charred beams, ignoring the burning pain in his hands. Then he reached the very center of the ship. There in a pile of ash, stood a weirwood sapling.

For some reason, Theon found himself weeping. He wasn’t sad, or angry, he only felt relief, yet he still wept silently. “Perhaps this time around, you will keep your honour.” He heard Robb’s voice speak, and turned his head around. Robb and Jon stood behind him, their direwolves at their sides, their arms resting on their blades, nestled in the sands, their faces sullen and serious. Their appearance reminded him of the statues of the kings of Winter in the crypts. In their eyes, however he didn’t see the fury the boys both showed when they looked at him recently. Lord Stark stood behind them, much the same way, but Theon could see approval in his gaze.

He wanted to ask them what they meant by keeping his honour this time around, but the world turned white, as only the sapling remained. Relief washed over him, as he felt wariness that he didn’t even knew he felt leave him. Theon was at peace, and then he woke.

Unlike the mornings after he had dreamt these dreams, this time he felt at peace. He felt no dread, it wasn’t as if he was on a ledge about to fall into unknown depths. He felt rested, better than he could ever remember feeling.

Suddenly he felt something scratch his leg beneath his covers, so he turned them to the side. Laying next to him, was the weirwood bow, with a quiver full of arrows. Theon’s eyes widened in shock, as his heart thumped and questions formed in his mind in droves.

Three thumps sounded at his door, followed by it opening. The two Stark boys entered his chambers. “Theon, we need to speak to you.” Robb said, his voice more serious than a ten- and one-year old child should be able to sound.

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Asha

A scream woke her as she pushed away the arm of the thrall she had laid with, from her. The young man was comely, blonde haired and blue eyed, and well built, which is why she had chosen him after docking at Lordsport the day before.

The lad was barely aware of what was happening, as Asha jumped out of the bed, quickly putting on her shirt and breeches. She didn’t bother putting on her boots as she ran through the hallways towards the origin of the screaming.

Dread filled her as she drew closer. The screaming was coming from the Lord’s chambers. Her father’s chambers. She barged inside, and was met with several guardsmen holding down her father, who flailed in a frenzy, as the maester attempted to examine him. “Ill kill him!” He yelled out in a fit of madness. “Ill drown that little traitor myself!”

“Calm yourself my Lord.” Maester Wendamyr spoke. “It was only a dream.”

“What has happened?” Asha asked.

“The Lord woke up screamin’ m’lady.” One of the guards answered. “We tried calming him but he punched out three teeth outta poor Rudy there.” He pointed towards another guard who was wiping a bloodied lip with a cloth. “So, we called the maester to calm ‘im.”

Asha moved to her father’s bedside. “Father, what has happened? Why are you so distraught?” She asked with worry.

Suddenly Balon stopped flailing and screaming threats, as he gazed at his daughter. In his gaze, Asha saw only madness. He started laughing. “Asha, my daughter. Kill that little shit.” He spoke cackling.

Asha just gazed at him, in silence, shocked at the state her father had fallen into. “Kill that faithless scum or I will have you all drowned!” He yelled out.

There weren’t many things that would make Asha feel fear in the world. The madness-filled eyes of her father as he raved about killing someone, while threatening death to all around him filled her with dread. What happened next made her skin crawl as a cold sweat dripped from her brow. Her father stopped struggling, sat upright in his bed, as still as a corpse and spoke with a chilling voice she didn’t believe a man able to speak with. “The Drowned God demands his sacrifice.” Then he fell back into the bed, and was asleep again and no matter what they tried he would not wake.

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Unknown

The struggling of the woman who’s head he was holding beneath the waves stopped. As he let go of her, she floated slumped in the shallow water as the rest of his crew finished off the survivors. Another raid on unknown lands, another village slaughtered and its people killed or sacrificed to the Drowned God.

Their captain stood, watching over the horizon, unnaturally still, his one eye glimmering. The crew watched on in silence none able to speak to the man. Suddenly, he twitched, and a malevolent smile appeared on his pale blue lips.

He made his way to one of the longboats resting on the shore, and climbed on it. “My birthright awaits!” He called out gazing out to sea. “We sail for home!” He stated mirthfully, as the crew wordlessly obeyed his orders.

Chapter Text

 Bran

Days passed quickly. Father’s direwolf, who he named Winter, brought her pups into the world. Six of them she whelped, one for each of the Stark children, even Jon. His elder brothers didn’t even think about choices and took their wolves with hardly a glance. Jon took a snowy white pup with red eyes. He was the only pup that made no sounds. Jon named him Ghost, a fitting name for the silent wolf. Robb took one of the male wolves with gray fur. Greywind. Sansa took the smallest of the litter, and named her Lady. The name fit for his sister’s pet. Arya named her after the Rhoynish princess that took her people to Dorne, Nymeria. Bran expected his other sister to give the wolf the name of one of her idols.

Rickon was too little to choose or name his pup, so Jon and Robb gave him the scruffy black one. To Bran it looked like it had angry eyes, but he hoped he was imagining it. All that was left was the name of his wolf. He just couldn’t think of a name he found fitting for his. It was an infuriating problem for him, so much so that he could barely focus on maester Luwin’s lecture, instead he was deep in thought searching for the name of his direwolf.

The clanging of steel snapped him back to reality, followed by the voices of Jon and Robb.

“Come on then, Stark. Surely you can do better than that?” Jon spoke in the distance.

Another sequence of steel hitting steel, and Robb’s voice sounded. “How’s that, Snow? Good enough for you?”

Ser Rodrik had allowed them use of steel swords, though blunt, tourney swords, instead of the wooden practice one’s children were taught with. Bran heard one of the stableboys say that Father himself asked the master at arms to allow them their use.

“Perhaps a short recess is in order, Bran.” Maester Luwin spoke suddenly, making Bran turn towards the old man. He could see the annoyance written on his face as he held his arms crossed and inside his sleeves.

“I’m sorry, maester. I can’t seem to focus today. I will excuse myself by your leave.” Bran replied, quickly rising from his chair, and running towards the practice ground. Surely watching his brothers spar would take his mind off of thinking of the name for his wolf.

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The courtyard was crowded. Almost too crowded for midday. Guardsmen, servants, laborers and courtiers were spectating his brothers’ bout. Bran was slightly irked by the sheer amount of people there, surely a few dozen were assembled, but he was also mostly curious. His brothers were still beginners in sword fighting, there was no reason for that much of an audience.

He didn’t want to squeeze past so many people, so he decided to climb to the ramparts overlooking the courtyard. There he found his sister Arya who was too busy cheering on the boys to notice Bran approach.

“Mother will be wroth with you for skipping your lectures with septa Mordane, again.” He said.

“That old crone can go stuff her lessons down her throat. Watching Robb and Jon down there is much more fun than stitching.” She replied. Bran could imagine another day where Arya had gotten scolded for her bad stitching or knitting and had escaped the chambers where the septa taught the future ladies of the court the feminine arts.

For all Bran’s opinion was worth, he liked Arya better as she was, rather than a ‘proper’ lady like Sansa.

“You won’t tell her that I’m here, will you?” She continued, with a pleading look.

Bran made an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. “I suppose mother doesn’t have to learn that you avoided your lessons from me.”

A large grin appeared on his sister as she gave him a bone crushing hug that took the air out of Bran. “Thank you!” She yelled before letting him go.

“So…” Bran said between breaths. “How are bouts going?”

Arya’s grin grew as she gazed at Bran with eyes filled with excitement. “It’s been amazing. Jon bested Alyn and Harwin, and managed to fight Jory to a tie. Robb too, he fought against Desmond, Hallis and two of the newer guards, besting them all. Then they went at it against each other. They’ve been at it for a while now.”

Brans eyes went wide as he gazed at Arya with a mixture of envy and amazement. He too wished to fight in the yard, to become the best swordsman and knight in the Seven Kingdoms. He longed for a life of adventure and excitement and could barely wait for the day that he could join his brothers and chase his dreams.

He turned his gaze to the yard, where his two brothers had locked swords. Robb managed to push back Jon, who gave up the contest of strength, preferring to create distance between them. The eldest pushed his advantage, delivering strong blows that Jon dodged expertly, deflecting those that came too close to be safely dodged.

Bran jumped to his feet as a chance appeared for the raven-haired boy. A crushing blow from Robb, deflected, shattering his posture and in the blink of an eye he was scrambling to defend against the quick blows from his brother. All the ground he had gained was lost as he persevered the onslaught, he had exposed himself to.

On and on the bout went, much longer than the usual exchange that was settled in but a few strikes as the two brothers fought better than a pair of ten- and two-year-olds should have been able to. Arya was beside herself with excitement, the pride she held for her brothers visible in her ever-growing grin.

As the match went on, Bran decided. He cared not that he hadn’t even seen his eight-name day. He would hound his brothers for as long as he had to until they agreed to show him how to swing a sword.

The bout ended in a blink. A blow from Robb was deflected and the counter was too quick even for the Stark heir to block. A victorious grin on Jon’s face as Robb yielded wearing a resigned smile, before the brothers grasped their arms. Words that were too far away for Bran to hear were said and the pair left the practice yard, Theon following close after them.

That had been another sudden change. He had noticed the coldness both his brothers had shown the Ironborn ward of their father. He hadn’t been surprised to see that from Jon, as Theon had always pushed against Jon’s status, but Robb and he had been fast friends, the former’s change in attitude had been like a lightning strike in a clear sky. And then another change. Theon seemed less full of himself; Robb seemed to have forgiven him for whatever blunder he had done. Even Jon seemed less prickly around the Ironborn.

“Arya? Seven help me when I find that girl…” A familiar voice brought Bran back from his thoughts. He turned towards his sister, who gazed back with an ashen face.

“Mother!?” She spoke, grabbing Bran’s arm, suddenly pulling him towards the guard tower. “Quickly before we’re sent to our rooms without dessert for a moon.”

“W-Wait, Arya!” Bran yelled out as he scrambled to keep his balance as he was dragged away.

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Eddard

Ned was looking out of the window in his solar, as the people of Winterfell scurried about with their duties. Days had passed quickly after his sons had revealed that they knew of a dark future. Weeks turned into months and slowly the excitement settled around Winterfell. His direwolf, Winter, had brought into the world a litter of six pups. One for all of the Stark children and their mother for his own.

The little pups seemed to bond almost instantly with his children. The white one that made no sound stumbled his way to Jon almost straight out of the womb. The face his son made had been of a man meeting a long-lost friend. Same for Robb when he found his wolf. They had named them Ghost and Grey Wind respectively.

Sansa called her Lady, and had taken to training her pup to be every bit as well-mannered as Ned’s eldest daughter. Arya couldn’t have chosen a more different inspiration. Her wolf bore the name of the Rhoynish warrior queen, Nymeria who had led her people to Dorne many centuries ago.

Rickon had wanted to name his scruffy, black wolf, the largest of the litter Shaggydog, much to Jon and Robb’s dismay. His elder brothers had managed to convince Ned’s youngest a more fitting name for a direwolf, Shadow. Even Ned had to admit the name fit the beast, with only a pair of bright golden eyes visible on his otherwise purely dark form.

Bran was the only one who had trouble naming his wolf. Robb had known the name the younger boy had chosen in another time, but said nothing, stating that he wanted Bran to choose the name himself.

In the end the pack of wolves gave his castle a sort of liveliness that he hadn’t even realized was missing. Already word had spread across the North about the blessings of the Old Gods, giving their liege lord and his house their sigil as protectors and he could see a feeling of security build among the smallfolk living in the Wintertown and villages around Winterfell.

Robb and Jon spent their days looking through old books and writings in the library of the First Keep, as well as having guards scour the ruin for any secrets it may hold. Already they had found a forgotten old armory filled with rusted weapons and armour, yet some of the breastplates were bronze, carved with runes in the Old Tongue and were in surprisingly in decent condition. The iron and steel, even rusted was a boon. Mikken and the smiths could melt and reforge the scraps and outfit a decent number of men, but the real boon were the dozen bows they found. Large war bows made out of weirwood, had stood the test of time, and with just a new string were ready to be used. A pair of quivers had also been made of weirwood, and were all that had survived the centuries. Only arrowheads were left as many of the leather and regular wood quivers had rotted or been eaten by rats, and the shafts of the arrows were mostly decayed as well. In the weirwood quivers, they found strange arrowheads, that Luwin later identified as made from dragonglass.

Robb and Jon had suggested that the bows be given to some of their best marksmen, and Ned had no objection to it. Theon already had his own weirwood bow, and Ned had witnessed its mystical power first hand in that dream or vision he had been shown of the Drowned god and what became of those that worshipped him.

They thought long into many nights on what the vision meant. Theon was adamant it was no ordinary dream, but help from the Old Gods, as well as a warning. Jon had agreed with Ned’s ward, a surprise to all in the room, and they brought another headache into their already perilous future.

One of the bows went to Cayn, a guardsman in Ned’s service for nearly a decade now. The man was one of his most experienced men, and one of the best marksmen in his service. The other was given to one of the newly recruited guards. A young lad named Gabrin. A son of a hunter, barely a man grown, the lad had more experience as well as skill than most of his men. His height and large build would allow him to wield the large weirwood bow without much difficulty. Jon had reserved one of the bows, revealing his intent to find and bring his companions from his life in the Night’s Watch to Winterfell, hoping to have them as his sworn swords.

Surrounded by rapists, murderers and criminals, his son had claimed them to be good men and one of them had been as good a marksman as Theon. A comment that had brought a scoff from the Ironborn.

Chests of gems, gold, silver and copper had been found in a storeroom that Bran had found while trying to find his brothers. The boy had claimed that he had followed a pair of guards there, yet none had even known of that corridor of the keep. The coins had predated the conquest and many of them would have to be melted down and minted anew. He would have to discuss that issue with Lord Manderly as the Lord of White Harbour had one of the remaining mints in the North. Knowing that Winter was atleast half a decade off, and that it would likely last long, much of the funds would be used for new greenhouses, as well as rebuilding Moat Cailin and Queenscrown when he could speak to Jeor Mormont and manage to convince him of Jon’s plans for the Watch.

About half a hundred books as well as countless documents were found in decent condition, and Luwin and his scribes were working long hours on copying them before time destroyed them. All but a few were written in the Old Tongue, and Luwin and Jon’s rudimentary understanding was insufficient and Old Nan couldn’t read the runes. The maester had offered to consult his order in Oldtown on learning the language properly.

There were still the family matters Ned dreaded to think about. Catelyn had been hounding him about Jon, and how the boy should be sent away. Jon as well as Robb were different in subtle but unmistakable ways. Both had confidence. There was little uncertainty and when together even Ned had difficulty resisting their flow. The pair worked as if two parts of a whole. They had an almost miraculous improvement to their martial skills and needed little instruction in their scholarly studies.

Ned supposed that Jon’s newfound confidence and his natural leadership that had been awakened in his other life seemed like a threat to his wife. Her increased dislike for Jon had already given her Robb’s anger. His eldest had avoided her as much as possible without seeming cruel and when Arya and Bran found out they had been wroth with her as well. Perhaps if he told her the secret about the boy, that hate would lessen. She might even come to accept the boy. That brought another headache, Jon had a right to know. Yet the Lord of Winterfell feared the response of his son. Would he hate him, would he understand why Ned had kept it from him?

A knock on the door took Ned out of his thoughts. He found himself lost in thought much more often recently. “Come.” He spoke as he sat on his desk.

Luwin came in, bringing with him a stack of parchment. Raven scrolls. “My apologies for interrupting you my Lord, but I have finished assembling the replies of your invitations for Robb and Jon’s nameday celebration.”

That’s right, another of his headaches. The boys were about to turn three and ten. Which meant that time was catching up to them. He had so much work to do to prepare for the future. He still didn’t know how to warn Jon Arryn without sounding like a madman. Then there were the celebrations. Robb and Jon had planned them as an excellent opportunity to speak to his vassals about future plans as the boys were unwilling to wait for the annual harvest festival gathering.

To make matters harder, Robb had insisted that Jon had his nameday celebration along with him. A request that had Catelyn almost faint from anger. Gods he had to bring his House in order. He would talk to his wife in the evening. Now he had to deal with his banners.

“Very good, Luwin. What do they say?” Ned asked.

“The Hand regrets to inform you that because of a fever outbreak in King’s Landing, he or king Robert and their families will be unable to attend.” The maester said. His hope that he could somehow manage to warn his foster father and closest friend in person was destroyed in a flash.

Ned sighed. “I had hoped that they would make the journey, but I expected this. At least it will save us some coin without Robert drinking and eating enough for a small village” Ned chuckled a bit. He found that he missed his old friend, as well as his foster father. The thought that he wouldn’t see Jon again, and that he would see the shell of a man that Robert had turned into filled him with dread, further strengthening his resolve to attempt to save them.

“What else is there?” He asked the maester.

“Lord Royce notified us of his arrival, his youngest had decided to join the Night’s Watch and the name day celebrations are a good way to send the lad off.” Ned’s mind flashed to Jon’s tale. The young Royce boy had been in a ranging party that had been beset by the Others. The only survivor later deserted and Ned himself had swung the blade that beheaded the man. Perhaps the lad could be saved in the end. “Domeric Bolton shall be riding with them from the Redfort. They’ll meet up with Lord Roose Bolton before arriving at Winterfell.” Luwin continued. Ned knew little of the Bolton heir, mostly what his sons had told him. He had resembled his father only in appearance and had hoped to be a true knight. Unfortunately, the lad had perished from an illness of the bowels after he had met his bastard brother. A cruel and vicious boy. Jon believed that the bastard had murdered his half-brother in the hopes of taking his place as the heir to the Dreadfort. If there would be any truth to the matter, Domeric was another he and his sons needed to save, if only to save the North from the madness of Ramsay Snow.

“That is good Luwin, I had hoped to meet Lord Yohn as well as Roose’s boy.” Ned replied.

“Lord Hoster and Edmure Tully will also be attending my Lord.” Luwin added. That would be a headache. Catelyn had insisted on her family attending the great celebrations as Ned had already invited all the Northern Lords, Benjen and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, as well as Lords from the Vale. It would have been unfair to deny her family the chance to meet her children. The Riverlands could be a steadfast ally, as Robb’s other future had proven. Ned barely dared to hope that Cat’s dislike of bastards didn’t run in her family. “They will be bringing a modest escort of Lord Blackwood as well as a dozen household knights. Lord Blackwood is also bringing his sons. Lord Tully claimed that Lord Tytos specifically requested to accompany him to Winterfell as he had business to discuss with you, my Lord.”

Ned stroked his beard in thought. “I wonder what Tytos wants…. The Blackwoods are a noble house that hails from the North. From what Robb told me, they were loyal bannermen to him and his uncle in the future. It may turn out well to include them.” The Blackwoods had never had any outstanding ties to the North after their migration South. They had kept the old gods as their own and Raventree Hall held one of the last few Heart trees South of the neck.

He got up from his chair and moved again towards his window. “What of my bannermen, Luwin?” He asked as he gazed down where Bran had appeared and was speaking with his brothers. It brought a smile to his face. He wanted his children to grow up close, to protect and care for each other.

“We received a raven from the mountain clans. They have started their journey from the Northern Mountains. Lord Morgan Liddle requested a hunt in the wolfswood during his stay and Lord Hugo Wull hopes there will be enough ale.” Luwin said with a smile. The mountain clans had always been the most loyal of his bannermen. Ned’s father always claimed they kept to the old ways of the First Men. From before the dragons. Before even the Andals had sailed ashore Westeros. A hard people to gain favour with, but one who’s memories are long and loyalties deep.

“Lord Cerwyn and his heir shall be arriving on in the morning and Lords Hornwood and Tallhart will be arriving with their heirs in less than a week. Lord Manderly will arrive in two, as he has taken a ship up the White Knife.” Luwin added. “Most of your bannermen should be in Winterfell by the moon’s turn my Lord.” Luwin finished.

“Most, but not all. Have any refused the summons?” Ned asked.

“We have received no reply from Houses Dustin and Ryswell. Our raven sent for Greywater Watch returned with the seal unbroken. We were unable to reach Lord Reed.”

One of his longest headaches as Lord of Winterfell. Barbrey Dustin and her grudge. He wished to make amends for leaving William’s bones to rest in Dorne, only bringing back his horse. Along with her House getting rejected as a match for his late brother Brandon, who had already taken her maidenhead, the Ryswells and Barbrey had good reason to hate the Starks. Robb had said that when he went to war, Barrowtown and the Rills only provided a token force. No Ryswell cavalry and no Dustin pikes, as well as the good number of levies both houses could muster along with the smaller bannermen sworn to them. Whats more, Jon claimed that both houses had joined the Boltons after their betrayal of Robb.

Ned remembered that Barbray’s sister was married to Roose Bolton, however she died of a fever several years ago. His son Domeric was fostered in Barrowtown as a page until a year ago, when he went on to squire for Lord Redfort.

“A raven cannot reach Greywater Watch, Luwin. The keep is never in the same place, as it is built upon a crannog and moves through the swamps. But Howland will know of the summons. I will deal with Barbrey and Lord Ryswell at a later date, however. For now, we need to prepare for our guests and their retinues.”

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Benjen

They were following their prey through the Haunted Forest. A band of wildlings had managed to sneak past the Wall. They had used longboats to sail past Eastwatch and had raided and pillaged a village on the coast of the Bay of Seals.

The villagers had managed to push back the raiders, felling several, while taking few losses however some managed to get away, taking with them several of the village women and girls. It had been a quick raid, with little fighting. A rider had arrived to Eastwatch a week ago, and a day later a raven had been sent to Castle Black. Lord Mormont had Benjen and a ranging party of ten men scour the Gift for the wildlings. It had taken them two days of riding to reach the village, where the elder had shown them some of the wildling corpses. Rattleshirt’s men. Some of the most savage among the wildlings.

They had split into two groups. One would follow the coast, and the other scour the gift to the Wall. The wildling party wouldn’t have been able to get far by foot, especially with their prize. A day later, Benjen’s party found one of the longboats abandoned. The Wildlings had lost a few too many men to bring it with them. So, they had made for Eastwatch.

At Eastwatch they were joined by another five rangers. And set out for the Haunted Forest. It had taken a day of hard riding for them to find the trail and they had been following it for a day more.

Night was always cold north of the Wall. The days as well, but without the warmth of the sun, men found it harder to cope. Snows hadn’t fallen yet, and the forest allowed little light to shine through from the moon.  The wildlings had set fires around their camp. Likely believed no one was tracking them. A mistake, but Rattleshirt’s band was not known for cunning. Only ruthlessness and death.

Jack Bulwer took a group of five to one side and Jarman Buckwell took the archers around the camp. Benjen led the rest from the front. Signals were sent, and Jarman had men aiming for the sentries. Benjen was about to give the command to dispatch the guards, however a loud howl was heard before a large dark blur threw itself on one of the oblivious men. There was no sound from the wildling, only that of flesh ripping. The blur was away in the blink of an eye, leaving behind a corpse, his throat a ruin. The second guard managed to scream before being brought down, his head ripped clean off.

It had been enough for the rest of the wildlings to start waking, as confusion began to spread across the camp. Two more wildlings lay dead, their bodies ripped apart in a few heartbeats. Wildlings were rushing out of the few tents, some brandishing spears made of sharpened stone, or daggers made of bone. A big man wearing ram horns on his head stepped out of one tent. He was pulling up his breeches, his furs covered in blood.

Benjen’s blood ran cold. He feared for the village women. “Forward, lads. Were charging in!” He yelled out as he ran towards the camp, sword in hand. “Jarman, start bloody shooting!” He added.

Several wildlings had formed up in a group, and were blocking his way, when a volley of arrows fell upon them. Two were dead and three were down, arrows piercing thighs, legs and abdomen.

Suddenly screams and shouts began to sound from all over the camp. Jack had charged in as well.  The group that stood before him was wavering. He could see the fear in the eyes of the wildlings. These weren’t warriors. Only accustomed to raiding and kidnapping. Preying on the weak and defenseless. The worst of scum. So, he charged, his men a few steps behind him. The wildling closest to him, a graying man with shaggy hair and beard thrust his spear towards Benjen. A sloppy thrust, without conviction or skill. He easily batted it aside, then continued with a diagonal, downwards slash across the man’s chest, cutting him from shoulder to hip. The wildling dropped like a puppet without strings, as Benjen continued past his dead attacker running through another wildling armed with an axe and dagger, pulling out his blade out of the body just in time to block a blow from a club that had him take a step back.

The wildling leader, the brute with the ram skull on his head had joined the fray. The man was strong. His strikes were wild and unpredictable, without any skill or control, yet he only needed to connect once to end the fight. Benjen dodged and deflected all the blows he could, but the savage onslaught was relentless. He took step after step backwards, hoping to tire out the big man, yet it seemed that Benjen was the one losing strength as each blow he deflected felt like a battering ram.

An arrow buried itself in the shoulder of the wildling leader, bringing out a bellow of fury out of him. Jarman stood at a nearby hill and was nocking another, when he was forced to drop his bow to draw his blade, as he was attacked by wildlings. Benjen was not allowed to take a breather as his opponent continued attacking, the arrow instead of slowing him down, bringing forth a berserk rage.

Benjen saw openings and scored several hits on the wildling, but they were shallow and seemed not to hinder the man as he continued to savagely swing the club at Ben.

A blow he blocked with his blade forced him back a step, however in the dark he hadn’t been able to see the exposed root of a tree and fell down on his back with the wildling looming before him. Just as Benjen prepared himself to die, the blur soared before him, ramming his opponent and bringing him to ground. At first the man bellowed in anger, soon the bellows turned into terrified screams as the sound of flesh tearing and growls reached Benjen’s ears. A wet crunch and a tearing sound and the screams turned into gurgles and then there was silence. The sounds of battle seemed to decrease and finally he saw the creature that had aided him.

A large wolf, his dark fur almost a shade of blue, as if coloured as the night’s sky, with pale yellow eyes as shining stars in the darkness. Blood dripped from the wolf’s muzzle as he slowly approached Benjen. He should have been terrified, but strangely he was calm. He should have screamed for help, yet he felt no danger coming from the animal.

Then as if by instinct he extended his arm, and the wolf sniffed it and let Ben rub its fur. It was then that Benjen knew. A direwolf, his direwolf, and his name was Midnight.

Just then he heard footsteps rushing towards him. “Get away from it, brother! Men, careful!” A booming voice echoed around the forest. Ben’s gaze lifted from his direwolf, and saw Jack Bulwer and a few of the rangers approach, blades drawn and arrows nocked.

“Stand down, Bulwer! He is no threat to you.” Benjen yelled out. “He is mine.”

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The aftermath was a mess. Most of the wildling raiders had been killed by Benjen’s men, while some had surrendered. They were to be brought to Eastwatch, where Cotter Pyke was to decide what to do with them.

Ben wasn’t a man easily moved. Not anymore, but when he entered the tent where the prisoners were kept, he felt fury as he hadn’t felt in years. Women bound and beaten, some little more than children. The wildlings had taken their pleasure freely and without reserve.

They had been left in the nude, without any protection from the cold except the leather from the tent. Not even a fire to keep them from freezing. Indeed, the women were frostbitten and ill. Quickly Benjen had his men gather any furs and blankets that they could find at the camp, and fires were lit where the women were brought. Food and water were given, but not shared with the wildling prisoners, left under guard by the watchful eye of the newest member of the Night’s Watch.

The road back was tedious. The village women were given the horses, and the wildling prisoners weren’t enthusiastic about their fate. They made slow progress, a tenth of what they did on horseback. At first, the horses were restless by the presence of Midnight, however after the third day they had grown used to the large, dark direwolf. The longer the trip took, the worse off they would be. The village women had started to approach their saviours, offering thanks and conversation. It wasn’t long before his men would be tempted to bend their vows. The wildlings were tied to trees and guarded by at least three guards and Midnight did well to prowl around their campsites, silently forcing the men to behave.

Finally, they reached the cleared fields before Eastwatch. The massive Wall loomed over them almost blocking out any sun in its shadow.  A horn blew once, a familiar sound Benjen had heard many times before. Their prisoners began to resist, their reality dawning on them on the sight of the structure, but a growl from Midnight calmed them down. The memories of what their direwolf could do to a man still fresh in their minds.

The gate opened with the cranking of gears. They slowly passed through the tunnel, and Ben could feel the fear of both wildlings and villagers, as they walked beneath many tons of ice. Finally, the inner gate opened, and daylight shined on them.

As they made their way out of the passage, they drew the attention of the brothers stationed in the castle. Whistles and hollers began to sound as they glimpsed the women riding the horses, while jeers and taunts were given to the wildlings slowly marching behind, tied up in a line.

“What in the seven hells is that!?” Echoed a yell, and suddenly men were nocking arrows and drawing swords. Midnight had been walking steadily in the middle of the horses, however now he was right next to Benjen.

“Calm your bloody selves.” A voice boomed across the courtyard. A lean, wiry man made his ways down the stairs of the ramparts, his face looked like it had seen battle. The nose looked like it had been broken many a time, and the face was full of scars and pox marks. “What is the meaning of this, Stark?” He asked in a rough voice.

Benjen smiled. “Good to see you as well, Cotter.” Benjen put a hand between the ears of Midnight, gently stroking its fur. “It seems the Old Gods have blessed me. My house’s sigil come to life. Worry not, Midnight is harmless, unless you threaten him.”

At Benjen’s words, Midnight howled as if to confirm.

Cotter gazed upon the man and wolf with hard gaze and an even harder face. Finally, he relented. “Fine, but if that mutt causes trouble ill have both your hides by morning.” He then began to issue orders. “You three, get of your fucking asses and get those prisoners processed.” Three men that were sitting near the practice yard, with half drawn blades, sheathed them and rushed to follow their orders. “Rudd, take five of your stewards and have those women fed and watered. They leave tomorrow.” A lithe old man with a bent back yelled out and a few younger lads, all of them skin and bones, obviously no builders or rangers went scurrying about.

The commander of Eastwatch then looked to Benjen’s rangers. “You can have tonight to rest and feast; The old Bear wants you to return to Castle Black at dawn.” Then he turned to Benjen himself. “First ranger, follow me to my chambers.” He said. “And leave the beast.” He added.

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They entered the commander’s quarters. The chamber was not big. Benjen’s childhood chambers at Winterfell were larger, but this one had its own hearth, furs on the floor, a large bed lined with furs and blankets, Cotter even had pillows.

Cotter Pyke sat down on the chair behind his desk and motioned to Benjen to join him. He then pulled out a pair of cups from his drawer and poured some wine for them.

Benjen took one of the cups, and then drank from it. The wine didn’t have very good taste, but it was cheap and it kept one warm. The Night’s Watch bought many casks of the cheapest wine from the reach. Drinking was one of the few pleasures the men at the Wall were allowed and many eagerly partook in it.

The Ironborn took out a letter with its seal broken and passed it to Benjen. “Here, this came from the old Bear. Harmune read it to me. It says that your brother has called his banners for a celebration of his sons’ namedays. He has also invited the Lord Commander. You are ordered to ride from Eastwatch and meet him in Winterfell.”

Benjen was surprised. Sure, the Starks had close ties to the Night’s Watch, with many of their ancestors serving in it, several as Lord Commander. However, he didn’t remember the last time such an invitation had happened. Usually, it was the members of the watch that went around Lord’s keeps to meet and beg for assistance. On the other hand, he had been planning on visiting his family and the order made it easier to leave.

That night Benjen dreamt he was hunting. He walked on four legs and the forest blurred around him.   He could smell his prey running from him. He felt his bloodlust rise as he prowled closer, a boar was running from him. He ran faster and faster as he closed in on it. With a leap, he tackled his prey, locking his arms around it, he didn’t have arms anymore, just paws. Still, he dug his claws into the skin of his prey and sank his fangs into the boar’s neck. Warm blood flowed into his mouth, and he could feel all of it, the warmth, the taste of iron, even the pulsing of the heart of his prey. As the life faded from the boar, Benjen’s dream faded.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

Preparations were going smoothly. Food and drink for the feasts had been brought up from the storehouses. Guest chambers were being cleaned and furnished. Gods it was so much work. She had to hire some local women as servants to help with the preparations.

Ned had invited all of the northern nobility to attend, as well as some Vale houses. Catelyn countered that by inviting her own family, as well as nobility from the Riverlands, however, only her father and brother would be attending, as well as lord Blackwood and his sons, if only to discuss business with her husband.

The celebration was a welcome distraction for her, as the last months had been hard. Her marriage with Ned was strained and Robb, Bran and Arya were still acting cold with her. Worse, her husband had allowed the bastard to celebrate his name day along with Robb, their firstborn, their heir. It was an insult to her to have that baseborn boy, made from lust and betrayal given as much as her trueborn children.

She had brought it up to Ned many times over the years, fosterages were rejected, squiring as well. She was even prepared to have her boy sent to her uncle, but Ned stubbornly refused to remove the bastard from Winterfell.

In the last months, it had even grown worse. The bastard had gotten so close to her son as if they were joined at the hip. They practiced together, and learned together. Seldom one was found without the other. At first the Greyjoy boy was shunned, but recently he had begun following them just like their wolves.

Ah the wolves. Another thing Ned had practically ordered her not to speak about. The beasts were growing larger every day. These days they were larger than the bigger hounds in their kennels, not even close to the size of the mother, who was as big as a small horse. Ned had taken her as his own, and each of his children, including the bastard had their own. At least the bastard’s wolf was the odd one of the bunch, with that snowy white fur and blood red eyes. But they were wild animals, it was only a matter of time before one found a servant too good of a meal to pass up, worse the meal could be her children.

Every time she had confided to her husband about her fears, he dismissed them, saying they were a gift from the gods, and they would protect their children.

She was brushing her hair after a nice warm bath, one of her few pleasures in the last months, as Ned had barely visited their bed. He had practically slept in the First keep with Robb, the bastard and the Greyjoy brat. They were searching for something, but she knew not what it was.

The door to the chamber opened, and through it came Ned. He looked tired, and there was a look of resolve in his eyes.

“Finally decided to spend a night with me, husband? To what do I owe the pleasure?” She spoke, her voice full of sarcasm.

Ned looked at her, before his expression fell as he sighed. “Cat, there is much to do, and little time to waste.” He replied.

The words pained her. She felt her fury rise. “Oh, so spending a night with your wife is a waste, is it Ned?” She spoke, her voice raising.

“Why are you acting like this, Cat. What me and the boys are doing, its for our family, its so that our children live good and long lives.” He said, his voice full of sorrow.

“And what exactly are you doing there, Ned? You tell me nothing. I don’t even know what goes through your mind anymore.” She yelled out, her fury mixed with the anxiety she had been feeling lately.

“I wish I could tell you, but it’s not something I can tell freely.” Ned said, his voice tired and sorrowful.

“You can’t tell your wife, but you can tell the Greyjoy brat, and the bastard?” Catelyn yelled out her fury coming out in full force. She felt as if she was being pushed to the side, first Robb had pushed her out, and now Ned.

“It was Robb and Jon who brought it to my attention. And Theon… well he is a special case. Luwin knows as well, but that was because he caused the boys to tell me.”

The bastard was plotting something. She knew it. And he had enlisted the help of the Greyjoy brat. Her fears of the boy usurping the birthright to her children came out in full force. “The bastard is plotting against you and Robb. He and the squid are playing you Ned. Cast them both out.” She screamed.

Ned’s expression changed. His eyes hardened, and his face lost all expression. She knew that face. It was one he used with criminals and lowlifes. A face reserved for his enemies. She knew she had overstepped. She had never feared Ned, and even know she knew he would never strike her, but the Stark stoic expression was unsettling to say the least.

“He has a name, Cat. Jon is as much my blood as is Robb. And if you weren’t so bitter about my sins you could see how much the boy loves his family. He would rather die than harm Robb or Arya or any of his siblings. As for Theon, the boy just craves acceptance. Sure, he whores and drinks, but if I condemn a man for that, half the Seven Kingdoms would be freezing themselves at the Wall. Its time you let go of your hatred for the boy, we need our family together.” Ned spoke in his lord voice; it left no room for negotiation.

“For that reason, Robb has asked me, and I have agreed to write to Robert to have Jon legitimized. He will carry my name, and be placed after all of our children in the succession of Winterfell.”

After that there was silence. Catelyn gazed at Ned; her eyes wide in shock. Her face paled as her hands turned white and trembled with how tightly she was clenching them. She was biting her lip so hard it drew blood. Finally, she snapped. “Gods damn you, Ned.” She yelled out, tears streaking down her face. “I have given you five children, been a dutiful wife and managed your household. I’ve given you my love for three and ten years, yet you still cannot let the bastard go.”

Ned tried to speak, but Catelyn didn’t care anymore. She just continued. “His mother must have taken your heart more than I ever could, if you can shame me with him so easily. And now, you even give him the weapon to take your children’s birthright.” Catelyn sobbed.

Between her wiping her tears from her eyes, and struggling to breathe, she could see Ned’s face melt. His stoic expressionless face changed into one of sorrow and she thought she could see tears begin to pool beneath his eyes.

The next thing she felt was being held tightly in his embrace. Such a warm embrace, loving and comforting. She had to fight not to lean into it. Still, she felt herself calming. That’s when Ned began to speak.

“I’m sorry Cat. I know you have suffered and I should have told you long ago. I have been considering it for a while, but recent events and tonight have finally convinced me to give up my stubbornness.” He took her hands in his. “You must understand, what I tell you could ruin our House if the wrong people find out. Swear to me you will keep what you learn tonight to your grave.” There was silence as Cat was processing her husband’s words. There were many things she wanted to ask from those few short sentences. What was so dangerous, and what had happened to her family recently. She was taken out of her thoughts by Ned’s voice. “Swear to me Cat!” He repeated loudly.

“I-I swear Ned” She finally said.

Suddenly her husband sighed. He squeezed the hand he had been holding. And then he began to speak.

                                               _______________________________________

Ned

Gods he was nervous. As soon as he was certain what his sons had spoken off was true, he knew he had to tell Jon. He had to tell Cat as well. His secret was the only black mark in his marriage, and it was a rift between his son/nephew and his wife that couldn’t be crossed otherwise.

He squeezed Cat’s hand as he gathered his thoughts. He hated remembering and some days it was just so easy to forget and bury his secret deep. But he needed to be strong, for his family. So, he opened his mouth.

“You are right, Cat. Jon’s mother does hold a special place in my heart. I love her greatly.” As he spoke the words, he saw betrayal form on his wife’s face. She even tried to pry her hand from his. But Ned forced it to remain. “I love her just like I love Brandon, just like my father and Benjen. I loved her deeply, but it isn’t the same kind of love as I hold for you.”

Ned saw her expression soften, and she wasn’t struggling against his grip. Suddenly realization struck as her face paled. “Ned, don’t tell me, the boy’s mother was….”

“Aye, his mother was my sister.” He spoke. The way his wife’s face changed as she came to understand the implications of his words made him want to laugh. It was strangely liberating, sharing his secret after all these years.

“But that means that his father was…”

“Prince Rhaegar.” Ned filled in.

“So, he wasn’t your bastard, he was Lyanna’s.” Catelyn spoke.

“He is trueborn, Cat. Not a bastard. Rhaegar married her in secret. I found the confirmation of their marriage, signed by the Kingsguard I killed there as witnesses and a septon as official.” Ned spoke. He still felt anger just by remembering the Tower of Joy. The name of that cursed place was still ironic to him even after more than a decade.

“But he was already married, he couldn’t have….” Cat replied, sounding just as confused as she looked.

“He was going mad, Cat. Just like his father. Lya told me everything on her deathbed, before she made me promise to take care of her son.” Ned spoke, before he took a deep breath, calming himself before reliving one of his most painful memories.

“She was barely older than Robb and Jon are now. Father had betrothed her to Robert, and I was a child only thinking how nice it would be to have one of my closest friends become my brother by law. We failed to take into account how headstrong and fiery she was.” Ned spoke. And then he began the story from where it started. Harrenhall.

“Howland had been attacked by a group of squires. Lya had gotten angry at them, and had Benjen find scraps of armour, before entering as a mystery knight in the lists the next day. She had painted a smiling weirwood tree on her shield.” Ned smiled. It was one of the few lighter moments of those years, apart from his sons being born.

“So, she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree?” Cat asked in awe.

“Aye, she only wanted to teach the squires some humility, however none could have predicted how mad Aerys had been, as he thought her an assassin after his life. He had all his knights and Rhaegar search for them and take them into custody, however by the next day however, the knight had disappeared, leaving behind his shield hanging from a tree. What we didn’t know is that the prince had found her in the night and in her he found who he believed the answer of his prophecy. The next day, he had crowned her the queen of love and beauty, placing a crown of northern roses in her lap.”

Ned clutched his wife’s hand again, and she placed her free hand over his, looking sympathetic.

“What prophecy are you talking about, Ned?” She asked concerned.

“Lyanna told me of it. A woods-witch had told Aegon the Conqueror that the prince that was promised would come from his line and that the dragon needs three heads to fight the Long Night. At first Rhaegar had thought himself the prince that was promised, born amidst fire and smoke, as he had been born during Summerhall. That’s why as Aegon he needed two wives. So, over the next year, he had filled her head with promises of love and adventure, just like the songs and stories, and one day convinced her to elope with him. They had met at Harrenhall, where they made for the Isle of Faces and were married in the godswood. It was then that Rhaegar began showing his madness. He told her how their child would be part of the prophecy, the Visenya to his son Aegon, the third head of the dragon, born of fire and ice.”

“It was then that Lyanna began to learn her folly.” Ned continued. “Soon after, she had learned about Brandon and Father’s fates and had begged Rhaegar to let her return to me.” Anger began building from the depths of his being. “The prophecy is more important than a few lives, was all he said to her, before forcing himself on her. The Kingsguard held her as their prince had his way with her and after he was certain Lyanna was with child, he left them at that cursed Tower, while riding to meet me and Robert in battle.”

Ned saw his wife’s face covered in sorrow as she wept silently, clutching his hand with hers. Ned wanted nothing more than to stop and just forget, like he had always done, but he had to see it through. And then he had to find a way to tell Jon.

“The bastard was willing to deprive her of her remaining family, just because of his prophecy, but Robert put an end to him at the Trident. He fought like a demon as soon as he saw that black armour encrusted with rubies. Must have charged through two score men and knights before meeting the prince at the Ruby Ford. The wounds he sustained in his fury had him in no shape to ride for a moon, so I was tasked with capturing King’s Landing. It was then that I was presented with the prince’s family. Wrapped in bloody banners, there was barely enough to identify the bodies. The bastard had left his family in that viper pit, all in the name of his prophecy. And when Robert saw them, he couldn’t punish Tywin, merely grimace and call them Dragonspawn.”

“I had heard that story from the men returning, but I dared not believe it. How could Robert be so heartless.”

“Oh, Robert hated Rhaegar. He would have killed him a thousand times over and still despise him. But he wasn’t a child killer then. But Tywin Lannister had his fresh army at the gates and had given him the city. He couldn’t do anything. I pleaded for him to have Clegane and Lorch beheaded, but he would not have it. So, I left for Storm’s End in a fury. I broke the siege and had the Tyrells bend the knee, before gathering a few loyal and brave men and went to search for Lya.”

Tears began to pool in Ned’s eyes. He held them in, he needed to be strong for just a little while longer.

“So, we rode South. We listened to any tale or lead. It was Ashara Dayne that told us where Lya was being kept. She said she did it for the love she had for Brandon. So, we met the Kingsguard on the sands beneath the tower. They stood their ground thinking they were still knights. So, we fought them. Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, William Dustin and Mark Ryswell died there, but so did Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent. I battled Arthur myself. He wasn’t the man he had been before. Before me stood a shell, his hair a mess, the man hadn’t slept for days and his eyes were of a man resigned to damnation. Still, he was better than me. He had me open when he swung his sword. I was ready to meet my ancestors, but as soon as Dawn broke my skin Dayne screamed. Dawn had begun to glow hot, and it gave me enough time to defend myself. Still, he fought, a man resolved to die. I gave him an honourable death, as I believed he had come to regret his actions. As soon as Arthur fell, I heard Lyanna scream. Howland was nursing a wound, and bid me to run, so I left him there and made it just in time to see Jon enter the world.”

Catelyn had been listening patiently but suddenly she perked up. “You always said she died of a fever on the way back. She died from the birthing fever, didn’t she?”

Ned sighed. “Aye, she was not yet a woman grown and the birth had been difficult. Without a maester or a midwife, only a wet nurse she was near death when I saw her. As soon as she noticed me, she shed tears, and began apologizing to me. About Father, about Brandon, about everything. All anger I had for her disappeared then. Try as I might I couldn’t have her on her deathbed. She told me everything, before giving me Jon. She made me promise to take him and raise him with his family. I promised and she just smiled at me, before breathing her last. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t rage. I didn’t want to wake the boy. He was sleeping amidst all the chaos. As soon as I held him, I knew I would raise him as if he were my own. The next thing I remember was burying the men who died there and Howland returning with a cart for Lyanna.”

Ned could see a look of shame begin to appear on Catelyn. She began to piece things together. Ned didn’t have to continue, but he wanted to finally tell his secret fully. He wanted to be free of his burden.

“Robert cried and raved when he saw the cart. I had Howland wait with the wetnurse and Jon in the camps. He was grieving and that’s when Tywin pushed. The very next day, Robert was bethrothed to Cersei Lannister and I knew I had to claim Jon as my own. I swore the wet nurse to secrecy and Howland swore it himself. I knew he wouldn’t do anything that would endanger Lyanna’s son, but he still swore. He even offered to raise him in Graywater Watch. But I had promised. Jon looked enough a Stark to pass, so I claimed him as my bastard. When you saw him at Riverrun, I wished to tell you the truth. But it was dangerous, both for you and for Robb. So I selfishly kept my secret, even though it caused a rift between us.” Ned’s mouth was dry. But there was one more thing to say. “Forgive me, Catelyn.”

He closed his eyes. He felt empty. But there was also relief. He felt something touch his lips, and opened his eyes, only to find Catelyn kissing him.

She broke the kiss and looked him deeply into his eyes. “Stupid man. You should have told me. I have despised the boy since he was born. Do you know how painful it was thinking another had your heart in a way I never would?” She pushed him down on the bed and was punching his chest. It was light, not in any way painful, but Ned could only imagine the turmoil in his wife’s head.

“Gods, how can I ever make him forgive me. I have made him feel an outcast when he is my nephew, damn it Ned!” She was fidgeting. It was good. Much better than he could expect.

“So about giving him the Stark name?” Ned asked, nervously.

“The boy was supposed to be a prince, a king even. He has lived his life as a bastard instead. I wouldn’t want him carrying the name of mad dragons, but the name of his mother would be fine.” She spoke as she pushed him on the bed, before lying on top of his chest.

“You will have to tell him the truth, however. That is my condition.” She added.

“I promise.” Ned said managing a small smile, before he felt his wife’s lips on his.

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Jon

Another day the same as all the others. He rose at dawn and then practiced his sword along with Robb, before breaking their fasts in the library in the First Keep. In the past moon they had begun repairing the old castle. Many things had been left in it and forgotten in time, and Jon knew many answers lay buried here.

As they went on exploring the building, they had taken to mapping it, as the original schematics were lost. In fact, many old books had been lost from Winterfell. The ledgers showed them existing, but they had gone through the inventory thrice and still they were lost. Father had Luwin tasked with finding out what happened to them, as they needed all the information on the Long Night and the Others.

“I hate this. We’re banging our heads against a wall.” Robb spoke in annoyance. Jon’s brother had been going through any information he had about the layout of the First Keep. So far, they were confident they had searched and mapped most of the castle.

They had found an additional three storerooms, all filled with food that had long since rotten away, vaults holding jewels and silver, as well as several armories, holding more weirwood bows, as well as bronze weapons and armour. Some of the swords were iron, but very little steel.

The armour they had found had runes engraved around the neck, just as Bronze Yohn Royce was said to wear, however Mikken had no knowledge on the usage of runes or their meaning. Jon had a feeling the peculiarity of the weapons and the armour was connected with their query, and he was confident something was still waiting to be discovered.

Father had used their name days as an excuse to call his bannermen as well as other sympathetic Lords that may have knowledge that could help. Lord Stark had invited the king and his court as well, however both Robb and Jon had been relieved to learn that the invitation had been declined. Meeting that spoiled shit of a prince so soon would be too much of a sore spot, especially for his brother.

“There has to be something we’re missing Robb.” Jon replied to his brother, putting down the ledgers he was going through. There was a part that was bothering him. A small entry saying that upon the death of one of their ancestors, his crown had been moved to the vault for storage. It was an old ledger, dating long before the conquest, when the Castle still was used as a residence.

“There is much we still don’t know Jon, too much.” His brother growled. “The Old Gods sent us back for a reason and were here twiddling our thumbs knowing nothing.”

Jon couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, to his brother’s ire, but he remembered being told he knew nothing and was reminded of those days of another life. Ygritte had been right in the end. He really did know nothing.

“What are you laughing at?” His brother finally spoke with a pout.

“Sorry, just remembered some fond memories.” Jon replied, his gaze turning soft.

The response made Robb calm down as well, before Jon felt a hand to his shoulder. “Things will be better this time, brother. We already have something that we didn’t have before.” Robb spoke, a grin appearing on his face.

“Aid from the Old Gods?” Jon teased, the mood in the room lightening.

Robb punched his shoulder. “I was talking about us being together. I’m not letting you off to freeze your nuts off at the Wall this time. But that too.”

Jon placed a hand to his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Aye, we will do everything we can. And with the Lords of the North and beyond coming for your nameday, there is a chance we will learn something.”

“Aye, Father did ask for any tomes or writings on the Others, The Long Night and our history. But you have one thing wrong. It isn’t my nameday. It’s ours.” Robb replied with a smile. “I’m not letting you keep to the side again, brother.”

Before Jon could respond, footsteps were heard coming from outside the library. Father entered. There were traces of anxiety in his expression, and just a slight shake of his hands as he closed and barred the door behind him. He took a chair and sat across the boys.

Seeing his father that way made Jon feel dread. One look towards Robb showed him that his brother shared his concern. After all, Father had never shown anxiety or doubt in front of them. Had something happened. Had they changed something which had catastrophic consequences? Jon tried to think, but his thoughts were interrupted by his father’s voice.

“I need to speak to you both about something.” He spoke in a grim voice. Then he turned towards Jon.

“Son, Robb has convinced me to write to Robert. You shall wear the Stark name from now.” Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. He turned his gaze from his father to Robb, and then back, as his mouth hung open. Robb offered a gentle smile, which confirmed that this was indeed happening.

“But, Father, what about Lady Stark?” Jon stammered out. He knew she would not stand for this. He wanted the Stark name, but he didn’t want to put a wedge between his father and brother and Lady Stark. He would rather remain the Bastard of Winterfell and have his family happy and together.

