Tempered In Fire, Quenched in Ice - a SteinMon Sample Story

by SteinMon1920518

With the help of unlikely allies, Ned Stark has rigged the Game to shield his family. Events have unfolded, their changes only slight. And when a funeral pyre burns on sands, so to does another burn Beyond the Wall. And only the Gods know what will hatch from them. And soon War will follow for the Seven Kingdoms.

2. Chapter 1: We Who Swing the Sword

A/N: Hey guys! SteinMon here with another literary experiment. I have way too many idea roaming around in my head, so I thought I'd ease the burden with some Samples.

I will try to write in true Maester Martin style, and hint at most changes I've made, or make mention of large-scale information in unassuming passing. Because lets face it, Maester Martin is a master at doing so. However, I can only do my best, and the writer that is "Me" will inevitably slip in.

That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. I want to grow as an author, and I can't do that if people aren't willing to critique, or only want to tear me down. I'm not here to please everybody, but I am here to learn. There is a method to my madness. 90% of what I write, I don't write baselessly. There is a reason some things are changed, and others are the same.

Review Responses:

- kingmanaena: Thanks! :D

- Time Parad0x: Oh, wow! A long one. Hmmm, okay.

My first instinct with the story was to actually start with the Tower of Joy, but I felt like that would reveal too much, and I'm banking on some of that future material. I had the whole thing written out before I saved it, and started over with Catelyn's POV. There is a rhyme and reason to my madness, but for now, it'll mostly be hidden in brief mentions, comments, and from other characters. There will also be some Jaime POV to help it along.

It wasn't my intent to disregard Rhaella. If anything, I was considering timetables ongoing to the attack on Dragonstone. There was time to plan and prepare, however you do make a good point, and I'll try to see about that. As for Jaime's love of Cersei... who said he stopped loving her? But again, timeframes come into play here. Given that Cersei was likely stashed away at Casterly Rock during the Rebellion by her father, her preferred method of travel (wheelhouse), Robert holding out for news of Lyanna (which I assume he didn't just agree to marry Cersei as long as there was hope Lyanna was still alive), and if Tywin even sent for her before he brokered a marriage alliance; Jaime could have easily made a round trip to Dorne before there was even the possibility of a wedding. Plus, even if Tywin did start vying for a wedding right off the bat after that, wedding's still need to be planned, especially if Tywin has anything to say about it's splendor.

I didn't include talk of the other Targaryen's in the discussion for one reason: the North. The North has no fond memories of the Targaryen's (besides burning a good number of their lords and heirs, and that was just in recent memory) and probably wouldn't rally to protect them, especially with their losses in the Rebellion, and Ned would realize that. He isn't ignoring his relations through marriage (despite the fact that whether it was valid or not is still up in the air, given that thus far, Lyanna has only named Jon trueborn), but rather prioritizing his sister's son, whom he can protect. Hence why Jon's relation to Lyanna is always prevalent in the discussion, and not his relation to Rhaegar. Not to mention, Ned is now a Lord Paramount; he splashes, he makes waves, and the name of the Game is secrecy and subtlety, especially after his spat with Robert after the Sacking of King's Landing.

A lot of Jaime's POV is largely unexplored due to it being in Catelyn's POV. However, But, changing the bare base of Dany's story, for the most part, is dependent on Robert not being an indulgent and blood-thirsty (pardon my language, but fandom accuracy requires it of me) cunt. From what I could see from the books and the show, reasoning with Robert at any point was dependent on him being calm, and not having Cersei talking. But the moment Targaryen's come up, he goes on the warpath. Considering he had no qualms apparently sending assassins (Cat's Paw if I'm not mistaken) after Viserys and Daenerys throughout their childhoods, or his laughing at the deaths of young Rhaenys and baby Aegon, I don't see him being collected enough to be any less ruthless on Westerosi soil. I believe his line was "the only good Targaryen is a dead one" (I might have made that up or paraphrased, but if so, I'm keeping it). While I agree that some of your suggestions would be interesting to do (I think I've seen a couple of them before), within the practicality of Robert's vengeful demeanor and hatred toward Targaryens? Unlikely.

And being as I don't know if Martin has discussed the exact nature of the complications of Daenerys's birth, I don't know if Rhaella would have survived (The same could be said with Lyanna, since we don't know why the birth was complicated).

And yes, I love Jaime as a character. Mostly because I can understand the mind behind his actions. He's easily one of the more complex characters of the series, and it wasn't until later on when we started reading/watching his side of the story that his actions started making sense. Even his stupid ones. Mainly, that he's a man of guilt and regrets, and he appears incapable of moving on from it, therefore any attempts at redemption are stunted until he does.

But seeing as at this point, his blood family isn't married to the Throne just quite yet (or to his knowledge, an arrangement even made at this point), and Tywin's actions in King's Landing still fresh… yeah. Jaime considered the Kingsguard his family, and any memories I can find from him regarding Elia Martell, her children, or Rhaella; Jaime in some ways considers them his family too, if not unvoiced in that regard.

And according to Jaime, he made it to the Tower "on her final breaths". So the fight is technically already over. The Tower of Joy scene was the first thing I wrote, just so I had some context for how stuff changed, but… Spoilers. So technically, Jaime would have been there to assist with bringing back the fallen Northerners, rather than leave them in the Red Mountains.

I will say my initial stance is unchanged as far as the story, but you given me plenty to think on and plenty of content to write. So thank you for the Review, and I look forward to hearing back from you :D

P.S. While I appreciate the Review, it might be easier to send PM's for the longer stuff. I think my story gained an extra thousand words just from this Response alone XD

- Freelook: We'll see

*End of Responses

Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones or a Song of Ice and Fire. Those rights belong exclusively to Maester Martin, and whoever pushed for the show. Mores the pity Season 7 and 8 took place (though kudos to the actors all the same) and the simplest translation of otherwise indecipherable Valyrian prophecy was made writ and scourges the fine-printed histories of Westeros.

Without further ado. *Que the dimming of the lights*

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Chapter 1: We Who Swing the Sword

Winterfell Hold 298 AC

Ned Stark

There were few things that pleased Ned more than moments like these. Moments spent watching as his sons steadied their hand at archery in the yard. Moments spent next to his wife as they watched their little ones grow. That those moments filled him with such happiness was something the Ned Stark of old would never have deemed possible. And yet, there he stood as Robb, Jon, and Bran fired off on their set up range, while their littlest, Rickon, watched on from his seated perch.

Even as he gazed down on them from a second-floor terrace, he watched as his second – third he'd sometimes have to remind himself – son Bran let fly his arrow, missing the target set up in favor of a nearby barrel. He smiled slightly at the frustration that graced his son as he stomped. Ah, to be that age again. To be a boy learning how to operate in a man's world. He was having a hard time of it, the bow weight still heavy for a boy of ten. But his true opponent was in a steady hand, his aim wavering too easily. But it would come with time and practice. None were born marksmen.

He watched still as Jon moved in behind Bran, helping him steady his aim. "You're squeezing the string. You want to hold it lightly. Let your back and shoulders hold the weight instead of your arms, like so. And don't let go all at once. That'll snap the string. You want to let it slide from your fingers." Jon nodded as Bran drew back again, this time pulling the string back a little further with the instructions met. "Good."

"Steady your bow arm," Robb coached as well, keeping an eye on his younger brother's form. "Use your fingers to stabilize. And… deep breath in…."

"Half breath out," Bran finished, doing as instructed before releasing his shot. The smack of the arrow hitting the target was the first sign of progress. That it hit on the outer most portion of it was but a detail compared to the littering of arrows scattered in front of and behind the target. Progress started with small achievements.

The simple delight that lit up Bran's face was enough to brighten Ned's own. Dozens of missed shots and one good one was so simple a joy. Catelyn scooted closer to him, smiling her own smile at their boy.

"Ah-ha!" Jon cheered, grabbing Bran's shoulders in congratulations. "See? A solid hit."

Bran's happiness faded quickly though. "It wasn't a proper shot though."

Robb just snorted aloud as he pulled his own bow up, knocking an arrow. "You think we were any good with bows at your age? Ser Rodrik had us practicing the day away. You get off easy with just us."

"He's right there," Jon agreed, his tongue moving mischievously as he nestled and winked at Bran just as Robb was pulling back his bow. Before he could let it loose, Jon's hand snatched the arrow from its place, causing Robb to snap the string against his forearm.

Catelyn winced next to Ned while he barely contained his laughter, Lyanna having done the same thing to each of her own brothers. Ah, a sad reminiscing, but a true one.

"Uuugh!" Robb exclaimed, still holding his bow while putting pressure on the abrasion with his free hand. He made a face as he tried to contain any other expletives. "Oh! …You dirty fucker!"

"Robb, mind your tongue," Catelyn chided, sighing at the foul words her children where learning as they grew older. Mostly though, Ned could see a bluster forming over Jon's actions, humorous though they were. She did not take well to any action that threatened her children, but it seemed she understood that young men were as wont to act as young men as her anger simmered down. They were all young fools at some point.

Jon on the other hand was smirking as he held out the arrow he'd plucked. "Ya see that Bran? It looks like you're a better archer than Robb. At least you remembered your arrow." Bran and Rickon were giggling unsympathetically to Robb's plight.

Robb recovered well enough to give Jon a good thrash to the thigh with the curve of his bow, eliciting more chuckles from the boys, grown and growing though they were.

The smack of arrow and fletch to canvas sounded, and they paused in their amusement, all turning to see another arrow had cropped up on the target, dead center. All the boys looked back underneath the awning they stood on, and though Ned couldn't see, he knew only one little troublemaker that had an eye like so, and the skill to show it off.

"Arya!" Bran dropped his bow, chasing after his older sister as she giggled, out-fleeting him with ease despite the dress she was made to wear.

"Get 'er Bran! Faster!" Robb called out as he and Jon had a laugh.

Ned couldn't help that such simple delights were there, even as the frustration mounted at the stern words that would arise from Septa Mordane at his daughter's absence from her lessons, ever the wild wolf as his late sister had been. Perhaps even more so. Lyanna would at least pretend to act a lady before she drew a sword and put some unfortunate sod flat on his back without so much as ruffling the hems of her dresses. Adamant as Arya was never to be a lady, duty didn't permit such splendors forever. Eventually, children would have to grow up. His lady wife seemed of a like mind as she sighed at her untamable little she-wolf.

"I worry about her," Catelyn confessed, and not for the first time.

