"You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart."
The stable was warm and heady with the smell of fresh dung and hay. Jon brushed the tangles from his horse's chestnut mane. Her coat was sleek with sweat from a hard day's ride. When he finished grooming her, he returned the brush to its hook, filled his hands with sweet oats from the barrel, and let the horse lap them up from his palms. She was a sweet horse, unlike the king's fiery, black stallion in the next stall over, which had proven just as prone to biting as its noble master.
"Good girl," Jon murmured. He checked that his mare's trough was full and then backed out of the stall. For two days, lords and their retinues from all over the north had arrived for Robb's wedding. He did not recognize many of the horses that now filled the stable, but he greeted those that he did know by name. There was Robb's North Star and Sansa's good-natured Cissy, Arya's stubborn Wing and Rickon's stocky pony, named Pony.
Wing, Arya's young palfrey, was in just as foul of a mood as her mistress. It was bad enough that their father had to go south, to be Hand of the fat, old King, but Jon couldn't bear the thought of losing his sisters and Bran as well. Lady Catelyn hoped some time in the capital would mold Arya into a proper noble lady. Jon knew better. Nothing and no one can tame Arya.
His siblings were slipping away from him, even Robb, who kept hidden in his chambers or the godswood from the princess. They all had birthrights to uphold, while Jon had nothing. Robb would soon marry the princess and, one day, become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Bran hoped to join the Kingsguard. Sansa and Arya would wed wealthy, noble lords. But what was a bastard supposed to do with his life?
Jon's thoughts were cut short as soon as he stepped out of the stable and something heavy crashed down on him. His chin hit the ground. Blood and dirt filled his mouth. He rolled over onto his back and blinked at the girl kneeling over him.
"Sorry," the princess said, her cheeks redder than the leaves of the weirwood. "I...I slipped." She glanced to the stable roof.
"You were up there?" Jon asked.
She nodded. "Bran's been teaching me to climb. We were supposed to meet here, but he's still at his lessons, and I thought I could give it a go on my own." She spoke quickly, her hands spinning in the air, her palms scratched and red from climbing. It wasn't the sort of behavior one expected of a princess.
"You're bleeding," Aella said, touching his cheek. Jon ducked his head. He didn't feel any pain now, but suspected he would tomorrow.
"It's my honor to break your fall," he said. "But you ought to be more careful."
Aella scowled. "Have you ever climbed in a dress?"
"Can't say that I have, Your Highness."
"I told you not to call me that." The princess rose to her feet and held out her hand to him. As soon as he was standing, Jon let go of her and took a step back. She didn't scoff at him, or ignore him, as most of the royal party did. She was kind, with pretty eyes. And she belongs to Robb.
"You should borrow some clothes from my brother," Jon suggested.
"Don't you think he'd disapprove?"
"No, you don't know him very well."
The princess pursed her lips. "I suppose I don't. It's hard getting to know someone when they...never mind." Eager to change the subject from her betrothed, Aella rushed on. "Bran's been teaching me other things, too."
"What sort of things?"
"About the north. Stories his old nanny told him. Do you believe in giants, Jon?"
He shrugged. "Could be anything on the other side of the Wall."
"Have you seen it?" Aella asked.
"No," Jon admitted. "My Uncle Benjen is first ranger of the Nightswatch, though, and he says it's like nothing else you'll ever see."
"I'd like to go someday."
They fell silent for a moment. Then she held out her arm. "Walk me back to the castle?"
Jon scuffed his heels against the cobblestones. If Lady Catelyn found out he'd so much as talked to the princess, let alone touched her, than he'd be in for it. Nor could he refuse royalty. He looped his arm through hers.
"Tell me a story," Aella said.
"Is that an order?"
She cast him a sideways grin. "Yes."
"Do you know about the king who knelt?"
"Everyone knows about that." She rolled her eyes.
"What about the first king in the North?" Jon tried again. The princess shook her head, so he continued. "Bran the Builder was his name. He was king nearly eight thousand years ago, long before there were any written records and just after the Andals had conquered Westeros."
"How do you know he existed if there are no records?" she interrupted.
"The stories have been passed down generation to generation."
"Men lie," Aella said.
"Do you want me to tell you a story or not?" Jon asked. She pressed her lips together and squeezed his arm, urging him to go on.
"It was Bran the Builder who fought the white walkers in the War for the Dawn." They were in the Great Hall now. The walls were lined with ancient tapestries. He stopped before one towards the front of the room. In the faded threads, Bran the Builder stood tall, his longsword raised against a fearsome, white creature.
"Before you ask, that's a white walker," Jon said, gesturing at the creature. The princess leaned in for a closer look. Her nose brushed the tapestry.