“Catelyn approves of my decision, Jon.” Father replied and Jon couldn’t believe what he had heard. Lady Stark despised him. It was only because his family loved him that she tolerated his presence. Was she planning on killing him this time around?

“There is something you should know Jon, before I write to Robert.” Father continued. “You need to hear this as well Robb.” He said, turning towards Jon’s brother. “It is about your mother, Jon.”

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The library was silent. Jon didn’t know what to feel. Happy that he knew who his mother was? Grieve that she had died not a day after he was born? Furious at his father for hiding it from him? Lord Stark wasn’t even his real father. Could he even still call him that? His real father had been a man driven mad by prophecies. Mad enough to take a girl not yet grown, fill her head with lies about adventure and love as her father and brother were murdered by the man’s father and then had taken her repeatedly while his guards watched or worse, held her down, before riding to war, to possibly slay another of her brothers.

Jon didn’t know what was better. Lord Stark had shown him his parent’s marriage certificate, signed by some septon, he wasn’t a bastard, but the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. A descendant of a family that had caused so much death and suffering. A part of him wished that he had indeed been Lord Stark’s bastard and his mother had been some common washerwoman or farmer’s daughter.

Robb spoke first. He put his hand on Jon’s shoulder and squeezed. “This changes nothing, Jon. We were raised together since we were barely born and I love you like I do all of my siblings. Hells, you’re the person who is my closest confidant and my best friend. I am proud to call you, my brother.” A gentle smile remained on the face of his brother.

Jon’s eyes were tearing up. He had always had doubts deep in his heart. Did anybody really care for him. Was Robb only doing his duty as a brother? Only Ghost could boast a closer bond to Jon. His friends at the Night’s Watch had grown close to him, but never had there been somebody that understood him with barely a glance.

“I first laid eyes on you a short time after you were born. One look at you and I knew I loved you like a son. Watching you and Robb grow healthy and strong has been my greatest joy and pride. Even if I couldn’t give you as much as you deserved. You have been as real a son to me as Robb, Bran or Rickon ever since I brought you home to Winterfell and regardless of how you see me, that will not change.”

The decision was made for him. He might be angry at Lord Stark for hiding his parentage from him. He understood why. Even if the king spared him, Jon would never be safe with the Lannisters and all the other schemers trying to either kill him or use him for their gain. But he knew no life except Winterfell. He was with his family, allowed to grow together with them and he loved every one of them, even Sansa, who was cold and reserved toward him as soon as she understood his status.

His father had raised him as properly as he could, without endangering the secret and was given the same education and freedoms as Robb and all of the other Stark children.

“I…. I have known no life other than the one in Winterfell and the Wall. I know no other family, other than House Stark. I do not wish to be associated with a House of madmen. I shall live my life as a Stark and when my time comes, I shall die a Stark of Winterfell.” Jon spoke. He then turned towards Lord Stark. “Father, I am and will always be grateful. I have been raised as your son and do not recognize another as my sire.” His face had a small smile now. He turned towards Robb. “You’re my oldest and closest friend, Robb. Every memory I have growing up, you have been there. There is no one in this world that I would rather call my brother.”

Robb pulled Jon into an embrace and Jon was happy to return it. Jon didn’t expect his father to join the two boys, embracing both of them together. Jon was truly happy at that moment. A part of him grieved for his mother, but he had his family with him. And he would protect them with his life.

After a moment, Jon spoke. “Father, could I pay my respects to my mother? I would like to visit her.”

Lord Stark gave him a small smile. “Aye, I believe it has been long overdue. Before you do, find some winter roses. They were her favourite.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

The entirety of Winterfell was buzzing with activity. After all the harvest festival and feast were almost upon them, as well as the celebration of her eldest brother’s nameday. This year however, her bastard born brother would share Robb’s celebration on orders from her Lord Father.

Sansa expected her Lady Mother to strongly object to the decision, however her behaviour had been strange of late. Ever since she could remember, she had been cautioned to stay away from her half-brother, lest she be a victim of his wicked nature.

The rest of her siblings never took those warnings to heart, preferring to spend their time forming a bond with Jon Snow. She however, as befits a proper lady, had distanced herself from the boy. The septa, Mordane never failed to remind her that the taint of bastardry could hinder her future marriage prospects, especially from southern lords where the sin was much heavier than the North.

Indeed, in her father’s lands, most cared not of the propriety of one’s birth. Many of the guardsmen had treated her elder brothers the same and few were the Lords who visited Winterfell that minded the bastard’s presence.

Only Mother’s insistence that Father keep Jon away, made it so that the boy was never permitted to attend the grander feasts or their father’s court.

That all seemed to change overnight. Now Mother seemed to dote on Jon as if he were a long-lost child, and she had years of neglect to make up for. The new dynamic was obviously making both uncomfortable, as Jon seemed taken aback by the sudden warmth of the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa could notice a look of guilt show on her mother’s face when she saw Jon and Robb spar in the yard.

It was until later that she found out, from one of the maids that her Mother had insisted that the brothers share their ten and third nameday this year. Later she was tasked with sewing new clothes for Jon. Her mother had made it clear that the Stark sigil was to be used further confusing Sansa.

Her entire family had began acting very strange indeed. But the biggest change came from the boy in question as well as Robb. The pair had always been joined at the hip, yet now they spent most of the day together, whether in the yard, or the library or searching the First Keep on Father’s orders, looking for something Sansa was not privy to.

As if overnight, they began taking duties around the castle. Some days they were in Father’s solar, planning matters of the North, other days they were spending additional time in the yard training the guards. A pair of boys, little more than children were fighting men grown and bested them more often than not.

Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, her closest friends spoke often of how galant the pair looked, often gushing about which of the brothers looked dreamier. They had often spoken of how they all wanted a gallant knight to whisk them away on a mighty steed and take them to a life as the songs sang of, yet hearing such talk about her brothers made her feel odd.

Theon, her father’s ward had changed as well. He used to steal glances that made Sansa shudder in discomfort. That and his arrogant smirk made her dislike the Greyjoy heir, yet after several days where Robb had seemingly cut ties with him, the man seemed a different person entirely. He had started carrying with him a weirwood bow and a quiver full of red feathered weirwood arrows and had carved himself a pendant in the shape of the Winterfell heart tree. He trained in the yard harder than any and had the look of a man who was preparing for something.

The days passed quickly as Sansa was bid to assist her mother with the preparations. The entirety of the Noble Houses in the North and beyond had been invited, with even guests from the South coming. Lord Royce from the Vale was set to arrive in a fortnight along with his sons and Lord Bolton’s heir and her uncle Edmure and grandfather Lord Hoster were bringing with them Lords Blackwood and Mallister.

The first to arrive was Lord Cerwyn, the master of Castle Cerwyn, a castle no more than a day of hard riding from Winterfell. Lord Medger and his son Cley were received warmly by her father and brothers. The Starks and Cerwyns had always shared close ties, yet Sansa didn’t fail to notice a look of shame or guilt on Robb as he greeted the father and son. It was only after Jon had placed a hand to his shoulder and whispered something in his ear did the unusual bout of sadness disappeared and her brother returned to his gregarious self.

Cley was of an age with her brothers only a few moons younger and had visited Winterfell on many an occasion so he found no difficulty socializing with the Starks. The boy was friendly with the Stark children and seemed especially fond of Bran.

The very next day Lord Tallhart arrived with his brother and their sons. Lord Helman was the Lord of Torrhen’s square one of the few holdings on the western side of the north with a port. He was also one of the few lords who followed the old gods who had been knighted. Leobald was his brother and Sansa had learnt, acted as castellan of Torrhen’s square when Lord Helman was away.

Benfred was the son of Lord Helman, while Brandon was his cousin. Both shared the same look. Had she not known their lineage she would have mistaken them for brothers. Benfred was the older of the two, being two years older than Robb, while Brandon was a year younger. Still, they made an easy friendship with her brothers, as both had already visited Lord Helman’s home on several occasions.

The same evening Lord Hornwood had arrived with his son. Again, Robb had a look of guilt and this time regret as he shook hands with Lord Halys’ son, Daryn. Lord Halys had a warm smile and a hearty laugh, which was shared with his son.

The next few days were quiet with the mornings spent by the boys in the yard sparring or going riding, while Father spoke to his bannermen about matters of governance. Sansa was kept busy with her own duties, but often had to make sure Bran and Arya didn’t follow the older boys along when they left the castle, no doubt earning both the sibling’s ire.

Lord Forrester of Ironrath arrived with two of his sons and his daughter, followed by his liege lord, Galbart Glover, along with his brother, Robett as well as the bastard son of Lord Hornwood, Larence Snow.

Rodrik Forrester was much older than her brothers, even older than Theon who was already a man grown, but his brother Ethan was of an age with Bran as was Larence Snow. Finally, her little brother would have some friends to play with instead of following Robb and Jon along like a lost puppy.

The next day, the Stark Direwolves had returned from their hunt as they had grown on edge kept in the castle. Robb and Jon had complained that the wolves had been growing tired of the confines of the castle and Father had agreed. So, when Winter had gone on one of her hunts, the not so small pups had followed. Even Lady had gladly left the castle and Sansa could swear she felt the freedom of running past the trees as the wind ruffled Lady’s fur.

The present Lords had gaped in awe at the sight, before looking upon the pack and Father with a look of reverence.

The Umbers arrived soon after and with them came several of the Northen Mountain clansmen. The men of the furthest reaches of her father’s lands seemed a loud and boisterous sort, if a little simple, yet the honest laughter and bawdy japes they made as soon as they entered the courtyard made them easily likeable.

Lord Umber, The Greatjon, brought with him his son The Smalljon and his other son Ned, named after her father. Such was the respect her family carried along these men. Along with the clansmen they greeted their lord as if greeting an old friend and Sansa could see the warmth his father as well as Robb had for the group.

Lord Karstark arrived next along with his three sons and daughter. Robb had behaved oddly from the moment the sentries announced the arrival and as Lord Rickard greeted her father, Robb could scarcely look in the man’s direction. He had no trouble looking at the sons although with the same look he had often had of late.

Strangely Jon looked at Lord Karstark’s daughter, Alys with familiarity, although Sansa was sure they had never met before. Mayhaps her older brother was smitten by their distant kin.

The rest of her Father’s bannermen kept arriving for the next fortnight. The Flints of Widow’s Watch and Flint’s Finger joined their kin from the Northern mountains, Lady Mormont arrived with her daughters, each as wild as Arya on her worst day.

Ser Donnel Locke arrived in the place of his father who was too old to travel and several of the smaller Houses made an appearance as well. Lakes, Holts, Slates and others arrived with their retinues and finally Lord Manderly arrived with his sons as well as granddaughters. As soon as Wynafryd and Willa came out of the wheelhouse it was as if all of the young men gaped at the sisters. Along with Sansa, Alys and Mina, the jewels of the North were in full display at the feast. Surely betrothals would readily be made during the festivities.

Lord Brownbarrow, a bannerman sworn to Barrowtown arrived with his son, however Lady Barbrey Dustin had yet to arrive and Lord Glenmore, sworn to house Ryswell arrived with his son and daughter yet Lord Rodrik nor his sons had arrived yet. Father and Robb welcomed the guests happily, yet there was no shortage of furrowed brows and whispers exchanged between Jon and them. Over the days Sansa was certain her brothers knew something that the rest of their family knew not.

A few days passed as all that remained were for Lord Bolton, who had written to explain that he had taken a detour to meet his son as he arrived from the Vale with Lord Royce as well as the guests from the Riverlands to arrive.

Robb and Jon spent time making friends with the next generation of Lords of the North. The lack of scorn aimed towards Jon as he jested and japed with trueborn sons was strange to see, as her mother had a content look as she looked on from the balcony. Sansa had become fast friends with Mira Forrester and Alys Karstark, as well as Wynafryd Manderly. The Mormont girls had been taken by Arya, who had begun to hound their Father to allow her to train with the boys.

Bran had made his own group with the younger sons as well as Larence Snow and were spending the days running around the castle searching for dragon eggs they claimed were left by Vermax.

It was almost dusk when a horn sounded once. Her Lord father and some of the Lords present made their way to the battlements, and Sansa curious about the commotion followed.  The Flayed man of House Bolton flew in the winds, accompanied by the studs and runes of House Royce.

As they made their way Sansa was able to look upon the guests. Lord Royce was a large man, his hair and beard grey, yet his body still carrying strength and vigor, his slate grey eyes full of life. His son Waymar had been bound for the Wall. He looked slender and graceful, clad in all black, with a sable cloak and ringmail over wool and boiled leather.  Along them was a light-haired youth, making him look older than he was. An expression of boredom and resignation upon his face.

Lord Bolton unsettled Sansa. The man had a fae look to him. He was almost forty yet showed no signs of age. His hair was dark and his eyes pale blue showing nothing but coldness behind them. A youth resembling Lord Bolton was clad in a pink and crimson armour. His hair and eyes were dark and full of life. He carried an easy smile that made Sansa swoon. He looked the proper picture of a knight full of gallantry and grace.

It was then that she noticed the gazes on Robb and Jon’s faces. Directed at the lord of the Dreadfort was fury that could melt the Wall twice over. Yet more of her brothers’ strange behaviour of late.

The guests dismounted and Father welcomed them. “Welcome my Lords to Winterfell. Bread and salt I offer you and may you enjoy the festivities.”

Lord Bolton was about to speak, when the Lord of Runestone interrupted with his booming voice. “Much appreciated Ned. It’ll be a good way to send off my boy here. Gods know he won’t see many feasts freezing his balls of at Castle Black.”

The light-haired youth opened his mouth. “Going to the Wall is like dying but slower. You give up your warmth, your life and your freedom, but at least you wear a uniform, the recruiter said the ladies love men in uniform. And if we get really lucky, we might even fight some wildlings. Might survive as well.”

Her brother Jon let out a chuckle that he quickly stifled. “Guessing the recruiter didn’t tell you about the celibacy, did he Edd.” He said, bringing out laughs from the men around the courtyard. Sansa barely resisted the urge to let out an unladylike snort. The boy standing there with his mouth open seemingly regretting his decision.

Finally, the commotion died down, and Lord Bolton began to speak. “Lord Stark I-“

“Lord Stark, Father!” Came a yell from the direction of the crypts. Everybody turned towards the voice, seeing Larence Snow running as fast as his legs could carry him.

“What is it lad?” Lord Hornwood asked his bastard son.

The boy looked around the courtyard suddenly the target of countless gazes. There was fear in his eyes, as he struggled to say anything more than stutter.

Robb came to the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Easy lad, breathe. Nothing bad will happen to you. Now tell us, what is the matter.”

The young boy took several breaths before beginning. “W-we were exploring the crypts with Bran. Me, Ned, Ethan and him. We were at the statue of Lord Brandon the Shipwright when Bran noticed that his sword was placed opposite the rest. S-so he picked up and placed it properly. That’s when the wall behind his tomb opened up revealing a passage.”

Robb’s eyes went wide, as several gasps were heard. Sansa was intrigued yet, there were looks of panic and concern exchanged between her father and brothers.

“And did you see where the passage led?” Robb asked him.

Larence stared at his feet, prompting Robb to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “That’s the thing my lord. After Bran and Ethan passed the wall, the passage closed. Ned and I tried to push it open again but we couldn’t.”

“Show me.” Father replied.

The next thing Sansa knew was running with the crowd to the crypts.

                                              ________________________________________

Jon

Bran was missing again, along with Lord Forrester’s son. The boy had not been climbing much in the time since he and Robb had returned to the past and having friends of an age should have kept him from anything too dangerous.

He ran towards the crypt, Ghost at his heels as Larence Snow led him and the rest of the Lords through the crypts. Sansa was sent to tell her mother.

It was obvious when he thought about it. They were always told that the place held many mysteries and that much of what was there was lost in time. Even the lower levels were said to be blocked and maybe flooded.

But that was all pointless. Bran had found something, and now he was trapped. As they approached, they saw the figure of Ned Umber, who raised a hand in greeting.

“What the fuck were you boys doin’ in the crypts” The booming gruff voice of the Umber lord echoed through the crypts.

“Sorry, da, but Bran insisted. Ne’er expected the damn wall to open and close.” The boy replied, before getting a smack over the back of the head.

“What did I tell ya about swearing. And in front of Lord Stark no less.” The Greatjon scolded his son.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from its tree, does it Umber.” Lord Bolton spoke as he approached with his son in tow. “Barely more than wildlings your lot.” Jon hadn’t met the Leech Lord before, only what he had heard from Father and Robb. Now he could properly see those unsettling pale blue eyes and skin as pale as a corpse. His voice carried no emotion and he spoke as if he were addressing lesser creatures.

Lord Umber was already bristling, his fury visible on his face. “What did you say, you damn corpse fucker.” He growled as he stood in front of the master of the Dreadfort. The lord of Last Hearth towered over the Bolton and it looked as if it would come to blows.

“Peace, my Lords.” The voice of father interrupted the pair. “Jon, let Bolton be. Roose, apologise. Now.” The pair moved to the opposite ends of the crypt, as if children being scolded. Jon had never seen his father in command, he imagined that was how he looked to his brothers when he broke up their squabbles at the Wall.

“Mine and Lord Forrester’s sons are missing. There are more important things than petty squabbles.” Lord Stark turned towards the boy named after him. “Lad, what can you tell us?”

The boy looked ashamed and guilty as he told his version of events. It had few differences from Larence’s story. “Should have been me that went first, I’m sorry Lord Stark.” Ned finished.

Father put his hand on the shoulder. “Its not your fault, lad. You did all you could.” He then moved to the wall. There was nothing on it. Only stone.

They tried moving the sword at the statue again, but nothing happened. The wall stayed there, unmoving.

It was then that Winter strode in from the outside and began sniffing the wall. She then howled and a howl was returned from the other side. At least Summer was with the boys.

“Alright, get away.” The Greatjon spoke suddenly. “Lad, go get me the biggest hammer you can find.” He said to his son, who turned towards father uncertainly.

Father sighed. “Go lad, get some of the guards to come as well, we will bring it down.”

                                              ________________________________________

The Greatjon was panting. Ned had brought down Alyn, Porther and Old Tommard. They were panting as well. Father had taken one of the large hammers and had begun swinging at the wall but it showed no sign of damage.

Ghost had been sniffing at the wall for a while and the ground at the side. Suddenly he started digging at the stone floor. His red eyes gazed at Jon, and he could understand what his wolf was telling him.

Jon knelt at the place Ghost pointed out and brushed his hand over it. One of the stones was slightly higher than the rest. He then knocked on it with his knuckle and discovered it was hollow.

He took out his dagger and stabbed the place where the stone bordered another.

“Jon, what have you found?” Father asked.

“This stone here is hollow. Mayhaps there is something here.” He replied.

Robb took a knee next to him and with his own dagger stabbed the opposite side. The stone was more of a slab and the brothers pulled it out revealing an imprint of a hand.

At that moment Grey Wind whined. When Robb turned towards him, he scratched at a stone on the opposite end. An identical imprint of a hand was there as well.

The direwolves were now sitting on their haunches just observing the group of men.

“Now what?” The Greatjon asked.

“Well, our wolves discovered the stones, perhaps me and Jon need to insert our hands in them.” Robb said.

“It might be a trap.” Larence Snow called out.

“Well, we have no other ideas.” Jon said.

The brothers knelt, each at the pair of imprints in the ground. Robb counted down and both placed their hands on the imprint.

Suddenly Jon felt a scalding heat slice open his hand. He yelped in pain, removing the arm. Robb as well. Both their hands had been cut open, and blood pooled inside the imprint.

“See it was a trap.” Larence scolded. “I told you.”

“Quiet lad. Let us think.” The boy’s father scolded him.

A sudden shake of the ground caused the group to stumble. The shaking was so strong Jon feared the entirety of Winterfell would fall on top of them.

“Jon. Look.” Robb told his brother. Jon opened his eyes and, on the wall, runes were glowing with a snowy light.

“Through the depths of Winter’s fall,

Only Starks may pass this hall,

Bearers of the wolf’s blood true,

This passage shall unlock for you.”

“You can read that?” Robb asked his brother.

“Aye, I had very good instruction on it.”

“Who the fuck taught a boy of twelve the old tongue.” The Greatjon.

“Wun- uh some wonderful books I found on old First man runes.” Jon caught himself. “I still have a ways to go.”

The Umber lord seemed satisfied with the explanation, as did most of the others. Robb and Father already knew the truth.

The glow intensified and with another rumble, the wall sank into the ground, revealing a wide passage, with a floor of white marble, statues of direwolves placed on the side and in front hearths in which ancient logs burned. It seems that Bran had lit the fires and had gone ahead. Jon swore to himself to give his little brother a stern talking to when they found him. No doubt Robb and father thought similar thoughts.

 On the end of the passage, a stairway led further down to places in Winterfell that were lost in time. Had Bran not gone missing with Ethan Forrester Jon would be excited at the prospect of discovering a long-forgotten secret of his home, but his brother’s and Ethan’s wellbeing was paramount.

“Lord Bolton.” Father sounded. “I would be thankful if you would summon some of my guards and keep watch at the crypts. No one is to enter until we get to the bottom of this.” When Robb had told Jon and father that Roose shoved a dagger in his heart and when Jon had shared what had happened to Winterfell after their deaths, father insisted that he could not punish a man for a crime that hadn’t happened yet. However, it was good to know that the Leech Lord wasn’t trusted in knowing some long-lost secrets of House Stark.

Jon could almost see emotion on the face of Roose Bolton, as he politely bowed. “As you wish my Lord.” With that he turned and went out towards the keep.

“Tom, you keep watch until Lord Bolton returns. The rest of us shall venture forth.”

The old guard of Winterfell bowed slightly and took his position as the rest of them took torches and made their way down. Jon hoped that something that would be of help with their battles to come would be waiting at the end of this adventure.

                                              ________________________________________

Bran

The wall had closed behind them. Everything was pitch black, but Bran saw hearths where old dry logs had been set who knew how many years ago. His older brothers had taught him how to start a fire, so that’s what he did first.

As the fire illuminated their surroundings, he took one of the smaller pieces of wood and set ablaze the other hearths. Behind each of the fires, there stood a statue of a direwolf. All of them big, bigger than even Winter, standing guard for eternity.

“Let’s go Ethan, there are stairs over there.” Bran said pointing at the end of the hall. Bran knew not where it led, only that it would take them deeper in the bowels of Winterfell, where none of his family had gone before. Arya would be jealous he got to explore it first.

Ethan was frightened, Bran could see his friend trying to put on a brave face, but it showed as he fidgeted on a weirwood pendant in the shape of his House sigil. Bran was afraid as well, but the stairs called to him, urging him to explore, to go deeper.

As they descended, they lit torches placed on the walls, illuminating their way. An empty hall stretched itself in front of them. It was empty save runes that glowed in a white light, illuminating it. At the end of the hall, a thick iron and stone gate stood, with only a palm imprint in the middle of it.

“These are old First man runes.” Ethan said. “I’ve seen them in some of the old books in Ironrath.”

“Can you read them?” Bran asked.

“I cannot, the books only catalogued them, they hadn’t translated the meaning.” His friend answered.

“What do you suppose that imprint is?” Ethan asked.

“Maybe we need to touch it to open the door?” Bran suggested. “It’s obviously a key.”

“But that means it wont open for just anyone. What if the wrong person touches it?” The Forrester boy asked.

“One way to find out.” Bran said with a grin as he extended his hand towards the imprint.

“Wait.” Ethan said as he pulled back Bran’s hand. “Perhaps we should wait for our fathers to find a way here.”

“Ethan. We are stuck here. Ned and Larence said that the sword didn’t work anymore. Who knows how long it’ll take them to find a way here, or break down the wall.”

“Then let me do it. As your father’s bannerman it is my duty.” Ethan replied, his voice quivering.

“The gate is in the Stark crypts. If anybody is meant to open them it would be a Stark.” Bran said, stopping his friend.

“But it might be a trap. Father will kill me if any harm comes to a son of Lord Stark.” Pleaded Ethan.

“And Father will do the same if I caused harm to one of my father’s bannemen’s children.” Argued Bran. Ethan had been agreeable and calm. The most reasonable of their group. Yet he was now acting more stubborn than Arya when it was time to bathe.

“Well then I guess none of us are touching it.” Answered Ethan.

“As the son of the Lord of Winterfell, I command you to let me pass.” Finally, Bran spoke, feeling annoyed at his friend.

“Apologies, my Lord.” Ethan answered and Bran could feel the sarcasm. “I will take my chances with Lord Stark scolding me for disobedience than letting you do anything foolish.”

“It’s not foolish, it- “Bran began to respond when voices were heard behind them.

“Bran!” He heard his father call out.

“Bran! Ethan!” More voices called out.

“We’re here, down the stairs!” Ethan shouted, then turned to look at bran with a face that screamed of smugness.

“Go on. Say it.” Bran pouted.

“Say what?” His friend asked puzzled.

“How you were right. Go on. Get it over with.”

“Neither of us were wrong, sometimes doing nothing is the best course though.”

They heard the footsteps first and then Bran saw the pack of direwolves run at him. Summer tackled him with Winter licking his face. Ghost and Grey Wind nipped at his hands and feet as if scolding him.

Father and Bran’s brothers were the first to arrive, followed by several of his father’s bannermen including Lord Gregor, Ethan’s father as well as a handful of guards.

“Brandon Stark, we will have words about this later.” His father said. Bran gulped. Whenever his full name was used there would be trouble. “Jon, can you read the runes here?” Father continued. Since when could Jon read First Man runes.

Bran looked at Jon in confusion and the elder brother smiled at him. “I learned it recently.” Bran could feel something was being hidden. There was a story here, one that he would coax from his brother. If he couldn’t do it on his own, Arya would help, she hated things kept from her as much as he did.

“The runes here talk of the life of Brandon the Shipwright.” Jon started. “About his love for sailing and ships, and his obsession with the Sunset Sea. It tells of his disappearance and his son taking his place as King in the North.”

Jon turned towards the other side. “This side tells the story of Brandon the Burner. The son had been driven mad with grief, burning the remaining ships of the Northern Navy, but the grief remained. Soon he descended further into madness. All manner of restrictions on travel, trade he even turned against the Gods, blaming them for his father’s disappearance. He wished to burn the godswood but his mother and son as well as the Lords of the North pleaded with him to relent.”

Father and Robb looked distraught. Bran was astonished as well. A Stark of Winterfell wished to burn the godswood. That would have been seen as the highest form of betrayal. Rebellion would have surely followed.

Jon moved to the next wall. “The Burner relented; however, he threw out the Greenman tending to the godswood, proclaiming that his kin are no longer welcome in the North, he then sent his son away and took many treasures and heirlooms of House Stark and locked them behind this door. He had sworn the builders of this hall to secrecy with a blood oath.” Father looked pale, in shock or fury Bran could not say.

“The last wall speaks of his regret in his dying days. The bond with his son and family had been destroyed without repair, and the Lords of the North had felt slighted. His son had worked tirelessly for years to bring back their favour. On his deathbed Brandon had told his son that in times of need, to look in the crypts before passing away.” 

“And House Bolton rebelled with House Greystark soon after. A rebellion where Brandon’s son perished leaving behind an heir barely a man grown. Brandon’s last words were lost to time because of unexpected strife. Who knows what things Father and Brandon took to their graves when the Mad King slew them.” Father said. He looked weary.

“We will search every inch of the keep Father. We will find any secrets that may have been left.” Robb said, comforting father.

“Are you gonna see whats there, Ned.” Lord Umber said finally.

“Aye, Jon.” Replied Father. He pulled out the leather glove from one of his hands and placed his hand in the imprint.

“Father no!” Bran yelled out, too slow to react. “It might be a trap!”

Father winced in pain and Bran’s heart almost stopped. “Worry not lad. There were devices like these used as locks to this place. Stark blood is required to unlock them.” Bran saw that both his brothers wore a bandage across their hands.

Stone and iron started moving, as the gate began unlocking. It then sunk into the ground, revealing a large chamber where all manner of treasures was placed. Gold, silver, jewels as well as weapons, armour and books. At the end of the room, on an altar was placed a sword of shining metal almost white in the light with the flames illuminating it. It was a sword almost as big as Ice with a white grip made of weirwood wrapped in leather and a wolf’s head pommel. The guard was made of silver and upon the length of the blade runes had been carved in, runes which softly glowed in icy blue.

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Ned

The cut on his hand stung, but it was nothing compared to the sight in front of him. He had seldom seen such riches in his life. Only the treasury in King’s Landing had been richer and even that was a stretch. But all the gold and jewels paled in comparison to the blade that rested at the end of the chamber.

He felt drawn to it, as if it called him.

“Allow me Lord Stark.” Lord Hornwood approached him and wrapped a piece of cloth around his wound.

“My thanks, Halys. “Ned replied.

“Take the sword, Ned.” The gruff voice of the Greatjon sounded. Ned had seen the man tear apart enemies yet he had never heard nor seen the jovial man so serious.

“Jon?” Ned asked him puzzled.

“Take the bloody sword, Ned! “Lord Umber growled.

Ned said nothing as he went to the altar. The runes seemed to glow brighter as Ned approached. He could swear the blade was calling to him. He placed a hand on the hilt and one on the blade and took the blade in his arms. A weirwood scabbard was placed below the altar, but before Ned could take it and sheath his new blade a surge of warmth enveloped him.

Suddenly he was no longer in the crypts but flying over Winterfell. He saw men and women he recognized as servants and smallfolk going about their day. He saw Arya sneaking out of her lessons. Cat was sewing new clothes for Jon along with Sansa. The sight brought warmth in his heart. He saw the rest of his Lords entertaining themselves. Lord Manderly had just been escorted to his chambers and Lord Royce had gone to the yard with his son. Lord Bolton was standing watch as he had been ordered, but Ned could see the man showing his nerves.

Then he flew higher. Winterfell was but a patch in the ground and he could see the North as a whole. He could feel warmth from several places. Most of those places were his bannermen’s keeps yet several were places unknown to him. The brightest light shone from Winterfell.

He gazed North and saw Benjen riding south with a dark direwolf at his side. It brought him joy that his brother had found his own companion. He silently thanked the Old Gods for the boon and then looked further. He saw the Wall and the castles of the Night’s Watch, their destitute and desperation. As he tried to look past the Wall, he was assaulted with blinding white light making him turn back.

Suddenly a voice. Ancient and powerful like the grinding of stones and the flowing of water sounded out. “You have done well, son of Winter.” It spoke. Another like the blowing of a summer breeze added. “The son of your body and the son of your heart have done well.” It spoke.

“Who are you?” Ned asked. His heart beat wildly in his chest, yet he felt no fear.

“We are the rivers and mountains.” The first voice answered. “We are the wind and rain.” The second one answered. “Together we have watched over and guided your people, yet our voice has been silent for an age.” They said in unison. “Our slumber is at an end, but danger comes. Heroes of old and of new shall answer the call and defend our realms from the enemy. Prepare.”

Ned understood immediately. His sons had already told him of the old gods speaking to them before sending them back, and now the gods had spoken to him. Surely that meant they had done something right, yet still. The gods’ final words unsettled him. War was indeed coming, and their enemy was well known to Ned. The Great Other. It was time he spoke to his Lords.

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He was back in the chamber. His lords’ eyes were upon him, and they seemed uncertain.

“How long was I gone?” Ned asked finally

“A few moments, Lord Stark.” Lord Forrester answered. “But…. My Lord, your eyes. They were as red as a weirwood tree’s. What happened to you.”

“You spoke to them didn’t you, father.” Robb asked.

“Aye, we have much to prepare for.” Father asked.

 Ned left Alyn and Porther with Tommard to guard the entrance to the chamber. The rest of them made their way out with Ned taking Ice and sheathing it in the weirwood scabbard.

Ned set the council with his lords for the morning, as it was already dusk by the time they emerged from the crypts.

Feeling weary he removed his clothes until he was left with only his smallclothes, placed Ice by the bed and laid down in his bed, to the waiting arms of his wife.

“Bran’s antics have been fruitful this time.” Cat said with a chuckle.

Ned gave his wife a weary smile. “Aye, this time. I swear that boy will be the death of me one day.”

“The death of both of us, my love. When Sansa told me I ruined poor Jon’s doublet for the feast.”

“Thank the gods for the wolves. If it weren’t for them, who knows how long we would have needed to find him. That wall wouldn’t break even under the Greatjon’s blows.”

Cat embraced him tighter. “I must speak with the boy. He should know better than to be so reckless.”

Ned sighed. His wife had no idea how true her words were. “I will have him and his friends begin training with Rodrik. It’ll keep them too busy to think of mischief.”

Catelyn raised a brow. “Is he not too young, Ned? He is but six years old.”

“Aye, he is younger than most that begin to train, but his wolf’s blood runs thick, he needs something to busy himself with.”

His wife was fighting off sleep as she laid her head on his chest. “At least he will be safer with Rodrik than he is climbing the towers.” She mumbled.

Ned kissed her forehead and then snuffed out the candle illuminating their chambers. If only he could tell his wife just how dangerous their lives were soon to get. Tales of old were stirring, gods were waking and the realm was on the brink of great strife again and his two eldest sons were going to be in the middle of it and the North at the forefront.

Still Ned had faith that the Old Gods would give them strength and tomorrow he would begin preparations with his lords.

Chapter Text

Jon

One of Vayon’s pages woke him. It was little past dawn but there was work to be done. The harvest festival was to begin the next day and would last three days. After that, father had decided to host a tourney, a joust, a melee and archery competition as well as a squire’s melee. A tourney of another three days to celebrate his and Robb’s name days, followed by a feast for all of the Lords. All across the celebration there would be councils held where steps would be taken to ensure the North was prepared for what was to come.

A longtable had been set in the Great Hall allowing a place for every Lord sworn to Winterfell. Several other tables had been set for the smaller Lords sworn to the other Houses in the North. Lord Royce had been invited as a guest of honor, and there was hope that something may be arranged with the Lord of Runestone. A place had been left empty for Robb’s grandfather and the bannermen he was bringing with him. They were set to arrive by the morning Old Gods willing.

“Jon you’ve arrived, good. Let us begin.” Father said. Behind Father’s chair laid Winter and at the table the sheathed ancient Ice. Robb was sat on his right, with Grey Wind laying at his feet, with his family’s Valyrian Steel Ice resting on his chair. Jon was sat on the left of his father, with Ghost taking a seat at his side. Several seats were empty, notably Barbrey Dustin and her family the Ryswells. Bannermen sworn to Barrowtown had arrived however, including lord Brownbarrow and Lord Stout who had arrived in the night. Of the Rills only House Glenmore had arrived and there were only some local masterly houses that held too little power to be defiant to their immediate liege.

The one-armed lord Stout entered after Jon had taken a seat by his father’s side. “Apologies Lord Stark, I have kept my Lord’s waiting.” The grizzled veteran from his father’s rebellion said gruffly with a bow, before taking a seat at the far end of the table.

Father had planned with him and Robb on how to approach the subject. Nearly all of the nobles gathered were good honourable men loyal to his father. All except one. Still, they would deal with the Leech Lord when he showed the slightest hint of treachery.

“Only my good-father and my brother are yet to arrive, however much of why I have summoned this council has to do with our own borders.” Father began. “Summer has lasted for eight years already with little signs of stopping. Even the summer snows have been a rarity of late. This gives us an opportunity to better prepare for the coming of winter as well as strengthening our borders and defenses.

Whispers began amongst the Lords before Lord Umber stood. “Do ya fear trouble comin’ Ned?” The giant of a man asked.

“I feel the harshest of Winters are coming my lords. The Night’s Watch is at the worst its been since its founding and they’ve reported wildings sneaking past their patrols and raiding villages more and more often. For now, it is only the coastal villages and the most northern parts of the Gifts and though it pains me for our countrymen being taken as thralls there is little we can do in those lands without permission.” Father took a moment to take a sip of ale. “I have no intention of allowing our lands to be ravaged however.” He turned to Theon, who was given a place next to Lord Royce. “There are also whispers of Balon Greyjoy rebuilding the Iron Fleet and ironborn ships have been seen plundering wood from our eastern coast.”

Grumbling again. Lord Glover stood up. “Aye, my men have fought off several raiding parties already and some have even become as bold as to attack settlements.” There were pointed looks exchanged, and many Lords looked at the Greyjoy heir with disdain.

“I have nothing to do with it. My father is a madman.” Theon spoke out.

“And why should we trust a squid, eh boy?” Lord Karstark called out. Jeers began erupting in the background. Few in the North didn’t hate Theon’s people, and they had good reason to.

The Greyjoy was becoming flustered, no matter how much he had changed since he had his encounter with the Old Gods and the Drowned one.

“Peace my Lords.” Father said, spreading his arms in a motion to calm his lords down. “Theon can be trusted. He has sworn himself to my sons, and has taken the Old Gods as his own.”

“Is this true lad.” Lord Tallhart asked.

“Aye, I have renounced that abomination that my kinsmen worship. It shall lead my people to nothing but ruin.”

His words seemed to placate the northern lords.

“Lord Stark if I may.” Lord Manderly spoke. And father motioned for him to speak. “The North hasn’t much in the name of a navy. Only my own house has ships and most of them for trading. Should you wish it my Lord, my House shall endeavor to build a fleet grander than that of Brandon the Shipwright.”

Whispers of approval echoed around the hall. “My Lord, my House would be honoured to aid in rebuilding the Northern Fleet. We have a small number of trading cogs, and our harbour is small but sturdy. We can aid with a meager number of warships though we would need aid.” Robin Flint spoke. The man was of an age with Theon and had served as a member of Robb’s battle guard in the other time. He had been killed at the Red Wedding along with Robb and many among he lords present.

Jon sent a piercing gaze to Roose Bolton, who seemed to be stealing glances at his father’s sword. Lord Domeric listened intently as Robin spoke.

“My Lord, my Father has always wished to give your House a navy that would be the pride of the North. The harbour of Oldcastle is at your service and House Locke would be honoured to help manage the costs.” Ser Donnel Locke added. Another good man who had died for Jon’s House and the North.

As Donnel spoke, Domeric seemed to want to speak before being stopped by his father. Jon could guess what the lad wanted to say as the Boltons held a good part of the coast with good locations for ports.

Lord Karstark stood and there was a look of mirth in his smiling face. Jon couldn’t imagine the old grizzled man smiling, not from what he had heard of Robb, but he was a man who wanted more power for the North.

“Lord Stark, since the days of my grandfather, my House has wanted to build a port at the mouth of the Sunsilver River running near Karhold. I would ask your leave to have it built and give it to one of my sons to run. Karstark lands are rich with forests and we have lumber enough to make a navy unsurpassed.”

The Greatjon also rose. “Ned, my House have never been much good at sailing, we prefer the ground beneath our feet and the trees above our heads. Our lands have a good shore though. The Bay of Seals has but a handful of fishing villages and several hamlets on its shore. Wildings and pirates have raided them for years and we could not chase them, for we have no ships. My House has lumber, leather and fur aplenty, however we are short on coin to hire workers.”

Lord Royce and his son paid attention to the talks. Jon had his doubts about letting a man from the Vale listen in, however the son had died a ranger of the Night’s Watch, and Jon planned to invite the man in the service of Winterfell and Lord Royce had fought beside Lord Stark in two wars, as well as was the bannerman of Jon’s namesake, his foster grandfather.

Father rose up after Lord Umber finished speaking. “My lords, yesterday, my House had come upon a boon unparalleled. Lost in our crypts was a chamber, filled with gold and jewels and tomes that would fill any treasury to the brim. My ancestor, Brandon the Shipwright had brought great wealth to the North with his travels, however in his grief, his son had cast it all away as cursed. It had been lost in time along with an ancient part of mine House.” He unsheathed Ice and showed all present the glowing runes upon the silvery blade.

Gasps of shock echoed across the hall, and even Yohn Royce was astonished. “This my Lords, is our ancestral sword, hailing from the Age of Heroes itself, the original Ice. Henceforth, the Lord of Winterfell shall wield it, while the Valyrian Sword Ice shall pass to the heir.” Father sheathed the blade, and set it back on the table.

“Maester Luwin had his assistants counting the coins we had found and as of this morning we have almost a million golden dragons, with as many silver stags and moons, and even more coppers of different denominations. We have yet to appraise the jewels, however it is likely that they will fetch a hefty price.”

Lords gasped at father’s revelation. “The gold will be spent on developing the North. House Stark will commission the construction of a navy and welcomes the aid of House Manderly, Locke, Flint, Karstark and Umber.” He turned to Lord Tallhart. “Helman, I want you to begin construction of a port at Torrhen’s square. We will begin the reconstruction of our western fleet from there. I will give you thirty thousand dragons to begin construction and hire laborers. The restriction on logging will also be decreased so that you may triple the output of lumber for three years. That goes to all of you, my lords.”

“You honor my House Lord Stark. House Tallhart will be the shield of Torrhen’s Lake until the end of our line.” Lord Tallhart bowed. Father accepted Lord Helman’s pledge, thanking him for his loyalty.

“Lord Forrester.” Father called out. The Lord of Ironrath rose. “How fare your stocks of Ironwood?”

“Our forests are plentiful Lord Stark. We take great care to have more Ironwood growing than we cut down.”

“Good man. You will need to quadruple the output for the next three years, Lord Forrester. Would that be possible?”

“It would my Lord. But after that it will take years to regrow what we have cut. We will have to decrease the supply for a decade to not damage the forests overly much.”

“That will do fine. Lord Glover, you will need to increase logging efforts in the Wolfswood three-fold as well. I will also award a stipend of forty thousand dragons to begin construction of a port and keep at Deepwood Point that may be awarded to a brother or a second son. Deepwood Motte needs to be reinforced as well, some of the coin will be enough to begin the work. As compensation, taxes on Ironwood will be halved if sold within the North and decreased by a quarter for regular lumber. That goes for all Lords of the North.”

Both Lords bowed deeply. “You give our houses such a boon Lord Stark.” Galbart Glover spoke

“Lady Mormont.” Father continued. “Bear Island had been raided long ago by ironborn, setting ablaze Bearstone Keep as well as the towers of Woodfoot Watch and Woodfoot Rock. I am told they are little more than ruins. With House Woodfoot almost extinct.”

“Aye, you’re right Lord Stark. The Lands of mine House are modest and we’ve not enough men or coin to rebuild our southern defenses. As for House Woodfoot, the last living member is a sworn sword of House Mormont with a wife and two children.” The She-Bear answered.

“Very good. House Mormont has been leal bannermen of House Stark and have never asked for much. So, you will be tasked with rebuilding the ruins my lady, and House Woodfoot shall have its lands reinstated and will swear fealty to Mormont Keep. As assistance taxes from Bear Island will be halved for three years and House Stark will award thirty thousand dragons to assist. Sales of stone to House Mormont will not be taxed for the next year as well. What remains of the coin would be well spent in expanding one of the fishing villages to a port town and the construction of ships.”

“You honor us, Lord Stark.” Maege said taking a knee. “Bear island pledges itself to you as we have done for ages past.”

“Lord Garred. Rise.” Father spoke. The Lord of Flint’s Finger obeyed. “Cape Kraken and Blazewater bay are a large part of our Western shore. As well as the Stony shore they are easy targets for ironborn raiders.” Father spoke. “I want you to reinforce the coast. Villages will need walls, watchtowers and I want lighthouses built.”

Lord Flint nodded at his father. “The isle of Younghorn in Ironman’s Bay will need a lighthouse and its port expanded. Walls must be reinforced and men garrisoned there. Flint’s Finger is abundant in good stone and lumber so for the next three years taxes on them will be waived. During this time, I expect warships built and castles on the shore. The Keep of Anchor point on the southern part of Cape Kraken will need to be reinforced as well. I want a hundred more men garrisoned in it as well as watchtowers armed and manned at the coast. The fishing port there will be expanded if House Flint of Flint’s Finger wishes more ships to be built there. The keep of Blazemark and its town and port, Blaze Harbour will need to be reinforced. Sea walls will need to be constructed and warships built there. For this House Stark will supply thirty thousand gold dragons and a waive on taxes for this year.”

“My lord, that is a generous sum and conditions. House Flint will not fail in this.” Lord Garred knelt.

“There is another matter, Lord Flint.” Father continued. “An additional twenty thousand will be given to fortify the small island at the mouth of the Saltspear. I want a strong keep built there with scorpions and catapults on its walls and a well-trained garrison. As Lord Ryswell and Lady Bethany have deemed it unnecessary to attend, I cannot give them a command to reinforce their side of the Saltspear. This falls to your House now my Lord.

“As you command it shall be done, Lord Stark.” Garred vowed.

“Lord Stark. If I may beg your pardon.” Lord Glenmore rose. “House Ryswell may be our liege lord; however, my House is loyal to the North. Give me leave my Lord, and we shall build fortifications on the mouth of the Rillwater split. I ask for no coin for this, only permission to expand the farm land around our keep and holdings.”

Father scratched his chin in thought. “Done. I accept your proposal my lord.” The lord of Rillwater Crossing bowed and sat down on the side table.

Then Father turned to an old man wearing a surcoat with a set of oars crossed on a white background. “Lord Waterman, your lands border the Stony shore and on the mouth of the Stonewater river.”

“Aye, my Lord. Our house has guarded that river for a thousand years for yours.” The old man spoke with pride.

“It has been said that your longboats could sail up almost any river is this true my Lord?”

“That has been said, however my House has not the coin to build ships. Ever since your ancestor burned ours, we have contented ourselves to keeping guard from Stonewater Watch.”

Father nodded. “It would seem my Lord Waterman, that my House has wronged yours and this slight has not been righted.” Lord Theowyn Waterman’s eyes widened as if he had no clue what was about to happen.

“House Stark will give you ten thousand golden dragons and no tariffs on Ironwood and lumber for five years. Stonewater Watch will have a port and your House will have their longboats again. I hope that the stories of your forefathers are done justice.”

“Lord Stark.” The old man spoke, his voice quivering. “Our ships will be the finest you have seen. I swear on the Old Gods. My sons and I will be a shield for your House until we still draw breath.”

“And my House shall always honour your loyalty my lord, as we will honour any who give their fealty to House Stark.”

Cheers erupted from the Lords in the Hall, and chants of the North and Stark echoed among them.

“That settles our western shore. Now for the East. Lord Robin, House Stark will award you twenty thousand gold dragons and a bag of fine jewels as well as the before mentioned tax and restriction waivers. Widow’s Watch needs a larger harbour, and the banner of your House needs to fly on the sails of ships.”

“Lord Donnel, you will receive the same. Oldcastle and Keystone are fine locations for ports, and my House will be pleased to see the crossed keys flying on Northern Ships.”

“Lord Karstark. Your House are kin to ours. As are all of the Northern Houses, distant kin or close. However, your House has a vast shore, and you need a harbour and ships. Name your price my Lord.”

Lord Rickard rose. “Ned, give me ten thousand dragons and allow me to log and mine and I will have twenty ships ready by next year for you.”

“Done.” Father spoke then turned to the Greatjon. “Jon, we will give you twenty thousand gold dragons, and decrease taxes on leather and fur by half for the next two years. Reinforce your shore and build ships. However, we have no one who can teach your men to sail in Winterfell.”

Lord Royce rose up. “Lord Stark, if I may. One of my bannermen, Ser True has four sons. He rules over one of our ports and his sons are well trained in matters of the sea. Give one of them a keep and command and he will teach Lord Umber and his all he knows.”

Father nodded. “Lord Umber, what say you about the proposal of Lord Royce?”

The giant of a man seemed to be thinking. “It’s a good offer I can’t lie, but in our lands, we follow the Old Gods, there are no septs to the Seven and our people are a superstitious lot.”

“That won’t be a problem Greatjon.” Lord Royce replied. “Ser Osfryd and his sons have remained faithful to the Old Gods, as has my own House even though we have taken some customs from the Andals.”

“Well, in that case I accept. There is a village called Sealstone that has no ruler. One of his sons can be a master of it and sworn to Last Hearth. Our chained giant will fly on sails and bring fear in the hearts of enemies of the North.” The Greatjon bellowed.

“Then that is settled. Finally, Lord Manderly. White Harbour is the largest city in the North. Your ports are renowned and your House is one of the principal vassals of my House. Twenty thousand gold dragons will be awarded to reinforce your fleet. Another twenty thousand will be awarded to build ships directly sworn to House Stark.”

Old Lord Manderly bowed his head with a smile. “House Manderly will give the North the finest ships. The envy of the Narrow Sea.”

A quarter of a million had been spent to reinforce the North’s borders and that was only for the sea. After Father finished allocating resources for shipbuilding and ports, he began awarding funds to expand farming efforts. Houses Cerwyn, Slate, Lake, Moss, Wells, Holt and others were given five thousand gold dragons each to settle lands and buy livestock and plant harvests. House Hornwood was tasked with providing lumber for the building efforts and given a generous tax waiver on wood and hunting rights a thousand gold dragons were provided for training and outfitting heavy riders and the breeding and feeding of heards of horses.

House Lightfoot was given a thousand to expand the hill paths in their lands as well as planting their famed weirwood as much as they could. Old Gods willing soon they would have a steady supply for bows and arrows.

House Ironsmith had been given ten thousand dragons to prospect for iron in their hills. Robb had been privy to information about rich veins that had been discovered two years from now in the other life and Lord Stark had ordered a survey there. He Mountain clans of the North were given five thousand each for quarries and mines to be expanded and funded.

Finally, House Silverfield, a house sworn to White Harbor and House Manderly were given an additional ten thousand each to expand the silver mines in their lands, with half the profit of the next ten years going to House Stark, and after that a fixed tenth of the silver mined.

Lords were happy and were cheering their father. It only took a quarter of their tax income for three years and a lump sum of four hundred thousand dragons but Jon was certain that if Father had asked his lords to dance naked in the courtyard they would.

Except House Bolton. The man was seething and Domeric seemed downcast. They were given only the stipend to increase farmland but Jon knew the Lord of the Dreadfort wanted the gold to build a harbour and ships as it meant more trade and riches and power in the long run.

It was time to broach the difficult subjects. Jon hoped that the good will they had garnered with their generosity would hold.

“My brother, the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch is set to arrive soon. Once he does, I will have him speak to Lord Commander Mormont about the possibility of altering the Oath for the Night’s Watch.” Gasps and mutterings began almost immediately.

“Why would you do that Stark. The Watch has stood for eight thousand years, why change it now.” Torren Liddle spoke. “My eldest is a ranger there as well, I don’t think he will appreciate much interfering in their business.”

“Aye, The Liddle is right, mine own brother, Ronnel is there as a ranger as well. And the Wall is infested with murderers, rapists and thieves surely you don’t want them riding off down to our lands to satisfy their foul needs.” Erec Harclay added.

Many in the hall added their voices and then Waymar rose up. “My Lord, I aim to join the Watch and make a name for myself. I’m prepared to serve for life there. I don’t see a need to change the oath, even if the Lord Commander allows. Especially not if it allows criminals to go free and escape the headsman.”

