Thank you so much for the kind reviews I really appreciate them. Hopefully this chapter isn't too confusing and helps clear some things up.

In regards to updates, I'm aiming for once a week, however it's currently exam season for me so unfortunately I can't make any promises!


THE LANDS OF ALWAYS SUMMER

III

The smell of blood clung heavy in the air as the wolf pack feasted on their prey. The full moon overhead watched as together they stalked the animal through the dark pine forest, lighting the frost covered ground in stark incandescence as they pursued relentlessly their desire to devour its flesh.

The stag never stood a chance.

The grey brother howled at the moon in triumph and signaled for his pack to follow. The pretty sister and gentle brother trailed his bloodied paw prints in unison, their hunger relinquished from their meal. The reckless brother growled, baring his fangs at the trees and tearing loose bits of flesh from the carcass, until the grey brother—their leader—turned back and snapped his teeth at the lesser wolf; where he went the pack always followed.

The smaller sister, the little grey one, waited a moment more, observing the moon carefully with her dark golden eyes; she was waiting for the other wolf.

She never had to wait for long; the falling snow that blanketed the ground crunched under the weight of the lone wolf's paws as he advanced from his place within the shadows. The beast loomed over her and the remains of the conquered animal, he was larger even than her grey brother, capable of being a pack leader though he never uttered a sound. His white fur was captured radiant under the clear night sky and his red eyes shone ominously as he surveyed the she-wolf. He smelled of death and ice.

With the tip of her nose she nudged the remaining meat from their kill over to her silent brother. No, not brother; cousin. This wolf was her cousin.

As soon as she thought it, his crimson eyes turned a deep violet and pitch darkness fell around them, rendering her almost completely blind. She whimpered as her remaining instincts sharpened; the air froze before her and she felt a thousand pairs of eyes, more fearsome than a pack of wolves, stalking her movements. Something was coming.

Arya Stark awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth.

She bolted upright in her bed, gasping for air as she recollected her senses. She felt herself swaying as the wolves howled around her. No, not wolves, it's only the wind. Her vision was hazed with lingering images of the previous night's dream as she stared about her cabin.

She'd been dreaming of wolves again, and each time she found it harder to slip back into her own skin. Arya clenched her eyes tight, willing her mind back to the present.

"The little wolf awakes at last."

Sansa Stark sat in the corner of their small cabin room, carefully embroidering with a lazy elegance that Arya had never been able to master, much to her mother's chagrin. During the years since her flowering, Arya's twenty-year-old sister had grown so beautiful it almost hurt to look upon her. Her flaming auburn hair was meticulously pinned atop her head, with long silk tendrils tumbling down the length of her spine, whilst the orange shafts of sunlight that had slipped in through the small window danced across sharp cheekbones and her somehow still ivory-coloured skin. Despite a lifetime spent in the Free Cities, Sansa's skin had been impervious to developing the bronzed darkening that the rest of the family now had. She looks more of the North than any of us.

Sansa rose from her stall and walked towards Arya's bed, her pale blue silks swirling about her slender feminine frame as she moved. Arya eyed the small blue sapphires blinking on the single ring she'd received as a gift from the eldest Tyrell boy in commemoration of their recent betrothal; 'blue like your pretty Tully eyes' had been written on the soppy note attached. Willas Tyrell had never even seen Sansa's eyes, so Arya thought the whole thing was rather ridiculous.

She herself had yet to receive anything from the Baratheon heir in heed of their own betrothal; not that she cared. She'd heard that Robert Baratheon was a fat, whoring drunkard, and she had no doubt his son was like to be the same. Gifts are for silly girls who marry for love—and Sansa who still believes that such a thing exists.

"Are we there yet?" Arya asked her older sister blearily, as she perched on the edge of the cot. She was about to say home but caught herself just in time. I am a wolf; I have no home.

"Father says we should reach Tarth by nightfall…" a light smile graced her lips as she spoke, but Sansa refused to meet her sister's eyes.

