Jon Arctic and Cirilla Riannon

by Jxduffy

While his father was away fighting in the Greyjoy rebellion, Jon hears the washer women whispering about how Ashara Dayne might be his mother. With this new information, Jon goes on a quest. He didn't expect that when he passed out, he would wake up in a place called "Ard Skellig"

20. Chapter 19: Winterfell and Royals

Chapter 19: Winterfell and Royals

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POV Ciri , 1st day, 3rd moon

The Stark's private dining room was very different from her grandmother's, but at the same time it was somewhat similar. Unlike the heavily decorated white of Cintra's private dining room, the walls here were grey and mostly bare. The only ornamentations were two tapestries, depicting various battles, adorning the grey stones behind Jon's father. What was similar was how it felt, warm and homely with only family inside.

As soon as they all sat down, Ciri between Jon and his brother's betrothed Serena, a quartet of serving maids swept in and filled the table with food. There were two legs of lamb, one smelling of garlic and beer while the other had the slightly heady sent replaced with... rosemary? Other than that, there were bowls of smoked haddock and onion chowder, warm loaves of bread, and some greens.

She waited a moment, when no one stood or clasped hands Ciri moved to claim her parts of the meal. Her first target was the beer infused lamb, Arya doing the same just as quickly with the other. While to her left, Jon had a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. Serena started with a bunch of greens and a smaller slice of lamb.

Ciri tried each of the drinks available, and found that she quite liked the mead. The ale was better than most she'd had and the wine was alright. But the lack of vodka was striking, the drink was everywhere in the Northern Realms and much loved by everyone. The witcheress included. Perhaps she'd ask Jon to set up a distillery in their room or something? It wouldn't be hard, since nothing but the strongest affected her Jon he'd want some occasionally.

They all ate and drank without a word for a beat, then two, and finally Jon's father broke the almost awkward silence. "Jon, we have already discussed certain matters on your time away, but can you tell me more on this... Kear Morhen?" he asked, clearly more for the group than himself.

And Jon talked, he told them about their finding of Eskel and their travels with him, the witcher's single handed slaying of a bandit gang called "Chort" that had been ravaging a town. The small change bringing a smile to her lips. As he moved on to their arrival at the old fortress and started a too in depth telling of their training, Jon lost a few people's attention.

"Cirilla, was it?" Serena asked, more of a conversation starter than a question.

She nodded, "Please call me Ciri... Serena, right? Jon's brother's betrothed?" Ciri returned, like hell she'd set the tone. This had to go perfectly.

"Serena Umber, and yes. At least for a few months more until I'm his wife." She answered, smiling and not hiding the glint in her eyes. She's making fun of me! Not my fault he hasn't asked yet!

Ciri made her congratulations, and the other woman asked her first real question. "Where are you from, Ciri?" the soon to be wife asked, the glint replaced by curiosity.

"I come from the Northern Realms, across the sea." she said, following the story Jon came up with.

"Across the sea? I've heard of no place called the 'Northern Realms' in Essos." Serena said, and Ciri internally cheered at the confusion. People clung to plausible explanations when off-balance.

"No, not across the Narrow Sea. My continent is across the other one, you call it the Sunset Sea." there it was, the shock and disbelief. Just as she needed.

"Truly? How did you cross when even the Shipwright failed?" Even more confusion, good bit of doubt and some perceived insult. Not perfect, but a good mix for what she needed.

"We were sailing far from our coast, when what had to be the mother of all storms hit us. I don't know how long it lasted, days or weeks... but we and the crew did all we could to stay afloat. We lost sailors slowly, but one by one they were ripped away by the winds or swept into the sea. Until we finally went under." She took a gulp of Jon's wine to help the act, and quickened her pace "And we washed up on the shore... Thank the Gods I didn't lose him." tears in her eyes really hammered it home, it was hard to do and she didn't enjoy it, but Madam Yennefer taught her how and when to use them.

Ciri wasn't loud, so she thankfully didn't get that much attention. Only those closest to her seat, that being Jon, Serena and Lady Stark across from her. Jon's face was impassive, he wasn't the best actor so he didn't even try. Lady Stark's seemed... conflicted... guilty? While Serena's was so full of compassion it made the witcheress feel slightly dirty for deceiving her.

"I'm sorry for asking." Serena said, an apologetic smile on her face and a hand on Ciri's forearm.

She shook her head and wiped away the tears, "Where are you from, Serena?" Ciri asked, trying to change the subject.

Nodding, and pulling back her hand, Serena fully accepted the change. "I come from much farther north than here, my father is the lord of Last Hearth. The very last castle before the Night's Watch lands." she answered proudly, a quirk to her lips.

"Can you tell me about it?" Ciri asked, and Serena did. Always be gathering information. She could hear Vesemir say.

The curly haired woman told her all about her family's castle with pride, and the occasional jab at her brothers. The first thing that stood out was that it larger that Kaer Morhen, second that it was much colder than any place she'd ever been to before, especially in winter. "I'll have to visit then!" Ciri decided with a grin.

"Of course." Serena replied with a similar smile.

It was then that the soon-to-be wife's smile turned into a conspiratorial smirk, "So, where and how did you meet your man?" she whispered, glancing towards Jon.

"Well... it was when we were young, only six or seven." Ciri started, pulling the long-ago memories back up to the surface. "My mother was sending me back home early from our trip to my grandfather's family. There weren't many boats going across, so my uncle had to get a local family to take me on along on their trading trip." she felt a nostalgic smile creep onto her face, "It was in the family's house that I saw a boy, grey eyed and dark haired, who looked just like a sad puppy. It was on the boat I first said hello."

Her gaze went away from the room, looking at nothing but the past. She could still smell the sea. "He told me his name, and about his home. Then I did the same." she almost whispered, before smiling harder. "I just had to take him home with me, the sad boy from the strange world. I took him straight to my family's castle and demanded my grandmother that we take him in. She said yes." Ciri finished, it had been a long, long time since she told that story.

"Your family's castle?"

"My grandmother ruled the kingdom of Cintra." she said offhandedly, before realising what she said.

The chatter around the table ceased, and slowly Ciri turned to look at Jon's now-blank face.

Oops.

"Kingdom of Cintra?" breathed a wide-eyed Lady Stark, asking the question clearly on everyone's minds.

"Former Kingdom of Cintra." her Jon rumbled, saving her and putting that subject into the dirt.

From then on, the dinner was noticeably quieter. The only conversation that survived being that of martial pursuits between Jon, Robb and their father.

Eventually, everyone finished their meals and the very few leftovers were carried away.

Then Jon's father cleared his throat, and told them that the king was coming.

POV Jon, 3nd day, 3rd moon

"Ready, Jon?" Ciri asked, flourishing her silver longsword and adopting her preferred stance. Both hands on the hilt and the blade pointing up along her right side.

His own stance, a defensive one that kept the shaft on his axe close to and across his chest, lined up with the shin of his foremost leg, provided her her answer.

After a heartbeat's time Ciri rushed him, her sword swiftly coming into a sharp thrust for his chest.

Jon smashed the blade aside with a shove of the shaft and crashed into Ciri with a shoulder slam. Only for her to twirl away and slash at his ankle.

He planted the butt of his axe right by his foot and blocked it with a clang, then quickly ripped it up and forced the sword away. The sudden change put her off balance and Jon swiftly took advantage of the opening.

The witcher carried the momentum and lashed out with a horizontal swing.

Instead of struggling for balance and losing, Ciri let herself fall and rolled away to safety. Then pounced from her lower position with her blade held in reverse grip.

Jon blocked the cutting strike, but the witcheress let her blade slide across the axe's shaft. Then struck again before he could counter, each of her attacks shifted into another just as they ended. Her grip going from straight to reverse with every strike. With her superior speed she kept him on the backfoot, forced to block blow after blow.

He knew that he simply had to disrupt her rhythm and her sword would fly out her hand. His first instinct was cryomancy, but they agreed no magic. The witcher had to gamble.

So, as a straight-gripped attack took his axe just under its head, he let the force carry it and whipped the end of the shaft at her shin.

A cold line on his neck stopped him just a hand's width before victory.

"I keep telling you to replace Cerbin and stop using that axe, it's not right for you even after all your practise." she scolded him, panting in exertion with her cheeks rosy.

As her blade dropped from his neck and onto his shoulder, all he could this about was how lucky he was.

"I still haven't found the right one." he said, avoiding her gaze. But he could sense her sadness at the loss, and that small guilt that she found one in Lordran when he couldn't.

"You're meant to have a greatsword, Jon. Don't take too long in finding one." Ciri said, doing a remarkable attempt at channeling their grandmother.

Jon nodded, and noticed his father's thoughtful and sad eyes.

It was then that they both acknowledged the crowd that had gathered around them. It was mostly the other guards and men-at-arms that were training in the yard, including Ser Rodrik and Jory, along with some of the easily distracted maids. He could see his father, Robb, young Bran and Theon, who was rather pale.

Other than them, Jon felt the eyes of two hidden observers. His nose revealing their identities.

Breaking from the crowd, his brother, it still felt odd to think that after so long, Robb approached them. "Hell of a spar!" he exclaimed, a boyish look on his face. It was strange, weren't he and Rob the same age? Why did he feel so much older than him? "Care to have one with me?" he asked him, eagerness in his eyes.

"We can have a go!" Ciri said with her grin, ready to show any her mastery of the longsword.

Robb blinked, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, his brother's disappointment clear to him. But, from what Jon's seen, it would be hard to spar with his brother without it becoming a lesson. So, he said nothing and raised a brow with a smile.

With the heir agreeing to it, Robb and Ciri walked away a small distance. Then started their spar, Jon noticed the witcheress holding back and giving occasional advice.

Jon made his way through the small, dissipating crowd answering a few questions and accepting requests for later spars. Eventually he reached a small wagon, where he felt the eyes watching from. "Aren't you both supposed to be sewing or singing?" he asks, leaning against the back and cleaning his nails.

He hears them shift, "Don't come out just yet, you don't want to get caught now do you?" he says quietly, moving on to his other hand. "If you're as interested in learning as I think you are, meet me in the Godswood." he finished cleaning and walked away.

Sitting on a stone under the weirwood, Jon waited for the sneaking pair. Ghost was in his room, Jon having fed him after leaving the yard, and he still felt the connection even at this distance. It was strange, it had taken repeated wargings into Gwyn every day for a month to developpe the bond. But it had only been a day since the pup was birthed and the instant connection was three times as strong after only a day. The reason still eluded him.

Gwyn was above him, having returned from a hunt triumphant yet injured. The connection allowed him to know the bird underestimated its quarry, the wild bull bruising some ribs as it died. It seemed the common animals here were much stronger than those in the Northern Realms.