“I hear your words my lords. However, the Night’s Watch is down to three manned castles and little more than a thousand men. Most of these are criminals sent there to avoid death or maiming. Recruits have been sharply declining. I remember when Ben joined, they had triple the current number. The Oath will only be changed for those that freely join, as my sons believe that if men could still have a life beyond the Wall, they will be more likely to go. Also, should a man swear off his inheritance to join the Watch, it will remain sworn off if he leaves. This way there wont be any succession issues with members from the Wall returning.”

“If it brings more men to the Wall I say why not. Gods know that there is barely a patrol sent out from the three castles there. Wildlings can sneak past unchallenged and raid and pillage our lands.” Rickard Karstark spoke out.

“I say we just march on the wildlings and put them to the sword.” The Greatjon added.

Lords began to discuss amongst them, the merits of their ideas.

“There is another part I aim to discuss with my brother and Lord Mormont. The Gifts are a destitute land, with few settlements known there. I aim to write to King Robert to give me leave to settle and develop these lands, in return the Lords that shall rule there will be marcher lords and be tasked with maintaining a strong force. Their taxes will be split between the Watch and Winterfell, and they will be required to defend the Wall. I will ask the king for coin to help rebuilding of the Gifts. To further reduce the threat of raids, I aim to offer wildling clans the choice to bend the knee and settle the gift if they agree to follow northern customs and laws, and keep the peace.”

And there it was. The reception of a proposal to settle the Gift had been good. It would give back land to the North part of which was unjustly taken from them, while in turn strengthening the Watch. However, Free Folk were despised in the North, especially by houses that lived near the gift. Such as House Umber.

“You can’t do that Ned. Its folly. Those fuckers took my cousin when she was still a little girl. How many have they taken from our smallfolk and other Houses.” Then yelling ensued. Some Lords called for calmer heads, some saw the benefits of their father’s proposal but old hatred ran deep and there wasn’t a common threat to unite them, not yet.

The howling of Winter made everyone in the hall silent. Father looked annoyed behind his “Lord’s face”.

“My brother has received an account about your cousin Sygfrid, Jon. She is alive and well. Two beauties as daughters and a head of a small wildling clan.”

The Greatjon stood there frozen in place as his mouth hung gaping. Silence all across the hall was broken when Roose Bolton finally spoke. “How can we be sure that this wildling Lord Benjen has heard of is Lady Sygfrid. And even so, how can we let a people that had raided and pillaged ours for the longest times settle in our kingdom.”

Whispers of agreement sounded in the hall. “We will treat with any and all wildling clans in person. Once my brother is here and ive discussed this with him, and after the celebration has ended, I will ride to Castle Black to speak to Jeor. If he accepts and Robert gives permission, I will take a party beyond the wall and parley with our terms. As for the reasons why, there are a hundred thousand wildlings spread across the lands beyond the wall. We need their labor. We will teach them to work land and raise livestock. They will build keeps and houses and help us survive the Winter that is coming.”

Several Lords seemed deep in thought. “There are also rumours of giants and mammoths and several rangers swear on seeing them. These are peaceful, sentient creatures that speak the Old Tongue, but are a formidable foe if challenged. Having their number will be a great boon for the North, what will take ten men to lift and carry, a single one of them can do. Their mammoths produce as much milk as an entire herd of cows and the giants eat only plants.”

“Ned these are just tall tales. We can’t offer terms based on rumours.” The Greatjon spoke.

Father smiled. “This is why, I invite you my Lords, to travel with me beyond the Wall. Bring your personal guards, as I will and we will speak to these clans. Jon, bring your uncle with us as well, he will surely recognize his daughter.”

Lord Medger stood from his seat. “Ned, you seem to have a plan and the North hasn’t been as busy since the Age of Heroes. I will join you to the Wall.”

Lord Helman would join as well. Lord Waterman spoke of his trust in father and would return to Stonewater watch and begin his task. Lord Manderly gave apologies as he was in no condition to travel so far, however he would send his son Wylis as witness. Lord Bolton declined to come, stating that the Dreadfort needed him to remain. Lord Karstark accepted as well as Lord Umber and Glover and Maege Mormont desired to visit her brother, however she wanted to bring her daughters as well.

“It is settled then my Lords. While we prepare for the trip beyond the Wall, my sons will be tasked with a tour of the North, surveying lands and making sure everything is in order. I would ask that your sons accompany them as it would be a chance to build friendships and strengthen the bonds of the North for another generation.

“Lord Stark, it would be an honor to accompany Lord Robb and Jon. Ive longed to travel the lands of the North, alas I had been fostered in the Vale and as much as I cherish my friends from the Redfort, I lack familiarity with my fellow lords and their lands.” Domeric Bolton spoke. The soon to be man turned to his father. “Father, I humbly ask for your permission to depart on this journey after the celebrations here end.”

Roose Bolton looked like he had swallowed a bug. He smiled bitterly and spoke. “One of the most important duties of an heir is to forge bonds with his fellow lords. Of course, you may accompany them my son.”

That was the catalyst to have all of the sons of the North to beg permission from their fathers, after all what boy or young man didn’t want to embark on a journey in open lands with boys and men near their age.

“Then my lords, I believe we can end today’s council. We will return tomorrow where I will listen to grievances and request from you and your banners. I bid you enjoy the hospitality of Winterfell.” He said as he rose from his seat. Robb and many of the boys near their age scrambled to leave, no doubt requiring a reprieve from a full day of court and Jon needed to let loose as well. Perhaps Robb would spar with him in the godswood later.

As Jon made to leave the Hall, he saw Father call Lord Royce and his son to speak privately. Jon knew what that was about and left with Ghost running at his heel.

Chapter Text

Ned

It was past dusk when he finally returned to his chamber. The day had been tiring to say the least. In the end, their plans had been set and work would begin soon. They needed a navy and fast, as Ned still remembered the fury on old Balon Greyjoy during that vision with Theon. He would move to attack. Folly to be sure, as even without ships, the North could beat back any force from the Ironborn, but he wished that his people not suffer if avoidable. Trade would blossom as well with the ships, leading to long term gain for his lands and lords. Giving such boons to his Lords was also a way to secure their loyalties, even though he knew he already had it. Except Bolton.

Ned noticed the looks Roose gave during the council. That’s why he had not commanded the Lord of the Dreadfort to build harbours and keeps on the mouths of the Weeping Water and the Last River. He noticed his son wishing to request the task, but the boy was stopped by his father.

Domeric Bolton had little of his father in him. His eyes face favoured his mother, and his body was all Ryswell. Only his hair was of his father’s colouring. Ned hoped that his character was as true and honourable as he spoke and not deception, but with Boltons he could never be sure.

Catelyn entered the room kissed him. Her kisses always soothed his tired soul. As Cat put on her nightgown and began brushing her hair she turned towards Ned.

“How was the council my love. Did your banners tire you out with their requests.” She said with a wry smile.

Ned returned her smile. “No, I was the one requesting today. Spent a little less than half a million dragons. By tomorrow our expenses will only grow.” He rubbed his eyes.

Cat’s smile vanished. “What in the Seven hells required so much coin?” She asked disbelief on her face.

Ned shifted in his bed, turning towards her. “Ports. Keeps. Ships. Reinforcing castles, villages, towns. Expanding farmland, mines, buying livestock, wages and equipment for men and buying horses for breeding.” Ned counted off tiredly.

“Ned, I know Bran and his friends found a large amount of gold and jewels in the crypt, but is this wise?” She finished brushing her hair, and laid in bed, wrapping her hands around him, her head resting on his chest.

“Aye, there will be summer for at least three more years. The ships will bring trade and the castles and fortifications will remain and not lose value. The labor that will be imported may also settle in the North boosting our population. Besides, there is still more than a million and a half left. Ill have Vayon allocate fifty thousand for Moat Cailin and as much as it will be needed to repair the First Keep and the Broken tower as well as any ruins near Winterfell. Im also increasing the number of men in our service. Waymar Royce will swear himself to Robb and Jon and we will see what else comes up.”

“Ned, why the rush all of a sudden? What’s gotten into you? I know you’re keeping it secret for me. You and Robb and Jon. Even Theon and Luwin won’t speak a word of it.”

Ned sighed. He had promised that he wouldn’t keep secrets from her. He should have trusted her with Jon but it wasn’t his secret to tell. Either Robb or Jon would have to share it. “I’m sorry Cat. I promised them. Ask Robb or Jon. It is their secret.”

“So, there is a secret you menfolk are keeping.” She said finally. It made Ned laugh.

“Aye, Cat, the boys have a secret, but once you know of it, there will be no return. And you cannot tell anyone without their permission.” Ned said hoping it would discourage his wife.

“Now I have to know.” She replied. It backfired. “Come, my love. Enough talk of work I haven’t slept with my husband for a week.” She continued before kissing him. The chaste kiss turned more and more passionate, as Ned took charge and caressed his wife under the covers. He loved her and it had been long since they laid together.

And Ned needed to let go.

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Catelyn

She woke before Ned as she rarely did. Her poor husband must have been weary, but the previous night had ended well. Really well. Her body remembered every touch and thrust of her man and she had given as good as she received.

The sun was already up as she rose from their bed. Ned had no business this early so she let him sleep. He would be dealing with his Lords again in the afternoon and her family was set to arrive soon. It was going to be good to see them, a pity Lysa wouldn’t be able to come. They had received word that the plague had been contained. With few deaths praise the Seven, but Cat wished to meet her nephew.

Maybe Ned could have a trip to King’s Landing with her after this. There was the whole business with legitimizing Jon.

Speaking of her newly discovered nephew. She felt guilt. He had lived a better life than most bastards, he was clothed and fed and taught, but Cat had ignored his very existence. She wouldn’t respond to his calls even as a child. The boy was motherless and she had not been able to extend her love to him. Too afraid was she about him usurping his half-siblings that he would strike them down. The knowledge that both of them knew of his parentage, made her fear disappear and as she lost her disdain for the boy, only the guilt remained.

She had agreed to the legitimization as a way to make amends and Ned promised that he would only be put in line after their children.

Still interacting had been awkward at best.

As she thought about her nephew, she ran into him as he made his way to the yard. He and Robb behaved strangely of late. Even before Ned’s reveal, Jon had begun acting confident, overnight. Robb as well. They commanded the men of Winterfell like it was natural for them. They carried swords at the hip, well Robb carried Ice now that Ned carried the ancient sword.

“Jon, a moment please.” She called out to him. His face as he turned to her was that of reluctance.

“Lady Stark, how can I help?” Jon asked, doing his best to be courteous. His gaze shifted away from her as he spoke, unable to hold her gaze.

“I need to speak to you, and I told you I’m aunt Catelyn now.” She said, trying to show the boy her goodwill.

“I’m sorry…. aunt Catelyn.” He managed to say, and it felt strange to Cat. Yet it wasn’t unwelcome. “What do you want to talk to me about.” He seemed curious even if there was a measure of apprehension in his face.

“I know you and Robb are keeping a secret.” She said. “Ned knows, Luwin and Theon as well. I want you to tell me as well.”

Jon cast his eyes downward. He was looking at his feet. Gods he had the same habit as Bran when being scolded. She had never noticed. Rather never wanted to notice. But she could change their bond from now. Gods willing, she could make amends for abandoning a motherless child, her motherless nephew.

“I… I don’t know Lady Stark. Its not something to learn lightly. Maybe Robb can tell you.” There was a look of regret, as Jon tried to get away.

“Jon… Wait.” She called him out. “Robb won’t tell me without your permission. I know he won’t. He values your council.” She always knew the boys were as if joined at the hip. And she hated it before. Now she was only just getting to know Jon Snow soon to be Stark.

“Before, I hated how close you and Robb were. I hated how he took your word to heart no matter what it was. I hated Bran and Arya loving you as well as Robb. But now I regret those feelings. I’m sorry Jon. I should have been a mother to you.” The words just came out of her mouth. Even after the revelation they had gone back to their usual dynamic, which was staying far away of each other’s way. Though Catelyn had commissioned a new wardrobe for her nephew. Clothes with the Stark sigil. She didn’t think her words through, and felt vulnerable being so honest with the boy.

Suddenly she felt arms wrapping around her. Jon Snow was embracing her. She felt something warm and wet on her shoulder. His breathing turned ragged and she knew he wept.

The realization brought tears to her eyes as she for the first time ever embraced the boy she treated as a stain on their family. The moment seemed to last forever but then it ended as suddenly as it began.

Jon pulled away from her, managing to compose himself. There was still redness around his eyes and nose. It was hard to remember that he was barely ten and three.

“Forgive me Lady Stark, I was forward.” He apologized.

“No, Jon, it’s fine. And its Aunt Catelyn now.” She replied.

“I will speak to Robb, meet us in the godswood.” He said as he made himself scarce.

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The Godswood of Winterfell was a queer place. It just felt strange. She rarely felt welcome there, though now she felt tolerated. Grey Wind and Ghost were laying near the pond as their gazes followed her. Robb was sitting, leaning on the heart tree, polishing Ice like how Ned used to do. Jon stood leaned behind his brother.

In her mind’s eye in front of her were no longer boys of three and ten, but they looked older, men grown. Men of Winterfell. Robb wore his hear short and had let a beard grow while Jon was clean shaven though he wore his hear long. Jon was the taller of the two but Robb was bigger, then as suddenly as the vision appeared, in front of her were boys again.

“Mother. Jon told me.” Robb said, his voice uncertain.

“I need to know Robb, what are you keeping from me. What secret would you tell Theon and Luwin but not your own mother?” She argued. A look of guilt appeared on Robb’s face, and even Jon seemed to feel bad. She regretted saying it as she didn’t want to guilt the boys into compliance.

“It’s complicated.” Jon said suddenly. “We decided with father that it is better for the secret to be known by as few as possible.”

“Just like it was better for no one except Ned to know about your parentage?” Catelyn said, immediately regretting her words.

Hurt on the face of Jon and anger on that of Robb. Her eldest opened his mouth. “We cannot risk events changing too much until we are prepared.”

The answer was strange. Events changing before they were prepared. It unsettled her. “What do you mean events changing? What are you talking about Robb?” She asked, her voice rising as she spoke.

A look passed between Robb and Jon. One she knew too well. It was as if an entire conversation was carried out in just that look. Finally, Robb sighed.

“Aunt Catelyn you will think us mad.” Jon warned.

“We were returned to the past. By the Old Gods.” Robb said.

The words didn’t register in her mind. Robb was surely jesting. He was known to tease people from time to time. They must have decided to play her a fool. She sighed. Boys would be boys.

“Mother, its not a jest. I have memories of a life three years in the future. Jon remembers even longer. He did outlive me after all.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “This is no longer funny, Robb. You shouldn’t make jests about dying.” Not to me.

“It isn’t a jest, aunt. Robb died. The North fell, and I was killed after. The Old Gods returned us because the Others are coming. The Long Night will come soon and we cannot lose, for all of our sakes.” Jon must have been growing comfortable to make such a jest.

“What game are you two playing. Do I need to send you to your rooms for a week?” She threatened.

Jon sighed. “You were right Robb; she wouldn’t believe us anyway. Let’s stop.” Those words made her feel uncertain. But surely that was a part of the plan to play her like a fool.

Suddenly Robb left Ice by the heart tree, and took her hand. He looked her in the eyes. “It’s true, mother. In mind, both of us are men grown already. Both of us have fought and killed men, led men in battles, lost loved ones.” If Robb was deceiving her, he was the best liar in the Seven Kingdoms, for there was no hint of deception in his face.

“And what happened in this future that you were sent back from?” She asked still skeptical, but if there was a lie, she would find it.

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She felt lightheaded. The tale the boys told. It was horrible. Ned dying, her own father dying of illness. Arya missing for months, Sansa a hostage to a sadistic spawn of incest. Bran and Rickon killed and burned by Theon it tore her heart.

And according to the tale, she had started it all. What was her future self thinking. Capturing the son of Tywin Lannister, brother to the queen without any plan. And then freeing the Kingslayer, her son’s best hostage on his promise to bring back her daughters. She had singlehandedly brought ruin to her family.

“It wasn’t all your fault.” Robb said and Jon nodded. “You warned me not to let Theon go, but after Father was killed. You were overcome with grief. And after we received word of Bran and Rickon dying, you just wanted to see your children again.”

“Aye, me and Robb made our fair share of mistakes.” Jon added. “I sent away my friends and loyal men as to not look biased, and then after breaking all the traditions of the Night’s Watch announced my intent to ride against the Bolton cunt.” She had never heard Jon curse, stunning her.

“I shouldn’t have fucked Jayne or sent Theon home. Knowing what I know, I shouldn’t have let that traitor command my foot. The cunt bled loyal men while keeping his fresh.” Robb squeezed a fist.

Somehow, their explanation made sense. Apart from the strange happenings like the direwolves and finding the ancestral sword, their actions could be explained. Ser Rodrik had praised their improvement with sword and lance, calling them geniuses. Luwin had said he had little more to teach them. Jon speaking the Old Tongue and reading First Men runes. Their entire demeanor. But something was still odd.

“Why do you still trust Theon then. Surely, he will betray you again.” She asked.

The brothers glanced at each other. “He denounced the Drowned God. Chose us this time. His bow and quiver were gifted by the Old Gods as proof of his choice.” The trees in the godswood rustled as Robb spoke, as if confirming his words.

“Come now Robb, I might be able to believe your story so far, but this is too much.” Catelyn said.

“Ask Father. The Old Gods were slowly waking upon our return. Father returned them when he drew Ice.” Her son replied, unwilling to explain more.

She wanted to ask more but a horn sounded in the distance. Visitors. Father.

                                              ________________________________________

Robb

That was it. Mother knew now as well. That made him think about whether their siblings had a right to know. What of grandfather. Uncle Brynden. Uncle Edmure. Should they tell them as well. And then what of their bannermen. Roose Bolton could go fuck himself with a ballistae bolt but many were good and true men.

Perhaps in time they might think more on that. Now his grandfather was dismounting his horse a large brown gelding. Grandfather looked nothing like he remembered. His beard and hair still had grey in it and he was much taller and larger than he had been in the other life.

Then he remembered, his grandfather would be stricken with illness and be bedridden. Robb could not imagine the man standing before his father fall so low as he had in the future.

Uncle Edmure looked younger. He was clean shaven and his hair kept short. He seemed much more carefree.

Lord Blackwood was as how he remembered him. Tall, thin, dark haired with a beard flecked with white hairs. Lucas was there next to his father, along with his older brother Brynden. He remembered Lucas at the wedding at the Twins. A loyal lad, who wanted a place in his battle guard. By all accounts he had perished along with Robb there. He didn’t know Brynden that well. The heir of Raventree Hall had remained with his father as they defended the Riverlands while he was off to Oxcross. Lucas however, had spoken fondly of his brother, as well as his other four brothers and sister. It had been a comfort for Robb as it reminded him of his own family before they found themselves alone.

Behind Lord Tytos Robb saw a fair-haired youth wearing a surcoat with a grey bridge on a field of blue with white lines as waves. For a moment Robb thought Frey. Rage boiled inside him as he gripped the handle of the dagger on his belt. But then he saw the fish below the bridge. And as he looked closer, he saw it was not the sigil of the Crossing but that of House Bigglestone. Another House that owned a bridge. A less important bridge than those weasel faced traitors possessed. And if Robb had his way, that House would fall in line or fall into obscurity.

Lord Mallister was the last Lord that had arrived from the Riverlands. With him his son and heir Patrek who rode next to uncle Edmure. And behind Lord Mallister was a weasel faced cunt. Robb remembered that Lord Jason had a Frey page. Another Walder, or Walton, or Wendel one of the hundred children of that oathbreaker.

Grey Wind licked his hand, as if telling him to be calm and Robb returned the favour to his companion by scratching him behind the ears. A child shouldn’t be the target of his ire. Save that for Walder Frey and Roose Bolton.

Grandfather made his way to where Robb and his family waited for their guests. “Good-father. It is good to see you again. It’s been years.”

“Ned.” Grandfather said curtly. His voice was cold. “It’s only been since the rebellion. One would think you’re keeping your children from their grandfather.”

It was a good point Lord Hoster made. Robb had only met his grandfather on his deathbed last time around. His other siblings knew nothing of either him and their uncle. Perhaps there was still time to change that.

“Nonsense, father. Im sure Lord Stark was merely thinking of his children’s safety. The Kingsroad is no place for young children these days.” Uncle Edmure spoke. A good an excuse and any if Robb had to say.

“Edmure speaks true, Father. Robb is only now turning ten and three. The rest are too young to travel.” Mother spoke.

As soon as Grandfather heard his daughter, his face lifted. Robb could swear his eyes were smiling. “Daughter. You haven’t aged a day.” He said as he embraced her and kissed her forehead. “How have you been Cat?”

“I’ve been well, father. The North is a hard land as are her people, but my family gives me all the warmth I need.”

Hoster Tully’s face softened. “Yes, it seems like you’ve found happiness in your marriage. As a father it brings me joy.”

Mother, took Father’s hand in hers at those words. It seemed as if revealing Jon’s true parentage had only strengthened their bond. Jon wasn’t shunned anymore, if anything Mother tried to compensate for years lost. It made Robb happy seeing it. Surely, they were doing something right.

Grandfather’s eyes shifted to Robb, and then the older man moved past. “You must be Robb. I’ve been dying to meet my eldest grandson.”

“It is good to see you well, grandfather.” Robb said. He had spent only a few days with the man in his previous life. And he could only feel pity for his grandfather then. A man destroyed by sickness. A man who looked to the rivers and lands beyond his windows with longing.

His face must have betrayed his thoughts. “A serious lad for your age. You remind me of Brynden in his youth. But even he smiled more.” Grandfather chuckled. “I hope you won’t go refusing to marry like he still does.” Robb chuckled. The Blackfish had said Robb reminded him of Hoster in his appearance. The brothers were alike more than they would care to admit. “I see you know of your great-uncle as well.”

“Mother has told me about her side of the family. It’s as if I already know each of my kin somewhat.” It wasn’t a lie. He indeed knew all of his Tully kin already. And Mother had told him stories of her childhood in Riverrun.

His grandfather laughed. “Well, it soothes my heart to know I’m no stranger to my grandchildren.”

“No, my Lord. In fact, we had planned to do a tour of the Riverlands with my brother Jon. He has always only looked North, so I wanted to show him that the South has its charms as well. I wanted to ride with him From the Cape of Eagles, down to see the ruins of Oldstones, see the heart tree of Raventree Hall before following the Red Fork as it meets the Tumblestone at Riverrun. From there we would go to see Harrenhal and the God’s Eye before riding to Maidenpool.”

As soon as Robb said it, he regretted it. His grandfather’s face turned grim. It was a bad idea to mention Jon. Hoster Tully would surely be slighted by the mention of the boy who was proof of Father shaming Mother.

“You are close with Jon Snow?” Hoster asked, accenting his brother’s bastard name.

Robb’s eyes turned to steel, and his smile disappeared. “Aye, grandfather. I have known Jon as long as I have known myself. I could not have asked for a better brother. I have no doubt that he is as devoted to our House as I am.”

Grandfather sighed. “Oh, lad. Your bastard brother is an abomination in the eyes of the Seven. His nature will only bring your grief.”

“Only the Manderlys and some of their bannermen follow the Seven here, grandfather. Even so they have adopted the customs of the North. These are harsh lands and in the eyes of the Old Gods, the deeds of a man matter more than whether he was born on the right side of the sheets.”

“I pray to the Seven that you’re right, grandson. I will speak on this with your parents later. Now let me greet the rest of my grandchildren.” Grandfather said as he moved past Robb. He would have to speak with his parents as well. If uncle and grandfather could be trusted they should know about Jon. It would mend things between his family. But Robb knew how much his father disliked remembering that part of the rebellion.

Grandfather was smiling again as he met Sansa. He called her her mother made again. He picked up Bran and Arya in his arms much to their dismay and finally baby Rickon as he looked at his newborn brother with a softness Robb had seldom seen.

“Nephew, it is good to meet you.” Edmure said as he moved to him. “Look at you, we look as if we’re brothers.” His uncle said chuckling.

Robb ignored the comment. He had forgotten how thoughtless his uncle could be at times. His awful defense of Riverrun before Robb had arrived South came to mind. Though the man was far from uncapable, as he had against all odds managed to inflict heavy losses to the Lannisters during the Battle of the Fords.

So, Robb smiled. “It is good to meet you too, uncle. Perhaps we can go riding during your visit.”

His uncle mirrored the smile. “Aye, it would be splendid. I would invite you along with me and Patrek to Wintertown tonight, but you are too young still for that.” He said chuckling.

Robb did his duty greeting the rest of the Lords of the Riverlands and welcoming them to Winterfell. Good men all of them, that fought for his family. Deserving of the hospitality of Winterfell. As Wendel Frey made his way to offer his greetings, Grey Wind growled and the page’s yelp made Robb hold back a smile. Grey Wind deserved an extra helping of meat for that.

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Hoster

It was good to see his grandchildren. He had missed Cat terribly in the years since she had gone North. Seeing her with five children of her own, all healthy and strong made him feel ten years younger.

But hearing his eldest grandchild, a brilliant boy, speak so fondly of a bastard brother it tainted his happiness. Even a bastard was a threat to his claim and Hoster wouldn’t let this go.

Inside the Lord’s solar were Cat and her husband, along with Robb and the bastard boy in question. Edmure was there as well.

Hoster knew that in truth a bastard was no better or worse than a trueborn, however his daughte’s honor was in question.

“Good-son, you must send away your bastard.” He spoke curtly.

He saw the shock appear at the faces of all in that room. Even his son seemed taken aback by the bluntness.

“Father- “Cat tried to speak, but Hoster needed to say his piece.

“I cannot allow such obvious proof of your dishonor on my daughter to remain here. And you’ve even brought the boy up as if he were equal to young Robb here.”

“Father, perhaps- “Edmure tried to reach out to him in order to calm things. However, Hoster wasn’t done.

“If you so love your bastard, I will arrange a knight to squire him and then knight him. He will then be in service to one of my bannermen and be found a wife of good standing.”

“This is horseshit, grandfather.” Words he couldn’t have expected from a mere boy. His grandson looked at him with eyes colder than the worst of winters. Truly a Stark that one.

“Robb, be courteous to your grandfather.” Cat scolded her son, yet, she didn’t sound like she disagreed.

“Mother, he doesn’t even know Jon. I won’t have my brother be spoken about as if he was vermin.” His grandson said. Hoster had to respect the boy’s bravery, even if he was but a summer child.

“Lad, its not about the boy. Its about propriety. If your father keeps the bastard boy here, he sends a message that he is valued as much as his trueborn children are. What will you do if twenty years from now half your bannermen want to put him as Lord of Winterfell?”

“Lord Tully.” Jon Snow spoke. It seemed that Ned Stark didn’t teach his children to fear their elders. “I beg your pardon, but I would never take what was Robb’s. I would be happy to only be a loyal bannerman to him.” Hoster sighed.

“And what of your children?” Hoster asked him. “You might share a bond of brotherhood with Robb and may love him. But what about your children and their children after. When these familial bonds are no longer there.”

“My Lord, if that were the case, then why keep any children apart from the heir. Surely the same can be said about any sibling that does not inherit.” Jon Snow replied. The boy truly did not fear him. How unlike other bastard children he had met.

“Enough, father. Jon isn’t a threat to Robb or any of my children.” He didn’t expect Cat to speak in his defense. Ned Stark remained silent, with his stony face that revealed nothing, but Hoster could swear he saw the shadow of a smile form.

“Cat don’t tell me you’ve grown attached to the boy. He is living proof of your husband’s infidelity.” Hoster growled.

“Father, enough, perhaps we should take a break.” Edmure said. His son and heir seemed uncomfortable. But he had to learn that sometimes you had to do uncomfortable things to do your duty.

“Oh, fuck this.” Robb said. What had the maester been teaching the boy, he cursed worse than Brynden. And he was barely more than a child. “Grandfather, Uncle. Swear to me on the Old Gods and the new that what I say won’t leave the room.” Hoster was confused.

“Robb, don’t- “Jon Snow tried to stop his half-brother.

“We don’t have time to deal with this Jon.” Robb interrupted. “Now, swear.” The boy actually commanded him, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. What was puzzling was that it wasn’t arrogance, or delusion. He just said the command as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Jon’s right, son.” Ned Stark finally spoke. “It doesn’t concern Lord Tully and Edmure.” Now Hoster was curious. Something was being kept from him. Something Ned Stark was reluctant to share.

“Ned, perhaps they should know. We can’t afford to be fighting amongst ourselves.” Cat spoke. Now he was starting to feel confused. Just what was his daughter’s family keeping from him. Edmure looked lost and Hoster for once couldn’t blame him.

“We can’t risk it getting out, Cat. One word and all will be for naught.”

“They’re family, Ned. Please.”

And then The Lord of Winterfell’s face softened. Indeed, he seemed to love Cat. “Fine, tell them.”

And then Hoster almost regretted coming to Winterfell.

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Edmure

Patrek was getting shitfaced next to him. Edmure was not in the mood for merriment. “Come on Ed. You’ve looked like you’ve got a stick up the arse since we came here.” Patrek said. “Grab a wench and let her take care of your sorrows.” The heir to Seagard said, downing a cup of wine while a wench giggled in his lap.

Edmure would have been like that too. He wanted to be like that too. But he couldn’t. Just thinking about the events of the day made his stomach turn. Father had his entire world and faith shattered. Edmure still had trouble believing everything. Oh, he could believe the part about Jon Snow in truth being the son of Lyanna Stark and the Silver Prince. He had heard about the aftermath of the Sack. His good-brother’s decision made sense.

What didn’t make sense was the rest of it. But then how could his nephew know so much. The boy had known the number of levies, defenses, how much stores they had at Riverrun, even how many knights and men-at-arms were employed by the Riverlands as a whole.

Even his knowledge of the Riverlands themselves was impressive. As the lad described the lands around Riverrun in detail Edmure himself could barely manage, he had noticed a look of realization on the face of Father. Speaking of him, an ailment of the bowels. And soon. Perhaps if he stayed in Winterfell. Robb and Jon had sworn that this visit was not a repeat.

Seven above, or any gods who watched above him. He was not prepared. How the fuck was he to manage his father’s duties when he had managed nothing until now. Robb had been kind, saying he would do well in time, but the boy had described his initial failures in great detail. He did praise him in his desire to protect his people, something that Edmure appreciated.

He turned to look at Patrek. His friend was carefree as he had his tongue halfway down the wench’s throat. Edmure sighed. The page, Wendel Frey had accompanied them. A boy barely ten in a tavern with grown men looking to sheath their swords for the night. At least he seemed embarrassed with what was happening around him.

As he looked at the weasel-faced page, Edmure wondered if the boy had anything to do with the wedding. If Edmure or Patrek had lived or died there. At least his Frey wife had been a beauty, Robb had said.

And that hadn’t even been the end of it. What Jon had then told them made his hair stand up. Father had called it hogwash and tall tales, but then Ned Stark had unsheathed his blade. The First Men runes glowing did wonders to convince a man of magic. So now, the morning after, they would meet along the rest of the Lords, and work on plans to prepare for war. Suddenly Edmure wanted to be back at Riverrun where he could just be happy and carefree.

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Ned

It had been difficult remaining calm with Hoster Tully. His good-father had walked a thin line and Ned’s fingers twitched on Ice’s grip. In the end, Cat and his sons had managed to deal with the situation though Ned had a few misgivings sharing his long-kept secret again. It was for the best in truth as he didn’t want Jon treated badly, not when he knew what it had led to. Ned just hoped he wouldn’t have to remember that day again.

Cat had made him forget that night. Ever since she learned that Jon was her nephew, their marriage bed had been used most nights and his wife had appreciated him keeping calm.

He kissed her forehead as she slept. There was more work to be done today. He put on his doublet, the Stark direwolf proudly upon his breast. As Ned made his way out of the keep, Winter fell into step with him.

His Lords were again assembled in the Great Hall, however now they were joined by Jason Mallister, his son, Hoster and Edmure Tully and Tytos Blackwood and his sons.

“My Lords, yesterday we discussed how we shall strengthen the North and her development. My good-father is the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and I would have his aid, as well as that of his bannermen in strengthening the ties between our lands.”

Ned’s bannermen began thumping on the table in support. Hoster Tully rose from his seat on Ned’s left, a place of honour. “Tell me, Lord Stark, have you any plans you wish to suggest?”

“The Kingsroad is the only way from the Riverlands to the North. However, the Crossing of House Frey is one of the few safe bridges over the Green Fork. Their steep tolls make trade from the western Riverlands not viable. So, we would be willing to assist in making a bridge south of Frey lands, and a road that leads straight to Riverrun. “

Hoster’s eyes lit up. Ned could see the appeal of the suggestion. The Freys had too much power for what they were and knowing what he did, he would be eager to bring them down a little.

“And where would this bridge be?” Lord Tully asked.

Robb pulled out a map of the Riverlands, showing its many rivers and lands. Edmure joined his son in studying the map.

“Here.” The heir of Riverrun spoke, placing his finger on a part of the map. “Some forty leagues along the river is Road’s Keep. Ser Paege’s holdfast.” Edmure explained.

“Aye, Ser Paege is a good and loyal man. He fought for Robert during the rebellion. Lost a hand at the trident.” Hoster said.

Robb studied the map, before speaking. “The Green Fork is only two miles from the keep. A watchtower and a few men stationed there could hold the bridge. Well spotted, uncle.”

Edmure gave a small smile to his nephew. Hoster rubbed his beard. “The ruins of the village of Old Ferry are across there. Mayhaps it is time to bring the few people living there under the fold again.”

“The idea is sound my Lord.” Lord Mallister stood. “However, if I may, the man given control of those lands needs to be a good, leal man. We don’t want to exchange the Freys with another hoarding upstart.”

“Aye, a man who has served the Riverlands, bled for our realm.” Lord Blackwood added.

“And I assume you have such men in your service, my Lords?”

Lord Mallister, rubbed his chin. “I hadn’t thought about it, but if I had to choose, there is a knight in Seagard. The man was a blacksmith working near the port when the ironborn attacked. He rallied the workers there and bought time for my men to muster. He killed one of the captains during the assault. I knighted him there.”

Lord Blackwood sighed. “I have no one I feel worthy of lands my Lord. My sons are yet young and there are lands aplenty in my holdings to build holdfasts for them.”

“Father, perhaps Ser Worner.” Edmure spoke. “His father died at the trident, and the boy has fostered at Riverrun. He will be loyal.”

“It’s a good choice Edmure, however, Ethan Worner is only seven and ten. He is not yet ready for lands.”

Edmure nodded. “So now that its settled, what about the road?”

Ned traced the map. “If we build the bridge at Old Ferry and Road’s Keep, we should have the road lead to Fairmarket” The Riverlords nodded. “From there, we can have a road leading to Riverrun and one for Raventree Hall.”

“Aye, there aren’t many big roads in my lands. I’ve wanted a road to Riverrun, leading to the Gold Road for years now. I will support this venture.” Tytos said.

“This is all well and fine, but what concern is this of mine?” Lord Mallister spoke. “None of these roads pass through my lands.”

The Greatjon jumped up. “Ned, and why should we spend our coin on these ingrates. They can’t even thank us properly.” The Northern Lords began grumbling in agreement.

“Peace, Jon, Lord Jason.” Ned called out. “A road from Raventree Hall to Seagard funded by you and Lord Blackwood and then continuing north. I shall speak to Lord Reed to have his bannermen create a wooden causeway through the Neck and then continuing the road to Flint’s Finger.”

“I’m willing to assist on a venture like that. Ser Igon Rushmoore of Moor’s Keep and Ser Edrick Barrows of Hiddenhall are two of my bannermen. I would like a road that connects their keeps to Seagard. A road north and a road to Riverrun saves Seagard traders much coin and time lost with the Freys.”

“There is another thing, Lord Mallister. I have tasked Lord Garred Flint with building a keep on the isle of Younghorn, the North would appreciate your assistance with that matter.”

“A Northman keep in Ironman’s Bay. Lord Stark, do you fear the Ironborn may start raiding again?” Lord Mallister asked.

“There have been whispers of Balon Greyjoy building up their navy again. I have tasked my Lords to do the same and fortify our coast.”

“Bloody squids. We should have put them to the sword seven years ago. Lord Stark, Seagard will provide ships and materials, in return we hope that the North will help us keep the seas safe.”

“I won’t have defenseless people be left at the mercy of raiders, Lord Mallister.” Ned promised. “Lord Garred, at a later date we will discuss the construction of a road from Flint’s Finger to Moat Cailin.”

“As you command, my Lord.” Garred Flint answered.

“Now, my Lords, I have given my commands, it is time to listen to your suggestions or grievances you wish to bring in front of the court.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

It was time for the harvest festival. Father, Mother and her elder brothers had been busy the past days. She had scarcely seen Grandfather and Uncle as well.

Still, it made Sansa happy as smallfolk and minor lords and masters flocked into Winterfell. Food had been brought in droves and drink was even more plentiful.

Stalls were being built for traders and artisans to display their wares and bonfires were being prepared for the night. A tourney ground had already been cleared for Robb and Jon’s nameday celebration, however games and competitions for the smallfolk would be held for the next three days.

Mother had prepared for her a lovely dress. A long white silken gown, laced with silver thread and embroidery of wildflowers made from gold thread. A silk shawl accompanied her dress. On it embroidered was the direwolf of her House. She chose to wear her finest necklace. Made of silver with a sapphire inlaid in a locket.

Jeyne had been positively ecstatic about the event as well as a tourney. She had insisted that the next few days would be just like the stories. Gallant knights in shining plate and beautiful white horses would compete for their favours and pledge their undying devotion.

Sansa was certain several of the Stark guards participating would be honored to wear their favours on the field. Her Father’s men all of them loyal, honorable and gallant. Towering above them in their armour and the direwolf on their surcoats.

“I am not wearing a dress.” She heard a voice come from outside the chambers. “It is expected of you, young lady. Do not shame your parents by dressing like a common brigand.” A different voice followed as steps sounded outside her chambers.

Of course, she would find a way to ruin the occasion. Gods, would it be too much to ask for her to behave for once in her life.

No Sansa wouldn’t let anything detract from the spectacle she was sure would be wonderous. She took a deep breath banishing all dark thoughts from her mind.

She left her chambers and in the gardens was met by her friends. Jeyne and Beth were positively giddy about visiting the town. They spoke of traders coming all the way from Essos bringing the softest silks and brightest jewels. Of animals not seen in the north. Beth swore she had seen a man with skin as dark as night with the smallest and hairiest man on his shoulder.

Oh, Sansa just had to see for herself.

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Mother had relented, after an hour of pleading. Jeyne and Beth would accompany her as well as Heward, Varly and Wyl. All three were men who had been in her father’s service from before she was born.

The Wintertown was a buzz. Sansa had never seen so many people in it before. Beth was right, there were people as dark as night. She couldn’t help but gaze at them. “Summer Islanders milady. It’s said that there is no winter there. Their skin was burnt by the sun.” Wyl told them.

There were men dressed in rich velvet and silks with puffy shirts and well-made coats. Many of them wore slim swords on their hips. Some were selling masks, there were faces of lions, direwolves, birds and all manner of creatures on display. One merchant was selling daggers and she saw her guard glance at the stall with a glimmer in his eye.

Sansa smiled and made her way to that stall. The merchant was portly, with thinning brown hair though his long beard was well groomed. He dressed richly more so than she had ever seen her father. He wore a satin shirt of pale yellow and a velvet coat of a deep shade of burgundy with elaborate golden embroidery. As Sansa made her way to his stall, he flashed her a toothy grin, one of his teeth glistening in the sun and as he waved Sansa saw gold rings on each of his fingers. Some were plain, others adorned with precious gems.

“Welcome Lady and Lord. I be Jorran from the great city of Qohor.” He said bowing to her with a flourish.

He flashed her another toothy grin. “Here my lady, I have brought for your viewing pleasure, the finest crafts from beyond the sea. Daggers made from the best craftsmen in the Free Cities. Steel from the ruins of Old Valyria and beyond Asshai.”

Jorran placed several daggers on a tray and offered them to Sansa. One of the daggers had a golden handle adorned with rubies and emeralds and its blade reminded her of Ice that Robb now carried. “Is this Valyrian Steel, good merchant?” Sansa asked. The merchant only grinned at her again, as if confirming. Oh, Jon would love to have such a dagger. A good gift for her half-brother. Perhaps she could grow closer with him with such a gift.

“How much would you sell this for?” Sansa asked hopefully.

“My Lady this dagger is my proudest possession. I am reluctant to part with it, but for a beauty such as you it will cost your brother there only five dragons.”

“Sorry what?” Wyl asked from behind her, dumbfounded.

“A good dagger for your sister to protect herself Lord. Five dragons are a mere pittance for the piece.”

Wyl began to laugh with mirth Sansa had never seen from the man before. “Youre either a brave cunt or a dumb cunt to try and swindle the daughter of Lord Stark in her own home.” How crass of her guard. The good merchant had been nothing but kind to her.

“I-I would never do such a thing. I promise you my wares are the finest my fair city has to offer. I sell them for a mere pittance of the cost you would get across the sea.” The poor man said. Wyl had surely offended his honor, Father would be cross with her guard. She had to fix things.

“Ser Wyl, we shouldn’t offend the good merchant, please apologize to him.” Sansa said as she brought out her purse. Buying the blade would surely smooth any ruffled feathers. As she removed her coin and counted it, her guard stopped her.

“Trust me milady. I’ve carried your father’s sword for him countless times, ive seen Mikken forge better daggers drunk, the man is a swindler.”

The merchant’s face was pale and his smile forced now. He was certainly offended. The reputation of her House was at stake. She counted the five dragons and gave them to the foreigner. “Here good merchant, I hope there are no bad feelings for the attack on your honor.

“Come Wyl.” She said to her guard as she made her way from the stall.

The other stalls had so many exquisite wares, but Wyl accused many of the merchants of trying to swindle her. Soon she was in no mood to browse and after finding her friends, made her way to the castle. At least Jon would be happy with his gift.

                                              ________________________________________

Her brother was resting in his chambers. Sansa knocked on the door. “Who is it?” Jon asked.

“It’s Sansa. May I come in?” She answered.

Jon opened the door. “Of course, Sansa. Come.” He said showing her in. Jon’s chambers were modest. Smaller than her own but felt cozy.

Suddenly Sansa felt nervous. Her heart beat faster as she realized that she had hardly spoken to her half-brother before. He was looking at her with questioning eyes and as he opened his mouth to speak, she stammered.

“I-I bought a gift for you. Happy nameday, brother.”  She managed to say as she presented the dagger.

Jon’s smile was so bright and warm that it made her feel stupid she had been nervous.

Jon was examining the blade, his smile still not fading and Sansa felt at ease. “A merchant from Qohor sold it to me. Wyl said he was swindling me, but how could a beautiful blade like that be anything other than true Valyrian Steel.” She said, surely Jon would know a blade better than the guardsman.

She didn’t expect Jon to burst into laughter. She began to feel confusion. “Oh, sweet sister. Wyl was right, this is not Valyrian Steel.” He said stopping a chuckle.

“But, how. It looks just like it. The merchant promised.” She stammered out.

“Come here.” He said, and sat her down on his bed, before sitting next to her. He brought out the dagger in his hands, and rubbed his thumb along the edge. Sansa moved to stop him, but there was no blood. Not even a cut.

“The blade is dull. Valyrian Steel keeps a keen edge, never dulling.” He then held up the dagger with a finger between the handle and the rest of the blade. The dagger began to slide down towards the blade.

“See that?” Jon asked. Sansa just looked at him. “The blade is heavy. Even with all that ornamentation, the blade is poorly balanced. Valyrian steel is lighter than steel. It would weigh as much.” Sansa was distraught. She had scolded Wyl for nothing. Worse Jon hated the dagger.

Tears began to well in her eyes as her head hung down. “Sansa? Sister? What is it?” Jon asked distraught.

“You hate it.” She said no longer able to hold the tears from falling. “It’s a horrible gift.”

Suddenly Jon wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back. He felt strangely warm, and smelt of burnt wood.

As he stroked her back, he spoke. “I don’t hate the gift. In fact, I love it.” He said calming her.

“But it’s a fake. Don’t lie to me Jon.” She cried.

“Aye, it’s a fake.” He said, chuckling. “Its handle is gilded iron and the jewels are coloured glass.” Sansa felt like a fool. Jon was making fun of her. “I’ve seen Mikken make a better dagger blind drunk and I’ve seen a smith forge finer with only one hand.”

“Then how could you like it. You’re horrible.” She cried out.

“I like it because it is the first gift I’ve received from my precious little sister.” He said and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. Sansa let herself melt into the embrace. She hadn’t known that Jon could be so warm.

“Come, let me show you something.” Suddenly Jon said, pulling her up. He took a small wooden box and presented it to her.

“I have something for you as well. Open it.”

She opened the wooden box and inside it was a pendant of a winter rose. It shone like the brightest silver and in the middle, there was a sapphire. It was simply beautiful.

“The rose is polished pewter. It shines as bright as silver, but it needs to be polished. I had the artisan put in a part that broke from one of the sapphires in the crypts.” Her brother explained.

“It’s simply wonderful.” She smiled as she spoke. “But, it’s your nameday soon, why buy a gift for me?”

“The smallfolk exchange gifts during the festival, to celebrate another year of living. That and I didn’t get you anything for your nameday.” Jon said. Before chuckling.

Sansa picked up the pendant and held it in her hands. Then she smiled. “Jon, could you help me put it on?”

“Of course, my lady.” Jon chuckled. Sansa turned away from him, and held her hair to the front and Jon fastened the silk threads around her neck.

“Oi, Jon, Torrhen and Cley want to practice for the squire’s melee. I need some exercise.” Robb’s voice sounded from the hall as he opened the door.

Her eldest brother’s eyes darted from Sansa, to Jon, to Sansa’s neck, as she could see his brain turn. “You little ass, you promised we’d give her the gifts together. Did you give Arya hers as well?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. It felt like the right time.” Jon explained, and then, to her dismay began telling Robb what happened.

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Robb was laughing. Jon was laughing. Sansa could feel her face flush. As Jon told the story of how she had been swindled, it all sounded so obvious to her.

“I’m so dumb.” She whimpered.

Her brother’s stopped laughing and she felt a hand rub her head. As she looked up, she saw Robb look at her with his piercing blue eyes. His gaze was full of warmth.

“No, sweet sister, you’re only sheltered. You only see the best in people not their flaws. And you should apologize to Wyl. He only meant well.” Somehow, she felt scolded.

“It’s not a bad thing. If anything, more people need to look at the world as you do.” Jon added.

“Aye, but she should learn to see past appearances. Otherwise, some prancing lordling will have her drooling all over him.” Robb gave Jon a knowing smile. One Jon shared.

“That’s why we are here, brother. To swat away uptight lordlings from our sisters.” Jon’s words made Robb give a hearty laugh. “Aye, the finest duty for a brother.”

“You two are horrible.” Sansa spoke out in mock outrage. And then all of them burst into laughter.

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Bran

Jon and Robb were liars. They had promised to teach him how to string and shoot a bow. But with the squire’s melee in three days Ser Rodrik wouldn’t let them out of his sight. Double drills were given to every boy in Winterfell participating, no matter if highborn or low.

Hedge knights and their squires as well as minor nobles of impoverished families were still arriving in the hopes of winning glory, wealth, titles or employment. There was a blond-haired young man that was riding through the town. He was accompanied by three riders wearing no sigil, but his was a quartered sigil with the Arryn falcon in the second and third with a black cartwheel on the fourth and red and white diamonds in the first. Maybe he was some distant kin to the Hand of the King.

A man wearing a black surcoat with a silver river running through it and a golden sun above the river was riding a garron while a boy as young as Bran rode beside him on a rounsey. The man was well built and had a warm smile on his face as he chatted with the boy. His long dark hair was tied behind him and his green eyes had laugh lines. He wore boiled leather and mail underneath which were weathered from wear and age.

“Ooh, look at that one.” Ned Umber said, pointing to another knight. The man was almost as tall as Ned’s brother. He wore boiled leather reinforced with plates, like many of Father’s guards. He had heavy pauldrons that were polished until they glimmered in the sun and he wore a surcoat of quartered blue and gold with a silver trident in each quarter. In his arm he held a greathelm that had lightning bolts engraved on the sides. His mount was one of the biggest horses Bran had seen, dwarfing the poor palfrey his squire rode. Both of them were grim faced and looked forward with few words exchanged between them.

The four boys made their way to the outskirts of Wintertown. There was a crowd gathered at the tourney grounds. Music flowed in the distance and cheers and chatter echoed from the crowd. Tents were set up and stalls had been made. Merchants sold food and drink.

“Excuse me boys. By chance do any of you know a place a man can get a bed for the night?” Somebody said. Bran turned and saw a man with weathered bronzed skin, like a man who had spent long years in the sun. The man was on foot but was clad in worn and dented plate that had been polished. The man wore a green surcoat with a silver gate on it. On his hip hung a sword that the man was resting his hand on. The man had let his chestnut brown hair fall to his shoulders. His beard was close cropped and his emerald green eyes were full of mirth. Bran looked at him queerly, as did the rest of the boys. “Are you a knight?” Ned asked.

The man gave a hearty laugh. “Aye, I’m called Perrin of Stonegate. I’m here to try my hand at the tourney. Mayhaps ill even catch the eye of one of the Lords.”

“Are there many knights arriving for the tourney, Ser?” Ethan asked.

“I saw a score of them already, not counting Lords that will surely wish to test their lance. I came for the melee myself. Lost my steed at the last tourney at Highgarden. Had no coin to ransom it, so I made my way to Oldtown and then a ship to White Harbour.”

“How did you walk all the way from White Harbour to Winterfell? Its eighty leagues on foot!” Larence exclaimed.

“A friendly trader was kind enough to let me ride in his cart in exchange for protection. With all the people travelling for the harvest festival as well as Lord Stark’s boy’s nameday tourney, I had little to do on the road.”

“Lord Stark is celebrating both Lord Robb and Jon’s nameday though.” Ned corrected the middle-aged knight.

Surprise showed on Ser Perrin. “Lord Stark is generous to allow his bastard a celebration.”

Larence’s face fell at the word. His friend was like Jon in that regard. As soon as someone mentioned the word bastard, they would brood.

“Bastards aren’t as hated in the North; Ser. Jon is as much appreciated as are the rest of Lord Stark’s children. Our friend Larence as well.” Ethan replied giving the bastard of Hornwood a pointed look. Larence managed a small smile and Ned slapped him on the back making him stumble.

“That may be so, in the end it doesn’t matter. A highborn can betray you just as well as a bastard can. Now, boys I have tarried long enough. If you would kindly show me to a place I can rent a bed for the night.”

“Why not go to Winterfell, there are many beds in the keep?” Bran asked.