"It's not human," she said.
"No, it's not," Jon concurred. He dredged up memories of Old Nan's frightful tales. "Out of the darkness came the white walkers on their dead steeds and packs of ghostly pale spiders bigger than hounds. It was during the Long Night that they left the lands of always winter."
"Why?" Aella asked, She wrapped her arms around her waist.
"No one knows," Jon said. "But all of the kings in Westeros came together to drive the monsters back. Once they had, Bran Stark built the Wall to ensure they'd never return."
"I thought the Wall was to keep out wildlings," the princess said.
"Well, it is now. No one's seen the white walkers in thousands of years. Most think they died out long ago."
Aella faced him. "And what do you think, Jon Snow?"
"They're gone," he said. "And even if they're not, the Nightswatch will keep us safe."
The princess had a thousand more questions, but before more could be said, Alodie burst into the Great Hall. "There you are," she huffed. "I've been looking everywhere. The queen wants you."
Aella sighed. She glanced apologetically at Jon before going to her handmaiden. As Alodie led her from the room, she smiled back at Jon over her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me more stories soon." And then she was gone.
Jon remained in the Hall for some time, examining the white walker in the tapestry. He'd seen it a hundred times, but it chilled him now more than it ever had before. He wondered what if they were still there, biding their time on the other side of the Wall. Winter is coming.
He was struck by a sudden thought. He had no birthright, no future, yet there was one place bastards could belong. Jon just wasn't sure if it was the place he wanted to be.
Rain struck the mossy floor of the wolfswood. The weather wasn't ideal for hunting, yet Robb was glad for the opportunity to be away from Winterfell. He crouched among the rotting leaves for a close look at the tracks in the mud. "We're close," he declared.
"Not bloody close enough," Theon said. He'd been in a foul mood all day, complaining without pause about the cold, the rain, and having to sleep on soggy piles of leaves instead of his soft feather bed back home. Robb had learned long ago to ignore his friend. Besides, he had worries of his own.
Tonight they were to return to Winterfell. Tomorrow he would be wed. The last of the vassal lords had arrived and the time had come. Robb feared he didn't have the strength to go back to Winterfell. How long would the princess wait for him? How long would they make her wait? He'd hardly spoken to her since the welcoming feast. She'd come to see him off for the hunt. Though she'd wished him a safe return, her eyes suggested that she hoped he'd be impaled by a wild boar.
"If you ask me, this is a stupid tradition," Theon said, as they cut their way through the dense underbrush. "It's your last night as a free man. You should be spending it in Ros' bed, not out here in this dreary wood."
"Don't you mean that you should be in Ros' bed," Jon said.
"I'd share this once. Our little Robb won't have a chance to sample her delights once he's wed."
"He's sampled them before," Jon said. "Everyone has."
"Not you, virgin Snow.
Jon flushed. He lunged at Theon and the pair of them fell to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs.
"Hush," Robb hissed. "Listen."
"What?" Theon asked, with his arm still wrapped around Jon's neck.
"Just listen."
Their prey was near. He could hear leaves rustling just up ahead. Robb lifted his bow and squinted through the mist. He braced himself when the beast emerged from the thickets. Theon muttered a curse. It was the biggest stag any of them had ever seen. It stared at them, unafraid, with huge, black eyes. The stag had eluded them for hours, but now it stood motionless not four feet away. It didn't budge, not even when Robb knocked his arrow.
"Do it now," Jon urged. An icy wind kissed the back of Robb's neck. He hesitated. Staring into the round, black eyes of the stag, he thought suddenly of his wife-to-be. The stag would make a fine bride-gift, but he couldn't bring himself to release the arrow. The stag was an omen, he was certain, but whether of good or ill he didn't know.
An arrow shattered the eerie calm and pierced the stag between the eyes. Horrified, Robb watched the great beast fall, feeling as if it was him who'd been shot.
"Perfect hit," Theon said.
Why?" Robb demanded, rounding on the older boy, whose proud grin slipped away to be replaced by a scowl.
"Brother?" Jon said, concerned. Robb turned his back on the both of them.
He knelt by the stag and rested his hand between its twisted antlers. Blood seeped between his fingers. He felt the stag die under his touch and a sense of impending doom washed over him. The wind picked up, as if the old gods were cursing them for what they'd done.
Jon joined him. "It's only a stag," he said. Robb didn't know how to explain to them how he felt. To his brother, perhaps it was only a stag, but to him it was a dreaded future, the death to mark his marriage.
"We shouldn't have killed it," he said, rising. "Leave it here."
The princess would have to do without a bride-gift. She doesn't deserve the stag, Robb thought, plunging into the shadowy thickets and not looking back to see if Jon and Theon were following. The wind pushed him towards Winterfell and the ill fated union that awaited him.
