Serra

She was standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, watching silently as the menagerie made its way through the ancient stone gates. Through the green mist came a herd of stags, the largest leading the rest. He pranced roughly and threw his great head about, his large piked antlers glistening in the waning sunlight. Others followed behind him, but none so sleek and proud as their leader.

Behind them, a pride of lions came into view, led by an immense golden male with a mane of white stained with blood. Beautiful to behold, he roared as he passed her, his voice reaching all across the great towers and keeps of Winterfell. Beside him walked a lioness, her fleece the color of sunshine through honey, and eyes like emeralds set in gold. Together they made a beautiful and terrible sight. They were followed by three cubs, heads held high and gilded manes shining. Though they made a lovely spectacle, she felt a tightening at the pit of her stomach. Winter was coming, she knew, and the sight before her was its harbinger.

As the procession reached its end, the sunlight dimmed, and storm clouds came into view. An enormous black cur strode beneath the gathering darkness, the kind of animal that was often found in gaming pits, biting and snarling against its own kind until blood flowed and the opponent lay lifeless on the ground. Indeed, the smell of blood preceded him, as did a sound like the clanging and clashing of steel on steel. Scars covered his sleek black fur, the largest covering half his head and muzzle, the ear on that side chewed away. He glanced around with eyes the color of the clouds above him, filled with anger and hate. He was rage made flesh, terrible to behold and more fearsome than any stag or lion that had come before.

As he passed her in the courtyard their eyes met and she felt a shiver run down her spine. His stare was ferocious, filled with hostility and hunger. He looked at her as though he could eat her whole with no more effort than swatting a fly. His gaze was so intense it made her frozen blood run hot, but before she could look away she caught a flicker of something else. Was it longing or loneliness she saw there? Perhaps both, but it was gone too soon, once again replaced with the glaring heat of his feral rage.

The great animal barked at her, only once, the sound like rolling thunder as lighting flashed through the roiling clouds above. The towers around her shook, and she startled at the sound, but determined now she would not break contact first. He cocked his head curiously at her, stalking right up to where she stood. They were face to face now, and she felt her own hackles rising as she looked into his deep grey eyes. She bared her teeth at him, growling, a low warning growl but he only came closer. He made no sound, but sought to dominate her with his wicked gaze and his hot breath on her muzzle. When she refused to back down he snarled, snapping at her, rear haunches crouched as if preparing to attack.


Serra Stark awoke with a gasp, sitting straight up in her bed and clutching her furs to her chest. She struggled to bring her breathing under control and felt a chill as the cool late summer air cooled the thin sheen of sweat the dream had produced. She rose with a sigh and prodded the embers of last night's fire, placing two new logs and pausing to scratch the greying fur behind Garick's old ears as he reclined next to the warmth. "We're getting soft, old man," she told him. "We've gotten used to feather beds and warm fires." She sighed bitterly, wrapping a fur around her shoulders.

It was the third time she'd had this dream, though she didn't need the confirmation to know it would come true very soon. Her brother had received a raven yesterday, telling them that the stag king and his lioness queen were on their way. She still wondered about the great angry dog. This was not the first time she had dreamed of him. She had, in fact, been dreaming of him for most of her life. Her visions had started young, foretelling the dark destiny ahead of her, and the feral creature of her dreams played some part in that destiny, though for good or ill she could not say. A lifetime of dreams and she was no closer to understanding his enduring presence as she ever was.

She thought to ask Ned about him, but she feared she would ask him about the rest of the dreams, the ones in which the ancient towers and keeps of Winterfell crumbled and burned, and cold darkness descended on the North, eventually swallowing up the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn't that she feared he would doubt her. He had long since given up his resistance to her sight, or any of the other strange aspects of her nature. She just knew that telling him was futile, he would only drive himself mad trying to change the unchangeable. Knowing the future was more a curse than a gift, and only a lifetime of living with it made it possible for her to process the visions without losing her mind.

She was brought out of her reverie by the sound of little feet padding through the corridor outside her chamber. She unbolted her door with a smile and returned to sit by the fireside, waiting for the little red whirlwind to appear. Soon enough her door crashed open and little Rickon burst through.

"Morning Aunt Serra!" he cried. It was more an announcement that a greeting, and it always made her laugh. He attempted to clamber into her lap as he did every morning, but today his efforts were hampered by the addition of the direwolf cub in his arms. She lifted him into her lap and he snuggled close as she wrapped her arms around him, giggling when she nipped playfully at his ear.

This was their morning ritual and it had started almost as soon as the boy had learned to walk. No matter when she woke, he was always there before she even had time to dress. She suspected he probably woke with her every morning.

"Good morning, my little beast," she said in the old tongue. She had taught it to him from the day he was born, and they practiced it as often as possible, much to Catelyn's displeasure. Displeasing Catelyn seemed to be easier than breathing, though, so she never gave it a second thought.

"Shaggydog's hungry!" Rickon declared, turning around in her arms and holding the small black cub to her face. The tiny beast gazed at her with his bright green eyes, then nipped her nose with his sharp teeth, causing her eyes to water, but Rickon giggled. She scowled at the little mongrel and his cub. "Others take you, that hurt!" she grumbled, making the chubby three year old laugh harder.