The knight laughed. “Oh, lad. A Lord Paramount’s seat is no place for a common hedge knight. Ill be satisfied with a roof over my head and a hot meal in my belly.”

“In the North we value hospitality greatly, Ser. I am certain Lord Stark won’t turn away a man in need.” Bran said, careful not to reveal his or his friends’ identities yet.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble Lord Stark, I’m certain the keep has its hands full with the tourney and festival. Come now lads, take me to a tavern or an inn.” The knight asked again.

“At least let us ask.” Bran pleaded. “Winterfell is not very far and it can’t hurt to ask.”

The knight seemed to be thinking. Finally, he sighed. “Fine, you boys lead the way.”

Bran gave a grin to his friends, who returned it while Ser Perrin was none the wiser.

As they made their way to Winterfell, Bran saw Ser Rodrik at the gates. The old master-at-arms of Winterfell seemed distraught. For a moment Bran thought that something had happened. That was when the old knight saw them approach.

“Brandon Stark, where in the gods name have you been?” He yelled out. “Your Lady Mother will have your hide.” Then he turned to his friends. “And you three. Your fathers would take my whiskers off if anything happened to you.”

Ser Perrin looked as though he was lost. Ser Rodrik approached him. “You have the thanks of Winterfell, Ser. Lord Stark will reward you for bringing his son and his friends home.”

“No thanks are necessary, Ser. I chanced upon these boys at the tourney grounds. I merely asked them to tell me the way to an inn or tavern where I can buy a bed for the night. Lord Bran insisted I seek shelter at Winterfell however.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Ser Rodrik asked, giving him a glance that had Bran started training would have certainly meant double sessions for a month.

“Aye, he and his friends played me well. I never realized they were of Winterfell.”

“Lord Bran was quick in making friends with the sons of his father’s bannermen. I dread to think what mischief they will bring upon my head next.”

Ser Perrin chuckled. “Seems like your days have been lively, Ser.”

“Rodrik, I’m the master-at-arms of Winterfell.”

“A pleasure. I am Perrin of Stonegate. I’m here for the tourney.” The hedge knight took a knee in front of Bran and his friends.

“It was an honor to meet you, Lord Bran. As well as your friends. Forgive my lack of decorum towards a Lord Paramount’s son.” He chuckled.

“There is nothing to forgive, Ser Perrin. I’m sorry me and my friends deceived you. Jon told me that if I was ever outside the castle without guard and met a stranger, I shouldn’t tell them who I am.”

“Sounds like your brother is a smart lad.” Ser Perrin chuckled before standing up. “It has been an honor my Lord, but it is time I took my leave. I want to get some rest before nightfall.”

As he turned to leave, Ser Rodrik stopped him. “Nonsense. Lord Stark will host you for the tourney as thanks for bringing back the boys. Even if you didn’t know about it.”

“Thank you for the offer, Ser Rodrik, however I couldn’t possibly impose.” Ser Perrin tried to refuse.

“Lad, almost every highborn in the North is staying at Winterfell. There is still plenty of space and nobody will complain about one more mouth to feed for a few days.”

“I will gratefully accept in that case, Ser.” Perrin gave a slight bow.

“Wait in the courtyard. I will have someone show you to your bed.”

“By your leave then.” Ser Perrin said and moved past the gate. Bran and the boys followed.

“You men of the North are an odd people. But you were right Lord Bran. You have my thanks.” The hedge knight said after they were past.

“Don’t mention it, Ser Perrin. However, if you feel grateful, then you can show us how to use a sword.” Bran replied with a grin.

Ser Perrin burst into laughter. “Truly an interesting bunch. Very well, Lord Bran, I am at your command.”

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Jon

The Harvest festival was set to conclude with a large bonfire with song and dance to send it off. Father had been generous providing much food and drink in addition to what the smallfolk and other participants brought.

Bran had snuck out the day before, and Ser Rodrik had stopped training for all of them and had them scour the castle to find Jon’s little brother and his friends. In the end, the boy had managed to find himself a hedge knight and his little group was busy learning the basics of sword fighting.

Ser Rodrik had reluctantly relented and allowed the hedge knight to tutor them, as a way to repay Father’s hospitality.

That however, meant that Jon along with Robb, Theon, Eddard and Torrhen Karstark and the rest of the heirs of an age with them who wished to participate in the squire’s melee were given a triple session. Even men grown that would try their hand at the joust or the melee proper were not given leave. Poor Harwin could barely stand straight after three hours of doing the rings. Alyn had dropped to the ground in exhaustion as he had wished to try both melee and joust, which meant training for both.

Even Father had never seen the old master-at-arms of Winterfell so zealous before. Luckily the old Knight had allowed them to attend the bonfire as they would rest the next day. Waymar Royce would participate in the melee proper, however Lord Royce’s squire, Harrold Hardyng had arrived the day before and he would fight in the squire’s melee along with his retinue. Father had allowed Robb and Jon to enter the competition as well and most of their friends were gonna be fighting in it as well.

Jon and Robb were making their way out of the Winterfell gates. Both had decided to wear clothes of simple make, without the direwolf sigil. Ghost and Grey Wind had deemed so many people a hassle to deal with and had gone hunting with their mother and the rest of the pack.

They had planned with Eddard, Torrhen, Daryn, Cley, Ben and Brandon as well as Theon and Waymar to leave separately to not bring attention to themselves. Edd was with Robb and Jon and Domeric was held up with his father.

“Snow! Stark! You finally made it.” Torrhen Karstark yelled out when he saw them.

“Keep quiet you oaf! You want us hounded by the good folk here?” His brother Eddard smacked him over the head.

“It’s a marvel really how the gods conspire to bring to me the loudest voices in the realm. I can already hear the smallfolk flocking to share their cheers and woes with us.”

“Its fine Edd, doubt anyone is sober enough to listen to a dimwit.” Ben jested as he, Daryn and Cley arrived behind them.

“Oh, funny.” Torrhen replied. “I’m going after you first tomorrow, Tallhart.”

“Be sure not to lose me in the crowd then.”

“Alright, enough friends. We’re here to celebrate and rest. There will be enough fighting tomorrow, yeah?” Daryn spoke coming between them.

“Daryn is right, children shouldn’t be picking fights.” Waymar spoke as he and Theon arrived behind them.

“You’re one to talk you two only just barely made the cut for the melee proper.” Cley retorted.

“Speak to me when you’re eligible, lad.” Theon jested.

“Come now, Theon, you aren’t even in the melee.” Jon spoke.

“Nor the joust.” Ben added.

“I’m no good at jousting, and I’ll buy any man who can best the Greatjon in a melee, drinks for the entire year. What I will say though, is that in the range, I will beat anyone.”

“That may be so, but we didn’t sneak out here to talk about the damn tourney. We came here to drink.” Daryn spoke as he brought a tray of mugs with him.

The sun was getting low in the horizon, and the fires were getting lit all around the square. Jon could smell the pines and burning wood and the cool breeze set him at ease. Each of them took one of the mugs.

“Right then, what should we drink to?” Robb asked.

“A long summer and pretty maidens.” Torrhen answered.

“Ill drink to a pretty maiden.” Theon lifted his mug.

“Very well, to a long summer and pretty maidens.” Daryn said lifting his own mug.

“Doubt any pretty maidens will give us the time of day, but ill toast to them still.” Edd said.

“TO PRETTY MAIDENS!” They all chorused. “And a long summer!” Some of them added. And they downed the first mug.

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“As I stepped out me house, I saw this old man” Torrhen began singing.

“He took me by the hand saying ‘Ill take you for a ride’” Cley started singing along

“I said I cannot go there, there are things to get done” Daryn continued

“He said boy you must because I ain’t got no son.” Ben sang.

“There is a little secret that no one should know.” Eddard continued the verse.

“Deep into the forest we both must go” Theon sang.

“I show you the way I make my daily bread.” Waymar added his voice.

“But dare not to reveal it.” Robb added. “Or you’re gonna lose your head.” Edd added.

Nobody continued but they were all looking to Jon. He sighed. “Fine. I make barrels of ale, it ain’t no Arbor Gold” Jon said his verse and then they all chorused

“It's served in our brothels to keep away the pain”

“What I share with you my lad”

“It's the biggest secret I've ever had”

“I make barrels of ale, it ain't no Arbor Gold”

“It's served in our brothels to keep away the pain”

Jon had lost count how many mugs of ale they had gone through, all he knew was that each time they finished one, there was another full one soon. Sometime before, one of them had brought wine as well. And now they were drinking it as well.

Jon heard a lute play in the distance and heard a familiar voice sing. He tried focusing on the man as he looked familiar. He was singing Jenny of Oldstones and was doing a good job of it. He heard maidens swoon and men tear up. But then the magic was broken.

“Oi, Domeric, get yer scrawny ass over here.” Torrhen barked.

“Aye, yer late ya fucking dandy.” His brother added.

“Ah, my friends. I see you’ve started celebrating without me.” Domeric spoke in mock hurt.

“We did. It’s been hours.” Theon said, downing several sips of wine.

Robb threw Domeric a wine skin. “Come join us. We were singing tavern songs.”

“Aye, I heard your howling halfway to Winterfell.” Domeric chuckled.

“Fuck off ya dandy.” Ben said, punching him in the shoulder in jest. “Jon, show him how to sing.” He continued. Jon sobered slightly. He hadn’t sung ever since Tormund got him drunk when they were sneaking past the Wall with Ygritte and the others.

Gods, he hadn’t thought about her in a while. He remembered her making fun of him for his songs, calling them pompous crap. Then he remembered them teaching him some of their songs.

His friends were chanting his name, encouraging him to sing. So, Jon stood up and caught himself on the table before he could lose his balance. And then he sang.

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.

His friends were looking at him drunk and slack jawed. Nobody said anything and even some of the other revelers had turned towards them. And then there were cheers. That was the last thing he remembered.

Chapter Text

Arya

It was the day of the squire’s melee. Father had excused her and Sansa from their lessons for the day as well as the next two. Thank the gods. The Mormont girls had not even attended once, but Mother wouldn’t let her go to the yard with them. She had told her that a proper lady needed to know what the septa was teaching her.

Bran would always complain that his studies were no less a bore but he was learning sigils, history and battles. And he had even found himself a hedge knight to teach him the basics since Ser Rodrik wouldn’t allow him in the yard before he was eight.

Arya made her way to the tourney grounds, accompanied by Mother and Father, with Sansa and her friends not far behind. Nymeria had left for the Wolfswood with her pack. Arya could feel the unease her direwolf felt surrounded by so many people.

As they sat in the stands, the procession started. Over a hundred boys, either squires for knights or sons of Lords stepped forward armoured in padding, plate and mail with great visored helms. Arya couldn’t tell who was who except for the sigils stitched on some surcoats.

Ser Rodrik would serve as the game master for the squire’s melee and he split the boys into four groups and set them at each end of the yard.

Bran and his friends, the little shits were there at the fence helping the older boys of the North fasten their straps, gave them water, brought them their weapons. They were having fun. As she looked at Bran, she saw him look back, and he stuck his tongue out before smiling and going back to their brothers. Oh, Arya would enjoy getting payback. She just had to wait for a chance.

Most of the boys in the group carried a longsword without shield. Even Robb who until recently always had trained with sword and shield, had opted for a bigger sword. Only Daryn and Benfred had shields among the sons of her father’s bannermen.

Mother had all of them locked in their chambers the day before. Arya wasn’t told why, but even Robb and Jon were confined to their rooms. Further they were only let out to participate in the melee and would miss the entire tourney.  Theon, Robb and Jon had been specifically scolded, with Mother telling them they should know better and act their age. But her brothers were barely ten and three. Every boy at Winterfell was stupid at that age. Even the adults were stupid sometimes.

The groups were formed, and her brothers’ group formed around Robb. It looked like the battle guard forming around a king or a prince. But her eldest would have none of it and pushed himself to the front, shoving everyone away. He said some words to them, and several shrugged.

Ser Rodrik blew a horn, and the groups began advancing. A group made of squires from hedge knights and the squires of Arya’s grandfather’s household knights as well as those of Lord Blackwood and Lord Mallister had formed around the sons of Lord Blackwood and another group had formed around a blonde boy wearing a quartered sigil that contained the falcon of House Arryn.

The last group had a boy with a surcoat of a white stallion and three golden lighting bolts on a field of blue. “What sigil is that?” She asked Sansa who was sitting beside her.

Arya’s sister mulled it for a moment. “I’m sorry little sister, I know it not.” She said with disappointment.

“That is the personal sigil of one of the knights, my ladies. A hedge knight called Baldwin Stormrider, of Durran’s Point. That’s his squire.” A man spoke from behind her. He had a green surcoat with a silver gate in the middle.

Sansa suddenly grabbed Arya’s hand. “And who are you, ser?”

The knight chuckled. “I am Ser Perrin of Stonegate, my ladies. Your brother Bran brought me to the hospitality of Winterfell.”

“Ah you’re the knight who brought my foolish little brother and his friends back. You have my thanks on behalf of our House, Ser.” Sansa replied, giving the knight a small curtsey.

Arya had been thinking about her payback to Bran when the crowd burst into cheers. The group led by the stormlands knight’s squire was engaged by Robb, Jon and the rest of their friends with some other youths of Winterfell making up the numbers.

A pair of squires with full helms, both carrying a mace and shield on which defiantly stood the black bear of the Mormonts fought together against three poorly armoured youths. One of their opponents avoided the mace, however was too slow to react to the shield getting slammed into his face. “A cheer boomed behind Arya. “That’s ma girl. Hammer that cunt!” She cheered.

Sansa gasped in shock, but Arya focused on the Mormont fighters. She watched the other as they hit a tall and gangly one right in his helmet and Lady Mormont cheered again as the boy fell like a sack of potatoes. What she noticed was the long braid falling from the fighter’s helmet. Suddenly the Mormont ‘squires’ looked oddly girly.

Elsewhere Robb and Jon held their friends in formation, as those with shields pushed forward the group of squires. The leader of the group was isolated and Jon pointed his blade towards him. Arya could see the stormlands squire grin and dropped his visor, charging at Jon with his sword raised high. Jon deflected the blow, and retaliated with a slash to the boy’s gut, which the squire avoided by stepping back. Then Jon attacked, with a quick thrust which caught the other boy almost unaware. The parry was sloppy and allowed Arya’s brother to press his attack.

“Oh, that one fights well.” Ser Perrin spoke. “But that one with the white surcoat and the direwolf. Genius.” He said pointing towards Robb.

Arya couldn’t understand why the man was praising Robb who was holding the line while in a stalemate with the other group.

The knight chuckled. “Just watch, little lady. You’ll see what those boys planned.” Just as he spoke, the squire Jon was battling lost his blade, dropping on his arse with Jon holding his blade pointed towards him. And then she heard Robb’s voice boom “NOW!”.

The Mormont fighters had been playing with the final opponent as when Robb yelled, the one with the braid kneed him in the face, before both started sprinting towards the blob of boys locked in stalemate. They threw themselves to the side of a couple of boys who were too focused on their fronts. It had to be a painful hit.

Just then Jon started running forward, his opponent yielding and leaving the yard. “Tor! Now!” Robb yelled, and suddenly there was a gap to the right of Robb. Jon charged through the gap, and struck one of the boys in the face with the pommel. Robb’s group then pushed the advantage, and the line holding them broke. Yelps of pain and cries of ‘Yield!’ echoed around the yard, as the Northern boys finished up their opponents.

The Riverlander group led by Lucas Blackwood, was fighting the group led by the squire with a quartered sigil with falcons. The leaders were locked in their own duel, as the groups clashed in a pitched battle. It looked nothing like the fight she saw her brothers perform.

“Did you see now Lady Arya. Those boys isolated the leader on purpose, trusting that that boy with the white direwolf on his surcoat would beat him. They had split those boys with the bear shields there feigning disorganization and letting them fight a disadvantaged bout while they held the line.” The knight explained gesturing with his hands.

“Then when that boy beat the opposite leader, they had that boy with the silver sun tackle one of them. With no one to rally they broke their line and got destroyed.” The knight chuckled again. “Whoever’s been drilling those boys did a bang-up job.”

Arya beamed in pride at the praise for her brothers. Ser Rodrik had been merciless on them since they arrived, but more so the past week as the tourney neared. But she also sneaked and saw the training they did at night. They formed lines, they moved together, as if they had planned this.

“That blonde squire, Royce’s, he’s good too. And that boy fighting him. But he’s too defensive. He wont win if he doesn’t attack.” The knight sighed. “Not that it’ll matter. The North has this melee won.”

As he said that she saw the group with Robb and Jon charge the groups fighting in the side. Pairs fighting their own duels were shoved into each other, some dragged down others shoved away stumbling. The line Robb and Jon made broke as the boys charged everyone going for glory.

Lucas Blackwood and the blonde squire managed to avoid getting blindsided and were holding together but then Jon and Robb stepped forward. Jon pointed his blade at the blonde squire, and Robb challenged the Blackwood boy.

Around them, any surviving competitors were being taken care of as her brothers began their dance again.

Robb wasn’t as quick as Jon, however Lucas couldn’t stop the force of his strikes and always staggered for a moment after receiving one. Jon exchanged strikes with the blonde squire who fought well in Arya’s opinion.

Jon attacked with a diagonal slash, which the other boy blocked with his shield, before stabbing out with his sword, but Jon managed to bring his sword around and bat the attack away and attack again.

While that was happening the rest of the Northern group formed a circle and waited. Robb managed to finally disarm Lucas, who lost his grip finally and found himself with a sword pointed at his throat.

Jon, seeing Robb win, increased the speed of his attacks, forcing his opponent to hunker behind his shield and try blocking and parrying. Jon fainted an attack to his right, however changed the strike to the left at the last second, managing to hit the shield on the inside, forcing the blonde boy’s guard open. And then it was over, the blonde squire dropped his blade and Jon gave a slight nod.

Then he turned to Robb, who grinned and twirled his sword before getting into his stance. Jon prepared himself and the brothers started circling each other. Arya had seen her brothers fight in the yard, and was certain the bout would make the crowd cheer.

Suddenly the Karstark brothers tackled Robb from behind, and the Mormonts Jon, and pulled their swords from their hands. Finally, Daryn Hornwood and Benfred Tallhart pointed their swords at the Stark brothers forcing them to yield.

She could see her brothers sharing laughs with their friends as they joined the eliminated competitors. Arya heard Ser Perrin sigh. “The bloody fools forgot they were in a melee.”

Now with only Northerners left, the melee devolved into many duels, with Torrhen Karstark fighting Ben Tallhart, Daryn fought the other Karstark brother, Cley Cerwyn and the vale boy that arrived with lord Royce fought against the Mormont pair.

“Told ya I’m comin’ for ya Tallhart!” Torrhen yelled as he attacked his opponent.

“Bring it meathead” Ben replied taunting the Karstark boy.

“Well, my friend it seems we’re about to be mauled by a pair of she-bears. At least we will have a good tale to tell the healers.” The vale boy spoke to Cley.

“I’d rather not get beat thank you.” The Cerwyn heir quipped.

“Oh, don’t worry I’ll be sure to kiss your bruises better afterwards.” The Mormont with the braid said.

“Figures the pretty one would get a kiss.” Edd said.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll give you one. If you don’t pass out.” The other Mormont said.

So, it really was Lyra and Jorelle fighting there. It wasn’t fair. Why did they get to fight in a tourney and she had to wear a dress and watch. That was it, she was going to sneak away for the melee proper. Pester Jory, or Alyn to squire for them. Then she turned to Ser Perrin. And she smiled.

Ben was the first to yield after Torrhen brought him down to the ground, but as the Karstark cheered his victory, he got smacked in the behind by Ben’s cousin Brandon who had won against one of the stableboys at Winterfell. Before he could react, he was down, nursing a quickly growing welt on his head.

“Cheer up cuz, I avenged you.” Brandon quipped at Benfred who was walking towards the sidelines.

Her brother’s vale friend was dodging and slashing his blade at the Mormont girl, Arya knew not which one, but he was holding still. That was until his sword glanced off the shield, leaving him open to a shield bash right to the face. The fair-haired boy was on the ground and he lifted his head. “Bugger” he managed to speak and then he passed out.

Brandon Tallhart and Dayn Hornwood ganged up on Eddard Karstark and soon he was disarmed and yielded. Then they turned towards each other. The red-haired boy was faster than Lord Helman’s nephew and seemed to know how to use his shield and sword more effectively than his opponent. He struck with a powerful swing, which Brandon blocked with his shield, before he struck back.

The Hornwood heir stepped back, before charging the brown-haired boy with his shield. He shoved him back, and then again, making Brandon lose his balance, and then struck blow after blow.

The Tallhart boy was bracing for dear life, however, in the end it wasn’t enough as a powerful lunge with the orange shield with a bullmoose hitting the three green sentinel trees and then the boy fell on his back. “I yield. Damn Daryn, you didn’t hold back.” Brandon said as the other boy extended a hand to his fallen friend.

“Father said I should show off just this once.” Daryn jested.

Almost immediately Daryn was jumped by the Mormont girl that beat Jon’s friend. She attacked quickly and with purpose, making the boy scramble to block the heavy mace strikes. The shield he wore began to crack, some of the wood splintering away from the strikes.

He looked at his shield and discarded it, gripping his sword with two hands instead. Then he began his attack.

Meanwhile Cley Cerwyn was getting pushed back, but he seemed to be holding. That was until he lost his footing where a sword had been forgotten by one of the competitors. He was on his back and the Mormont girl straddled him.

Arya heard Sansa gasp in shock, but Maege Mormont whistled in cheer. “I yield” The Cerwyn heir said but the girl remained on top of him. She then removed her helmet, allowing her braid to flow free. Jorelle then gave him a peck on the cheek and Arya could see the boy turn beet red prompting the girl to laugh before letting him stand.

Daryn had more luck than his friend, as he had regained his advantage, slowly pushing back what could only be Lyra, however then Jorelle started attacking from his flank, forcing him to scramble to defend. It wasn’t effective to parry a mace with a sword, and one lucky strike shattered the blade. “Well, that’s unfortunate. I’m afraid I must yield.” Daryn chuckled as he dropped the remains of his sword.

As Daryn made his way out of the field, Lyra removed her helmet. “Ser Rodrik, we would like to call it a draw in the end.” She said.

“Yeah, I would rather not fight my sister.” Jorelle added.

Ser Rodrik gazed at father, who gave a slight nod. “Very well, I announce the result of the squire’s melee a draw between Jorelle Mormont and Lyra Mormont.” He yelled out as he raised both of the girls’ arms.

The tourney ground cheered and Arya cheered louder than everyone else.

                                              ________________________________________

Ned

The squire’s melee had been more fruitful than he had hoped. Word of the Northmen’s prowess would spread with so many hedge knights and thrill seekers at Winterfell watching. There were a few that showed a lot of promise. One of them was the stableboy, Tom. Ned planned to ask the lad to squire for Jory or Hal. Rodrik didn’t have a squire either and neither had Ned. The boy was a year younger than his sons, so was of an age where he could train properly.

The stormlander squire Jon had fought had done well against his son, but few of an age with him could contend with either of his sons. Harold, Lord Royce’s squire had fought brilliantly. He commanded his retinue and group well against Lucas Blackwood’s group and then had a good bout with Jon. He heard Lord Royce speak of a possible knighthood for the lad when he came of age.

As for the Blackwood boy, he needed more fire in him. It was as if he was afraid of harming his opponents. Perhaps he could be taken under Ned’s wing.

A few smallfolk boys had been allowed entry. Mostly those that already worked around the castle or Wintertown, but some that looked promising had been given a chance. A man-at-arms would typically train after he was a man grown and had been recruited. His sons had argued that looking at promising boys of an age to squire would likely turn out better warriors. Something they would need plenty of in the future.

Rodrik had been paying attention, and he had some of the veteran and more skilled men-at-arms keep an eye out for promising boys they might want to take as squires.

Ned gazed out the window of his solar as the sun was almost set. Soon he would have to join the celebration of Maege’s daughters’ victory. He smiled as he remembered the look on his sons’ faces as they were tackled by their friends. It would teach them not to get overconfident even with their circumstances.

A knock on the door removed the smile off of his face. “Come.” He said.

Ned was surprised to see Lord Blackwood enter. “Lord Stark, may I ask for a moment in private?” The Lord of Raventree Hall asked.

“Come, Tytos, sit.” Ned said pouring a cup of wine for them both. “What brings you to my solar.”

“Something quite peculiar has happened.” Lord Blackwood said. “The weirwood tree in our keep. It has been dead for a thousand years.” He continued. “It was the beginning of our feud with the Brackens.”

“Those godless cunts poisoned it. They desecrated our godswood and our faith.” Tytos shook with anger but then he took a deep breath. “It matters not now.” He sighed.

“My son Lucas had always enjoyed the godswood. He would go there and spend most of the day sitting on a branch in the shade. But a fortnight before we got word of this celebration, he ran into my solar, and he claimed the tree had bloomed.” Lord Tytos stopped, looking directly into Ned’s eyes.

“I ran there, and I saw it. New, living buds. On our heart tree.” Ned was certain there were tears forming in the man’s eyes. “That was why I wished to come here. To ask you if something similar had happened in the North, however on the way here, my son began to speak of dreaming of flight. One day he even claimed to see our party from the air. I looked up and all I could see was a flock of ravens above us.”

“I beg of you, Lord Stark, have you anything you can tell me to explain this?”

Ned sighed. Lord Blackwood had been loyal as far as Robb and Jon knew. His son Lucas had probably even died for Robb at that wedding. “As you may have noticed, my Lord, the old gods have been slowly awakening. They have blessed my House. I have recovered our ancestral sword Ice. I now keep it while Robb wields the Valyrian Steel one. They have given me and mine direwolves each for every member with Stark blood. And when I took Ice for the first time, they spoke to me, they have returned.”

“Truly, Lord Stark? This is not a jest?” Tytos asked in wonder.

“Aye.” Ned drew Ice, placing it on his desk. He put his hand over the blade. “I swear to you on this blade, the Old Gods are awakened and magic is returning. We must prepare for Winter is coming.”

As Ned spoke, the runes’ soft glow turned brighter and when he finished, they simmered down to their normal glow.

“House Blackwood hails from the North my Lord, we know of the old stories. We will assist your House in whatever way we can. This I swear to you by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.” There was steel in Lord Blackwood’s dark eyes and Ned couldn’t help but show a small smile.

“And House Stark will return the goodwill, Lord Blackwood. This I too swear by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.” Ned returned the oath. “Now come Lord Tytos, we have a feast to attend.”

                                              ________________________________________

Theon

He shouldn’t have been drinking at the feast. His head was pounding. Robb and Jon weren’t participating in the archery competition, so they and their friends didn’t need to think about the morning. Even Waymar and Domeric had a day or two before they competed.

Gods it hurt. There were three scores of competitors to beat, divided into three groups. He knew not the skills of all, but he knew that some of the men of Winterfell particularly those who were given a weirwood bow were a challenge. Then there was Arthur Glenmore. The heir of Rillwater Crossing was an avid marksman and spent many an hour at the range.

In Theon’s group was Gabrin, his first recruit for his archers, while Cayn the other man who had been awarded the weirwood bow was in a group with men from the mountain clans.

The first target was set at fifty feet. An easy shot and they would count five arrows. Each mark away from the center would be counted as a point and the ten highest would be retired.

Theon stretched his neck and took a deep breath. He strung his bow and as soon as he held it, his mind cleared. The throbbing pain in his head subsided and he could see more clearly. He drew one of the practice arrows and waited. Ser Rodrik gave the command and he loosed. Dead in the center. The next arrow landed just to the right of the first, while the third went to the left. The fourth lodged itself right between the three and the fifth just below. It was as perfect a grouping as he could have made.

Gabrin had hit a perfect series as well, while very few of the marksmen missed the center. Some were eliminated by sheer luck as a stray gust of wind would have pushed the arrow just enough away from it.

Lord Stark had tasked him with scouting some of the better marksmen, hoping to recruit the best that were available. Theon looked at the groupings, and a few that weren’t his or Gabrin’s caught his eye. Still at only fifty feet, it wasn’t too telling who was truly good.

Watching the other groups, he could pay attention to the form and style of the competitors. Cayn always shot the arrows with his bow leaned outwards which was odd, however he was as accurate as any.

A man nearly six and a half feet had a beautiful form, and his arrows landed true. Another to keep an eye on.

A hooded youth, covering his face, the form was odd, as if the bow was more powerful than what he was used to, however he managed to land all of the arrows in the center.

One of the mountain clansmen missed a target and was immediately jeered by his fellow clansmen. But the rest hit their targets. It was fitting as most of them had to hunt since children.

Finally, the third group. Arthur fucking Glenmore. Theon focused on his rival in the contest. His form was amazing, truly a master of the bow. He loosed arrow after arrow, seemingly without effort. As his attempts grouped, Theon could see some sparks fly at the target as the tips brushed against each other. Finally, a worthy opponent.

The only other one worth to be looked at besides Arthur was a younger lad, perhaps younger than Robb. He wore a brown doublet and there were white footsteps going diagonally. He shot fast and true, but Theon could see that he was not used to the weight of the bow in his hands.

The first round was over and the distance increased to a hundred feet. It would be slightly more challenging this time. This time they were two groups of fifteen. Five of each would be retired after this round.

In Theon’s group this time was the masked boy and the large archer. Cayn, Gabrin, the youth and Arthur were in the other group.

Again, he drew his bow and again his senses sharpened. The command came and he loosed. Again, his arrows struck true as did those he was scouting. Another grouping looked decent, one made by a greybeard wearing ragged clothes. Theon wondered how he even managed to earn a place in the tourney. There were more attempts made of center this time, with a few even missing the target entirely. A miss on the target was ten points, which basically put the competitor to the bottom.

An unlucky peasant boy had slipped during one of his attempts making his arrow fly above the target, however the other four were dead on. Theon would see if the lad had some potential himself. Unfortunately, the lad was eliminated from the competition, along with others that missed the target.

There was a small break as the targets were moved fifty feet further. Theon walked toward the youth that got eliminated. His hands were dirty, his clothes ragged at parts and he was surrounded by a handful of children, none of which resembled the lad. An old lady with a tired expression managed a smile to him. As he approached him, he could hear the lad apologize for losing. He was crying.

“Come now Nayt, it ain’t your fault. We’ve enough for the next few moons. Lord Stark sent a hundred whole dragons to the orphanage and you won us carrots and onions aplenty during the festival.” The old lady said.

“Nah, Nan. I coulda won it. If my fingers didn’t slip.” The lad replied.

“You wouldn’t have won, lad.” Theon said, startling the group.

The old lady immediately got down on her knees. “I beg your pardon milord. Nayt didn’t mean anything by it, ‘es just upset ‘e lost. Please have mercy on ‘im.” She begged.

Gods they were frightened of him. Did smallfolk really think them monsters?

“Please, my lady. Stand. I meant no harm.” Theon spoke, pulling the old lady to her feet. “I only meant that young Nayt here, wouldn’t have won, either against me or Arthur Glenmore there.” Theon pointed towards his rival for the competition.

He put a hand on the shoulder on the boy. “You’re good. Better than most your age, lad. But you’re raw. Untrained. Your form is shoddy and your grip is too tight. That’s why you lost your grip by the fifth arrow.”

The boy was crestfallen. Suddenly Theon felt like a bit of an arse. “Luckily, you’re young still and Lord Stark is in need of good, loyal men.” Now the boy perked up, and Theon could swear his eyes sparkled.

“What say you lad? Will you be a man of Winterfell?” Theon asked.

“Nan, if I go, I can send my wage to you so that we have enough food!” The lad, Nayt said.

“Don’t worry about us boy. It’s yer life, yer fortune. The orphanage will be fine as it has always been.”

“I will speak to Lord Stark, my lady. Winterfell is in need of hands. The maester needs more assistants, our stable boys need help and another page or two won’t be refused.” Theon added. He shouldn’t have cared for the children. It wasn’t worse than what many had lived through. His people’s way of life meant that he would contribute for more children to be raised like that. Every war that was fought, every decision could make children like those starve or worse.

“Maester Luwin can see if any of you are skilled with letters and numbers. Lady Stark will see if any of the girls can work a needle well, or have a talent for song or dance. Gods know her daughters will need ladies in waiting. As for the boys, those with martial talent can squire or be a page for one of the men while those that have a talent for crafting can assist Mikken. Gage has been asking for someone to help with all the cooking as well.”

The old lady burst into tears. “Truly, my Lord? You would take in all these children?”

“I will speak to Lord Stark and his sons. They wouldn’t turn a blind eye to their subjects’ suffering.”

“If das so milord. I’ll come with ya.” Nayt said.

“Very good. Come then, you will assist me for the duration of the tournament. After that we will find you a warrior to squire for. Maybe Cayn, he has a young son, he will know what to do with a child.”

                                              ________________________________________

The distance was a hundred and fifty feet now. All twenty remaining were to shoot an arrow, and after hitting the target, the distance would increase. Any who missed would be eliminated.

Theon went first and hit his target. So did Cayn and Gabrin, as well as Arthur and the large archer. The hooded marksman managed to hit and the youth just barely made it. Two of the mountain clansmen missed completely, and one hit but way off the center. Two more competitors hit the target with the rest missing.

Only twelve remained as the distance increased again, this time to two hundred feet. Theon hit the target, but missed the center. Arthur hit it right in the middle. Theon could see a smug grin on his face. Cayn and Gabrin hit, as well as the large archer. The youth missed but the hooded marksman hit. The rest missed, however Theon would remember those that made it this far. A post could be made available.

He saw the hooded marksman comfort the youth with a surcoat of House Lightfoot and shrugged.

The next target was two hundred and fifty feet. Now it was challenging. Theon focused harder. He relaxed his arms and then drew the bow. He breathed out, aimed and loosed his arrow. The arrow flew true and buried itself right in the middle of the target.

Theon heard the cheers from the crowd and couldn’t help but bellow a cheer. It made it even sweeter when Arthur hit the target right at the edge. Gabrin missed narrowly, and Cayn hit the edge. The large archer missed by a small margin and the hooded archer hit decently.

Theon would have to speak to the archer. He was tall, big and keen eyed to be so accurate with his bow. Lord Stark would need a man like that.

Only four of them left at three hundred feet. This was a distance he could barely see the center of the target. First went Cayn, who missed his shot. The Northman cursed as he made his way out of the field, with Gabrin trying to cheer up his brother-in-arms.

Arthur Glenmore went second. His arrow landed deep within the target. He merely smiled at Theon, challenging him. Smug cunt.

The hooded marksman went third, and his arrow bounced off the edge of the target. A miss.

It was Theon’s turn now. He had to land the shot if he wanted to win. Rather if he didn’t want Glenmore to win. He focused again. The chatter in the crowd slowly disappeared. He was alone in the field, just him and the target. Even Glenmore was gone. He breathed out and nocked his arrow. He aimed above the target and felt the wind. He adjusted his aim to the left and let the arrow fly. He could hear his heart beat in his chest and then he swore he could hear the thump when the arrow buried itself in the wood behind the straw target.

It would be a sudden death between him and Arthur it would seem. The youth was waiting for the hooded marksman, and seemed to be comforting him. It was odd. Perhaps a retainer of House Lightfoot the mystery archer.

It mattered not, the target was moved back ten feet. Both hit again. Another ten feet and another two hits. It went like that until the target was at three hundred and fifty feet.

Both of them nocked and drew their arrows at the same time. Ser Rodrik gave the command and both loosed at the same time. Theon’s arrow was fletched grey and Arthur’s red. He could see the swaying of both. The arrows seemed to fly forever, and were on course to fly beyond the target. And then they hit the target. Right at the edge. One of the arrows bounced off but another barely lodged itself in the rim. Red feathers were on the arrow on the ground. Theon had won.

It took a moment for him to realize. Sound came back to him and he heard the booming cheers from the crowd. Theon grinned and then burst into laughter. Victory felt good.

“Good bout, Greyjoy. Well aimed.” He heard a voice behind him. As he turned, he saw Arthur extending his hand. Theon’s smile vanished. “Give me another match someday. It was fun.” Glenmore said. That smug smile on his face. It turned out the man was enjoying himself, not making fun of him.

Theon grabbed the hand and shook. “Aye, it was a good match. Let’s do it again.” He returned the smile. Tonight, he was getting drunk.

Chapter Text

Ned

The celebration for the Archery contest was to be together with the one for the melee and joust. A grand feast for the nameday celebration where the victors would be honoured. That didn’t stop half his bannermen and many others from indulging in the wine and spirits. Theon had been too far gone for most of the evening. Thankfully his children had retired early, even Robb and Jon. They wanted to be ready for the melee in the morning.

At least Theon had gotten him three men to employ into his household. A mountain of a man from a village in Everstead. A second son searching for his fortune, Jareth was eager to accept a post in Ned’s household guard. The other two, an old man from the Greendells called Branoc and Nayten a boy from the orphanage in Wintertown. He had been given to Cayn as a squire. The veteran would bring the boy up well and Rodrik would have him training with the rest his age without much time lost.

Nayten gave Ned a small problem, a dozen children in the orphanage. All of them starving, some ill. His ward had promised to speak about them being given postings and there was merit to it. Gods knew Luwin needed more assistants with all the books he needed to go through. The ones from the crypt especially. Jon had little time to translate from the Old Tongue and Luwin was far from fluent. Gage would be happy for an apprentice. Ever since his wife had passed, the cook had been off. Perhaps a few children running around the kitchens would bring some cheer to the man.

Jeyna was still young but was a good seamstress. Some of the girls could help her with all the work she had lately. She and Alyn had been courting in secret. Not that they could keep it from Cat. It took one look at the girl and his wife could tell. Well, it was time for Alyn to settle down, nearly twenty and unmarried.

If Jory would finally agree to marry it would be perfect. At least then Martyn could rest easy knowing his son was happy. The lad stubbornly refused all matches. ‘The men are all the family I need my lord’ he had kept saying.

Then there were the dreams. As of late he had been dreaming of the wolves more and more often. It was as if every night he was with Winter and hunting. He woke with blood in his mouth, however the night before he dreamt his direwolf was near the Long Lake. He smelt family. And then he was dreaming no more.

A knock to his chambers took him out of his thoughts. “Lord Lightfoot asks for an audience milord.”  Donnis spoke from outside the door. “Let him in.” House Lightfoot had been one of the few absent ones so far. But they had always been a secretive bunch, almost as much as Howland was. Ned chuckled at the memory of his friend.

“Lord Stark, I apologize for being tardy. The Weirwood grove is a hard place for ravens to find. House Lightfoot is at your disposal Lord Stark.” Lord Clayse Lightfoot said. Ned had only met the lord of the Weirwood Grove once before and that was during the rebellion. He had aged much. His hair was lighter, flecked with grey and his skin was wrinkled though his grey eyes still seemed to be full of laughter.

“It is forgiven Lord Lightfoot. You still arrived in time for the tourney and celebrations.”

“Very good, Lord Stark. Now, if it please you I need to find my children, they rode ahead of the retinue.”  Lord Lightfoot excused himself.

“If your children are missing, the men of Winterfell are at your disposal.” Lord Stark offered.

“It is fine my Lord. They merely wished to participate in the tourney and see the stalls. I will have my men search for them.”

“Speak to Rodrik, he will give you additional men to speed up the search at least.” Ned insisted.

“Thank you, my Lord, your assistance is appreciated.” Lord Lightfoot bowed as he left the solar.

As soon as Lord Lightfoot left, Donnis announced another visitor.

“Brother! It is good to see your face again!” Benjen said entering the solar. Ned stood up and moved to embrace his little brother.

“Ben! It’s been so long. Good to see you haven’t frozen yourself solid up there.” Ned said. “How was the journey?”

“Couldn’t complain, of course, I had two weeks of riding after just returning from a ranging.” Benjen complained. “Still, it’s good to see home again.”

“Aye, I couldn’t have the boys’ uncle miss their nameday celebration.” Ned smiled.

Benjen returned the smile. “Aye, I haven’t seen them in two years. They’ve grown so much. Almost men grown those two. Speaking of, how did Cat agree to allow Jon to celebrate a nameday with Robb?”

Ned forced a smile. “Come to think of it, I saw them in the courtyard, speaking, Jon was even smiling.” Benjen continued. “She didn’t even say the boy’s name for ten years. Ned what changed?”

As Ned’s brother asked the question, his face changed. A look of realization. “You told her, didn’t you? You finally told her.” Benjen chuckled.

“Aye, I told her. As well as Robb and Jon.” Surprise showed on Benjen’s face. “As well as Hoster and Edmure Tully.”

A moment passed in silence. “You fucking did what!?” Benjen yelled out in shock. “Why in the hells would you tell them about Lyanna?”

“They are family. Cat thought they needed to know.” Ned replied.

“And how long before they start scheming?” Benjen asked. “How long until they want to push Jon on the throne? Will they even wait for your friend Robert to pass?”

“There won’t be scheming, Ben.” Ned retorted. “We need the Tullys and any allies we can get for whats coming.”

“And what is coming, Ned? As far as I’ve heard the realm is peaceful and prosperous.” Benjen asked.

Ned sighed. This was going to be difficult. “Ben, what is the condition of the Night’s Watch?”

Benjen’s brow furrowed. “What does the Night’s Watch condition have to do with you telling A Lord Paramount that our nephew has a claim to the Throne?”

“First, Jon is my son. I love him like one and I’ve raised him like one. Second, the Wall has what a thousand men between the three castles? In a good year you can barely keep the numbers even and every year its getting harder.” Ned started speaking.

Benjen sighed. “Aye, a vast majority of the recruits are criminals trying to escape a noose. Even those aren’t as many as we used to get. Lords prefer to deal with their prisoners themselves these days. The few villages we trade with in the Gift are not prosperous and Eastwatch hasn’t been getting as many ships from across the sea looking for trade. Still, what does this have to do with Jon.?”

Just as Benjen spoke, a knock was heard on the door. “Father, is uncle Benjen here?” Jon’s voice. Right on time.

“Aye, come in, Jon. Is Robb with you?” Ned asked.

Jon opened the door and entered. Robb was right behind his brother. “Aye, I’m here, father. We saw uncle enter the keep, are we disturbing?” Ned’s eldest asked.

“No, in fact your timing is perfect. Your uncle needs to know.” Ned stated.

“Know what?” Benjen asked confused.

Ned gave him a knowing smile. He would enjoy his brother react to what he was about to find out.

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Benjen

The gods were cruel. His nephews’ minds had become addled. Even Ned seemed strange. Perhaps that is why he shared the secret of Jon’s birth to Cat and the Hoster and Edmure Tully.

Not long ago, only three people knew the truth. Ned, himself, and Howland Reed. Benjen had left for the Wall, to redeem himself in the eyes of the gods for allowing Lyanna to leave with Rhaegar. Howland hadn’t left Greywater Watch since the Rebellion and Ned would keep the secret along with Jon. That had been the plan. Yet now, his nephews were speaking of the Others returning, them being sent back by the Old Gods to their past selves in order to save it.

Had they been by themselves when they told him their tales, he would have laughed and complimented their imagination, however Ned seemed to believe their words. If the words he heard on the way South, about the projects Ned had ordered, he was already moving.

Benjen sighed. “So, where was I in this future? Surely, I was of help?” Benjen asked. He would make them see sense.

“As I said, uncle Ben. After Father became Hand of the King and went South, we made our way to Castle Black. Soon after we arrived, you were tasked with searching for Waymar Royce and his party who had disappeared a moon before. In fact, I later found out that the man father beheaded before king Robert arrived was one of his companions. An old ranger named Gared. I remember he was missing both ears from frostbite. The other one I found was called Will. I know not what he looked like.” Jon explained frustrated.

There was an unsettling feeling deep in the pit of Benjen’s stomach. Neither Jon or Robb had given many details of their supposed other lifes, however Benjen knew both Will and Gared. Experienced rangers both. He tried to remember if he had ever spoken about them but he couldn’t confirm it.

“Lord Commander Mormont sent you to learn what happened to them along with six rangers. When I said my oaths at the weirwood grove in the Haunted Forest, Ghost brought a severed human hand. It was frozen and black and the hounds wouldn’t go near it. Ghost ended up tracking the scent and we found the corpses of Jafer Flowers and Othor.” Jon continued his story. “Jafer was an older man with long grey hair and Othor was big and ugly and had a hunting horn. We had the corpses brought to Castle Black to bury them, however the same night they rose as Wights.” The unpleasant feeling just kept getting worse. Two other rangers accurately described. Still, these were experienced rangers, that had served the Wall for years. Perhaps Benjen had mentioned them while telling stories to the boys.

“Jafer killed Jaremy Rykker and four others before they hacked apart his body. Ser Jaremy had beheaded the wight however that doesn’t stop them. He paid a harsh price for the knowledge. Othor went after the Lord Commander. Ghost tore him up, however he wouldn’t stop until I burned him. They were led well by their masters. One occupied the men while the other went to assassinate the Lord Commander.” Jon finished.

“Uncle, I swear it to you, on Ice, on the Old Gods, on Grey Wind even. We are not fabricating a story for you.” Robb added. His eldest nephew had mostly kept silent as Jon spoke. His tale wasn’t something that Benjen could call false. But so far Jon had told a very compelling story, the names and descriptions were on point. It was very unsettling.

“What about Midnight, did you at least find him?” He asked. Surely his direwolf would have managed to avoid what fate had befallen Benjen in this supposed future.

“Uncle, you didn’t have a direwolf at the other time. Winter was killed by a stag and we only found her a year from now. The Old Gods gave us our wolf pups back. And our bond was as strong as it was when we died. The wolf dreams are happening almost every night for me and Jon can even feel Ghost’s emotions at times.” Robb added.

It truly didn’t feel like his nephews were making up a story for him. After all, he had dreamt he was Midnight. He had even met Winter and her litter before even arriving in Winterfell.

Jon was getting visibly frustrated. “Uncle, I know everything there is to know about the Free Folk as well as the watch. I was Lord Commander for nearly a year. Let me prove we aren’t lying to you.”

“Fine, what is the Shieldhall used for, Jon?” Benjen asked. He knew he hadn’t spoken about the place, at least how it was these days.

“The Shieldhall was used as a dining hall for knights and highborn. It can seat two to three hundred members. It isn’t used anymore as it is too large and neglected to heat and there aren’t enough brothers to warrant a second dining hall. The shields of knights are placed on the walls when a knight takes the black, and are removed and placed at their pyre or tomb when they pass. There used to be hundreds of shields adorning the walls, however now there would be less than twenty. Even less when I was Lord Commander.”

He knew. Benjen remembered that he had told the boys stories about how the Shieldhall had looked in the past, filled with brightly coloured shields of every House. Still the boys could have just adjusted the description knowing the watch was in its worst state ever.

“Fine. You know the Wildlings you claim. Tell me about their leaders.”

“The Free Folk, have many clans. Some are larger and some smaller. After letting them through the Wall-“

“You what!?” Benjen interrupted Jon.

“I let them through, Uncle. It wasn’t a time to fight amongst ourselves.” Jon stated with confidence.

“Jon, if you knew anything about the Wildlings it would be that they are a cruel and savage people. To let them past the Wall would doom our smallfolk to ruin.” Benjen stated.

“Not all of them are savage. The Thenns have their own Lords and laws. Many of the other clans can be convinced to bend the knee. Some, like the Weeper, Rattleshirt and Sixskins deserve what they get and they will likely never bend, but some like Morna White Mask or Soren Shieldbreaker, or Giantsbane can be reasoned with.”

Benjen went into thought. Jon shouldn’t have any love for the Wildlings, it was odd he was defending them. His reasoning would make sense if the Others had indeed come. Then he realized. Why he was summoned.

“You’ve already made plans, haven’t you?” He asked Ned.

His brother sighed. “Aye, I wanted to speak to you about them before bringing the offer to Mormont.”

“So, what have you and the boys planned?” He asked sighing.

“Finally.” Jon muttered as Robb helped Ned clear out the desk. Jon placed a map over it. It was a map of the North. A very detailed map, and he saw that scribbles had been added in the Gift and Beyond the Wall. Villages, settlements, some he had seen others heard off and some were unknown even to him. What if his nephews were actually speaking truth? Gods that would mean Winter was on their heels. And that toad Bowen had murdered his nephew. Truth or not, the First Steward would have a difficult time from now on.

“There are more than a hundred thousand people Beyond the Wall. There is still a year before Mance Rayder begins to unite them and the Others start killing for their host.” Jon began.

“Our plan is to deprive the Others of their army. Let all who will accept our terms pass and leave those who would bring trouble.” Robb added.

“And where do you plan on putting so many people?” Benjen asked.

“I plan on writing to Robert after speaking to Mormont and the Wildlings. Allow them to settle the Gift. Allow me to set up lordships in those lands. Taxes will be split between the Wall and Winterfell and the lords will be required to defend the Wall.” Ned answered.

“The Old Bear will never agree. House Mormont is regularly raided by men of the Frozen Shore. Even if you can convince him, what about Lord Umber? Karstark? the Mountain clans? They hate the wildlings almost as much as the Night’s Watch hates them!” Benjen argued. This would be folly. A tragedy waiting to happen.

“This is why I will have every Lord accompany me to the Wall. All will see with their own eyes and decide for themselves.” Ned answered.

“Lord Umber’s cousin is one of the clan leaders. She has two daughters.” Jon blurted out.

“What?” Benjen asked in confusion.

“Aye, Sygfrid Umber the daughter of Crowfood Umber is alive and well. Her husband was a chief who saved her from her captors and married her. She has been chieftainess since he died. Jon tells me her daughters are beauties.” Ned answered. “My bannermen have agreed to at least hold talks.”

“This is madness, Ned.” Benjen sighed. “The Old Gods sending back the boys, talks of the future, the Others returning. Its like the tales Old Nan used to tell us.”

Ned suddenly brought up his sword. It wasn’t Ice. This one was in a weirwood scabbard, a little smaller though and with a silver guard and weirwood grip wrapped in leather string. His brother drew it, and the bloody sword was glowing. No, it had runes on it. Those were glowing in a deep, icy blue light. Benjen had seen those runes in some of the tomes at Castle Black and more often Beyond the Wall. First men runes, the Old Tongue. “You remember the sword Ice? The one our House owned since the Age of Heroes?” Ned asked. “Mikken had never seen a metal like it. The Old Gods spoke to me when I drew it for the first time. The Greatjon, Gregor Forrester and Halys Hornwood are witnesses and I swore them to secrecy along with their boys as well as Bran.”

“I feel there is a story about Bran here.” Ben stated, jesting. “I will trust in you, brother. Don’t make me regret it. Now, tell me more about what you had planned.”

