Chapter One
Hidden behind a thick down of clouds the golden light of the sun was masked and hidden, though the world was still illuminated in a pale gray aura. A biting wind – fierce and cold – sent ripples through the ocean of green summer grasses, bending and twisting in the gale. Her hand, feeling heavy and clumsy, grasped at the edges of her cloak, attempting to block out the force of the wind. It was to no avail. The icy draft cut through her, and felt as those it froze her very core. Shaking mercilessly she fell to her knees and stared down at her pale hands, stark and white against the vibrant green of the summer grass. As she stared at her ghostly hands, white flakes slowly tumbled from the sky, landing haphazardly on her fingertips. The speed of their decent increased until a blanked of white down began to encase her quickly freezing form. She wanted to cry out, wanted to call for help, but somehow, she knew she was alone. Dismay and despair filled her as the truth of her abandonment became apparent and the bitter taste of betrayal welled upon her tongue.
The wintry silence was shattered by a lonesome note – a howl so cold and sharp it seemed to cut into her very soul. It struck both fear and fire into her core simultaneous. Reluctantly she began to raise her head and immediately regretted it. Upon the hill before her a tawny stag, antlers large and proud, lay dead in the snow, it's lifeless blue eyes – the same shade as hers – stared intently at her. Standing over it, proud and victorious, lips painted red with the proof of its power, was a stone gray wolf. Caramel colored eyes focused on hers and seemed to rip her heart from her chest.
Gasping for air she lurched into a sitting position, cold sweat covering her skin. It was just a dream, only a dream, she told herself with relief as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rested her head in her hands. Over her shoulder, little Myrcella still slept peacefully, undisturbed by her sister's nightmare. The image of the bloodstained wolf and the massacred stag was so etched in her mind that Nell knew that all chances of sleep were now gone. The floor was surprisingly cold against the bare skin of her feet as Nell shouldered on a warm robe and made her way to the window. Despite the steady glow of the diminished fire, the room was chilly and Nell felt the bitterness without her sister beside her. Soon the sun would breach the horizon and they would being the last leg of their journey to Winterfell. Home of the family Stark, Wardens of the North, and near kin to her father.
Nell could recall how her younger brother had whined and moaned about leaving King's Landing completely oblivious as to why he and the entire royal family needed to travel north. Nell had simply closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the only sign of disapproval she could ever give her brother. How the future King of Westeros could be so base escaped her, but he was her brother, and he would someday sit upon the Iron Throne and be King. She knew her place, silent and obedient, a testimony to the greatness and honor of her lord father.
Nell adored her father, and in turn, King Robert adored her. Perhaps it was because she was his eldest child, or perhaps it was because she was the only one of his four offspring that bore resemblance to him. At seventeen she was the pinnacle of beauty at court, taller than most of the other girls and even many of the women at court, thin and refined, yet with all the curves a woman should bare. She had her father's obsidian hair, smooth and gleaming, even in the dullest of the lights, and cerulean eyes that burned with the passion of the all the ages of the Baratheon's. King Robert doted upon her, lavishing her with gifts upon every occasion – despite the Queen's disapproval. The royal court sang praises of her, calling her the "model of femininity, grace and beauty." Despite the pressure of perfection, Nell had always done her best to please her parents, to bring them pride and honor. Perhaps that was why so many people loved her.
Nell was not nearly as naive as her brother, she knew why they were going north – to secure Lord Eddard Stark as Hand of the King. With the death of Lord Arryn, the former hand of the King, and a man who had very much treated Nell like family, the King had no chief advisor. There was no one to run the country while he was away. Nell knew all the stories about Lord Eddard Stark, how he had been raised beside her father, how they were as close as blood brothers. But there was another motive behind this visit, one Nell could not doubt. In exchange for Lord Stark's loyalty and service, she would be betrothed to his eldest son. It was a duty she, and Myrcella in time, were both required to fulfill, and one Nell accepted without question. She could only hope that whoever her father chose for her hand that he would be noble and good and treat her well. In turn she would hope to grace him with sons.