He angry at himself, shuffling up and down the branch, wincing every once in a while. Jon sighed, and chose to ignore the bird.

A cracking twig turned his attention southward, to two small, brown-haired girls. Who got surprisingly close without him hearing them.

"Before we begin," he started, locking eyes with both in turn. "I would like to know why each of you want to learn." he asked, much in the same way his master would when testing him.

Arya blinked and then, like the spirited girl he'd found her to be, proclaimed her reasons. "I'm not going to be some useless lady who needs protecting, I want to fight when it comes to it!" a precocious one too it seemed.

"...more fun too..." she mumbled under her breath, were he normal it would be too quiet to hear. Jon smiled.

Once his sister finished, the calm little Mormont told him hers. "I won't be left behind, my sisters all fight and mother too." she paused, glanced at Arya, and continued. "I won't be left behind," Lyanna repeated.

The smile continued as he nodded and stood from the stone. As he rose, he grabbed the two sticks he'd prepared. There were about the same length as his arm. "Carry these like you would a weapon." he ordered, presenting them to the girls.

"I won't start you on live steel on the first day, you'll work your way up to it in time." he said, seeing their, mostly Arya's, disappointment.

Pacified, they took the sticks and held them as Jon had instructed. As he thought, they each held them differently. Arya held hers one handed near one end, while Lyanna carried her own with one hand on each end.

"Now, spar." with much more excited than before, they had at it.

Jon sent a part of himself up to Gwyn, and observed the pair from two different angles.

Arya attacked first, striking with a lunging thrust that was clearly copied from Ciri... and performed poorly.

Lyanna quickly knocked the stick aside and retaliated with smack to the other girl's side, getting in close and leveraging her stick well.

Undeterred, Arya tried to snake her stick into Lyanna's guard and managing a strike to the girl's left shoulder. The bear cub moved with the blow and pistoned the end or her stick into the pup's solar plexus, hitting her hard enough to force out the air in her lungs.

Arya staggered back, hand still grasping her stick, and Jon had them stop. He'd seen enough to know.

"That's enough, both of you." they both obeyed, but clearly looked like they'd rather not.

"Lyanna, what weapons do your mother and sisters use?" he asked, trying to see who she was trying to be.

"Maces and shields." the little girl answered in an instant.

Then who was she... Ah, I see. Ciri can never know, she'd never let it down.

Thoughts full of his Ciri teasing him for having a little admirer, he decided to push the Mormont away from Axes or greatswords.

He nodded and said that "I will start you on techniques for the quarterstaff then." to Lyanna, while to Arya he told her that "Those for the arming sword, along with some for rapiers." looking at her even now, he knew she'd never be strong. So, thrusting weapons would be best. Perhaps an arming sword that tapers from the base, or a thinner one that tapers from the midpoint? Ciri's help would be needed for his little sister.

"Isn't that just a stick?" The little Mormont asked, brows furrowed.

"In most circumstances, yes. And no one would question your carrying it until it crushes their windpipe. If you ever choose to follow your mother and sisters into battle, you could have the one or both ends tipped like a flanged mace." Jon said, quickly easing the girl's brow.

Any complaints were fully in the dirt when he had them take up stances. Once he corrected any mistakes in their grip, footwork and alignment, he had them adopt another which he corrected. Then another, and another, and another. It wasn't long before they were easily going from one stance to the next, but doing so with enough speed and force would only come with time.

He just hoped they'd be ready when their time came.

POV Sansa, 11th day, 3rd moon

The clashing of weapons have been a near constant sound in the yard ever since her brother Jon came back, both his own and his... paramour? Ciri's skill at arms riling the fighting men of Winterfell to better themselves.

The pair were there now, Jon swinging his enormous axe like a hero from the tales against Jory. While Ciri, with Ghost playing around with Arya's unnamed direwolf at her feet, was off coaching Arya and Lya on their archery, something aunty Maege convinced father to allow them last time she visited. Sansa thought it all strange, why would they even want to practise? When she tried it just hurt her fingers.

She still wasn't sure about her brother's paramour, the woman was pretty yet strange. Her silver hair and emerald eyes reminded Sansa of what she'd been told of the Velaryon and Celtigar's traits. They both had told Sansa and everyone else that Ciri was a princess of a fallen kingdom, but Sansa didn't find her to be anything like she imagined princesses being.

Sansa had always though princesses to be gentle, quiet and demure, like her mother told her, but this one, the only princess she has met, was nothing like what her mother described. Loud, bold and strong Ciri was as far from ladylike as she's seen without becoming a savage like Arya and Lya.

It was all quite confusing.

"Ser Jon's won again!" Jeyne chirped next to her, eyes wide and cheeks rosy. Her friend had started to fancy her brother.

It started when Sansa had told her he was part of a knightly order called "The School of the Wolf" and taken the name Arctic as his knightly surname. Though she was told explicitly it was not connected to the Seven, and that they were referred to as "Witchers", it made no matter to her nor her friend. Jeyne however was far too shy to act on it, it didn't help that Ciri could be quite intimidating.

Focusing back on the yard, Sansa saw Jon offer Jory his hand and helped him up. They spoke for a moment, Sansa couldn't hear the words, but they made the head guardsman smile and nod.

Before he could take another opponent, Robb approached Jon and they talked. Soon, Jon put his axe on the weapon rack and took up a wooden training sword and shield to match Robb.

After a few exchanges, it was clear that Jon was not as skilled with the sword and shield as he was with his axe. Still, Robb could not get passed his guard. To her it seemed more like Jon was training him rather than them having a spar. Eventually they stopped, spoke and separated.

It was then that Ciri, Ghost in arm, left Arya and Lya to try their hands at beating Theon. She came up to him and whispered in Jon's ear, then took him from the yard. Much to the disappointment of Jeyne and his would-be opponents.

Now that she thought about it, Ciri often stole her brother away for a while after spending time in the yard. Sansa briefly wondered what it was they did.

A soft voice to her left ended her musings, "Lady Sansa, your lord father has tasked me to have you deliver this to your brother Jon." Rose said, presenting her with a rolled piece of parchment.

Confused, Sansa took the parchment and stood from the bench.

After a brief farewell to Jeyne and Rose, who curtsied and left in the opposite direction, Sansa set off. As she walked, Sansa contemplated where she would go first in her search for Jon. It wasn't anywhere close to mealtime and she hadn't heard of him frequenting the kitchens, so that cut off the main hall, dining room and kitchens. He and Ciri had just left the yard, and Ghost was with them, so they won't be at the kennels or back at the yard.

The only other places could be the library tower, to visit Lady Karra, or their shared room.

Sansa decided to check their room first and rushed, well walked quickly, to her destination. It didn't take very long for her to reach it, her watching place was close to the Great Keep and her route to her and her sibling's rooms was well known to her.

In front of the door, Sansa hesitated. Something felt... slightly wrong. She ignored it and knocked on the wood thrice.

After a moment, and some muffled talking, Ciri's voice made it through the door. "Come in." she said, loud and clear.

Sansa opened the door and quickly entered the room.

What she saw froze her in place and made her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

They were in the tub, having a bath, together. And neither of them looked unsettled in the least!

"Sansa, do you need something?" her brother asked, his face just as impassive a usual. If slightly red from the heat of the water.

The soapy water, the bubbles overflowing from the brim. Bubbles that could only be made with incredible friction, if what she saw the maids do when preparing it for her was any indication.

She shook her head and pulled out the parchment, "Father asked me to give this to you." she said, eager to leave.

She passed Jon the letter, after he dried his hands of course, and went to leave.

"Stay." Ciri said, stopping her in place. "You'll just have to come back to hear his answer, may as well save the trip." she continued, rubbing down a pristine white arm as though she wasn't even there.

Not knowing what to do or say, Sansa stood there waiting. Watching as Jon read the rather long parchment, with Ciri taking the occasional peek at it.

Sansa, with nothing else to do, couldn't help but notice the sheer number of faded scars that littered her brother's arms, shoulders and chest. He had a trio of parallel ones going from the lower center of his muscled chest to his left shoulder. There were jagged bite marks on his left forearm and a twisted slash on his right, both hands had strange and jagged connected scars starting from the palm only to fade at mid forearm. The fourth and final of the larger ones was under his right arm, just over the water, the scar of an exiting puncture wound. She'd seen a similar one when she was younger, on one of the older guards when they were all comparing scars in the yard.

Ciri on the other hand was markless, not even a small scar like those that were so numerous on Jon to be seen. Only white skin, made rosy by the hot water.

"The big lug insists on taking all the hits." the silver haired woman said, looking at her with a pout. "He simply refuses to share." she continued, moving on to her other arm.

Sansa averted her eyes, lest she be teased more, and noticed something on one of the walls. A painting. She had only ever seen a few in her entire life, and it was of such high quality. Looking at it, she could clearly tell it was of her brother and Ciri only slightly younger.

"It was painted in Beauclair, a prosperous city of wine and art back home." Ciri said, a wistful touch in her voice.

"It's beautiful." Sansa said, completely meaning it. The words brought Ciri's smile to toothy heights.

Her eyes then went to some... large contraption on a table. It was almost entirely made of metal, with strange, clear tubes connecting the various parts. It seemed to be in use, a controlled fire under one of the containers and what seemed to be water tripping into a bottle. It was a curious thing, but she didn't get the chance to ask about it.

For suddenly, Jon rolled the parchment back up and tossed it onto the bed. "It seems you'll be joining us." Ciri said with a smirk and wiggling brows.

Sansa felt her face warm at the implications, she even almost made a grimace. Almost! Something that her brother's paramour seemed to notice, if her laughing eyes and growing grin meant anything.

Jon smiled and shook his head, "Sansa, tonight you will be joining Arya, Bran and myself for a lesson in the Godswood." he said, instantly relaxing her.

Sansa nodded, curtsied, and escaped.

After dinner, Sansa, made her way to the Godswood as discreetly as she could, the mysterious nature of the lesson getting to her.

Once she passed through the open gate, Sansa felt the calm of the Godswood fall over her. It was a strange feeling, but a good one.

Walking slowly through the trees, she felt herself pulled towards the heart tree.

Eventually, she passed a sentinel and saw them. Jon was standing in front of the weirwood, facing away from it with his arms crossed and eyes on her. Arya was closer to the dark pool, her face scrunched up and her foot tapping incessantly. Bran was also there, making the beginnings of a snow soldier. There were half a dozen torches planted in the ground to light the area.

