"We need to burn the -ngh- body. It's been too long as it is."

When the crow had arrived at his camp requesting help he had all but laughed in the boys face. Why would the Wildlings return to the Castle Black to help when they had been so unwilling to help them?

'It's Stan.' The Crow looked devastated, as if what he was saying was only just hitting him. 'They murdered him, and they're going to kill anyone who was his friend.'

His blood had run cold. Stan had ran a risk, helping the Free Folk had been something the Crows hadn't agreed with. Everyone had known that what Stan had done was looked down upon. To murder him for it- His blood started to boil as he nodded at the Crow who had come to him.

Rallying the others hadn't been too hard. Stan had gotten them across the Wall, for as long as the Wall stood they were safe. Stan had done what he could to protect them, and he had died for it. They weren't going to stand by and let anyone else die for helping them. Maybe they didn't have the same code of honour that the Southerners had, but if someone saves someone, it was wrong to leave them to the wolves when the roles are reversed.

When the time came, they were all going to be fighting together any way. The living versus the dead. What difference did it make as to who the living were?

"I'll have my men -ngh- gather the wood."

Stan wasn't the only man they had to burn, he had killed one of the Crows who had tried to fight him on their arrival at the Wall. Stupid man. There were more Free Folk than there were men of the Nights Watch – which was a worrying thought when he considered it.

When the Nights King came for them, there was too few men left to man the Wall. The land of the living was in jeopardy.

Turning on his heel, he left the room. The Southerners were truly something else. While he understood why Stan's body had yet to burn, it infuriated him that they were dawdling. No one should have to see someone they care about become undead.

"I think that Crow is going to burst something." Jason was stood just outside, an almost amused expression painted onto his face. "Suppose he deserves it for murdering Marsh."

"We need to build a pyre." He responded. "Marsh has been -ngh- dead too long. That other Crow needs to be -ngh- burned as well. There's enough dead beyond the Wall, we don't -ngh- need them on it." He reached up to tug at the back of his hair. "Gods, these Southerners are re-ally something."

"What, spending time with Stan hasn't convinced you to bend the knee yet?"

It took everything he had to suppress the twitch than ran down his spine, though he could feel his eye go. "Have you not met these self-important southoners? Why would I ever want to bend my -ngh- knee to these bastards?"

Jason hummed in response. "Scott's taken a few men to go get some wood. We can have the pyre's built within the next couple of hours."

"Good." Tweek replied. "Make sure there is spare. The Crows might be burning another few bodies in the coming days."

When he thought of Winterfell he thought of summer snow. Of sneaking into the crypts late at night with Ike and telling ghost stories. Of going out into the Godswood with Stan and Christophe to go on adventures. Of laughing with the stable hands, and studying with Maester Doctor. When he thought of Winterfell he thought of his mothers grand feasts and passionate speeches. His fathers placation of the lords, while making snide comments behind closed doors.

It was his mothers passion, his fathers quiet calm, Ike's laughter.

When he thought of Winterfell he thought of familiar faces and happiness.

Stepping into the keep all he could feel was the bitter cold.

Randy Marsh met him outside, surrounded by both familiar and unfamiliar faces. A smirk was fixed to his face, something manic lighting up his grey eyes. There was as much white in his hair as there was black, and his skin was yellowing and papery. His cloak and tunic were too large on him, and Kyle felt a twisted spark of satisfaction at seeing his once best friends father falling apart in front of him.

Karma was a bitch, and Randy Marsh was slowly digging his own grave.

It would have been more pleasant to have found him dead. He thought to himself, causing a flash of guilt to run through him.

Despite everything Randy had done to Kyle and his family, he still thought of the man as Stan's father. He knew what it was like to lose his father, and he would never want Stan to go through that.

Watching Lord Gerald Broflovski's head being separated from his body was still the worst thing Kyle had been through. Was still the most twisted and horrific thing he had ever experienced; and he had spent years as a prisoner of the Cartman family.