At nightfall, the queen and Lady Stark had escorted Aella to the sept. She didn't know how long she'd been kneeling on the merciless stone tiles at the Mother's feet. The statues' worn, empty face gave her no comfort. She wondered if the Stark's gods had anymore to say to her betrothed. Candlelight flickered over the stone faces of the Seven. They all appeared to be grimacing. Aella's knees were sore. Her back ached. No one had told her how long she was expected to pray.
Tomorrow she would be a woman wed and she was almost glad that soon the ordeal would be over. She couldn't suffer her mother's or Lady Stark's presence a second longer. They'd flocked her from dawn til dusk these past few days. Between dress fittings and feast preparations, Aella had been paraded before each of the northern lords, from the rowdy Greatjon Umber and his son, the Smalljon, to the icy-eyed Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, who'd sent shivers down her spine when he'd kissed her hand. The princess had greeted them each with smiles, but in her heart she'd felt utterly lost and alone, surrounded by strangers who'd someday be her sworn bannermen.
Aella was exhausted. A yawn interrupted her feeble attempts at prayer. The moon was high and full in the sky. It must be late, she thought. Her knees creaked when she stood. Blood rushed back into her cramped legs as she limped across the sept. The hens, as Tyrion had dubbed the queen and Lady Stark, were not waiting for her. Instead Uncle Jamie stood guard at the door, his sword balanced between his feet.
"Did the Seven answer your prayers?" he asked.
"No," Aella said.
Her uncle shrugged. "They never do. I'm to take you to your room. Queen's orders. You know, niece, I do believe she fears you might run."
"I can find my own room," Aella said.
"So you do plan on running?"
"Where would I even go?" The young princess was a stranger to the north. She'd freeze by sunrise.
"Where would you like to go?" her uncle asked. Aella thought of King's Landing first, but she hadn't been happy there either. Across the narrow sea, maybe? Then she'd only be in an even stranger place than Winterfell.
"I don't know," she admitted. There didn't seem anywhere in the world she could be happy.
Jamie sheathed his sword. "You should get to bed. Tomorrow will be long." He ruffled her hair in a rare display of affection, before turning on his heels and striding off into the shadows. Aella waited until he'd rounded the corner before heading off in the opposite direction. The quickest way to her room, she'd learned, was to cut across the side yard.
Outside, not a single star shone. Even those have left me. Another yawn overcame her. Yet she feared sleep wouldn't come easy. How could she sleep, and risk dreaming, when she knew what waited for her tomorrow? Her stomach churned. Aella paused to wait for her nerves to settle. She closed her eyes and ordered herself to breathe. Everything would be fine.
When she opened her eyes again, there was a direwolf standing before her. Aella stepped back. Her heel caught on a rock and she hit the cold, hard ground. The wolf's eyes glowed like hot embers. It stalked towards her. She was too frightened to move. Lying flat on her back, the direwolf stood over her, with one paw on either side of her head. It sniffed at her hair and she waited...waited for sharp teeth to tear out her throat.
"Grey Wind!" someone called out. The wolf ran to the voice. Aella pushed up onto her elbows and shook the hair from her eyes to see who'd called away the beast.
"He won't hurt you," Robb Stark said, towering over her. He offered the princess his hand, but more wary of her betrothed than his wolf, she stood on her own. They had never been alone together before. She felt as if there were snakes writhing in her belly.
"Grey Wind, is that its name?" she asked after a moment of restive silence.
Robb nodded. "Sorry if he frightened you."
"He didn't," Aella lied, not wanting him to think her weak, but also not having meant to sound so cold. Grey Wind caught a scent on the breeze. He fled his master's side and disappeared into the darkness. "Shouldn't you call it back?"
"He's only going for a hunt," Robb said. The princess didn't want to think about what exactly the beast hunted. Suddenly she wished she'd allowed Uncle Jamie to escort her.
"Well, I'd best go," she said.
"Should I...well, do you want me to walk with you?" he asked. But Aella could tell from his expression that he didn't want to.
"No," she said, once again sounding colder than she meant to. "But thank you, my lord," she added, before darting around him. She made it no further than three steps when something brought her to a halt, a rushing impulse that escaped her lips.
Her back turned to her betrothed, she declared, "I don't want to marry you." Aella wasn't certain what she expected to gain from speaking the truth. She didn't dare turn her head to look at him, but she knew he was still there.
"I don't want to marry you either," Robb said at last. His cloak hissed over the cobblestones in his hasty departure. Still, Aella didn't turn around. Once she could no longer hear his footsteps, she buried her face in her hands. A choked and bitter sob caught in her throat. She would not let it loose.