A/N: This is a collaboration between one of my esteemed friends Deus_Vult_Inf1del, please check out his other works and it would be wrong not to mention him. Also to clarify, Stafford, Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella, Sansa, Rickon, Bran, Arya, Jon, and Robb will have their respective show ages. For example Stafford is 15 and Joffrey is 16. Sansa and Arya are 13 and 11 respectively. That is all for now, and hope you enjoy the first part of this story.

The ride from King's Landing took its toll on young Stafford. They had spent more than a month on the Kingsroad. The boredom he felt made him beg to return to Kings Landing where the only activity worth noting was axe training and axe throwing competitions. He rode next to his father in the main column as he always had when they traveled. The north, colder than even the most bizarre expectations. Stafford, not much of a fan of long rides, wondered when they would stop. He wondered what the castle of Winterfell would be like and whether it would also be as cold as the holds they had visited in the north. Stafford's coat, spun from dozens of spools of cloth-of-gold and pitch-black onyx, was so heavy it draped over the hindquarters of Stafford's fine steed, stirring not a hair in the roughest charge or the coldest winds of the North.

His armor shone in the sun, a heavy padded gambeson beneath blackened mail, under a resplendent black cuirass of the finest castle-forged steel. It was engraved in golden scrollwork, intricate designs of a lion and stag prancing upon a field as black as a starless night sky. The cuirass was fluted and etched, as to deflect and spread the impact of blows more effectively.

His bespoke greaves, gauntlets and gorget were lobstered steel, flexible and lightweight, yet strong and tough. They were of black steel etched in rougher gold scrollwork, for he knew they would be worn and faded after all the battles he will fight.

Stafford's armor never helped calm the restlessness within him, as they continued through the Kingsroad, listening to the droning, monotonous beat of horse hooves clopping on the dirt road. He kept his axe and shield close by making sure no one would surprise the royal party in the road.

Although not the best rider, there wasn't any question in his anyone in Westeros that Stafford is one of the most proficient if not legendary in the use of an axe. Although not particularly fast, and of only moderate stamina in a melee, if Stafford got in close and hit a man with his axe, expect the fight to end rather quickly. He is especially good against sword users, and an equal match against spearmen as evidenced by the countless amount of times he had beaten people in sparring sessions, and even in minor melees his father had allowed him to participate in. He had trained in combat since the tender age of five, a rare feat in Westeros, if not the world. Ser Barristan Selmy and Sandor Clegane had taken turns training Stafford. He had the technical skill and the ruthlessness to match in combat. He had definitely spent more hours training than his brother. It is too bad the training didn't condition him for the cold he experienced now.

He envied his brother, although older than him, still rode in the carriage with his mother. Stafford's father had voiced his appreciation to him for actually riding in the chilly climate of the rocky, rolling hills of the North they travelled in, and not sitting back with their mother in the Royal carriage. They japed and bickered relentlessly, and Stafford felt he could understand his father more.

"Father, how much longer are we too Winterfell?" Stafford asked his father.

"Not long now, my boy. Scouts tell me we're only a few miles away, and considering the harsh terrain they've observed, it may take a whole lot longer, that's for damned sure." Robert grumbled.

Stafford knew they were close, he saw the castle towering in the distance. Despite the distance between them, he knew that the many, unmistakably massive curtained walls towered over him, weathered monoliths built upon the sprawling palace by the many generations of Starks. He gazed upon them with awe. A family, coming together to make something truly grand. He wished he could say the same, but remembered the absence of his uncle Stannis and the constant feuds and resentment of him and Renly against his father. Whatever is in there, Stafford felt a subtle but sure stirring of excitement. He hoped to have the merry time in the castle and meet new people.

"Excellent, maybe then I might enjoy some food and wine," Stafford responded with a smile.

"You and I both, You and I both," Robert chortled. They continued their way down the Kingsroad.

"Father, why are we going to Winterfell?" Stafford asked

"To pay our respects to a friend, nothing more. No, not a friend, but a brother, close as blood." Robert replied. Eddard Stark had been instrumental in the rebellion his father had started to gain the Iron Throne. It was no secret that Lord Eddard was his father's closest friend and companion, always loyal and ready to fight his friends. For Robert, the feeling was mutual.

Stafford was told that Lyanna Stark was supposed to be wed to his father, but she died during the rebellion, in a tower, far away in the mountains of Dorne. Lord Eddard fought the Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent. All stalwart fighters, but despite his admiration of their dedication, his father's words were anything but flattering.

Father had told him about her. Of all the things he remembered, he loved her, he told him. And he never stopped. Robert, in his older age, doubted many things of this world, but one thing he could never doubt was how deeply he loved Lyanna Stark.

Stafford wondered if he loved his mother the same way. Stafford thought if his mother loved him too, she said she did, but she paid attention to Joffrey more by his observations. He spent more time with his father, and Joffrey despised him for that. His father had always seemed to pay attention to him more, but Stafford attributed that more to their common interests.

"I see,"

"Indeed, I hoped to show you something there as well. Something I can't show Joffrey," Robert declared. Stafford wondered what it was, but suddenly the conversation between him and his father turned to the cold it had been.

