A broken tower sat empty behind the walls of Winterfell. It was all but abandoned save for the crates and bags stored in the lower floors. This afternoon there was a young girl hiding among the nails and old leather.
Arya looked through a crack in the main door, sweeping her gaze over the grounds, listening for any hint of her parents. Satisfied, she slunk back into the tower. Carefully climbing up the weathered stairs, Arya hopped into the makeshift bed she'd made for herself. The cot was nestled into the corner of the first floor's chamber. Giving her a warm place to rest without being too far from the door.
Mussing up the old blankets and sheets she'd covertly pulled out of her mother's storage chests, Arya eased back and took a deep breath. It was getting easier and easier to find Berena. She reached out, like she was trying to remember the details of a dream. The heartbeat of her wolf grew stronger in her chest until the rhythms matched. Just like that, Arya was in the Godswood laying with her mother. The smells washed over her, familiar now after weeks of living with them.
Getting up, she gave her mother and father a lick before padding through the trees. The sun was high in the sky and there were plenty of people milling about. She could tell which servants worked for her family and which accompanied the visiting Lords by how they treated her. Winterfell natives gave her enough space to move by unhampered whereas the visitors sometimes changed direction or crossed the room.
Taking the stairs into the main keep, Arya smelt her father. He was sitting at a table sharing a meal with a great big man with a neat beard and some kind of fish-man on his tunic. Making her way over, Arya nosed at her father's knee. He looked down for a moment before smiling and giving her a satisfying scratch while he continued his conversation.
"I'm sorry, what did you ask, Wyman?"
"I was simply curious, my lord. While your offer is one I am very receptive to, I can't help but wonder what might have motivated it. I won't speak ill of anyone specifically, tongues wag as you well know, but there are whispers of young Lady Arya perhaps visiting the Cerwyns or even the Reeds. Regardless, Whiteharbor would welcome Lord Bran with open arms."
Father took a sip of his wine. Arya wished she could understand what they were saying. The sounds were familiar yet when Arya tried to understand them she could only make out that certain words meant actions.
"My children are no longer babes. I've been looking to the past just as much as the future. I must do what is right for my family and my bannermen. It would be good to have my family know the North and the North to know them." Her father replied.
The large man nodded with a sly smile, "Then I applaud your wisdom, Lord Eddard. On another note, I reviewed the proposal you sent. A road leading to Moat Cailin is certainly an interesting idea."
Her father's hand returned to the table and Arya quickly lost interest. Leaving the dining hall behind she took a side passage down into the kitchens. There were always some leftover scraps for her and her siblings.
What she got instead of meat was the sight of her brother gnawing on a bone by the ovens. Walking over she got ready for a bit of play when she noticed there was something strange about Summer. No, it wasn't Summer. Laying in the kitchens was someone else, someone behind Summer's eyes!
Her heartbeat skipped and Berena's didn't, Arya was back in the tower. Pushing off her blankets Arya ran out of the tower. She bumped past a few guards and made her way into the family wing of the Keep. She ran right up to Bran and Rickon's door and started knocking frantically.
Bran tore the door open and pulled his sister inside. The boys quarters were messy, with Rickon's toys spilling across the floor and the desk covered in Bran's drawings. Her younger brother's eyes were wide as he settled her onto his bed.
"Was that you in the kitchens?" He whispered.
"Yes, you can see through Summer?" She smiled back.
He nodded, "I started dreaming a while ago. I thought I was just making it up but then I tore into a shirt and woke up to find the pieces still in Summer's teeth."
Bran and Arya took a moment to just smile at each other.
"Do you know what this means?" Arya asked, "We're wargs."
Bran gasped, his seven year old mind taking in her announcement. "Have you told anyone?"
Arya frowned, "Not yet, I didn't want Mother to get mad."
"That makes sense." Bran agreed. ""What else have you dreamed into?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean other than Berena. I go into Summer lots but sometimes I dream about this raven that's nesting near the stables." He explained.
Arya made plans to meet up with her brother the next day and talk more. With a goodbye she fled to her own quarters. After ensuring Sansa wasn't around she crawled into bed and stewed on her jealousy. Bran was younger than her and he was already a better warg!
