Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from whatever characters I have made up and don't feature in the Game of Thrones series.
Wolves and Hounds.
Chapter One.
She could hear Rickon's laughing even from where she sat, at her desk in front of a window that overlooked the front yard. From her vantage point she could see Robb and Jon, practicing their fighting with heavy iron swords. Rickon ran between them, his short toddler legs sometimes tripping him up. Bran sat on top of barrel, a small pile of stones next to him. Every so often he would pick up one of the stones and throw it at the wall, a sure sign that the second youngest Stark was bored. She longed to go out and join them, she wanted to pick up Rickon and whirl him around, she wanted to sit with Bran and hear him tell her the most recent tale that Nan had retold to him. And yet she couldn't, mainly because she had a piece of embroidery to finish off, and she also had to finish her report of the war and give it to Maester Luwin. She had been the tender age of two, when the mad King Aerys had been killed by a member of his very own Kingsguard. Her brother Robb and half-brother Jon hadn't even been born yet.
She sighed before dipping her quill back into the ink pot and writing out her next sentence; 'Princess Elia Martell, wife to Prince Rhaegar was then killed by Gregor Clegane, of House Clegane.' She had written three parchments worth so far, and her right hand was stiff with the after effects of writing too much. She stretched out her hand, the knuckles popping and clicking which offered her little relief. She looked over her work, her small, spidery writing filled up the space that the parchment allowed, it wasn't messy, but it wasn't fit to be turned into a book. Pushing aside her work, she stood and stretched her back, running her fingers through her knotted dark brown hair. She had the Stark colouring, pale skin, dark brown hair. But her eyes were of a bright blue, a trait that had been handed down to her by her mother. She and her brother looked strikingly similar, except that he had wild auburn hair as well as the Tully eyes.
She went to the looking glass which had spots of age on it, and inspected her features more clearly; she had a scar on her chin where a dog had scratched her when she had been around three years old. And the faint puckered circles left the traces of pimples that she used to have, gone now thanks to one of Maester Luwin's concoctions. She was slender, but not bony, and she still had a little weight around her stomach and hips. Her mother said that she was born to bear children, which to be honest wasn't very reassuring because childbirth was supposed to be one of the most painful things to have to go through. She picked up her brush, the white bristles were frayed and the wood which had the carvings of wolves on was scratched and fading. It had been her great-grandmother's on her father's side. She never knew the woman but she had heard from her father that she had been as tough as the northern landscape in which she had been born.
She ran it through her hair, meeting resistance whenever she got to a particularly tough knot, she tugged and pulled. Before giving up and gently separated her hair through the use of her fingers. The problem with having long, waist length hair was that it got knotted, no matter what type of lotions you put in it. After she had finished brushing it through she wound her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and secured it with a strip of blue cloth, which matched her heavy blue dress. The dress was to keep her warm, as in the North, even though it was summer, it was still freezing. It wound round her body and was secured on her left side by four buttons, the fabric was soft, a light blue, with tinges of grey. The inside of the dress had an inlay of a warmer woolly fabric, which was thin but kept her warm. Cream embroidery decorated the end of the skirt.
Gathering her coat she shrugged that on over her dress, it was a mixture of wool and bear fur, it had been her gift upon reaching her 17th name day. She then scooped up her papers before exiting her room. As she walked along the stone corridor that was illuminated by the light streaming in from the window at the end, she heard a slam and then running footsteps. Quite out of nowhere Arya Stark, her youngest sister, came careening around the corner.
"Tarynn!" The little girl's voice was tinged with breathlessness, "You have to help me! Septa Mordane…"
"Arya Stark, you come back here this instance, you have embroidery to unpick and re-do. Running around hallways, and pushing over your brother Bran aren't very lady like things to do. I…"
Septa Mordane was the next person to come round the corner, Arya had reached her older sister, hiding behind her and clutching the back of her skirts. The Septa was blustered and red faced, she was angry, but if Tarynn knew Arya then the Septa shouldn't be expecting an apology.
"Will be telling your mother and father about your behaviour," Tarynn finished her sentence off for her, "Calm down Septa, I feel that if Bran had been hurt, the whole castle would have known about it in a manner of seconds."
Septa Mordane, had also coaxed Tarynn through the awkward stages of becoming a Lady, and now that she was one, and now fit to be married, her training had stopped. There had been talks in the works of her marrying a Frey, or even worse yet Theon Greyjoy in order to strengthen ties between the Greyjoys and the Starks. However the idea of marriage frightened her, not being able to have the freedom, having to answer to the every whim of your husband. She had so far managed to convince her father not to set her up and have her married, for the time being.
"But Arya has needlework to finish off, and she has to do it properly otherwise she would have learned nothing. Every young lady has to be properly educated in the ways of being a respectable woman. Your grandmother, mother, even yourself have already been through this process. Now it is Sansa's and Arya's turn."
"But I hate needlework."
Tarynn turned to her baby sister, and crouched beside her, taking her small, skinny hand in her own. "Arya, we all have to do things that we don't like. I have to write out the entire happenings of the Rebellion and I much rather be out with my brothers in the yard. But I have to do it, even though I don't like it and you have to do your needlework too. It is part of growing up."