After what seemed like an entire winter, they finally arrived Winterfell. Stafford and the royal bannerman entered into the keep with their banner of the crowned stag. They poured into the keep like gold into coffers. Stafford and his father headed in first slightly ahead of the royal carriage. Suddenly, as soon as Stafford caught sight of Eddard Stark, his father vaulted off his warhorse and roared, "Ned!"

His father gave him what looked like bone crushing hug. He knew his father well, greeting people in such a great boisterous fashion. Stafford dismounted his horse and approached his father and Eddard Stark, already deep in japing.

"Excellent timing my boy, allow me to introduce you. This is my second son, Ned. Stafford. Got his name from his uncle," Robert introduced.

"It is my pleasure to meet you," Stafford bowed.

"And you as well Stafford. My children are over there, they would be delighted to make your acquaintance," Eddard Stark cordially stated.

"Don't let his current manner fool you, he is actually quite the boisterous child," Robert jested.

"Takes after his father then," Eddard replied. Stafford excused himself and approached the Stark children. As he looked at the six Starks, he began to examine them. The first of the Starks, who he assumed was Robb by is appearance. The boy held himself up well, like a young lord. He had a strong and powerful build, not as stocky as Stafford, but a lot more than Joffrey was. He had blue eyes the color of sapphires and thick red-brown hair. He looked as if he could punch the Wall into a million shards, or at least, he wanted to. With his famously beautiful mother standing next to them, he tended to favour her looks rather than Lord Eddard's in Stafford's opinion.

"You must be Robb Stark. I am Stafford, and I am delighted to meet you. Now where can someone get some food in this castle, living on camp rations for months leaves me yearning for better food," Stafford stated.

"We'll be fed soon enough, Prince Stafford. It is also an honor to meet someone as important as yourself," Robb replied in a surprised tone. Stafford had reasoned Robb had been surprised by the way he found out he was without even knowing who he was. To be honest, it took simple

Stafford wasn't sharp in regards to intelligence or wisdom, but he had keen investigative skills. His perception seemed second to none in his family, especially compared to Joffrey, who had to get his mommy to explain the entire world to.

As he shifted his gaze to the right, he found himself facing the youngest Stark children, Bran and Rickon. With dark, reddish brown hair and pale greyish blue eyes, they looked like a strong mix of Lord and Lady Stark.

Bran's ungroomed and ruffled hair was covered in dust of castle stones. His knees were scraped, his palms and fingers calloused and gnarled, and Bran's gaze darted about subtly, as if surveying which tower should he climb next, as judging by his well-toned and agile build, he would've grown bored of all the others he scaled as easily as walking and breathing.

Rickon was grinning and babbling, much like Bran, filled with this youthful vigor and energy that not unlike Stafford's despite his older age.

After a friendly greetings to Bran and Rickon, he turned his attention to the second eldest Stark Boy.

This Stark was lean and slim, his pale-grey eyes greeting Stafford with a sudden shock, by virtue of how cold and oddly sad they were. He wondered why this Stark seemed so miserable. A shock of wild, curly hair fell across his shoulders, with light and freshly shaven stubble framing his long face. With a warm smile, he opened his mouth to greet him. "Greetings, friend. Yet another fine man of House Sta-"

"Stafford, that boy is Lord Eddard's Bastard. His name is Jon Snow." Robert corrected him.

"Oh. Sorry, then. Either way, it's a pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow."

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Stafford. I'll be seeing you around, I guess."

With a friendly smile, he then turned to the gorgeous young lass standing next to Jon Snow. She stood tall, slim yet curvaceous. Her face was of high cheekbones and lush, pouty lips that made Stafford struggle to cage the newfound lust and desire of his heart and loins. He made no attempt to keep his eyes from wandering, as her innocent yet stunning ice-blue eyes pinned them in place like a quarrel into a man's bowels. They were a vivid blue like the flashes of lightning striking Storm's End, heralding the storms ready to lay waste to all in their path. She had a certain grace and magnetism to her as well, he realized, as he found himself leaning toward her like she was the heart of his world. Her auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders like waterfalls of molten red-gold, kissed by the fire of the brightest stars.

"And you must be Lady Sansa then. Well, I'll say it now, they weren't exaggerating about the rumors of your beauty in the south. Some Lords even call you the jewel of the North. I for one think that is far too little a title to give you," Stafford managed to declare as he was honestly still mesmerized by her. Stafford hadn't really taken an interest in girls in the south for their looks, she totally seemed in a different realm than those in the south. Stafford didn't really know much about her, so he really didn't know what to feel about her.

"Thank you, Prince Stafford you are very kind," Sansa stated hiding what looked like a blush to Stafford. He wondered whether she thought he is just flattering her, but he meant his words. Next to her there was another girl, who had been rolling her eyes as Stafford had complemented Sansa.