It wasn't fair, she could be just as good as Bran. She got up and went to the small window overlooking one of the courtyards. Ignoring the people, she scanned the roofs of her massive home. Winterfell was the biggest place in the whole world to her, there had to be more than a single raven roosting here. There! A grouse! The brown feathered bird was Theon's favourite practice target when out hunting. Taking a deep breath, Arya kept her eyes locked on the bird. Her heartbeat grew louder and louder and she eventually heard the rapid pace of another heartbeat. One quieter and fainter than Berena's.
Arya started sweating, her vision was darkening as her heart attempted to catch up with the birds. It became harder and harder, Arya was running out of breath. The light from the window grew dimmer and dimmer until all was black.
/
"Arya? Arya, please wake up."
A voice that sounded like Mother drifted to her ears as Arya slowly felt her body shift and move. She reached out and grabbed onto the warm hand resting on cheek. Arya opened her eyes and looked up at her mother, who smiled down at her.
"Are you okay, dear?"
Rubbing her eyes, Arya thought she felt like Green Eyes had trampled her. Her muscles felt sore and her head had a dull ache.
"I'm fine. What are you doing here, Mother?" Arya lied.
Catelyn pulled the wet cloth from her daughter's forehead and exchanged it for a goblet of water. Carefully bringing the cup up for Arya to sip.
"Your sister found you unconscious in your chambers. When you wouldn't wake, she panicked and fetched us." Mother explained. "Arya, what happened? Maester Luwin was unsure what could have caused this."
"What do you mean?" Arya asked.
"You were in a dreamless sleep for the rest of the day and night."
"A whole day!" Arya exclaimed.
The door to her chamber opened and her father entered with Beorn and Maester Luwin not far behind.
"That was my reaction." Her father knelt at her bedside and held her hand. "You had us worried, very worried."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." Arya caught her father in a desperate hug. "I don't know what happened."
"I believe I can answer that, my lord." Beorn added. "Arya, how long have you been skinchaning for?"
The Stark parents turned to their guest, who was staring at Arya. The young wolf tried hard to keep a straight face but crumpled under the intense stare of her teacher.
"Two moons." She admitted.
"Into Berena, I assume." Beorn guessed which was answered by Arya's slow nod. "May I ask what was different this time?"
Arya pulled her knees to her chin. "I was trying to go into a bird."
Beorn sucked a harsh breath in. "That was very dangerous, my lady. Very dangerous and very unwise." He rebuked. "Lord Stark, I'm afraid this is ultimately your judgment, but I must ask that Lady Arya be forbidden from any warging until she is deemed ready."
"You can't!" Arya protested.
Her father firmly held her shoulder. "Arya, this is a serious matter. You are meddling with things without our knowledge. You could have been injured or worse."
"I won't do it again, just don't say I can't dream about Berena anymore!" Arya pleaded.
Her father sighed, "I'm sorry Arya, but until Beorn and I permit it, you are to cease this… magic. If you don't you will be punished." he declared.
Tears welled in Arya's eyes. "It's not fair!" she screamed. "Why do I have to stop when Bran can still do it?"
"Bran?" Her father said.
Arya realised her mistake too late. Beorn and Father both leaned in, "Arya, tell me the truth, has Bran also been skinchanging?"
It took only an hour for her parents to wring every last detail out of her; about her early dreams, her hideaway in the broken tower, meeting Bran in the kitchens and his bragging about the raven. Mother was obviously disturbed while Luwin seemed curious.
By the end of it all, Beorn looked amazed and troubled. He was explaining to Father something about how fast it took her and her brother to harness their gifts, whatever that meant. He was obviously surprised and Arya felt some pride in that.
On the downside, her mother informed her that she and Bran would be dusting the crypts for the foreseeable future. Worst of all, she had to miss out on the next camping night with Beorn! Life really was unfair sometimes.
/
"One last shot, Jon."
"Alright, Ser Rodrik."
Taking a deep breath of the chilled air, Jon pulled his bow string back to his chin. His callouses throbbed as he lined up his aim. The target had five arrows scattered across it. Jon let out his breath and released the string simultaneously. The arrow flew down the range and slammed into the target a few inches from his tight groupings near the top. They weren't hitting the eye but Ser Rodrik looked satisfied.