As she sat at the window she watched as the sun began to rise and banish the morning mists that covered the summer grass – just as green as it had been in her nightmare. Only a short time after, the peace was broken as the inhabitants of the lodge began to stir. Maids arrived to rouse the princesses and prepare them for their journey. None were surprised to find Nell awake. The women attempted to appear cheerful as they combed their charge's hair and dressed them, but Nell could see the uncertainty in their eyes. She knew they all feared the North, they all knew the legends and tales that fell in the shadow of the wall. Winterfell was miles and miles from the wall. Their fears were unjustified.
By mid-day they were on the road and Nell was once more stuffed in the great wheel house with Myrcella, their youngest brother Tommen, their Lady Mother the Queen and all their maids and ladies. It was cramped and stuffy and dark in the wheel house, and as the massive wooden wheels hit ruts and bumps in the road the entire party was jostled and jolted. By the time the lead scouts called that Winterfell was within sight Nell was beyond sore and irritated – but she did not allow herself to betray her discomfort. Until today she had spent a majority of the journey on horseback beside her brother, her magnificent dapple gray stud keeping stride beside his brown war horse. Joffrey's horse often proved too much for him to handle, but Joff was arrogant and proud and would never admit he was outmatched by a 'mere beast' as he called it. Nell would just close her eyes and wait for him to regain control of the animal. However, the Queen had insisted that the princess ride in the wheel house with her, remarking that it would be a more proper way to be received. Nell had not argued.
Finally, she thought with relief as she looked beneath the curtain and saw the gates of Winterfell pass the carriage. After four and a half long weeks on the road it would be good to stay put for a while. Nell had always done her best to hide her true feelings, but after weeks of seeming immune to Myrcella and Tommen's bickering she could no longer hide her irritation. They were finally silent as the wheelhouse rolled to a stop with such exasperating lethargy she thought the footman would never open the door. Tommen was helped out of the wheelhouse by his nursemaid, Myrcella by hers, the Queen and her head lady exited next, and finally Nell followed. Her boots hit the ground and she felt the cold air flush her cheeks with color.
The cool air rushed into her lungs and filled her with a cold she had never known, and she greatly appreciated the red fox clock she'd been given. Her eyes wandered the gray stone structures as she followed closely behind her mother, careful to life the hem of her peach colored gown as she stepped through the soft ground of the courtyard.
Nell's eyes followed her father as he shook hands with Eddard Stark's eldest son, and for a moment she allowed herself to stare. He was only a fraction taller than she was and strikingly handsome, clean shaven, with a strong jaw, red gold hair that had a slight curl to it. She couldn't find a single flaw in his face, but what was behind that handsome smile? She wanted to know what was in the man's head, what made his heart beat, what made his blood quicken, what made him weak or weary. His eyes met hers and she held his gaze for a moment before glancing away, sure to look demure and slightly embarrassed. Nell watched as Cersei held her hand out to Lord Eddard Stark – whom Nell had heard a number of stories about from her father - who kissed the Queen's knuckles, addressing her with a slight bow. The woman to his left Nell assumed was Lady Catlyn Stark, her red hair faded only slightly with age, though still brilliant in the pale sunlight. She bowed graciously as she addressed the Queen, who nodded in turn to her.
"Lord and Lady Stark, you will remember Renell, our eldest?" Queen Cersei said as she placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder, her voice light and airy and as careless as it always was. Nell saw pleasant surprise pass over Lord Stark's eyes, and she couldn't help but smile as she held out her hand from him to kiss, as she'd been trained to do upon every introduction. She couldn't help but glance over his shoulder and feel curiosity spark in her heart as she took in the sight of a black haired boy around her own age. He was handsome, sharing Robb's strong jaw; though he looked quiet uncertain of himself. She saw the similarity between him and the Lord who gripped her hand, the same handsome profile, and the same haunted eyes. Their glances met for a moment, and time seemed to falter. His dark eyes met hers and she felt her mouth go dry and her heart beat begin to quicken before he politely lowered his eyes and Nell looked back to Ned Stark. That glance had seemed to take a lifetime, yet it had truly only been a fraction of a second.
