When the Cold Winds Blow...
Chapter One
Larra placed her hands on Bran's shoulders, proud of her little brother's strength during his first execution. Both Robb and herself had witnessed their father's justice at the age of eight, the same age Bran was now. Robb had flinched when Ice, House Stark's ancestral Valyrian steel real-world came down on the man's neck, while Larra still remembered her tense muscles and the blood draining from her face. The first time Theon saw an execution, he'd gotten sick but still denied it to this day. Now, the Ironborn was kicking the deserter's head down the hill. Laura frowned, inwardly disgusted at the older boy's behavior. Did he have no respect for the dead?
"You did well, Bran."
Her comment was enough to distract the young boy from hearing Theon's jokes and the little Stark seemed relieved that it was over. Upon seeing their father approach, Larra turned away and checked the saddle on her horse, Snowstorm. The stallion had been a gift for her sixteenth Namesday more than a year ago, named for its white coat dappled with grey. She listened with one ear as their father asked Bran the same question that he'd asked Robb and her. She truly appreciated being raised in the North, being instilled with the strength of character, honor and bravery that her father thought so highly of. She was even more thankful for the unique opportunity her father afforded her- to attend lessons alongside Robb, learning archery and swordplay.
She attention caught the worry and fear when Bran mentioned what the deserter of the Night's Watch had said about White Walkers. Larra's skin puckered at the name of those ancient foes. Old Nan had told every Stark child, including Larra, about the Long Night when the dead walked and whole generations were born and died only knowing snow and darkness. It had been a long time since she last jumped at shadows and was scared to venture from her room at night. Still, there was something that stirred in her heart every time such stories were mentioned. The Wall stood over seven hundred feet high, stretched over three hundred miles across the Northern border and was made entirely of ice. Surely it's existence alone was proof enough that magic once ruled the lands. Not to mention the Dragons...
"Ready to go, Larra?" Robb asked, already sitting atop his own horse.
"Of course," she replied, mounting Snowstorm.
-:- -:- -:- .Game of Thrones. -:- -:- -:-
Larra stood behind her siblings, who were lined up from eldest to youngest. Rickon, the youngest at six years, stood at Lady Catelyn's side and Robb took his place at their father's side as his heir. Theon was next to her, as a ward of House Stark. They were outside in the courtyard to welcome King Robert, his family and their retinue of guests. Bran had been the first to spot them from atop Winterfell's walls, his hobby of climbing giving them all time to gather together. Larra had already been warned by Lady Catelyn that she wouldn't be attending the Welcome Feast in the King's honor. Her father's wife had cited her status as the reason. The young woman had felt like pointing out that King Robert had plenty of bastards himself but held her tongue. Larra had accepted long ago that Lady Catelyn hated her.
After watching the procession of Southerners enter her home and the greetings between families, Larra slipped through the crowd towards the kennels. Lady Catelyn had insisted that the Direwolves be kept there away from the guests. She wanted to check on Ghost, her albino pup while everyone was busy. Ghost wasn't as playful as his siblings, more silent and reserved in the same way Larra was. She wondered if her companion had taken on some of her personality traits from the time he spent with her. The dark-haired woman felt eyes on her back, so just before turning the corner, she glanced behind her. Sweeping the crowded courtyard with deep grey eyes, she locked on a pair of dark blue eyes with her own. The connection lasted only a moment; the man turning to another at his side and Larra disappearing from view.
A few hours later, Larra was changed from her dress into her usual training clothes. Her tunic, leather jerkin, trousers and boots were all black in color, helping her to blend in with the darkness of night. Robb often joked that she was meant to join the Night's Watch, like their uncle Benjen. Every time, Theon would sing the song of Brave Danny Flint. Larra heard the sounds of revelry from the Great Hall and swung at the wooden dummy with her practice sword all the harder. She didn't understand why she had to be punished for something that was beyond her control. The young woman often thought of leaving Winterfell and finding her own path. She couldn't stay here as a maid or servant while Robb went on to marry a highborn lady.
"What are you doing out here? Haven't you heard of the feast that's going on?" a deep voice came from behind her.
Larra turned to see who it was, only to have to look down. A few feet from her was none other than Tyrion Lannister, the Dwarf son of Lord Tywin Lannister. Blonde hair, a mixture of white and gold, covered his larger than average head and his mixed-matched eyes, one black and the other green, were sharp despite his slightly slurred words. While he was no warrior, having no hope of wielding any weapon with true skill, Larra saw signs of high intelligence and cunning in his eyes. He wore a red tunic with the golden Lion of Lannister embroidered on the front. She saw the moment he realized that she was a female, then her status as Lord Stark's bastard daughter when his eyes widened.
"I wasn't invited. What are you doing out here?" Larra said.
"I'm preparing to spent time with your family," he answered, holding up a wine skin.
"You are Lord Stark's bastard, aren't you?" He questioned.
He must've seen the angered and offensive expression she wore as he amended his tone.
"Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," he apologized, walking closer to her. "But you are the bastard?"
"Lord Stark is my father."
"And Lady Catelyn is not your mother, making you...the bastard."
When Larra stayed quiet, he took it as a cue to continue talking to her.
"Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
Larra couldn't stop herself, "What the hell do you know about being a bastard?"
"All Dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes."
Larra thought on that a bit.
"I suppose you make a point, Lord Tyrion. It must be even worse for you. A father like Lord Tywin must not be easy to please."
"You have no idea." The sound of raucous laughter spilled from the Great Hall and he sighed, "Well, I best go in or I'll never hear the end of it from my sister."
Larra spared him a nod as he joined the festivities. She turned back to her practice dummy and lifted her sword for the next swing when a man stepped from the shadows of the wall. Larra instantly shifted into a fighting stance, prepared to defend herself if necessary. She jolted with awareness, recognizing the same man from earlier with the dark blue eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders and a lean build. The hair on his head was short and black, beginning to recede. The expression on his face was solemn and guarded while an intense look filled his eyes. His entire countenance was rather severe but it did nothing to frighten Larra who had grown up alongside rugged Northmen.
"It's not often that I see a young woman wielding a sword."
"I imagine that it's not often that you see a young woman determined to learn how to wield a sword. It takes a certain kind of woman willing to undergo such difficult training that aren't often found in Westeros. Such activity is deemed unnecessary and unladylike in the South, is it not? You're no longer in the South, my Lord."
"I am aware."
"Good. Try not to forget it," Larra said, moving to leave. "Goodnight, my Lord."
"Goodnight, my lady."
The man's words were so light that they were gone before they reached the air. Regardless, Larra was already gone. The man turned to the guest's quarters to retire for the night, his mind running through the conversation he had with the woman and the one he'd overheard on accident. Without conscious decision, the man had become fascinated by the young woman. Her pale face, full lips and bright grey eyes filled his thoughts. He couldn't help wondering what she'd look like with a genuine smile on her face. Perhaps, he'd even be the one it was directed at. He shook his head at the foolish thoughts. He'd never been the one the women looked at, admired nor fished for attention from. So, how could he retain such hopeful thoughts after all this time? It mattered not. He was in Winterfell for a purpose and he would not be distracted from it.