"You've made significant improvement, Jon. A commendable job." Ser Rodrik complimented.
Jon unstrung his bow and set it back onto the rack. "Thank you, Ser. You've been very patient with me."
Rodrik clapped his shoulder. "Patience has nothing to do with it. All masters-at-arms wish for eager students. Just a few moons ago you were still occasionally missing the targets entirely."
"I'm afraid I'll never be a master marksman." Jon commented.
"No one expects you to be. What matters, is that if you're ever cornered with nothing but a bow, you won't be at risk of killing a tree rather than the enemy." Rodrik advised.
Jon wrapped up his used arrows and bid his instructor goodbye. The morning light was waning and it looked as if an afternoon shower was rolling in. Taking a path back through the courtyard Jon stopped to observe the group of nobles gathered around Winterfell's training yard.
The bannermen would be leaving at the end of the week, closing their half-moon visit. For Jon, seeing Father interact with his vassals was the most important part of the event. It was one thing to hear about how a Lord should interact with his men but another to watch Lord Stark weave between casual conversation and diplomacy. The few nights his father could spend with his children showed just how fatigued he was. Being the most powerful Lord in the North came with its own stresses in equal number to its privileges. Jon had a better understanding of the duties and expectations of leadership now.
Jon was still a young boy, so he couldn't deny the pride he felt when the Lords and Ladies showed his father such respect and loyalty. They sought his opinions, his approval and vyed for his favour. Old dreams of being Lord of Winterfell were long dead, tucked away with childhood heart breaks. He couldn't deny it though, and reasoned it was not a treasonous thought to yearn for that type of prestige. In truth he didn't desire to steal Robb's birthright. What he wanted was respect, authority and to inspire loyalty in his peers.
"Lord Robb!" Greatjon Umber called out to the heir of Winterfell, who swiftly joined their conversation, while Jon watched.
Robb had done well to ingratiate himself with their visitors. Some of them, most notably Lord Umber and Karstark, had been taking his brother's measure; subtle questions about the Old Gods, some comments on Northern history. Beorn explained that the Lords, in their own ways, wished to ascertain just how much of Lady Stark's influence was present in her son. The building of the Sept, while seen as a kind gesture, was nonetheless a worrying piece of information for the bannermen.
Robb had taken the initiative to crush any doubts about him. He and Jon had been permitted to join the Lords on their last hunt of the celebrations, and Robb had the honour of felling a sizable buck single handedly, impressing the Lords.
Robb caught sight of Jon and beckoned him over. Jon smiled but shook his head and turned inside. As he paced through the keep he saw Sansa and Arya sitting in one of the inner courtyards. His sisters had a collection of instruments spread out with them. They weren't alone either, a number of noble daughters were there. Jon noticed the Manderly sisters dancing to Sansa's flute tune.
The contingent from White Harbour had arrived a few days after Sansa's celebration, apparently a storm had damaged the docks of their seat and Lord Manderly had been delayed. They were polite enough and Lord Manderly was a sight to behold all on his own.
He chuckled as Arya picked up a drum to play along with Sansa. It made him happy to see his youngest sister laughing alongside the other girls. He'd heard no words of complaint from Arya about any name calling in weeks. It most likely helped that the girls Sansa was becoming close to were not great beauties or perfect dancers either.
Jon made his way deeper into the Keep, taking a longer path around the walls toward his father's solar. Seeing his brother and sisters distracted Jon from the swell of nerves building in his spine. He'd confirmed with Steward Poole that his father would be handling some finances after he broke his fast, it was one of the few times Lord Stark was free of other company. It was his best chance to garner a private moment.
The young Stark would have preferred to amend this meeting until the Lords departed but last night's announcement had backed him into a corner. It was fortunate that Lord Stark had taken the children aside to inform them of his decision before the feast.
/
"Lords, Ladies, Northmen!" Lord Stark's voice silenced conversations and froze dancers. "Please be seated. I wish to make an announcement."
The benches and tables filled quickly.
"As we share this last feast I wish to thank you all for your gifts, both in objects and friendship. I see before me a finer collection of noblemen and women than any other kingdom in Westeros." He proclaimed.
Cheers and toasts ran out with shouts of "Stark" and "The Quiet Wolf" echoing inside the ancient stone.
