A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me! It's a bit of a short chapter, but the next one should make up for that. :D Enjoy! Oh, I'm starting the story approximately 1 year before "A Game of Thrones" begins.


Chapter One: Jacquelyn

Rose woke early the morning of her wedding. If Jacquelyn hadn't believed her daughter was nervous, she did now. Rose hardly ever woke before the third bell after dawn, and never on her own. Unlike Jacquelyn, who was used to keeping early hours from years of running Winterskeep, Rose preferred to stay out late with the stars and sleep in until midmorning. So it was that Jacquelyn was shocked when her daughter was up and pacing when she entered her room to wake her. The suite was spacious and well-appointed—the Doctor had rooms to spare in his castle and hers was clearly designed for visitors of royal status. Brightly colored rugs covered the cold stone floor, and tapestries hung on the walls depicting scenes from the old tales: Brandon the Builder and even her husband's own ancestor, Petyr Powell, first king of Winterfell. Of course, that was back when Winterfell was whole and as large as the other six kingdoms put together. Petyr had three sons, and when he died he divided Winterfell into three pieces: the first, called Winterskeep, went to his oldest son—Artur. The second, called Snowlight, went to his middle son—James, and the third kept the name Winterfell and was given to his youngest—Alan. Unfortunately, Petyr's sons were not half as clever as he was. Alan had only daughters and one of them wed Ethan Stark, whose descendants still ruled in Winterfell. James' line continued for seven generations, until he was caught up in a plot to overthrow the Emperor and was executed and his lands confiscated. It was those lands which had been given to the Doctor's ancestor in gratitude for some favor he did for a future king.

It must have been one hell of a favor, Jacquelyn thought as she waited for Rose to get out of the bath. She didn't approve of this match, not at all, but they were beholden to the Doctor. And what kind of a name was that? It wasn't one, that's what, and she didn't trust anyone who couldn't even tell you his name. "Oh Pete," she sighed. "You should be here to see this." She was pulling out all the stops for this wedding. It was taking place at the Doctor's home, of course, and she was glad. Let him foot the bill, he could afford it, if the bride price he'd given was any indication.

It wasn't a fair trade, not for her little girl, her last tie to her husband and flesh of her flesh. It wasn't a fair trade—but it would keep her safe, at least from the others. The Tylers were a poor house—Artur's lineage declined in fortune as the years passed and the Powell name was all but lost; as it was they possessed barely enough capital to keep afloat, but they were an old family, albeit cousins of the original line. The Petyr Powell had been as close to a King as could be had before the Seven Kingdoms were united, and his blood would make a powerful claim for legitimacy.

Jacqueline wanted no part in the game of thrones that the other families played—the Lannisters and Tullys and Starks and others—but she knew well that one didn't have to be a player to be a casualty. Her own husband taught her that the day he was murdered. His words came to her unbidden, whispered in the silent corners of her mind: The wolf is at the door. She shivered, cold suddenly although the long summer was warm around her. Every noble house had their words, like a motto. Most were something rather generic but positive, affirmative, like Family, Honor, Duty—but not the northern houses. Petyr Powell's descendants had strange, ominous sayings. The Starks reminded everyone that Winter is coming, the Tylers agreed with The wolf is at the door, and the Doctor's house (Tardis, whatever that meant) chimed in with There is no past and no future, only Time. They were dark words, unsuited for a day that was supposed to be a celebration of joy, but they came to her all the same and danced a merry jig in her mind whilst she waited for her daughter to be done with her bath.

When Rose exited the attached bathing chamber Jacquelyn almost didn't recognize her. She was a willful creature, was Rose Tyler, and she'd been raised half-wild not from a lack of effort on Jacquelyn's part, but from sheer bloody-mindedness on her own. There wasn't a man, woman, or child who could make her do something she didn't want to do (and in truth Jacqueline drew comfort from that fact, because if Rose truly didn't wish to marry the Doctor then she wouldn't). Usually she didn't want to look the part of a lady of a noble house. Her customary raiment consisted of a long tunic with splits almost to the waist (for riding), black or gray leggings, and soft leather boots. Her long, blonde hair was most often pulled back into a tight ponytail and her face was, more often than not, smudged with dirt. When she did wear makeup, she favored the heavy-handed style of the cities of the south, like her mother.

That was not the Rose Tyler who stood nervously in the doorway. Her hair had been washed and brushed and then twisted into a series of complex braids that sent the golden tresses spilling over one shoulder. Strings of deep blue and ice pale beads were woven in among the braids and matched perfectly the colors of her dress. The outer shell was blue like shadows on snow and the inner fabric was a vivid lapis hue. Lacing the color of the outer shell held the pieces together and emphasized her waist. The sleeves hung long and full around her arms and she twisted her fingers in the fabric as she fidgeted under her mother's appraising eye. Her face was almost bare of makeup—just a hint of color at the lips and cheeks and a thin line of black around her eyes. The whole outfit was restrained, almost severely modest, but the blues highlighted the warmth of her skin and eyes, and she fairly shone in the candlelight.

"You'll do," Jacquelyn said after a long moment. "Now come on, girl! Can't be late for the ceremony, not with everyone waiting on you."


The ceremony itself seemed a bit of a blur. It felt wrong and a little bit like betrayal, leaving her daughter here in this cold hall (never mind that Winterskeep was further north and thus often colder than Snowlight). For all that her husband had been fond of the Doctor, Jacqueline hardly knew him and it was not in her nature to leave those she loved with strangers. But—he could protect Rose and Jacqueline knew that she could not.

There was a storm coming. Robert had been a brilliant general but he was an indifferent king and too content to leave running the kingdom to his ministers whilst he cavorted with all manner of women and spent money like water. They called her a gossip and slow and common, but she'd heard the whispers coming out of the south. He was surrounded by Lannisters and they were nothing if not ambitious. He'd had the bad sense to marry one of them and she knew they wouldn't be satisfied until they had the throne. She didn't trust any of them, not as far as she could throw them.

There was a storm coming, and the last time the throne had been in contention she'd lost her husband. She was not about to lose her daughter as well.