"Finally!" her wild sister exclaimed, her foot stopping and eyes snapping towards her. "Thought you wouldn't come, evening lessons and magic not 'ladylike' enough for you." she said, an annoyed twist to her horsey face.

"Magic?" Sansa asked, her head snapping towards her brother.

With a nod, he confirmed her worries. "You need not join now, Sansa." he said coolly, "But you must understand that the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to learn." Jon warned, his strange yet familiar eyes then softening just like father's.

Elenei used spells to protect Durran...

"... just a little..." she mumbled, walking towards the others with slow steps.

The emotion melting away from his long face, Jon walked away from the heart tree and to the side of the pool. Then, he knelt down and dipped his fingers into the warm water.

Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter to ward off some chilly air, and watched as her brother pulled out a small block of clear ice from the dark water. "This is what I will train you all to do, from there you must learn by yourselves." he said, as the perfect block quickly melted in his grasp.

"I learned this magic, called cryomancy, through feeling." Jon began, looking each of them in the eye in turn. "My master had me meditate in ice water until I couldn't feel my hands, I read tomes about the intricacies of both my body and materials under sudden drops in temperature. Even with all that, I could not cast a single spell." he said, solemn as could be. "I only managed to use it under grave threat, and it exhausted me." her brother finished, his eyes sharp as a blade.

When he said no more, Sansa felt dread pool in her gut. Would she too have to go through this only to learn little?

"The main cause of my difficulty was that my master and I had no knowledge of my specific strain of magic. Thankfully for you, I now have plenty of experience with it." Jon said, much to Sansa's relief, as he pulled three shallow metal bowls from one of his many pouches.

He gave one to each of them, "Fill these with water, hold them with both hands and sit before the pool." he instructed.

Arya eagerly complied, more so than anytime their mother gave them their lessons. Bran only a step behind. But Sansa was uncertain, was this alright?

It was her brother teaching her. Her knightly brother.

But her mother always told her that bastards were cruel and deceitful by nature...

This was magic.

But she didn't know if it was proper.

They were hiding, learning in the fading evening light and amongst torches.

But father commanded her join, he had to know what it was.

"You don't have to, Sansa." Jon said, making her jump slightly. "No one will force you if you don't want to learn. Simply do what you think is right." he continued, looking at her with soft eyes.

Slowly, Sansa joined Bran and Arya.

She knelt by the calm, dark pool and filled the small bowl.

The water quickly warmed the metal, forcing away the chill from her fingers. Sansa held it gently and watched as the steam curled up from the water, then disappeared into the air.

"Hold them gently, it isn't your fingers that produce the effect." out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Arya's hands relax from their tight grip.

"Close your eyes. Breathe slow and deep. Feel the chill in the air around you and in the ground below. Focus only on that feeling and find it within yourself. Once you have found it, push it to your fingers and release it." he instructed, "Do you all understand?" once they all nodded, he commanded them to begin.

Doing as her brother said, Sansa closed her eyes and controlled her breathing. It slowly started coming in long ins and outs, and as time passed things... fell away. Her thoughts cleared and the darkness behind her eyelids deepened. At some point, her brother's voice came again. "It may sound simple, but ofttimes the simplest answer it the right one. Do not be discouraged if you find it difficult, keep pushing." he said, and Sansa listened.

Soon, all she felt was the cold around her and her own body. Sansa focused on the cold itself, ignoring her slight shivers, and truly felt it.

Unknowing of how much time has passed, she felt it. A small, cool bundle in her core, along with something far off in the corner.

Handling it like she did Rickon when he was born, she coaxed it from her center and forward. Seemingly on its own, the bundle unraveled and separated to form two strands. Again, Sansa eased it the way she was instructed and it traveled down her arms. When it reached the tips of her fingers, she let it go.

The air around her cooled and the strands rushed back to her center, back into its previous bundle.

Sansa opened her eyes and quickly looked at her bowl. She smiled at the sight, the water in her bowl had thinly frozen over. By the time her head rose, Jon was already next to her.

He looked at it for a moment, humming all the while, before he spoke. "Well done, Sansa." he said, the words making her smile grow.

Jon straightened, "Come with me." he instructed seriously, walking away without checking to see if she followed.

Blinking, Sansa put down the bowl, stood, and rushed after him.

Once they were out of earshot of the lake, Jon stopped and looked down at her with hard eyes. His face much like their father's when holding court. "You must not practise overmuch, use this in front of others, nor even speak of it where others could hear. Do you understand?" the Witcher said, so seriously it frightened her.

"Y-yes, Jon." she replied, fighting not to look away.

The second the words came out, the Witcher's face fell away and her brother's eyes softened. "Good." he said, nodding to himself.

They were silent for a moment, then her brother's awaited words came. "Have you been having dreams?" he asked, the question making her pause. "Dreams where you see things with blurry vision, from close to the ground... not as yourself, but as Lady?" Jon elaborated, eyes searching hers.

The question shocked her, she had told no one of those dreams. There was no way he could know. But the question, it confirmed her fears. That- that she could be a...

Jon grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into a hug, shushing her shaking away. "Why do you think the Direwolf is the Stark sigil, Sansa. There's no need to fear. You're only doing as so many of our ancestors have done before." he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Ignore the dreams, Sansa, and it shall go no further than that." he said, before looking at the sky. "But if you wish for me to teach you about it, then when you dream as Lady try to have her lick or look at certain things and when she is able to walk on her own send her to my chamber door. Make her scratch it three times, then I will know you have the will to learn." Jon finished, and turned her back towards the pool.

He instructed Sansa to return to her younger siblings and practice. She did, easily falling back into her core and gently toying with the small bundle. The firstborn daughter of house Stark pulled, twisted at it, weaving it, making the bundle into various pleasing patterns.

But as she tried her hand at moving them to her fingers, a small wave of cold air broke her concentration. Her eyes snapped open, moving to Jon's large figure hovering over Bran's much smaller one and looking into his bowl.

Jon congratulated him, getting past Bran's excited voice, and brought him away just as he had Sansa.

She went back to the bundle, letting her younger brother's excited voice drift away.

This time Sansa managed to get the weaved strings to her finger tips, and released. She let her cold pass over, and opened her eyes to see the water. In her bowl, the ice was slightly thicker than before and presented the pattern she had weaved. Only it was warped, and around her work the water froze naturally.

Still, the girl found it beautiful. "Beautiful, Sansa. Your control has already advanced." he said, but Sansa could still hear an angry grunt from Arya. What is it this time. Would her sister ruin this too, like everything the savage got her dirty hands on. Like Sansa's dresses and dolls.

In the reflection of the pool, she saw Jon's silver eyes flash to Arya with a difficult to read expression.

"It's getting late, we will end here. Take your bowls with you, use them when you practise." Jon instructed, pulling himself to his full height.

Sansa gently got to her feet without stumble, wiping any dirt or twigs from her dress. Bran bounced up with little complaint, but Arya didn't move. She just sat there, scowling at her bowl.

"Arya-" Sansa started

"I can do it!" she snapped, "Just give me more time!" Instead of scolding her Jon... smiled?

"The both of you go on, get to your rooms and rest." he said, already walking to Arya's place at the pool.

Only when he sat down, and gave their sister his full attention, did Sansa turn and leave. She almost huffed as she walked away, everyone always forgave Arya no matter what she did!

Sansa eventually calmed down as she got to her room, pulling her hair out of the stealthy braid she had it in and undoing the strings of her dress. She found her room far too hot, so she opened the shutters.

But only moments later, the breeze going into her room suddenly went freezing. So much so that it hurt the tips of her finger and toes. She could picture Arya laughing at her as she closed the shutters.

Saddened, she took Lady from the wool and blanket stuffed box that acted as her pup's bed and brought her to her own feather mattress.

That night, she dreamed of licking her own nose.

POV Old Nan, 2nd day, 4th moon

Another arrow missed the target, much to little Bran's disappointment and two of his brothers' laughter. "And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Neddy asked, putting an end to it, with young Robb's smile frozen on his face. "Keep practising, Bran. Go on." the experienced father encouraged.

"You're too far into your head, Bran." Ciri said, putting her hands on his shoulders and speaking in his ear. "Think of nothing, pull back, and concentrate only on your target." she instructed, before releasing the boy.

Bran nodded, and tried again. He took another shaft from the container at his feet and nocked it onto his string. The young boy then took a deep breath and pulled back his arrow. "Relax your bow arm." she heard young Robb say.

For a moment he held it, then released. Nan sighed, it would have been perfect if he just held his eyes open.

The arrow flew over the large target and snapped against the cold granite wall. But before any could react, a guardsman came running.

"Milord!" he nearly shouted, panting as he skidding to a stop and hastily bowed.

"Take a breath." Lord Stark commanded, putting an end to the man's poor attempts at speech.

The young man took many, long and deep they were. Then spoke clearly, "Milord, the king is nearing the gates. The lookout says he's not a half-hour away."

The resulting silence was palpable, none had expected the royal party for another week at least.

Only a small distance from where she stood, Old Nan felt a spike of panic.

Looking to her left, Nan saw Lady Stark's eyes were wide, as were Rose's nearby. "I will handle the children." Neddy told her.

The lady nodded and rushed off, well walked with a purpose, with Rose one step behind her. Already ordering servants to run messages and perform tasks to get everything ready for the southern king. While Neddy sent Jon to fetch the girls and get them to prepare.

Old Nan got to her feet, stretched out her back, which was feeling better lately, and started making her way to the East Gate.

Next to Ser Rodrik, and noting the absence of Rose and a number of various servants, Nan waited for the Stag King.

In the front, the mainline Starks stood together. Sarting with Neddy, then his wife, then Robb and his Umber, followed by the rest of the children in order of birth. While young Jon and Ciri stood with everyone else, to Ser Rodrik's other side. Not a few generations ago all the lord's children and their partners would stand beside him.

Eventually, the outer gates creaked open, the drawbridge lowered, and portcullis raised. Thumbing sounded out on the wood, but that of far fewer horses than she expected. Then, the inner gate swung open and Nan saw them. One man in black and gold armour, another in pure white.

Finally, the inner portcullis was raised, with only the clanking of chains, and about a dozen men rode into the yard. All but two wore the black and gold armour, one pale knight riding next to an extraordinarily fat man. Large enough to contest with the Manderlys, though he was much taller.

The man swung of his horse with grace that should have been impossible, and lifted Neddy of his feet in a manly embrace. Which her pup returned wish equal masculinity, after slight hesitation.

"Ned! It's good to finally see that frozen face of yours!" the man, who could only be the king, pulled away from Neddy and looked him up and down

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace." Lord Stark said, as all the knights dismounted and their horses led away.