Ned nodded, briefly smiling once more as he saw Rickon sliding down from his perch to chase his siblings as well, squealing in delight. "The Wolfblood in her is strong. It may never become domestic, but it may tame with time, but never truly at ease." He supposed if he needed someone to foster her talents as such, he'd think House Mormont or Reed. Their women trained with more weapons than just a dagger – the Mormont's themselves fond of maces and the Crannogfolk with their frog spears – and would allow her to further her familiarity with the arts of swordplay. The Gods were good when she decided to attend her sewing lessons at all, in no small part to their North liaison and his way with words. But a part of him couldn't bear the thought of his children leaving, the weight of loss from the Rebellion still leaving a dull ache, even after all these years, and the temptation to always keep them close as much a driving force as any.

His honor and standing weighed precious little if his family wasn't safe. If only he could do so without smothering them. They had visited other Holds and holdfasts of the North for months at a time before, but as it stood, perhaps it would have been best to have his older children fostered. However, it was a little late for that now.

"At least our children are as prepared as we can make them," she commented.

"Aye." In most ways, anyway. Over the years, he'd seen to it that they had taken to their educations, trying to find the balance between letting them retain fondness for their childhoods, and the need that they take the matters of encroaching adulthood seriously. For their ages, they appeared well-met, whether it be in art of swordsmanship, warcraft, or such. They could probably best most boys their age, and were well taught in the ways of Keep-holding, and economics and politics. Northern as well as southern. As was required as the Lord Paramount's children. Especially in regards to preparations for and in the Winter years. While Ned was never certain they would use all that knowledge, he believed it imperative that they be prepared. 'For anything,' he mused with heavy and furrowed brows as he looked over his sons. Especially at Robb and Jon, as the initial weight of such things would fall to them, just as elements of such things would eventually fall to his daughters once they married, or to his younger sons as bannermen.

The only thing that bothered him so was the Game. Not for lack of trying, most of his children weren't uneducated in the powershifts and subtleties, but he feared that the North was far too prevalent in them to think of underhanded tactics, and double- and triple-meanings, and daggers in the dark. The Game was long and unforgiving, and it had been a miracle that his own part in it had lasted so with no incident.

Another squeal from Rickon returned him present and from the tresses of darker tidings, and he could glimpse a smile from his lady wife as she watched. Jon caught hold of the lad, tossing him in the air before swinging him around, earning more happy shrieks. It was an odd view, but it struck him how well with children his neph– his bastard appeared, the bright gleam to his eyes as if the Gods had fashioned him for such things. That his smile was all Lyanna had its own effect on his heavy heart, and Ned wished not for the first time that she had been here to see him grow. That any of the lad's truer family were here to see him grow.

"It'll almost be time Ned," Catelyn murmured, glancing down as Robb started tickling Rickon, who squirmed in Jon's arms, while Arya outran Bran as she dodged deftly around people, ever the little Underfoot as she was named. Sansa was the only one absent, and it left something of dull ache that his eldest daughter would never wish to be entertained so. While she had her moments, she was ever attentive as a young lady that represented her house, but with a veil of naivety that they hadn't been able to rid her of. Too obsessed with romantic notions of knights and stories to realize that the south was not the North. Honor had little place in the Game, and beauty was as much a blessing as it was a curse.

And yet with the warm happiness presented, Ned was hesitant to douse it. He didn't want them to change. Aye, they were no longer babes. And aye, there was truths to be spoken and responsibilities that came with them; and worse yet the men who would hold him accountable should he fail. But how true would these days be afterward? "A little longer," he stated, wrapping an arm around her as he kissed her brow. "Let them all be truly happy a little longer."

Catelyn hummed as she leaned back against him, and he in-turn held her closer to rest his cheek next to hers. And the North was a little warmer for it.

"Lord Stark!" the master-at-arms approached, young Greyjoy on his heel. "My lady."

Lord and Lady turned, their moods dampened somewhat by their own conversation and the interruption, but both still true in the reserve of their happiness. They waited as Rodrik Cassel strode toward, looking grave as ever, but in this, he seemed more wary to break the ease of the morning. "Another deserter from the Watch my lord. Guardsman just rode in."

"Another? But that's the fourth this year," Catelyn stated, looking to Ned worriedly.

"And they're making it further and further south of the Wall too," Ned commented, closing his eyes as if to draw strength for what must be done. He turned to Rodrik, nodding lightly. "See that the lads saddle their horses." He paused for a moment as he looked back down at his sons in play, finding himself resigned to the inevitable. "And tell Bran he is coming."

As their master-at-arms nodded and strode away to obey, he felt Catelyn's hand on his arm, her touch both a balm and a sting for his own conscience. "He is too young to see such things."

Ned reached up, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes as he traced her hand with his own. "Aye, but he won't be a boy forever. As young as I'd prefer him stay, Robb and Jon will be there with him. As will Theon. They understand the feeling of their first, and you know they will comfort him. It will arrest some of his innocence, but if his brothers can still find good with those they've seen, then they'll help him find his."

She squeezed his hand, understanding that these things were simply their way. The way of the North. That though she didn't like it, she would support him in it. And that meant more than the entire Seven Kingdoms to him. That he wasn't alone in his decision. Or in his secrets. It made his shoulders lighter, his gaze keener, his intent truer. That his wife could love and love him still in his duty was one thing he didn't think he could ever trade; more precious than the finest silks, sea pearls, or far-travelled gems and precious stones. Such a treasure in the simpler North shone the brightest as well.

"Just hurry back Love," she said, pecking him softly on the cheek. "I'll meet you in the Godswood if you like. I assume you'll want to clean your sword and brood."

He smiled at the jest. A soft one, and not as full as it had been moments ago, but it was there. He pulled away far too soon, but it couldn't wait, and the longer he put it off, the longer it would sour in his mind. Still, he chuckled as an awry thought came to mind. "Oh really?" He turned fully, facing her once more. "A man. A woman. All alone before the Old Gods? And nothing but silence, trees, and maybe the skies overhead to fill the emptiness?"

She smacked his shoulder, earning a fuller chuckle. "What? Why not?"

"You know why," she chastised, though she was smiling back coyly. "The Old Gods don't need to see such things if I can help it."

"But isn't that how we conceived Bran?" She smacked his shoulder again, this time a little harder, biting her cheek to keep from laughing with him. "What? We're still young…." His voice dropped an octave, and his eyes slowly made the path to behold her, with a hunger that let him feel the sharp, deep breath she took as her breast met the distance to his. "…and virile."

"You stop trying to make me feel better about beheadings," she mused, a soft exasperated shake of her head letting him know what she thought about it. Though it was clear he may have started something he'd have to finish.

He hummed slightly, before kissing her on the lips, both savoring it even though they'd be apart for less than a day's quarter. "We'll be back soon."

Reluctant as he was, they seperated. As he made his way down to the courtyard, he was unsurprised to see his little she-wolf staring at him with her arms crossed. He had to resist the urge to chuckle, the hems of her dress spattered with mud. "I wanna come too," she stated.

He shook his head, adopting a more serious tone. "No. The king's justice no place for a lady."

"I'm not a lady," she protested, moving to walk alongside him as he made his way to this awaiting horse, the beast already saddled and ready. "But why can't I go? Bran gets to. And I'm older."

He sighed, reigning in his patience with far more difficulty than it was to the horse he'd be riding. But how could he tell a child that he feared for her as much as he feared her wild spirit? And in a way she would understand and accept? That she was as similar to his long-dead sister only made it more so, and that it terrified him that she might have the same tendencies. "Because it will one day be a part of his responsibility. Just as your responsibility is here."

"But I–"

"Arya." Ned barely made a passing glance as Jon walked up, his own garron shadowing after him faithfully, fully saddled. "Don't argue with father," he backed with a gentle chiding. Though his tone was as soft as it was reserved, Ned found he was thankful for it, pressed as he was to simply order her to stay. Jon had a way of speaking to her that rafted her attention. "I know you don't like it, and it's not fair, but that is the way of things."

She seemed ready to protest, but the lad was able to cut her off with a firm hand on her head, gently ruffling the pins and frays of the braided northern crown her hair was tressed up in. That she didn't protest was a wonder in the Kingdoms in itself. "I'll tell you what, I know it's a poor substitute, but maybe, when we get back, and if the Septa doesn't have you working embroidery or knitting…." Ned felt his cheek twitch at how her nose scrunched in disgust, "…we'll throw a couple blows, hey? Make sure your form is steady?"

The little wolf glanced briefly at him, and Ned nodded with a stern look in his eye. "Only, if you keep out of trouble."

It was a reluctant but true smile she gave him as she nodded. "Fine," she tried to say in firm resignation, but then again, Jon had that effect on her. She could smile truer. And Ned felt, on some level, it was because they both knew they were trapped as they were, and that neither saw the other as anything other than themselves.

"That means being nice to Sansa," Jon stated.

Her nose wrinkled again. "No promises. If she calls me 'Horseface' again, she's getting a tack to her seat."

Jon laughed. The only time Ned had ever seen the boy truly laugh was with Arya. While he chuckled and japed with Robb and occasionally with Theon, and his smiles and laughs were true with Bran and Rickon, but Arya was the only one who could pull such a sound from him. A full and rich sound that seemed to visibly brightened the dusky Northern skies. And it wasn't Lyanna that Ned saw in those moments. While he did have her smile, he couldn't rightly say it was his true father's either. Rhaegar had possessed a pleasant enough voice if the few memories Ned possessed of him were true, and he was able to stir even the stoutest of hearts to mourn when he played his harp and sang.

No, Jon's laugh wasn't his father's, even if it carried his undertone of melody. Nor his mother's, though it possessed her burdenless spirit and joy. And that Ned couldn't place it was something that wondered him.

"We best be off," Ned interrupted, earning a small frown from Arya.

Before she could dash away though, Jon's hand ruffled her hair again, earning him a less-than gentle jab to the gut that caused him to keel with an expressed "Oof!".

"Go on," Ned stated, shaking his head at their antics.

Reluctant though she was, she nodded and made her way silently without argument. Again, a feat that few could accomplish.

"She'll be wanting to openly carry a dagger soon," Jon commented as they watched her turn back at the doorway to wave at them, before disappearing into the Keep.

Ned could only sigh and agree. And he would bid her so. If she could possess it in her to become a lady as well as a swordswoman, he'd have an easier time of it. That she rejected being a lady so only made it that much harder to bare. Aye, she was wilder than his sister had ever been.

"Come," he bid, reigning in his own grey-speckled warhorse. "Best not let it wait."

---

Bran Stark

He wasn't sure if he should be feeling excited, and yet excitement was what he felt. That the others were quiet bid him to reign in his expression of it. Father, Jory, Ser Rodrik, Robb, Jon, Theon, and others. They weren't excited. Nor happy even. There was a grave gaze in each of the older men that could only be described as steel, while his brothers wore more of a grim resolve. Theon was the only one relaxed.