She was of shorter stature than her and definitely looked a little younger. Arya Stark was skinnier and leaner than her sister, her shuffling hands calloused and clenched in had a long face, not too long, but definitely much longer than her sisters. Arya Stark had storm-grey eyes the color of two crucibles of valyrian steel, darker than the blackest clouds smashing themselves upon Storm's End after all else has fallen before them. These piercing, massive and utterly visceral eyes shone through her face that was curtained by dark brown hair, wild and untamed. Arya held a less graceful air, more supercharged and ready to strike like arcs of fire from the heavens, yet had a no less calm and stoic demeanor. Like a drawn longbow, knocked and ready to rain several hells on whatever it damn well pleased.

"And you must be Arya, one time when father was drunk he described what Lyanna Stark looked like. Judging by what he says, you and Lyanna share very similar features. Well, he might have been exaggerating a few details, because he was drunk, but a Targaryen prince abducted her for her beauty," Stafford stated.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Arya snapped back at him.

"I was simply stating that you looked...well captivating," Stafford replied. Stafford came to regret these words as Robb immediately shot a look his way. Robb seemed to be shock when he stated this. Arya seemed shocked at this as well.

"What do you mean captivating?" Arya asked, stunned.

"Well it is hard to keep my eyes off you, I mean it's hard to stop staring, wait that's even worse, uh," Stafford fumbled around for words, but couldn't find any words without sounding even creepier. Every time he fumbled around for words and began blabbering like an idiot, Stafford noticed Arya give out a little giggle. He could tell she was enjoying herself watching him stumble on his words like a fool.

Suddenly from behind him, he felt someone tap on his shoulder. He turned and found his father in the process of covering his ass in a most embarrassing and rapidly escalating conversation.

"If you would excuse me, I have been summoned by my father," A now flustered Stafford stated. Stafford felt lucky to be summoned by his father at that moment.

"Yes, father?" Stafford asked King Robert. King Robert turned to him. No words could describe the graciousness in Stafford's eyes and the sigh of relief he felt as he walked away, still feeling Arya Stark's bemused gaze and hearing Robb Stark's faint and stifled laughter.

"Remember the thing I was going to show you? The one we talked about in the Kingsroad?" Robert asked. Stafford nodded.

"Are you sure you want to come with us Stafford?" Eddard asked.

"I'll see whatever father wants me to see," Stafford replied. They then excused themselves from the crowd as more people poured into the main hall. He noticed the Royal carriage had also arrived and that his mother and Joffrey were there along with his other siblings Tommen and Myrcella. Stafford and Joffrey didn't look anything alike and they both knew it. Stafford seemed the only child Robert had that looked even remotely Baratheon. When they were young, Joffrey used to tease Stafford about him being a bastard and to him responding with a sharp right hook to the face. It usually either knocked Joffrey out or gave him a fat lip. It then followed with a scolding from his mother and praise from his father about how he had stood his ground against someone older than him.

They went down to a crypt together. It seemed dusty and old, like something straight out of the dungeons in King's Landing.

The winding stone steps were narrow. Eddard went first with the lantern.

"I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell," Robert complained as they descended. "In the south, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined." "

I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?" Eddard asked

Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?" "Likely they were too shy to come out," Eddard jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. "Kings are a rare sight in the north." Robert snorted. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!" The king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended. Stafford listen to the two men catch up as they went into the crypt. When they finally reached the bottom of the staircase Stafford noticed that his father had grown red and sweaty from the ordeal. Stafford definitely seemed in better shape than his father.

"Your Grace," Eddard said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchers that contained their mortal remains. "She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."

The two paid their respects as Stafford stood there carefully observing the tombs. There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Lord Eddard's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchers on either side were his children. The other two belonged to who he believed was Brandon and Lyanna.

"My boy this is why I brought you here. Although you never met these people in person understand the value of what you have now. You never know if the gods will send some bitch like Rhaegar to take it all away from you," King Robert explained bitterly. Stafford could still tell the deep disdain in his voice as he said Rhaegar's name. He didn't blame him.

"I understand," Stafford thought to himself. This is why he had been the one to come not Joffrey. Joffrey wouldn't have understood what his father meant.

The two continued talking about things foreign to him and Stafford began to lose focus, but he suddenly focused into a conversation involving him.

Robert looked at him. "I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend." He smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King." This news stunned Stafford. He thought they were only here to visit Lord Eddard, and now his father had just appointed him to hand of king. Jon Arryn had once occupied position after his unfortunate demise. The Hand is one of the most important positions in all the realm, and it was deemed a great honor to be named it.

They continued to talk about the position as his father tried to persuade him of his importance.

"You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have two sons. You have two daughters. My Joff and your Sansa and my Staff and your Arya will join our houses, as Lyanna and would have done."

And this news shocked Stafford the most. He had not been told he was going to be betrothed during this journey.

"Wait, w-what?!" Stafford managed to blurt out.

"My boy, Ned helped me win the throne it is only a matter of time before I give back," Robert stated.

"Give me some time to think, Robert," Eddard stated

"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." The king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men."

Indeed his father was not, but one thing was for certain, Stafford had been caught up in something he desperately wanted to avoid. It's too bad it wasn't like a fight, he really had to find a way to make this work without his physical talents. It appears Ser Barristan was right after all, an axe won't solve all of his problems.