"Kyle, it has been so long. Look at you!" Randy stumbled forward, hands wrapping around each side of Kyle's face. "You've grown! What a fine young man you have become! Look!" Randy moved, standing by Kyle's side, one hand still clutching half his face. "Look at how your little lord has grown!"

His stomach twisted. The beating of his heart seemed to slow. Each breath of air felt like he was choking on stone.

"It is so good to see you again, my boy."

Swallowing thickly, he tried to push down the pounding of his blood.

"It has been too long." He forced out, surprising himself with how neutral he sounded. "How is your wife?"

Lady Sharon. His eyes had been scanning for her since he had entered the keep, but there was no trace of her. While he had never had patience for Randy – a tolerance that had disappeared since the murder of his mother and brother – he had always loved Sharon. A second mother, he had once said to Stan. How she had any patience for her husband was beyond him, and he was desperate to make sure she was alright. With Stan having joined the Watch the only child that remained to her was Shelly – a child that seemed to be more like her father than her mother at times.

Not that Shelly was a child any more.

None of them were.

"Sharon?" Randy questioned with a scoff. "You know Sharon, always doing whatever she wants. Disappearing as if I care." He waved a hand as if he could wave away the conversation. "Come now son, we have your chambers ready for you, and in a few short days you'll be married, won't that be wonderful."

His fingers twitched and he gave a stiff nod. "I cannot wait."

Randy seemed to miss the lack of emotion in his voice, and began leading Kyle through the keep. "Unfortunately, Shelly is my only heir and as she is from a family of a higher standing than you, you will, of course, have to take the name Marsh. Not that you are likely to mind, walking around with the name Broflovski is like walking around with a target painted to your back. It is much safer too, after all, who in their right mind would trust a Broflovski, eh?"

It took every ounce of will power he had to ignore both the boiling of his blood and Randy Marsh. While he had been highly aware that being married off by the man who had betrayed his family would likely result in the removal of his own surname, listening to Randy's encouragement made him ill.

Lord Garrison had sold him for reasons Kyle was not one hundred percent sure of. Keeping Kyle safe hidden had won him the favour of the Black family, and had secured him more power in the Vale. What he could get with Kyle losing his family name and returning to be effectively imprisoned in the North was a mystery to him. But then everything Garrison did was a mystery. While the man was an ambitious, aggressive, narcissist, he could be incredibly secretive when he wanted to be.

Whatever it was he was getting for Kyle's marriage must have impressive, and the thought of it made him sick.

"I heard some fascinating news." Gregory took a sip of his wine, shining eyes locked onto Token's face. "A little birdy told me that Kyle Broflovski was being escorted to Winterfell."

For a moment Token seemed to stiffen, fingers tightening around his own glass. "He is alive?"

Token had told Kenny about the Broflovski family. That Gerald had been dubbed a traitor and was publicly executed by King Scott Tenorman. Ike and Sheila had been murdered at Kyle Schwartz's wedding. Kyle Broflovski had been a prisoner in Kings Landing up until the time of King Scott's murder. Kyle disappeared and had been reported dead. During Kyle's time in the Capital Token had done what he could to help, taking pity on the last Broflovski. Apparently they had struck up a tentative friendship.

"Apparently." Gregory placed his glass on the table. "If what I've heard is correct, he has been sold to the Marsh family for quite a handsome price."

Kenny felt his own blood boil as Token's jaw twitched.

"Sold?" Both Token and Gregory turned to look at him. "I thought slavery was illegal in Westeros."

Gregory's eyes widened marginally before he shook his head. "It is. Kyle won't be a slave, it-"

"But he was bought. You said it yourself, he was sold to the Marsh family for quite a handsome price. They paid for him, in some form, which means whether he is a servant or a prisoner he is a slave. By buying someone you are claiming that you own them. To own a person is to take away their right to be a person. Any person who is owned is a slave. He is now slave to those who betrayed and murdered his family, and why? Everyone thought him dead, he was safe? Why has that changed?"