While Bran had ridden outside the walls of Winterfell, and into surrounding rocky hills and the parts of the Wolfwood, he'd never seen the king's justice exercised before. Nor an execution. He'd never been deemed old enough before now. Jon was perhaps the only one who looked at him with that solemn and sympathetic understanding, and that dulled his excitement to a wariness.

That they rode nearer and nearer still through and past the Wolfwood and to the holdfast was as far as Bran had seen before, and with each trod of his pony, his wariness was replaced with nervousness. This feeling manifolded once he had glimpsed the Stark house banners and the men on horseback who held them.

Even as they dismounted a ways and left their beasts behind in one of their escorts hands, two guardsmen pulled up the accused, and Father stepped forward. That the man was dressed as he'd often seen his Uncle Benjen dressed, all black furs and black leather armor, ousting him as a man of the Night's Watch, and yet with his furs in tatters, the tips of his ears missing and blackened, and his face peeled and chapped by the cold northern winds, he appeared more like the tales Old Nan would speak of Wildlings beyond the Wall.

And all the while they lead him to an ironwood stump, Bran heard the whispers and pleads of, "White Walkers. White Walkers. I saw them," on the man's lips. More of Old Nan's tales came to mind, and that the White Walkers had been defeated thousands of years ago.

The guardsmen set him in front of the stump and silence fell on them all, even the man's soft ravings. None of them spoke, and his father seemed prepared to listen to his defense, but the Night's Watchman's soft ramblings had turned to sniffs and barely contained sobs.

"Just do it," he cried softly. "Let them call me craven, and an oathbreaker. But I saw them. I saw the White Walkers." His lips trembled, and Bran had wondered why he cried so, or if any man that grown of age had ever cried like that. His brothers didn't, and his father certainly never did. Was it an affront to their Northern Old Gods that grown men avoided it so?

That Jon stepped past him made him blink in confusion, and he walked straight up to the accused in question. And while he couldn't see his father's, or his half-brother's, he knew their eyes were keen on the man before them. "What did you see?" Jon asked in his soft way, and Bran wondered why he was asking if the Watchman had already said so. And why Jon was asking it.

"White Walkers. And the dead walking. Please. Please burn my body. I don't want to come back like that," he spouted hastily, resigned to his fate, his voice shuddering in a way that made Bran shift on his feet as his back became uncomfortable.

Both Father and Jon stood a moment, before Jon turned to nod to Father, a silent conversation passing between them as Jon made his way back to Bran's side. That he now bore a contemplative look and his ever-watchful grey eyes seemed darker, Bran could only assume what passed in them as he returned to his back-and-left, even as the guardsmen made the Watchman drop to his knees, keeling his head over the stump.

Theon stepped forward, bearing a hilt to Father, and he complied, drawing the rippling Valyrian Steel from its scabbard wrapped among furs. "Ice" was its name, though why it was named so was lost to Bran, only that it would hold its edge long after simpler steel swords had long gone blunt from use.

Father stuck the tip of the blade into the earth, and the creak of his fingers along the hilt tightened with both hands. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die." Father's word was firm, and loud, but not shouting, clear to all that were present, and even hills and rocks and trees seemed to listen in a reverent silence. So quiet that Bran couldn't hear his own thoughts.

His nervousness reared into fear, and he felt his chin fall and his eyes close, not truly wanting to see anymore as he had that morning. That Arya would ever want to seemed stupid to him now.

He heard Robb at his side. "Just like your practice with a bow. If you close your eyes before letting go of the string, your shot will stray."

At his other side, he felt a hand on his shoulder in support and Jon's voice once more spoke, much softer so only those closest could hear, "Aye, don't look away. Father will know if you do."

Bran had to force his eyes open, swallowing, and biting his lip to keep it from trembling. A boy of ten and he could only wonder if this is what Robb, and Jon, and Theon had all felt for their first time. He kept his gaze forward, wanting to look more to his father, but keeping Robb and Jon's words forefront as he watched the Watchman.

Father made no ceremony with his sword stroke. It was quick, and smooth, and cut true. The head falling to the ground, and the blood that spurt from the separated neck made Bran flinch and inhale sharply, but Jon's hand on his shoulder bade him not to close his eyes or look away, and one hand reached up to clutch it, just as he would have clutched Mothers when he was frightened. But he didn't know if he was a child anymore. Not after this.

"You did well," Jon whispered solemnly, and squeezing the hand that had grabbed his in reassurance. Bran didn't let go for several moments, and he was glad that Jon didn't force him to. It took a moment longer before he finally let go. Jon squeezed his shoulder again for a brief moment before he turned to the horses to leave, and soon, Robb too had his hand on Bran's shoulder, bidding him to follow. And he wouldn't resist, trying to swallow back the bile that arose. That he did so seemed to please his brother as his hand pat him gently on the back.

He made quick work to distract himself with the straps of his pony's saddle, not wanting to think on the head that had rolled, or the blood that had stained the stump and grass and rocks. That his brothers and Theon had seen many before him must have made them very old indeed, at least to his eyes; and theirs had seen their firsts at eight name days according to Ser Rodrik. How old were the others for having seen far more than them?

He heard and felt Father's presence as he approached, an open kindness to his features rather than the coined Stark stoicism; less and yet more than the man who had taken the Watchman's head. "Are you well, Bran?"

Bran barely turned before nodding hastily. "I believe so." But he couldn't be made to look Father in the eye for long.

"Do you know why I did it?"

"Jon says he deserted his post. Of the Night Watch. That he broke his oath."

"But do you understand why I had to kill him?" Father bid again, but only after a confirming nod.

Bran nodded in turn, knowing for a long time what was expected of him as a future bannerman and holder of a keep in Robb's and the king's name. It would be his job to ensure justice was met, when he was older. He'd been told many times by Maester Luwin. "Our way is the old way," he recited thickly, sniffing softly before brushing his nose. He'd not cry. Arya would call him a baby if he did. If he was to be as strong as Robb or Jon or Father, he mustn't cry. "That if we are to pass the sentence, we must also swing the sword."

He looked up then to see the pleased gleam in Father's eyes. "Aye. We must. Every last one of us. If we are to take a man's life, we owe it to him to hear his final words. If we cannot, perhaps he does not deserve to die." His father paused, trying to think of words where Bran knew that they Starks were not good with words. They were a House of action, but Father tried all the same. "There is no pleasure to be taken from the task, but we mustn't look away. It is how we remember what death is."

Bran thought a moment, before turning to Father. "Do you think he truly saw the White Walkers? Is that why Jon asked him?" Jon had good eyes. 'Bastard eyes' according to Theon, to know what people truly thought without speaking. Why being a bastard mattered to have those eyes was lost on Bran. But if Jon had those eyes, he would be able to tell if the Watchman was lying.

Father hesitated a moment, looking in thought as he processed his question, and sought an answer. It was almost too long before, "If he did, we'll hear about it soon enough." Father brushed a hand over his head, mussing his hair slightly, speaking, "You did well Bran," before moving to his own horse.

They rode away from the hills, as the guardsmen left behind dealt with the body, and Bran rode away feeling a little older as they headed back toward the forests. Was this what grownups felt like? It wasn't a pleasant feeling. But the further they rode, the more he became aware of Robb and Jon and Theon jesting and japing, sometimes riding their horses into each other on purpose and throwing japes at each other. They could smile after what they had seen, and if they could do it, Bran saw no reason he couldn't. But still, the thought of watching the Watchman's head roll made him hesitant to crack a smile.

"Hello? What's this?" Robb's voice cut through the party, and Bran found himself looking up.

His brothers and Theon kicked their horses forward, and while tempted to do the same, his pony would tire trying to keep pace, and so he rode with the rest of the party, simply patting the smaller creature on the neck.

It was in moments he saw what had caused their distress where they had dismounted. A large stag was felled in the middle of the road; fresh, if the steam rising from its gutted belly was anything to observe by. And not by the hands of man. Father dismounted, Robb taking the reigns as they walked forward. Bran kept his pony back, knowing the poor thing wouldn't like the smell of blood.

"What did this? A mountain lion?" Theon asked, kicking at some of the gutting.

"If you want mountain lions, best look more toward the Northern Mountains and the clans that hunt them," Robb called. "There are none in these woods."

"None unless the game is scarce," Rodrik commented, keeping hawkish eyes about the Wolfwood. And Bran could see Jory following to do the same.

Father stayed silent, glancing over the strewn guts and visceral. When his head went up, Bran felt himself more alert. That he looked down over the bank of the worn trail and toward the nearby stream, Bran found himself dropping from his saddle to follow, and his brothers were already ahead of him.

Bran's breath hitched as Father drew his blade, one of simpler steel, and the men at present drew to follow. Bran simply moved closer to Jory, whom he followed behind. Over the bank, it was quickly there that he began to hear what Father had; a deep, rumbled breathing that made him almost cower into Jory's cloak.

"Fuck," Theon cursed.

The creature's rumbling turned to a snarl as it turned, revealing its massive head and causing all the men to take a step back in caution.

"It's a wolf!" Bran exclaimed in wonder, listening to the creature as it growled lowly in response to his voice, before panting and huffing. His attention was drawn to its back leg as it tried and failed to get up, the limb bleeding and mangled. Bran could see the stick of bone through the matting of its fur and blood, and it appeared too weak to put up any fight. The culprit seemed to be a broken foot of antler from the stag above, part of it stuck in the wolf's own gut where it had gored past the leg. The scent of fetid clung to it, and he could see the white squirm of maggots biting around the wound at its still half-living flesh.

"No wolf I've ever seen," Rodrik stated, half-raising a gloved hand to his nose at the smell. "Much too large for one." Indeed. It was twice the size of Bran's pony, almost as big as his father's warhorse, and much larger than Bran himself.

"It's a direwolf," Father commented, none moving too close while the beast still breathed.

"But there are no direwolves south of the wall," Robb protested.

Jon moved forward, calm and careful like, a sharp snarl alerting them that the creature was drawn to his movement.

"Jon," Father called, trying to draw him back.

Bran heard the soft yips and whines, as did they all. And Jon moved closer still, no more than stone's toss away. "Looks like there are six now," he stated, looking to Father. "'It' is a 'she'. And 'she' is a mother."

It was there, moving among the fur he saw the pups, each with their eyes closed and blind to the world. The bundled nearer their mother's front legs, keeping warm where they couldn't suckle with the maggots crawling amidst her teats.

"Half-touched of rot, and she still lives long enough to whelp and guard her young," Father said, a draw of admiration in his tone. "She's a tough old beast."

Jon continued to move closer, drawing further growls from the wolf, its yellowish eyes following him closely.

"Jon," Bran echoed in worry, his brother now closer than he ought to be. A lunge and a half, and he'd be in the wolf's jaws.

