Winterfell, 278 A.C.
l: Melantha
On the day of her twentieth name day, Melantha Stark woke up with a loud gasp, sweating, agitated and battling her arms wildly.
From his place by the fire, her dog Maekar watched her silently.
The young woman removed her hair from her face and looked around her bedchambers, finally noticing that she was indeed safe.
She exhaled heavily, her breath drifting into the wind right before her eyes, as she took everything in.
The room was dark, which meant the sun had yet to rise, and she anyone but the servants would be awake at such an hour. No sound came from the courtyard either.
Slowly, Melantha placed her bare feet upon the stone floor and threw the furs back, standing up and walking towards the fire.
"How are you, boy?" she asked her companion with a soft smile, scratching behind his ears.
Maekar began to move his tail energetically, and leaned forward to lick her face, which in turn earned him an honest, weak chuckle.
Maekar had been hers for almost six years. He had been the pup of one of the many dogs they kept at Winterfell. He had been meant to be instructed in tracking, along with his siblings, but Maekar had been born short of one leg, and thereof he was supposed to die. No one saw use in him, but Melantha detested violence and blood, and she had begged her Lord father to spare him and give him to her instead.
Melantha never really asked for much, and being the most reclusive of his five children, Lord Stark must have thought a nice gesture might eventually bring them closer, for he agreed to let his eldest daughter keep the pup, as long as she took full responsibility for him.
Her brother Brandon didn't think that Maekar would last the moon, but six years had passed and the dog kept going, always chasing after Melantha as fast as his three legs allowed him.
Melantha leaned forward and hugged her friend, sighing softly into its short fur. She closed her eyes tightly, but all she could see were a pair of eerie blue eyes that could freeze any man's heart.
She heard some shuffling outside her door and knew that some of the servants were getting up to their daily chores.
Melantha walked over to her desk and picked up the blue dress she had left there the previous day atop of a chair and quickly put it on.
With a hairbrush in hand, she slowly approached a window and stared up at the sky. Its color was of a dark grey, almost like her eyes, and there was no sign of a sun. There never was a sun during her name day, and Lyanna liked to joke that it meant she was cursed.
Melantha tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the sky, watching as a black, small shape flew about and landed on a window not too far from her.
"Dark wings, dark words." She thought, finally getting rid of the last knot and placing the brush on the windowsill.
With light steps, she reached and old pair of boots and put them on before going for the door.
"Would you like to come along?" she asked Maekar, who in turned barked twice as he got up. Smiling, Melantha placed a finger to her lips. "Hush. Come."
They left together quietly, leaving the door open so the servant would know it was alright to go in and tidy up.
They bowed to her as she passed, wishing her a blessed name day, and she smiled and thanked each of them in return, dread beginning to fill her stomach.
When she stepped outside, she was stunned by the cold. It was winter, yes, and they were in the north, but Melantha had not felt such brutal cold in years, and it left her there, paralyzed as the wind howled a battle cry.
When Maekar nudged her hand with his snout, she began to move once more, quickly heading for her destination.
Melantha closed the door right after her dog stepped in, and slowly, they both climbed the stair that would lead to the library.
There was already a small fire, left there by the Maester no doubt, who knew the Lady of the house would either stay awake until late or rise before the sun to read.
She sat by the table closest to the fire, as usual, and was relieved to find everything just as she had left it.
Maekar sat down by her side and she began to look over the books, trying to find the exact place where she had left off before.
For the past six moons, Melantha had been trying to translate a book, which proved difficult since she was unable to speak the language.
The library of Winterfell was a big one, and it contained all sorts of books and scrolls from all sorts of ages. She could read and understand texts composed a millennium before she stepped on the earth, so long as they were in some form reminiscing of the common tongue.
Aside from that, there were not many books in Winterfell that were written in a different language, especially one that came from across the Narrow Sea; but Melantha had already read most of the books at least once, so translating a book in High Valyrian seemed more entertaining to her than re-reading something she already knew. At least, it seemed more entertaining six moons prior to that moment.
There were a few scrolls in the library which explained the basics of the language that the Dragon Lords spoke, but it turned out to be a language much more complex than the common tongue, with few things in common, and Melantha had no one there to help her. Despite that, she kept going. Her work was slow, and probably not very accurate, but she was confident that her poor translation so far was enough to give her a glimpse into the general theme of the book.
So far, she had managed to decipher that it was an old westerosi story, about a man of the Wall and strange sacrifices.
The ink stained her fingers as she carefully transcribed down a passage that caught her eye.
"The woman, with skin white as milk and eyes blue as-"
"My Lady?"