"Bah! Enough of that, Ned. I didn't part from that infernal wheelhouse and travel ahead of the rest for formalities." the fat man said with a grin, then moved on to Lady Stark. "This must be your lady wife, charmed." the King then enveloped her into a hug one would give to a sister.

"My pleasure to finally meet you in person, your Grace." she replied, once he put her down of course.

The King snorted, "I get enough your Graces in Kingslanding, just call me Robert!" he said, a bemused smile growing at Lady Stark's primly bowing head.

King Robert moved on to young Robb, "You must be the Robb I heard of while fighting the Greyjoys." he said, clasping forearms with the pup before leaning in with a grin. "You don't still drop snow on the guardsmen do ye?" he asked.

"No, your Grace." Robb answered, somewhat bashfully.

"Good lad." the King grinned, moving further down the line. "Ah, this must be the Umber girl. I thought you would be taller." he asked, clearly in jest.

"My father and brothers will be arriving withing a fortnight, your Grace. I am certain they will exceed your expectations." Serena said with her smile.

"Ha! She's a good one." He told Robb.

Then came Sansa, "Hm, you're your mother in miniature." then Arya, "Arya, yes?" at her nod he mussed her hair. "You remind me of your aunt." then finally Bran, "Let's see your muscles!" he said, prompting an enthusiastic flex from the pup. "You'll be quite the soldier." the King said, pulling himself straight with visible effort.

"Didn't you have another one, Ned? A littler one?" the king asked with a frown.

"Rickon's with the nursemaid, your Grace." Lady Stark answered.

"I'll meet him later then." he said, looking over most of Neddy's litter.

"You've been busy, Ned! Always thought I'd be the one with more little ones." King Robert walked back to Neddy chuckling, before it weakened into something sad. "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would like to pay my respects." A solemn Stark nodded and lead the King away.

The Lady Stark quickly took control of the king's knights and had various servants escort them to the guest house. While the rest of the Starks and unoccupied servants dispersed.

"You know, he's not bad. Nothing like I expected." Jon's woman mused to her man, walking to the yard as she did.

Young Jon said nothing, only humming in agreement as he walked beside her.

Before she knew it, the pair left, and Nan looked around to find that she was alone again.

POV Robert

Now this is a feast!

The food was mostly meats, beats and onions, the people were loud and the company good. The wine was just as useless as everywhere else he'd tried, but that was no surprise. Ever since Old Jon died Robert hasn't been able to get drunk, or even tipsy! He swore it had to be a curse.

"So, there I was up to my waist in salt water and a few lines behind the front, when the entire wall comes tumbling down! And Thoros of Myr, that mad fire priest, goes rushing in with his sword aflame." Robert was telling the younger ones a few war tales, something they said their father doesn't ever do.

"Off their boats the Ironborn were just like fish on the block and our armies showed them just how right that was." To his left, Ned kept his face as icy as usual. Around him the children crowded around, the highborn, including Ned's younger ward and his second daughter, on his side of the high table while the servant's and guardsmen's children on the other side.

The feast had, thankfully, long since passed from the pageantry it had started from and Robert was getting truly into the swing of things. If only there was some busty wench that would come close enough, then it'd be perfect. Well, that and working wine.

"The battle was glorious, and my men and I rushed into the breach felling the reavers wherever we found them. But by the time I arrived at the throne room, Balon had already been cast down from his throne and his crown pried of his head." it was immensely disappointing, from the tales told Roert expected the Greyjoy to fight him man to man. But instead of the Red Kraken reborn, all he got was a petulant old man.

As he finished his tale, and before the children could ask for another, Ned told his children and charge that it was time for them to retire. They did so, though the girls grumbled, and Robert lost his audience.

Slowly, but surely, everyone else retired as well. Some of the guardsmen passed out on their benches, others simply left. The older members of Ned's family left, then him and his wife went to their respective chambers. Eventually, Robert was all alone...

"Your Grace?" a woman's voice behind him pulled him from himself, "Rose has hi-told me to guide you to yer rooms." turning, he saw her. The busty wench he's been hoping for.

"Many thanks, ...?" he said, lilting his tone with smile and a raised brow.

"Roselin, yer Grace." she answered, slipping a lose lock of hair behind her ear. "Ereone just calls me Ros."

"A beautiful name, Ros." Robert said, standing up with a squinting smile, "Lead the way." he requested pleasantly, along with a gesturing hand.

She did, her red braid swaying along with her hips, and Robert followed.

Their travel took them outside, the moon doing well to light their way and its glow somehow making the "maid's" hair even redder.

They entered another building, which seemed to be the largest, and quickly went up the stairs. The climb showing him the fun to come as he followed Ros up. As they passed one of the rooms, the rather loud sounds of a woman being well-bedded reached them. "Pardon them, yer Grace. Those two can get... enthusiastic." she said with a glance over her shoulder.

"It's quite alright." he said with a chuckle, "I can get enthusiastic as well."

Soon after, they reached his rooms and she opened the door for him. Robert waltzed in and heard the heavy oak door close behind him.

"Would you like a drink?"

_ 8th day, 4th moon _

The crisp northern air ripped through his lungs, just like it used to in the Vale. Gods, how long had it been since he'd hunted with such a small party. A proper hunt too, not just some forested moving court like at Kingslanding. Must have been before the war.

It was only him, Ned and the iced faced man's oldest boys. Robb and Jon, two boys by the same father and at practically the same age couldn't be more different. Robb strongly favoured his mother in colouring and face, but strongly reminded Robert of his late uncle Brandon. With his easy smile and warm nature, he was just as easy to like.

Jon, the bastard born sometime during the Rebellion, was much like Ned in both colouring and temperament. But he wasn't simply his friend writ young, the differences were slight but there. Differences such as darker hair, his larger stature, more refined features and, of course, those slitted eyes. They unnerved the King slightly, as they seemed to read him as one would a book.

"A bear, adult female. It went north by north-east, gait steady, but the prints are too deep for their size. The bear must have had a very large meal." said bastard reported, silver eyes on the almost entirely snowed in tracks.

Jon pulled himself up to his full height, which nearly reached Robert's brows, and looked over to Ned for instruction.

He, in turn, looked to Robert. "Ha! Quite the tracker your boy, after it then!" the Baratheon grinned, swinging off his horse and into the ankle-deep snow. It had been far too long since he's hunted on foot.

The Stark smiled and did the same, easily sliding the hunting spear from his saddle. Young Robb dismounted and, since his brother was the tracker, took their horses, tying them all onto some low thick branches.

Robert hefted his own spear, the ironwood shaft smooth in his grip, as the rattle of Ned's eldest's arrows sounded lightly behind them.

"Go on, boy. Lead the way." was all Jon needed from him, before he set of at a brisk pace.

"It hasn't snowed the past few nights, so these tracks are at least three days old." he said, his boots leaving only slight indents where he walked.

After an hour, the boy sounded off again. "Scratching, all by two bears. One male, in the great minority. The other female, by the number it has lived in the area for five years. This one is fresh, the sap recently hardened." Jon told them, though it sounded like he reported out of habit, pointing to the bite in the bark. "The bear is moving slowly... taking numerous brakes." he let the words hang, delving into his thoughts, but still continued on.

Another hour later, the tracks were no longer quite as snowed in, allowing Robert to see that it was indeed those of a bear. "Well done, boy. I will take the lead from here." as strong as Ned's son seemed, it was best to have a more experienced man at the front.

Jon fell back, and out of Robert's line of sight. Without any evidence of the times, it was easy for the man to imagine he was still in the Eyrie. That the three men behind him were from back then, Ned before the loss of most his family took so much joy from his friend, Elbert before the Mad King killed him and old Jon Arryn who still hunted with them despite his age.

Soon, he spotted her, digging at some roots. A great big beast, like all those he's seen in the North so far. He crept up to her slowly, going at the bear from the side while making sure to stay out of its line of sight.

He passed a large, dense berry bush and as he walked, he heard a noise. Turning his head, Robert saw the side of the bush previously kept from him. Looking at him dead in the eyes was a small bear cub, recently weaned off milk by the look of it.

The cub stared at him, then his spear. Robert, his left leg growing tired, shifted his weight. The bear panicked and cried out, running away clumsily.

The mother bear roared and Robert prepared himself, taking a strong stance and holding his spear firmly in front of him. The King stood his ground as the she-bear rushed him, roaring all the while.

Once the bear was close enough it swung a great big paw to swat away his weapon, but Robert pulled it back in time. Then, before it could do anything else he thrust out for the death blow. Only for it to shift its head away, but Robert's aim was good as ever striking the beast's shoulder. The blade bit deep, the wings keeping it from going in too far.

With a roar of his own Robert ripped out his spear with a twist. The bear stumbled, but quickly recovered and lunged at the King.

An arrow to the upper neck forced it to turn its attention, though only for a moment. That moment was all it took.

In the split-second the bear slowed, Robert thrust once more and rammed the steel into the beast's lower neck. The sheer force of the bear's momentum and the King's strength forced even the wings of the spear into the beast's chest cavity.

Before it could even threaten injury, Robert roughly wrenched the spear and ripped it out.

The force of his pull brought the beast to the ground, blood and viscera flowing out of both its death wound and its maw. There was no last breath, for its lungs were to ruined to even attempt it.

As he watched the blood cool, the cub had finally made its way back. Though obvious to the man, the small animal couldn't understand what was wrong with its mother. It nudged her furry shoulder with its nose, letting out its scrapping cries.

Robert sighed, "Shit." despite the ferocity of the battle, he could find none of the joy he usually would. For the cub's death was near certain without the mother

Saddened, he pulled out his knife to end the poor thing. Dying now, to his quick knife, would be a mercy.

"Your Grace, this was my mistake." young Jon said, walking up to Robert with soft silver eyes. "Please, allow me to provide a solution other than a blade's mercy." the King's first instinct was to decline, teach the boy that sometimes a swift end was the only answer, but then he remembered the wolves. Perhaps he could find a way, those pups were quite obedient from what he's seen. Would a bear be so different from a direwolf?

"Very well, boy. But know that any wrong committed by the beast is on your shoulders." Robert allowed, with a glance to his nodding friend.

Jon took the struggling cub into his arms, shushing and attempting to console it like one would a child. While Robb hastily constructed a sled of rope and branche for the carcase.

Eventually, the King of the Seven Kingdoms was pulling the corpse laden sled over the snow like an ox, happily conversing with the Stark heir. Trying to rise the boy's spirits and robe Ned in by telling him of their boyhood in the Gates of the Moon.

Soon they reached their horses, tied sled to saddle, mounted up and rode off.