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“Sound plans, Ned. Though, maybe you can spare some of the coin and jewels for the Wall?” Benjen spoke in jest. Gods knew some coin could be of use to them. “I know not how allowing an oath for a fixed amount of time will be received though.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “It will probably raise the prestige of the Night’s Watch, to have less criminals escaping the headsman and it will certainly be more enticing for young knights and sellswords who want to make a name for themselves. Some may even decide to stay for good.” Benjen sighed. “The problem is that the ones that are currently at the Wall and have arrived voluntary will be cross. The ones there for a crime will feel slighted. If Mormont agrees, it may bring a mutiny. Jon knows what happens when you act in a way most don’t approve.”

“Maybe if we allow those that have committed no crime a chance to leave?” Robb suggested.

“They’ve already spoken the oaths. Many will feel bound by them.” Benjen said.

“How about if only a man that has sworn himself for life at the Wall can be elected or chosen for a leadership position?” His eldest nephew suggested again.

“That might work!” Jon exclaimed. “But it still leaves those that were forced there by crime or exile.”

“Aye, the murderers and rapists there cannot be allowed to go free, or mutiny.” Benjen warned.

“The Free Folk moving through the Wall and settling the Gift, as well as the new Lordships being set up there might give them pause. The Castles at the Wall aren’t well fortified from the South.” Jon said.

“Father and our bannermen will bring men with them as well. Perhaps it will be enough to stay their blades until the Watch replenishes its numbers. Then they can be split up and controlled.” Robb spoke again.

“And what of criminals going forward? Will they be allowed to take the Black?” Benjen asked.

“Until the threat of the Others is passed, it would be prudent to continue allowing prisoners to take the Black.” Jon spoke. “The more men we have there the better.”

Benjen had to admit. His nephews sounded experienced. Hearing their story was one thing. A child could craft a compelling tale, however, mere boys exchanging ideas with their elders like it was a matter of fact was uncommon, especially since the boys shouldn’t have any experience in governing yet.

Ned must have noticed the queer look he had on his face. “Now you know how I’ve felt for the last moon.”

Benjen laughed.

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Domeric

The joust wasn’t as popular in the North as in the other Kingdoms. That was why the main event of the tourney was the melee. Every Lord and heir that was of age had eagerly signed up for the contest. Nearly all of the ones who decided to give the joust a try were set to compete on the morrow on foot.

The competition was mostly hedge knights as well as Lord Stark’s captain of the guard and a few guardsmen wearing the direwolf sigil. Lord Royce and his son decided to try the lists as did the heir of Riverrun and his companions.

It was Domeric’s first tourney, however he would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. His late mother was a Ryswell so riding was in his blood. There were few on the lists that looked good riders. The Riverlands knights looked decent, Lord Royce was a likely winner of the joust and one or two of the hedge knights looked accomplished at the saddle.

He had polished his armour late into the night, wishing to look his best for the event, however, few sets were shining and some wore even incomplete sets or sets beset with rust. He was deep in his gloom as Lord Stark announced the beginning.

Each contestant could challenge and in turn be challenged by any. Those unhorsed, were eliminated from the running until there were four left. After that they would draw lots to see who was their opponent.

He heard the crowd cheer, and then realized that a lance was touching his shield. One of the hedge knights had chosen him in the first tilt.

Ser Rodrik announced them. Domeric had no squire, so he had secured the services of a stableboy, Tom. The youth passed him the lance and the horn sounded. Domeric spurred his black stallion, a gift from his mother when he was a lad, he had known Dagger since he was a foal. His trusted steed reared and galloped forward, and suddenly the gloom was gone. He could feel his heart beat loudly in his chest, and energy flowed through his body.

His lance hit the hedge knight’s shield right in the center, splintering into countless pieces. His own shield was left unmarked. He had chosen not to put a flayed man, only to put his house’s colours on it.

The cheers from the crowd boomed all around him, and Domeric couldn’t help but grin. Inside his black greathelm, he was free to show his excitement.

Tom was waiting for him with a fresh lance, and the horn sounded again. Again, Domeric charged and again his lance shattered upon the shield bearing a sigil of an oak tree beneath a crescent moon. Few things felt better than that sight.

The horn sounded for the third time, and again he charged. He had broken two lances, and his opponent had missed twice. It was time to end it. This time he felt a force hit his shield, forcing him to grip the reins and the saddle tight. He had dropped his lance, but he hadn’t broken one this time.

Suddenly, his respect for the hedge knight grew immensely. The man had taken two such hits without complaint, and still headed for more. Truly bravery worthy of a knight.

Domeric grinned inside his helmet, as he took another lance from his temporary squire. He had been a fool. He had been sulking about the lack of competition and that the venue wasn’t as grand as he had imagined. Yet, he had never felt such elation as his lance broke again. Even taking the opponents blow couldn’t hamper his enjoyment and he was eager for more.

This time he angled his lance differently, just slightly changing the direction of the hit, something which his opponent failed to read. Unfortunately for him, that mistake cost him, as the hedge knight found himself tumbling from his saddle.

The crowd was silent for a moment which seemed to last an eternity for Domeric. However, the silence was vanquished as cheers as loud as he had ever heard assaulted him from all sides. It was the sweetest feeling, victory, so he raised the remains of his lance as high as he could, displaying it for the crowd. He couldn’t help but look across the stands and he saw his new friends, most not of an age to compete yet, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as he was.

“Ser!” he was interrupted from his basking by a gruff voice. “Well fought!” It was the hedge knight, who had walked towards him. That’s right, an unhorsed knight lost the horse and armour to the victor and a ransom had to be paid.

“You as well, Ser. However, I am no knight. Only a lordling.” Domeric replied, dismounting. It was discourteous to meet his opponent from above.

“I underestimated you, lad. Thought id have a good shot against a youngster.” The hedge knight spoke. As he removed the helmet, he saw an older man, face weathered by sun. His armour was rusted and battered, and he saw the horse was past its prime. “I’ve not much, but I will do my best to pay the ransom for my horse and armour.” The old knight finished.

“I ask for no ransom, Ser.” Domeric replied. “This bout was worth more than coin.”

“Don’t pity me lad, despite my looks, I came prepared for the risks. Now, name your price.” The knight replied, clearly annoyed, rather feeling disrespected.

Domeric truly didn’t need, nor want the old man’s coin, yet he could see how his desire to be lenient could be seen by others. The knight would be disgraced. Let of by a boy barely of age, after losing to it.

“My apologies, ser. I meant no disrespect. It was truly a wonderful bout. Instead of coin I ask you join me for a drink at the feast, and share a tale. This is payment enough for me.”

“Fine, lad. I can at least pay in drink, what you won’t have in coin.” The knight said gruffly, before giving a curt bow and leaving the field.

Domeric, took his horses reins and stroked his neck, before a cough from Ser Rodrik, made it known that he had outstayed his welcome at the field. There were others waiting their turn.

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He had forgotten why he was ever gloomy. He remembered few occasions he had enjoyed more than the joust. His own first tilt had been exhilarating and seeing his fellow competitors show their skill was equally engaging.

Lord Stark’s captain of the guard, Jory Cassel, won his tilt in two passes, unhorsing Harwin, a guardsman sworn to House Stark. Jon had mentioned him as the sone of the master of Horse at Winterfell.

The man had ridden well, however, he had work to do with a lance before he was a proper jouster. It hadn’t helped that Jory had a strong arm and an even stronger hit with his own lance. The bout had ended with Jory laughing at his brother in arms, before offering a hand to raise him up. As the defeated rider made his way to the stands, a group of men wearing Stark armour laughed at him slapping his shoulders.

There were many hedge knights choosing a bout against another hedge knight, some showed admirable skill in the saddle, while others less so. Lord Royce had challenged his own son, Waymar. The younger Royce had lasted only three passes, before landing flat on his back. “Still wet behind your ears.” Yohn said to his son, while the latter grumbled that the former was an arsehole.

An interesting bout was between Lord Helman Tallhart, who had earned himself a knighthood during the Rebellion, and Lord Halys Hornwood. Domeric had heard of the skill in riding of the Hornwoods, all of them known for their light cavalry and outriders.

The Lord of Torrhen’s Square was hardier, and sturdy, with the Lord of the Hornwood more precise with his strikes, but surprisingly resilient. They had broken five lances each, when finally, Lord Hornwood broke a lance straight on the helmet, flipping Lord Tallhart over his horse.

Much like his son Lord Hornwood showed only a courteous smile as he met his defeated opponent, who suddenly grasped the former’s forearm. “You win this time, Halys. This makes us even after the spar yesterday.”

“Aye, leave the riding to me, old friend, and ill leave you to swing your sword.” Lord Hornwood replied, with his courteous smile.

Lord Tallhart gave a hearty chuckle, before the two Lords went back to the waiting area.

Lord Edmure went against a knight with a sigil of a read eagle’s head above two crossed red tridents on a field of white. It was a well ridden contest going for ten passes. In the end the Tully heir snatched victory with his sixth broken lance.

Lord Edmure’s friend, Marq Piper, the heir to Pinkmaiden wore his gleaming plate, adorned with silks of white and blue. His opponent was a knight who wore shoddy plate. The dents were visible even as far as Domeric was standing and his shield was a silver river running through a field of black with a golden sun illuminating it from above.

Marq rode well. The Piper knight was more known for his blade than lance, however he still managed to break three lances before falling from his horse. The unknown hedge knight let out a booming laugh as he celebrated his victory with the crowd.

Patrek Mallister won his bout in only two passes against a household knight of House Tully. Ser Garrett Stonebrook had little chance, despite breaking a lance against the heir to Seagard. His father also won a victory, against Harrion Karstark after a grueling contest of ten broken lances for the Mallister against three for the heir to Karhold. Harrion took blow after blow, shrugging off hits that would send lesser men flying, however in the end, he was too inexperienced against a veteran knight.

Finally, the last bout of the day was another Stark guardsman, this one was called Alyn if Dom remembered correctly. A fiery haired man, tall and broad shouldered, the man had dreams of knighthood, just like Dom. His opponent was a knight as large as any Dom had seen. He was certain he could compete with the Smalljon if not the Greatjon in size. The knight had a sigil of a square of blue and gold quartered and a silver trident in each. He had a surcoat and shield to match it. However, the most striking thing were the lightning bolts, carved on his helmet.

As both riders made their way opposite each other, Dom saw a sky-blue ribbon tied to his upper arm. The guardsman gave a wave and a wink, and as he followed his gaze, he saw a maid blushing at his attention. A comely thing with hair of golden-red and bright blue eyes. The men in service to Lord Stark began to jeer at the guardsman, wishing all manner of ills on him though only in jest.

The men exchanged four passes. Alyn broke two lances, while the knight broke three. The fiery haired guardsman showed no sign of yielding however, as he charged again, bellowing a yell with vigor no doubt bolstered by his wish to have a good showing for his lady.

Alyn’s lance struck the knight’s shield dead in the center, shattering in half, however the knight was unmoved from his saddle. His lance hit the direwolf painted on the guardsman’s shield it too shattering into splinters.

As both riders made their way to the ends of the ground, the crowd cheered at Alyn. It certainly helped him recover from the blow as he raised the remains of his lance and pointed towards his lady. A boy passed him a fresh lance and the horn sounded again, both riders spurring their mounts into another gallop.

This time only one lance broke, as the knight hit Alyn’s shield again, making cracks appear in the wood. The guardsman had been emboldened by the crowd and had gone for the head, unfortunately, the lance glanced off of the helmet, only grazing one of the lightning bolts engraved at the sides.

Domeric could hear the gasps in the crowd and as he looked at the lady who had given Alyn her favor, he saw dread painted on her face. The guardsman however groaned as he arrived at the edge of the ground, unable to fully extend his shield arm. It wasn’t uncommon to sustain an injury, even with a blunted lance, the force of the blow was significant.

Still, Alyn would not be stopped, merely holding his injured arm closer to his chest in support, while readying his lance again. The horn sounded again and both riders charged again. The lightning bolt knight’s form was impeccable. His aim looked true, while Alyn had trouble sttting his lance properly. It looked done. The Stark guardsman would be finished, though hopefully without further injury.

Then a miracle happened. Alyn had aimed for the helm again, this time hitting it right in the middle. The lance didn’t shatter, and the visor was dented inwards. The knight flew back down on his horse, however he didn’t fall. As they reached the ends of the ground, Alyn prepared another lance, wincing in pain as he moved his arm to raise his vizor.

The knight was upright again, however his arms and head were hanging down and he didn’t move to take another lance, or do anything really.

His squire approached, shaking him, before waving his arms in a gesture of yielding. A pair of grooms ran from the sides, and slowly helped the knight down from his horse. Domeric ran towards to offer assistance, however as they removed the helmet, he saw the chest rise and fall. The man was merely unconscious. A well struck blow by Alyn.

The guardsman had dismounted as well, staggering as quickly as he could with his injured arm. He was wincing at every move he made. The maester would have two people to look after from a single bout.

With such a thrilling bout, the days contest ended, giving the remaining competitors a chance to rest before the final rounds continued from the morning. With the way Alyn was wincing, he would have to retire, meaning one competitor would get a free round during the draw. A pity for the Stark man, he seemed well trained for a Northman.

As Domeric made his way to offer words of comfort to the injured guardsman he heard Lady Stark argue with Robb and Jon. “You two need to start acting your age!” The mother scolded.

“We are acting our age though, mother.” Robb countered.

“You are three and ten, and only barely.” Lady Stark deadpanned. “Sneaking out with the rest of your little group and coming back in the morning blind drunk is not how children should act.”

Domeric felt sympathy for the boys, it wasn’t uncommon for even younger than them to spend entire days in taverns, yet Lady Stark was correct, it did seem unlordly of them.

“This is why I have spoken with your father, and the fathers of all the boys with you. You will spend the evenings doing embroidery with the girls until the final night of your nameday celebrations.”

Domeric’s eye twitched. He had indeed been with the boys during the night in question, however he was a man grown. Surely, he wasn’t counted in the ones punished.

“But, Aunt Cat, we were only- “Jon tried to argue. He was addressing the Lady of Winterfell with an odd familiarity Dom wouldn’t expect from the natural born son of her husband. He was stopped before saying more.

“No excuses, Jon. You both can do what you wish when you’re men grown. Until then, I better not catch you drunk again. Now go and grab Domeric, Septa Mordane is waiting for you to begin her lessons.

“Fuck” Was the only thing Domeric could say.

Chapter Text

Robb

“Who told?” Jorelle growled as Robb, Jon and his friends were sat in the chamber where ladies attended their education. “Who was the cunt that told on us?” She continued.

“Be calm, my lady.” Daryn Hornwood spoke. “’Tis only until the celebrations are done. And only for a few hours in the evenings.”

“Shut it ya damn dandy.” Lyra yelled out. “Do you have any idea how much work it was to avoid the septa and go out? When I find the shit that got us caught im gonna shove my mace so far up their arse, the head will come out of their throat.”

“Lady Lyra, Lady Jorelle, could you please behave as befitting your station?” Wynafryd Manderly spoke with an edge to her gentle voice as she raised her gaze from her embroidery. Suddenly the needle in her hand looked unusually threatening to Robb.

“Oh, do you want my mace up your arse instead, little miss prissy?” Jorelle growled, her fists clenched as she stood up from her chair.

Cley rose with her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on Jory, enough.” He pleaded. “It does no good fighting amongst ourselves.”

The Mormont girl clenched her fist, before sighing. “Fine, I won’t throttle the little slag.”

Wynafryd bristled at the insult, pouting. “The she-bear has been tamed it seems.” She spat out.

Jorelle flushed crimson while her sister prepared to throw one of the cups at the Manderly girl. It would seem Robb was destined to endure turbulent evenings for the foreseeable future.

“Lady Wynafryd, I beg of you, enough.” Daryn spoke calmly. “Let us endure this punishment in peace.”

“At least one of you brutes has manners.” Wynafryd stated. “Very well, I shall forgive the slight on my honour, however I am disappointed in you, ser and your lack of respect for the womanly arts.”

“I am not a knight, my Lady, only a mere lordling, and it is not a man’s place to sew clothing, but to protect and provide.” Daryn proudly stated.

“Stitching isn’t only for sewing clothing, but also to mend tents, sails, clothes as well as wounds on the battlefield.” Sansa spoke confidently.

“Lady Sansa speaks truly. What will you brave menfolk do if your clothes tear on campaign or you suffer wounds?” Alys Karstark spoke.

“A maester or a silent sister can mend wounds and servants for tents and clothes.” Theon spoke from his spot near the window.

“And if there are no maesters or servants with you, what awaits you then Greyjoy?” Wylla Manderly asked.

“A stick and leather to bite on and a heated blade can close any wound.” Torrhen Karstark declared with a booming voice, his brother chuckling next to him.

“A stitched wound heals better than a seared one, Tor.” Surprisingly for Robb, Jon spoke. His brother was correct. Robb remembered several of his men opening up seared wounds, believing them healed, and frequently rot would set in on the burnt flesh, worsening the injury. He remembered on his raids a man falling over dead from a mere cut on the shoulder that had taken rot after searing. “Searing makes a wound more prone to fester. It is harder to clean and it leaves more damage. Stitching it allows the wound to heal naturally and allows the pus to drain out.” His brother spoke.

Speaking about festering wounds and pus made a few of the ladies green in the face, but even Torrhen seemed subdued. Robb leaned to Jon. “Where did you learn about wounds?” He whispered.

“Maester Aemon, at Castle Black. The old man starts rambling when attending to the wounded and after the Battle for Castle Black I spent a fair amount of time there.” Jon replied.

“Well children if you have finished your arguing, we may begin today’s lesson.” Septa Mordane said in her strict voice. Father had always called her caring, however, Robb couldn’t see it. “Snow.” She called out, her voice carrying a hint of disdain. “Given your apparent knowledge in stitching, perhaps you can demonstrate a feather stitch for us?” Robb had no idea what a feather stitch was, and he could see Jon grimace. He found himself beginning to dislike the septa.

“Forgive me, septa. My knowledge doesn’t extend to embroidery stitching, only basic ways to stitch wounds closed.” Jon replied. Robb was about to argue with the septa, however his brother continued. “Allow me to show the few stitches I know.”

He took a curved needle and one of the embroidery cloths and ripped a hole into it. He then inserted the thread into the needle and tied it up. “Before stitching you must always clean the wound. Anything that isn’t flesh should be removed first and then the wound needs to be doused with wine or spirits, or even vinegar.” He said as he inserted the needle into the cloth. And then removed it from the other side. Narrating his moves for all to hear. Cley and Brandon showed looks of curiosity and stood behind Jon and Robb, trying to get a good look at what was happening. Even Torrhen seemed interested. The Karstark seemed shaken at the thought of having a wound fester. The Manderly sisters paid close attention to Robb’s brother as did Sansa, who seemed to not pay attention to anything except Jon’s movements. The septa had a frown on her face.

“For a needle a steel needle needs to be burned before stitching wounds, but a silver needle stays clean.” Jon stated. He then pulled out most of the thread and cut it, before tying up the ends tightly. “This is the basic stitching for wounds. Most simple cuts can be stitched by a few of these. For the thread, silk, animal tendons or guts can be used.” He saw Alys Karstark gag at the thought, but the young lady regained her composure quickly.

Jon then redid the stitch, however, he didn’t cut the thread this time, instead tying it with one end while continuing, making an entire line. He then stitched once to the side and cut the thread, tying the end to the previous stitch. “You can do this if youre in a hurry and the wound is longer. The stitch has to be tight however, to keep the wound closed properly.”

“Aye, and then you douse the wound with wine or vinegar again, or place herbs or a poultice as well as clean, boiled bandaging.” Robb added, prompting Jon to raise an eyebrow.

Robb grinned. “You aren’t the only one that has been learning tricks, brother.”

“Jon, show me the stitches.” Arya spoke. Their youngest sister had been unusually silent, however she seemed interested in learning from Jon. If there was one person who could make her do anything it was, he.

Robb smiled. “What you don’t want to learn from me?” He said chuckling. The gears turning in Arya’s head as she stood there flustered made Jon and Robb burst into laughter, followed by many of the others in the room. “I am jesting, sister.” He said, rubbing her head.

“It seems that your half-brother has volunteered to help you improve your stitches, Lady Arya.” Septa Mordane said, her face a scowl, however her eyes seemed softer than before.

                                              ________________________________________

Sansa

The day before had been exhilarating. Gallant knights had ridden against each other, bravely exchanging blows with their lances. The men of Winterfell had shown their valour and skill, however poor Alyn had taken a blow that caused injury.

Sansa had seen him in the morning, with his arm in a sling, covered in bandages. Maester Luwin assured her that the brave guardsman would be fine after a period of rest. Nevertheless, Sansa had gone to the Godswood to pray for his recovery and then again in the sept.

She saw the guardsman watching the remaining competitors prepare for the final day of the jousts with a beautiful lady by his side. How wonderful that his valour had won the heart of a maiden. Truly tourneys were amazing.

First was Domeric Bolton. He had gotten a victory to his name after Alyn had been injured the day before and would be jousting Lord Royce.

“Well good luck to Dom.” Robb said, his voice filled with gloom.

“Aye, if he has any surprises, now is the time.” Jon added, his voice stern.

Her brothers’ friend rode gallantly against the old Lord. His lance broke against the runed shield, however Lord Royce’s lance broke from Domeric’s shoulder. The young man rode to the end of the field and got another lance from his squire. Sansa could swear she saw his arm twitch as he tried lifting it, however he managed to point his lance to the sky and galloped again. Lord Royce rode with conviction and broke his lance on the Bolton shield, even though he conceded a break on his own shield.

This time, she was certain she saw Domeric struggle to lift his lance, however the young man galloped again. This time Lord Royce deflected the lance with his shield, while his own merely glanced off of Domeric’s plate.

“He’s struggling. His shoulder is gone.” Jon said.

“Aye, he should yield before he ruins himself.” Robb stated.

“Lord Domeric can still win. Its not lost yet.” Sansa said, slightly miffed on the lack of faith her brothers had in their friend.

Another pass, and this time Domeric missed, while Lord Royce broke his lance upon the Bolton shield. Sansa gasped as Domeric dropped the lance even before he had ridden to the end of the field. As his visor went up, she could see his face even paler than usual and his face a grimace.

The Bolton heir rose his good arm, and Lord Royce nodded. Then Domeric lifted his lance again with great effort and galloped as did Lord Royce.

Both horses slowed down as they reached the middle and the lances remained pointed upwards. As both competitors passed each other they offered a greeting after which Ser Rodrik announced Lord Royce as victor on points.

“What happened?” Sansa asked bewildered.

“Dom yielded. Lord Royce allowed him the honor of withdrawing unhorsed.” Robb answered.

Sansa merely nodded at her brother’s explanation, her opinion of the Lord of Runestone increasing due to his gallant action.

The next knight was the one who had defeated Ser Piper and his opponent was the other remaining unknown knight. Unlike the day before, Ser Rodrik announced the names of the competitors. The knight with the silver river on a field of black and a golden sun was called Ser Garreth Whiterivers, while his opponent a slender man in a dark plate armour was called Ser Rowan Ravenshield. He carried a shield where a black raven was clutching a silver shield on a blue field.

If Sansa remembered her lessons correctly, Ser Garreth was likely a bastard of the Riverlands that had won himself a knighthood, while Ser Rowan given his sigil was likely a household knight of House Blackwood.

Ser Rodrik gave the signal for the knights to begin and the crowd cheered. The horses galloped towards each other and the knights set their lances. Time seemed to slow for Sansa as the knights neared until finally the sound of lances breaking into countless splinters boomed across the ground. Both knights were pushed back flat against their horses’ backs but neither fell. New lances were given and the knights charged again.

This time Ser Rowan struck true, while Ser Garreth’s lance remained whole. The hedge knight held on however, barely remaining ahorse.

There was a pause as the knight straightened himself on his horse, while his squire a tall, gangly boy wearing a ragged shirt and ripped cloth breeches passed him another lance. Sansa had noticed that many of the hedge knights that had arrived for the tourney left a lot to be desired with their equipment. Even Ser Garreth wore rusted plate under his surcoat and his helmet had dents all over it.

Ser Rowan was in better condition, his armour painted and gleaming, polished to perfection. His squire wore a well-made tunic embroidered with the sigil of the knight, and while the other squire seemed gangly and starving, this one looked strong.

Ser Rodrik gave the signal again, and the knights charged once again. The horses gallop thundered through the field as they sped towards each other. Sansa could swear they were moving faster and faster after each pass and the strikes seemed to grow in power.

A lance exploded into splinters. She almost missed the collision. She saw Ser Rowan laying on top of his horse, his arms spread. He had let go of his lance, which lay on the ground, unbroken. The crowd was cheering, however as the knights reached the ends of the field, the knight remained leaned on his horse.

“His head must be shaken, at the very least.” Robb spoke from where he was sitting. “Aye, he will probably be out for the rest of the day, and even then, he may be bedridden for longer.” Jon agreed. The boys had been split from their friends and were told to remain with their family. A part of a punishment Mother had given out. Jeyne had told her that it was the reason why they had been in her embroidery lesson along with every noble boy of an age with them. She had enjoyed having them there with her, even though she knew they cared little for the womanly arts. At least Jon seemed to appreciate the uses, and both seemed to know medicine for some reason. Perhaps Maester Luwin had been teaching them, but Jon had known stitching, at least enough to treat a wound. Gods Sansa’s mind recoiled as she imagined a wound leaking pus, or a rotting burn after searing. She could do well without ever imagining it.

Suddenly the knight’s arm twitched, and then he seemed to wake in alarm. He quickly grabbed the reins and lifted himself up, looking around the crowd. His movements seemed odd. The visor was lifted, and it showed a young and somewhat handsome face. It was covered in freckles, especially the cheeks and nose and locks of hair slightly more blond than her own fell in a messy lock in front of his face. She noticed that his nose seemed to be bleeding and he spit out blood to the side. His green eyes seemed glazed over and the knight seemed unaware of his surroundings.

Ser Garreth lifted his own visor, showing a plain, weathered face, tanned from the sun. There was worry in the older man’s eyes. He lifted his lance at his opponent, who barely registered the gesture.

Ser Rodrik approached the knight, and seemed to speak something to Ser Rowan. The younger man seemed to protest, however she saw the older knight scowl and bark something and Ser Rowan’s head hung down in defeat.

He gave out a signal and a pair of grooms ran towards the dazed knight, along with the squire. They managed to get him down from his horse, however as they let him stand, he lost his balance, forcing his squire to support him.

“Will Ser Rowan be alright?” Sansa asked her brothers with worry.

Robb chuckled. “Aye, he should be fine in a few days.”

“Nothing a little rest and some Mayweed tea wont cure.” Jon replied with a smile.

Ser Rodrik declared Ser Garreth the victor. He would face Ser Royce in his next tilt.

Before that, Uncle Edmure was to face Lord Hornwood. Uncle had the more beautiful armour, spotless and gleaming, while Lord Hornwood’s was old though still shining from the polish. The bout went better than the last one. Both men exchanged blows, breaking lance after lance.

“Uncle Edmure is riding well.” Robb stated.

“Aye, Lord Halys as well. Daryn takes after his father in that.” Jon replied

“Let’s make it interesting. I say Uncle Edmure wins.” Robb grinned.

The grin was shared by Jon. “Alright, if Lord Hornwood wins, you’re cleaning the gear after practice in the morning.”

“Done.” Robb extended his hand and Jon shook it.

The next pass made Jon groan, as Lord Hornwood was unhorsed. To the amusement of Robb.

Her eldest brother exclaimed. “Ha, enjoy cleaning duty, brother.”

“We will see.” Jon said with a wry smile.

Lord Hornwood congratulated Sansa’s uncle, and both competitors left the field. Next was Jory against Ser Patek Mallister. She saw a glint in Jon’s eyes.

Her elder brother smiled. “Double or nothing. Jory wins or I do the cleaning for a week.”

“You’re on!” Robb exclaimed.

Jory wore a simple plate under the Stark surcoat, while his shield was adorned with the Cassel sigil.

Ser Mallister wore plate more pleasing to the eye. Dyed purple, with silver inlays and a grey cape. His helmet was adorned with eagle wings and on his shield, the Eagle of Seagard was displayed proudly.

The heir to Seagard seemed confident, while Jory’s face showed little.

Both men lowered their visors as Ser Rodrik gave the command, and their steeds burst forward, kicking up clouds of dust behind them. The bout was over as quickly as it began. Both lances shattered, however while Jory took the blow, which ripped his surcoat, Ser Patrek tumbled off of his horse.

The cheers of the crowd were the loudest she had heard so far. The stands began to shake from the noise. She could barely hear Jon laugh and speak to Robb.

“Well, that was easy, brother.” Jon stated with a grin on his face.

“Aye, Patrek was overconfident, always had more of a taste for using his other lance, that one.” Robb replied. Sansa looked at her brother puzzled. “A fine rider, maybe one of the finest, if only he would spend as much time riding his horse as he does women in brothels.” Robb sighed. Sansa blushed as she understood what Robb had been talking about. She had never heard her brother be so crass.

“Aye, and Jory is the opposite. He loves the yard more than any woman. Only one thing in his mind as always.” Jon said as both chuckled.

“You two are being crass. You shouldn’t gossip about the brave men competing for us.” Sansa said turning towards her brothers, wagging her finger with a scowl.

“Apologies, sister.” Robb said bowing his head slightly.

“We will be more mindful, fair lady.” Jon said, bowing and kissing her hand. Sansa blushed, but she saw her brothers snickering and her blush turned to anger.

“You two are the worst!” She admonished them.

“We’re sorry, Sansa. You know we mean nothing with our jests.” Robb apologized, reassuring her.

“Aye, it is our way of showing our love. As older brothers do.” Jon smiled, gazing at her with his piercing grey eyes. Hard eyes, just like Father’s, but their shape comelier, gentler. Yet still the same.

“I will forgive you.” Sansa said finally. “If you let me and the rest of the girls sew clothes on you. Mother has been asking for help making outfits for both of you. She doesn’t want you to disgrace our House looking like a pair of brigands.”

“Sorry, Sansa. There is just too much to be done during the day, there is no time to spare. How about a beautiful new necklace to earn your forgiveness.” Robb said. An excuse and Sansa knew it. There were no hunts until after the nameday feast. Her mother had her and Arya help with the kitchens, journalling every piece of food that was in supply. And there had been a hunt after the squire’s melee. Her brothers had no lessons during the stay of the lords. They would likely spend the day in the yard or out riding.

Sometimes she wondered when the pair had turned so…. Independent, for a lack of a kinder word. Only a few moons ago they spent their days dutifully following around maester Luwin, or Father, or Ser Rodrik. Perhaps it was because they were soon to be of age. Mother always said that children turned wild during these years. But then again, Arya had always been wild and Sansa would never disregard propriety.

The crowd cheered again. Lord Royce had ridden his tilt already. The old knight and Lord of Runestone had dispatched Ser Garreth in just three passes, showing his vast skill. Either Jory or Uncle Edmure would be facing the man in a final bout to crown a victor. Sansa thought of an idea.

“If Uncle Edmure wins against Jory, both of you will spend tomorrow being fitted for clothes.” She gave them her angriest look.

Her brothers looked at her, then at each other, and then back to her. Robb smiled.

“Alright, Sansa, it’s a promise.” Jon answered.

“You should know, however.” Robb added. “Uncle is much better at the sword then he is at the lance. Jory has a greater chance of winning.”

Darn it. Sansa almost swore. Ser Rodrik announced the competitors. Jory again at the pinnacle of focus, while Uncle seemed nervous. That’s what she got for being rash. Surely, she would get a fair bit of mockery from her brothers.

The pair charged. And then a miracle happened. She saw Jory’s horse stumble as one of its shoes flew off. The loss of balance was enough to distract Jory from bracing himself as Uncle’s lance hit him straight in the middle and the captain flew off the horse.

Uncle Edmure dismounted quickly and ran towards Jory, and apologized to the laying form. Ser Rodrik also seemed concerned, after all it was a hard fall. Even Jon and Robb seemed worried. But it was all for not, as Jory lifted his head and accepted his uncle’s as well as Edmure’s arms and lifted himself to his feet. He then raised Uncle Edmure’s arm and the crowd cheered.

Sansa couldn’t help but smile as her brothers’ faces fell.

Unfortunately for Uncle, however. Lord Royce’s horse didn’t throw a shoe, and after a contest of four lances, he fell off his horse.

“Lord Royce!” Father called out. “You have ridden admirably and are a worthy champion of the joust.” Ser Rodrik brought a wreath of winter roses and attached it to Lord Royce’s lance. “As is tradition for the winner of the joust, you may crown your queen of love and beauty.” Father stated.

Sansa had completely forgotten about it. Would she be chosen, or would some of the other Northern ladies be chosen. Would there be any meaning towards it or would it be only a courtesy.

“You have my thanks, Lord Stark. I am honored to have participated in this tourney. There is only one who can ever be my queen of love and beauty, and fortunately, she arrived this morning.” Lord Royce spoke with a booming voice.

He then rode his horse around the stands, where the nobles were seated and stopped in front of a pair of ladies. Sansa had not seen them before. An older lady, her blonde hair mixed with grey and a girl of an age with Sansa with flowing brown hair and blue eyes. She resembled Lord Royce as well as his son Waymar.

Lord Royce awarded the wreath to the woman and then stood in the saddle, kissing her in front of the crowd. Sansa blushed at the boldness of the old Lord, but the crowd cheered and whooped all around her. She saw him speak words to his wife, and saw her blushing. Oh, how Sansa wished she could hear what was being said. It was just like the songs. How wonderful.

Chapter Text

Mikken

He was getting old. He had been feeling the aches and cramps for a time, however the tourney had taken its toll. Lord Stark had already had him and his apprentices stretched thin tasking them with new armour and weapons for at least a hundred more guardsmen. Eustace the fletcher and Hobb the carpenter had been forced to bring in some of the urchins and orphans from Wintertown to help. Hobb had three sons to help him as well.

Cole had been working hard to help Mikken. A father couldn’t be prouder of his eldest. Dell was doing his best as well, bless the boy, but a boy of eight had no business in a forge. Then it got worse. All those Southern dandies and their plate had come. The forge was drowning in armour, some needed dents beaten out, others needed the rust removed. All of them needed a good polish. Some bastards even commissioned new suits of plate. Cocky cunts.

Mikken had been forced to hire a dozen lads from nearby villages to help. It was a sobering thought to see just how ill prepared the Winterfell forge had been. Lord Stark had been content to only tend to what was already there, yet now that had changed and Mikken was caught with his pants down.

What if it had been a war upon the walls of Winterfell. What would have he done? When swords and spears were broken and lost daily, and he would need to make a score a day and still repair twice as many. He was no longer a lad of twenty or thirty, but an old man nearing fifty and his beard had as much white as it did fair. His hair was no longer as thick as it had been and gazing upon the flames had worsened his sight.

“What’s got ya in a mood then, husband?” His wife called out to him. Betty, the love of his life was just as beautiful as the day he met her, forty years ago. Still remembered the day he asked her father permission for her hand like it was yesterday. She had blessed him with two healthy sons and a beauty of a daughter. Even more, she had made the house below the walls of Winterfell a home.

He smiled sadly at her. “Just realizing that suddenly I’m no longer young.”

“Was it because you threw your back out for a week trying to fix the roof? Or because your shoulder is sore for the fifth time this week?” Betty gave him a grin.

Mikken couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aye, just kick me while im down then.”

She embraced him from behind, and gave his cheek a kiss. “We aren’t one of those young’uns anymore love.” She said with a warm voice. “What Tilda told me has been happening in the kitchens had me shaking in fear. The poor girls are running ragged. Lady Catelyn has been bringing girl and spinster alike to get on top of the demands.”

“Speaking of our daughter, she is late for dinner.” Mikken spoke.

“Aye, she said not to wait for her tonight. Cole is out with the guards. Alyn finally asked Jeyna’s father for her hand. They’re celebrating and Dell is out with Tom and the stable boys. Said something about squiring for the melee tomorrow.” His wife told him.

“Where did the years go. It was only yesterday that they were suckling at your Teat.” Mikken chuckled.

“They’ve grown, love. Cole is already a man grown and Tilda will be searching for a husband soon enough. Dell is of an age with Lord Stark’s boys and you’ve seen what those two have been doing lately.”

The stew was bubbling in the fire as Mikken sat next to his wife, hands interlocked. “Maybe it’s time I stepped back. Have Cole take over the forge. Dell can help him.”

“Come now, Mikken. You aren’t old enough to be going that far. Your da still works the forge back in Foxwood. Speak to Poole. Ask him to hire a junior or journeyman blacksmith. Ask him for some more apprentices. Cole told me some squire of a Reach knight had been bragging about the Highgarden forges having a dozen blacksmiths and five apprentices for each. I can ask Tilda to speak to his daughter.”

Mikken sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Vayon offered. I told him I could handle it. I’ve been working this forge for twenty years, a tourney shouldn’t be enough to break me.”

“Are ya daft!?” Betty yelled out at him. “Do ya think yourself that Smith the Southrons worship, only need to fart and suits of plate fall out the sky?” She sighed, shaking her head. “First thing in the morning you’re going to get yer lazy arse to the steward and you will ask him for more men. Ask him to expand the forge while you’re there. Gods know you could use more space in that tiny shed. And after that you will run that forge until you can’t lift a hammer. Am I clear, husband.” There was a glint in Betty’s eye. Last time he saw that glint, he had gotten home piss drunk with Farlen and Hullen. Needless to say he had scarcely had an ale since.

“Aye, clear as a stream in spring, my love.” He spoke. As he finished speaking, she kissed him, and suddenly he felt like a green boy again.

                                              ________________________________________

Waymar

It was his chance to set things right. He had wanted to show his new brothers in arms his skills, but Father had deemed it fit to knock him silly in the first tilt. It wasn’t all lost however. He had always been a better sword than lance anyway.

The tourney field was filled to the brim with competitors. Nearly every guardsman of Winterfell that hadn’t been on duty had entered the lists. A fair number of hedge knights as well as Father and the nobles from the Riverlands and their retinue had entered. The vast majority had been Northmen, so they had adjusted the usual division by region and had just made it a free for all, much to the delight of some of the Northmen.

“Its not good to lose yourself in thought before a fight, lad.” A man called out. He wore a green surcoat with a silver gate in the middle. His plate looked used, however it had been finely polished. A squire passed him his sword. Looking at the boy, a scrawny thing with long hair, all covered in dirt and wearing rags, he couldn’t help but think he reminded him of Jon Snow. If Lord Stark’s son had been sleeping in a pigpen for a moon.

“Only trying to focus, Ser. A moment of peace before the battle.” Waymar spoke. “I’ve found it helps if I think my thoughts beforehand and leave my mind empty for the battle.”

The hedge knight chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve heard of that before, lad.” The knight dropped his visor. “I will see you on the field.”

“I shall save you a dance then.” Waymar said confidently.

The horn blew, and it was chaos. A battle axe went flying at him and he had to strain to parry it before leaping out of the way of a hammer. He saw his attackers. A pair of large men with long hair and long bears wearing fur above their armour. As he set himself in a defensive position he was taken aback when the pair began to swing at each other.

He had seen and fought many a knight and squire before he had decided to go to the Wall, however this was the first time he had been in anything resembling the chaos of battle. There was no time to think as a man wearing a crimson coat of plates and thick pauldrons of interlocked plates and long metal vambraces and greaves. Below the armour he wore a brown padded doublet and upon his head was a plain steel greathelm with a narrow visor and small holes on the faceplate.

The man swung his sword forcing Waymar to parry. He took a step back and prepared his stance. “Very well, dance with me then.” He stated as he unleashed several probing attacks. Waymar’s opponent moved his shield expertly, blocking each strike, no matter the angle, while slowly stepping away. Finally, Waymar relented in his onslaught and the knight began to attack again. His shorter sword moved quickly, forcing Waymar to give it his all to defend. It was a mistake however as he failed to give consideration to the shield, and allowed a bash to his side, winding him.

The knight pressed his advantage, and Waymar pulled back further, trying to regain the initiative. He had to get rid of the shield. The man obviously had fearsome skill with sword and shield. So Waymar attacked again. And again, his attacks were blocked. This time however, he managed to force a few parries with the blade, however just when he felt that he was putting on pressure to his opponent, he was hit in the ribs by the rim of the shield. Waymar swore he heard something crack.

Fucks sake. This was nothing like practice against squires. Even the younger knights he had gone up against were nowhere the level of his opponents since he had gone North.

He had excused his losses against Robb Stark and Jon Snow. Those two were an exception among any boys he had seen. He had beaten Theon in most of their spars and had gone even with Domeric, though he got wiped every time they jousted. Still, both were beaten by Father.

Now he was being pushed back by unknown men. These weren’t great lords and acclaimed knights, merely hedge knights, or household knights and minor nobility. Some were mere men-at-arms in service to the Lords attending. But these were men who had seen actual battle. Waymar didn’t doubt that these men had killed and had seen death’s embrace near many times. Still, he wouldn’t lose in his first bout. He refused to be beaten so easily.

So, he attacked again, gathering all of the strength he had in his body. He willed himself to attack faster, with more strength, more precision. He was pushing himself harder than he had ever done during a spar.

Waymar’s sword danced as he connected his swings in a never-ending chain. The knight began to show gaps in his defense. Waymar managed to land a strike to his wrist, and then to his thigh on the other side. The knight attacked to counter, however as he parried his upward slash, he felt it. His opponent was hurt. The strength in his sword arm was fading and that hit to the wrist he made may have gotten him victory.

Any thought of certainty was removed from his mind when the knight used his shield to occupy his sword and then struck him right in the ribs. It hurt even more than the earlier blow and Waymar was forced to retreat. He couldn’t catch his breath, and his opponent didn’t seem keen to let up due to his injured wrist.

Waymar was beginning to panic. He was letting in hits with both the shield and sword, and was beginning to feel lightheaded. He couldn’t do it. He was shite. A fraud. And he had thought to be a legend at the Wall. Their best warrior. What a joke.

Luck smiled upon him as a man carrying a sword as tall as Waymar attacked the knight from behind, however the knight merely used his shield to deflect the sword, breaking the posture of the warrior and then proceeded to land a hit to the ribs, then the knee and then struck the warrior to the side of the head. The knight finished his opponent by striking him with a backhand with the shield, making the warrior drop like a sack of turnips, blood leaking from his nose.

There was little consolation to Waymar. At least he had held on longer than that warrior.

Suddenly he was shoved from behind and forced to roll on the ground as he saw a mountain of a man charge his way to the knight.

“Lord Umber.” The knight said, bowing slightly. “It would be an honour to test my skill against a warrior of renown.”

“Come then, lad, I’ll make your head ring for a week.” Lord Umber taunted.

The knight moved up slowly, hiding behind his shield, however Lord Umber had little patience for probing attacks, so he charged forward, his giant greatsword raised up high. The sword was as big or even bigger as the Valyrian sword the Starks owned, but the Lord of Last Hearth was swinging it like it was the lightest of daggers.

Waymar felt a chill rise into him. Just what sort of monsters were out and about in the world. He felt a pang of shame that his duel had been interrupted, but he took the moment to catch his breath. With the corner of his eye, he spotted his father, fighting alongside Holton and Hewett, two of the Royce guardsmen accompanying them.

Father shoved a hedge knight with his shoulder, knocking him down and pointing his blade at the knight’s throat, earning his surrender.

He saw one of the Northern Clansmen leaders, the one of House Liddle, he remembered lead a band of shaggy men wearing well treated furs, all of them waving their battle axes and war hammers. Lord Liddle charged his father’s men, and hit Hewett right in his gut with his hammer. His father’s man dropped clutching his midsection, out of the fight. Fuck. He found himself running towards his father. He spared a glance at the knight he was fighting and he saw him hunkered behind his shield, as Lord Umber swung that monstrosity of a sword against it. Already the wood was splintered at places, and the iron rim was bent where the blade had struck. He felt a bit of pity for the knight, but a part of him was eager to avoid the Umber Lord.

Waymar charged the Liddle Chief from behind, however his strike was seen by one of the clansmen who intercepted him. The man was young, though taller by more than a head than Waymar. He wore his hair long in a single braid, with the sides shaven clean. His face was painted white and green as if claws had been dug through his face. He wore studded leather above a hauberk of mail, and bear fur on his shoulders as a cape.

The warrior blocked Waymar’s blade with a greatsword only little smaller than that Lord Umber carried. Waymar found himself off balance from the strength of the parry, and managed to steady himself just in time to block the counter of his new opponent. The blows he deflected made the bones in his arms tremble, and he felt his grip turning numb.

The warrior parried Waymar’s sword to the side, and used his shoulder to shove him away scrambling. Everything slowed to nearly a crawl. Waymar was down on one knee, and he saw the foot of his opponent slowly travel toward his face. He saw his father and Holton fight tooth and nail to hold back the group of clansmen. He saw Holton take a mailed fist to his open-faced helmet and his father take a blow from Lord Liddle’s great axe.

Then he saw the foot inching ever closer to his face. It was the end. A pitiful showing. First the knight with the eagle sigil played him like a fiddle, and then Lord Umber threw him away like a child playing with adults. Now he was being crushed by some unknown clansman.

Anger bubbled inside of him. His heart thumped in his ears. Waymar threw himself to the side just as the kick flied past him. He rolled to his feet, and then in a bout of anger unleashed a flurry of attacks at his opponent.

The big warrior was forced to defend, but he ccouldnt move the greatsword fast enough to handle the quick strikes Waymar was unleashing. He used a slash to commit the greatsword, and then used the momentum from his opponent’s strike to break his guard. He then quickly struck to the side of the warrior’s knee, bringing out a howl of pain from the man. He dropped to his knees, however he refused to yield, swinging his greatsword in a large arc.

Waymar stepped back, and then batted away the greatsword, which went flying, leaving the mountain clansman disarmed and on his knees. “Yield.” Waymar growled, pushing the tip towards the neck of the kneeling foe. “I… Yield.” The clansman forced out.

The warrior made his way to collect his blade, and made his way out of the yard, to the sides along with the rest of the vanquished participants. Among them Waymar saw the knight that had almost defeated him. It seemed like Lord Umber had won in the end.

He had no time to think, however as another warrior attacked him. This one seemed a hedge knight. The man had a greathelm that covered his face, and wore plate that had seen use. It was dented at places, and there were stains and marks on the steel. It had been polished well, considering the circumstances.

The knight fought well, however, he seemed sloppy. His blows were unfocused, and he missed Waymar completely several times.

Waymar blocked a thrust and the knight lost balance and rolled on the ground. He didn’t get up. But was still breathing. He couldn’t spare more time for the man, as he made his way towards where his father was being surrounded by five clansmen. Holton was nursing a bloodied nose and was making his way towards the sides, and father was parrying blows, while managing a counter on occasion.

He started running. He shoved one clansman in the back, sending him to ground, and then began swinging his sword against the opponent closest to him. It was Lord Liddle. Fuck. The man towered over Waymar. It seemed the clansmen were just built different. For the most part. He saw a pair fighting together against one of the Riverlands knights. Both men carried shields with green thistles on a field of yellow. They wore their furs and chainmail under studded leather and one had a shaggy beard while the other had muttonchops. And the one with the muttonchops was trying to climb on the knight’s back.

Morgan Liddle, the next clan head was a hard man. He barely flinched from Waymar’s strikes. He used the underside of his axe to guide the sword away, and then the pole to strike back. And when Waymar focused on the pole, he would use the axe head to thrust at him. The man was unusually strong, and hefted the large polearm one handed, leaving his other hand free to try and grab the Royce lordling.

He even ignored several of the faints meant to goad him into blocking, simply taking the blow head on and countering with a powerful blow that forced Waymar to scramble out of the way.

It was hard. His breathing was ragged and his muscles burned. His armour seemed heavier than it had been just a minute ago. His helmet was suffocating him and the sweat dripping from him seemed as if it would drown him. Waymar threw off his helm. The cold breeze hitting his hair brought his focus back.

He stood up, and then charged, thrusting at Liddle. The man used the head of his axe to divert the blow and then continued with an upward swing going straight to Waymar’s face. He stepped back just in time for the axe to pass in front of him, even nicking a lock of hair.

Waymar yelled out in anger, and swung with all his strength, a blow that was deflected and then a thrust, hitting him in the chest with the flat top of the axe. He ignored the pain, his eyes only seeing his opponent. He had forgotten the exhaustion, the burning of his lungs and muscles. He was going to bring down the cunt.

He attacked. Slashes, thrusts, faints, he gave every ounce he had in him. And it paid off. The mountain clan leader has getting slower in hefting the large two-handed axe around. Where before he had ample time to counter now he only defended, deflecting or batting away Waymar’s blows.

An overhand slash with all of the power Waymar could muster caught on the underside of the axe. The momentum sent Morgan Liddle to his knee and Waymar struck again. The Northman brought up his axe to defend, but Waymar was not done. He hacked blow upon blow on the wooden haft, until finally, the wood snapped and the axe broke in two.

Waymar brought up his sword at Morgan’s neck. “I yield lad. Good fight.” The Northman spoke. Tension left Waymar and suddenly he felt weak. He could almost feel his knees shaking. He saw the tourney sword he was using. It was chipped and bent in a few places, a crack running from the edge, down to the middle and downwards. He got lucky it didn’t break. Suddenly his thoughts caught up to him. His father was still surrounded. He turned and ran, and was just in time to see him get disarmed.

The group of Liddle men was attacked by the men of Winterfell led by Jory Cassel, the captain. The party Waymar should have been fighting with, however as he hadn’t taken the oath of fealty he was still counted as a freerider. It didn’t take long for the groups to start brawling. Some had forgotten their weapons and were using their fists and arms to hit and grapple. Some might have thought there was great hatred between the groups, however the booming laughter as men shrugged off punches and kicks, told a different tale.

As he was looking at the spectacle, he barely saw the blade swinging from his side. He blocked with his own blade and then jumped to the side as an axe struck where he had been. When he looked at who had struck him, he saw the muttonchops and the shaggy beard. Both men were taller than Waymar, however unlike the other clansmen he had fought the day, the pair were thin. They were spry though, and their eyes reminded Waymar of a fox. The men shared a passing resemblance, mayhaps relatives. He cared not however. Thinking about possible familial relations between some unknown clansmen wasn’t something Waymar could entertain at the moment.

He struck with his blade, and the muttonchops deflected the blow, while shaggy beard swung the axe at him. There was barely enough time to dodge. Waymar glared at the pair, who eyed him warily. “You fight with no honour.” He declared.

Muttonchops chuckled, while shaggy beard spoke. “This is a melee, lad. Are ya gonna be blaming the man who spears ya from behind when yer out killing his friends?”

“It’s a bloody melee. It’s for sport!” Waymar growled.

“Aye, maybe in yer Southron courts it is. When Northmen fight, we fight for real.” Muttonchops retorted. Then both of them attacked. They pushed him back with their shields. Gods Waymar hated shields. Everytime he attacked, one would block and the other would strike at his side. It was testing his wits. Even worse, he could see the amusement in the faces of the two warriors. They were playing with him.