"Shhh," Jon hushed softly, though whether it was for the wolf or him, Bran didn't know. He could just barely see the look on Jon's face, and to anyone who hadn't seen it before, it would come as a wonder. How his features had near lost all sign of age. How his brother's light grey eyes almost widened in a way that made him seem a mere boy despite his eight and ten name days calling him a man. How his eyes gleamed as though he could shed tears at any moment, and his voice hushed so softly that it was as a whisper of soft hitching wind. There was no word for it, or the sympathy on his face as he moved closer still. Bran found himself grasping at Jory's cloak, both in excitement and in fear for his brother.

The direwolf's growls lessened, and the snarl on her snout reduced before Bran dared smile in relief. Soon it was simply watching Jon. One just had to pay attention to the direwolf's eyes to see how intelligent she was, and Bran could see it. If there had been magic still left south of the Wall, Bran would think that this was as close to it as could come to Old Nan's stories.

"Easy," Jon whispered, his hand merely a hand's length from her nose and teeth, and no man present dared speak or move too suddenly for fear of recalling the beast's ire. Jon could very well lose a hand if they did. "Shhh."

Bran held his breath, his grip tightening on Jory's cloak when Jon's hand trailed its whiskers and her nose twitched at the sensation. When his hand finally touched her fur, he stroked her cheek, gentle-like in a way that Bran knew only Jon could do for her. He'd watched his brother swing a sword before. That he could be fierce, swift, and near terrifying with a practice blade, and yet his hands and eyes relay such gentleness that Bran had only known at the hand of Mother or Father. He knew of only Jon who could make something so wild seem so tame.

It was moments. Mere moments as Jon gently stroked her face, rubbed her ears, pet her neck, his attentions pulling the direwolf in as she slowly laid back down, whining as a single deep breath jolted down her chest and into her pierced gut. That she was wounded and dying, and there was nothing that could be done to help her. Even at ten name days, Bran knew this.

"I wish we knew how to save you," Jon whispered, trailing his hand down her side, but stopping short of causing her any jostle of pain. "You're a tough girl. Of the North true as can be." It whined in response.

"But we can save your pups," he continued, leaving her eyes for the first time as he looked at her little ones. "It looks like… three male, and two little she-wolves," he commented happily, returning to a more even volume. "You know, the direwolf is the sigil of my Lord Stark's House, and he has three trueborn sons and two daughters, just like you." He looked up to Father, a soft pleading in his gaze.

Bran watched as the direwolf's eyes flicked over at them, observing with a keenness that few animals ought to demonstrate, but her gaze resting on Father. Bran looked over at him to see a wide and terrible sadness on Father's face, though Bran knew not where it came from. But Bran understood what Jon was doing. He was excluding himself from their number. That was the only way it would match; if the bastard was excluded. And while Bran was sad that Jon would discard himself so, he looked down at the pups still bundling close to their mother, at how pitiable and helpless they were, and he could only love Jon more for trying to save them.

"You must be a good omen of the Gods," Jon stated, returning his eyes to hers, still brushing her fur. "So will you let us take them in? They will be well looked after. Will you let my brothers and sisters ward them for you?"

An understanding seemed to pass blindly between the two of them Bran would think, between man and beast, because Jon moved softly, wrapping a hand around two grey pups and leading them to their mother's face. Where she licked the crowns of their heads with a soft whine, Bran could only see her kissing them goodbye, and he struggled to keep the corners of his eyes dry.

And then they were gone, pulled from her paws and her tongue, and Jon carefully looked up to him and Robb. "It's alright," he said, gently beckoning them forward, a pup in each hand. Robb moved forward first, and Bran stayed huddled behind him, noting that the she-wolf eyed them carefully, quiet and yet a coil of tension should they prove untrue. When he handed one pup to each of them Bran almost cried out in shock. It was cold, and he quickly wrapped his arms and cloak carefully around it to keep it warm.

"These are two of my brothers," Jon continued to speak to the direwolf, gently handing the other to Robb. "That's Robb, and the littler one is Bran." Bran frowned at him at that. He wasn't that little. Jon just smiled at him. "And Bran will take the best care of your pup. Can you see it in his eyes?"

Bran shook slightly when she looked at him, her breathing still labored, but those yellow eyes staring far too deeply into him. He didn't know what she thought of him, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

Jon repeated. He pulled up two more of her pups for her to kiss, to say her goodbyes to before he handed another one off to Robb, and Jory cautiously stepped forward to take the others. Soon her last pup was pulled away, and Jon was left with her.

"Go on ahead," Jon said, looking to their father, another in a series of strange looks passing between them. An understanding once followed that Bran couldn't quite comprehend, just as they had with the Watchman. "She'll need someone with her. I'll catch up."

Robb gently nuzzled Bran along, seeming to also understand.

"Alright," Father stated, looking down at the scene heavily. "Catch up when you can."

"I'll string your horse at the road," Jory stated, passing one pup to Theon, who looked annoyed at it.

Bran quickly walked back up, turning to look back as they made it back up the bank. Jon just continued to pet and stroke the poor beast, his words to it muddled under the babbling of the creak. But the little bundle in his arms soon had his full attention as it sniffed and nuzzled him blindly.

"Can we keep them father? Truly?" he asked, his excitement palpable as he was already wondering what to name his.

Father appeared sadder than he had seen him in a long while, dimming his smile somewhat. "It would be better to offer them a quick death." Bran felt his heart tighten, and he found his arms shielding the little thing that squirmed and whined in his hands as though it understood his father's words. "However, if you wish to keep them, you will train them yourselves."

Bran looked up, a smile forming as he gasped excitedly to Robb, who held a weaker smile of his own.

"You'll feed them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves where no scavenger can reach them," Father stated with a stern finality. "I'll have no ill-mannered beasts mucking about. These are direwolves. Not hounds. They are more to take a man's arm than take a kick. So I'll have none of it if they are left to the kennelmaster or the servants. They are your responsibility, and yours alone. Is that understood?"

Bran bobbed his head quickly, making sure his father knew he understood.

"Good."

They mounted their horses carefully, the pups changing hands as they made it into the saddle before taking them up again. Bran rode with an exceptional care with his pup, glad that it was finally feeling warmer to the touch. He giggled when its little tongue found his finger, biting and sucking toothlessly at it, and he did his best not to shift too much for fear of dropping it. He rode up alongside Robb, who was busy with his own. "How will we feed them? They weren't able to drink from their mother."

Robb shared a look that said he'd been thinking the same thing. "A rag soaked in milk for them to suck on," he replied. If Arya had seen the pleased look on his face, she'd say he was being clever. "At least until we can feed them meat like the dogs."

"If the dogs don't eat them first," Theon commented with a chuckle as the pup he held sniffed at him, and Bran found himself glaring at their father's ward. It was followed by a giggle as Robb rode by to kick Theon's leg, Greyjoy scoffing at him, but still trying to figure out how to hold his assigned pup while riding.

They had rode for near another hour before they heard the gallop of horse hooves behind them, and Bran had to look over his shoulder to see. Jon rode swiftly to catch up to them.

"What about the mother?" he asked.

"She's with the Old Gods," Jon replied hesitantly, his eyes sad. "If they have a need for loyal beasts at their sides, she will make a fine one."

Bran nodded, looking glum himself before he noticed that something was squirming around under Jon's cloak. "What's that?"

Alerted, members of their party turned to Jon, and Jon in turn smiled a little. Lifting up his hand, he revealed another pup, as white as fresh snow. Unlike the other pups, it was smaller, with eyes wide open and as red as the fresh blood. "His mother wouldn't let me forget him," Jon stated. "Probably wandered off."

"Or was driven away," Father commented, looking at the new addition with more strange expressions that Bran was having a hard time narrowing. Father tended to have those expressions around Jon.

"An albino and runt of the litter," Theon said to his own amusement, "looks like you two have more in common than you think Snow. Be lucky if it doesn't die before the others."

"Aye," Jon agreed, completely ignoring his sarcasm, which Bran noticed only made Theon frown. Jon seemed completely taken with his pup, and his pup blinked heavily at him. "Aye. Pale as a ghost you are. And just as quiet too."

---

Arya Stark

She hissed as she pricked her finger again, and she had to bite her lip to keep from swearing. Septa Mordane would probably tell Mother if she did; and that most of the swears she learned were from Theon Greyjoy, she'd probably be in trouble for it. That her finger was throbbing didn't help any. If she collected a bloody needle for every pinprick that day alone, she'd have a pincushion. She'd be a pincushion.

She was trying. Truly. But she was gutting embroidery with the finesse of a strangling fish.

'You better be ready Jon,' she threatened in her mind. She was going to beat him when they sparred. And if not, well, then she'd just have to make sure he regretted making her stay here. Of course, that was truly Father's decision. Jon was just trying to keep the peace. So she'd have to make him regret that too.

It wasn't fair. Bran got to go and see a beheading and she didn't. She was older. And better at just about everything else. She could handle it. But nooo. She didn't get to go because she was a girl. Girls had to sit and look pretty – she winced as she pricked herself again – and bloody sew.

"Well done, Sansa," the Septa interrupted her thoughts, complimented on one side of her. "It's perfect."

"Thank you," her prim and proper sister preened. Like a bloody pheasant. Hmm, pheasant? That was a good one. She'd add that to her arsenal of insults.

It was bad enough Arya was stuck indoors. But she was stuck indoors with her sister, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne Poole. All "proper ladies", or as close to as could be had in the North. It was nauseating. Sewing and embroidery of all things! And her sister had no intention of doing anything but gloat over it like it was a useful skill. But that was Sansa. A stupid "lady", doing stupid lady things. She could sew all the stupid dresses she liked.

She stuck her finger again, this time a little too deep, and she threw down the bloody embroidery hoop with a growl of frustration. "Fuck!" She barely registered her own slip before she had second thoughts, 'Oops.'

"Arya!" the Septa exclaimed. "Your mother would be ashamed of you?"

She just shrugged as she sucked on her sore finger, the taste of copper as blood dotted out. Stupid. She'd rather bleed over a fishhook than from a stupid needle. At least it would serve a purpose. Of course, just as she finished sucking on her finger, she happened to glance up. And right into Sansa's self-satisfied smirk looking down at her.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded in challenge.

"Oh? Nothing," she replied easily, continuing her sewing with a smug purse to her lips that Arya wanted to shove a handful of mud into. She looked like a ruddy duck.

"You keep looking like that, your face is going to get stuck like that," Arya stated with a snort. "Then none of the boys will like you."

"Arya!" Sansa exclaimed incredulously. Like it was her fault that she was such a priss.

"That's enough," the Septa stated.

Arya just ignored her sister, looking more toward the Septa. "Can I go now?"

Septa Mordane picked up Arya's tossed and rather shite attempt at needlework, looking at it with an overly critical eye. The disappointment was clear, but Arya found she didn't care. When was she ever going to use needles for anything other than draw blood out of her finger? And maybe tacking Sansa.