During the hours riding back to Winterfell, the group's spirits rose to nearly the same level it was when leaving the castle. Ned joined him in telling Robb of their boyhood, though only occasionally, and the bear cub no longer cried out. Instead, it made soft chortling sounds into young Jon's gambeson.

They swiftly reached what was called the "Hunter's Gate" to Winterfell, though it looked the same as the others, and entered the great castle. A cook, along with some kitchen hands took control of the sled and dragged the she-bear away.

Dismounting, the group left their horses to be taken away by the grooms. Ned ordered his heir to his lessons, while the bastard left to find his solution.

Ned left to care for some duties, and Robert was alone again.

POV Myrcella, 18th day, 4th moon

"Nothing but snow, stones and impudent smallfolk. That this place is even a kingdom..." her mother tsked in distain.

The princess didn't quite understand why her mother hated the North, she found it quite pretty. The layers of snow, the first she'd ever seen, that blanketed the landscape and shined under the sun was beautiful. Myrcella would have played with it, but doing so would see her punished.

Perhaps it wasn't the land that displeased the Queen, but that they were traveling at all. Yet that couldn't be it, for it was her mother who insisted that they all go with her father to the North. Maybe Myrcella was the odd one, Joffrey hated it too, but then again he hated most things. Tommen, who played with his soldiers nearby, was frightened of it. He said that the shinning snow hurt his eyes. Father said he loved it, quite loudly too, before he left with the advance party.

Myrcella forcibly ended her musings, for adults were far too complicated, and returned to her book. It was the last one Jon Arryn had given her before his age finally caught up with him.

She thought it appropriate to read it on the way to Winterfell, for it was all about its rulers. The large book was titled "House Stark as Lord Paramount; A History of The Stark line from Aegon's Landing to 296 AC." and the list of authors contained the names of a dozen measters, the last being Maester Luwin.

Despite the wordy title, it was well written, the descriptions of each recorded member of House Stark well detailed and the summary of their lives clear and concise.

Having just finished reading on Eddard Stark, and glossing over the quarter page of his wife and that of his brother, she started on his children.

Due to their age, not much was written on them. Only their name, birth date, appearance and personality. Since they were so young at the time of this book's completion, there were no deeds recorded. Until she reached the final entry.

Jon Snow, natural son of Lord Eddard Stark by an as-of-yet unnamed mother, was a serious young boy and dutiful in his lessons. He was close with both his trueborn siblings, was fond of swordplay and few other activities. Slim of limb and with strong Stark blood, Jon was said to be his father writ small.

One day, during the months of the Greyjoy Rebellion, Jon left Winterfell leaving only letters for his father and siblings. When his departure was discovered and Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms, roused the guardsmen in search all they found were the boy's supplies.

He is presumed dead.

Right as she finished the section, on its rather depressing end, the wheelhouse ground to a halt and her mother prepared herself. Queen Cersei straightened her dress, smacked her lips, slipped on her heeled shoes and stood up to her full augmented height.

Myrcella did much the same, wishing for her more comfortable boots, while Tommen tossed aside his wooden toys and rolled onto his feet.

"You will both look nothing short of regal, and act like the lions you are. Show the sheep why we rule." her mother commanded. The princess knew that acting appropriately was important to maintain respect, but was confused as to what it had to do with right of conquest. She mentally sighed, adults were simply confusing.

After a moment, the wheelhouse door opened, blinding her, and her mother stepped through. Only to tsk as she stepped down the wooden steps. Myrcella followed and saw why, the gate was both too narrow and too short for the enormous wheelhouse to pass through. She didn't understand her mother's scorn for it, while an inconvenience it was tactically superior to a larger gate. Well, that's what her uncle Jaime would say. Unless he was talking to her mother.

Her mother took Tommen's hand before he could cover his eyes and pulled him into her dress beside her. Myrcella took her place to her younger brother's right and they all started towards the gate. As they walked, her brother Joff and the Hound rode up beside her mother, while uncle Jaime came up beside Myrcella.

They must be fighting again.

The men-at-arms and knights that hadn't rode in ahead formed up behind them, but had to move out of the Hound and Ser Jaime's way as they moved behind them when she and her family crossed the gate. Looking up at the gatehouse, and away from the sturdy homes of stone and oak, Myrcella couldn't help but be amazed at the size of it. The walls themselves were easily eighty feet tall and the gatehouse was even taller.

Once in the gate, Myrcella looked above her and saw the many murder holes that gaped down at her. To her left and right were thin arrowslits. Then there was the steel portcullis, with its barbed bottom spikes. The princess took care not to slip a heel into the holes below.

After the gatehouse came the lowered drawbridge, it was so long she feared for its strength. The ironwood planks were smoothed by the millions of feet and hooves that must have walked over them, so old the wood was that Myrcella could see that around the nails the ironwood had petrified from the thousands of nails that had rusted there.

In front of her, the inner wall was even greater than the outer one. There were machicolations, the crenelations were more developed, the towers taller and roofed. Surrounding the gate for the inner wall was an even larger and deadlier gatehouse.

She would simply have to find the master of masonry or the measter and learn more about the ancient castle's architecture, but she had to be discrete. If her mother found out about her interest then she'd be punished for it, or if Joff learned of it he'd never stop insulting her about the unladylike hobby.

They passed through the inner gatehouse, through the larger ironwood gates and under the thicker steel portcullis and entered the yard.

From her place at the front, Myrcella had an excellent view of those who awaited them and the fortifications behind them. What she saw reaffirmed her decision to seek out someone who knew much about them.

Front and center were eight highborn who could only be the Starks. In the center of the small group was a dark haired, bearded man with a long, solemn face. If the description was as accurate as Jon Arryn told her then that had to be Eddard Stark. To his left was a comely older woman with a head of beautiful red hair. Myrcella knew her to be Lords Stark's wife, and to her left stood the two daughters of House Stark Sansa and Arya. One taking after the mother and the other the father, just like the book said.

Standing on Lord Stark's right was an older boy who must have been his son Robb. From there Myrcella wasn't so sure on who was who, all she had were small things her father told her when he wasn't busy.

Beside Lord Robb was a tall woman with wildly curled hair trying to escape its braid, and unlike most others in the line she was smiling. Myrcella found that it looked quite good on her heart shaped face. The young woman's grey eyes were the only thing she had in common with the rest of the line.

Next to the woman was a boy around her age who looked much like Lord Robb, he must have been... Brandon. She heard her father and Jon Arryn talk about him. He looked at her and noticed her staring, so she quickly looked away.

Something struck her as strange however, all of Lord Stark's children had dogs sitting at their feet. Then, looking around, she spotted another pup, baring a pretty white coat, with a large man wearing gambeson. The man's strange eyes frightened her, for they were so unnatural to her. Though the rest of him was simply imposing. She briefly wondered at his identity...

Then, before she knew it, Lord Stark was kneeling to kiss her mother's ring and his wife curtsied in greeting. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Your Grace." he said, his northern burr making his voice sound deeper than it would be without. Looking at his eyes, Myrcella couldn't see anything as to what he felt. He seemed so cold, nothing like her father. Perhaps the stories Tommen liked were true, that opposites attract, and that's why Lord Stark and her father were friends.

"Many thanks, Lord Stark." her mother said with false gratitude, she'd seen it so much it was easy to tell. "Tell me, where is my husband the king?" she asked.

At that the ice that was Lord Stark's face shifted, "I was told His Grace is... occupied." which made sense, father was always busy with one thing or another. It was busy work being king, he often told her.

Mother's lips thinned, she always seemed unhappy when someone mentioned father's work, but she never seemed happy when he was free either. Myrcella decided to stop thinking about it, adults were too confusing.

"The feast to welcome you will be in the evening, we could give you a tour or simply guide you to your rooms to refresh yourselves." Lord Stark's wife said with an apologetic smile, maybe father was doing work for Lady Stark. He often helped ladies back at the Red Keep.

"The journey has been long indeed, that would be quite appreciated." her mother answered shortly.

Lady Stark nodded and addressed her children, "Sansa, guide the crown prince to his rooms. Arya, you shall do the same for prince Tommen. Bran, show the princess to her rooms." they all followed their mother's orders, though Lady Arya grimaced, and approached her and her siblings. While, in the background, all the gathered servants dispersed.

"It would be my pleasure to guide you, princess." the boy said, his words sounding remarkably rehearsed, as he offered her his arm.

Myrcella smiled and thanked him, threading her own arm around his. Then they were off.

The first few minutes passed in silence, slowly growing uncomfortable, and even the structures around her couldn't distract her from it.

"What breed of dog is that?" she asked, looking at the knee-height puppy at her guide's side.

Lord Bran blinked, then pouted, "He isn't a dog, princess. He's a direwolf, Jon was the one who found their mother and helped her whelp." he said and seemed quite proud of this "Jon". She saw the conversation started and leaped at it.

"Jon, who is he? If I may ask." she was genuinely curious, was he the kennel master perhaps?

"Jon's my brother. Jon Arctic, he's knight! Well, he says he's a Witcher, but that it's pretty similar to a knight." he explained, answering little. Then she realised.

"Your natural-brother? I was told he had disappeared and was thought dead." she blurted out.

Thankfully, he didn't take anything poorly. "Well, he came back. Just like Sansa always said he would." Lord Bran said nodding his head.

"Then I am thankful for you and your family, Lord Bran." she was, Myrcella could never imagine losing Tommen or either of her uncles. She would wish for nothing other than their return.

"Thank you, princess." he said, then after a moment, "Just call me Bran, please." he asked.

"Only if you refer to me as Myrcella." she answered, voice filled with jesting formality.

He grinned at her and nodded.

They turned a corner and strong hands wrapped around her torso, pulling her into the air with a surprised shriek.

The sound of her father's laughter quickly turned it into laugh of her own. "So that was what all the fuss was! You all finally arrived then?" her royal father spun her around and crushed her into a hug.

She nodded vigorously into his shoulder, he oh so rarely gave her this much attention, Myrcella found it to be as good as she imagined. She understood of course, and would never think to blame him, kingship kept one busy. Although he had been more attentive to her and Tommen these past moons.

"It's good to see you, my girl. And with young Bran!" he said with that great, big smile of his. Before he winked and asked if they "Are getting into too much trouble?". They had only been talking, not even planning any mischief, so she shook her head with a "No" leaving her mouth.

"Good, if he's anything like his father then he's prone to loving when prodded the right way. Keep your heart safe, sweetling. Else he'll steal his way in." he whispered to her, then proceeded to chuckle as he withdrew.

"I'll be seeing you both later, take care now." her father said, ruffling Bran's hair and gently patting her shoulder.