"I have been blessed by the Gods with strong walls and swords. Above all that, I am most thankful for my beautiful wife and my many children."
Lady Catelyn blushed when toats to her were called, some even named her "The Mother of Winterfell." The cold demeanor of some had been warmed by the wine and ale.
Lord Stark continued in a somber tone, "Many of you knew my father, Lord Rickard, and my older brother, Brandon." His solemn words resonated with the audience. "Some of you may even remember Brandon and Lyanna riding in the Rills and visiting the Barrowlands. My father ensured that as a Stark, my brother would know his lands and it was a sad fate that he never had the chance to rule it." No tears fell from Lord Stark's eyes but his grief swam in his tone.
"I look back on my own fostering with fondness and I would not deny my own children the opportunity to forge bonds of friendships and more with their future allies." The mentions of fostering sent the entire hall into a storm of whisper and chatter. "Lord Karstark?" he called out.
The tall man rose from his seat, his grey beard pooling across his chest. "My Lord?" Rickard Karstark called back.
"Would you bear the honour and the responsibility of fostering my son, Robb? He has much to learn but I hope you have seen firsthand his convictions and spirit. I believe that the descendants of Prince Karlon The Noble would help him grow into a good man."
The lord of Karhold's gaunt face stretched into a smile, "I would bear it gladly Lord Stark, Karhold shall be a place of safety and plenty." he responded.
The hall erupted in applause, a mixture of genuine pride and some begrudging jealousy. Lord Stark was not done however, he nodded to Lord Rickard then shifted his attention to another table.
"Lord Manderly! My second son, Bran, has ambitions to become a master of the sword and saddle. White Harbor has always held steadfast and your warriors are among the North's finest. Would you bear the honour and responsibility of fostering him? Your forefathers landed on our shores a thousand years ago and never once have the Wardens of the White Knife failed us."
Lord Manderly's large cheeks were folding in on themselves to contain his grin. "We would, my lord. The white walls of New Castle shall give young Brandon all the skills he desires and more!"
Lord Stark nodded in thanks and allowed Lord Wyman to enjoy his praise.
"Lord Robett Glover!"
The man's deeply-lined face barely twitched as he stood and bowed.
"In the place of your brother, Lord Galbart, would you agree to take on the honour and responsibility of fostering my younger daughter, Arya? She has heart and a great love for the land. Can I trust your House to nurture and educate her, so that she may become an exemplar of House Stark? Since the fall of the Warg Kings, Deepwood Motte has served as a shield of the West, and the Glovers have been valiant Masters."
Lord Robett nodded, "In the name of my brother, I accept this responsibility."
His solemnace might have earned scorn in King's Landing, but Robett received some of the loudest applause, and far and away the most congratulations. Likely the Lords around him thought it proper that House Glover be rewarded for the actions of Ethan Glover during the Rebellion.
Lord Stark noticed the attention Sansa was now garnering, with some minor Lords even casting their gaze to Jon, who sat with the Stark guards. If Rickon had not already been put to bed he'd likely be more of a focus.
"As for my eldest daughter, Sansa shall remain here at Winterfell, but not alone. I shall be inviting Ladies to act as companions for my daughter and Winterfell shall be open to visits from a number of Houses in the coming years."
With a final nod, Lord Stark gestured to the minstrels and the music rose while he sat back and leaned to his wife. The hall was bustling and no doubt the next day would see Maester Luwin busy, as documents and letters flew from ink to raven then across the skies.
/
Jon had been shaken by the news. Living in Winterfell without Robb and Arya was unthinkable to him. Despite Sansa's improved demeanor towards him and Lady Stark's somewhat tolerant attitude, Jon knew that by the time Robb rode out in a few years, he wished to already be gone.
Clutched in his hands was the letter of introduction Beorn had been kind enough to write for him. The Shepherd adamantly refused to send the message to Torrhen Wolftongue without Lord Stark's express permission and approval. Thus, Jon now stood outside the solar, working up the courage to enter.
Swallowing, Jon knocked quickly on the door.
"Enter!" his father commanded.