"This looks abominable."

"And?" Arya asked rhetorically. "When am I going to have time to do embroidery? I'm going to be too busy practicing my sword arm."

"You're a lady, you should–"

"I'm not a lady," Arya protested, a frown nestling on her face. When the Septa opened her mouth to finish, Arya added, "And I'm not getting married. Why would I want to be a legal hostage?"

"A legal what?" Jeyne asked. That the girl stuck around Sansa all the time showed just how stupid she was too. A pity really. She didn't mind getting her dress dirty occasionally. At least, not to the same degree as Sansa.

"Theon says marriage for a lady is just like being a hostage. But legal," Arya stated. She remembered because Jon had opened his mouth to snap at Theon for telling her that, only to concede the point. If Jon thought so too, then it obviously was. Duh. "So if I'm not a lady, then I won't have to marry as a lady, and I can't be held hostage through marriage." It made perfect sense.

The Septa seemed put out. Fine! As long as she didn't make her do any more sewing. "It is expected of you and is your responsibility. It is your duty to honor your house."

Arya had to resist rolling her eyes. That would just make the Septa more cross. 'I want to spar with Jon. I want to spar with Jon,' she repeated in a mantra, if only to try and compose herself. She had to sit on her hands to keep from fidgeting. "Then why can't I honor my house with a sword? The Mormont's get to. And so do the women in Dorne."

"You're not in Dorne," the Septa replied, and not for the first time, like Arya wasn't well aware of that fact, pity though it was. "And the Mormont's have to because the head of their house is a woman, with only daughters as heirs. If your father or any of your brothers call for banners, someone has to pick them up."

That made no sense to the little she-wolf. If the she-bears of Bear Island could swing swords or maces or whatever, then why couldn't she? She was sure she could do her family proud. She may never be a knight like Bran wanted to be, but at least she'd get to put people on their arses if they deserved it. Arya understood why she had to know some things of sums and geography, and even the list of Houses, sigils, and House words. Those things were useful; so she could count her coin and foes, know where she tread in the Kingdoms, and on whose land she was treading on. But sewing? Embroidery? Knitting? Curtsying? And – bleh – dresses?

"So if the Keep is in trouble and banners are called, I have to sit on my arse and wait for someone else to save me? Like Sansa?"

The Septa looked shocked, though Arya wondered if that was because she had said some "unladylike" words, or if it was something else. Sansa made an incomprehensible bluster as her mouth opened and closed. Like a fish. And her face was as beat red as a ripe wildberry too. She wasn't sure why though. It was true. Poor Jeyne though, she was looking between them all, unsure what she was supposed to do, or say, or even if she should contribute in either of those aspects.

"So can I go? I have to change out of this dress so I can spar with Jon," she stated. She'd stubbornly stuck around for a couple hours anyway. If it were up to her, she'd never see a stupid needle ever again. Except maybe to stick someone with it.

She realized she may have made a mistake in mentioning her brother when the Septa's face hardened. "Not if you are to exchange with that… bastard!"

"Jon is not a bastard!" Arya snapped back. "He's my brother!" Were it anyone but the Septa, she'd rightly put them on their back. Maybe bend them over her knee if she was old enough and big enough.

"He is too a bastard," Sansa muttered under her breath, making it seem as though she were still occupied with her sewing.

"What was that duck-face?!" Arya growled, thoroughly unable to keep calm. Sansa had the balls to look offended, and she was a lady.

"Bastards are creatures conceived of lusts and lies, and other such horrid sins," the Septa stated, as though the Seven she served themselves had written it so. "Their characters are immoral and seek all that they cannot have, and they will lie, cheat, and steal to obtain it. If it is present in one, it is the present with all of them."

"Jon isn't like that!" Arya protested, gripping the edge of her stupid dress to keep from striking out in defense of her brother. She seethed when the stupid Septa gave her that look, as though she pitied Arya in her foolishness. "Anyone who actually talks to him would see that! He even calls Sansa his sister, and she's as stupid as a preening pheasant!"

"Am not, Horseface!" Sansa snapped back, her lady-like demeanor breaking. It apparently stunned the Septa that anything crass could wind across Sansa's tongue. Or maybe it was because of Arya again.

"At least I'm not a bitch!" Arya growled back as she stood abruptly, knocking her chair over and sticking the needle in hand in Sansa's thigh. Barely a prick, but her sister was already wailing like she'd taken a knife to the ass. Arya was already dashing out the door with a giggle and a smirk while her sister shrieked. She had to hike up the trim of her dress to keep from tripping, hems still caked in dry mud from that morning.

Mother would probably scold her later, and Father would be cross. Now that she thought about it, she did break her deal with Father to stay out of trouble. But it was Sansa's fault, and she had made clear under no uncertain terms that she would stick Sansa if she called her 'Horseface'. Whatever the case, she'd get Jon to spar with her anyway. Though he might sigh and shake his head sadly like he was wont to, but he'd still train her.

She immediately made her way to her room, the door barely closed before she began shedding her garments as if it were second nature before picking up the skin she was best accustom to. Trousers and belts were much more comfortable than dresses and underskirts, and to be in them again loosened a sigh of relief from her. Her hand hovered over the pins and braids that made up her hair, tempted to pull it out, but Septa Mordane was none too kind when dealing with her hair, so she left it in, if only to save her some pain later. She made to quickly throw on and tuck in her shirt and donned a simple jerkin so it didn't shift too loose. The last was to quickly toss on her boots. She was almost free when she reopened her door and the delight fell from her face.

"Arya." Mother looked as impassive as a lady should, but she wasn't happy. It was all in the eyes. Jon had taught her to look at the eyes to read people. And because she was trueborn, she was allowed to hold anyone's gaze long enough to read them. That he could do it with the briefest glance still impressed upon her. Aye, Mother wasn't pleased.

"Mother," she greeted, as though she'd already been chastised.

"What did you do?" That was always the question. Never what did Sansa do. It was always her fault. "The whole of Winterfell could hear your sister."

"I stuck Sansa with a needle," she admitted, smirking slightly before it fell back into a frown. "She called me 'Horseface' again." She shifted her feet slightly, debating on whether or not to confess, but, "And I may – may mind you – have also implied that Sansa was a… bit of a bitch after she did.

"But it was only after! So she started it!"

"Was it over Jon again?" There was a calm collected in her mother's tone, though sharp disapproval was apparent. Arya had never understood it. She understood what a bastard was in the simplest use of the term, and why it might offend some people if Jon were ever treated otherwise. But most people were horrible to Jon, like he had done something wrong by being born. Which he hadn't, though she couldn't rightly blame father either. She loved them too much to care, but Arya couldn't imagine never knowing her mother as Jon did his. But he treated them like siblings and was nothing but good to her and hers. She didn't like how others treated him, hated it even; the servants, the vassals, castellans, the liege- and fief- lords of Winterfell and the North. Even bloody mummers and minstrels would give him bitter looks if they had a lick of trueborn stock. She'd have stuck them all with those stupid needles if he hadn't reassured her numerous times that he was alright with it. But Mother never seemed like that, even if it seemed like she had more reason than any other. She seemed almost tolerant of his existence, as if it were unwanted at times, but necessary. Chilling as a stiff breeze up the pantleg and her presence castoff from him, but never truly cold or hateful to him.

She nodded fiercely though, unable to wipe the anger from her own face. "The Septa keeps saying that bastards are vile and sinful, and that because Jon is one, he is too. But he's not! He's always been kind! Even to Sansa, and she just agrees with the Septa like a stupid–!"

She wanted to call her a pheasant again – it was a good description of her after all – but Mother's voice interrupted. "Arya," she stated warningly, and Arya bit her lip to stop. Mother sighed, like she usually did when she didn't know what to do with her. "You will apologize to your sister when next you meet. And an apology to Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole would be best as well."

"But it's not–"

"Arya," Mother cut her off sharply, sighing in resignation. They always cut her off with her name. Mother's hands cupped her cheeks, prompting their eyes to meet. "I understand that you see Jon as your brother true. And aye, he treats all of my children well, but that is no reason to harass your sister. Even if she harasses you."

Arya's frown looked crossed with a pout. That was hardly fair? If someone poked you with a sword, you didn't let them keep poking you without sticking them. And it was a perfectly damned good reason to stick her sister. She only wished she'd had the time to enjoy it fully.

She felt her mother's arms wrap softly around her, and Arya held her back, blinking away the stupid tears that weren't forming at the corner of her eyes. Not at all. Mother even ran her fingers over her the frizzes of her hair, gentle enough not to mess it, but Arya didn't mind. It wasn't a Jon-pat on the head, but it was still nice.

"I sometimes worry about you, my little wolf," Mother whispered, her cheek finding purchase on her crown. "All my children, but you especially."

"Sansa's the one you need to worry about. She's the one with her head in the clouds," Arya asserted, though she could hear her mother sighing. Mother did that a lot too. With the sighing.

The moment might have lasted longer if it wasn't for the clear knell of the bell.

"Rider from the east!" a guard's voice could be heard bellowing out from his watch tower.

Mother pulled away slightly, looking over Arya in a way that she knew meant she was ensuring she was presentable. "It'll have to do. At least stay clean long enough to greet our guest. Alright?"

Arya grinned, truly this time, giving her mother a quick hug before dashing down the stairs of the Great Keep to the courtyard. The announcement of a rider didn't put anyone off their duties. If it had been a lord, a raven would have been received days ago, and the whole House and probably the Hold would be present to greet them, and Bran would have climbed the wintered walls or the First Keep to see their approach. If it was Father and the others, they'd have used the Hunter's Gate.

As it was, Arya didn't present herself, only having eyes for the practice swords near Mikkan's forge as soon as her boots had stepped out of the doors. She'd pick the best one out before Jon could. Though he'd probably tell her the right sword was only a small key to victory. Jon always won, but he made sure to teach her at least. She gave each one a few practice swings before narrowing her choices.

It was then she heard one of the gates opening. The East Gate she would think, since that was the gate that would lead in the direction of the Kings Road. The dull thud of a horse in trot against the dirt rang her thoughts true.

She continued to swing, finally satisfied with the wooden blade she had chosen. Jon wouldn't know what hit him.

"I see you're still keeping your hand with a blade. But if you're aiming to take on the bastard, then I wish you well little wolf."

She froze, turning to meet their guest as he dismounted. The thick black cloak he wore might have mistaken him for a brother of the Watch if it wasn't for the simple leathers and armor he wore. The belt and sword at his hip was of good make, as was the bow at his back. His face appeared a grizzled, brownish-gold that reminded Arya of hashed potatoes, while his hair remained short despite every Northern sensibility saying it should have some length to ward off the cold and losing his ears, but no less telling what family he hailed from. That his eyes were the kind of green of sunlight through grass was but an additional feature.