Then he walked away, and Myrcella saw the one thing she did the most in her life, Robert Baratheon's back. She didn't enjoy seeing him leave, but he was probably on his way to Tommen. She couldn't hog father to herself, Tommen was younger and could use father's support more than her.

"Are you alright?" Bran asked her, ripping her from her thoughts.

She turned to face him, "Yes, father just doesn't surprise me like that very often." she explained.

"My father never does either, not that I remember anyway." Bran said, with a pensive look on his face.

Searching for a way to change the subject, Myrcella took the boy's arm in her own and asked they continue. He agreed.

A few corridors later, the uncomfortable feeling returned, though lesser than before. "What do you like to do?" Bran asked this time, the question not entirely his own.

She wondered if she could tell him the truth, he was her age, and seemed like she could trust him with it. Besides, he lived in this castle all his life, surely he would know much about it. And if he didn't he could introduce her to someone who did, but Myrcella erred on the side of caution. "That's a secret, but I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours" she said.

Bran pouted, something she found quite cute, but still answered. "Climbing..." he whispered, looking up and down the empty hall, "I like to climb."

Pleasantly surprised, she made good on her word, "I enjoy learning about defensive fortifications, architecture, a castle's various novelties..." she said, Myrcella growing more and more embarrassed as she went on.

"I can tour you around." he said, before mumbling to himself that "Mother wanted me to anyway." she pretended not to hear.

"Thank you, Bran. We start on the morrow?" she asked, it was best to be clear with one's plans. Well, that's what uncle Tyrion told her.

He nodded, and they agreed to meet in the hall to break their fasts and behind the tour.

Myrcella hopped that she would see and speak to her father then, or whenever really. She simply enjoyed spending time with him, talking.

_ 21st day, 4th moon _

She did not get to talk to her father the past three days, but it wasn't all bad. Bran had given her the tours she wanted and Myrcella had gotten to see the ancient architecture and told which parts were newer than others. The oldest were the Godswood, the First Keep and the Broken Tower, which was in line to be partially reconstructed, and the newest being the guest houses and the crenelated machicolations of the inner wall.

But once Bran had shown her all he reasonably could, though she could tell he was hiding something, she turned away from people and back to books.

Thanks to her tours, she could easily find the library tower and though the stairs that wound around the outside of it were frightening she braved it. Only once she finally made it up the steps, entered and slammed the door behind did she relax and sigh in relief.

The inside of the tower had a certain dry warmth to it that she rarely found elsewhere in Winterfell, along with the smell of parchment and paper. It wasn't quite dark, nor was it particularly bright, the few diamond-shaped windows letting little natural light.

Looking around, Myrcella saw a stack of beeswax candles. She pondered taking one and going back down the stair to light it on one of the brasiers outside, but swiftly rejected the notion.

So, the princess went without and looked for a registry of the books or the sections or the levels, but couldn't find one. So, instead she chose to wander and occasionally inspect books at random. Most were ones she had already read in the Red Keep's library, others were too strange for her to read. One such book was titled "The Ramifications of Going in the Wrong Hole." by Brandon Stark. The book was quite small and it seemed relatively new, but it also looked well read.

Myrcella supposed that having a library for as long as the Starks have does not necessarily mean every tome would be one of high quality.

As she wandered, the princess heard the flip of a page. Hoping that it was the measter, she followed it.

Passing a few shelves, she found the source.

It was a tall, pale blond woman seated in a comfortable stuffed leather chair. To her left was an orderly mound of tomes and at her right was a neat stack of five. She was beautiful, but sported incredibly dark shadows under her eyes. The woman's hair fell over them, and as she tucked the strands away Myrcella noticed she had rather pointy ears.

The princess shifted her weight and the woman called out softly, "Do you need assistance, child?" she asked, her voice carrying a strange accent.

Myrcella shook her head, "I was simply wandering, I recently finished a book." she said, not quite sure on what to say.

The woman paused, seemingly listening to something, before speaking "Then you have found the right place. Of all the libraries I have visited, none have been as extensive as this one. I have read one book saying that the First Men had no written language only to read another detailing the known letters extensively. Another claimed that giants were a fallacy even as recent history texts tell of giant, nigh-invincible, winged lizard that spewed fire hot enough to melt a castle."

"But where are my manner." the woman's small smile was pretty too, "I am Karra Siubhail of the Aen Elle, may I know the lady's name?"

"Myrcella Baratheon." she said, curtsying to the obvious highborn.

"Ah, King Robert's middle child, yes?" Lady Siubhail asked rhetorically, "What sort of tome are you searching for?" this question seemed more genuine.

"Nothing in particular..." the sheer variety she's seen so far made it difficult for her to decide.

"Well, most of those to my left are quite good. Somewhere in there is one that assists in learning to speak the Old Tongue, it was quite helpful, even though the context is as sad as it is."

Noticing Myrcella's questioning look, Lady Siubhail elaborated. "It was written by a mother, Lyarra Stark, for grandchildren she was sure she would never see." she told the princess, then seemed to think aloud, "I should get that to Jon sometime..."

"That one seems too personal for me to read."

The older blond paused, her face twisting like a cat's when forcing away sleep. "Apologise, I haven't slept in... Regardless, this one should suit you." Lady Siubhail said, pulling out an enormous tome and tossing it to her.

Myrcella scrambled to catch it, and succeeded. She turned it over and read the title, "When Women Ruled: Ladies of the Aftermath, Part 1" half of a book she had only heard of before.

She took the twin to Lady Siubhail's chair and eased the heavy book onto her lap, then started reading.

As she did, Lady Siubhail would ask her questions, mostly about her opinions on certain things, or tell her of certain books she'd read that she thought might interest the princess. Usually, Myrcella disliked being interrupted, but for some reason this time... she quite enjoyed reading and talking to the strange lady.

POV Robb, 18th day, 4th moon

From his place next to his father, Robb could hear the prince Joffrey laugh at something Theon said, but not what that thing was. He didn't like how much the two were getting along, it was worrying. His friend had his faults, Robb having done his best to mend them, and he didn't want the prince to make them worse.

He didn't understand the prince, he had this look in his eyes that made the space between Robb's shoulders itch. He disliked him even though Joffrey hadn't necessarily done anything, yet.

To his father's right, the King bellowed his laughter at something his father said of the past. The two men had fully entrenched themselves in their reminiscing, and sometimes Robb was pulled into it. Getting some pieces of advice from his father or various crude suggestions from the jovial King.

"Taking notes, darling?" Serena, seated at his left, teased while walking her fingers up his thigh. They had been betrothed about a year, and were set to be wed sooner than planned. Even though they were now going to marry in time with the King's departure, he didn't mind.

Him and his wife-to-be were already very fond of each other. Something his father and other lords and ladies he met told him was very rare in betrothals. He himself couldn't wait for the day, Serena's teasing never bearing much fruit since she always stopped before anything really started.

'The wait makes it better' she kept saying. Robb didn't believe her.

"Always, love." he replied with a grin. The happy blush she gave was a product of many hours a day spent practising, he thought it worth every second.

She eased her attentions and turned back to her meal.

As she hunched lower to inspect something, Robb was given a view of the end of the table. Even though they all sat properly, it seemed as though Jon, Arya, Lya and Ciri were all huddled together. He could hear them well enough, but he understood little of what was said. Words such as 'Center mass' and 'Cryogenesis' throwing him off. The only thing he could take from it all was that the main topic was combat.

Perhaps he would ask later.

A snout bumping against his shin pulled Robb's attention under the table, prompting the heir to sneak chunks of venison to Greywind. All the direwolves were under the high table, with the exception of Shaggydog, having sneaked their way in as their masters sat down. Even Jon's pure white Ghost easily crept by, despite its colouring. Sadly, Lya's Skagga couldn't join them, since bear cubs were not known for their nimbleness.

The feast went on, and some retired. Princess Myrcella was the first, Robb just then noticing her book, pulling prince Tommen behind her. Arya and Lya were sent to bed right after them, his littlest sister grumbling all the way.

Next to go were Jon and Ciri, his brother keeping the silver haired woman standing straight and from embarrassing herself.

Then it was his turn, Serena pulling at him.

Sadly, she still preferred to wait.

_ Days later _

The first of the major Northern Lords to arrive was Medger Cerwyn, his son and daughter left behind for his heir to learn in ruling. He was welcomed by Robb and his father. Being soft-spoken and quiet, the Lord of Cerwyn made very little noise with his arrival. Only words shared with Lord Stark and his five guardsmen led to the guest barracks to mark his arrival.

After him came the Lords Hornwood and Tallheart. Helman Tallheart bringing his son and young daughter with him, while Halys brought his wife and son. They were all welcomed by Robb along with his mother and father. The simultaneous arrival was nearly as quiet as Medger's, only their numbers making a bigger impact.

The next day saw Lord Bolton reach Winterfell, the Lord of the Dreadfort was welcomed by Lord Stark and Jon the Witcher. Observing in passing, Robb noticed that Lord Bolton earned an odd look from Jon and the slightest wariness from his father. Roose Bolton was given a secluded room in the guest house.

Even smaller groups, those of minor Lords and the occasional Alderman, reached Winterfell throughout the week. With only Rose, Vayon or, though rare, his father to welcome them. These were the quietest to come for the wedding.

Today's arrivals turned the pattern completely around, the Umbers, Mormonts and Glovers all passing through the gates together. Welcomed by the many more than those previous.

"Serena!" the Greatjon, after all had observed the formalities, roared and wrapped his daughter in a crushing hug.

She returned it with just as much effort, her brothers, sisters and uncles getting one of their own in turn before they were led away.

While the Umbers reunited, the Mormonts all crowded Lya. The small girl disappeared in the huddle of sisterly affection, which was mostly comments on how long it had been and how much she grew, or not, along with their jealousy of Skagga.

Lya was rescued by her mother, ordering her older daughters to disperse, then the she-bear giving her own affections and leading her away to hear all her daughter had to say. The pair was shadowed by the rare sight of Arya following after Lya.

The Glovers simply walked away with silent smiles after the formalities, shown the way to their rooms by servants.

_ 5th day, 5th moon _

Once the Karstarks, Ryswells, Mountain Clans and the Manderly party finally arrived, a feast was thrown to welcome all the Northern Lords to Winterfell.

It was much like that for the royal family, only with a second high table placed below the first. The upper high table held only Lord Stark, King Robert, and the major Northern Lords. Even Lord Reed was there, though Robb hadn't noticed him arrive. Each of their wives, if they were present, were seated next to their husbands. On the lower high table were their heirs, Robb sat with Serena on one side and the Crown Prince on the other.