So he attacked again. He would show them. His sword ended up stuck in the shield of muttonchops and shaggy beard bashed him with his shield in the face. Waymar staggered back, tasting iron in his mouth, his vision flickering. He barely blocked the axe, before a sword caught him to the side. He heard something crack under his breastplate and pain flared his senses back to life.

Waymar parried the axe, and kicked away shaggy beard, before punching muttonchops straight in the nose. He felt a satisfying crunch and had to force himself not to celebrate. As muttonchops staggered back, his face bloodied, Waymar went on the attack. Muttonchops had difficulty defending and hunkered behind his shield, however Waymar landed a strike to his knee, forcing his opponent down, but before he could force him to yield, he felt something tighten around his neck. He felt being dragged to the ground and he saw legs wrap around him. He struggled, but his breath was becoming ragged, his vision flickering.

He felt so tired, so very tired. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep. Yes sleep sounded so nice. He jerked his head up, and the back of it connected to something that crunched. The grip around his neck loosened, and Waymar elbowed the man to the side, earning a painful grunt. He then turned on his stomach, and forced himself on his knees, and then in a crouch. He elbowed again and again, and then slipped out of the grapple.

Air had never smelled better in his life. The sweat and blood and sand of the grounds were like smelling the most fragrant of roses. Shaggy beard was getting up, his face bloodied and his nose visibly broken. Muttonchops stood above him with shield ready to defend his fellow fighter.

It was then that Waymar realized he had dropped his sword when he was brought to ground. He saw it a few steps away, and as muttonchops charged him, Waymar threw himself towards his blade, and rolled to his feet.

With no time to waste, he attacked muttonchops again, hoping to beat him while shaggy beard recovered. He swung at the shield, hoping to show an opening he could use to open up his opponent’s guard. However, the Northman was happy to take the blows and keep Waymar at bay.

Shaggy beard cracked his nose into place, and was standing up, though his eyes were watering from the blow still. Waymar had little time before the two would again gang up on him. So he gave it his all. He attacked swiftly and with purpose, and managed to hit the inside of the shield with his sword. Muttonchops’ shield arm went stretched to the side, and Waymar saw his chance. He struck at the wide open man, and hit him on the shoulder, cutting through the studded leather and denting the steel plate beneath. Muttonchops yelped, as he fell to ground, dropping his weapon. Waymar had just enough time to turn and defend as shaggy beard struck him with hi axe. He blocked with his blade, locking it on the underside with the axe, however the blade gave out from the blow and shattered. Waymar brought his arm to shield his eyes from the pieces of iron flying at him, several burying themselves in his arm.

He then felt cold steel at his neck. Shaggy beard had let a piece of iron bury itself in his cheek, and went for the kill. “I yield.” Waymar sighed. It was done. No victory for him in the tourney. Shameful. Shaggy beard offered him a hand, and Waymar took it. “Well fought, for a Southerner.” Shaggy beard said, sending Waymar on his way to where the defeated were getting aid.

He had a lot of work to do it would seem.

Chapter Text

Bran

The melee was like nothing he had imagined. Mother hadn’t wanted him in the box, but Bran had begged Father. There was no way he was missing the most anticipated event in Winterfell, since he had been born.

He had been hearing stable boys, guards, maids and even Jon and Robb speak about how they were anxious to see the melee. The men competing had been preparing for a week, even those that had the joust the previous day.

Father had allowed it. But Bran had to promise to not do mischief for a month. For the melee it was worth it.

But what he was seeing was nothing like how the stories told. There weren’t duels between two gallant knights. There were only groups brawling each other, and then the survivors moved to the next group.

Men lost their weapons and continued with their fists. Bran saw Ser Perrin’s sigil in the midst of the fighting groups. He saw the knight defeat two Mormont men before Lady Mormont took him off his feet with her club.

Waymar, the son of Lord Royce was fighting against Brandon the Younger and Owen Norrey. Lord Royce himself had been defeated by a group of warriors from House Liddle, however Waymar had defeated Morgan Liddle beforehand.

Lord Umber had been running through the field like a maelstrom defeating opponents left and right with his giant sword.

Uncle Edmure along with the Tully men and Marq Piper had been fighting against Harrion Karstark and some of his men and Rodrik Forrester and Arthur Glenmore. The group of Northmen had been winning narrowly until Lord Blackwood and his eldest son Brynden had entered the fray and turned the tide. In the end, Uncle Edmure along with Brynden Blackwood had been retired along with half their men.

That left them open to the group led by Lord Wyman’s sons along with Donnel Locke.

Marq Piper fought against Wendel Manderly, while Lord Blackwood was challenged by Ser Locke. The heir of Pinkmaiden attacked swiftly and accurately, while Ser Wendel used his superior size and strength to strike devastating blows. Some of the strikes Ser Piper avoided had Bran gripping his seat in worry.

Ser Locke and Lord Blackwood fought with more caution with the men there allowing them to battle in peace.

Robb and Jon were sitting with Father. One on the right side, the other on the left. Ser Rodrik stood behind them, and they seemed to be having a conversation. Robb and Jon pointed at the field, and Father was scratching his chin in thought. Ser Rodrik would give a comment and Jon would write something on a piece of parchment. Bran could catch a few scattered words Father said. Look, unaligned, no banners.

Bran had no idea what that meant. Sansa and her friends had decided they didn’t enjoy the melee, however the daughters of Ser Wylis stayed to watch their father fight. Alys Karstark had gone to tend to her brother, while Lord Rickard watched on with his remaining sons. Arya was surprisingly missing. Beth Cassel was sitting with the Manderly girls as Jory, her cousin, was leading the men of Winterfell in the melee. Jory was fighting against a large clansman, of House Wull if Bran remembered the sigil on his surcoat properly. He had retired the men of House Liddle after their leader had been defeated.

Lord Hornwood sat near Father along with his son and Larence. Benfred and Brandon sat near them, as their father and uncle were friends with Lord Hornwood and Lord Tallhart was still in the running.

Ethan had left with his sisters to check on Rodrik, while their father watched on.

Theon was sitting next to Domeric, both deciding not to enter the melee. Dom still was injured from the joust, and Theon had excused himself. “I already won one event, rather give someone else the chance at glory, eh?” Bran remembered Theon say as he ruffled his hair. Bran hated his hair being ruffled.

Cley Cerwyn had snuck off and sat next to Jorelle Mormont. Both seemed to be happy as they laughed, while Lyra Mormont seemed annoyed.

“Bran, aint that Arya there?” Ned Umber said from next to him. Bran’s friend was pointing at where Ser Perrin was tending to his bruises. And there was his sister giving him a bandage. Bran had to give it to Arya, she had done a good job. She wore ragged breeches and a dirty doublet. She had covered her cheeks in dirt and wore a cap to hide her long hair.

Unless they knew her well, none would give her a second look, but Bran could see her immediately. The rascal. He and his friends had been forced to sit at the box, forbidden from squiring as somebody had told on them when they snuck out to help Jon, Robb and the rest during the squire’s melee. And now it all made sense. Arya had tattled. This meant war.

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Robb

He had never actually seen a melee before. Sure, he had his men drill while on the march, and he had seen battle, but never a melee. It was a suitable practice. Especially as he saw Owen Norrey and Brandon the Younger gang up on Waymar. Lord Royce’s third son was good, but he still had work to do.

He was itching to be in the midst there, and he saw Jon show the same irritation as Robb. He kept trying to grasp a blade at his hip that wasn’t there.

Robb understood the itch more than most. For all of Jon’s coolness, his wolfsblood flew as thick as Robb’s.

But they weren’t of age yet, which meant only squire’s melees for them, and they had work to do. They still had half as many men as they wanted. Father had kept a hundred guardsmen at the start, posted all around Winterfell, Wintertown and the surrounding outposts.

They had coin and reason to have at least three hundred. They brought in thirty from the villages near Winterfell, with recruiters sent further taking a longer time to bring men. Another fifteen were coming from them.

Theon had suggested five from the Archery contest and with Edd and Waymar they were still searching. Father would ask the knight Bran had brought a few days ago if he would want to swear himself to Winterfell, but they were still too few. During the joust they had scouted some of the hedge knights, however three of them seemed likely to turn with coin, so they would offer employment to only two.

The melee was by far the most popular event. More than two hundred had started off. Men that entered only needed somebody of good standing to speak for them. This meant that many unaffiliated warriors had entered.

Robb and Jon had seen many who would be a boon to have in Winterfell. Good strong Northmen warriors, however most were already sworn to their bannermen. And neither Jon, Father or Robb himself wanted to poach the men. This left only hedge knights or men wearing no colours. Some of them sellswords, others sons of men-at-arms or relatives from villages all around the North.

Jon had been writing up the potential recruits, their appearance, weapons and thoughts about their skill. Jon had smiled as he saw a youth defeat one of Lord Umber’s men, before disarming another. He started writing immediately. ‘Iron Emmett. Tall. Lanky. Strong and enduring. Terrific swordsman. From Waysrest.’

“Somebody you know?” Robb asked.

“Aye, Emmett of Waysrest. They called him Iron Emmett at the Wall. He was one of the best swords we had there. In two years, he had been made master-at-arms at Eastwatch. His parents were killed by wildlings when he was a boy, and after his grandmother passed, he joined the Watch to keep other boys from suffering the same fate as he.” Jon answered.

His brother’s opinion of the youth was stelar. He had fought with Jon many times after they had returned, and he was much better than what he had been when they were at Winterfell, before everything.

“Who’s better, you or him?” Robb asked.

Jon chuckled. “Would reckon we are close in skill. Though I’ve ended up winning our single bout.”

“What do you think of Ser Perrin?” Robb asked. “Father wants to ask him to stay.”

Jon put his hand to his chin. “He seems a good man. Experienced. He can help with training and is decent with a blade. He has implied that he is good with a lance too, so I have no reason to disagree.”

Robb nodded with a grunt. “And what of Waymar? He lost to the Norreys.”

“Aye, though he beat Morgan Liddle and two more beforehand. Though he has trouble fighting against a sword and shield. Kyle Condon gave him trouble as well, before Lord Umber came.” Jon answered.

“Aye, he can improve much if he wishes it. His brother, Robar was Kingsguard for Renly, and Lord Yohn is one of the most famous knights in the kingdoms.” Robb added.

“Aye, Lord Commander Mormont gave him a patrol less than a year after he joined the Watch as well. He must be capable, though he seems a bit overconfident.” Jon agreed.

Robb chuckled. “The thrashing he got at the joust and losing early today will humble him.”

“We will see when he comes to the yard.” Jon answered.

Iron Emmett was defeated by Lord Umber, who seemed even stronger than he was in the battles Robb had seen him in. Though he had full use of his hand here. Grey Wind hadn’t eaten three of his fingers yet.

On the other side, Lady Mormont had just finished bashing down Lord Tallhart. Bless the man he was a good fighter, but the she-bear was a fearsome opponent indeed.

The melee was nearing its end and the remaining competitors were prominent figures from the North. Lord Royce had fought valiantly, however even a seasoned knight as he couldn’t win against five alone. Uncle Edmure was defeated after a good showing and his Riverlanders had been outnumbered in the end.

Having only men that were already serving the North fight made it easier for Robb. He could just enjoy the spectacle and admire the feats happening before his eyes. The Smalljon was fighting two Mormont men at the same time, while the Greatjon decked a Manderly knight with a punch to the face.

Maege Mormont charged Wendel Manderly just as he defeated Marq Piper, the Riverlands knight tiring after the staunch defense of the older knight. Lady Mormont had less trouble as she was taller and stronger than Marq and her mace was harder to shrug off than a blade.

The previous fight had taken its toll on Ser Wendel as he was limping away from the blows, but the she-bear wouldn’t have mercy on him, tackling him down, and with her on top, the knight yielded.

She didn’t even take a moment to rest, as the remaining few Mormont men charged the group of few Riverlanders remaining after Lord Tytos Blackwood narrowly defeated Donnel Locke.

Robb could almost hear the sigh Lord Blackwood had as he saw the Lady of Bear Island charging at him with a grin.

True to his nature, the Lord of Raventree Hall fought, managing to hold his ground even as the rest of the Mormont men and his own men brawled all around them. It was a close fight. The Blackwoods and the Tullys fought hard, but in the end, Lady Maege and a single Mormont man remained against Lord Blackwood.

In his impatience the man attacked Lord Blackwood, striking his black armour with a club in the back, sending the Lord to ground.

Lady Mormont glared at the man, and Robb could swear the man started cowering as his Lady approached him. She landed a fist straight in the middle of his face, the only part undefended by his open-faced helm and the man dropped like a puppet without strings.

Jory and several Winterfell guardsmen, were among the few remaining. They were fighting the Umber men along with the Smalljon and Greatjon.

The former had singled out Jory and was exchanging blows with the captain of Winterfell. Robb had seen the Smalljon fight in battle, and he feared for his father’s man. Yet Jory stood strong. He deflected the powerful blows of the Umber heir and even landed several blows that were absorbed by the thick furs and armour of Smalljon Umber.

As time passed, the men became sloppy. Smalljon lost his sword, and then tackled Jory to the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, exchanging punches and trying to pin the other to the ground. Having already battled for more than an hour and wearing thick furs and armour would take a toll on even the hardiest of men, and the two were counted among them.

Robb could see the tiredness. The Smalljon threw punches that took him off balance, while Jory tried tackling and almost losing his balance. He had to commend the persistence of both men. Lesser warriors would have yielded long before.

Finally, Jory tried tackling the larger man, and he succeeded. However, the Smalljon reacted quickly, despite his fatigue and managed to wrap around his arm around Jory’s neck. The captain of the guard struggled with all his might, and at moments it seemed as if he would break free, however the Umber heir held on, using every bit of his remaining strength, until Jory began fading.

Ser Rodrik called it, forcibly retiring his nephew, however the Smalljon just remained on the ground, panting and heaving. It was obvious that the big man was done as well. So, in the end both fighters had ended up out of the contest.

Meanwhile, the Greatjon and Maege Mormont cleaved through any remaining fighters. In the end it was only the Lord of Last Hearth against the lady of Bear Island.

“Oh, this is going to be worth watching.” He heard someone say in the crowd, but he couldn’t place the voice. Robb agreed. He knew how both of them got in the middle of battle. And he saw it in their faces. Feral grins, ignoring the blood, grime and sweat covering their faces.

Lady Mormont charged first, swinging her mace, however the Greatjon avoided the first and second blows, before countering with a mighty swing of his own. Maege hid behind her shield, and the Bear painted on it cracked from the blow. The Greatjon bellowed a frenzied laugh as he swung again and again, lost in his frenzy, until the shield broke apart, sending Lady Mormont back.

She bellowed in rage, a cry that made Robb want to cover his ears, and the next thing Robb saw was her swinging her mace with both hands, forcing Lord Umber back.

It was far from finished though as there was visible excitement on the face of the Greatjon. He used his blade to deflect a swing from the mace, and then swung with a powerful downward slash to Maege’s shoulder.

What surprised Robb was that the Lady of Bear Island didn’t avoid the blow, and just took it head on. He swore he could hear a crunch of bone, but she seemed unfazed, using her other arm to swing the mace to the Greatjon’s knee.

A powerful cry was heard from the large man, and Robb winced as he saw the blow. He winced again as he saw the Greatjon’s fist connect with Maege’s face, breaking her nose and her face a bloody mess.

Lady Mormont, only smiled at the blow while grabbing the Greatjon with both her arms on his shoulders and headbutt him returning the favour.

Suddenly their weapons lay on the ground, as both warriors started brawling, exchanging blows with fists and elbows.

Several times Robb thought he saw a tooth fly out after a good strike but no matter how many hits one got, both fighters remained on their feet, seemingly lost in their bloodlust.

Robb had seen the Greatjon butcher a dozen Lannister levies by himself and he had seen Lady Mormont tackle a fully armoured knight off his horse, before turning his head into paste with her mace, yet somehow, they hadn’t been as brutal as now.

The Greatjon landed two punches to Maege’s face, and a third in her gut, bending her over. Then he grabbed her and kneed her in the face, sending her back.

She then charged with a punch which the Greatjon blocked. What he didn’t block however was the knee straight between his legs. Robb, Jon even Father all winced at the blow, and the Greatjon doubled over. Maege continued pummeling him, and all seemed to be over. Many would call Maege’s victory dishonourable, yet in battle honour meant little compared to life itself.

Ser Rodrik was about to step in and stop the bout, when Lord Umber suddenly grabbed Lady Mormont’s fist with his hand. The she-bear tried to pull away, yet his grip was like a vice, not allowing her to move her hand. Then he threw back his head, and swung it straight into her nose.

The she-bear staggered back, and suddenly she was taking the pummeling. She however didn’t drop and remained on her feet taking blow after blow. At this point Robb couldn’t even pretend that he would have lasted as long against either of them. He was only happy he wouldn’t ever have to fight them on a battlefield.

Robb shared a glance with Jon, and could see that his brother shared the sentiment.

The Greatjon seemed to be losing his strength finally. Lady Mormont had been taking his blows for a minute straight, and after a slow and powerful right hook the Lord of Last Hearth was gasping for air.

Robb thought he was done, and that Lady Mormont would finish him off, however the she-bear stayed perfectly still, her guard up.

Several moments passed, until finally Ser Rodrik went to her and nudged her shoulder. That nudge brought down Lady Mormont and it became obvious that she had passed out on her feet.

As the Greatjon was still conscious, he was the victor. As soon as the announcement registered, he burst in a hearty laugh, boasting of his strength, however suddenly his face scrunched up. He vomited, and started holding his nether regions as he fell to his knees.

He wailed a string of curses that made Jon and Robb cover their siblings’ ears. Bran and Arya protested as Jon brought their heads together while Sansa had covered her own ears and buried her face in Robb’s chest.

It was a costly victory it would seem.

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Emmett

He had been a gods damned fool. He should have known better. ‘You’re the best sword in the village. You can beat any man!’ Old man Hagen had told him. And the bloody fool he was he believed it. When he fought against other lowborn, he felt he could best them all. But fool was he. Highborn and their men trained with weapons. He had barely managed to hold his own against a lowly guardsman before having his face bashed in.

What was worse is that he had spent all the coin they had only to arrive at Winterfell. A carriage from the Gift to the Stark home was never cheap, but he was desperate. His family had been killed when wildling raiders had set upon their homes. It was the first time he had killed a man. Well in truth a boy that barely looked of an age with him. It was only later that he found their father speared in the chest.

Now it was only him and Tilda. Orphaned and homeless. Soon they would be starving and begging as well. And his little sister would not survive being out in the cold. Her cough was getting worse by the day.

Emmett entered the humble lodgings they had spent their very last coppers on. She was asleep praise the gods. He knew not how he would tell her that he had failed her. It was his fault they would be out on the streets and starving. Worse it will be his fault when the blasted cough takes her because he couldn’t put a roof above her head and a hearth to warm her. At least she would have food in the morning. The cooks at Winterfell had been generous to the participants, even those that made fools of themselves.

A cough brought Emmett out of his thoughts. It was getting worse by the day. He should have looked for a healer and tried finding work as a farmhand or a stableboy. But his foolish dreams of glory and honour made him endanger his last remaining family. “Big brother?” Tilda asked, her voice weak and raspy. “Did you win?” Her voice was so hopeful, and it broke Emmett’s heart that he would disappoint her.

“I did not, sweetling.” He forced a smile as he spoke. “They didn’t tell me I’d be fighting giants.” He said trying to sound as lively as possible.

He could see the eyes of his sister light up. “Giants, brother, truly?” She asked in wonder, her voice raising in pitch, but immediately after she broke into a wet cough.

“Calm yourself little one.” Emmett sat on the side of the bed, and rubbed her back. “Aye, the fighters were as tall as giants. One carried with him a sword that was taller than I am.” He told her trying to be as animated as possible. Anything to bring a smile to the little girl’s face. Gods, she wont even live to be ten. The dark part of his mind told him. There as he was recounting the melee, he prayed in his mind.

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Tilda had fallen asleep, finally and Emmett could drop the mask he was wearing for her benefit. He sat next to the window of their lodgings and looked at the setting sun. He did not know what to do. The food he took from the luncheon was a hearty supper, and would last them a couple of days. More if Emmett refused himself a portion or two.

A knock on the door made him jolt. He had a dagger on him. A gift from his father for his nameday. He gazed at his sleeping sister and then the door, and readied himself. There was no need for him to be disturbed, no guest he was expecting. It could only be trouble, or maybe he was being too wary. Still, it couldn’t hurt.

He neared the door when he heard a voice. “I know yer in there lad, open up.” It was the innkeeper.

“Is there an issue, I’m sure I rented lodgings until the morning?” Emmett said.

“No issue, lad. Just open up. Some people here to see ya.” The innkeeper answered.

Emmett unlocked the door, and warily opened it up. On the other side was the innkeeper accompanied by a pair of men wearing the Stark colours, and next to him a pair of boys, maybe a year or two younger than him. Their clothing looked fancy. Leather, wool, furs. There were blades on their hips and daggers on the other side of their belts. From what he could see from the hilts and guards, they were well maintained.

He looked at the boys’ faces. One was ‘kissed by fire’ as the wildlings would say, while the other had a simple northern colouring, except his grey eyes. Stark eyes. Then realization hit him like a bull.

Emmett dropped to his knee, and lowered his head. “Milords, I beg your pardon, I did not know it was you.”

“Rise, goodman. It is us who must apologize. We did arrive unannounced.” The auburn haired one, spoke.

The dark-haired lordling scanned the lodgings with icy cold eyes. They widened when he saw Tilda sleeping in the bed. Emmett could swear surprise. He then whispered something to the auburn-haired lordling.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit milords?” Emmett brought himself to ask.

“I am Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell.” The auburn haired one spoke. He then pointed towards the other one. “This is my brother, Jon. Though you probably realized this already.” He grinned. Lord Jon smiled while rolling his eyes.

“Aye, milords, but what need do you have of me. I am only a simple farmer’s son.”

Robb Stark’s smile faded. “The purpose of the entire tourney was first to bring all the Lords of the North and unexpectedly some from beyond to Winterfell. The other equally important was to find capable men to bring into the service of our house.”

“Milord, I was defeated scarcely a quarter of an hour after the melee began. I showed nothing of my skills.”

Jon chuckled. “Aye, but you went up against the Greatjon. Few can show skill when against that giant.”

Emmett showed a self-deprecating smile.

“My brother here, assures me that you have potential to be one of the finest warriors in Winterfell.” Robb Stark said. “I have complete faith in my brother’s words you see. This is why we’ve come to you.”

Emmett’s head was spinning. He could barely believe what was happening. Perhaps he had fallen asleep while telling his story to Tilda and this was only a dream.

“Your sister is ill.” Jon spoke. “I assumed you would be travelling alone, this tells me you are orphans. Am I right?”

Emmett clenched his fist. The memories still hurt. He rather not be reminded of that night. “Aye. My mother died birthing her, and my father was murdered by wildlings.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Suddenly, the cold grey eyes turned warm, as Jon had an understanding smile. He placed an arm on his shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss. I watched you during the melee. You are strong, tall and move quickly. You handle a blade well, considering you’ve never been trained. With a little drilling and proper care, we can make you a fine warrior.”

It took a minute to register what the lordlings were offering. “You mean to recruit me in your service?” He asked in wonder. Then he remembered his little sister, ill and helpless in the bed. Stupid and selfish, that’s what he was. “Milords, but what of my sister?”

It was Lord Robb who answered him this time. “What of her?” He asked. “She is ill. We will bring her to Winterfell where Maester Luwin can look at her. She can stay there until she heals. After that you can choose what you will do. Our offer will remain, though you will be guests at Winterfell until you decide.”

Emmett’s mouth almost gaped open. “You would ask nothing in return for healing my sister? It wouldn’t be cruel to ask my loyalty for the service.”

“Loyalty given under duress is never true. And our father taught us better than leaving a child to suffer when we can help.” Jon answered.

There was nothing for Emmett to think about further. These were men he would serve. Men that would grant him vengeance for his kin.

He knelt again. “Milords. I need not think about your offer. I will be your man until you no longer need it or I die during my service. I swear this by the Old Gods.”

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It was almost nightfall when they reached the keep. Tilda had been so excited she had burst into a painful cough. It only served to make them ride faster.

Emmett had not expected any of his new Lords to accompany him to the Maester’s tower. Yet both boys stayed next to him as the old Maester was checking over his sister.

Luwin had a cup made of what Jon had said was glass set against Tilda’s back, and he asked her to breathe normally. He repeated the procedure several times before thanking her and letting her dress back up.

“The young girl has an inflammation of the lungs.” It sounded grave. The old man gave a smile. “Luckily, it has not spread far, and the mucus is not too much still.”

“Does this mean that she may live?” Emmett asked hopeful.

“As long as she remains warm, fed and comfortable she will be fine.” The Old Maester spoke. “I will also give her tea made from Horehound, Hyssop and Elderberries. It will make her strong and get rid of the mucus.”

“Thank you!” Emmett said, his voice full of emotion. He had been dreading the day where his sister would perish because of the illness, yet hearing that she may recover, it brought all of the emotions he had been pushing down.

Jon put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. Emmett didn’t know but he was certain that most lords didn’t put such care towards their men.

Lord Robb made to speak, but heels sounded from beyond the door. He could see both of the lordlings pale. The door burst open. A lady resembling nothing but pure nobility entered, and on her heels women and girls that could only be described as pretty followed her. She had a scowl on her face that didn’t lessen her beauty.

“Robb Stark! Jon! Where have you been!” She yelled out. Then she saw the scared face of his sister and her features softened. Emmett began to relax, however then she grabbed both boys by the ear and dragged them out.

Maester Luwin could see the questioning look that was left on Emmett’s face. “Lady Stark has been most cross with the boys. I swear the way they act is as if they were men grown. And it’s their nameday feast as well.” The way the Maester spoke seemed odd, but Emmett let it go.

“Now, before you can go and acquaint yourself with your new brothers in arms, would you kindly hand me that?” Luwin pointed toward a dried plant with white flowers.

Emmett did so without question. “Good lad, now run along and be sure to bring supper for your sister.” The maester said.

                                               ________________________________________

Jon

He had been dreading this part for weeks now. At first, he had been excited. Finally, he would be able to stand together with his family. But now, he was having doubts.

Lady Stark, no Aunt Catelyn had given both him and Robb a dressing down. They were almost late to their own feast. She then scolded them in private about acting their age again and threatened a week of embroidery lessons.

After that she had them bathed. The servant girls were not gentle after waiting for them for hours. Jon’s skin still felt sore. Still, it was worth it. He had brought home his friend, and even more reason for happiness, his sister was still alive. He remembered the somber look he would get when they shared stories about their families. Both had lost much at that time, but now they had something to live for. Jon only wondered how this Emmett would react when he learned what he and Robb planned with the Wildlings.

Last time it had taken several hours of crossing blades for the man to calm down enough to listen.

His mind drifted off to the moment Sansa and Arya presented his outfit for the night. His oldest sister had been working with her friends for weeks on it. And he almost teared up when he saw the direwolf embroidered on the breast.

Sansa had dragged Arya away, to have both of them ready for the feast. It brought a smile to Jon’s face watching Arya struggle to leave. No doubt dreading having her hair brushed or being forced to bathe again, or being forced into a dress. Sansa in contrast was positively giddy. His oldest sister had been failing to hold her excitement at bay for the past sennight.

Jon saw himself in the mirror in his chambers. He still had trouble getting used to clothes that weren’t black. And seeing the direwolf proudly displayed on his breast filled him up with pride.

He could feel Ghost nearing Winterfell. Along with him were his brothers and sisters and mother, with uncle Benjen’s direwolf accompanying them. The contentment he was feeling was shared between man and wolf.

A knock on the door severed the connection. “Come, Jon. We are waiting on you.” It was Robb. A quick look to the window made Jon realize that he had taken a fair bit of time to ready himself. The last wisps of daylight were slowly fading as night fell upon Winterfell.

“Right. I am coming.” Jon answered, as he made to open the door. Robb was leaning on the wall next to the door a grin on his face. With him the rest of their group of friends were waiting as well.

Robb guffawed. “Ha, you finally look the part, Jon.” As he adjusted Jon’s collar.

Torrhen Karstark put his arm around Jon. Both he and his brother wore black satin doublets with white dress shirts under them. The Karstark sun was embroidered on the doublets in silver thread. “Come, Snow, we can’t be making the ladies wait!” He let out a hearty laugh.

“Aye, young Daryn here has been giddy to escort Lady Wynafryd to the feast.” Domeric jested.

The Hornwood heir blushed slightly. “Lady Wynafryd is my cousin, ser. I only enjoy her company as family.”

“You’re only second cousins.” Benfred joined the teasing.

“And once removed at that.” Cley jested.

“Oh, and will you be escorting the Lady Jorelle? Or mayhaps she will be escorting you?” Daryn jested back.

Cley’s cheeks turned crimson as he spluttered. “I-I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come now. I know about your “grappling” practice together. Was it every day at dawn, since the melee?” Brandon Tallhart spoke up suddenly.

The boys’ mouths gaped open. Theon was the first to speak. “Details. Now.”

“It is between me, Jory and the Gods, Greyjoy. I have nothing to say.” Cley said smugly.

The older boy gave him a smack on the back of the head and laughter burst among the group.

“Boys!” A voice called out. Jon recognized it immediately. Until recently, he dreaded hearing it. It always meant that he was to make himself scarce. However, ever since he had learnt the truth about his parentage, Lady Stark had been most accommodating. She was his aunt now in truth. Though that mattered little to Jon. He was Eddard Stark’s son, and a brother to the Stark children. It was all he ever wanted to be.

“Seven above! The feast has almost started. The girls have been waiting at the entrance for a quarter hour.” Lady Stark might not despise Jon anymore, however now, her wrath was freely unleashed on all of them. In a way, it might have been better to be ignored. That way he might have saved himself the scolding.

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Jon was paired up with Beth Cassel. The younger girl was one of Sansa’s companions at Winterfell. Jon knew of the plans to legitimize him, and he loved his father and brother all the more for it, however it would not do to act any differently than before. Well overly much.

Ser Rodrik had been fond of him even before he and Robb had been returned in time, and he had escorted Beth on several feasts before. Lady Catelyn had made a good decision to keep things as is.

Robb was escorting Lady Alys Karstark, while Daryn was escorting Wynafryd Manderly. Cley was of course with his she-bear “friend” and Torrhen Karstark looked uncomfortable as he walked next to Wylla Manderly. If Jon didn’t know better, the Karstark lad was spooked by the sea green hair the girl had. Jon wondered how his new friend would react when he saw Tyroshi men.

Torrhen’s brother, Eddard was escorting Sansa, while Benfred was paired with Arya. Benfred’s cousin, Brandon was paired with Jeyne Poole. Another of Sansa’s friends and the Lord Steward of Winterfell’s daughter. Domeric was escorting Lyra Mormont and Theon was paired up with Lord Lightfoot’s daughter Alis. The young woman wore her hair short, and was older than Jon. She had an amused smirk as Theon guided her into the hall, while the Greyjoy heir looked annoyed.

As they entered, Jon began taking in the sights. There had been quite a few feasts he had seen in Winterfell, however the Great Hall had never been as filled as it was now. All of the hearths were lit and several tables had been brought in to accommodate the guests. The Bannermen of Jon’s Father were almost all there. Only the Ryswells and Lady Barbrey Dustin had failed to attend. Many of the hedge knights as well as Lord Royce and Lords Tully, Blackwood and Mallister were in attendance.

A separate table was set for the children and younger people. Robb, as the heir was set at the head, with Jon on his left, and Bran, Sansa and Arya on his right. Rickon was yet too young to attend the feast and had been blissfully resting in his crib, with a wet nurse to watch over him.

Servants brought food and drink aplenty. Already the many guests were being merry and there were even bards playing songs. He saw the Greatjon yell while pointing at Lady Mormont, while the she-bear only returned an obscene gesture with her arm. The Greatjon tried to rise, but suddenly his eyes widened and he dropped back in his seat. Lady Mormont downed an entire cup of ale in a single gulp, and the Greatjon not to be outdone did the same. By the end of the night both were laughing together as if they had never fought.

Father was at the head table surrounded by his Lords. Lady Stark was on his right, with uncle Benjen on his left. Lord Tully and Edmure were sat next to Lady Stark, the Riverlords next to their overlord. Lord Royce sat next to Jon’s uncle, followed by the Lords of the North.

Knights, guardsmen and the people of Winterfell not on duty were sat all around the hall making merry. Jon wished his people would have many more nights to celebrate in the future. He sent a quick prayer to the Old Gods and felt a warmth in his chest.

The celebration lasted deep into the night. It was long past the hour of the bat. The feast had turned into a blur for Jon. He remembered dancing. He had danced with Beth, then Sansa, then Arya and then he failed to remember.

He remembered Torrhen Karstark spilling a cup of watered wine on his brother and the entire table bursting into laughter. They had only been allowed watered wine, and no more than two cups each as well as two cups of ale. Still, they all felt the effects of alcohol.

Past the hour of ghosts, the ladies began to retire, and an hour later, those sober enough for sense decided to go sleep.

By the hour of the wolf, only the merriest of Lords and Ladies remained. As was their duty as hosts, Father, Robb and Lady Stark remained, and Jon stayed with his brother. It was then that he noticed one of the bards.

He was of middling height and slender. A sharp face with shrewd brown eyes and brown hair turned mostly grey tied with rope. He had been remarkably easy to miss, however a familiar sight brought Jon’s attention to the man. A slashed cloak of black wool and red silk.

Robb looked like he would drop into sleep right on the table, so Jon shook him. Theon had been drinking more than both as he was a man grown, and Jon couldn’t rouse him. Cley was the only one of their friends remaining, goaded to stay and sneak drinks by Jorelle. The lad could barely look straight, but Jon would have as much help as he could manage. He shared a look with Robb, and suddenly his brother was wide awake and sharp. Jon gestured towards the bard and then both gestured towards father, who simply nodded.

As luck would have it, the song finished, and the bard saw them approach. Then he discretely stood and made for the doors. Jon made to follow, while Robb accompanied by a very drunk Cley Cerwyn and Jorelle Mormont took the other exit of the hall.

He walked faster, and so did the bard. He turned a corner, and went out. Jon made to follow, but somebody ran into him. They were larger than Jon, and heavy. They reeked of drink.

“Ah, Jon, yer a good lad….” He heard Ser Rodrik slur his words. The Master at arms had allowed himself a rare night of merrymaking. “Ya took good care of me Beth.” The old knight continued. “Jest don’t let yer eyes wonder too much, or I’ll poke’em out with a spoon.” Ser Rodrik chuckled.

He was hanging on to Jon, and the weight was becoming too much. Jon supported the man and walked him to a nearby bench in the hallway. “Worry not Ser Rodrik, I won’t let any dishonor fall upon Beth.” Jon said as he sat the knight down. “I bid you a good night, Ser Rodrik.” Jon gave him a smile as he made towards the door that led to the courtyard. Ser Rodrik mumbled words that Jon couldn’t hear, as the old knight passed out.

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The courtyard was empty except for a passed out Smalljon. Jon should have seen it coming. The man had told him he had snuck into Winterfell before. With all that had been going on, and the larger threat looming, he had forgotten about the King Beyond the Wall. Or at least what Mance Rayder would be called in the near future. Uncle Benjen still had no word about the Free Folk rallying.

“Lord Umber” Jon called out. The large man stirred, but did not wake. So, Jon tried again. He poked the man this time. “Lord Umber, did you see a bard pass through here.”

The Smalljon groaned incoherently. Jon was getting no help from him. At that time Robb ran from behind the great hall.

“Any luck?” He asked.

“Nothing. He vanished.” Jon replied disappointed.

“Who were we chasing?” Cley asked.

Jon sighed. Robb wanted to know as well, but he couldn’t speak the truth out here. So, Jon reluctantly lied. “I wanted to learn a song of that bard.”

Robb raised an eyebrow and Jon winked. Cley just gazed towards them with glazed over eyes. Bless the lad he was hammered. The heir of Cerwyn shrugged. “Oh, alright. Unfortunate he’s not here then.” Then he made to lay down where Jorelle had already dropped down.

“Alright, lets get both of you to your chambers.” Robb said.

“Aye, and let us rest as well. I need to speak to you and father in private tomorrow.”

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Ned

He saw Winterfell in the distance. The entire keep and the town around it were slumbering, with only a few fires flickering in the night. He saw the rays of light slowly peak above the horizon. And then he awakened.

Cat was still asleep next to him a satisfied smile on her face. His head was still spinning from the drink the night before. He had imbibed more than he had been used to, but it was a special occasion, and with what was about to come, the last one for a while.

He wanted to remain in bed, sleep longer, however he had work to do. Vayon was to meet him at first light, to plan out the logistics for the trip to the Wall.

Most Lords would accompany Ned. Some like Lord Manderly would be returning home while their heirs went in their stead. Ravens would need to be sent to all the keeps to prepare men for the trip. They had no time to linger so Robb and Jon would take the younger men and do a tour of the North, visiting every keep south of Castle Cerwyn and growing their force.

Ned had tasked his sons with bringing the Ryswells and Barrowtown back into the fold. He assumed that old Rodrik Ryswell wouldn’t have too much issue if offered good terms. Barbrey would be troublesome thought. Ned feared her hatred toward him would carry over towards his sons, but he trusted that the pair could find a solution among themselves.

The larger issue would be to convince his Lords and the Night’s Watch to allow wildlings to settle the Gift. Even convincing the many Wildling clans themselves would be troublesome. Yet it was something Ned had to do.

Otherwise, they would have an army of corpses that didn’t feel, eat, sleep or tire, marching on them. And then there were the Others. Jon had only known second hand about them. But what he had told was harrowing. An enemy faster and stronger than any man, armour and sword breaking upon contact with their icy blades. And only the gods knew what other fell magic they had in reserve. No, they had to succeed. And they couldn’t do it alone. They needed more than just the North and the Wildlings. All of Westeros would need to unite.

Ned washed his face in his basin, shaking off the somber thoughts. He dressed himself and made for the Great Hall. His castle was still slumbering, however when he entered the Hall, he was surprised to see his sons, together with their wolves.

Both looked like they hadn’t slept a wink.

“Father, we have a problem.” Robb spoke. Those words made Ned feel like a hand had grasped his heart and began to squeeze.

“Mance Rayder was here during the feast. He was disguised as one of the bards.” Jon added. “Me and Robb tried to confront him, but he managed to disappear in the night. We’ve searched the entire castle during the night, but couldn’t find him.”

Ned sat down on his chair in the middle of the boys. “What could this mean?” He asked, turning towards Jon.

“He had told me that he was here during King Robert’s visit. In all likelihood he was here to learn of our affairs.” Jon spoke.

“He shouldn’t be elected King yet.” Robb added. “He may have started rallying the Wildling clans already however.”

Ned stroked his chin. “If he rallies them, it could be easier to convince both the Watch and my bannermen to let them through.”

“It may be so, Father, but they may not wish to heed our demands then.” Jon replied. “Only reason they yielded to them last time was because they lost the battle for Castle Black, and Stannis Baratheon decimated their army. Most of what went through were the elderly and children.”

“It is better than nothing. The Others will raise them no matter if they’re children or old men.” Robb said. “We, however need capable fighters. It may be wiser to approach the clans while they’re divided and less powerful. Keep them separate in the Gift, keep an eye on them until we can be certain of their loyalty.”

“The plan will remain unchanged for now.” Ned spoke. “We will leave half the guard here, and ill have Rodrik stay as well.” Ned looked towards Robb. “Your Mother will take charge of the keep, while Bran will be the Stark in Winterfell while we are away.”

The doors opened, and Ned turned to look towards them. Benjen came through and gave them a smile. “Was there a family meeting I was unaware of?” He asked in jest.

“We were discussing our plans for going North.” Ned answered.

“Uncle Benjen, there is an issue.” Jon spoke and proceeded to tell Ned’s brother about the former Night’s Watch member.

“The man is a traitor. An oathbreaker. We will need to answer for that.” Benjen said simply. “The old Bear may be convinced to allow wildlings through with evidence, but he will not allow a man that broke his oath to go free.”

Ned had to agree. No matter what kind of a man this Mance Rayder was, he had broken his oath and deserted his post. There was no place for him in the North.

“The red priestess glamoured him into another chief while the original was burned alive. Sent him to Winterfell to save Arya.” Jon spoke.

Ned had become accustomed to the routine of his sons speaking about events that had happened in another lifetime, yet he could see Benjen stare blankly at the boy.

“We will deal with Rayder if we come across him.” Ned said finally. His sons accepted the decision, and Benjen had nothing to add.

Vayon and Rodrik entered the Hall. They were speaking of matters Ned couldn’t overhear, when they noticed them. The steward looked at him and smiled. “Ah, my Lord. I am sorry for making you wait. The supplies for your journey will be ready soon. You will be able to set off by the end of the week.”

Ned nodded. “Well done, Vayon. I will be counting on you to assist Bran and Lady Stark while we are away.”

The steward bowed. “I will not disappoint you, Lord Stark.”

Ned turned towards his master at arms. “Rodrik. You will need to remain at Winterfell also. I am leaving half the guard with you in case someone tries to take advantage of our absence.” The old knight seemed disappointed, however he smiled. “Aye milord, the keep will be more secure than a septa’s chastity.”

“Good man.” Ned answered. “Now, let us begin the final preparations.”

Chapter Text

Rodrik Rogers

It was the same dream again. The dream had started nearly a moon ago. Ed remembered how afraid he had felt after the first time. He had awaken shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

Since that day, he had dreamt the same dream many times and each time it seemed no less real. The morning sun sent rays of light through his window. Ed had learned to appreciate the sun and its warmth after dreaming of ice and snow, and cursed eyes of blue.

His dream had gone on longer than usual this time, and he remembered hearing the howling of wolves. He remembered his grandmother telling him stories of the North when he was a small boy. She used to speak of giants and mammoths, of wolves that grew larger than horses, of men that could turn into animals, of men that could dream of things that once were and would be. She had always told him as she had done to his father, to be wary of the signs. Rodrik’s mother hadn’t entertained his grandmother’s ‘superstition’ as she called it.

His Father had also been a man who believed in signs, omens, dreams. Nothing could prepare him for the bloody flux that had torn through the Rainwood just three years before. And that brought Rodrik a man barely grown to be Lord of Amberly.

He felt tired and the day had only begun. Rodrik contemplated returning to bed and attempting to return to sleep, yet he knew that the dreams would not allow him respite.

Before he could rise from his bed and dress properly, the door of his chambers flew open.

“Awake, drowsy one!” A cheerful voice boomed in his chambers. Gods it was too early and he had slept too little to be dealing with her. Rodrik couldn’t ever fathom how Lyla could be so energetic in the mornings.

“I am awake! Gods save me this torment.” Rodrik yelled back covering his ears. He couldn’t deal with this so early.  

“That is no way for a Lord to speak in front of a lady.” The girl scolded as she smacked him over the head.

Rodrik smirked. “It’s good that there isn’t one here then.”

Lyla huffed. “You wouldn’t know a lady if she smacked you over the head.” She threw a doublet at his face. “Now dress yourself, Lady Elara called for you. Lord work.”

Rodrik sighed. How he wished he could go back to being just the heir to Amberly. Just doing his lessons before he could spend the day riding in the forest or swimming in the streams with Lyla. But both were grown now. She was his mother’s lady in waiting and he had to step up as Lord. There were people counting on him, and grandmother had always stressed the importance of doing one’s duty.

He changed quickly before standing and washed his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. It was time for the Lord’s face.

He sighed then turned towards his oldest friend. “Thank you, Lyla. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He said as he put on his boots.

Rodrik made his way through Amberly Keep. Men wearing the maze surrounded by unicorns greeted him as he entered the council chambers.

His mother was already waiting there, along with his uncle Garret, the master-at-arms of Amberly Keep and the steward, Osmund.

Something was happening. He saw the furrowed brows as he entered the chambers.

As the door closed behind him, his mother looked up from the table and her gaze softened.

“Sweetling, you’ve awakened.” She called out sweetly. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, mother.” lied, not wanting to worry her. “Has something happened? You and uncle seem distraught.” Rodrik asked.

“The reeve of Silvengrove has requested men to handle outlaws preying on merchants. His raven arrived during the night.” Uncle Garret spoke. “Ser Corwin requests a thousand dragons to build a fishing harbour and several larger skiffs. He says summer is ending and he would like to start building stores.”

Rodrik sighed. “Did Reeve Eustace say anything about how many outlaws there are preying on the roads?”

“No more than ten or twenty, nephew.” Ser Garret answered.

“A plague of locusts ruined the last harvest in Bluegrove. Lord Kellington’s people are starving. Mayhaps a number of them have resorted to banditry.” Rodrik said.

“Even so, we must respond. Our lands must be kept secure.” Ser Garret argued.

“I fully agree, uncle. We will have our men prepare. We will ride for Silvengrove at first light.”

“Perhaps let your uncle deal with bandits, while you deal with other matters, sweetling.” Rodrik’s mother said worriedly.

Rodrik understood her worry. Not three years had passed since his father had perished from disease. Unfortunate they said. He had been a strong man before, yet Rodrik remembered the fragile form of his father in his final days. Still, he was a man grown now. A Lord incapable of protecting his people was not something he wished to be.

“I understand your worry, mother.” He spoke softly. “But I am a man now. I am trained and I should lead the men. Perhaps the bandits can be reasoned with and will yield without the need for bloodshed.”

His mother looked distraught, but nodded. “Very well, but promise me you will keep safe.”

“I promise. Now is there anything else that needs to be dealt with before we leave?”

“Your cousin Lord Stark has sent an invitation for a feast and tourney for his sons’ nameday.” Lady Elara said.

Rodrik smiled. A cousin he had never met, old enough to be his father, in fact he was only a few years older than his heir. “His sons? If I remember correctly only Robb, the heir has his nameday at the end of the year.” He asked curious.

“It appears Lord Stark has decided to include his natural born son in the celebrations.” His mother said with slight disdain in her voice. “The man shames his wife, allowing his bastard to live with his trueborn children. Your father would never have done such a thing.”

Rodrik felt differently. The lad was not to blame for what his parents had done, and it was nice to have family with you. Still, he only smiled and nodded, not wishing to argue with his mother about propriety. It was hard enough convincing her not to send Lyla away to be fostered or betrothed to some merchant or reeve.  

A small part of him wished he could take a trip North. He had always dreamed of visiting his grandmother’s home and meeting her family. He had always wished he had more family around him, especially some near of age with him.

Even his aunt Arya and his cousins hadn’t visited in years. And they lived in a keep on an island near House Rogers lands.

________________________________________

Robert

The gods must have cursed him as a babe. It could be the only explanation. He had nothing he wanted from life. His only solace had been whores and drinks and tourneys. And a damn plague had taken away from him two of the three.

A moon of having to listen to the nag of a wife drone on about how every single thing in the blasted keep had wronged her somehow.

‘The tapestries don’t have enough red and gold in them Robert!’

‘There aren’t any tulips in the gardens Robert!’

‘That maid is too plain, Robert!’

Gods, nothing pleased that woman. And to make matters worse, in all the time that he had known his brother by choice, the one time the man had decided to live a little and throw a tourney, Robert could not leave.

Just three days before he received the raven from Winterfell, a plague had spread from Fleabottom. The keep had been locked down tighter than a septa’s cunt and as if the gods were mocking him for the hundredth time that blasted raven had come.

He could still imagine the trip. A lengthy ride across the countryside with only a few retainers, maybe with his children in tow, not Stannis, maybe Renly, and no Lannisters. He had enough of their red and gold to last him ten lifetimes.

But Jon wouldn’t relent. None were allowed outside the keep.

No longer. Robert had enough. He had been nigh celibate for a moon. He took Thoros, the only man in the blasted keep who could drink properly, and a dozen of those lickspittles that called themselves courtiers and rode down the Kingsroad to the main square. Then he led his party through the Street of Sisters until they reached the Dragon Pit on Rhaenys’ Hill.

He saw the huge cavernous monstrosity. Ruins left from that blasted House. He had half a mind to have Jon demolish the thing stone by stone. Not now though, he had pressing matters to deal with. He turned his horse North, and went through the Street of Silk.

He could smell the building before he saw it. Exotic spices that made a man’s loins come alive. Not that Robert needed the help after being confined to the keep for a moon.

He took a breath as he stood in front of the brothel. A modest place, not like the one Littlefinger owned, but Robert liked it better than that slimy cunt’s establishment. The whores were better at Chataya’s as well.

The lower floor was made of red stone, while the upper was made of timber and painted red. A gilded lamp with scarlet glass shone brightly, welcoming him in.

As soon as the doors opened and his party entered, he was greeted by Chataya herself, the madame of the place. She bowed gracefully as Robert approached her.

“I bid you welcome, your grace, to my humble establishment.” She spoke with a Summer Islander accent, her voice smooth and sultry, making Robert yearn to get started. “I have prepared my best girls for your pleasure, your grace and that of your party.”

At her words, girls stepped out giggling and caressing Robert’s party. He saw girls from the deserts of Dorne, the mountains of the Vale, ebony treats from the Summer Islands and he saw a girl that looked as if she had come from Yi Ti in the east.

She would have been a fine morsel, but Chataya looked at him expectantly.

Robert sighed and gave her a pouch filled with coin. That should make the seductress happy and let Robert enjoy his evening.

The madame did more than only that. She bid Robert follow her up the stairs. He glanced at his party. The courtiers were already enamored with their partners for the night. Thoros had downed several cups of wine already and was staggering for more. Even Greenfield, the Kingsguard he had taken with him was stealing touches at a truly blessed blonde girl. Her tits were almost as big as Bessie’s.

He was taken to the turret of the brothel, above the roof, in a chamber meant for the truly special patrons of the establishment.

“For your patronage, your grace, this humble servant has prepared a special gift for you.” Chataya spoke in a sultry tone.

Robert half expected the madame to offer herself to him, and Robert found himself eager to sample the exotic treat, however inside the chamber there was a dainty and demure lass, wearing a nightgown that left little to the imagination. She had pale red hair, and deep blue eyes, that could make a man lose himself and freckles powdered the bridge of her nose as well as what he could see from her breasts. 

She was young, perhaps too young, and Robert hesitated.

The madame rubbed his shoulders and whispered with a husky tone in his ear. “Your grace, Myla here” she pointed towards the girl, “has been trained in the arts of pleasure for years. She has already flowered and needs a big, strong man to teach her the joys of womanhood.” Chataya rubbed her hand over Robert’s crotch, and he found his breeches much too tight for him.

“I will do my best to please your grace.” The girl spoke, in a quiet and shy voice, and Robert could barely keep his composure.

He found himself being guided to the bed, and then his boots were being removed. The girl began massaging his feet and Robert felt like in heaven. Chataya then poured some strong Dornish Red for him, and indeed he could have sworn he had died and had found himself in the heavens.