Arya raised an eyebrow at the obvious apprehension that marred the elder Stark girl's porcelain face. "But what?"

Sansa ceased fiddling with a loose bit of fabric on her gown and smoothed out her skirts. "What if this doesn't work, Arya?" This time she barely spoke above a whisper and cast her gaze hurriedly across the cabin, as if the damp walls of the ship might be listening to her every word. "What if there are Targaryen and Lannister armies waiting with swords drawn for us to arrive? They say the Spider is the master of secrets, but what if the dragons have little birds of their own and they've somehow found out where we're headed? What will happen to us?"

"Nothing is guaranteed," Arya admitted grimly, "but the Baratheon's have been loyal friends to the Starks for years, Robert would never betray Uncle Ned." Though where was the fat Lord's loyalty when his brother in all but blood was exiled from his home for a rebellion that he started.

Sansa nodded her head slowly. "Valar Morgulis," she mused, her cerulean depths glazing over with tears.

"We are not dead yet, sister." Arya responded to the Braavosi phrase.

Sansa repressed a small smile. "All men must die…and even kings are only men." She picked up her discarded embroidery and resumed fashioning the outline of a green and gold rose.

Arya's eyes darkened, her mind casting back to the previous night's dream. "And even kings are not immune to the cold."

IV

A week had passed since the Starks of the North set sail under cover of darkness from the port of Essos, their home for the past twenty-three years. Not home, thought Eddard Stark; Essos was our sand prison not our home.

Home lay in the distance, a looming mirage on the midday horizon. We left as Great Wardens of the North, we return as exiles. Two decades ago, after Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his sister Lyanna prisoner, and Robert Baratheon had launched a failed rebellion, the Starks had all been banished from Westeros by Aerys Targaryen. Benjen Stark, who had already made the decision to take the Black, was exempt, however even Catelyn, Brandon's young Tully wife, was punished alongside them by association.

Since then she'd conceived five children by Brandon; Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon. Five babes yet they still do not make each other happy.

As if on cue, his brother's wife entered the cabin in a wave of fury, the wet-rotted wooden door almost splitting from its hinges in the process. Catelyn Stark nee Tully, her flawless features which hadn't seemed to age a day in twenty years, were now contorted in a beautiful rage as she descended upon her husband like a wolf upon a helpless sheep. "How dare you do something this reckless and negligent without consulting the rest of us first. Do you have any idea of the potential danger that your actions have put us in; that the other houses have been put in?"

Her long auburn hair, all tangled and wild, seemed to spark in the wake of her unrelenting wrath. It was in these moments that Ned admired her the most, for it was this seething, unconstrained and unafraid woman that he had fallen in love with over twenty years previously. He felt no shame for thinking this now, nor for the way his blood ran hot as he stared in awe upon her spectacle.

If Brandon was intimidated by her display of rage it did not show. The wild wolf leapt from his chair, his grey eyes as stormy as his own volatile temperament. "Do not lecture me with the concerns of the other houses, wife. If any of them thought for a second that they might be at risk, they would sacrifice us all in the blink of an eye to preserve their own pathetic skins."

"And do you presume for a minute that that excuses your own selfish actions, husband?" Catelyn countered, taking a firm step towards him. "Should this go awry, the children, who have never even set foot in Westeros, will have their throats cut before they're ever in reach of their true home."

"Don't you bring my children into this— "Brandon thundered.

"Our children. Or have you forgotten how I endured the births of every one of your heirs single-handedly whilst you drank yourself into a stupor in every brothel in Essos!"

Eddard was about to intervene when Rickard—their usually reserved and ageing father, and the presiding head of the Stark dynasty—rose above the clamor. "Enough!" he bellowed, bringing his fist down with a deafening crash on the round wooden table.

Silence fell but for the sound of the waves above deck and the faint din of the crew. For a moment Brandon appeared as if he might say something, but thought better of it and threw himself back down into his chair in a brooding noiseless fury. Catelyn too obeyed his orders and took up a seat at the round table opposite Ned; she refused to meet his eye.