"Uncle Jaime!" she yelled tactlessly, rushing forward, while keeping her practice blade hilt-forward. The man had barely pulled off his gloves before she barreled into him, hugging him. She frowned when she realized she hadn't grown at all. She was still barely as tall as his waist. "I haven't grown taller," she pouted. He had only been gone a few moon turns, but she thought she'd be taller when he returned.

He patted her on the head, thankfully not ruffling her already disheveled hair. Only Jon, and occasionally Father, got to do that. She'd have to hit him otherwise. "You and my brother both."

"Ser Lannister." Mother was approaching, smiling at them as she looked as much a lady as woman who was greeting an old friend. And Arya knew the suddenness of his visit could excuse the lack of greater formalities at least.

"Lady Catelyn," he greeted in return, nodding in acknowledgement.

"I thought your rounds in the North wouldn't be for another few moons," Mother stated, looking slightly confused and inquiring.

"Normally, they would be," the lion stated with serious expression, looking hesitant as he looked down at her. "But circumstances have deemed me return. Is Lord Stark home? This is a conversation for safer quarters." It must have been really serious then if the smile dropped from his face, or if she wasn't allowed to hear it.

"Father's left the keep," Arya answered with a frown. "There was a deserter from the Night's Watch. He wouldn't let me go, but Bran got to."

Uncle Jaime turned to her mother, his frown deepening. "Another one?" Mother looked like she wanted to speak, but just nodded glumly. He patted Arya on the head again, as good a signal as any for her to separate. She rolled her eyes as he bowed slightly to Mother. "Lady Catelyn, I apologize for the suddenness of my visit, but I must beg the hospitality of you and your husband's keep. I'm afraid the business that brings me here is for the both of you."

"Our hearth and table are yours," she nodded graciously, in a way that Arya would almost envy if she wasn't so damned set on never being a lady. At least Mother wasn't a priss like Sansa; Arya would never be able to live down the shame if that were the case. "You appear to have travelled long. I'll have the servants draw a bath and prepare a meal if you'd like before my lord husband returns."

"That would be most kind my lady," he bowed again. Ugh! Grown ups and their stupid wordplay. Or maybe it was just Sers, Lords, and Ladies that did it.

Mother smiled and nodded before moving to do exactly as she had stated. Now that Arya looked at him, Uncle Jaime did look tired, and so did his horse; like they had both ridden hard to get here. He'd been riding through the North as long as Arya could remember, since before Sansa was born even. He stayed in Winterfell for near a half-moon, twice a year, after travelling through the North for whatever odd reason he'd been given before heading back down to King's Landing. And he'd teach them when he was here. Things like swordplay, applicable battle and combat tactics, mounted combat! He even taught her! Just as Jon was her brother true, the gruff lion was an uncle… of sorts. Sure, they didn't share a drop of blood. But if that was the only obstacle, then Theon wouldn't be like a brother to Robb. While the lion occasionally called Jon "bastard", he wasn't biting or cruel about it like others; he said it in good-sport, even if Jon had had to explain the difference to her so she didn't kick the lion's shins for the insult.

The Septa and plenty of the servants often referred to him as the "Kingslayer" and "Oathbreaker", because he'd killed the Mad King while he had been serving in the Kingsguard. Arya understood the oathbreaking, but the king was mad and had killed her uncle and grandfather, even if she had never met them. The Septa also said he should have been forced into the Night's Watch, and that guilt was the only thing that drove him this far north. But the Septa had no shortage of nasty things to say about him; almost as much as she did about Jon now that she thought about it. It just went to show how stupid the Septa was. If she had only bad things to say about two of the people she admired most without anything more than her Gods' refute, then obviously, she was dull-witted.

"Aren't you supposed to be practicing needlework?" he asked suddenly, giving a her an amused side-eye.

She frowned again, stabbing her wooden blade absently in the mud. "I was, but then Sansa decided to be stupid, so I pricked her with a needle." She smiled slightly at that.

"Needlework has it's uses," he admitted with a half-shrug. "It helps–"

"If I know how to sew wounds shut," she finished. Yes, he had said so many times before. It was the only reason she went anymore, short of Father or Mother ordering her to go. Preparation just in case. It's why her stitching would never look good; better a secure stitch than a fancy one.

"Even I have a basic understanding of sewing," he said, as though he was proud of it.

"Fine," she relented softly, "but embroidery is pointless."

He crouched down to meet her eyes, giving her an amusing conspiring look that made her smile on reflex. "Embroidery? That has it's uses too."

"Like what?" She wasn't seeing it, but she knew he'd tell her. He was smart, just like Jon.

"Say you meet a lad you fancy–"

"I'm not getting married. Ever," she stated with finality.

"Maybe now," he said in that grown up way that said he knew something she didn't. "But say one day you at least fancy a boy. And what if a bunch of other young ladies fancy him?"

She thought about it for a moment before coming to the obvious conclusion. "I'll beat them off with a sword." Not that she'd ever like a boy like that.

"Ah-ha," he said as though he'd caught her stealing Sansa's lemon cakes. Again. "But ladies don't fight like that, and it would be odd if you challenged them to a duel. You have the chance to do something those ladies will never have. You can fight by his side, suture his wounds, clonk him over the head if he's being stupid…." She giggled at that bit. "…But if you embroider on his clothes, it will make a statement to every lady that he's taken by the Not-So-Lady Arya Stark, she-wolf of Winterfell."

Arya hadn't thought of that. And since she'd be a renowned swordswoman if she ever came to the point she fancied a boy – impossible though it was – then it let them know who they'd be dealing with if they made a pass at him. "So I brand him? Like a banner or standard? To keep the other ladies away?"

He briefly touched her nose with a smile on his face. "Exactly. Sometimes the best battles won are the ones you never have to fight."

She frowned at that. "But that sounds so boring."

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling. He looked better when he laughed. Just like Father and Jon. They always seemed so sad or solemn otherwise. "Aye, but putting the fear of your Old Gods into your foes is just as effective. It means you save your strength for the important battles."

Why didn't he just say that? That made more sense.

He poked her nose again before standing to his full height, picking up his horse's reigns where he had left them. "Alright. Remember to do your stances. Get your blood flowing. Best be prepared if you're fighting your brother." That was another thing she liked about him. He always referred to Jon as her brother. Her uncle was far better than any tale of kingslaying or oathbreaking.

She nodded enthusiastically as he went to put away his horse. The sword she had chosen was light, but sturdy. Just one good whack, and victory would finally be hers. If she was quick enough, she'd get him this time.

---

Jon Snow

The keeps of Winterfell were fast in approaching, their ride as smooth as one could expect at their trot pace. He kept steady with the party, but every jostle sparked a slight twinge of fear up his spine, his hand unconsciously holding his pup closer. It was so small, just barely larger than his palm. How could something so small come to grow so large? Jon found he had to keep looking down to ensure it was still alive with how silent it was, finding relief each time as its red eyes blinked heavily, staring up at him. Quiet as a ghost indeed. 'Ghost,' he humored, thinking on it with a resigned clarity. 'It would make a fine name.'

But first, he had to make sure it didn't become one.

The bell rang at their approach, and the bellow of "Lord Stark returns!" sounded from the battlements. They passed through the Hunter's Gate, immediately met by the sudden baying of hounds from the kennels, causing some of the horses to knicker nervously. His hands once more found themselves protecting his charge. As the pups were now, they couldn't protect themselves, especially from a hunting hound that was bred and trained to harass and wound Northern boars. They'd be torn apart.

Their party made their way further into the Hold, under an arch that lead to the Courtyard. Amidst the passing servants and Winterfell's retainers, Jon was quick to notice the lone girl near the South Gate and the forge, swinging a practice sword, moving through her stances. It was clear Arya had noticed them, but in a rare bout of self-control, didn't immediately set upon him to fight her. Given the deeper breathing she was exerting, she'd been at it for some time.

He followed Father and his brothers around to the stables, once more, exchanging the pups in hand to begin dismounting. Jon deftly slid off his mount, keeping Ghost in hand.

"Hodor." Already, Hodor was shuffling out to take the reins of his garron before Jon could do so, stroking it softly between the eyes. The stableboy was simple, saying only one word, 'Hodor', by which they called him. Jon knew no gentler soul than the seven-foot mountain of a man. He was among the few who didn't look at him with contempt or some underlying disgust, but as a fellow man who appreciated the calming atmosphere the stables provided, and the beasts that slept them.

"Thank you Hodor," he nodded in appreciation.

"Hmm," he nodded in grumbling acceptance. "Ho-dor."

Jon strode quickly to Jory, relieving him of the pup he carried before exiting the stables with two direwolves in hand. No sooner had he stepped out, he stopped fast by instinct, narrowly avoiding the swinging wooden blade aimed for the crown of his head.

"Jon! Fight me!" Arya demanded, brandishing her chosen weapon.

"Easy Arya," he warned, readjusting his grip on his charges. His sister noticed, the tip of her blade dipping slightly in curiosity.

"What's that?"

"Brought you a gift." His eyes glimmered as he pulled out the pup from under his cloak. Her pup. He'd known it from the first glance.

He watched closely as Arya looked at it in wonderous curiosity. It was clear by the gleam in her eye that she was already taken with it. Suddenly she was shaking her head, her eyes steeled on him. "This isn't a trick, is it?"

He'd almost compliment her on suspecting a trap, but… 'Too late now,' he thought with a smirk as she tried to subtly slip her gaze to the pup once more.

"Well, if you don't want it," he said, shrugging with false indifference, prepared to turn away. He smiled when she hesitantly put the blade down before reaching out, and he gently placed the pup in her arms. His heart almost melted at the soft exhale that left her. There was precious little so innocent as the look his little sister gave the pup in her hands.

"Awww," she cooed in very lady-like manner as it began licking at her fingers. But Jon would never tell her that lest she hit him. Her slip would be his secret.

"She's a direwolf pup," he explained, causing her to look up at him. "Found a litter of them, and we were able to convince Father to keep them."

"Don't listen to 'im," Robb stated as he exited the stables behind him, his own pup in hand, as well as another. "Jon did all the convincing by himself. Father made it clear that we had to take care of them ourselves." He nudged Jon gently in the shoulder in passing. "Best come up with a name. And quick like, before it starts answering to "Hey you"."

Arya just snorted as their older brother headed toward the kitchens, before lifting her pup to her face, nuzzling its nose with her own where few were warranted to try. She got her nose kissed for her troubles, a soft giggle leaving her smiling.

Jon pulled up his pup, showing its small frame to her. "Arya, this is Ghost. Ghost, this is you're aunty Arya. If you treat her nicely, she'll feed you scraps under the table. Just don't call her a lady." Arya kicked half-heartedly at Jon's shin, earning a chuckle between them both.

