Chapter One

She had come to love the road; the whisper of leaves, the murmuring talk of her guard, and the steady clopping of hooves. They had only been gone a fortnight and already her old home and her old life seemed a fog in her mind. The road was her life now, the saddle her home. At least, that's what she imagined as she and her company made their way ever north. She had never seen Winterfell, had nothing to look forward to, or anything to look back on, so her thoughts remained on the distance between.

The only memory she kept was the sound of the river lapping endlessly along the banks of the village and the cliffs of Heart's Home. The sound buggered her like an insect about her ear. She hummed the old tunes as they rode, just to drown it out. Songs of Jonquil and Florian, of the warrior queen Nymeria. She learned new songs too, from the inns folk and the men at the various castles they had stopped at along their journey; from The Eyrie and Strongsong and from all the villages in between.

Evening was approaching on the last day of their travel. They had left Castle Cerwyn at dawn's first light. The last stretch of their journey was only half a day's ride to Winterfell, but they moved slowly; burdened by the trunks and packages that held all of Maena's belongings. She swayed easily in her saddle. Her guard, six men including her uncle, Ser Lyn Corbray, had marveled at her resilience. A mere girl of eleven, she rode a horse as well as any and never complained. She slept on the hard earth without tent when there were no inns. She ate little and never tired, and much to the amusement of her company; she rode with a bow strapped to her back.

The bow had been given to her by her uncle, Ser Lucas. The man had become like a father to her after her own father's death. She was told Ser Lucas looked much like him, and from what little she could remember it was true. He was broad and strong with hair the color of tree bark and a beard to match. He had taught her archery in the yards of Heart's Home with his sons, who were much older than she.

Atop his shoulder, she had learned the ins and outs of the castle, which she was told had once been beautiful, but had lost its opulence along with the wealth of the house. The castle stood on a cliff, wrapped by a little village and a curved bridge over the river. The walls were white-washed plaster and mortared stone, veined with creeping plants and dotted with blue-shuttered windows. Small though it was there were many orange-shingled roofs and peaks and atop the keep flew their banners; three ravens carrying hearts on a white field.

On the day of her mother's death, Maena had been hiding out in the cliffs where no one ever bothered her. She had been staring out over the river, imagining the shorelines of the Fingers, grasping for the Narrow Sea. The whole of the castle had gone searching for her, but it was her Uncle, Ser Lyn, who spotted her. With his long limbs, he scaled the cliff easily. She feared he would scold her, but his angry eyes were betrayed by uncharacteristic sadness. "Come along now little one," he had said.

Maena often thought of her mother as she rode; of her own journey from Redfort, through the mountains of the Vale and finally to Heart's Home, where she married Maena's father Liam, the youngest of the Corbray brothers, just before the battle of the Trident. She was tall and slender, with auburn hair; Redfort red the people called it.

But Lady Corbray, who had once been strong as the stones of the Redfort, had been chiseled away by sickness. When Ser Lyn brought Maena to her mother's sickroom, there had been no one there save the Maester, a bent back old man who seemed ever burdened by the chains around his neck.

"I fear she will not last the night," the Maester had said, "go to her child."

The glow of the setting sun had laid softness about her mother's gaunt face. The light played off the fire of her hair, which lay in limp curls about her pillow. For one moment Maena's heart had soared, believing her mother to be well again, but just as quickly the sun was cloaked by a passing cloud, and Lady Corbray had grown thin and pale and sick once more. The thought made Maena shiver and suddenly a voiced brought Maena back to the road.

"Milady, look you can see the town, just there," said her uncle's young squire, Mychel, pointing ahead to a cluster of tiny shadows in the distance. Beyond it, Maena saw the dark loom of Winterfell and the trees she knew to be called the Wolfswood.

The company quickened their pace as they approached; stopping long enough for Maena to change and make herself presentable, before leaving behind the Kings Road and taking the path through the village. She had chosen a simple green gown and black cloak, clasped by a raven on one side, and a heart on the other. Still, she felt itchy and uncomfortable as the people of Winter Town stared at their passing procession.

The gates were marked by the Direwolf banner of house Stark; the house to which she was now a ward, or would be soon enough. The gates swung open without word as they approached. Inside a small crowd had gathered to welcome them, but Maena was too afraid to look. Instead, she concentrated on the red leaves of the Weirwoods, peeking out from the Godswood where the north prayed. Will I be expected to pray to the old gods too? She wondered.