He had lost count of the number of cups he had downed, and the girl had moved from his feet, to massaging his shoulders. She had removed his doublet and was making Robert feel better than he had in maybe years. The girl would plant kisses on his neck and glide her hand across his chest and Robert realized the girl knew what she was doing.

The events became blurred after a while, through the night, he remembered that she had taken him in her mouth, and Robert had taken her time and time again, making her sing sweetly for him until neither he nor the girl could move.

The girl was laying on Robert’s side, resting her head on his chest, fast asleep. An oddly affectionate way to sleep for a whore, but Robert was too drunk and tired to care or move the girl, so he let sleep claim him.

________________________________________

The sound of thunder made him wake. There was no girl wrapped around his arm, and he wasn’t in the chamber at Chataya’s. A strike of lighting lit up his surroundings. The place was familiar. There was no chance he could forget it. The large bed with velvet sheets of black and gold, tapestries covering walls of sturdy, grey stone, depicting scenes of glorious battle.

Robert rose from the bed and took in his surroundings. It had been years since he had been at that place and things were the same as the last time he had left. A much different time, almost an entirely different life. Before everything. Before happiness left him.

Another boom of thunder followed by the sound of rain falling sounded through the chamber. A gust of cold wind, bearing the scent of rain and sea blew out the candles. A part of Robert missed the scent. Nothing like the stench of King’s Landing, there wasn’t even a hint of rot, death and piss and shit. Only the fresh smell of rain and salt.

He opened the door from his chamber. The rain battered the stone of his ancestral home. There was no light throughout. Only darkness broken by flashes of lighting.

Robert had been wondering the halls of Storm’s End for so long even he knew not how much time had passed. Only the sound of his boots on the stone floor, the rain falling on the walls and the sounds of thunder accompanied him.

A sound broke the monotony of his stroll. It was a woman’s voice crying out in sorrow. There were words spoken, yet Robert couldn’t hear them. So, he made his way towards the voice.

He passed chamber after chamber, climbing stairwells and moving through halls, yet the voice remained elusive.

It was only after climbing the massive drum tower that he recognized the voice. He climbed further, above the chambers where his parents slept and he found it.

Robert stood in front of a thick wooden door, yet he could still hear the cries and he felt the sorrow and anguish in them. For the first time in a decade, he felt his heart clench. He wanted to run into the chamber, yet as his hand grasped the handle he hesitated. Bloody hells, the gods damned Demon of the Trident, the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms afraid to enter a chamber in his own ancestral home.

He forced his hand to push the handle down, and the door creaked open. As he saw inside the chamber, Robert’s heart clenched. He was no stranger to sorrow and grief, yet he had no desire to see the person in front of him suffering so.

In front of Robert, sitting on a chair, surrounded by portraits, his grandmother sat weeping. Gods Robert had still been a boy the last time he had seen her. But the woman sitting in front of him was different from what he remembered. Grandmother had always been smaller than Robert since he could remember, but there had never been any doubt of her strength. He had felt it many a time when he had misbehaved, years ago. Her voice had always carried authority and steel, so much that Robert could seldom disobey growing up.

Yet in front of him, she looked a shadow of herself. Her light violet eyes, that were always shining and wise seemed sunken and weary. Her hands seemed smaller and weak and there were many more wrinkles on her face. There was no hint of the smiles she had given him and his brothers growing up, even after the loss of Father and Mother. Her hair was pale white, different from the silver blonde Robert remembered.

A memory surfaced in his mind then. It was a moon after his parents had perished. Robert had drowned his grief in whores and drink and the yard. He had lost any thought of the passage of time. That was until he was summoned to her chambers.

“It is enough, Robert. There are matters you must handle now.” She had spoken, gently but firmly.

Robert had understood what she meant. He was to be Lord. Yet he hadn’t wanted to accept his parents’ deaths. And even two decades after he didn’t want to remember the feeling of helplessness as he stood on the pier watching the Windproud swallowed by the waves. It had taken three guards to stop him from jumping in the sea and attempting to swim to the ship.

“I will do as I please woman, be silent!” He had replied to her then, and he felt guilt remembering it. The very next day he had ridden out to the Vale, back to Ned and Jon where he could pretend all was well. It had been the last time he had seen her. Only gazing upon her statue in the crypts of Storm’s End after she had perished during the siege.

“Foolish boy, you and your father have doomed our House.” Grandmother wailed, bringing Robert out of his memories.

Robert walked closer, extending his hand to try and comfort his grandmother, yet suddenly Robert was standing in the middle of a river. He felt a familiar weight of armour over his body, yet he felt better than he had in years. Even feeling the pain of cuts, bruises and wounds all over his body, the burning in his muscles and his ragged breathing, he felt more alive than he had in the last decade at court.

The smell of blood and death surrounded Robert and he saw the river run red from the dead. He instantly recognized where he was. He had dreamt of the day a thousand times, and it still made him wake filled with fury. He saw tattered banners with the three headed dragon, corpses wearing red and black, others dressed in white and grey, gold and black. He saw sigils on the corpses, many of those he knew by heart. Lords, knights and heirs that had perished in the battle. Several he had dispatched himself, only to get to the scum that was laying at his feet.

Robert had always told that Rhaegar Targaryen died from the blow to the chest from Robert’s Warhammer. And it was true, however Robert had never told that his cousin had been alive after the blow. And Robert saw that look of disbelief in his eyes. As if he couldn’t fathom, he had been defeated.

Robert saw the battered body of the silver prince at his feet, as blood mixed with the water. He had never before remembered the events this clearly. No dream had felt so real before. And he noticed the desperation of the dying man.

He was reaching with his arm towards Robert, trying to speak. Nothing came out of his mouth however, as the man’s lungs had collapsed, after Robert caved in his chest. For the first time ever, Robert felt his fury at the man lessen, and he felt pity. Watching him struggle desperately to speak, reaching towards Robert. Had he even been aware he was already dead? Robert did not know.

He would never forget nor forgive the cunt and every time he dreamt, he had done as he had during life. He had left him there to drown in his own blood.

This time however, he felt the need to put the man out of his misery. Perhaps seeing his grandmother in sorrow had softened his heart. So, he pulled out his dagger from his belt, and knelt next to the dying prince.

Robert was surprised then as Rhaegar, with surprising strength pulled himself towards Robert, mouthing the same words as he had before. There was not even a whisper of sound coming from his lips, but Robert could make out the words. Prophecy.

All the pity disappeared as suddenly as it came, and Robert buried his dagger in Rhaegar’s neck. And then he repeated the motion time and time again, until he was covered in the prince’s blood.

The bloody madman. The fucking mad cunt. Was that it? Fucking prophecy? The entire reason for him destroying Robert’s life, stealing his love, causing the deaths of untold thousands was prophecy. Dragon madness.

Darkness took Robert and he felt justified in ending the madman. A chuckle escaped Robert’s lips. “Prophecy, the mad cunt.”

________________________________________

He awoke on the ground. He was surrounded by the familiar stench from King’s Landing, yet it wasn’t as potent as it had been. He opened his eyes and found himself in the godswood. The oak heart tree stood tall behind him, and elm, alder and cottonwood trees grew beneath the walls of the Red Keep.

Robert believed it odd that he would wake in the godswood as he hadn’t been here since that day. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, perhaps he had had too much wine for memories.

He heard laughter from nearby. A child’s innocent laugh, it sounded like Myrcella. It had been weeks since he had spent any time with her, Tommen as well. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that something was odd.

He neared the sound of laughter, when he heard the girl’s voice. “Look mama, I found this kitten! Can I keep him?”

Seven above, the nagging hag was here. But something felt strange. Cersei despised the godswood. ‘A gathering place for savage brutes’ she had called it. Jon had been the only reason she hadn’t turned it into a garden.

Robert had no desire to meet his wife. The dreams he had experienced left him in no mood to deal with her. Still, he was the king. He owned the damn place, and he wanted to see his daughter. So, he moved closer.

First, he heard giggling and then he almost jumped back in shock. There was no Cersei or Myrcella. Sitting in a clearing, were ghosts from his past. The princess Rhaenys was skipping around holding a small black cat, while Elia Martell smiled gently.

Suddenly, Elia glanced at him, and looked in confusion, the princess noticed her mother stare at Robert and turned towards him.

“Mama, who is that burly man?” He heard the princess ask, and suddenly he was back on that day, in the throne room.

Corpses covered in red Lannister cloaks were brought at his feet, with a smug Tywin Lannister congratulating Robert on his victory.

Robert remembered the descriptions given by soldiers and knights over the years. Lorch had dragged the princess out from beneath her bed, and stabbed her until she was a bloody ruin. The Mountain smashed the babe Aegon’s head into a wall crushing it into pulp and then raped his mother as the child’s blood pooled in front of her. After he had been done, he had killed the Dornish princess as well. And then they had brought up the corpses as he arrived in the keep.

He was surrounded by the lions. His men tired from hard riding and many battles, while the Lannisters were fresh. He saw the expecting look of Tywin, Ned’s quiet anger, even Jon was silently lamenting the tragedy. Robert felt anger as images of the smiling little girl flashed in his mind. He wanted to yell, he wanted to rampage, yet he found that his body was not his own.

“I see no babes, only dragonspawn.” He heard himself speak.

Dragonspawn, echoed as he found himself at the Red Keep again. He saw Lorch stab a crying little girl, as blood splattered around.

Dragonspawn echoed as he saw the Mountain break down the barred door as Elia hid with her son. Dragonspawn echoed as he saw the boy’s head shatter into bloody pieces as the Mountain mounted Elia.

The images flashed through his mind as he heard his cold voice call the children dragonspawn.

Robert screamed yet his voice didn’t come out. He was spiraling in darkness, only tormented by the images of death. He heard his grandmother’s cries again and Robert begged for his torment to end yet he found no mercy.

________________________________________

He jumped in his bed. He shifted his gaze around his surroundings in panic. The morning light fell through the lone window of the chamber he had fallen asleep in. It felt as if it had been days since then.

He felt something move near him and remembered the girl that had shared his bed.

“Are you alright your grace?” Robert heard her ask worriedly.

He turned to her, and he realized just how young she had been. Perhaps not even a woman grown. He had already felt like shite waking up after that dream, and now he had slept with a girl half his age, maybe younger.

The silver cunt’s face flashed in Robert’s mind. He had done no better than him. Only the willingness of the girl made him better, but not by much.

Robert stood up from the bed, and he noticed the girl flinch. The poor lass was frightened.

He sighed. He placed a golden dragon on the bed. “If you find yourself in need, or you do not wish to be a whore, ask for Jon Arryn, he will find a way to take care of you.” Robert spoke as he dressed himself.

His body felt heavy and sluggish. Nothing like how he felt in his dream. As he was about to open the door to the chamber, he looked at his reflection in a mirror, and found himself aghast.

He had grown fat!

________________________________________

Chapter Text

Daenerys

“Get your things, we must leave by morning.” Her brother told her. They had been guests in the mansion of Lyrianos Narvys, one of the smaller magisters of the Free city of Myr.

The portly old man had treated them well, and had even offered them a house in a wealthier part of the city, and a stipend if Viserys would marry his daughter Vaelinna. Her esteemed brother had merely laughed before replying that a lowly fleshmonger had no right to aim for the hand of a dragon.

The next day they had been informed that the esteemed magister had grown weary of their stay.

It had barely been a moon since they had arrived in Myr. Dany had barely had the chance to explore the city. Only a quick stroll through the famed markets where she could see artisans selling everything from vegetables to masterfully crafted Myrish lenses adorned in the finest gems and gold.

Dany had her servants help her gather her belongings. A pair of soft slippers, several pairs of smallclothes, the elegant dress she had received from their most recent host and her travelling clothes that she wore on herself. She had no valuables on her as her brother kept anything they could sell with him. It wasn’t Dany’s place to involve herself with matters of coin as Viserys said.

In the courtyard her brother was already waiting for her. She hurried to his side lest she wake the dragon and kept her head down as he thanked their host for his hospitality, before he led her inside the wheelhouse and followed her in.

They had barely left the property when the dragon woke.

“That lowly pig dare!” Viserys yelled out, throwing an apple he was eating at the wall. “He dares offer his wench of a daughter to a dragon!?”

Dany sat at his side and did her best to soothe her brother. “Maybe he wanted to give us a home here, make us family?” She asked.

Viserys looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “A home sister?” He burst into laughter. “We already have a home, over there.” He gestured towards the sea.

He then brought his face close to her, grabbing her face firmly, making her gaze into his violet eyes. “A home that has been taken from us, sister. Usurped by traitors and their dogs. Our birthright!” He growled, before letting her go.

Viserys had often spoken of their home, of Westeros. He told her of the Red Keep and King’s Landing. Of how Aegon the Conqueror had built his fort where the keep now stood when he landed at the start of his conquest. He told her of how the smallfolk flocked to the fledgling city after their ancestor had conquered the kingdoms.

He had told her of Dragonstone, their ancestral home, even before the conquest. Made with the magic and skill of Old Valyria.

She had been told of every place of importance from Dorne to the Wall and of the Houses that ruled there. Both those that stayed loyal to their father, and those that betrayed their family, letting the usurper take the throne.

Many times, she had heard about the downfall of her family. The brother she had never known, the heir of the throne had grown fond of the daughter of the Warden of the North, and had graced her by crowning her the Queen of Love and Beauty at a tourney. The wolf girl had then fallen for the prince instead of her boorish betrothed and the pair had run away together.

Using the Stark girl’s flight with the prince, her own family, the Tullys, the Arryns and Baratheons had then rebelled and waged war upon her family. The usurper had killed Rhaegar on the Trident and the worst traitor of them all, Jaime Lannister had murdered her father as the Lannister army approached the city.

“At least the old fart was useful.” Viserys said breaking Dany from her thoughts.

“Rejoyce sweet sister, for the time for our return home may be closer at hand than we thought.” He spoke with glee reserved only for when he spoke of how he would bring the usurper and his dogs to justice.

“What do you mean, brother?” Dany asked in curiosity.

“The good magister told me of a sellsword company. Two thousand men, five hundred horse, all of them bloodied and tested. Men that hail from our home.” Viserys answered.

Before Dany could ask for more, her brother continued speaking. “The Stormbreakers were made by Oscar Tully. With men from all around our kingdoms. They defeated the Baratheon traitors at the Battle of the Kingsroad during the dance, and named their company in honor of the victory.” Viserys cackled.

“What company more fitting to herald our claim against the Baratheon usurper.” He asked entertained.

Dany saw the camp looming in the distance. A palisade had been erected and there were guards on makeshift towers. Before they were a league off the camp outriders met them.

Viserys introduced himself, stating that he had business with their captain. The outriders escorted them towards the entrance where the guards let them pass.

Daenerys had never seen a sellsword camp before. There was a wide street made in the middle of the camp with smaller tents arranged in rows, divided by smaller paths. She saw men move around the camps, some armoured and armed, while others only carried their weapons on them. She saw men and boys polish weapons and armour and she could hear the clanging of metal in the distance.

She saw bandaged men coming in and from a tent that was painted white and she saw a large tent, made of silk and linen dyed blue and red. This was where Viserys was leading her.

They were bid to enter and Daenerys saw a group of men grouped around a table. They seemed to be discussing something when Viserys made himself known. One of the men was tall and broad, with red hair freckled with silver. One was taller than any in the room and had hair as dark as coals, and the last man was thin and wiry, with brown hair and a full beard flecked with ginger.

“I am Ulrick, captain-general of the Stormbreakers and these are two of my captains. Harmond” he pointed towards the tall black-haired man, “and Loren.” He pointed towards the other one. “Speak your peace lad.”

“I am Viserys Targaryen the third of his name, rightful king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realms. And this...” He gestured towards Dany, “…is princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, my sister.”

The men looked at Viserys in silence, so her brother continued. “I have come here to ask for your fealty. I will take my throne and for your assistance you will be richly rewarded. Land, titles, women, riches, nothing will be denied to the men who help me regain my birthright.”

The captain-general sighed. “Listen lad, even if we do join you, and that’s a big if, you don’t have nearly enough men. Just the Crownlands can muster what, ten thousand? Fifteen? And they have a navy, The Royal fleet will have us at the bottom of the sea before we’re ten leagues to shore.”

Viserys was angry. Dany knew the man had woken the dragon, but captain Ulrick approached her brother, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Give it up lad, you can build a life for you and your sister here in Essos. Magisters from Volantis to Lys will be flocking to marry their daughters to you, promising wealth and power. You can even stay here and live the life of a sellsword.”

Her brother was trembling, and Dany knew that the captain had misunderstood. Suddenly her brother slapped away the captain’s hand and began muttering as he shook. “You dare….” She heard him say, his hand trembling to his blade. “A lowly sellsword dare touch me!” He spoke drawing his sword.

Captain Ulrick stepped back and Dany felt afraid. The captain-general and his men had all drawn weapons, and she could see in their eyes that these were men that had fought and killed.

“I am your rightful king!” Viserys shouted. “You scum owe me your fealty! You will fight for me or you will die a traitor’s death.”

“Boy, you are no king, and this is not Westeros.” Captain Harmond spoke in a deep and calm voice. “None of us here have sworn any oaths of fealty either to you, or your House. Now get out of my camp before I throw you out in pieces.”

“The girl can stay though.” Captain Loren spoke suddenly. “My daughter is of an age, and she may find the life in camp, with a friend better than begging for scraps.”

A part of Dany was tempted, but she knew it was a moot point. Her brother would show these men what happened when they woke the dragon, and they would have to run again.

She almost jumped in surprise when she felt her brother grab her hand. “Come, sister. We are leaving.”

It seemed her brother decided to be merciful.

________________________________________

The road to the Tyrosh crossing had been hard. Viserys had rarely spoken, only muttering curses and threats towards the Stormbreakers.

Dany was only happy no one got hurt as she remembered the poor servant that had broken Viserys’ cup at one of their previous hosts. Her brother had whipped the poor boy within an inch of his life, a price for waking the dragon.

She had woken the dragon once before as well, but she had merely been struck, a warning to never do it again, her brother had said.

“I was too lenient with them.” Her brother said suddenly. “Men forget they owe fealty to the dragon. Next time I will show them.”

“Next time?” Dany asked.

“The Company of the Rose and the Wolf Pack have a contract with Tyrosh. They have a camp near the disputed lands. I will enlist their numbers. Two thousand men from the Rose and another thousand from the Wolf Pack. It will be a start.” Her brother answered.

The camp looked more like a small town, with low wooden walls being built and guard towers looming above. A small gate house with thick wooden gates stood imposing in front of them and there were two banners proudly displayed upon it.

One had a white direwolf head on a field of grey, holding a winter rose, while the other had a pack of snarling, grey direwolves running on a snowy field under a midnight sky.

As their wheelhouse made it in front of the gates, they were welcomed by a pair of men that loomed above them. The guards bared a passing resemblance, both dark haired with beards flaked with red, but one of them had a bit of salt mixed in with the brown and red.

The older man peered inside, and as he gazed upon Dany and her brother, she could swear he exchanged a look of weariness with the younger man.

A painfully long moment passed before the giant of a man spoke. “So, what are ya young’uns doing here?” He asked in a heavy accent that Dany was unfamiliar with. It seemed westerosi but different than how she remembered Ser Darry speak, and more so from how her brother spoke and how shed been taught to speak.

“I am here to enlist the assistance of your companies in the service of your rightful king. You men will have the privilege to assist me as I reclaim my birthright.” Her brother spoke with confidence; however, his words made the two men’s brows furrowed. The older man put a hand on his belt and Dany noticed that he was preparing to draw a weapon.

The younger guard stopped him however, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. There was a sigh as the man relaxed and removed his hand from the axe hanging from his belt, a beautifully crafted thing that made Dany wonder how a common sellsword could afford such a piece.

“Ill give ya a warning lordling.” The old guard spoke. “Your house has little love among the Wolf Pack, and even less among us. You best leave sleeping dogs lie and leave.”

“The dragon goes where he pleases.” Viserys answered, ordering their driver to get their wheelhouse moving.

“I can’t let ya pass.” The younger guard spoke for the first time. It was uncanny how similar he sounded to the older man. Must have been a younger brother, or a son perhaps.

Viserys was becoming annoyed. Dany only stayed put, hoping to avoid doing anything to wake the dragon. As her brother’s hand moved towards the sword on his belt, she thought that perhaps she should have tried calming her brother.

“The wheelhouse can’t enter the camp; the streets are too narrow.” The guard added, and catastrophe was averted.

“Fine.” Viserys answered not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Driver, you will await us here, we will be back once I remind these savages who they owe their allegiance to.”

He opened the door and grabbed her hand, dragging her out of the wheelhouse. “Come, sister. Follow me and don’t ruin this.”

Stables had been built just behind the gate, and Dany could see destriers, chargers, coursers even some rounseys and even dreys. Yet there weren’t nearly enough horses for the number of mounted men Viserys boasted he could gain from the two companies.

Voices and shouts caught Dany’s attention and she gazed upon the camp. It looked much different from that of the Stormbringers. Wooden homes had been built and there were nearly no tents set inside the walls. There were merchant stalls with people selling wares, there were children laughing and running through the streets as well as women, some armed others wearing modest dresses caring for their homes.

Had Dany been told that she was in a regular town and not a sellsword camp, she would have believed it.

A desire to explore the place was quickly squashed as her brother pulled her forward as he strode towards a pavilion set on a small hill guarded by men in plate bearing the banners of both companies.

Dany and her brother were stopped just as they began climbing the small hill, the guards demanding of them their names and purpose.

“I am Viserys Targaryen, rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, now stand aside or I will make you regret the day you were born!” He growled.

The guards shared a look between themselves and laughed to her brothers ever growing anger. He began to draw his sword, bloodlust filling his eyes, but before he could even get it halfway out, the laughter stopped and Dany found herself standing before drawn steel, carried by men who seemed dangerous.

“You have no guest right here, your grace.” One of the guards said.

“Get out of here before you hurt yourself.” The other added.

“I’m not going anywhere before I get what I’m owed. And a pair of lowlifes will not stop the dragon!”

Daenerys couldn’t help but feel fear wash over her. She had never faced men ready to kill her. Viserys had always spoken about assassins sent by the usurper to kill them, but the fear of an unseen enemy was nothing compared to blades drawn just feet away from them.

“Please.” She spoke up, her voice barely audible and trembling. It was enough to gain the attention of the guards. She also felt her brother’s gaze on her and it lacked any warmth. Still, she continued. “We only wish to speak with your leader, w-we want no trouble Sers.”

Viserys’ fury was now directed towards her. She had surely roused the dragon. Yet the guards seemed less threatening their swords hanging low in their arms.

“You!” Her brother hissed at her and dashed grabbing her by the hair, yanking her hair back.

The sudden pain made tears well in Dany’s eyes but she managed to glance at the guards who had their swords raised again, yet this time she didn’t feel any malice directed towards her from them.

“Jonnos! Dyr! Let them in.” A voice from the pavilion interrupted everything happening.

Her brother pushed her towards the side, making her stumble as he walked towards the entrance. She quickly used the handkerchief she kept inside her sleeve to dry her tears and wipe away the face paint that had smeared her face.

She then followed behind Viserys, and as she passed the guards she saw looks of pity and concern directed towards her. She paid them no heed as she forced herself to follow her brother in.

Inside the tent there were a fair few people. They were standing over a map with small statues placed on it. Many of them were shaped like wolves but others resembled different creatures and objects. There were harpies, towers, ships, statuettes of naked women, manticores and scorpions as well as horses and statuettes of men.

As Viserys stepped in the middle of the pavilion she followed behind him, and soon every man and woman present had their eyes on them. She could notice the annoyance and dislike in many of their gazes, but some only held pity in them.

“It is good to know that at least someone in this camp knows their courtesies. Now, who among you is the leader?” Viserys spoke, and Dany could feel the gazes directed at them harden.

Three men that had been sitting stood up. “I am Osric, I lead the Company of the Rose.” A tall dark-haired man with slate grey eyes spoke.

“And I am Maric.” I command the Wolf Pack.” An older man spoke. His hair had turned silver, yet his beard still had ginger in it. “This is my second, Jonnel.” He gestured towards a younger man with dark hair and eyes who only nodded in greeting.

“I come to you with an opportunity to earn wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams.” Viserys began and he was rewarded with looks of curiosity. Even Dany was eager to see her brother earn the loyalty of the men and women in the room.

“I, am Viserys Targaryen. The rightful King of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men. Rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm.”

As her brother spoke, Dany could hear stifled laughs, and as she looked around the pavilion, she could see the amusement in the faces of the men and women present. Only the captain of the Company of the Rose remained stoic, no emotion visible on his long face, while the captain of the Wolf Pack was wearing a scowl that deepened with every word her brother spoke.

“My birthright was usurped. By traitorous dogs that murdered my kin, slaughtered loyal men and pillaged my family’s wealth. You will bend the knee and help me in taking my rightful place as king and you will be rewarded richly. I will destroy every traitorous House. The men will be killed and the women given to those loyal as brides. The children will be sent to the Wall or the faith, and you will have first choice for lands in the North.”

Dany had heard her brother speak of the usurper and his dogs. Of the savages in the North and how they slaughtered loyal men in battle. Of the demon of the Trident and how he murdered their brother.  Every story she heard of their crimes made her hope that justice would find them.

But she noticed that the air became cold as her brother spoke. There was no amusement nor stifled laughter anymore. As she looked at the faces of the men and women, she saw anger, fury barely hidden. She saw hands clenched until they were pale and men placing hands on their weapons.

“I’m gonna gut the cunt.” She heard someone mutter quietly.

Captain Osric remained silent, his face as cold as stone, yet there was a storm in his eyes and the same was true for the captain of the Wolf Pack.

“Well what prey tell are you waiting for. Kneel to your king.” Viserys spoke.

A fiery haired man suddenly tried to run at her brother, but he was being held back by a younger man and woman that closely resembled him.

“Kjarn, calm yourself. Borik, Skjara, hold him.” Osric ordered and the man was subdued. Then the captain approached them, and as he gazed upon them, Dany felt cold. The grey eyes of the captain were as if a blizzard was washing through them.

“You misunderstood something, boy. Our company was created by men and women who refused to kneel to your kin. Founded by Brandon Snow, brother to king Torrhen himself. We owe you nothing and offer less.” The captain spoke, his voice as cold as ice.

“My ancestor founded this company after the Dance. After we won the throne for the Blacks.” Captain Maric spoke. “The North kept faith with your House for three centuries, even after having their land taken from them, betrothals that were broken and promises that weren’t kept. Even after all this, my ancestors fought and won the throne for your kin.” Nobody spoke as the old man was talking, even Viserys didn’t even think of interrupting.

“For the fealty the North and the Starks showed, what were they repaid with? Your brother taking and raping a Stark daughter and your father murdering the Lord and the heir of Winterfell.” The voice of the old man was booming, emotion filling it as he spoke. As Dany heard the foul accusations against her family, she wanted to scream and deny it, yet before she could speak the captain continued.

“And now, more than a decade later since that foul treachery, the son of the Mad King comes demanding our fealty, to fight and kill our kin and for a reward you offer us the bloodstained seats of our cousins.” There were whispers exchanged amongst the men and women in the pavilion, yells of outrage and calls for violence as the captain all but shouted his own outrage at her brother.

“You will not find a friend here, Beggar Prince. Leave now, and take the lass with you, before you regret not asking for guest rights.” The old man finished.

“Captain, let me throttle the cunt and ill use him to blood the green boys.” The fiery haired man, Kjarn, shouted as he was being held back by his kin.

“You savages dare!” Her brother bellowed, hand on the handle of his blade. “I come to you offering friendship and you spit in my face! I will show you the wrath of the dragon!”

Everything had gone wrong. Both of them were in danger, and the dragon had been woken in her brother. Yet he did not see steel being drawn, so Daenerys gathered all of what little bravery she had.

“Please, good sers and ladies. Me and my brother, we… we have nothing. We are lost and afraid and have nowhere to turn to.” Tears welled in Dany’s eyes as she continued. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. We only wish to survive. To go home and feel safe.”

Dany cast her gaze downwards, her small form trembling. She had never felt so vulnerable. Not even as she and her brother were cast out from their home in Braavos. Not even with assassins after them.

A moment that felt like an eternity passed and finally Dany looked up towards the men and women in the pavilion. The malice was gone from the air, and she could see looks of pity, understanding and even compassion sent towards her. Viserys was trembling, his face facing down.

Another moment passed and suddenly captain Osric walked forward and knelt in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder as he looked her in her eyes. The hand felt warm and comforting, and Dany felt safe and as she looked at the man, she didn’t see the coldness of winter, she saw a gaze of understanding and comfort. And then the captain spoke.

“Lass, none understand the desire to return home more than all of us. We’ve married and mixed with the people of Essos, yet still the blood of the First men runs strong in all of us. We may not be in the North, but we still remember.” She could feel the longing in the words the man spoke. There was much that wasn’t being said she felt, but Dany was happy to not feel the hateful gazes directed towards her.

“With that said, we cannot, will not fight for your cause.” The captain then called in the two guards that were standing outside. “Jonnos and Dyr will escort you to the gate.” He said as he stood back up and returned between his men.

Her brother was trembling slightly as Dyr placed a firm hand on his shoulder and all but dragged him out of the pavilion. Dany was treated much kinder as Jonnos gently nudged her forward, almost putting himself as a protector behind her.

There was nothing said as they were taken towards the entrance of the camp. She saw a group of children playing on the streets again. Boys and girls of an age with Dany. Her eye caught a dark-haired girl with violet eyes, several shades darker of her own. She saw her laugh as she chased a tall boy with brown hair and for a moment Dany imagined herself among them. How would it be if she were but a common girl, without the name and lineage. Without her duty and burden.

She was lost in her thoughts as they were escorted to their wheelhouse. Viserys grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her inside, ordering their driver to take them North, before following her in.

Moments passed in silence, but Dany could feel something wrong.

“Brother?” She asked gently. “Are you well?”

The words barely left her lips before she felt her cheek sting, accompanied by a loud slap. She covered her cheek with her hand, feeling the skin flush as she realized that her brother had struck her.

Before she could even utter a word, another slap sounded in the wheelhouse, followed by several more.

“You little whore! You ruined everything!” Her brother yelled out as he struck her making her fall to the floor.

“You made us seem weak, you halfwit!” He struck her again, this time on the back of her head, as she turned her back trying to rise.

Tears began to fall down her face as her brother showed her what happened when she woke the dragon.

She should have been a good girl and kept silent.

“I-I’m sorry brother.” She muttered out. “I d-didn’t mean it” She was stuttering out between sobs. “Please forgive me.”

There was no strike and she could feel pain all across her body. And then there was more pain as she was yanked back by her hair as her brother pulled her back up towards him. He brought his face next to hers and she could feel his breath on her neck.

“Forgive you?” He hissed. “You humiliated me in front of those savages! You humiliated our entire House!” he yelled out, making her ears ring.

He then pushed her down to the floor of the wheelhouse, but she nearly hit the wooden seats with her face, only barely managing to brace herself with her arms.

“I’m sorry!” She cried out, tears streaming down her face along with what was left of her face paint. “I’ll never do it again! Please, brother, forgive me!” She begged him.

He pushed her down to the floor with his foot, and she closed her eyes waiting for the next strike.

Yet it never came. She opened her eyes, and found her brother looking down at her and for a second, she thought she saw regret on his face.

“The next time you wake the dragon sweet sister, this will seem like nothing.”

________________________________________

They had gone north again and during the weeks of travel Dany’s bruises had healed. She didn’t need to paint her face to cover them, nor did she have to wear long sleeves to hide the marks made as she hit the seating in the wheelhouse.

The dragon hadn’t been woken again, thankfully, however her brother didn’t fail to remind her of how she had disgraced their family.

The day before however, had made Viserys almost giddy with excitement as he had seen the Stormbreakers move south, past their wheelhouse. A guard they had hired told of their contract with the city of Myr being ended, and rumors of the Golden Company signing with the city.

He told her that it was fitting for useless ingrates to have their fortune turn for spitting on the dragon’s generosity.

As they neared Myr, Dany could see the massive city rise in the distance. She could see the many palaces and castles flecked across the city, protected by massive walls of white stone and outside she could see endless fields of grain fluttering in the wind.

Many mansions covered the outskirts, no doubt property of the many magisters of the Free City, however one thing caught her attention. She saw an encampment in the distance. It seemed much bigger than the camps of companies she had seen before. It was protected by a palisade and inside it were tents coloured gold.

She could see her brother beam at the sight as he gave the order for the driver to take them to the city.

“Hurry up! You’ll make us late!” Viserys growled as he knocked on the door to her chamber. A messenger had come just two hours before giving a reply from the captain-general of the Golden Company.

Viserys had decided on a different approach this time. Instead of pleading his case in the middle of a camp, he would take the leaders and show them a taste of the riches and glamour that serving the dragon would bring.

Daenerys was told to put on her best clothes. She put on a lilac dress made of silk, with silver lace. It had been a gift from one of their previous hosts and it showed more than she would have liked, yet her brother insisted.

Servants had already been sent, securing drink and food for their guests.

“Daenerys, open this door! Now!” Her brother screamed and she scrambled to obey.

As soon as the door opened, he barged in, his gaze travelling over her, inspecting her. She felt small, naked, unable to hide as he judged her.

“Good.” He said. His tone softer than it had been in more than a moon. “This is very important, sister. Make sure you do not ruin it.” He said, his tone taking a steely edge as he put his hand on her chin, forcing her to face him.

“You need to be perfect for me today. Do you understand?” He asked her as he brough his face near hers.

Dany could only nod in agreement, unable to find her voice.

Their guests arrived in a party of a score of men. All of them wore golden surcoats over their armour as they poured inside the inn. Three of them made their way towards Daenerys and her brother.

One of them had skin as dark as soot, while his hair was as white as snow, yet the most notable thing about him was his feathered cloak of green and orange.

The second man was unremarkable. Portly with a large round head. His thinning, grey hair was brushed sideways.

The last man scared Dany. He towered over her brother and had a big nose, a crooked jaw and big, protruding ears. His face was scowling and filled with scars.

“Men of the Golden Company!” Viserys called out with his arms spread. On his face he had a strained smile. “Welcome and enjoy the hospitality of the dragon.” He finished, earning cheers from the sellswords present.

The three captains joined him and Dany on a separate table. They were given the best cuts of meat and the finest wine and drink and soon they were laughing and sharing stories of adventure and valour.

Viserys’ smile seemed less strained as time passed and Daenerys hoped her brother’s plot bore fruit. She however wasn’t given much attention except the usual pleasantries and Dany would have preferred it as such. Something about these men gave her pause even as they laughed and jested with her brother.

Finally, her brother spoke. “Captain Toyne. I have invited you together to show you but a taste of what would come in the service of the dragon. Your ancestors were exiled many years ago and many banded together forming this company. I would have you and your men return to your ancestral homes and hold them again, should you help me take my rightful throne.”

There was silence across the inn. Even the common warriors had heard her brother’s offer. She could see Toyne look at Viserys with piercing eyes, his face starting to scowl again.

Viserys however continued undeterred. “We will crush the usurper and his lapdogs. Extinguish the traitorous Houses that betrayed my father and, in their place, I will raise up men that have shown loyalty.”

And then laughter erupted from the captain-general of the Golden Company. Not long after all of them were laughing. Viserys kept an awkward smile on his face, but she could notice his annoyance building. Soon the dragon would wake again.

“That’s the best jest I’ve heard this year. How about you Strickland?” Toyne spoke in a booming voice.

“Aye captain the lad is a funny one.” The portly man replied.

“It is not a jest sers. I want your men to stake my claim for my birthright.” Viserys said gritting his teeth.

“The Golden Company holds no loyalty to House Targaryen, boy. Our ancestors fought for Daemon Blackfyre, and then the Golden Company fought for his son Haegon. After that we fought for Haegon’s son and finally for Maelys the Monstrous after he took command.” The captain general said.

“We exist to put the blood of the rightful king on the throne, and to us lad, you are a pretender. Even worse the brood of a madman pretender.” He continued before giving an order for his men to depart.

As the men of the Golden Company made to leave, the dragon woke. “My ancestors broke the Blackfyres during their rebellions and during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre was extinguished when Maelys was killed by my grandfather’s kingsguard. I am your rightful king.”

The captain-general merely walked off with his men, before stopping as he held open the door of the inn. “Only the male line was extinguished.” He said before he left, leaving her brother shaking.

Daenerys feared her brother’s wrath, however, instead of anger, her brother dropped to his knees. She heard him sob, and she could see tears fall down his face and onto the floor.

She approached him, carefully and slowly, and placed her small hands on his shoulders, embracing him. For a moment Viserys seemed to calm, however suddenly he stiffened and pushed her away, his fury back on his face.

“You little harlot! I will not be pitied!” He yelled out as he turned towards her with his arm raised.

“Begging your pardon your grace.” A honeyed voice caused her brother to stop and turn.

A cloaked man was standing at the door. He was the girthiest man Daenerys had ever seen, with a forked yellow beard so oiled it gleamed like gold.

“Who are you?” Viserys asked.

“Only a humble merchant hoping to offer my assistance and hospitality to the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.” The man answered giving them a broad smile, showing crooked yellow teeth.

“And what would you ask in return for this boon?” Viserys asked with suspicion.

“I only hope that when his grace ascends to his rightful throne, he won’t forget his friends.” The merchant answered.

“Now come your grace, I have a wheelhouse awaiting us and escorts to accompany us to Pentos. There is much to be said there as your people await their rightful ruler.” He continued with a honeyed voice.

“Do the people truly await my return?” Viserys asked, his spirits beginning to lift.

“Of course, your grace. They are your people. They love you well. Across the realms men drink secret toasts to your health while the women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return. In holdfasts all over the lands loyal lords merely await the day when you make your claim.” The merchant spoke, and Dany could see a glint in her brother’s eyes. “Now come, it will be my greatest honour to host you in my manse until that day arrives.”

Viserys smiled at those words. “I accept your offer and when I finally have my throne, your service will not be forgotten.”

Chapter Text

Catelyn

It was still dark as she woke, yet her bed was empty regardless. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she looked around the chamber she shared with her husband, searching for her man.

She didn’t have to search for long as she saw her beloved, still in his smallclothes labouring to don his armour.

Catelyn gave herself a chuckle as she rose, moving to assist Ned.

“I hoped to not wake you.” He said as she helped him with his doublet. She remembered stitching the direwolf that stood proudly upon Ned’s breast. “There is still time before we set out.”

“Nonsense, husband. What kind of a wife would I be if I didn’t help my husband with his armour?” She said, picking up the mail shirt that was displayed on a stand. Ned bent with his arms extended as she pushed the armour around his hands and then helped him put his head through the gap.

As Ned straightened his armour fell cascading down his body, halfway down his thighs.

“You are already the finest a man could have, my love.” Ned said as he caressed her cheek with his hand.

Catelyn leaned into her husband’s hand, and as she closed her eyes, she felt his lips touch her own as they kissed chastely. The kiss didn’t remain chaste for long as passion took her as well as her husband and only through great strength of will was, she able to push him away.

“Now, husband, we went through all that trouble to garb you and you would have me take it all off of you? If that is the case you should have stayed in bed with me.” She spoke playfully.

“Can’t fault a man for desiring his wife.” Ned smiled sheepishly as Cat brought her husband’s coat of plates. It was one she had gifted him for his thirtieth nameday. The studded leather was died white and Catelyn had worked tirelessly for weeks to stitch a direwolf through it without harming the plates underneath. She even had Mikken line the inside with fur to keep him warm.

“I don’t fault you, my love.” She said, kissing his cheek. “And after last night, I shan’t be forgetting your touch anytime soon.” She smirked as she saw her husband fluster.

Cat helped Ned fasten his paulrdons, after he put on his gorget, and then assisted him in donning his couters. Ned vested his vambraces and she helped tighten the straps.

She took to her knees as Ned lifted his foot, and she helped him put his boots on. He had chosen his warmest pair, hardly ever worn, but fitting considering where her husband was going. Finally, she presented him his fur cloak.

Ned took his belt and fastened it and put sword and scabbard in the holder. Giving Cat a final kiss, he left their chamber and she remembered the other farewells she needed to make before the men were sent off.

 ________________________________________

The first light of dawn started to appear on a cloudy sky as she made her way through the level below the Lord’s chamber.

She found the chamber she was looking for and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so she tried once more.

After her fourth try, she supposed her eldest was fast asleep. Her boy seldom was an early riser after all. She opened the door and was puzzled as she found the chamber empty. Robb’s armour as well as his undergarments were displayed and untouched.

Catelyn then made her way down the hall to Jon’s chamber. Perhaps her son was helping him don his armour before going back, so she knocked again. Again, she found no answer and again she found the chamber empty same as her son’s, except the armour displayed in Jon’s chamber had been dyed black.  

Worry began to grow within her, where could have a pair of boys gone so early in the morning? Winterfell was still largely asleep, the halls empty except for a few guards and maids that worked through the night.

She found old Alebelly half sleeping. The guard had grown fat in his old age, yet he was a good and leal man who had served her husband’s House since before Ned had been born. Catelyn couldn’t remember the man’s proper name as ever since she could remember he’d been called by his moniker. Still, it was too unladylike to address a guardsman so informally.

“Goodman, have you seen my son or Jon pass recently?” She asked.

Alebelly snapped to attention, flustered he’d been caught slacking. “I-I saw them maybe half an hour ago milady.” He replied his face visibly turning red.

“Calm yourself, do you know where they went?”

“The lad, Jon mentioned swimming in the godswood pond.” The guardsman answered.

“Thank you.” Catelyn said. “And I will forget I saw you half asleep.” She smirked as she made her way past him.

The godswood in Winterfell had always unsettled Catelyn. It was a stark difference between it and the one in Riverrun. In her girlhood home the godswood was a garden, bright and airy, with tall redwoods and tinkling streams, where birds sang and the air was filled with the scent of flowers.

Here it was a place of worship. Dark and primal, acres of old, untouched forest smelling of moist earth and decay. Sentinel trees stood tall, armoured in their grey-green needles. Soldier pines, hawthorn and ash stood proudly around a clearing, where the heart tree stood tall like a pale giant overlooking a small pond filled with steaming water.

Weirdly enough Catelyn found herself feeling strangely at ease as she walked over fallen branches and leaves yet the morning mist clouded much of her sight.

She heard voices in the distance and followed the path reaching the clearing where the massive weirwood tree ruled.

“Ghost, no….. No….. Don’t you dare…..” She heard Jon’s voice calling out in the distance, followed by a splash and laughter that sounded like her son.

As the mist cleared, she was greeted with an amusing sight. Both boys were in the pond, however with them were a pair of direwolf pups. One grey and one white. The first one seemed to be basking in his bath, while the latter was on his master’s back and she could swear she saw the wolf smile.

The sight of her nephew struggling to free himself of his …pet brought a smile to Catelyn’s face, but she forced it back as she called out.

“Boys! What in the seven hells are you doing here at this time?”

“Lady Stark!”

“Mother” Both of them called out in unison as they stood up in the pond, the water reaching nearly to their chests.

It was amusing in a way. Both of them claimed to have lived years more in a bleak future, and in many ways, they showed it. The way they naturally took command of her husband’s men was like seasoned veterans and they knew the North and beyond better than any boy could, yet at that moment Catelyn could see nothing else than two boys that had been caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

Robb cleared his throat as he spoke first. “We, uh, wanted to see the sunrise from the godswood. We won’t have much time for leisure after today.”

“I’m not here to scold you.” Catelyn spoke softly. “Well not yet at least. Now it is time to make ready. It won’t do for the family of a Lord Paramount to keep his bannermen waiting.”

The direwolves jumped out of the pond and Catelyn was lost for words. The pups were only a couple of moons old, yet they were bigger than most hounds they had in the kennels. Just what did the beasts eat?

The boys coved themselves in cloth as they came out of the pond. “Come, I will help you with your armour.” She said to Robb.

“Mother, there is no need, Jon will help me with mine, and I will help him with his.” Her son protested.

“Nonsense. It is the first time that my son will be leaving on campaign. I wish to send you off properly.” Catelyn replied sternly.

“It isn’t my first time though. I think I’ve worn armour more than clothes this past year or so.” Her son replied with a sad smile.

“It’s the first time for me and I won’t listen to any objections. Now come, both of you.”

________________________________________

Arya

It was too early. Much too early. At least a couple of hours before she usually woke. She hadn’t even broken her fast yet. Still her mother woke her and she was scrubbed and dressed in her finest lady clothes.

Sansa was waiting a perfect lady as always as they made their way to the courtyard. Bran was already there, together with his silly friends. All of them would be remaining in Winterfell after Father had made the request to his bannermen. Lucky for Bran, he would have someone to play with. The girls that came would be returning to their lands and even if some had remained, Arya wasn’t particularly close to any of them.

Even Jon and Robb would be going. She remembered the day before, she begged Jon to take her with them, but her brother had only ruffled her hair and promised a big present if she remained and behaved while they were away.

“No promises.” She had said to him and both of them had burst into laughter. Robb had called him away soon after. ‘Older brother business’ Robb had called it. She didn’t believe him.

She arrived on the ramparts overlooking the courtyard with her mother and Sansa. Bran and the boys were excitedly jumping around and screaming with glee. As she moved her gaze to the courtyard below, she could see why.

Mounted men filled the courtyard to the brim. Many of them wore the Stark colours. Her family’s colours. There were banners of nearly every Northern House fluttering in the morning wind. Father rode at the head, followed by her brothers. They looked almost like the knights from the stories Sansa liked. Arya however only wanted to be down there too, wearing armour and ahorse.

Her gaze met Jon’s who gave her a smile and winked. Robb waved at her grinning, while father gave a solemn smile. Arya turned towards her mother and she could see the worry on her face. Arya was worried too. Father as well as both her older brothers were leaving, and she knew they might not come back. All the more reason she should be able to go too. To protect them as much as she could.

Father brought up a horn and its sound boomed across Winterfell. The men cheered as they began to ride away from them. More than half the household guard was leaving with her father as well as a hundred men sworn to House Stark. There were Manderly knights riding destriers, clansmen riding garrons, Glover men lightly armoured on lithe horses as well as Hornwood men clad in heavy plate and many more. She remembered her father bringing some of the hedge knights from the tourney into the service of Winterfell and most of them were leaving as well. She could even see Bran’s informal sword teacher riding behind Jon. Even the lordlings that made friends with her older brothers were going.

As the final riders made their way out of Winterfell, the gates closed and suddenly, the entire keep seemed quiet.

“I can’t wait to go on my first campaign when I’m older!” Bran exclaimed. “Riding at the head of an army like a true knight.” Her little brother was visibly brimming with excitement, as were his friends. Arya, however, felt longing. She wanted it too, to ride towards an adventure and fight at her brothers’ side.

Suddenly she grinned. “I’ll bet you a golden dragon I’ll go on one before you do.” She said to her brother. As she spoke, she could feel her mother’s shocked gaze on her and could already hear the scolding. A proper lady this, daughter of a lord paramount that.

“But you’re a lady, you can’t go on campaign.” Larence Snow interjected looking confused.

“Well said, young man. A lady’s place is at her household, running the House, not on the road.” Her mother said and Arya felt a familiar feeling.

So, she gave Bran a smack on the back of his head and took off running. It helped just a tad.

“Arya! Wait! You- “Bran was shouting as he began to chase her down the stairs and into the courtyard, but she was already far enough away to not hear him. He might be peerless on the walls, but the streets were Arya’s.

 She reached her hiding place, an old storage room, where servants rarely passed and she thought. She was going to do something about her bet.

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Jon

There was a thin layer of summer snow outside the walls of Winterfell. Jory was riding in front bearing the direwolf banner of House Stark. Behind the captain of the household guard rode Lord Stark himself, with Robb and Jon following just behind.

Further behind were the Lords of the North and other bannermen, knights and sworn swords. Half the Winterfell guard was accompanying them, as well as the personal guards of the Lords and their heirs. Lord Cerwyn had a part of his own household guard ride out from Castle Cerwyn the day before.

Jon felt a sense of familiarity as they rode down the road from Winterfell as they made their way to the village of Whitegate, where the path joined the Kingsroad. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he had gone down that path, except this time, his father would be going north, to the Wall, while Jon and his brother would be riding across the North, rallying men from the Houses south of Winterfell.

As the morning passed Jon could make out a crumbling gatehouse and ruined walls of white stone. To the east he could see a solitary guard tower watching over the crossroad between the road home and the Kingsroad.

Ghost and Grey Wind broke into a run and Jon could feel the delight of his wolf as he played in the snow with his brother.

Lord Stark led the column of men towards the crossroad and Jon could see the Stark banner wave proudly from the tower, with a handful of men standing vigil over vast grasslands.

A single blast from a horn greeted them as the guards all presented themselves to Jon’s father, bending their knees. Jon gazed upon the men, and couldn’t help but admire their arms and armour. Their gambesons and surcoats had been patchwork and he could see the age of their mail and helms. Their shields were dented or splintered and even their leader fared little better. A coat of scale upon his breast gleaming golden in the sunlight, yet Jon could see the wear upon it. A sturdy helm of iron, freshly polished yet there were scratches that bore deep and chunks had been lost from time.

The care these men had put into their gear was admirable, yet Jon admonished himself. Men sworn to Winterfell, only leagues from the keep itself relying on little more than scraps to keep their lands safe. Their path was still long and there was much work to be done to prepare the North and the Kingdoms as a whole.

The leader of the guards approached their father, removing his helm. It was a younger man than Jon expected, yet still quite older than Jon’s current form.

“Hail Lord Stark!” The man spoke loudly and clearly. “We did not expect your visit. Our outpost can offer little except water, bread and salt. Please, if you follow me, my father will be honoured to host you in Whitegate.”

Father smiled at the man. “You have my thanks, Alden. We accept your generosity, however the day has only started and our road is long. Do tell chief Tymor that I shall visit your hall upon my return.”

“By your will Lord Stark. Father will be honoured to house a Stark in our halls once again. Father used to tell me of when Lord Rickard would visit while on his hunts.” Alden said with reverence and then turned to his men.

“Alright you lazy sons of whores, bring bread and salt and drink for Lord Stark and his retinue! Move it Rurik! On your feet Joss!” There was no more reverence in his voice.

As the poor guardsmen scurried about to obey their orders, the column dismounted and a rest was called.

It was then that Father brought Jon and Robb on a small hill near the tower. Once they were out of earshot he spoke.

“Robb, you are my eldest. My heir. The North will look to you for guidance. Lead justly and with honour as a Stark should as you’ve done before already.”

“I will father.” Robb answered softly.

He turned towards Jon. “Jon, you are my son and soon you will bear my name. May the Old Gods guide you and your brother and keep you from harm. Rely and protect each other, for Winter is Coming and only the pack survives.”