Rickard reached across the table for the pitcher of wine and poured each of them a cup, with the careful measured motions of a man who had learnt to be patient. "Thank you", he said as he regained his chair, "now would someone like to explain what exactly has been done."

All eyes turned to Brandon who sneered and leant back in his seat unconcernedly. "I merely wanted to surprise the future queen of our forthcoming arrival. It is the least I could do for my dearest sister; our lovely Lyanna," he smiled grimly, his eyes darkening. "Why, it would surely be rude not to let her know after everything she's done to help us these past twenty years. She always was so generous."

"Brandon, don't", Eddard warned. "It's not right to speak so ill of her, she's been more a prisoner in the capital than we have across the Narrow Sea."

"She's not dead, Ned," Brandon spat, his words filled with the acerbic of venom. "I'll speak of her how I wish; she's a whore and a traitor and no sister of mine."

Eddard flinched, shocked to the core at the brutality of his older brother's words. He'd always known that time and helplessness had made him grow resentful of their little sister, but he'd never believed he'd become so hateful. After all, Lyanna had saved Brandon and their father from a slow and wicked death. And as a result doomed them to a fate far worse.

No! I must not think that of her, it isn't right. He looked to his father for aid against Brandon, but he gave none, also refusing to meet his son's gaze.

Two decades in Essos yet your hearts are as cold and unforgiving as the land of our birth. Though he'd never been one for drinking unlike Brandon, Eddard now reached for the glass his father had poured and downed it in one. The red Tyroshi poison scorched his throat as he drank and he found himself longing, not for the first time, for the comforting taste of mead and winter and home.

The flames had subsided from Catelyn's eyes as she spoke now and her voice once more turned from steel to smooth velvet. "We have received word from Robert Baratheon." Ned fought the sudden urge to reach out for her hand; he doubted very that the change of topic was for his benefit but felt a surge of gratitude for the red-haired woman all the same. "He has agreed to our terms and says he plans on holding a war council with his brothers and bannermen. When they have come to an arrangement word will be sent to Highgarden and the Eyrie."

Eddard smiled in contempt. You mean when Robert has forced them into an impossible war they have no hope of winning, when Stannis has led them to accept their own inferiority in the face of his strategic genius, and when Renly has charmed them into believing that joining the cause was of their own free will.

"This is good," Rickard said, slowly running a hand over his white beard as he considered Catelyn's words. He turned his eyes to Ned. "And what of Lord Karstark, is he ready to rally the North?"

"He is already calling the banners," Ned supplied, "and Edmure Tully promises to do so once we arrive at Storm's End. The final pieces are falling into place."

"Not every piece." Catelyn bit her lower lip. "Balon Greyjoy is still refusing to bargain with us. If we cannot convince him to join us, then who knows what the Ironborn will do."

"Perhaps if we compromise with him— "Ned began with caution.

"Compromise?" Brandon asked incredulously. "We already know exactly what the Ironborn scum want. They want every house in the kingdom to bow before their beloved drowned Gods, and to take the Northern crown for themselves. There will be no compromising with the Greyjoys."

"So be it," Rickard waved a dismissive hand. "Let them dabble in their pointless games, gods know they don't stand a chance in seven hells fighting this battle on their own."

Catelyn had noticeably tensed at his words and for the first time cast a doubtful sideways glance at Ned. The Gods also know we have more than enough enemies in Westeros already. Is it really wise to estrange ourselves from the commanders of the seas?

So be it.

V

"It seems you'll marry the Storm Princess after all, brother."

Robb Stark's sword, pointed at the sky in preparation for battle just moments before, fell to the wooden deck with a clank. He whirled around to stare at his younger brother, who was leaning casually on the railing with a boyish grin on his face.

"And how have you managed to come by this information?" Robb asked, retrieving the fallen practice sword.