Melantha jumped, her quill scrapping and ripping the page she was writing on. Placing a hand on her chest, she breathed heavily and counted to three before turning around.
"Gods, you gave me a fright, Maester."
Maester Luwin smiled apologetically.
"I apologize for that, My Lady. I was just asking how you are feeling today."
Maester Luwin was still new to Winterfell. The man had arrived from Oldtown less than a year prior. He was a little old and foreign to the north's unforgiving weather, which worried Melantha and made her doubt his ability to be able to perform his duties without falling ill himself; but so far, the man seemed just fine.
She also had to admit that she liked him far more than the previous Master, who seemed to know as much of his duties as she knew of cooking and cleaning.
"I believe Bran found some grey hair on me last night."
The man chuckled.
"I doubt it, My Lady. It looks as dark as usual." His dark eyes then narrowed in concern. "How is your head today?"
"It doesn't hurt, but I might need something tonight, after the feast."
"I will make sure to leave something in your chambers."
Melantha nodded in thanks and attempted to turn back to her books, but she heard Maester Luwin clearing his throat and she saw herself forced to turn once more.
"Yes?"
The Maester frowned, hands clasped together, and eyes cast down as he seemed to contemplate what to say next.
"My Lady, your father wishes to speak with you."
"Now? He is already awake?"
"Some special news forced him to rise early, My Lady."
When Melantha walked into her father's study and heard Maester Luwin closing the door behind them, she knew something bad was coming.
The old man walked around her to stand by her father's left side, and she watched them both with suspicious eyes.
"Please sit, Melantha." Her Lord Father ordered softly.
She sat and studied her father for a few moments.
Rickard Stark was not particularly tall, but he had a sturdy frame that tended to intimidate others. His dark hair was beginning to decrease, his hairline receding further and further back. His face was long and pale, and it sported a pair of dull grey eyes framed by thick eyebrows, a long nose and thin lips that had almost disappeared at the moment.
"Has something happened?" she asked right away. Her father was good, but he was slightly distant and practical. He wouldn't greet his children on their name days, and Brandon and Melantha had theirs celebrated because it was expected of them. It was no secret that Rickard Stark was turning his attention south, and surely his children, whom were all well loved in the north, would have their part to play in his secret game.
"You are a woman, Melantha;" he said, in a way that let her know he had previously rehearsed the upcoming speech. "you've been a woman for quite some time now, and you should have been married long ago."
She felt as if a rock had sunk into her stomach. The air left her lungs and her body froze and tensed, begging her to run, but forcing her to stay.
Rejection began to scream into her head.
"Father, if I may-"
"I'm aware of your lack of interest in the matter, and for a while I considered letting it go; but I'm afraid I have been swayed, by an offer we simply can't refuse."
He said it like he had no part in it, as if someone had just demanded that she marries, but Melantha doubted it.
She supposed she'd have to wait until the night and sneak into her father's study with the help of either Brandon or Lyanna.
Her jaw was tense, her teeth grinding together so harshly she was sure they would splinter.
She wanted to get up, she wanted to tear the door open, grab Maekar and run to the stables, where she'd take her horse and ride south as fast as she could; she would run away, sail across the narrow sea and loose herself in some mysterious land.
Instead, she stayed in her place.
"It is about time that you did your duty to your house."
She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but no sound came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again.
"Who am I to marry, father?"
Rickard Stark sighed heavily and refused to look her in the eye.
"Prince Rhaegar, of House Targaryen."
Melantha felt puzzled. Why would House Targaryen offer such an alliance? While the Starks were one of the oldest noble house, dating back thousands of years to the first men and the children of the forest, they were not grand. Despite being the wardens to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, they were not rich in comparison to the other great houses.
"I thought,…"she lost track of her thoughts for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.
"Yes, My Lady?" Maester Luwin, as usual, encouraged her to give voice to her mind.
It took her a moment to come out of her head and remember what she wanted to ask.
"I thought King Aerys wanted a bride of Valyrian blood for the prince." She said, visualizing her own family tree at the moment, but being unable to find an answer.
"How did you know that?"
"Was it supposed to be a secret?"
"I guess not." The Maester smiled kindly. "Indeed, that was the original goal, but it seems like Lord and Lady Baratheon were unsuccessful on their task. Their ship unfortunately sank as they were returning to Storm's End and. I fear they have passed."
Melantha nodded along to all that, still trying to put together her family tree, which was hard, considering how long back it dated.
"I'm sorry but, I don't think a Stark has wed a Targaryen before."
"You would be correct, My Lady. Such match has never happened before." He gave her a look akin to pity. "But it seems like Prince Rhaegar has heard tales and songs of you in the south, for he was the one who requested your hand to the king."