Rickon was wearing a long sleeping tunic and nothing else. She set him down gently and ruffled his thick red hair, "You best go put some clothes and shoes on, boy, before your mother skins us both," she told him. "I'll come down and find something for both of you directly."

The boy grinned a toothy grin and sped out the door, bare feet slapping against stone. She shook her head. One of these days he'd take a chill no doubt and Catelyn would blame her for it. Her distaste for her good sister may have inspired her choice of dress for the day, knowing full well that the dark grey leather tunic and breeches made Catelyn swoon in scandalized dismay. She chuckled wickedly. It was terrible to derive so much enjoyment from displeasing her brother's wife, but she really did bring it on herself.

Catelyn had set out on a campaign to change her from the moment she stepped foot in Winterfell three years ago. She needs to learn to be a proper lady, she had told Ned. They were both strangers at the time, and Serra had felt some obligation to please them. She had tried at first, she truly had, but it was all so pointless. She could make her own clothes well enough already, and she had no need for fancy embroidery. She had no need of any of the things Catelyn or that insipid Septa had tried to teach her, especially their pompous religion and all its ridiculous rules. Eventually she had quit trying.

The only exception was Sansa's harp lessons. Serra had always enjoyed music and could play a lute well enough, so she didn't mind learning the harp under her niece's patient tutelage. The songs she taught her were mind-numbingly dull, but she put up with it for Sansa's sake.

All of the other children had taken to her quickly. They loved her stories of battles with wildling clans, of giants and mammoths and even of Others. Bran especially loved the scarier stories, and unlike Old Nan, her stories came from personal experience. She often went hunting with Jon and Robb, and even Theon, teaching them the way the Free Folk tracked their game. They never failed to bring down a stag, and she was quick to praise them for every successful kill.

When Arya showed interest in swordplay and archery she had encouraged it. She had carved the girl her own wooden sword when the arms master had refused to provide her one, and taught her as much as she could get away with without Catelyn putting a stop to it. She had taught the girl archery and now she surpassed Bran with her skill. She had even made her a set of riding clothes, complete with scandalous leather breeches like her own and took her riding as often as she could, and sometimes they would make camp for a day or two in the Wolfwood so that she could teach the girl to live off the land. She knew, somehow, that the girl would have need of the knowledge someday and tried to prepare her as best she could. Catelyn hated it, but Ned had taken Serra's side, saying they were useful skills and he wouldn't stop his daughter from learning to take care of herself.

Rickon had not needed to get used to her, as he had known her all his life. He had been born two weeks after Benjen delivered her to Winterfell, and she would never forget the moment Ned had placed him in her arms. He was screaming at the top of his little lungs, face as red as his thick red hair, until she had quietly began cooing to him in the old tongue. He had calmed instantly, gazing at her with those grey Stark eyes, listening as intently as if he knew what she was saying. She had been wrapped around his finger ever since, knowing full well that she spoiled him and caring not a whit.

Sansa, however, had been cool at first. She seemed to follow her mother's lead when it came to knowing what or who to look down her nose at. She had begun to warm to her, however, when she showed an interest in the harp, and so Serra had kept up the lessons for Sansa's sake. Now they were friends, and even confidants, though Sansa was still as shocked as her mother at some of the things Serra said and did. Serra didn't mind, though, as long as she had her love.

Serra finished readying herself for the day and moved toward her chamber door. "Are you coming old man?" she called to Garick, and the old dog slowly rose to his feet and padded out the door in front of her. She smiled sadly as she closed the door behind her. He was nine and ten, the same as she. Almost ancient as a dog's life goes. It wouldn't be long before he passed to the other side, and she would be without her lifelong companion.

When he was younger he was always ready, whether for playing in the snow or for fending off attacking clans. He was at once fearsome and playful. He never left her side, not even to sleep, and though she didn't scare easily, her courage was bolstered by his presence. The thought of losing him, of losing that bond, near broke her heart. His running days were over now, had been for some time. He was content to sit by the fireside most days, warming his old bones, and she was content to let him. He had earned his rest.

She made her way to the great hall and Rickon was already sat at the head table waiting as patiently as he could for his early meal. At his side on the bench sat Shaggydog, as though he too was expecting a plate of eggs and ham. Serra sidestepped into the kitchens and called out to one of the servants who had just begun preparing breakfast for the rest of the family. "The little beast is ready for his plate," she told her. The girl smiled and handed her a two plates, already made up and still warm. "I heard him come in, m'lady." The girl explained.

Serra chuckled, taking the plates from her carefully. "Haven't you heard enough times that I'm no lady?" she asked. The girl only smiled again. "Pardons, m'lady." Serra shook her head. It was a running joke with the servants. She was always friendly with the smallfolk in their service and, as usual, Catelyn had explained frequently and shrilly that it was unseemly to fraternize with the help. Of course, that just made her fraternize all the more, and the servants loved her for it.