Bran's grin widened as he pulled out a ripe peach from his pocket and bit into it. "Climbing has its benefits you know… especially when you're trying to read letters over peoples' shoulders."

Robb laughed and tousled the younger boy's hair. "All this climbing's going to get you into trouble one day."

"Perhaps," Bran shrugged and crossed his arms, a crooked grin on his face still. "But right now you ought to be thanking me. I just found out that you're going to marry one of the most beautiful women in all of the seven kingdoms; Baratheon clearly doesn't think you're too bad if he's accepted the proposal."

Robb's face reddened. It was true that Myrcella Baratheon's beauty was renowned; tales of it could be heard even in the Free Cities, though Robb had yet to behold it for himself.

"Congratulations, Robb," his sister Arya said crossing over to them with Sansa in tow. "The Stark heir will marry the Storm Princess; in exchange I get the absolute pleasure— "She said this with more than a trace of indignation. "—of being wedded and bedded by Gendry Baratheon. Do you suppose her Uncle's will watch when you do it, Robb, everyone knows how protective they are of the little Princess." Bran sniggered at his sister's teasing.

For the second time, Robb felt his cheeks and neck grow furiously hot. "I don't think that will be necessary, Arya," he objected, an uncomfortable laugh of protest forming at the top of his throat.

She shrugged bemused. "I wouldn't be surprised; this is Westeros remember, where cousins fuck and siblings wed each other."

"Arya!" Sansa baulked, horrified. Robb and Bran laughed. They didn't have to live there to know that the dragons had relied on incest for thousands of years in order to keep their line pure.

"Shut up, you know it's true," Arya continued. "As I was saying, Sansa will marry the Tyrell heir in secret until everything surfaces, and Bran will do the same with the Martell girl—Joanna or whatever her name is—and Rickon will be sent to the Eyrie as the Arryn's ward."

This was exactly what Robb had been so afraid of. Though there were still many parts of this game that he didn't understand, he'd discerned enough to know that the Tyrell's and the Martell's were very dangerous players. The princesses Margaery and Arianne were married to two of the young Targaryens and if they were speaking the truth in wanting to support the Stark's cause, they were putting both of them in grave danger as long as they still resided in the capital. This was rebellion, this was war, this was treason.

And everyone knows what happened to the last family that committed treason against the crown.

Even the Baratheons and the Arryns, who had been close allies to the Starks for years, could not be fully trusted now. These were dangerous times for wolves, especially in the South, and though his Uncle Ned was once like a brother to Robert Baratheon, a lot could change in twenty years, who was to say that they weren't being deceived and that this whole treaty may actually be just a ruse by the Dragons, intending to have their heads on pikes around the capital for the whole realm to see.

The wolves must stick together. When they were children, their Uncle Eddard had told them that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Robb thought of that phrase now more than ever, when he and his siblings were about to be torn apart in an unfamiliar place full of dragons and lions and serpents. As a young boy he'd often dreamed of the day they'd set sail for Westeros to reclaim their homeland and kill every last Targaryen who'd taken it from them. He'd dreamed of glory and victory and rescuing an aunt he'd never known. But more than that he'd dreamed of a huge castle covered in snow, and great weirwood trees with the faces of the old gods. Winterfell. Something grew in the pit of his stomach at the thought, something that made him dizzy and feverish. Home.

The hand that gripped his wooden sparring sword trembled as he spoke now. "And thus we have our claws in almost every great house in the Seven Kingdoms." Robb clenched his fist tighter as the quiver in his fingers threatened to drop the sword again.

"Look over there…" Sansa cried suddenly, and the others turned their gazes to where the eldest Stark girl pointed. Upon the horizon sat the island of Tarth; The Sapphire Isle. It was their first point of dock before they went on to Storm's End, and the first time any of them had seen Westeros not depicted in paintings and books.

"We are almost home," Sansa said quietly, a smile full of hope and excitement forming on her face; Robb couldn't help but do the same.

Winter is coming.

And this one would be long.