Across The North stretched acres and acres of white landscape, scarred here and there by great trenches worn into the snow by the coming and going of the inhabitants of Winterfell and the small villages around it. Every day the same complaints rang through the halls of the great castle - boots that were never quite dry, a rogue draught that nobody could find the source of, how long would the stores last for? Anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms, such things would be said with an air of panic or desperation, but this was The North. It snowed here even in summer, and the people here were made of sterner stuff. The threat of wet feet, icy blasts and near starvation were nothing to the Northmen, they spoke of such things as any Southerner would talk of a an unseasonably damp day in spring, or a split hem in their favourite tunic. They bore the winter with an endurance that would be considered legendary south of The Neck. Moreover, they never turned their grumbles against their liege lord. Smallfolk and minor noble houses, farmers and bannermen, whores and smiths - if one thing united them all it was the unwavering loyalty to the Warden of the North and his family.
It was not through fear that the Starks held the North, nor through filling the coffers of opportune allies. It was a deeper allegiance that they commanded. The Starks had been Kings of Winter back in the Age of Heroes, their blood was that of The First Men. For all that time they had held the largest of the seven kingdoms with the sole promise that as sure as the sun would rise, winter was coming, and as sure as winter was coming, the Starks would endure anything to see The North through. They would cut their own food rations, they would forgo the wealth and luxury that other great houses had, and they would ride on the front lines of armies instead of command from a tent. They knelt to the dragon kings instead of sacrificing northern lives in a futile war, they treated their bannermen with respect, and they alone continued to send good, noble men to defend the wall long after the Southron Lords forgot about the dangers that the old stories told them lurked there. The Starks were The North, and The North remembered that...
From the tall Library tower, Karys surveyed the northern landscape. This was her home, and this was her season. Karys loved to read, and she loved to learn above all things. She had spent an enjoyable morning surrounded by books, diving into tales from the dawn age and reading the histories of the great kings of Westeros. Standing at the window the air felt fresh and chill against her cheeks, and she longed to run out into that great white snowscape. She stretched a hand out of the window to feel the flakes falling from the sky. It had been three years of winter, and she still found it so beautiful. The snow floated down onto her outstretched arm and disappeared into the thick white wool of her dress. As if her pale blonde hair, her milky skin and her icy eyes were not enough to earn her the title of 'Winter's Child', Karys' favourite colour was white and most of her clothes reflected this. White was the colour of possibility, and here in The North white was the colour of camouflage, and she like to imagine that she could disappear into a blizzard or drift and that winter itself would protect her from harm in the wild.
Somewhere in the keep a bell chimed, and Karys knew that she had to leave her peaceful solitude to resume her day's lessons. This afternoon was embroidery and etiquette. Karys dutifully made her way towards the room in which her lessons would take place. Already adept at embroidery and a master of all the pleasantries expected of the daughter of a great house, there was nothing to excite Karys about the afternoon, except perhaps the almost inevitable battle that would take place between their tutor and Lyanna. Even though she was the younger sister, Karys was well ahead of Lyanna in many of their classes. She was a fast learner, faster than her older sister. But more than that she saw the benefit in doing well in her classes and getting the boring parts over and done with, whereas Lyanna fought their tutor and their father every step of the way.
Almost as if conjured by the thought, as Karys turned a corner into the great hall she caught sight of Lyanna leaning against the wall and talking covertly to one of the kitchen boys. He couldn't be more than eleven, and the look on his face seemed to show that he was in a quandary. As Karys approached she heard Lyanna murmuring "I know you could get one for me if you tried, you're clever enough. More clever than cook. Just one cake, please."
The boy squirmed and bit his lip. He opened his mouth to say something, but froze at the sight of Karys a few steps away. Lyanna turned around and snapped "Karys! Don't do that! I hate it when you loom out of nowhere like a little ghost. I should get the smith to forge a collar and bell for you."
Karys kept her face impassive at this, and in a soft voice she said "Lessons." Lyanna waved her hand in a wild and careless way, "yes, yes - in a minute. Let me just finish here..."