"Most likely to secure continued support to the Marsh family. No one is particularly fond of Randy Marsh. By marrying the Kyle to his daughter any child of the union would have Broflovski blood running through their veins. The North are unbelievably loyal to the Broflovski family, the union would prevent any possible rebellion."

"And that would be all?" Kenny asked, pressing his lips together tightly. "Kyle gets married, has children, lives almost happily ever after?"

Gregory seemed to repress the urge to sigh. "It is likely that once a number of heirs have been produced, that Kyle would be reunited with his family."

"Is this common practice in Westeros?" His fingers twitched on the table. "Husbands or wives are bought like dogs in heat? Sold into alliances that they could be removed from once their purpose has been served."

"Not generally, no." Token replied, his voice sounding almost strained. "But since Gerald's-" He paused for a second. "murder, most people have been doing whatever they want with next to no consequence."

He knew people expected him to hate anyone that bore the name Broflovski or Tenorman or Cartman, but they hadn't started the war. They had finished it. There would have been no war in the first place if his father hadn't been bat-shit crazy. He could be bitter towards whomever sat on his throne – though the more he heard about his fathers predecessors the more he decided he hated them – but he could not blame them.

One day he would be King, and it would be his duty to ensure that the people in his realm were okay. It would be his duty to uphold the law. That law meant that those sharing Kyle Broflovski's fate would be freed from their marriages. Annulments granted to all those who were bought and sold. Any marriage where a spouse was bought was not a true marriage.

"The Kingdoms are in chaos, while an army of the dead may or may not be gathering to march on them. How convenient for the dead, Westeros may have already signed it's death warrant."

Gregory let out a laugh. "An army of the dead is less than likely to be real."

"None of your little birds have picked anything up?"

"Rumours, oh yes. But such stories tend to be just that. The small folk are terrified of the coming winter. Summer lasted a long time, too long. Following every long summer, an equally long winter. The dead cannot walk."

"But Token said that the men of the Nights Watch are the men who started these rumours. Why would they lie?"

It had been what he had asked himself time and time again since Token had mentioned the possibility. While he did not necessarily believe the rumours, he had to wonder why the Nights Watch would say such a thing. Starting needless rumours in a time of chaos. Telling people the dead are walking despite the fact people would laugh at them- why? Why bother?

"The White Walkers are childrens stories-"

"So are Dragons. So is magic." Kenny stood up, spreading his hands flat against the wooden table. "Why would the men of the Wall tell anyone that the White Walkers have been seen as motivation for recruitment if it was a lie?"

Gregory kept his mouth shut, as Token eyed him carefully.

"You believe them?"

"Do people in Westeros believe I have Dragons?"

Token cocked his head to the side. "They are sceptical. It is accepted as a possibility. Nobody has seen them so nobody can be sure if the rumours are true."

Kenny raised an eyebrow and Token gave a nod of understand.

"If I am to be King of the Seven Kingdoms I cannot just disregard rumours. Everything is a possibility. I have Dragons. I have met Warlocks. I have spent a night on a burning pyre and come away unharmed. I have walked through burning buildings." I have died time and time again and no one ever remembers. "I have come face to face with magic. To disregard this as a mere rumour without any form of investigation would be foolish. I am not Kevin. I am not my father. I will not be a fool.

"Every possibility must be considered."

It was why he listened to every rumour that spilled from Gregory's lips. He had to be aware. Had to understand what he was getting himself into. He could not be naïve when he set foot in Westeros, but nor could he be brash and aggressive. Not every rumour was true. Paranoia was his fathers downfall, and he would have to be better.

Trusting, but not too trusting.

Aware, but not presumptuous.