In her mind, what she had just said sounded hypocritical, considering how she was postponing marriage because she didn't want to do it, but in the future she would have to. Still, her words had the desired effect on the girl.
"Fine." Arya hung her head in resignation as she walked away with Septa Mordane to the room where the embroidery was taking part. Tarynn followed them, but instead of taking a left at the foot of the stairs, she took a right.
The day was a splendid one, the air still had that crisp bite to it that was often associated with northern weather, but it was a good type of cold. Not the freezing cold, but the nice, bearable cold. She stepped into the yard. Robb and Jon were still sparring, Rickon was running around still, much to the amusement of Bran who laughed whenever the baby of the family tripped up, Bran had moved from the barrel to stand near Theon Greyjoy, who was standing near the archery targets. Theon had, on his face, the same disconcerting smile that he always had. The man never stopped smiling, and it chilled Tarynn to the bone, if she ever had to marry that man, who could be brutish, sly and dabbled with many, many whores she might become the first woman to ever take the black.
"Ta! Ta!" Rickon waved at her, his eyes alight with happiness and his cheeks flushed red with the exertion of running around like a lunatic. He charged towards her, giggling as he ran, she placed her parchment down on one of the stone steps, spying a nearby rock she placed it on top of the papers, so that all her hard work wasn't carried off on the wind. When she had turned round again Rickon had almost reached her, she held out her arms and he collided into them, squealing with laughter as she span him round in the air. There was more laughter above her, the laughing voice rich, deep and reassuring.
"Father!" Bran waved up to the balcony that was above her head, and Jon and Robb stopped their practice.
"Where are Sansa and Arya?"
She placed Rickon back down on the ground and kissed the top of his head, he giggled once more before scampering off and into the castle. His aim, no doubt, was to get up on the balcony with father. She walked out from beneath the balcony's shade and into the middle of the yard.
"They're with Septa Mordane, finishing their embroidery." She looked up at her father, the middle Stark, he had only become Lord of Winterfell because his brother Brandon had died, killed by the mad King Aerys. He was growing old, and the signs were showing. His face was lined and his hair held flecks of grey but despite it all he still seemed strong and fit enough to hold himself in battle. He smiled down at her, his skin wrinkling around his eyes.
"Is that so, Bran run to your sisters, there is something that your mother and I need to tell…"
He was interrupted by the portly Ser Rodrik Cassel, the trusted Master-at-Arms, and teacher of Robb, Jon and Theon in the art of swordplay, "My Lord, excuse me for the interruption, but I have received news that some of the outlying guardsmen have caught sight of a deserter."
Her father echoed his words, "A deserter?"
"We believe he has come from the Wall." There was a grim expression on her father's face, his lips drew into a thin line and his brow furrowed, she knew that look; he was debating the best course of action. And her father always made that face when he had to make a particularly harsh decision, but whatever that decision turned out to be he always made it to be the righteous and lawful one, even if it was hard to enact it and put to work.
"Tomorrow, at first light we will deal with this deserter, send a message to the guards who have caught him, keep him bound and feed him one meal. But that is all.
Ser Rodrick nodded, and with a slight bow of his head departed, most likely to carry out the order he had just been given. Tarynn stepped forward; her mind was filled with curiosity. Before Ser Rodrik had come with the news of the deserter from the Wall, father had declared that he had some news for them.
"Father, you were going to share something with us"
"Not now Tarynn that can wait until tomorrow, I have other matters I must deal with first. For now ready yourselves for dinner, we sup when the sun lowers in the sky." He turned to leave, Rickon's tiny meaty hand in his own large one, she hadn't seen Rickon appear on the balcony earlier. Her father must've remembered something else for he turned half towards her. "Maester Luwin is looking for you, something about a passage on the Rebellion."
Passage? Pfft! More like a tome.
"I know. I shall go find him."
He smiled faintly, before turning on his heel and exiting the balcony, Rickon's hand still in his own.
"A deserter?! Does that mean father will execute him?"
Robb was looking at Jon when he had asked the question but it was Theon who answered, the bold man of nineteen sauntered over to where the two fifteen year olds stood, his walk was over-confident, his voice held the traces of cockiness.
"Of course he'll execute him; if he's deserted the Wall then he's a dead man. Nobody leaves the Wall, not unless they want their head on a stick."
She intervened, there were certain reasons as to why a deserter of the Wall was killed by whichever Lord of Lordling caught him, and she wanted to educate her brothers in this. "What Theon says is true, but there are reasons as to why they are killed if they desert. When men take the Black they take vows of Chastity," She threw a pointed glance at Theon, everyone, even her Father knew of his liaisons with the Brothel workers. He seemed to get the message, but she got the wrong response, his awful grin stretched even more over his face. "And they pledge to give their lives to protect the Wall against wildlings and others that might manifest in the far North. They spend day and night protecting the Wall, and us, from whatever threats that may lay behind its icy expanse." She felt proud of herself, and she half wished that Maester Luwin had been there to hear her lecture her brothers on the nature of the Night's Watch. She remembered when she was fourteen and had begged her Father to let her be tutored in History and Ancient Literature, her wish had been granted and Maester Luwin had begun to teach her all he knew about the history of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.