Karys looked at the kitchen boy, whose eyes had slid from Karys to Lyanna again, and whose cheeks were slightly flushed. Karys knew why. Lyanna had a mysterious way of making the men around Winterfell do whatever she wanted, and it was a talent she was all too aware of. Approaching her eleventh year, Lyanna was beginning to show the signs of leaving childhood behind, more so than Karys who remained a skinny pale child. Some of the younger male servants had begun to take notice of her. Since their older brothers had returned to their foster homes, and their father remained occupied with the business of running The North, Lyanna had begun to push boundaries as far as she could - sneaking food from kitchens, hiding from her lessons, and persuading servants to bring her treats. She was as wolf-blooded as their oldest brother Brandon and the approaching adolescence was only going to make things worse. Karys knew that it was one thing for a son to be wild, but she doubted whether a daughter would be allowed so free a reign.
Lyanna was lucky she was born in The North, Karys thought. In any of the other kingdoms, except perhaps for Dorne if Karys' reading was correct, Lyanna would have been expected to look pretty, sing well, and be a dutiful daughter before becoming a dutiful wife. In The North, where everyone had to pull their weight to get through winter, women were treated more liberally. Rickard Stark had ensured that his daughters had been well provided for, learning to ride horses, read history, and even keep detailed accounts. Karys and Lyanna were free to roam around Winterfell as they saw fit, and since the departure of their older brothers, were even permitted to sit with their father in his study as he dealt with his official business as Warden of the North. Karys took this last duty more seriously than her sister. Indeed she quite enjoyed it. Unlike Lyanna, who could not sit still long enough, Karys was more than happy to sit silently as her father went through checking the grain stores for the rest of winter, sorting through the letters brought by the ravens with maester Luwin. She would sit with a quill and make notes when her father met with the smallfolk who came in supplication, asking for aid or justice from their lord. Karys knew that she would not inherit Winterfell, that was Brandon's lot, but there may come a day when her father may have to leave on business and there would have to be a Stark in Wintefell to take care of things. She would do her duty by the pack, and she would make sure that Wintefell endured.
Taking a deep breath she cast her most baleful look at Lyanna. Though she was a girl of few words, she could muster a look that had even made bold Brandon back away in fear and quiet Ned chew his lip in worry. Lyanna, sensing the brewing storm, straightened herself from leaning against the wall, and conceded that they should go to their lessons.
Shortly after, they were seated with their embroidery on their knees. Their handmaids jabbered away at each other about patterns and stitches, but Lyanna and Karys sat close to each other in silence, Lyanna fumbling with the needle as Kary's fingers flew to the fabric. With a great sigh, Lyanna rested the pattern on her knee and leant her forehead next to her sister's before murmuring, "What is the point of learning embroidery when we have a dressmaker? I don't want to wear anything I've made. And no future husband is going to want me mending his shirt when I can barely cross-stitch. I'll have to send all his clothes to you."
Karys shot a smile at Lyanna. At least she was self-aware. Lyanna took this as a sign to continue, "And anyway, aren't there more important things for the wife of a lord to learn? For a daughter of House Stark to learn?"
Karys rolled her eyes, She knew exactly where Lyanna was going with this. "Oh come on Karys, surely you can see that is just as important for us to know a bit of swordplay and warcraft. Shouldn't we be able to defend Winterfell against her enemies?" Lyanna placed her hand on Kary's forearm and leant in closer, "I mean, what is he point in you learning to keep all those accounts and counting all that grain if you can't defend it all against a... a... hoard of wildlings or Ironborn? What if father, Brandon and Ned were all called away, who will defend Wintefell?"
Karys had to concede that point to her. She sighed and looked up at her sister and said, "Thats all very true, Lya, but you know that all those Southron lords that father hopes we will marry one of don't want a woman who can wield a sword or string a bow. They want us to look pretty and give them children. Father will never be able to marry us off if we turn up with arms like Brandon from waving around a sword."
Lyanna snorted most inelegantly at this image. "Besides," Karys continued softly, "men think it's unladylike to be a warrior. From what I've read they can be a bit funny about the idea of women taking their defence into their own hands..."
At this Lyanna gave her sister a long surveying look, and finally said. "Well I refuse to make myself inferior for the sake of a man. Any man who wants to take me as his lady wife will take me as I am and no less. I deserve that." After a quick pause she leant in closer and squeezed Karys' forearm gently, "And so do you, sister."
Karys smiled at her sister in gratitude and they both returned to their needlework.