There was a line and he had to be careful. Had to walk it with near perfection, a slip up and everything he had worked so hard for could slip through his fingers. If he failed, what would become of Karen? And that wasn't a fate he could dare begin to imagine. He had to be successful. Had to show the world that he was not his father. That he was better.

Better than the Mad King.

Better than his brother.

Better than Jack Tenorman.

Better than Scott Tenorman.

Better than Eric Cartman.

Monarchs were kind. Just. Fair. Smart.

Monarchs were the servants of their people. The people were not the servants of their Monarch.

Surprise flooded through him when the door opened. His heart was pounding in his chest, pulse pounding like a war drum by his ear. There were no guards by his door and confusion ran through him. In Kings Landing his door had always been locked, and there was always guards. Even when he lived with Lord Garrison he had a guard.

Why would Randy allow him to go without?

Shaking that thought from his head, he pressed onwards. Winterfell was his home, and what had started as mere curiosity grew.

How far could I get?

Dinner had been more than just uncomfortable. Shelly and Randy had done nothing but insult his family and argue, while Lady Sharon had offered him nothing but sympathetic looks, her lips sealed shut.

Not that he blamed her for remaining silent, he had only given short, clipped answers throughout their meal. Wishing to simply talk to Sharon, the closest thing to family he had seen in years. Randy and Shelly had grated through his reserves of patience quickly, and if it wasn't for his experiences in Kings Landing he would likely have snapped.

If anything good had come from Kings Landing, it would be the control he had gained over his anger.

He had managed to have a quick conversation Lady Sharon, she had apologised profusely and he had told her he didn't blame her, had never blamed it. It had been Randy, she had never deserved to be bound to such a man. Yet she apologised once more, telling him she feared for his future. While the conversation left a bitter taste in his mouth, she had wrapped her arms around him and told him how wonderful it was to see him looking well.

'At least I get to see one of my boys all grown.'

She had gently touched his curly hair and frowned, telling him brown was not his colour.

That night, he had washed the brown from his hair and lay in his childhood bed hoping to fall into a dreamless sleep. The hours had ticked by, but no comfort came from being in his home. Ike wasn't dragging him from his bed on some stupid 'fun orders'. He couldn't hear his mother and father laughing as they walked to their chambers later than usual.

He was home, and the ghosts had followed him.

Stepping outside, the cold air bit at the skin on his face. He had the good sense to dress himself properly before slipping from his chamber.

There wasn't many people milling about so late at night, yet he stuck to the shadows anyway, worried that his hair would give him away. It was strange, to feel like a foreigner in his own home. Yet it made sense, he wasn't there to be Lord Kyle Broflovski. He wasn't there to be anyone's friend – except, perhaps, Lady Sharon. There were so few familiar faces that it felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare; and the faces that were familiar looked at him with either pity or disgust – he wasn't sure what was worse.

His lips twisted upwards wryly, the gates were still open. A few drunken guards stumbling through; no doubt they had enjoyed their night in Winter Town.

A thought slipped through Kyle's mind. Faint. The ghost of a memory. Almost insignificant.

Marsh is the new Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. You know, the son of the bastard that murdered Ike Broflovski.

His heart and lungs seemed to freeze, refusing to work as he took a step forward. Then his heart began pounding steadily. Fear began to bloom in his chest, growing as he got closer and closer to the gate. He stuck to the shadows as best he could, kept his head down and moved.

There was one guard manning the gate and he was too busy talking to someone to really pay attention to who was coming and going.

Kyle kept his head down and as he exited the keep a nervous energy itched under his skin. He kept moving slowly but with purpose until he was sure he was out of sight, and then he ran.

North. Got to get North. Got to get to the Wall.

What he was going to do at the Wall he didn't know, but it was far safer than Winterfell was. He could figure out a plan there. Work out what he could do, what his options were. First though, he had to get there. Keep himself ahead of whoever might come after him.

He was the last living Broflovski, and he refused to let his family's legacy turn into nothing but imprisonment and murder.