She started out the door but then remembered Shaggydog. "If you can find any scraps from last night, Marissa, please bring some to the table." The girl nodded, forgoing any further courtesies, and Serra brought the two hot plates to the table and sat one in front of her feisty nephew, who was already squirming impatiently. She sat beside him and they chatted pleasantly in the old tongue while they ate. When Marissa brought in a plate of scraps for Shaggydog Rickon had insisted they be placed on the table beside him. The serving girl looked at Serra questioningly and Serra shrugged and nodded.

Shaggydog put his forepaws on the table and began eating hungrily.

"Lady Catelyn would be very cross if she saw that," a voice behind her warned. She turned to see Jon walking down the steps with his little white cub scurrying behind him. "Then I guess she better not find out," she smiled sweetly. Jon leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Good morning Aunt Serra", he grinned. "Will you join us in the training yard today?"

"I think I will at that", she told him. "Might be I could use the distraction. With luck I may convince one of the men to spar with me." She grinned wickedly and Jon smirked. "I think you've beaten them all too many times. Their pride won't allow them to spar with you again."

Serra shrugged. "We'll see," she told him. "Jory may be up for a good thrashing."


Jory Cassel had indeed sparred with her that morning, and his father laughed heartily when she had him on his back with her sword at his throat. As she gave him a hand up she slapped him on the back and told him he was much better than last time. He smiled and looked over at old Rodric who was still laughing. "Why don't you give her a try, Father?" he asked. Rodric pulled at his large white whiskers and shook his head. "I have my pride, boy", his father answered. "I'll not have my sword handed to me by a bloody woman!"

Everyone in the training ground laughed at that, and Serra sheathed her sword. She looked over to see her brother and his wife exiting the keep. Catelyn glared at her but Ned smiled and held his arms outstretched. He took her by the shoulders in greeting and kissed both her cheeks. "Breaking all the boys hearts this morning already, I see."

"Our legs, more like." One of them said, and a fresh bout of laughter followed with Ned joining in.

"Walk with me to the Godswood?" he asked her and when she nodded he turned to the men. "Mind if I borrow my sister for a while?" he asked them. There were some jeers and a few cheers, and one of them had the courage to shout "Please do!" There was more raucous laughter and Ned just shook his head as he linked his arm in his sister's and walked towards the Godswood.

As they passed the armory Serra quickly ran inside and removed her chainmail, setting it on one of the mannequins and placing her helm on the shelf behind. She drew her black bear pelt coat over her shoulders and lifted the skin of strong mead she had left there, taking a pull and returning to Ned. She passed him the skin and he laughed.

"You'll make some lucky man a fine wife someday", he told her.

She frowned at him, eyes narrowing. "Catelyn hasn't been pestering you to marry me off again, has she? It won't work, I swear it by the old gods, Ned. I'll be as fucking crass and crude as it takes to run them off."

Ned chuckled. "She never stops trying to get rid of you." He laughed at both her words and her language. "But you need not worry, I've learned my lesson. I'm like to lose a bannerman if I try to marry you off to one of their sons again." She had had exactly two suitors in the last three years, at Catelyn's insistence. One was the son of Lord Manderly, the other one a Karstark. She had sent them both packing, each more horrified than the next. It hadn't been pretty. She knew Ned had borne the brunt of the fallout from the incident and felt a guilty for it, but not guilty enough to refrain from doing again if need be.

As they reached the heart tree they both sat down on the soft lichen near the warm spring pool at the base of the tree. They sat in silence a moment, passing the wineskin back and forth. This had become somewhat of a tradition between the two of them, sitting in the godswood drinking mead, sometimes talking and sometimes in companionable silence.

She had had her doubts about Ned in the beginning, he was so stiff and dour. But beneath that stuffy countenance lived a man with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. She didn't remember when she had begun to adore him so, but she did, like a girl is meant to adore her elder brother. She regretted never knowing Brandon or Lyanna, but she cherished each moment she had with Ned and Benjen all the more for it. For a wildling girl who never knew her family, she had become very jealous and protective of them in a very short time.

"Will you take me with you to King's Landing?" she finally asked, putting voice to what had been on both their minds since that damn raven had arrived.

He looked at her questioningly for a moment. "How do you know I'll go to King's Landing?" he asked her.

"You'll go." She said sadly. "And I'm going with you."

Ned took another long pull of the mead. "Aye." He finally answered. "You'll go too."

She wasn't happy at the news, just resigned. It was beginning, the terrible downward slope that would usher in a winter like no other before it. She shivered, knowing some of what was to come. She was frightened, even more so by the darkness of things she didn't know or hadn't seen. So much was uncertain, but what she was certain of was that House Stark would suffer cruelly before it was over, as would countless others. And if she wasn't strong enough to do what the gods asked of her, the whole of Westeros would pay for it. She said a quiet prayer, then, for strength and determination. Snow began to fall softly as she prayed, and she felt an icy tear streak down her cheek.

A/N: Sorry it took so long to post this. Its been a rough few weeks. I got a review on the last chapter that said "Bring on Sandor!" Well, I gave you a little taste there at the beginning, but I had to get a little time passage and backstory out of the way. Next chapter, I promise, I will bring you Sandor in all his Houndish glory.

Thanks for reading, and please review, it makes me write faster.