From the prince to the right end of the table were Robett Glover, Dacey, Harrion Karstark, Daryn Hornwood and Theon. While left of Serena were her brother Smalljon, Wylis Manderly, Roger Ryswell, Robin Flint of Widow's Watch and Donnel Flint of the Mountains.

All the other present members of the North's houses were seated on the long trestle table running the length of the Great Hall. From his place in the center of the table, Robb could clearly see his brothers and sisters seated with the Umbers across from and the Mormonts beside them.

His brother, Jon, could be seen speaking to the hoary uncles of Lord Umber and even though Robb couldn't hear what was said he knew it had something to do with either hunting or combat. His brother rarely spoke of anything other than that, safe when talking to family. A group that, to Robb and all his siblings, grew to include Ciri even without any official ties.

"Is that a dragonspawn I see down there?" the prince asked with anger in his eyes, anger pointed at Ciri.

The loud question brought silence to the table, and Robb had to remind himself of father's words. "Cirilla is the only person in Westeros farthest from any kinship with the Targaryens, Your Grace." Serena said, her voice jesting. Though Robb could tell it was faked.

Anger faded, but was replaced with something else. The look that made the space between Robb's shoulders itch.

Before anything could be said one way or another, Robb's father stood and silence fell over the rest of the hall. "Lords, Masters and Peoples of the North! I thank you all for traveling here for the wedding of my son and heir Robb and Serena." he said, to much cheer, but a raised hand brought them to a slow end. Placing a hand on the King's shoulder, he continued "But that is not all I have to be thankful of, for our great King Robert and I have agreed on a betrothal to unite our Houses. That of my daughter Sansa to the Crown Prince Joffrey." he finished, though Robb could tell something went unsaid.

"And now, let us feast!" the very second his father's words ended, the doors to the kitchens slammed open and food baring servants entered the hall.

Robb's mind reeling from his father's announcement, he barely noticed the food that quickly covered the table. The same went for the prince's own reaction.

He soon recovered, and took his share of the bull meat on the table. Bull was a rare thing, but his one was a big brute that somehow shattered its own leg. So, now it was on the high tables. He also partook of the onions while having his horn filled with mead.

The eating portion of the feast passed without incident, Robbs talking mostly with Serena and her brother. The others either too far away for easy conversation or on the other side of the prince.

After some thirty minutes, singers gathered in a corner, the tables were pushed out of the way and the prince stood first to ask Sansa to dance. She accepted and they were the first pair to make it to the floor.

Once a few more joined them, including Ciri pressing Jon into it, Robb stood and turned to his betrothed. "A dance, my Lady?" he asked, one hand open for her.

She pondered in jest for a long moment, "Very well, my Lord." she accepted, a smile on her pouty lips.

Robb heled her from her chair and she took his arm, letting him lead them to the dancers.

They danced in comfortable silence amidst the songs, most known to him, others not. They simply spun and swayed to the tune. All while the dancers changed around them, Sansa getting a turn with father, Jon and uncle Benjen, who'd somehow slipped in unnoticed. Ciri had managed to coax Arya into dancing with her, something that brought a few laughs.

He hadn't seen the prince since Sansa's first dance, but his sister the princess Myrcella Robb spotted dancing with Bran and his queenly mother dancing with Ser Jaime. The King never stood to dance, clearly more interested by a red-haired woman Robb didn't recognise in his lap.

When she felt his eyes were not looking at her enough, Serena would bring his face back to hers and jest about his eyes wandering the wrong way. "But they only truly see you." he'd respond each time with little variance, never failing to get a smile or more.

They stayed that way, sometimes sharing opinions on other dancers, until the all but the bards left the hall or passed out on the floor or tables.

Only when the music dies, did they stop and retire to their respective rooms.

POV Bran, 8th day, 5th moon

Giving up on getting his wolf the chase it, Bran dropped the stick and decided to go for a climb. Practicing the ice with the bowl Jon gave him was fun, but sitting down for so long like Jon told him hurt his knees and he had to run around and do something. Dreaming as his direwolf was fun too, but it never felt right. Was it because he had no name?

There was also showing Myrcella the walls and towers, but he didn't show her any of his climbing spots. She might tell of them, and he didn't know if princesses liked climbing. The stories didn't mention it, Sansa would never and Arya didn't like it like he did either. Maybe girls just didn't climb?

So, of all the things he did, climbing remained Bran's favorite, but he hadn't been able to go to the broken tower lately, what with the royal party and Northern Lords crowding Winterfell. So, he decided that the old watchtower would be his destination.

He rushed around the Godswood, making sure to avoid the dark pool where Jon taught him his lessons and the heart tree. As much as he would like to practise with the water, Bran didn't like the weirwood. It felt like the eyes were constantly watching him, judging him for something, or wanting something.

The boy soon reached the tall sentinel tree, quickly toed off his boots, and clambered up its branches. This tree was nothing new to Bran, he'd been climbing it for as long as he could remember, he went for all the right branches and reached the proper height in no time. All the while shushing his direwolf, all its howling could get him caught.

Running along one of the branches and leaping off it, Bran made in onto the roof of the guardhall. Then from there he went roof to roof, and some of the inner wall, to get to the blind side of the First Keep. The boy climbed straight up the side of the round, and deceptively tall, old keep to finally reach the gargoyles that stood vigil over everything around them.

Bran climbed onto the old gargoyle, then swung from the first to the second, then the third, and so on. It really was terribly easy once you got used to it, to the way your weight shifted around and the force of the wind.

The squirrel, as his father proclaimed him in jest, went from gargoyle to gargoyle, going along with the ease that came only from long hours of practise. Then suddenly, so much so that he almost lost his grip, he heard a voice. As impossible as that was.

"I do not like it." it was a woman's voice, drifting up to him from the windows only a few feet below. "You should be Hand." she continued, it seemed to be coming from the very last window on this side.

"Gods forbid, it's not an honour I'd want. There's far too much work involved." a man's voice, lazy as a cat in sunlight, replied.

Bran simply hung there, they might see him should he go swinging by. He hoped they'd just leave.

"Don't you see the danger this puts us in? Robert loves the man like a brother." the woman said, tone scolding.

"Robert can barely stomach his brothers. Not that I blame him. Stannis alone would be enough to give anyone indigestion." the man said with a chuckle.

"Don't play the fool, Stannis and Renly are one thing, and Eddard Stark is quite another. Robert will listen to Stark. Damn them both. I should have insisted that he name you, but I was certain Stark would refuse him." she said, Bran could hear the sneer in her voice.

"We ought to count ourselves fortunate. The king might as easily have named one of his brothers, or even Littlefinger, gods help us. Give me honourable enemies rather than ambitious ones, and I'll sleep more easily by night." the man said with a scoff.

They're talking about father! He had to hear more, a few more feet down would do it. But they would see him if he swung in front of the window. He heard the man and woman say more, but the growing wind took away their words. He had to get closer.

Looking down, Bran saw a narrow ledge just beneath the window. He didn't even need to try, he knew it was too far to reach. He could find a better spot and drop down to it, but that might make noise and draw them to the window.

As the boy contemplated, the wind died down. "...he loves me not." he heard the woman say.

"And who's fault is that, sweet sister?" the man asked sarcastically.

"You are as blind as Robert." the woman snipped.

"If you mean I see the same thing, yes. I see a man who would sooner die than betray his king." the man said.

"He betrayed one already, or have you forgotten? Oh, I won't deny he's loyal to Robert, that's obvious. What happens when Robert dies and Joff takes the throne?" She stopped for a moment, then continued "The sooner that comes the pass, the safer we'll all be. My husband grows more restless every day. Having Stark beside him will only make him worse. He's still in love with the sister, the insipid little dead sixteen-year-old. How long until he decides to put me aside for some new Lyanna?" she finished.

Bran felt a fearful shiver go down his spine, he desperately wanted to leave this place. To escape, but what would he say. What would he tell Robb, or Jon, or even father. No, he had to get closer and see who was talking.

Sighing, the man spoke "You should think less about the future and more about the pleasures at hand."

"Stop that!" the woman said, though she didn't sound like she meant it.

He heard the sound of flesh slapping flesh, along with the man's laughter.

Bran pulled himself up and over the gargoyle, then onto the roof. From there he went to another Gargoyle, the one just above the window he heard the voices coming from. He sat down on it, legs locked around it and swung down.

The world was so very strange upside down, the wet stone courtyard below seemed above him.

Hanging by his legs, Bran carefully stretched and poked his head in front of the window. Inside, he saw a naked blond man wrestling with an equally clothed, and just as blond, woman.

There were soft, wet noises. Bran couldn't quite see what they were doing, but it seemed like the man was hurting her. If her moans and groans meant anything. "Stop it. Stop it, stop it. Oh, please..." she said, but her voice was weak and instead of pushing him away the woman buried her fingers in his hair.

She pulled his head down, burying his face in her chest. Bran saw the woman's face, her eyes closed, mouth open and make-up smudged all over. She seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite recognise her.

Suddenly, her eyes shot open and she screamed.

Things happened so quickly. The woman pushed the man away violently, pointing and shouting at Bran as the boy struggled to pull himself back up. Panic rising in his chest, his hands couldn't find purchase on the stone.

Then his legs slipped, and he fell. The sudden shift churned his stomach, but he could still reach for the ledge.

He caught it, and held for a blink before the stone crumbled. Thankfully his other hand's stone held fast, though he wasn't felling so grateful when he slammed into the wall. The impact stole his breath and his vision swam. Bran dangled there, catching his breath.

Above, faces looked out from the window. The man and woman, the boy tried to blink the bleariness from his eyes.

"He saw us!" the woman hissed.

"So he did." the man replied.

Bran's forearm trembled, his fingers slipping. He gripped the ledge with his other hand, his small fingers digging into the ashey mortar. "Take my hand." the man said, reaching down to him. "Before you fall." he encouraged.

The boy snatched onto the man's muscled arm like a lifeline, and the man yanked him onto the safety of the window ledge. Much to the woman's anger, "What are you doing!" she demanded.

The man ignored her, and stood Bran on the windowsill. He was so strong. "How old ar-"

"Bran!" he heard someone shout up to him.

The man's grip stiffened as Bran looked down. He was so high up. His eyes cleared slightly and he saw what could only be Jon, Ghost and Bran's own direwolf at his feet. "You know you're not to be climbing while the Royals and Lords are here, come down before someone else sees!" his brother commanded, though not unkindly.

Bran turned back to the man, only to see that the woman had disappeared. "Boy, you saw nothing and will tell no one." the man ordered, "If the wrong person knew about this many people would be in terrible danger, I need your word." he finished. There were some hissing, but he couldn't tell what they were.

