In the books, Harrenhal was held by House Whent. For the purpose of this story, Wayne replaces Whent. There actually is a House Wayn in canon; Utherydes Wayn is the steward of Riverrun. He may or may not play a part in this story but just pretend that his name is Wayne as well.

Takes place after the Battle of the Golden Tooth.

Harrenhal was a buzz of activity when Damian finally made his way down from his bedroom. All across the courtyard, squires and pages scurried around as their masters barked orders at them. He could hear the heavy, rhythmic clang of hammer against steel resounding from the fiery heat of the forge.

It was a particularly chilly morning, as a crisp cold autumn wind winded through the ancient and colossal fortress. At the other end of the castle, he knew the Wailing Tower would be living up to its name.

Amidst the commotion of horses being saddled and supplies being loaded into wagons, he spied his lord father Bruce Wayne in deep conversation with the castle steward. Tall and stern-faced, Lord Wayne cut an imposing figure.

"Ah ha! There's my little bird!" exclaimed a voice behind him, as long arms slid under his armpits and scooped him up.

He started screaming immediately. "Unhand me! Let go of me or I'll-"

"Nope!" replied Dick as he continued to nuzzle Damian's hair like an overgrown puppy, which considering his personality, he probably was. "I'm about to leave for parts unknown, little lord, and I may never see you again!"

"Don't say that."

Damian had dreaded this day ever since he had snuck into his father's solar. He had been curious of what his father was up to, and with the determination of a boy of ten eager to be in the thick of things, he had sequestered himself in one of the many cabinets lining the vast expanse of the chamber.

"Damned raiders," his father had cursed as he read the letter his wizened maester had handed to him. "Damn them all. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with them I would have sent our troops to Riverrun. Now the Golden Tooth is lost, and Lord Vance as well. And what is to become of Timothy now, once he finds out about his father?"

He heard the thumping of his father pacing, a moment of silence, then-

"Tell Jim and Lucius to rally the troops. I want our men ready to march for Riverrun three days hence."

"As you command, my lord," came the voice of Maester Alfred, and left the man to brood in silence.

Damian's legs had just begun to cramp in the space he had squeezed himself into when his father spoke up. "Damian, I know you're there."

The boy jumped and sheepishly extricated himself from his little hidey-hole. Bruce beckoned him over and Damian approached warily, lowering himself onto a seat opposite his father. The silence stretched on until he blurted, "You're going to war, aren't you?"

"Damian, I wish we had had more time to get to know each other. You just came here at a very difficult time. If I had only known about you sooner... But Talia, your mother, she told me she was barren…"

As if sensing his inner turmoil, Dick gently set Damian back on the ground, interrupting his brooding. At least that's something else Father and I have in common. The older man lowered himself on his knees and placed his hands on his shoulders in what he thought was a reassuring gesture, but only served to make Damian feel more ill at ease.

"I'll be fine, Dami. Don't you worry about me," said Dick. "We will be uniting our forces with the entire strength of the Riverlands. The Lannisters won't stand a chance!"

Damian refused to meet his eyes, afraid that if he did he would see through the false reassurances. Instead he focused on the pale blue marks on his left cheek, a memento of his early life.

Dick Grayson had not always been a part of the Wayne household. He was born and raised a Volantene slave along with his parents in a mummer's troupe. As was customary in the free city, he sported a tattoo on his face depicting a bird with wings spread in flight, a testament to his family's skill in acrobatics. A series of mishaps landed him in Harrenhal under the care of the noble house, and somehow he had convinced its lord to accept him as page, squire and finally knight. That was as much as Damian had gathered about Dick throughout his stay at the castle, and it was not a very long time.

Damian had already been in Harrenhal for little over a month but he still felt as lonely as he was when he first set foot under the shadow of his lord father's immense keep. Bastards were not held in high regard in Westeros, more so a bastard born of Essosi descent. With little more than the words of a woman and his face as proof of his lineage, many had been wary of his true intentions.

Only Ser Dick had viewed him with anything other than suspicion and contempt. Maybe it was the fact that both of them were born on foreign lands and had to struggle to find their place in an unknown culture, although Damian found it hard to imagine Dick as ever being nervous and awkward.

"Here." Dick pressed something in his hand. It was a hollow tube, only as long as his hand, with a series of holes carved into the length of it. A flute, Damian realized. Thin and delicate, it weighed next to nothing in his hands. He tried blowing through it a few times but no sound came out. "But it doesn't even make a sound!"

"Made it myself," proclaimed Dick proudly. "Look after it for me, will you? I'll teach you how to use it when I get back. That's a promise."

Later, as Damian watched the troops marching west in the direction of Riverrun, he uttered a quick prayer as he had witnessed his mother doing since he was born. Shield my father and brother from harm' O Lord, let them return home safe and sound.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Concrit is appreciated.