“We will, father. The North will be prepared for what is to come, and our family will not suffer, not this time.” Jon answered with conviction.

Father and sons shared an embrace, as the sun made the summer snow glitter.

________________________________________

“We’ll see you at the Wall.” Uncle Benjen said as they shared an embrace with Jon. Robb said his farewells to father, and then they changed.

“Keep each other safe.” Lord Stark said.

“We will, father.” Jon replied.

Throughout the column fathers were embracing sons. Torrhen and Eddard Karstark parted with their father and eldest brother, Cley said his farewells to Lord Cerwyn, Daryn to his own father. Even Domeric was with his own parent, though it seemed a sullen affair. Few words were exchanged between the Lord of the Dreadfort and his son as the latter mounted his horse.

“Now remember. Give this to your uncle Leobald, he’ll know what to do.” Lord Tallhart spoke to Benfred and his cousin, Brandon. “And keep Lord Stark’s boys safe. Especially when you’re passing through our lands.”

“Worry not, father. I’ll keep my friends safe.” Benfred spoke. Then he shoved his cousin on the shoulder. “Ill even take care of this halfwit while im at it.”

Brandon refused to take his cousin’s antics laying down as he returned the shove. “Maybe learn to put your chainmail without help first, eh?”

Before the pair could go on with their usual antics, Lord Tallhart pushed them apart.

“Behave, both of you.” He said sternly. “I’m having Branthor and Vorik ride with you to Torrhen’s square. Leobald will prepare additional men when you arrive.”

“Yes Father.”

“Yes Uncle.” The pair said in unison.

Jon turned to see Cley sneak a farewell to Jorelle Mormont. The pair of she-bears would be going with Father, straight to the Wall, yet it seemed that the Cerwyn heir would prefer for at least one of the sisters to travel with Jon and Robb’s group.

He turned back and mounted his horse, holding back a chuckle in his throat. Robb was already mounted and turned towards Jon with a knowing smirk upon his face.

Porther was carrying the Stark Banner and the guards accompanying each of their companions carried the banners of the various noble Houses the boys hailed from. Edd and Emmett had made themselves Jon’s sworn swords, even though Jon had accepted no oath, so both accompanied him. Father had assigned Gabrin as well to guard them, with Waymar Royce the commander of the guards. It was a test Robb had convinced father of giving the Valeman. Theon had talked his way into coming, and he brought a boy with him. Nayt, he called him and claimed him to be his squire. Alas the poor lad couldn’t ride a horse yet, so Theon was forced to share his own.

The much larger group went north, with two large direwolves accompanying them from a distance, hidden in nearby trees, while Robb and Jon’s party, of little more than two dozen headed south with two young direwolves, barely more than pups, running forward without a care. His companions were chattering happily and there was good cheer as the leagues passed.

They had barely started preparing, and the road would only get harder, yet Jon allowed himself to enjoy the moment as a slight smile formed on his face.

Chapter Text

Robb

He could almost forget. It was almost easy. Summer snow was lightly falling on the countryside as he rode down the Kingsroad with his companions. Grey Wind ran in the front as he chased his brother Ghost through snowy fields. At moments he had difficulty noticing his brother’s direwolf, hidden by the snows.

Jon was on his right with many of the heirs of Northern lords riding behind them. There had been a case of nerves as they set out away from their fathers, to nearly all their first adventure even though it was through their homeland.

It was surprisingly Domeric who broke the ice. “So, Lord Torrhen, what say you? I believe that a force of mounted men will always carry the day on the field.”

Robb could agree to a point, after all he had used the Northern heavy cavalry to win quite a few of his battles. Yet the Northern heavy foot was peerless. The fierce and hardy men of their lands were more than a match for any foe on the field.

“Ha, there is nothing like besting a worthy foe with your own hands, with your own strength!” The Karstark yelled out.

“Oh, come on Torrhen, you’re just grumpy because you still fall on your arse during a gallop.” Daryn spoke suddenly, causing chuckles to rise from the surrounding boys, as Torrhen flushed red in his cheeks.

“Oh, you ginger cunt, ill shove my axe so far up your arse that lump in your throat is going to be its head!” He yelled out brandishing his great axe.

Robb sighed as he was about to interrupt them, however he was beaten to it by Jon.

“Heavy cav is indeed powerful, Lord Domeric.” Robb’s brother started, as he rubbed one hand on his chin. The heir of Bolton showed a grin while Torrhen started frowning even harder. “But without foot there will be no battle to be won.” Jon continued and the face of their Karstark friend lit up like a bonfire on harvest night. The smirk faded on Domeric’s face but he showed a look of resignation.

“Besides, father always said you can’t charge a prepared line.” Cley added suddenly.

“Aye, a charge may scare a bunch of untrained levies, but good hardy Northmen won’t take even a step back.” Torrhen spoke proudly.

Robb finally saw the chance to interject. “A good army needs both equally. You can’t win with only one or the other. You use the foot to hold down a position, luring in your enemy while allowing your cav to flank and hit them from behind.”

He saw Torrhen give him an empty look, when suddenly Benfred asked. “And what about their cav?”

Robb smiled. “You only need some very good bait.”

As he said no more the rest of his companions began discussing their favourite stratagems and tactics, and Robb couldn’t help but enjoy the discussion. Last time around, when Jon had left for the Wall and he had marched South, there was little time for theory, and even less when he had been crowned. By then he had to show confidence and certainty in his decisions.

But now he was no longer Robb Stark first of his name, King of the North and Trident, he was again plain old Robb Stark the heir to Winterfell. He had the liberty to let the king’s mask fall and enjoy himself again.

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As the day passed, they stumbled on an abandoned waystop and decided to stop for a luncheon. The structure resembled an inn, however it was destitute. The floor was dirty and the floorboards were broken in many places. Shutters were missing from the windows and the roof had several holes. They found some tables and chairs and used some of them for firewood.

Nayt brought out some of their supplies and Porther began roasting some bacon over the flames. They each took a loaf of bread and a few slices of cheese and ate their humble meal then washed it down with ale.

Father would have them cleaning the stables for a fortnight if he caught them, or he would have before he learned that in truth both he and Jon were men grown in boys’ bodies. That wasn’t the case for their companions, but there was no harm in a cup or two of ale, when he knew what awaited them in their near future.

With warm food in their bellies their spirits lifted as they mounted their horses. Theon’s young squire diligently packed the leftover food and Robb made a note to remember the location. There was good land nearby and he could see a village sprout in the future.

Perhaps the abandoned waystop could be a reward to a worthy man for service given and made into a holdfast for a masterly house. It was half a day’s ride from Winterfell and it could keep watch on the Southern approach. It was near Castle Cerwyn as well, and could be used as a staging point for men from both houses.

As Robb contemplated the uses of the land, he heard his companions chanting for a song. He turned to his right and saw his brother rub his eyes in frustration before muttering “Fine”.

The chanting stopped as Jon began

The sun is fast fallin' beneath trees of stone
The light in the tower, no longer my home
Past eyes of pale fire, black sand for my bed
I trade all I've known for the unknown ahead

Call to me, call to me lands far away
For I must now wander this wandering day
Away I must wander this wandering day

Of drink I have little, and food I have less
My strength tells me, "No", but the path demands, "Yes"
My legs are so short and the way is so long
I've no rest nor comfort, no comfort but song

Sing to me, sing to me lands far away
Oh, rise up and guide me this wandering day
Please, promise to find me this wandering day

At last, comes their answer through cold and through frost
That not all who wonder or wander are lost
No matter the sorrow, no matter the cost
That not all who wonder or wander are lost

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The last light of the day was slowly fading away as Castle Cerwyn appeared on the horizon. The west branch of the White Knife was calmly flowing below the small hill that the ancient castle overlooked. Robb’s party formed behind him and it was Cley Cerwyn that grabbed his hunting horn. He blew a single note that echoed across the river and hill in a deep, even melody.

A second horn sounded in the distance, this one a clear high-pitched sound. There was no second time.

“Come, lads. My sister will be waiting for us, and I don’t want to be late for supper.” The Cerwyn heir spoke as he took the lead. It was only fitting that the youth led them, it was his home they were visiting after all.

As they made the approach on the castle, Robb took his time observing the area. He had visited many times before, yet it was his first time since he returned. He had never paid attention to how well defended the small castle was.

Around a single approach, the hill had been separated into levels, divided by a steep slope. The land between the slopes was being used for the cultivation of crops, as it was much easier to till land that was flattened, yet Robb could imagine how difficult it would be for an attacking force to approach.

On one side a river with a small cliff, and on the other several levels with a single road to approach from. As one of the last lines of defense before Winterfell, it was a worthy bastion. And that was even before reaching the walls themselves. The sturdy grey walls weren’t particularly tall, especially in comparison to his own home, however they were made of large solid blocks of hard grey stone and any army would have a hard time breaking through them.

As they approached the gates, Robb saw guards diligently placed both on the battlements and the gatehouse, with a patrol awaiting them at the entrance.

The Cerwyn household guard were well armed and armoured, with polished helms and spears and large wooden shields bearing the axe of Cerwyn. They wore gambeson and mail with some even wearing scale.

Inside the walls, the courtyard had been cleared and a group of people were awaiting them. Robb could recognize Cley’s sister, a plump and plain woman, a decade his elder. He recognized the Condon sigil on two of the men, both dark of hair and wearing armour. One looked to be an age of the Lady Cerwyn while the other looked nearer to Robb.

He recognized some of the minor lordly and masterly houses sworn to Cerwyn, but his mind had trouble remembering them. Perhaps a review of the book on northern nobility was warranted. These were his people, that would one day fight and perhaps die for his House, it was dishonorable to not at least remember their House.

The party dismounted and Lady Jonelle moved to greet them. She bowed slightly as she stood across from him. “I greet you my Lords and offer you the hospitality of Castle Cerwyn. Lord Stark the castle is yours.” She spoke the words addressed to Robb in a husky tone, and Robb was almost certain she had different meaning than simple hospitality.

She turned to a pair of servant girls. “Bread and salt for these fine men.” Jonelle spoke, her tone husky, and Robb found himself wiping off a cold bead of sweat.

He was suddenly reminded when they were about to march South, and Lord Medger had brought the Lady along to Winterfell, offering her services as Robb’s private cook.

Theon had jested at the time, that Robb would find the woman in his bed one night instead, and now Robb had to admit that the Ironborn’s words were likely true.

The girls brought a tray filled with pieces of bread and a bowl filled with salt.

“My Lords you are welcome in Castle Cerwyn.” Jonelle spoke with authority, the flirty air of her words before gone as if they never existed. “Please accept the bread and salt and know that while you share our table, no harm shall befall you.” She continued as she took a piece of bread and dipped it in the salt. She then proceeded to offer the piece to Robb.

There was a hint of mischief in her eyes as she moved to feed the piece to Robb, but he was steadfast and he took the piece in his hand. “We accept your hospitality Lady Cerwyn, and I thank you in the name of House Stark.”

The girls moved through Robb’s party. Jon accepted the offering after him, followed by the rest of their companions. Cley was the only one to not take it, as it was his own home.

“Now Lord Stark.” Lady Cerwyn spoke as the tray and bowl were emptied. “We have prepared a feast and chambers for you and your men. But before that, these are the honoured bannermen of House Cerwyn.” She said, gesturing to the men and women gathered behind her. “I have taken the liberty of calling them and their men to aid you and your House.”

She proceeded to introduce them to Robb, and he was thankful for it. It would have been a blunder had he failed to remember their names and houses.

Now he made a point to repeat each name and title as the nobles bowed to him. Master Barthogan of Smokeheave. A large man, with a wild beard and hair the colour of straw. He had brought with him ten of his best men, including his eldest, Kellan.

Master Ecton of Lord’s Sight, a large watchtower overlooking the White Knife at the border of the Cerwyn lands. A plain, willowy man, that brought five of his rangers with him.

Master Donnor of Candlerton, a small village in the forest near Castle Cerwyn. He only brought three men with him, but each could pass for a man of the Stark Household guard. They wore polished breastplates and visored helms, and the master boasted a horse of good stock for each.

Mistress Aisling of the Sharp Mills. She had only a handful men to give, but had offered grain and flour for their journey as well as pack mules and horses and would be travelling with them to the Wall.

Robb had already known Lord Condon of Eagle Cross. He had met Ser Kyle during his campaign south and again during the feast and tourney at Winterfell. The knight’s brother Wylis was the guardian of the south border of Cerwyn lands. However, he had been injured as a child, losing much of the use of his left leg. The youngest brother Enger a squire, training to be one of the renowned barrow knights of the North. He remembered their cavalrymen riding with him towards the Whispering wood, the Red Wings they called themselves and put painted feathers on their backs as if they were eagles themselves.

Perhaps soon he would see them fly again.

________________________________________

Waymar

“There is still some honor in serving the Watch.” His father had told him before they parted. “Though it is little. You are young still and the Wall wont melt if you wait a winter or two before saying your vows there. Watch, learn and experience the love of a woman before you forsake everything for duty.”

A third son, he had little prospects. No lady would want a third son who stood to inherit nothing. Runestone was prosperous, however there wouldn’t be a holdfast given to either him or Robar. A landless title and a quiet life in his father’s halls was not something Waymar wanted for himself, and the Night’s Watch was a place where he could rise high.

The trip to Winterfell did shatter his illusions. He had counted himself as one of the better fighters, yet in hindsight, he had mostly fought squires and men sworn to Runestone. His father and elder brother being better warriors was a given, older than him and more experienced, and he could hold his own against any knight in his father’s service.

Yet that melee showed him a different sight. When the chaos of battle sounded around him, he could show little of his mettle. Nameless warriors and unknown knights almost bested him, as he was saved only by luck, before a Northman clansman soundly beat him.

Then Lord Stark had approached him and his father in the hopes of taking Waymar into the service of Winterfell and he was torn. His father’s words were what convinced him to take the offer. After all he was right, and Lord Stark wouldn’t stop him if he decided to swear himself to the Watch in the future.

For now however, he was a knight sworn to House Stark and Winterfell, and his first duty was safeguarding Lord Stark’s heir and bastard as they frolicked through the North with their friends.

 Their first destination was little more than half a day’s ride from where they set off. It was puzzling to Waymar how a House so close to the Starks and sworn directly to them would have such vast holdings of their own. Young Cley had eagerly spoken about his family’s history, their long and loyal service o House Stark.

The lad spoke of how thousands of years before, then Clan Cerwyn had pledged fealty to the Starks, and have been their loyal friends ever since. He spoke of how one of his ancestors had been the closest friend of Cregan Stark and fought beside him during the Dance, he spoke of how the current Lord Cerwyn had marched his men to the aid of Lord Eddard during Robert’s rebellion and again during the Greyjoy uprising. Cley finished his tale with his desire to follow his father’s and ancestors’ footsteps and be a good Lord and Bannerman. Waymar could respect the lad. It wasn’t a bad goal.

As Castle Cerwyn came into view, Waymar was taken aback from just how fortified his new friend’s home was. They had certainly taken their duties as a southern shield for Winterfell to heart.

________________________________________

There wasn’t much space, however Stark men were given preference, so Waymar found himself sharing a large chamber with Gabrin and Porther, two men of the Stark household guard and for now his direct subordinates, Emmett, a lad not yet of age, but had managed to sneak into the melee at Winterfell, and even managed to best a foe. Edd, he knew, he was also headed for the Wall when they shared passage to White Harbour and the fellow Valeman joined him and his father to Winterfell. Both lads had ended up swearing their swords to Jon Snow of all people.

The final person sharing a chamber with them was Nayt, a little boy that had been taken as a squire by Greyjoy.

As the men and boys changed from their travel clothes, there was a knock on the door. A moment later a young servant girl entered. “Excuse me mil-“ The girl started to say but then stopped as she turned beet red and slammed the door shut as she retreated from the chamber.

“What was that about?” Nayt asked tilting his head. Waymar gazed around the chamber, finding half the men in only their breeches and himself as bare as the day he was born.

“It seems our charms know no bounds. Even maids are running away from us.” Edd Tollett said earning a chuckle from Emmett. Porther had a sheepish grin on his face, while Gabrin was blushing almost as much as the maid.

Waymar sighed, rubbing his eyes. He quickly put on his smallclothes and headed for the door. “Miss, are you still there?” He asked, as he slowly pushed the door open.

He found the girl huddled up by the wall, hiding her face with her arms. From what Waymar could see she was redder than a hearths ember.

He slowly approached the girl and knelt next to her. She seemed lost in her thoughts as he nudged her. “Lass, are you well?” he asked with a hand on her shoulder

She stiffened under his touch as she slowly lifted her head to look at him. “I-I’m sorry milord, I d-didn’t mean to….” She trailed off.

Waymar chuckled. “No harm done miss, our virtues are intact.” He jested. The girl relaxed a little under his touch as the redness faded from her face. A moment passed in silence and then another. Judging the lass had calmed enough, Waymar spoke.

“So, I doubt you came to sneak a peak on some guardsmen.” He started and the maid’s head snapped towards him, her eyes wide as a blush started to appear again. “It was a jest, my lady. But why were you at our chambers?”

The girl managed to compose herself. “Lady Cerwyn bid me to fetch you and the rest of the men for the feast. I am to take you to the great hall.”

________________________________________

It was…… a feast. Robb Stark and his brother were at the high table along with Lady Cerwyn and Cley. Those among their group who were heirs were given some of the few remaining seats along with Eddard Karstark. The lords sworn to Castle Cerwyn accompanied them. Waymar could see just how much enjoyment the boys took exchanging pleasantries with Lords for the past hours.

Waymar was perfectly content sitting with the other warriors. Torrhen had failed to pace himself and was soon laughing hysterically with a loud booming laugh, that had disappeared some time during the feast as he had dragged poor young Brandon Tallhart to ride unsaddled horses in the dark.

Nayt had snuck himself wine, somehow, even with half a dozen men watching the lad, and had promptly passed out after he downed his cup. Porther and Gabrin in a show of sense, something Waymar believed theyd lack, took the boy and retired for the night.

That left Waymar with dull drinking companions. Eddard had been a quiet one. Hells if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought him Snow’s brother. A pair of cups into him and he looked even more dour.

And then there was Eddison Tollett. “You ever notice how the more you drink the less you think about impending doom?” He asked Eddard. Then he stiffened and sighed dejected. “Never mind I just thought about it.”

The Karstark lad was looking at him, squinting his eyes, slightly swaying his head.

Then Tollett stood up and raised his cup. “I raise my cup to the things that keep us going” He started in a voice loud enough to turn a fair few heads towards their table. “Mainly the fear of what happens if we stop.” He finished his toast, and Waymar had enough.

None too soon Lady Cerwyn called the dance. Men and women, lords and ladies all started rising and heading to the floor and Waymar followed. He gave one last glance to the pair of companions, and both seemed content to drink in each other’s company.

His first partner was one of the Cerwyn handmaids. He entertained her for much of the first song, before being asked to switch by one of the guards. Left with no partner he walked across the floor. Robb Stark was dancing with the Lady of the castle, and he could see Cley dance with a girl he did not recognize.

Waymar felt a hand on his shoulder. As he turned, he was met by a tall lady. She was easily as tall as him, though he would claim to be taller by a hair. She wore her ashen blond hair in a long braid that fell down her back.

She wore a fox fur cloak and a red woolen dress that brought out her cerulean eyes, over a brown tunic. She wore a leather headband and a large leather belt decorated with bronze.

“Care for a dance, soldier?” She asked him in a husky voice and Waymar was smitten.

“Of course, my lady, it would be an honour.” He replied in a hurry trying to calm himself.

Everything was a blur. One dance became two and those two became many. She matched him drink for drink and he found his newfound company pleasant. And thus, he continued enjoying the lady’s, Lady Aisling’s company.

________________________________________

His head hurt. It more than hurt, there was a dull pounding as he felt something pulsing inside it. Everything felt foggy for Waymar as he slowly came to.

As he opened his eyes, he found himself in an unfamiliar place. He wasn’t in the chamber he shared with the men, and he realized he had no clothes on.

He sat on the bed, still covered in furs and sheets, as he rubbed his eyes and head, trying to clear his thoughts. It was a mystery what happened to him the night before. Waymar tried his best to gather his thoughts, but he failed, until he heard the voice.

“Good morning, soldier.” A familiar voice spoke to him sleepily. There was a hint of amusement that Waymar could feel and suddenly he felt cold. Memories of the night before rushed into his head. Leaving the lads, the dances, meeting the lady, and….. everything after.

He managed to turn to face her after a moment, yet just a glance at her face made him focus on her lips, and memories of those lips haunted his mind as he flushed beet red.

“I don’t remember you being so shy, soldier.” Lady Aisling spoke, crawling over to his side of the bed, as she laid her head down in his lap, gazing up at him.

Waymar stayed silent, and the amusement faded from her face. “Do you regret what happened?” She asked him, her tone stinging with hurt, as she sat next to him, covering her bare body with the furs.

The words broke him out of his daze as he snapped his head towards her. “No. No! My Lady, its only, I took advantage, it wasn’t the knightly thing to do. We aren’t even courting” He spoke, voicing the thoughts that were passing through his head.

There was a moment of silence, before it broke under the Lady’s beautiful laugh. Waymar found that he liked hearing it.

“Is that what has you all sullen?” She asked reassuringly. “I seem to remember taking just as much advantage as you, soldier.” Aisling continued, her smile back on her face.

She placed a hand to his face, grasping it gently. “And if courting is what you’re worried about, you have my permission to court me on our trip.”

Waymar found himself leaning towards her smiling face, his gaze focused in her deep blue eyes as their lips met, and he believed that somehow, he had died and ascended to one of the seven heavens.

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Chapter Text

Ned

It was the first time he had ridden out at the head of a host of men in nearly a decade. He had hoped never again after the Greyjoy rebellion, yet once again duty called and once again Eddard Stark answered.

The threat that his son had spoken of in the North was something that House Stark fought and defeated long ago, almost beyond memory. Many even in the North, even himself until recently thought the Others, legends and tales to scare children. The wildlings were those that preyed on his people and pillaged and raided Northern villages. Yet now he rode to try and make peace with their age-old enemy and to unite against a threat of legend.

His fierier vassals hadn’t held their tongues with their opinions on Ned and his sons’ plans. Yet their loyalty and the respect they held for him and his kin ran deep and he would have a chance to convince them.

What didn’t help Ned was the rumours that had started. Men, women and children witnessing his host of banners traversing up the Kingsroad towards the Wall told their tales and soon many believed he rode to put down the wildling threat for good.

The rumours brought many to seek his host out. Ealdormen and village elders came with what few men they could muster, sometimes only with a handful of men. Many of them were poorly armed and armoured, and on most Ned could see old pieces of mismatched armour under tabards bearing an almost faded depiction of the Stark direwolf. Strangely pride filled the Lord Paramount of the North. These men had answered a call he hadn’t sent, bearing his House’s colours. He felt awed as he gazed upon the faces of the men who arrived daily. Many were familiar to him. Visibly older than he remembered but familiar nonetheless. Others were too young for him to have led into war, but he had no doubt that a father or uncle had given service to House Stark before.

Less than a week on the road and he saw the banners of House Brokenfir of Broken Fir Hold riding toward them. A small masterly house with a small wooden holdfast just off the Kingsroad, yet still the white Fir tree with a lightning bolt running through it flew proudly at the head of three dozen men.

He recognized the leader of the men. Master Garret Brokenfir. He remembered seeing the younger man, a long time ago now. The previous Master of Broken Fir Hold had perished at Pyke, leaving his not yet grown son to take up his mantle.

“What in the bloody hells!?” the GreatJon exclaimed. There was clear annoyance in the voice of the Umber Lord. “Did this damned fool call his levies?” He continued.

“Let me speak to the boy.” Ned spoke. Spurring his steed onwards, with the GreatJon and Benjen following behind him. Ser Rodrik, Donnis and Harwin followed behind them as did guards from House Umber.

“My Lord Stark!” The young man greeted with his arm raised as soon as they were near.

“Master Brokenfir.” Ned inclined his head in greeting. “What brings you here?”

“The smallfolk have been telling tales of your quest to rid the North of the savage wildling raids. The men of Broken Fir Hold would aid you in this task.” The youth spoke full of vigour and confidence. Ah to be so young again, Ned thought. Yet he couldn’t help but remember a youth cut short by tragedy. He decided to be truthful with the minor noble.

“Subjugation isn’t the purpose of our travels.” Ned started. “We plan to go beyond the Wall to investigate dark rumours.” He spoke vaguely.

The lordling’s expression almost visibly fell from disappointment. Ned had no doubt the lad had hopes of glory beyond the Wall. Wonderlust was the folly of many youths after all. Hells he remembered how both Robb and Jon would talk of great adventures across the Narrow Sea or beyond the Wall, before they had become their future selves. Again, children forced to grow too quickly because of strife. He only hoped some slivers of innocence remained in his sons.

“My men and I would still accompany you my Lord, if it please you.” Lord Brokenfir spoke after a moment of silence.

Ned almost let his Lord’s face slip in a smile. The lad reminded him much of his sons, when they doubled down on a decision after being caught in the wrong. At least he seemed a good enough man. “And we gladly accept you and yours in our host.” He finally added.

Soon enough the column was on the move again. They had a long way to go to the Wall.

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As the days passed, the ranks of Ned’s force swelled. Every village they passed would offer men to join their cause, despite Ned’s reluctance to grow their forces for the expedition to the Wall. Men would approach them even mid travel, nearly begging to be allowed to join in service.

First it was an old greybeard with an eye patch and missing a hand. He wore old, rusted mail, under a ragged tabard with a faded grey direwolf. His helm was dented in places, and the shield he wore had seen use. With him came a group of ten. Two of them were greybeards, all of them as scarred as their gear. Another two, Ned would argue old enough to be levied, but the rest of them were little more than boys. All of them wore Stark colours, even if some had just taken white sheets over mismatched and barely functioning armour.

They all knelt as they approached them, with the old man speaking for the group. “Milord, me and mine have come all the way from Berken’s Meadow. I ask that you give us the chance to prove ourselves under your banner.”

With a heavy heart Ned would refuse, more men on foot and untrained as well, would slow them. They had no supply train for a large force and most importantly, Ned didn’t wish to take men not sworn into service into danger, not again. Still most would follow and find their camp again and again, sometimes well after nightfall.

“Hang a few of them and the rest will disperse.” Roose Bolton offered in an even eerie tone. All it served to do was silence the whispering among Ned’s bannermen.

“You go too far, Bolton, you would have us kill good, innocent Northmen!?” Lord Cerwyn finally answered, raising his voice.

“I say let them come.” The Greatjon spoke up. “They ask no wages, no supplies, if they want to smash some wildling heads beyond the wall, who are we to refuse them?” Murmurs of agreement sounded across Ned’s command tent.

“A show of force could be useful.” Lord Hornwood added. “In only a few days they’ve grown to more than a hundred. By the time we reach Last Hearth, there will be more.”

“A show of force? With this rabble? They can’t even be called levies.” Rickard Karstark argued.

“Give’em a few weeks of marching like they’ve been, and they’ll give the guardsmen a run for their money.” The GreatJon added. “I see that greybeard drilling them after we set up camp as well. Gods know these lads show more fire than most smallfolk.”

It was a headache that would keep growing. “I shall speak with them. I’ll make my decision by dawn.” Ned said ending the debate.

The council with his lords carried on discussing the state of their supplies, plotting the campsites they would make on during their travel North. They would probably need to stop through several of the larger settlements to resupply especially if they kept receiving more of the Northern gentry in their swelling host.

Finally, Ned released his bannermen for the night, to return to their own parts of the camp, while he took off, taking Jory and old Donnis with him. He walked through the array of tents filled with Stark men, most setting up campfires and resting with their fellows.

In the outskirts of their encampment, past the sentries the tents of the smallfolk that had trickled in were set up. Large bonfires were lit and men from all over the lands they passed were gathered sharing tales and making merry.

As Ned walked through the area the men rose and cleared the way for him. Some greeted him with small nods and others gave light bows. Most that had not already retired for the night were grouped around campfires. A few Ned saw were bearing arms and walking around the outskirts of the little encampment. Near the center of the camp, he saw what he was looking for.

The greybeard that offered his service along with a handful of other villagers was up and about, shield and spear in his arms, surrounded by the other older men, as they demonstrated a fighting formation of spears to younger onlookers.

“Ya must keep pace with each other.” He yelled out. “If one of ya goes in too fast, or falls behind, it’ll leave a gap.”

As the old man scanned the faces of the smallfolk men, both youthful and old watching him, he noticed Ned and his guards approach.

The practice was put on hold as the greybeard bowed his head. “Milord Stark, we are honoured by yer presence in our camp.” As soon as the man spoke, there was a shuffling among the smallfolk men gathered there as they turned to see their Lord. Some quickly bowed their heads, others scrambled away from his path, while most merely retreated away from around Ned and his men.

“I would have words with you goodman if we may share your fire.” Ned spoke.

The greybeard gestured with his hand towards the campfire. “There will always be a place for a Stark at our hearth.” He replied.

As both men made their way and sat on the hard ground curious onlookers gathered trying to listen in on the words between lord and subject.

The greybeard was called Osgar, Ned learned. He’d fought for the Starks during Robert’s rebellion along with his father and two brothers, where both his father and elder brother perished. He had then again fought during the Greyjoy rebellion and had been in the first wave storming the walls of Pyke.

Osgar spoke of his family, how hed settled down, owning a small farmhouse with his brother’s family just outside Berken’s Meadow. He spoke with pride of his three sons and daughter, how his eldest was expecting a babe of his own, while his youngest had joined him on this trip. His brother had died but had left a plentiful brood of his own, in fact two of his nephews had come along with them.

“Why then would you wish for battle when you are blessed with a caring family, a good home, health and happiness?” Ned asked.

Osgar sighed. “I have long passed fifty, milord. I fear the next winter will be my last.” He spoke somberly. “I can feel it in my bones, it will be the hardest one in a long time and I would rather fall in battle, in the service of the Stark, than go on a hunt I will not return from.”

Ned gazed in the flames, contemplating the words. “Torrick is young, compared to his brothers. I’ve not enough to leave him for a life in the village, and there is no more space for homes on our land. The lad had always had an interest for adventure and legends, so I taught him to march and make a camp, to hunt and forage and I taught him the spear as much as I knew.”

One of the other greybeards sat next to Osgar. “I lost my eldest at Pyke milord. Came back home and my youngest had died of a fever. Wife left soon after. There aint much more an old soldier like me has, other than drink and wait to die. Rather take one or two of them wildlings with me first.”

There was a somber silence then. Ned turned to gaze around, and he could see many there with hard, downcast eyes. It wasn’t anything grand, old men wanting a warrior’s death and young looking for glory, yet could Ned deny them this? Their task wasn’t war with the wildlings, but to scout and find evidence of the Others. Treating with the wildling clans as well if he could persuade his Lords and the Night’s Watch to allow them to settle on the promise of peace, yet Jon had warned them. They were dealing with a proud and stubborn people, that had as much hate for those that lived south of the Wall as the Northerners had for them.

There were centuries of grievances to deal with and Jon had made clear that many among the wildlings could turn hostile. They had all prepared themselves for the possibility and the men around him now were searching for a chance within that possibility.

“Jory, I’ve come to a decision.” Ned spoke.

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Chapter Text

Jon

Moonlight shone through the trees as Jon strode through the Wolfswood. The winds carried many scents that night. The earthy smell of moss and fallen leaves, as well as oak, sentinel and weirwood. He could smell his brother almost a mile north, as they hunted their prey.

He heard his brother howl, and he circled north, moving faster to catch up. Soon he could smell the foul odor of their hunt. He heard birds fly away from him as he rushed through long forgotten paths and untouched streams.

The scents were growing stronger, the boar was fleeing as his brother moved ever closer. Another howl and Jon turned west. He could hear their prey’s hooves only a few hundred yards from him, so he turned north west to cut it off.

He glided through the forest as quickly as he could, as silent as a ghost until he could see his prey. He followed it from the side as he could hear his brother snarl at the beast as he pursued from behind.

Jon ran as quickly as he could, and finally he pounced on the beast, digging his claws and fangs as deep as they would go into its back.

The boar squealed in pain as it stumbled and fell, but its hide was thick and its muscles strong and it was not ready to give them an easy victory. It struggled for its life, and as much as he tried to pin it down the beast struggled free, throwing him off.

It could not flee however, as it found its escape blocked. Cornered the beast charged Jon’s brother, who avoided the sharp tusks by a hair, before launching himself at the beast. Jon moved to help his brother down the beast and enjoy their spoils, however the boar wouldn’t easily part with its life as it lunged at Jon catching him with its tusks and lifting him into the air.

He crashed into his brother, as the boar freed itself from the pair, and moved to make its escape. The only injury however, was to Jon’s pride, as the pair quickly resumed their hunt, unwilling to let a night’s worth of work go to waste and a succulent meal escape.

So, on they went, pursuing their prey, both nibbling at its sides tiring it, making it stumble, until at last it tripped and fell, and both brothers went for the kill.

Jon lunged at its exposed throat, but the boar defended itself with his tusks, forcing him to avoid being gored as his brother slammed into the boar’s side, clawing and biting into its hide. Jon had had enough entertainment from their hunt, and lunged at their prey, finally sinking his fangs into its neck.

As he bit down, he could taste the rich blood flow into his mouth, and he jerked his head back, tearing his prey’s throat out.

The boar gurgled, drowning in its blood, as it stained the grown crimson, and soon their hunt was completed and they could feast.

It was a worthy prey they hunted that night.

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Jon awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered a dream but could barely recall what it was. The feeling of a breeze, the scents of the forest were all that remained.

Robb still slept in his bed as Jon dressed himself. He was being generous with his brother letting him rest a while longer, yet they had work to do.

They had arrived at a small village a couple of days ride off Castle Cerwyn. Cley had called it Glenwood. It was surrounded by the Wolfswood, with a small bare hill guarded by an old watchtower. It was near enough to the road to Torrhen’s Square and even had an inn. The innkeeper was only too eager to accommodate them as soon as he saw the banners fluttering in the wind and even requested no payment.

Still their group knew the cost of hosting their party even for a night or two for a humble inn, so they paid double. Robb had hoped they could avoid settlements as much as possible, as they had a task of grave importance.

Robb had noted that after their father was imprisoned by Joffrey, many of the North answered his call. Even minor houses that weren’t expected to emptied their keeps as Lords and their sons marched for House Stark, yet some of the most powerful houses had sent meager aid. House Slate bordered the Tallharts and had lands on their western coast. They had done their duty and sent men, yet neither the Lord nor his sons came to war. Later they had bent the knee to the Boltons and Jon didn’t believe he could count on them to be allies when he decided to ride South from the Wall. Robb planned to win their loyalty so that they could count on the grey shields in the heavy foot shieldwall.

The Dustins had been some of the most loyal vassals of the Starks over the years. They held the Barrowlands and guarded the south part of the North for generations, as well as the Saltspear. The last lord Dustin was a close friend of their father’s and he perished the day Jon was born.

His wife now ruled and few that carried Dustin blood yet lived, but it was them that joined Robb to save their father as Lady Barbrey refused the aid of the barrow knights. She had a grudge against their House, firstly because she was spurned by their grandfather after he betrothed their uncle Brandon to Lady Catelyn, and then when Father left Willam’s remains in Dorne.

Father had felt guilt when Jon told them about how she along with the Ryswells were among the first that accepted the Boltons as rulers of the North. Jon however believed that the grudge could be settled, after all, Domeric was her nephew and he had fostered with her for years before his stay at the Redfort.

Jon had volunteered to retrieve the bones of Willam Dustin, as well as the rest of the brave men that perished that way. Knowing his history, he felt a debt to those men, and bringing them to rest where they belonged was the least, he could do to repay it. Yet that would have to wait, as there were more lives at stake much sooner than any threat from the South and Robb had come up with a plan.

They would first try to win over Lord Ryswell, her father. Their house was another that had sent only a token of support, with their heavy cav greatly missing from Robb’s forces. Neither the Lord nor any of his sons had marched with Robb. They had even refused the invitation to the celebration. Yet they had no doubt that word of what they planned for the North and the power and wealth the lords loyal to the Starks would gain in the near future would reach the Rills.

After all they had no true grudges with House Ryswell, a promise of friendship and an offer of mutual growth could be enough to earn favour with them.

Jon had finished dressing himself, yet his brother still showed no signs of waking. He certainly seemed to enjoy his sleep. So, Jon roused him.

“5 more minutes” Robb slurred out, turning to his side.

“No, its well past dawn, we have work to do before we set out today.” Jon spoke, rousing him again. This time his brother didn’t even offer a reply. So, Jon removed Robb’s covers.

“Okay, ill get up.” Robb spoke, his eyes still closed. He wasn’t getting up.

Jon sighed. “Remember brother, I gave you every opportunity.” Jon said, as he took a pitcher filled to the brim with water.

“One final chance to wake up, Robb.” He calmly spoke, as his brother only snored embracing his pillow.

“So be it.” Jon said as he emptied the pitcher over Robb, who yelped awake.

“What the fuck!” He yelled out coming out of his stupor.

“It’s late. We need to reach Bulwark keep by nightfall if we want to keep to father’s schedule.” Jon explained. Passing Robb a rag to dry himself.

Robb took it and sighed, drying his face and hair. “You know, when I woke up back at Winterfell, I thought my days of hard marching were done, or at least delayed for a few years.”

Jon smiled at his brother, he would have also liked respite, to be a child again without the worries that they carried, but duty came first, so he helped Robb with his clothes, before going down to the hall.

Their companions were already there, breakfast already on the table. The head seat and the one next to it were left empty. Robb took it, and Jon took his own.

“So, whats the plan Stark?” Torrhen Karstark asked. The lot of them weren’t told of their task, they had only followed when asked, such was their faith in House Stark.

Robb spoke. “We ride for Torrhen’s square first. We shall bolster our ranks with some of the Tallhart guardsmen.” He gave a look to Benfred and Brandon, who sat next to each other at the left side of the table and the heir of Torrhen’s square nodded with a smile.

“I will have uncle ready our best riders.” Benfred declared.

“I suppose then we ride to Blackpool?” Eddard Karstark asked.

“Aye, Lord Slate wrote that he was too ill to travel to Winterfell, so father tasked us to treat with him.” Robb answered.

“Treat with him? What for?” Daryn Hornwood asked.

“As Lord Slate wasn’t at Winterfell, he didn’t receive Father’s orders. Instead of sending a raven, I shall deliver them in person.” Robb stated.

Domeric looked deep in thought, stroking his chin before speaking. “Slate lands have a large shore. Given that Lord Stark wishes to reinforce both our western and eastern shores, does he order for keeps to be built?”

“There is an island a little away from Blackpool that protects the Grey gulf and the north of the Stony Shore. A keep is to be built there with the possibility of a port town as people settle the land. Another smaller island to the north of Slate lands is perfect for an outpost to keep watch over possible invasion from the sea. Father also asks that outposts be built and manned along the shore and villages fortified.” Robb explained. The plans weren’t a secret and everyone on the table was loyal and Northern nobility. Robb also stated that he wanted to win over Domeric, to have a Bolton he could rely on, as he had issue holding back the urge to stab Lord Bolton. A feeling Jon shared, however, without proof, they couldn’t murder a powerful vassal.

“After that do we board ships to the Shadow Tower, or do we first go to Deepwood Motte?” Cley asked.

“Neither.” Jon answered this time. “We go to the Stony Shore.” He was greeted with questioning looks, as the land in question was believed to be sparsely populated and untamed after the fall of House Fisher. “The Stony Shore is a glaring weakness of the North. It has been neglected for centuries and largely cut off from the North. House Ryswell has been tasked with patrolling the land for bandits and raids, however without outposts and keeps to man, it is not an easy task to say the least.”

“Lord Jon, we have what maybe a little more than a hundred men if we include those we get from Torrhen’s square. What use would it be for us to go there?” Brandon Tallhart asked.

“Our task isn’t to subjugate the region, it is to survey it. Maps we have are centuries old and very few settlements there are marked. We are to inspect the villages we know exist and to find any defensible positions that can be fortified as well as find any forces in the area of note. With the men from Torrhen’s square and those from Blackpool as well as the smaller houses on the way there, we should have a force large enough to deal with any challenges we face.” Robb answered for Jon and the Tallhart lordling nodded in understanding.

“Well hopefully we see some action at least.” Torrhen declared.

With the immediate plan decided, they broke their fast, conversations turning less serious and cheer starting to fill the hall.

________________________________________

It was late evening when they reached Bulwark Keep. A small fort, with high wooden walls, on a small naked hill overlooking the wolfswood. They were met with a scouting party who greeted them as soon as the direwolf banner was visible. The captain of the guard was at their head, a gruff man with a long scruffy beard. He wore mail under a leather doublet and steel pauldrons as he raised his arm in greeting. “Ho there milords. I’m here to meet you in the name of the master of Bulwark, Harrick the Ironthorn.” He spoke in a loud, deep voice.

Robb rode forth and greeted the man. “Good evening good man, we would ask for guest rights from your master.”

“Harrick had the cooks whip up a feast for ye lordlings, it’s been months since we’ve had guests.”

With that they rode after the small patrol, many of them weary and eager for a warm meal. The keep was made of wood, at a hill overlooking the road, the forest nearby cut down as far as an arrow can travel. The walls were adequately tall, made of thick oaken logs. Towers stood tall above at every two hundred paces where the axe of Cerwyn flew proudly in the wind. Guards wearing white or grey surcoats and shining helms adorned the wall. As they neared the gatehouse, the wooden gate, made of sturdy dark ironwood creaked open and shortly their group trickled inside.

The courtyard wasn’t large, though it was orderly and clean. Men were training in the practice yard, either spear, sword or bow while grooms were tending to horses in the stables. An older man made his way towards Robb and him. A weathered and wrinkled face, with a well-kept beard more white than grey, yet with clear grey eyes not dimmed by age.

The man was past his prime, yet his frame spoke of a warrior that hasn’t let himself grow dull with the passing of time. As soon as he reached them, he broke into a jolly laugh. “Lord Stark, my lords and ladies, it brings me honour and joy to welcome you to Bulwark keep.” He motioned to a group of serving girls who appeared just as he greeted Jon’s group. Bread and salt were spread around their group as each of them accepted the granting of guest rights.

“Word reached us from Castle Cerwyn of your coming, and my people have prepared for days for your arrival. Now come, you must be weary from your travels, baths have been provided in your chambers and a feast is being prepared for the night.”

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“So, there we were, Cerwyn men on the front of the left flank. The Dornish spears were pushing us but we gave no ground that is until yer Lord father bid us to fall back.” Harrick spoke continuing his tales of glory from the rebellion. It was the first time Jon met a man who was fondly remembering it. His father had barely spoken of the time, and Jon could understand why, still he eagerly listened to the old man as did their companions.

“Those sand fuckers thought they had us bested, but one of us was worth ten of them. Lord Umber had to be restrained from breaking formation and charging them himself, but ol Harrick knew yer da had a plan.” The old man chugged down his mug of ale, as a serving girl brought him another.

“We led them step by step, until we were facing away from the river, and that’s when Lord Stark blew his horn.”

“The bastards didn’t know what was happening until the first horsemen crashed into their flank. That kingsguard of theirs was shouting his wee heart out trying to reform them, but after he was knocked from his horse there was tough chance of that happening. Even less when that young vale lad lopped his head off with that Valyrian blade of his.” He took a large bite of a chicken leg, and Jon saw Robb glaring in annoyance, eager to hear the rest of it, a feeling Jon shared.

“The Greatjon was first running after em, and then Cley’s da had us run in. Captured three knights myself by the end of it. It was a pity though, by the time we made it back to the river, the dragon prince had his chest caved in by King Robert and the rest of em went running south.”

Jon felt odd at those words. The man, whose death the man just described was his father, he knew that now, yet how could he feel any kinship with the man, when he hadn’t known him, and what pity could he feel after the man who had raised him told him what his mother lived through at his hands. Was he going to end up as bad as he and the mad king? Guiding all he cared about into ruin? But surely his blood wasn’t all bad, greatness and madness were a coin toss as they said. Some he knew fell firmly on the opposite of madness.

“Jon…. Jon…. Did you fall asleep?” He felt someone shaking his shoulder. Turning he recognized his brother and behind him their companions. Emmett, and Edd included, and in the future, Jon hoped he would have Grenn and Pyp there at the very least. Enough people to keep him from doing something terribly foolish.

Jon let a slight smile show as he answered. “Only lost in thought, for a while.”

“You were brooding again.” Robb admonished him. “I told you, no brooding until we reach Castle Black. Now drink.” His brother passed him a mug of ale with a grin. “Your Lord commands it.”

Jon took the mug, aye, Robb would keep him grounded.

_________________________________________

Ned

“Get a fucking move on, ya gutless cunts! If I catch any of ya I’ll shove my foot so far up yer arses you’ll be shitting through yer mouths!”

Ned could hear the yells of Osgar as he was leading the smallfolk volunteers in another marching exercise. They had been on a jog for the past half an hour, just keeping up with the mounted nobles and their retainers. They were lucky today. The weather was fair, hardly a cloud in the sky as they jogged past the

“Give him a few more weeks and those boys will be as fit as our guards.”  Ser Rodrik spoke riding alongside him.

“He does have a way to bring those lads to heel. Nearly as persuasive as you are when we bring new guards.” Ned said with a smile threatening to appear on his face.

“Surely you jest, my Lord. I have been nothing but kind with the lads.” Rodrik retorted.

“Except that time, you nearly broke Alyn’s arm.” Jory jested as his uncle blustered.

“That was merely an unfortunate accident my Lord. I cannot be blamed his joints aren’t flexible enough.” Ser Rodrik explained.

“And that time you broke Hallis’ nose?” Jory deadpanned.

“He was too pretty to be a guard, the girls would have fawned over him too much otherwise.”

“And when you threw Porther down a well because he put his breastplate backwards?”

“Well, my dear nephew.” Rodrik spoke grinding his teeth. “You’ve made your point. In fact, you made such a good point the entire Stark guard, including its captain are doing drills with those boys, in full gear…. And pack.” Rodrik spoke calmly, but Ned could see a vein bulging on his temple.

“I humbly beg your pardon, uncle.” Jory apologized as Ser Rodrik chuckled.

“I’m not inclined to give it. I want every pissant that calls himself a guardsman of House Stark ready for drills momentarily. Get to it.”

Jory grumbled as he rode his horse away to begin assembling his men.

“I shouldn’t have encouraged you.” Ned told his master at arms.

“You were right my lord. Chances are, we will do battle before were back to Winterfell, and I don’t want to bury a lad because we’ve grown lax. Better they struggle now than bleed later.”

Less than an hour later, Ser Rodrik was yelling orders alongside Osgar as the Stark guards led by Jory were doing drills. Soon after men from other Houses were made to join the drills until Ned was forced to call for a stop and camp to be raised.

_________________________________________

Slowly their procession North was beginning to resemble a true army. Every day men volunteered to join as infantry. Villages offered provisions and animals and now they were followed by carts and carriages filled with the men’s gear, food, ale and other necessities for war.

It was still day out and Ser Rodrik was mercilessly driving the men in drills. The old man had volunteered the growing group of levies for a mock skirmish to practice fighting in formation. Even the Stark guards were in need of training in the aspect, as many among them were inexperienced in true battle. Not long after that, many of Ned’s bannermen asked his leave to join in on the festivities, and soon most of the fighting men in the party were bringing out their arms and armour ready to do battle.

Ned had a different task however. Soon they would be leaving lands directly owned by House Stark. The Mountain Clansmen of the North as well as House Karstark, Umber and Glover travelled with them, and all of them offered their hospitality on their way to the Wall. He needed to plot a route to avoid offending them, especially considering what was coming.

Robb and Jon were fulfilling a different task and would join him at Castle Black, however Ned hoped to arrive there some time before his sons, as despite what he learned from Jon about the condition of the Night’s Watch and the Wall, he needed to inspect them for himself. Then he had to come up with a way to convince both Jeor Mormont and his own Lords to set aside grudges centuries old.

“Milord, riders approaching.” A man spoke outside his tent. It was one of the former hedge knights that had accepted to serve Winterfell and House Stark. The Riverlander was guarding him today, Ned remembered, Ser Garreth.

“What colours?” Ned asked the knight.

“Green and gold, milord. A badger and golden ferns on a field of green.” Ser Garreth answered.

“That would be the Glenfields, Ser Garreth. Let us meet Lord Glenfield.” Ned spoke, donning his cloak as he left his tent.

Lord Hornwood had retired from the drills with his men, the Hornwoods did prefer to fight mounted on their sure-footed steeds rather than on foot, so he was riding beside Ned along with Ser Garreth and Benjen as they rode to meet the master of Glenfield. His own direwolf, Winter, ran alongside them as did Midnight, Benjen’s.

As they rode down the slight slope of a hill, he could make out the faces of the riders. At the head of the riders wasn’t the head of House Glenfield, but his son, a man grown, with a confident grin on his face.

“Lord Stark, House Glenfield has come to show its loyalty. In the name of my father, I offer you the might of Glencastle.”

“House Stark is grateful for your devotion Lord Glenfield, but we are not on campaign, merely a summit with the Night’s Watch to discuss the future development of the North.”

Ned saw the proud smile fall from the young Glenfield’s face as he looked on in confusion. “But my Lord, the smallfolk spoke of an army assembled by you to bring justice to the wildlings that are increasingly raiding our villages. Please, allow myself and my men to show our quality.”

The eagerness of youth, of one that had not seen the horrors of battle. Ned stifled a sigh. “We are not headed to battle. We are headed to treat with the Night’s Watch and the wildlings.” Ned spoke sternly, and noticed the young man’s expression turn dejected, so he added. “However, as a sworn bannerman of House Stark, your House is privy to participate, as are all Houses of the North, and as are all nobles, you are permitted your personal guards to accompany you, young Lord Glenfield.”

As the lad’s expression turned into one of almost childish excitement, Ned excused him, yet couldn’t help but lament. Another young man, barely grown eager to throw themselves into war for honor and glory, without the slightest knowledge of the despair that accompanied it.

Yet, what was coming was worse than any war among men. What they would be fighting wouldn’t spare women and children after sating its greed or lust or thirst for blood.  According to his son, the Others would lay waste to any they came against, leaving nothing but ruins in their wake, where not even the dead would be allowed respite from their evil.

He needed all he could get. Every noble, soldier or common man. The North united and fortified, the Watch reinforced and supplied, and a way to gain a hundred thousand allies instead of corpses for the Others’ armies. So, he allowed men to join them, every day looking more like an army on the march instead of a Lord’s travelling party.

And he feared it wouldn’t be enough. They would have years to prepare, but there were only so many living in the North, even if all the wildlings would let go of their ways and go through the Wall, he wasn’t certain it would be enough.