And now, three years later, she had learned everything from when the first Targaryen put his foot on the soil of the Seven Kingdoms until King Robert's Rebellion against the mad King Aerys. Her brothers didn't care much for the history of old neither did Sansa, but Arya and Bran's eyes would light up whenever she started to retell the history of the North to them. Bran would always ask after the Knights, Arya would always question about any female warriors that may have cropped up. She loved telling them about it, she loved telling them stories. When she had been a little girl, it hadn't been Princes and romance that she had dreamed of, or marriage or being swept off her feet by a handsome Knight but of writing books and becoming the best story teller the world had ever seen. Her Mother and Father had encouraged her notions as one would with a child. But as she grew older, giving birth to many children was more likely then writing a great tome. It saddened her heart.
"Uncle Benjen joined the Night's Watch, if he deserted…"
She knew what Jon was asking, he doted on Uncle Benjen whenever he visited and she didn't have it in her heart to tell him that Father would probably have to execute Uncle Benjen too, should he ever desert. Instead she looked upon the two fifteen year olds, both on the brink of manhood.
"Look, don't worry about it; it's neither here nor there. Go, get ready for dinner. Like Father said."
They moved slowly, picking up their swords that lay forgotten in the dust of the yard, what she had been saying had made them sombre, and almost depressed. She wished she had never said anything about it, and had left Theon to explain, but as ever her desire to flaunt her knowledge reared its ugly head. The boys' dampened mood left her slightly irritable, and she turned from Theon, who for once had stopped his smiling. She recovered her parchment from the stone steps, tossing the rock she had been using as a weight to the side.
"Allow me to help you find the Maester."
She didn't straighten, instead pretended to busy herself with ordering her work. Knowing Theon he would be standing close, seeing as he didn't really have any sense of personal space.
"I'm sure I can find him on my own, I don't need an escort… Or a chaperon," She moved away from him, and crossed the yard, towards where the Kitchen was. The Maester's room was above it, a long thin room with shelves filled with different items in glass jars and heavy books filled with all kinds of script, she was currently translating one that had been written in the common tongue of the Free Cities, it was long and arduous but she enjoyed it, and as a result was fluent in the language. She walked around a large muddy puddle before stepping into the warmth of the kitchen, the servants inside politely bowed their heads but she didn't expect anything else, they were busy after all. She crossed over the room towards a wooden door, opening it revealed a staircase that wound upwards. It led to the Maester's room.
When she reached the top of the spiral staircase she found the door slightly ajar, she knocked twice before pushing it open. The Maester himself was at the window, tending to his birds.
"Tarynn, do you have your writings on the Rebellion for me? They are a day late as it is."
"I do," She put them down on the Maester's messy table. "I hope they are of a good standard."
"No doubt that you have put your best effort into it," He turned from the window to face her; he was a short man, old and grey but wise. His Maester's chain glinted round his neck, "and that is all I can ask for."
"You will be joining us for dinner I presume?"
"I shall, I mean to start Bran in his tutoring on the morrow, and hopefully I will get a chance to talk to Lord Stark about Bran's education this evening at dinner. That boy is bright but he seems to have his heart set on being a Knight."
"Don't all young boys dream of that?"
"Not all, but the majority…" He turned his head again to gaze out the window, seeing something that she could not. "But still I do not wish to keep you; I shall see you at dinner."
She bid her farewells and retreated from the room. Closing the door softly behind her, she half ran down the spiral stairs, almost colliding with a servant girl who had her arms filled with vegetables. She muttered a sorry but the girl just looked at her wide-eyed before skittering off. She left the kitchen, left the warmth and clamours of pots and pans and traded it for the cold of the outdoors.
"Found him then?" Theon was lounging against the wall beside the kitchen door, his lazy smile spread across his face. "Why do you waste your time with that old fool and those books anyway, a pretty girl like you could find many other amusements I'm sure."
His question open ended, but his suggestion was clear. She could feel bile rising in her throat as her anger did. Theon Greyjoy was too sure of himself, and too expectant that whatever woman he spoke honeyed words to was going to just tumble into his bed and never leave. She wasn't going to be one of those women.
"Theon why don't you go to the Brothel, I'm sure you'll find something to your liking there."
His smile grew even wider, "My liking is even closer to home."
This isn't your home though; you're the son of a man who is made of the same iron as his island is.
She walked away with a scoff and a look of disgust. She still had her maidenhood and if he thought she was going to give it to every man who showed her some attention or interest then he was wrong. She wasn't like Gatehouse Ami.
She could feel his eyes on her back but she ignored him. True, Theon was handsome but his personality was an ugly thing. Her mind briefly flickered to what she was going to wear for dinner tonight, she would have a bath, and perhaps wear the green dress that she had spied hanging up in her wardrobe this morning.
As she climbed the stairs that led to her chambers she also wondered about the news that father had said he had. She was intrigued, and her curiosity flickered as she made up several conclusions about what it could be.