Slipping into the warm chamber, he bowed to Lord Stark out of habit. The formality, which only a year ago separated the Lord and his natural son, had been warped by the strengthened ties of the Stark family. His father smiled and leaned back from his desk, covered with account books and missives. Sticking out on the corner of the surface were two open books, Cregan Stark's journals.
"What did you need, Jon?"
Looking back to his father, Jon shuffled forward, keeping the letter tucked behind his belt.
"The news about the fosterings went well." He noted.
"Yes, the Lords have been waiting for this. More than I first assumed." Father admitted.
Licking his lips, Jon pushed on. "Do any of these plans involve me?"
Lord Stark's eyes snapped to Jon's. He frowned, "No, Jon. If they did I would have told you with the rest of the children."
Jon stopped himself from mirroring a frown, keeping his mouth shut, he pulled the letter out and placed it in the center of the desk.
Noticing his son's silence, Lord Stark plucked the letter up and unfolded it. His forehead creased as he parsed through Beorn's writings. Looking up from the letter, Jon decided to cut his father off first.
"I want to leave Winterfell. I want to see the North." Jon ploughed forward. "I would love to serve Robb one day. This is my home, some days I can't even imagine waking up somewhere else. Now though, with everyone leaving, I don't want the castle to become a cage. I want to belong somewhere, somewhere I can be more than just 'Lord Stark's other son'."
Jon stopped, and took in a number of deep breaths. It had come out without much control on his part. The fear he'd pushed down earlier had rushed back up and taken control of his lungs.
Coming back to, Jon watched his father for a reaction. Seeing nothing but a blank look and sad eyes, Jon suddenly felt like a foolish toddler. Turning on his heel, he charged out of the solar. He prefered to receive chastisement later than to have his wishes broken before his eyes.
/
The room was empty and undisturbed, Jon's visit so abrupt that Ned took a second to look at the letter left behind to reassure himself it happened at all. Rising, Ned walked over to his hearth and contemplated throwing Beorn's letter into the flames. Kill the idea when it was still nothing but words on a page.
Taking a deep breath, his mind turned back to the books resting on his desk. Cregan Stark, "The Old Man in the North," was one of the few Starks that was well known to the Southern Courts and smallfolk alike. His writings proved that the general perception of Cregan being a dangerously cunning man and a bit of a brute, was nearly true. As far as any outside reputation can be.
Creagn had not lived a stable life. Deaths, successions, famines and a number of crises mostly gone unremembered by the Maesters, had wizened the elderly Lord. Ned had already begun copying down pages of information and maps made by his forefather for future reference. In particular, the extensive section of Southern politics from his time as Hand to the Targaryens.
Unlike some other journals, Cregan wrote little of his personal thoughts and emotions. His children being one of the few subjects that elicited a semblance of prose from the man. Grief over his heir's death in Dorne led to a streak of protectiveness for his second son, Jonnel. In his waning days of health, Cregan lamented that Jonnel had been kept in Winterfell, sheltered but also isolated from his peers and younger siblings. Cregan felt that Jonnel had missed out on something and admitted that his heir had come to resent him for chaining him so tightly to his side.
Ned looked out into Winterfell's grounds. There, in the small clearing of the Godswood visible from his chamber, he saw the form of Maw herding his pups. Where the rest of the wolves were lunging and tumbling, the clear white pelt of Ghost stayed pressed to Maw's side.
Ned felt a throb in his chest, his heart quickened for a few seconds. Ghost should be out among his brothers and sisters, he wouldn't be able to hunt if he did nothing but cling to the legs of others. Pressing a hand over his breast, Ned took deep breaths to calm his blood. Maw, meanwhile, leaned down and pushed Ghost forward. The pup was unsure and turned back, which prompted Maw to give him a firm lick and another push. Cautiously, Ghost trotted off into the fray and in no short time was howling and jumping like the rest of them.
Smiling, Ned looked down at Beorn's letter. Striding to his desk, Ned pulled a sheet of parchment from its drawer and refreshed his quill. If his distant cousin was going to be watching over Jon there would need to be expectations and a measure of trust established first.
Pausing, Ned realized he would need to come up with some reason for sending Jon to a supposedly vicious island, ruled by nobles who only barely qualify as "Lords." Whatever trouble he'd have to face, for Jon, for Lyanna's son, Ned would cross any obstacle.
/