"My how you've grown Princess," Lord Stark commented in good nature, though he was extremely surprised by how vastly the eldest differed from all her siblings. Renell was nearly as tall as Robb – who Ned could see gazing at her out of the corner of his eye – her hair was as dark as her fathers, falling unbound in soft spirals over her shoulder. She was naturally radiant, with a soft smile, but her eyes were just a fierce as Robert's had ever been. She seemed far different than her mother, the smile on her face completely natural and at ease. He'd seen the way she'd marveled at his home, the way her eyes had swept over the stone in wonder and curiosity. He already liked this girl.
"Take me to your crypt; I want to pay my respects." Robert's voice cracked the silence of the courtyard, pulling Ned from his study of the Princess.
"We've been riding for a month my love," the Queen interjected, clearly agitated. "Surely the dead can wait."
"Ned," King Robert nodded at his old friend and continued on his way, clearly not caring about anything his wife had to say. It was embarrassing for her, but it was not something that Cersei did not bring upon herself. All Nell's life she'd seen the rift between her parents, knowing that it was only duty that kept them together - not love. Carefully, she lifted her gaze to the dark haired boy again, and found him staring at her. The glance was broken by her mother's silent summons, and with careful steps she crossed the courtyard to stand beside her Uncle Jamie. She trained her eyes on the stone around her or to her siblings, she could not let her eyes wander, she could not stare at that boy – the boy she could only assume was Lord Stark's bastard son.
II
"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully as he swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, like stone soldiers, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchers that contained their mortal remains. Their footsteps rang out, echoing on the walls as they continued along the subterranean corridor. Robert shivered slightly in his furs, the cold far more vicious among the dead than the living. He had been within his own family's catacombs many a time, but something about the Stark dead seemed far more unwelcoming. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass with unseeing eyes, their likenesses were carved into the stone. In long rows they sat, those blind eyes ever staring into the darkness, with life size direwolves curled around their feet. Iron longswords had been placed across the laps of all the former Lords, a custom that the King was unfamiliar with, he noted that the oldest had long rusted away, leaving only red stains where they had once been. "She's down at the end, with father and Brandon."
Ned stopped at last and lifted the lantern high, casting light upon a set of three tombs that stood side by side by side. Beyond this point the tombs sat open and empty, waiting for the dead, waiting for Ned and his children. It was an eerie and disturbing thought. The three tombs were of Ned's father, Lord Rickard Stark, his older brother, Brandon, who had died only a handful of days before he was to marry Catlyn Tully, and the last one was Lyanna.
"She was more beautiful than that," the King said after a silence. His eyes lingered on the stone face of her statue, as if he could will her back to life. His fingers trembling only slightly against the stone of her sculpted jaw. "Ah, damn it, Ned did you have to bury her in a place like this? She deserved more than darkness…"
"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly, "This is her place."
"She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean. In my dreams, I kill him every night." After a moment the King stood and spoke no more of Lyanna Stark. For several moments he and Ned spoke of John Arryn, reminiscing over the past and then speaking of how the fever had robbed him of life. Ned asked after his wife and son, clearly concerned for their health and safety. The King said all that he could on the matter before finally speaking the purpose of his long journey.
"Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King." Ned dropped to one knee in shock and dread. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms: he spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, and drafted the king's laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself. It was the last thing in the world he wanted.
"I am not worthy of the honor."
Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "I'm not trying to honor you, I'm trying to get you to run my kingdom for me while I eat, drink and whore my way to an early grave. Damn it Ned stand up," Robert tapped his shoulder, "You helped me win the Iron Throne now help me keep the damn thing. We were meant to rule together, if your sister had lived we'd have been bound by blood. Well it's not too late. I have a daughter you have a son, we'll join our houses."
It had been a difficult decision to make for the King to make, to give her away. He knew he had to get her out of King's Landing. In the last year her mother had been crowing that she was old enough to marry, that it was time for them to bind her to some southern lord and be done with it, but Robert knew the southern courts well and he knew that there was not a single lordling who could keep her or treat her with the honor and dignity that she deserved. He knew that here, in Winterfell, Nell would be treated with the highest of regards. She was his precious little girl, and he knew that Ned's boy had been raised right, with honor. He would be a good fit for his girl, and up here in the North she'd be safe from Cersei's plotting. Here among ice and snow the Rose of King's Landing would be well kept.