Childhood ends nearly as quickly as it began, because it does not feel so long ago I was just a green boy. But it is the violence of love that twists us, the unfair and biting nature of love. It is the first touch of love that continues to ruin us into adulthood, always underfoot and a prickle of thorns beneath the toes. All the affections that succeed this first love seem to pale in comparison. The heart dies a slow and lumbering death, racing in its infancy to end at a sluggish and indifferent thump.

Biting the tips of my fingers, tugging with my teeth at the leather to pull the sweat-soaked glove from my hand. It would be better to feel it with bare skin, to know the true extent of the damage. I edge my naked fingers down my neck, searching hesitantly for where it begins, because I cannot be sure. I do not know where it starts. Until I feel the break in leather and mail where his blade wrenched open my mediocre protection. It is there it begins, the hurt, where it is wet and warm and the skin swells up around the wound. Somewhere beneath the wound my heart still beats rapid until it begins to lose its urgency, slowing as I start to not care.

The wolf is standing over me and another boy, my friend, takes the long sword from him, its blade black with my blood. I can see the peek of pale blue silk at his wrist, poking out from underneath his shirtsleeve, the barest beginnings of an embroidered trout. The boy squire carries off the sword, only affording me a quick and anxious glance, unsure and worried when the wolf kneels next to me, his features long and gray eyes still.

The wolf surveys the wounds casually, weighing my chances. With bitter mercy, he slips the pale blue handkerchief from under his shirtsleeve and tucks it beneath my leathers, the silk cool against my neck. "For your troubles. You have earned that much." He helps slide my half-helm off, careful not to let my head thud to the ground, and now I can feel the dew on the grass under my ears, brushing my cheeks. "I believe you may have over-stayed your welcome, Baelish." A subtle warning, I think.

Somewhere on the grass must be my heart. The steady rhythm beneath my sternum has disappeared, so it must have slipped out from the open wound in my chest where he shattered my breastbone. It feels empty there now, and my hands search blindly along the ground for that little fist of bloody muscle, fingers sifting through blades and blades of grass but finding no purchase.

The soft sound of padding feet across the greenery, and for a moment I think Cat, Cat, Cat, but the wolf stalks off and it is only the other sister, sobbing and horrified, exaggerated in all of it.

The rivers are running and it is the constant sound of this castle, the running of strong waters. I close my eyes resigned because patience is all I need. She may not come now but she will come even when she thinks she cannot. Patience is all I require; even patience can erode rock like the rivers against the sandstone ever patiently breaking down the walls.