"Ghost? That's what you named him?" she asked, looking at the small quiet bundle of white and wide red eyes taking her in. "Aye, he looks like a ghost."

Father and Bran exited the stables, Ser Rodrik and Greyjoy behind them. "Best hurry along now and ensure they're fed," Father ordered, with Ice tucked neatly in its scabbard in-hand. "Theon, make sure that one gets to Sansa. Explain what is entailed for her to keep it if she wants it."

"And if she doesn't my lord?" Greyjoy asked, though Jon rolled his eyes at the hostage's feigned obedience.

Father looked to Jon, a kind of stern calculation Jon found. "Then present it to Jon. Since he made the case for the beasts, he can be held responsible for them if my children won't."

"Of course my lord." Greyjoy gave Jon a smirk that, had he not been a bastard and he a trueborn, Jon would have wiped it off his face with one blow. The pup in the squid's arms was the only true shielding afforded to him.

"It would appear that Robb has walked off with Rickon's, so he will be made to give him his. Ser Rodrik, it would appear the lads are going to be busy for the foreseeable future. Have them train in intervals, that way there will always be someone to keep an eye on their beasts. But they aren't to train any less," Father continued, undeterred. "For now, I will be in the Godswood."

"Very well my lord," Ser Rodrik conceded. Both he and Greyjoy moved passed them to go about their orders. Father did much to do the same, giving Jon a knowing look before moving on his way to the Godswood, just as he did every time duty required him take a man's life.

"We best get to feedin' them," Jon ushered.

"Milk on a rag?" Bran asked excitedly, his and Arya's pup's sniffing blindly at each other.

"Or by dipping your finger," Jon agreed, noting that the pups had been sucking and licking at their fingers most of all. "Afterward, I need to talk to Father."

"Your not outing on fighting me, are you Jon?" Arya demanded, her brows furrowing in disappointed frustration, holding her pup closer.

He didn't hesitate to ruffle her hair, fuzz from the intricate braids already present, causing her to groan before kicking at him to stop. He crouched down, kneeling so he was more to her eye level. "Of course not. But these pups haven't eaten in a long turn. If we have time by day's end, we'll have a go."

"And if not?" she challenged, her pup whining in her hands.

"Then we'll just have to do it tomorrow," he answered sternly, letting her know that he wasn't moving on this. She looked angry, as if he'd broken a promise, but he lifted her chin slightly and gave her a sad smile his own. "Even the best laid plans fall through sometimes. It's no one's fault, it just is. But look at it this way." He gestured to the little bundle in her arms. "You now have the best battle partner any Stark could ask for. Your House sigil. A direwolf. You raise her well, and she'll be gnashin' teeth while you swing that sword. No one'll come close."

Her face twisted as she tried to contain a slowly emerging smile. But Jon saw it true. The longer she thought about it, the more and more appealing that thought became. "But first," she finally conceded, "she'll be needin' a name."

"Aye," he agreed, pulling both his siblings along to the kitchens. "But you must pick a good name. One that will tremble your foes when they face you."

"And you named yours Ghost?" Arya teased.

"Aye, quiet as a Ghost," he whispered hauntingly, earning a smirk from Arya. "That'll be a tale for maesters; the Bastard and the Ghost. Or the Ghost and the Bastard. Catchy." Arya frowned at that, but she didn't make comment to it. He sighed slightly. She had made her piece known about people calling him a bastard, or even when he called himself a bastard. But her wishes didn't make it any less true. He knew it as well as any other, and there were precious few who would let him forget it. He wasn't a Stark, no matter how much he would wish it. He was a Snow. Direwolf pup or no.

"Old Nan says that names can be prophetic," Bran stated, following closely behind. "That sometimes, if you give a name after someone, they're bound to follow in their steps."

"Gods, I hope not," Jon stated. That caused an unpleasant shiver up his spine for some reason, and he couldn't be sure if it was from the Northern chill or not. Maybe it was the surname of Snow, and the bastardization that hung over it. That bastards were vile, greedy things according to the Septa. Or maybe 'Jon', as he'd been named after Jon Arryn, a man who had raised banners to protect his wards against a King. Aye, Jon might very well raise banners if he warded anyone. Or for his family if they called him.

But those thoughts and feelings weren't what prompted him so. It was deeper. Warmer.

Ignoring the strangeness of the feeling, he quietly led them into the kitchens, greeting Robb has he exited with a kitchen boy on his heels with milk-laden bowls as he tried juggling his and Rickon's pups. But Jon made sure his siblings did the asking after the kitchen staff, and Arya seemed to pick up on his reluctance to voice it, so she took the lead. The cooks and kitchen help were less likely to argue with her, while they eyed him warily. Soon enough, they were all sitting on the steps of the guest housings, Jon dripping milk from his fingers slowly into Ghosts lapping little tongue.

"I think I'll name her… Nymeria," Arya stated, holding up her pup, rubbing noses with it again. Milk-white stained around the pup's little mouth, so Bran and he had a chuckle as some of it rubbed off onto Arya's nose. She didn't seem to notice. "After the warrior queen of the Rhoynar. Fiercer than any of her brethren."

Jon smirked at that. Of course that's who she'd name her pup after, even if the story was embellished. It was her favorite tale. "And what about you, Bran? What will your pup's name be?"

The way his brother's nose wrinkled in thought made Jon smile a bit, his own pup suckling at his finger. "I don't know yet."

"Plenty of time for that," Jon stated. They'd only been at feeding for a few minutes, so he was surprised when Ghost stopped feeding, turning away from his attempts. "Come now. You're not going to grow bigger if you don't eat." But it seemed he had to concede. "Well, looks like he's done." Sighing in resignation, he handed the bowl to his siblings. "See if you can feed them a little more. I need to speak with Father."

"Don't forget Jon," Arya demanded.

He chuckled at her antics, sighing softly at the image she presented, cradling her little Nymeria as she fed her. For a young girl who cursed all things lady-like and never wanted to marry, she was holding her pup as dear as a babe. 'She may yet prove a woman in the future, if not a lady.' He kept his thoughts private though. "Aye. I won't. If not this eve, I'll fight you on the morrow."

He held Ghost close as he made his way after his father. It wasn't until he had closed the gates behind him and he stepped into the three acres of land that had remained unfettered and unchanged for the last Gods only knew how long. A hundred years? A thousand? Then and only then did he feel the immediate well of it rise in him. The guilt. And sorrow. Only then did he allow it, in the privacy of the Godswood. Jon began to stroke Ghost's small form, seeking the simplest of comforts as he admired the snowy fur.

It was by a mother's last effort for her young and the pup's coloring that had given it away at all in the lusher forest greens and mid-summer melts. Just thinking about the elder direwolf brought a sense of weightiness down on his shoulders. She had been too far gone. Her leg would never set properly, her gut had become septic, the infection had travelled to her blood, and the maggots had taken a fill of her and continued to take still. Even if they hadn't stumbled on her, she might have been dead within hours. A day or two at most depending on her will. He'd done what he had to, to spare her further suffering. It was a heavy burden. One he was sure would never leave him, and one he would never share with any of his younger siblings. While the others had understood, Bran hadn't. And he prayed to the Old Gods that he never would. That the price for their fortunes would never be known.

"I promise, we'll take good care of them. They'll be protected, and grow up strong until they can hunt on their own."

He'd whispered to her. Assured to her that her young would be safe. Long after the sound of horse-falls had left his hearing. Even then he spoke his reassurances to her. And she listened. Gods she listened as no creature alive could listen. As no creature had listened to him before. And she had given him a gift for his kindness. Her final pup, the poor thing having wandered from its mother's warmth. The only other kindness he could give her, was a quick death. He had drawn his sword, its steel as virgin as he, never having tasted the flesh of another. The blade was of good make, but was neither thick nor heavy enough, nor Jon strong enough to carry her head off cleanly, so he had done one swift, deep stab to her neck, severing the cord of spine and jugular. Never once did she fight or protest. And as he had been taught, he kept his eyes on hers. And hers on his. Until even her spark had faded, and she lay motionless. Until finally she had drifted off. At peace.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

As if sensing his thoughts, the little white pup began nuzzling his hand affectionately, still as silent as ever. It made it harder for Jon to hold back the well of tears he wanted to spill, clenching his teeth bitterly. He trudged inward the Godswood, seeking out the heart tree in all it's strange and mystic splendor. And there Father sat, at the foot of the black water pools, underneath the awning of red leaves, cleaning away at Ice with gentle, smooth motions that suggested a practiced hand.

"Lord Stark," he announced himself, not wanting to risk sneaking up on his father. He was thankful his voice didn't croak from the raw emotion he was feeling.

"Jon," he greeted back, turning only slightly to give a weak smile. "Come. Sit."

Jon didn't hesitate to step forward, half-fumbling to draw his blade with one hand occupied by Ghost. It was a poor attempt, one that Father chuckled softly to. He found a seat near the pool, resting the dire-pup on his lap before finally freeing his blade in a single smooth motion. The tip had once glimmered red, now splashed with discolor where he had attempted to wiped it off previously and the remainder dried. But even in the soft light of the Godswood, one could see the slight discoloration of taint in the once vibrant color. He lifted his eyes when he noticed a cloth waving in front of him, Father offering it to clean his sword. Jon nodded his silent thanks, leaning over carefully to dip it in the pool before wiping it smoothly along the flat of the blade.

"Are you well, lad?" Father asked him, still caught up in cleaning Ice.

Jon closed his eyes to collect himself, but all he saw behind them were those intelligent, pleading yellow eyes. "I don't know," he answered truthfully.

There was brooding silence between them, only the soft brush of cloth on steel, and even a faintest hum across the Valyrian steel. "That is the price we pay," Father stated suddenly, causing Jon to look up at him. "To grant mercy, or justice, or protection to others, that is the price we pay when we take lives. To shoulder it on ourselves willing so no one else is forced to. It is much different to take a life than it is to watch a life be taken."

Jon nodded, knowing Father had probably once been in his position; a greenboy at taking lives. "But why is it so different? We've hunted animals before. Killed them with no further thought than full bellies and warm furs. Why does… why does this one hurt?" he asked with heavy breath that shuddered through his body, continuing to watch as each stroke of the cloth cleared a little more blood from his sword. He had killed many animals, enjoying the rush of success and the glum of failure. But this felt different. All the while, Ghost snuggled up in his lap, near asleep.

"Did you see a beast when you spoke to her?" Father asked sympathetically. "Or when you helped her bid farewell to her young? Did she seem a beast to you when you ended her suffering?"

"No," Jon answered somberly, but instantly.