Nodding fervently, eyes firmly shut, Bran promised. "Climb down, now." he said, releasing the boy.

Without looking back, he scrambled down the tower as fast as he could.

In his haste he chose any foothold he found first, and midway down he slipped.

"BRAN!" his brother shouted, it was so loud his ears hurt.

He didn't manage to turn around, so the boy watched as he fell from the sky. Tears stung his eyes and he screamed.

His ribs creaked and his head crashed into something as he stopped with a bounce. He shook, panting and weeping. "Are you alright, Bran?" Jon's concerned voice rumbled.

Remembering the strange man's words, Bran wildly nodded.

_ 10th day, 5th moon _

It was cold, but Bran's handsome clothes kept the chill away well enough. From his place behind Robb, holding the bride's cloak, his view of everyone couldn't be better.

Closest to the heart tree was his family, his mother and sisters dressed in similar grey and white dresses. Both Jon, standing next to Arya, and Rickon, leaning on Shaggydog, were dressed much like Bran. The only one among them who stood out was Ciri, wearing the blue and gold dress he noticed Sansa working on for the past few weeks.

Across the Starks were the Umbers, most of whom were giant men wearing leathers and furs with crossed silver chains on their chests. There were two ladies among them, one quite young and the other much older, both were wearing fire-red dresses.

Further away from the heart tree, next to his family, was the King, the Queen, who was watching him, and their children. They were all dressed in gold, with black and red accents.

Next to the Umbers were the Mormonts, Lya with them. Aunty Maege was dressed, as she always was, in leather and ringmail. But what set this set apart was the visible quality and state of maintenance, both of which much higher than usual. All her daughters were in dark green dresses with black accents. Bran had not noticed when they visited separately, but all the Mormont daughters were of wildly different stature. Ranging from Dacey's tall and lanky, to Jory's short and stout, and Lya's small everything.

Just passed the Royal family were the Manderly's, all dressed extravagantly. All were blonde, safe for Wylla with her sea-green hair. The men exceeding every expectation he had to their girth, Lord Manderly even larger than the King and even more jovial.

The rest of The Northern Lords who came were distributed evenly on both sides, a sea of hard, but happy faces. Cutting a path through the sea was the wide, torch lined, snowy path to Robb.

Eventually, when Bran was about to bend his knees and stretch his legs, a hush fell over what conversation there was. Then everyone turned to face the first torch.

Emerging from the shadows of the Godswood, were Serena and her father the Greatjon. Lord Umber wore a long fire-red gambeson that split at his waist and reached down to his ankles. Each loop button was a whole bear claw and what Bran though to be its fur was draped over the giant man's shoulder. The snowy white of the bear matched the bride's dress.

It was beautiful, with simple yet elegant embroidery that started at the shoulders and trailed down to the very bottom. Its sleeves were entirely made of lace, hugging her arms and held still by a silver ring around each middle finger. Over Serena's bodice were the crossed chains typical of her house, only smaller than her father's and silver instead of steel.

She walked slowly, the end of her fiery-red maiden's cloak leaving little mark in the summer snows in the Godswood. As she came closer, Robb's nervous twitching eased and his back straightened slightly.

When the father and daughter finally reached them, Bran noticed that, for once, Serena's hair was fully under control. Then she released her father's arm and strode to stand next to Robb, and Bran saw that the hair at her ears was free.

"Who comes before the Gods?" his father said in his Lord's voice.

"Serena of House Umber, comes here to wed." The Greatjon boomed without yelling, "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods."

"Who comes to claim her?" Lord Stark asked.

"Robb of House Stark, comes to claim her." Robb said, his voice much like their father's.

"Who gives her?"

"Jon of House Umber, her father." the Greatjon answered, the proud look on his face clear.

Then Lord Stark's eyes turned to the bride, "Lady Serena, do you take this man?" Bran's father asked.

The tall girl's cheeks turned rosier than before, her smile growing. "I take this man." she said, grey eyes glowing.

Lord Stark moved out of the couple's way, the pair joined hands and approached the heart tree. They both knelt before its face and pressed their foreheads to the tree's exposed roots.

After a moment of silent prayer, the pair raised their heads and stood up straight.

The Greatjon unclasped the maiden cloak that sat on his daughter's shoulders with a surprisingly soft smile, and took the cloak away. Once the raging giant was hidden under folds of cloths, it was finally time for Bran's part in the ceremony.

The boy went to his brother, and Robb lifted the bride's cloak out of his arms. As it did, the cloth unfurled revealing the running Stark direwolf. Bran's father had told him this was the same cloak his grandfather Rickard had placed around his grandmother Lyarra's shoulders. The cloak itself was snow-white wool, weaved into such clean softness it could be mistaken for something else, and it was trimmed with snow fox fur. The direwolf itself was made from grey wolf fur sewn in a way that made it seem almost real.

Robb gently clasped the cloak in place, and the pair shared a kiss that made Bran want to grimace like Arya was.

Just like that, Serena was made a Stark and the wedding was done.

The now-wife wrapped her arms around the now-husband's neck and leapt into his ready arms. Robb carried Serena down the torch-lit path, while everyone followed behind, though only after the pair passed them by.

Bran followed just behind his father, the rest of his family just behind him, as they entered the great hall.

As was custom, or so his mother said, Robb and Serena were given the central seats at the high table. To Robb's right were their parents, and to Serena's left was her father, sister and two uncles. The King and Queen were, for the first time he's seen them, seated next to each other beside Bran's parents

The lower high table was just under the raised dais of the high table and was positioned the same way. That was where Bran, Jon, Ciri, Arya, Lya, Sansa, Myrcella, Tommen, Joffrey and Theon were all seated. Serena's brothers would have been there as well, if they didn't make it clear beforehand that they would prefer sitting amongst the guardsmen of the various houses.

"Before we feast." his father said, quieting the already loud room, "To my son! And the new member of House Stark!" he shouted to the rafters, the first time Bran had heard his father speak so loudly.

The entire hall cheered and took to shouting the pair's names as the food was brought in. The very moment it was clear to all who were present back then could see that this feast was far greater than the one welcoming the King. To Bran it seemed that there was an entire roast deer for every table and a chicken for every four men.

At his own table, he saw the roasted ribs of an elk surrounding it's still sizzling steaks and caramelized onions. There were also various meat pies and white bread fresh from the fires.

While he couldn't see, Bran knew the fare on the high table behind him was no lesser than theirs.

After the food came the drink, flagons of mead and ale for those below while the same, plus wine, was carried by female servants at the ends of the two high tables.

The three women for their table quickly went about filling horns and cups, until Ciri reached out and took one. "Thank you, Mina." she said with a smile, while the empty-handed woman left in the direction of the kitchens.

The boy quickly took what was a little more than his share, lest his sister and Ciri take what he was eyeing. While, as with every feast, his cup was filled with watered down red.

They all ate and drank, the talking slowly growing in volume as the feast progressed.

"...then I said, 'Watch your step." and kicked him off the cliff!" Ciri nearly shouted, just having finished her second hunting story that night.

As Bran watched her animated story telling start up again, his eyes drifted over to the high table. He quickly looked away, the Queen was staring at him! He wondered if he had something on his face.

His throat suddenly went dry, so the boy reached for his cup and emptied it in one large gulp. Before he could even set it down, a blond serving woman refilled it. But the colour seemed wrong.

Bringing it to his face, Bran looked inside his cup to see that he was right! The blond woman had given him normal wine, far too dark to have any water in it. He thought about giving it to Jon or Ciri, but he was seven and he was practically a man grown! He could have one small cup of wine.

Glancing around, he made sure no one had seen the blond's mistake. Once he saw that the coast was clear, Bran took a small sip.

Suddenly, the cup left his hands. "Hey!" he cried in indignation, glaring at the culprit.

Jon was unaffected by Bran's look, raising a brow at him while glancing at his cup. The boy felt his cheeks burn.

"You're far too small this, pup." his brother said, having adopted the nickname from Old Nan.

He mussed Bran's hair and downed the boy's wine all at once, but Jon's easy gaze suddenly sharpened and the muscles in his jaw jumped. Bran noticed the few visible veins in Jon's hand darken

The cup slammed down on the table, like so many others in the hall, and his brother tightly took hold of Bran's shoulder.

"Did you drink any of this." he demanded, his silver eyes sharp as any knife.

All he could do under that gaze was shake his head, after all the wine barely touched his tongue let alone go in his belly.

All at one a pressure lifted off of him as Jon glared around the room, eyes snapping towards every which way, but he didn't seem to find what he was looking for.

He let Bran go and grabbed Ciri's attention, whispering into the silver-haired woman's ear. As he did, an angry look twisted onto her face.

Jon whispered again, and she shook her head. His nose crinkled into a snarl as he tucked Bran's cup away.

The two were still all angry-like when someone called for the bedding, then another, then another. Until almost everyone was shouting the same two words, "The bedding!" one of Serena's brothers joined in, rushing up to the high table and throwing his sister over his broad shoulder.

The Umber quickly carried her away from the hall, slapping away men's hands and punching Theon.

Robb, on the other hand, had no such valiant protector. So, the women in the hall all rushed him and pushed him into the air, ripping at his clothes. By the time they reached the doors he had already lost his jerkin, one leg of his pants and his boots.

The doors slammed closed, and the boy realised most of the feasters were gone.

"There's you're cue to retire, Bran. Come on." Ciri said, pulling him out of his chair and onto his feet. Though he swayed a little, he stood.

"You too, Arya." she said, pulling at his sister. While Lya was visibly trying not to rub her eyes.

The torches must have been slowly being put out as he saw his mother rise from her seat, her red hair flowing around her head. Most of the table around her was empty

Sansa followed after Lya, but she looked funny. So did the princess, now that he looked over there. Bran rubbed at his blurry eyes, he must have been more tired than he realised.

A gentle hand prodded him forward, and he obeyed. Walking out of the great hall and into the dark hallway, putting one foot in front of the other.

Until he tripped.

Bran hit the ground, but it didn't hurt much. He was more concerned with that odd taste in his mouth.

Light blinded the boy as he was flipped over, Jon face filling most of his sight. His brother looked so angry, more than he ever saw from him before, but also worried?

He felt so tired.

Jon face disappeared, Bran's mother's taking his place. Her red hair curtained off the rest of the blurry hallway, but that didn't change much. Only the colour. She was saying something, but it was all fuzzy.

Was his chest shaking? How strange.

His mother's face looked so sad, so worried. She kept saying things.

But he was too tired to help.

Bran would just take a quick nap.

Then help.