Father nodded, continuing to wipe the Watchman's blood from Ice, little by little. The ripple of smoky Valyrian steel was an awe to see, especially once freshly polished, and Jon found it took his mind from things. "It is much easier to take the lives of things we deem animal or cruel. When we sympathize with another creature, killing them always comes harder. Even if it's necessary." Jon swallowed heavily at that, his hand ceasing to clean his sword as his chest panged. He could feel Father's eyes watching him, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for.

Sniffing, Jon closed his eyes to prevent tears from escaping unbidden. 'Damn it!' he cursed. 'Damn it all!' He'd forgotten the last time he had cried, and he'd not come to remember a sooner time if it could be helped. It hurt, to kill the direwolf; so much so, he had almost stayed his blade. To see something so powerful and strong brought low. To see the desperation and long-standing need to protect her children fight past her wounds. To see her. Many a maester had written that the eyes were the gateway to the soul. And to meet such a creature eye to eye.

That his gaze was drawn to such things was the only pride he felt in being a bastard at that moment. That perhaps the Gods had granted him the gift of such a moment as that, despite the circumstances of his birth. It was a gift made soured by his resulting actions.

His brow twinged with grief, but he held it in, choosing instead the stoicism and brooding glance he'd wore his whole life. It was as natural to him as the darker clothes he favored. Like a second skin. But it wouldn't come as easily this time. Blood now stained his hands though they were unblemished and her eyes marred his conscious; as though in killing the she-wolf, he killed a part of himself. As though in stabbing her, he had made a place for her to haunt him.

"It's alright to be sad, Jon," Father stated. "And if tears fall, there's no need to stop them. They are a sign that the soul is being cleansed. Grief is as natural as anger, or joy. There is no shame in any of them; only in the actions we take while under their influence."

"But can a bastard afford that luxury though?" Jon asked, no bite or intent in his tone. Just an empty-hearted question. "To grieve?"

"If a bastard can't, then it's certainly beyond a lords ransom," Father responded with a wry chuckle, before his gaze turned more wistful. "If grief is a body, we must bury it in the moment. If managed properly, it is later exhumed, and its bones properly lain to rest. The grief knows no true rest otherwise."

"But it doesn't go away," Jon stated, thinking to the Stark crypts. The bodies of the Lords Stark laid back generation after generation. Their bodies were still there, even after being laid to rest properly.

"Aye. It doesn't. It's still there because grief changes us, especially for the better once we've given it it's due and mourned its passing. Sometimes it must be visited to pay respects, and to remind us why we become the men we do. But if left unattended and alone, on unknown soil in unknown lands, then it festers in us, leaving a rot and stench on the soils of the soul.

"That is why I come here," Father explained, looking down at the smoky patterns along Ice's blade. "To mourn death, so I can celebrate life. To make peace with my decisions so that I may continue to make the ones I believe to be right."

Jon thought on that, and he thought on it as hard as he may. "What if… what if I feel like it will stick with me? That I won't be able to put it to rest?"

Father breathed sadly at that, continue his ministrations, but he nodded in understanding. "Those losses will affect you the most… as well as change you the most. And there will be times where even grieving daily doesn't ease the burden of those losses."

Jon knew who he was speaking of without asking. While his grandfather and uncle, Rickard and Brandon Stark, were undoubtedly a part of that, Jon knew his words rang truest of his aunt, Lyanna Stark, his father's sister. The woman who's kidnapping had pulled the strings that lead to Robert's Rebellion. Father was still grieving their losses, even near a score later. Jon knew he couldn't even compare his grief to his father's, and he hoped he would never have to. So he did the wise thing, and held his tongue, not banking on an empty reassurance.

It was a rare moment of quiet that neither the son nor the father had to play to subtleties and House politics as bastard and the bastard's lord father. Jon would have given anything to let it bask, but the truth hung like a carcass in a garden. He was a bastard, and a claimed bastard at that. While he could obtain the greater portions of a lord's education and training, he would never know simple happiness with his lord father's and unknown mother's sin hanged on him. A literal noose might have been kinder.

Breathing out his grief over his actions and the truth of himself, he was left only with his duty and honor as had been taught to him. And the moment couldn't be dwelled on forever.

"I did not come to talk about these things," Jon stated, aiming to bring the conversation around as he had initially intended. Before it had devolved into him almost spilling tears like a maiden. There would be time to grieve later.

"I'm glad you did all the same," Lord Stark replied, but looked to him all the same. "What was it you wished to discuss then?"

"The Watchman," Jon answered, looking to his lord and father intently for a reaction.

He just continued to polish his blade with an uninterrupted focus, but a hard frown had taken to his features. "You believe him to be telling the truth?"

"I believe… that he believed in what he saw," Jon answered carefully, thinking back to how the man had pleaded when Jon had asked him what he had seen. "He wasn't in hysterics, and he didn't seem mad to me. But he was afraid. The man was a Ranger for the Night's Watch. He'd probably fought Wildlings and the like, but whatever he saw, he was afraid of. So afraid that he crossed the Wall without returning to his brothers."

"He was more afraid of what was beyond the Wall than facing execution on our side of it," Lord Stark summarized.

"There was relief in his eyes. Just before your sword dropped. And he asked his body to be burned. Isn't that a Wildling custom?"

"It is a curious case." Jon couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking on the other three deserters that year alone. If maybe they had risked oathbreaking and death for a similar reasoning. Lord Stark sighed, clearly whelmed by the line of thinking these events could entail. "I will send a raven to Castle Black. While I'm hesitant to believe in such things after eight thousand years of their absence, men are abandoning their posts all the same. Best be vigilant."

"Winter is coming?"

"Winter is coming," he affirmed.

Jon nodded, stroking a finger down Ghost's tiny back. 'At least you have it easy.' The pup just shifted slightly with a deep exhale.

He could feel it on the air when the Godswood was intruded upon, and he could tell Father felt it too.

"Ned?" Jon stiffened at the sound of Lady Catelyn's voice. What would she think? Seeing her husband's bastard in the Godswood with him? She was never cruel to him, but that didn't mean she was kind either. A chilling gaze was a common occurrence from her, but just as oft, she would look at him as though she were looking for something specific. Or pity. The scrutiny always made him uncomfortable, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was a bastard, and she was his father's lady wife.

Regardless, the moment was over.

Jon knew the moment she spotted him, the subtlest hitch of her breath as she walked toward them. Followed by the firmness in her voice. "We have a visitor, Ned."

"I'll take my leave," Jon stated quickly, carefully cradling Ghost from his lap. The dire-pup jolted awake, blinking groggily in confusion. In any other event, it might have been a welcome humor. But right now, it was not, and perhaps his pup sensed that. Smart little thing. "Lord Stark. Lady Catelyn."

"Bastard." Jon blinked as Uncle Jaime strolled into view with his greeting, giving him a softer smile. He appeared freshly cleaned, not like he had been travelling on the road, though his face was still rough and unshaven from travel.

Jon opened and closed his mouth a couple times before he remembered his station. "Ser Lannister," he greeted back with a stiff nod, not meeting his eyes. A bastard must always know his place.

Jaime Lannister just rolled his eyes, gesturing him along. "Go on lad. We'll say proper greetings in a moment." He eyed the dire-pup in his hand with exasperated chuckle, crouching down to take a better look at Ghost. "And I'd love to hear how you came about these little creatures."

Jon nodded before going along his way, trying to keep a well of excitement and happiness down. The lion was in Winterfell, and like any occasion that had occurred, Jon found himself glad. He viewed the Lannister as a sort of uncle, much like his siblings. The man cared not that he was a bastard. He taught and built on their lessons with Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin, as equally with him as with Robb or Theon. He even taught Arya. Jon may have been a bastard, but it was Jaime Lannister that gave him hope that he might be something a little more. He knew not what that "more" might entail, nor did he think too long or too hard on it lest he elevate his hopes too much. He was still a bastard after all and he, like his siblings, had been more or less confined to the North. Far-spread options were limited. But the hope was still there.

Exiting the Godswood with a soft clink as the gate shut behind him, he was relieved when any brooding thoughts that might reveal themselves were hastily interrupted by his siblings. Bran and Arya had finished feeding their pups, now content with holding them close to ward the northern chill.

Aye. As he watched them, he knew he wanted for nothing, save maybe a little grace for his birth.

He smiled as he watched Arya, convinced that this was the longest he'd ever seen her hold still. It wouldn't last, and her restless nature would eventually show through, but it was a sight regardless. Bran was rolling names off his tongue as he tried to find one that suited his new companion, even as a handful of crows and ravens watched them from the rooves and outcroppings. That unnerved him, but Bran adored the scavengers for whatever odd reason, but best keep the pups close all the same.

He noted the half-full bowls next to them, the pups having drank their fill. He cringed at the waste, but knew there was little to be done about it now save maybe give it to the hounds.

"How long do you suppose until their big enough?!" Bran asked Arya curiously.

"If they are held to the same standard as the hounds, it'll be near a half-moon before they open their eyes and waddle," Jon stated, drawing both his sibling's attention. "In a few moons, they'll be as large as any wolf I reckon."

"Then why did yours already have his eyes opened?" his sister demanded.

Jon just shrugged lightly as the answer was unknown to him, even though he knew it wouldn't satisfy her. He wasn't as all-knowing as she seemed to think he was. And besides, he had other matters to think on. "Plenty of that later. Run along now. Ser Jaime is here. Best tell your siblings. They'll be glad to hear." 'Most of them anyway,' he corrected.

Bran nodded while Arya just groaned aloud, flopping back onto the Guest Housing's patio. "We know! He said he needed to speak with Father and Mother before taking a rest. He's been travelling for a while now." She scrunched her nose and snorted slightly. "So we have to wait until tomorrow before we bother him." Jon had no doubt she didn't have the patience to wait until tomorrow.

"Somehow, I doubt he'll miss supper," Jon countered, Bran giggling at Arya snorting again.

"Do you think they'll have the meat pies tonight? Or honeyed chicken?" Bran asked excitedly.

"Mmmm." Arya was practically salivating like the she-wolf was.

Jon just rolled his eyes. "I doubt we'll be feasting tonight. Could be more of the stew and stock we've been eating. Don't get your hopes up too soon." Though it was reasonable that a heartier dish would make its way around for their guest. "For now, make sure your pups are well-fed. They are more prevalent than dinner."

"Says you!" Arya argued from her prone seat, Nymeria resting against her chest.

Bran was reduced to a fit of giggles, and Jon smiled at them. Still so young and innocent.

Aye, he could trade off grieving a little while for happier tidings.

---

Author's Note:

Heads-up: I'm not sure how often I'll be posting these yet, or if it will continue. This is mostly to relieve the pressure on my brain. Because it's a Sample Story, if I get serious about writing this, it will be subject to changes. So not everything here will be gospel if I come back to it.