4-I
"Your mother will stay," his uncle tells Robb. It has been a fortnight since Bran's fall. The king will no longer be delayed.
"You should all stay," Robb replies sharply.
"We should," Lord Stark answers, not rising to Robb's combative tone. "The King, however, has all but commanded that we leave."
"The King. Aye," Robb says, and Jon can see the dark thoughts swirling beneath his cousin's face. He says nothing, however, and Jon almost audibly sighs in relief.
"You leave on the morrow then?" Jon asks into the silence.
"In the morn. We have a final feast tonight, and leave an hour after first light. If you have lengthy farewells, make sure to say them tonight because there will be less time tomorrow."
"Aye," Jon says, thinking of giving his gifts to his sisters.
"Jon, you've said your words to father?" Robb asks him.
"I have."
"Then would you pardon us, brother? I will say my own to Lord Stark."
Jon nods, sparing a glance at each of them before taking his leave. His feet take him to Mikken's to pick up the items he requested of the blacksmith and then to Arya's room where he finds both his sisters. Sansa is helping Arya pack her trunks, their wolves wrestling on the floor. Both Lady and Nymeria catch Ghost's scent and rush to the door as Jon steps in.
"Jon," Sansa says, giving him a kind smile. "Come to say goodbye to your favorite sister?"
"Yes," he says, walking over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. "And to Arya, as well." He smiles and ruffles his youngest sister's hair.
"Ass," she replies, punching him on the arm.
"Arya is mostly packed," Sansa says. "I'll leave you two…"
"Wait," Jon says. "I actually wanted to see both of you." His eldest sister gives him a quizzical look before sitting on the bed next to Arya. "I have gifts," he continues, and places a long bundle wrapped in rags on the bed between them. Untying the strings, he unfolds the cloth and reveals the weapons to his sisters. Two are slim six inch stiletto blades with sapphires embedded in gold handles.
"Are these…", Sansa begins.
"For your hair," he replies with a smile.
"Or for someone's throat," Arya adds, twirling the slim blades in her hand.
"Or that," Jon agrees. "You have your dagger in your thigh sheath. Someone could think to check for that, could take that away. With these, you'll have weapons in plain sight and no one will be the wiser."
Arya hands them over to Sansa before picking up the other blade on the bed. It is shorter than a longsword and slimmer, and Arya takes to it quickly. "Is it a Bravo's blade?" she asks.
"Yes. It's a different sort of fighting. Theon suggested it in his last letter to me."
"Theon?" Both sisters ask in unison.
"He thought of you when he and his lady wife were in Braavos. These blades are built for speed and quickness, and that, little sister, you have in abundance."
"Oh, we should write Theon and 'Fryd in Braavos and tell them to visit us in the capital when they return," Sansa remarks as she deftly works her hair into a bundle with the stilettos.
"Aching for some better cyvasse competition?" Jon asks her while watching Arya lunge and twist and generally run amok with her new sword.
"And more delicate company," Sansa responds.
"I don't know the Braavosi style," Arya says, stopping suddenly. "Who will teach me?"
"We will speak to father about it," Sansa says, the stilettos pinned neatly in the auburn hair piled atop her head. "King's Landing is a true city with thousands and thousands of people, including the Braavosi."
"Indeed,"Jon adds. "Sansa will find excellent cyvasse competition, and you will find a teacher. Until then, run, ride, swim, strengthen yourself. Prepare your body for when you do. The same goes for you, Sansa. Be ready."
"For what, Jon?"
"For Winter, little sister."
4-II
The next morning, they are all gathered in the courtyard. The King and his retinue have only just departed along with most of the Winterfell contingent including the girls. The Giantsblood and Jory hang back, waiting on Lord Stark, who tarries to see if his lady wife will leave Bran's side. After a few moments, it is apparent that her grief has her still.
"Robb," he says to his eldest, his lord's face on full display. "Winterfell is yours...and with it comes this." He unslings Ice from his back and offers it to his son with both hands.
"This is a precaution," Robb replies, "against your death in the South." He crosses his thick arms. "I will not accept that, father. Ice belongs to the Lord of Winterfell."
"It is a precaution," his father admits. "The capital is a nest of vipers and Starks do not fare well in the South. That said, I do not intend on dying, Robb." He sighs and pushes the sword to his son once more. "This is also an honor. You have far surpassed me as a warrior. Such a blade is meant for skilled hands, and while I have done my best to be worthy of it, I have fallen short of the mark set by my ancestors."
"Father, no…" Robb begins, but Ned cuts him off with a wave.
"Do not presume to tell me my worth, Robb. After all these years, I know exactly who I am. Now, I am the Hand of the King. Not the Lord of Winterfell. That title," he says, taking Robb's hand and placing it on Ice's pommel, "belongs to you until my return."
Robb takes the sword just as Ned embraces him. "You have defeated blizzard and shadowcat and wildlings, captivity and death. I could be no prouder of you than I am at this moment. You are ready. Rule, son, and rule well."
"Aye, father," Robb replies, clinging tightly.
They pull apart, and Ned gives him one more firm nod of his head before turning to Jon. "And you...you know my mind. You are a Stark of Winterfell. You are the North." He pulls Jon into a hug. "Keep your brother grounded. Always tell him the truth. Do that, and there is nothing you two cannot achieve."
When he steps away, Robb asks him if he has any words for the Lady of Winterfell.
"I've spoken them already," he says, looking up into Bran's window, where she stands watching him.
"Farewell, my sons."
Farewell, father," they say in unison as Ned mounts his garron and rides through the gates, Walder and Jory thundering behind him.
"Was Ice your idea?" Robb asks when the gates are closed.
"It was."
"Smart," he says. "With Ice in my hands, the Northern lords will be less apt to see me as a wildling."
"That was my thought when I broached the subject. Father saw the sense of it immediately. In more ways than one," he adds at the end.
Robb pulls the greatsword from its scabbard and spins it, tests the weight. "Marvelous," he says softly. "Sword or no, they will have a difficult time with me. With Val."
"Yes," Jon says. "Though you seemed to win The Smalljon Umber over."
"He is a good man, I think."
"He was with Ser Robar on the eastern side of the campaign, but I heard nothing but praise for both his martial skills and his honor."
"Is he betrothed?"
"To Myranda Royce, Ser Robar's cousin, I think. Why? Are you thinking of matches for Arya?" Jon looks a bit nonplussed at the idea.
"Relax, Jon, Arya is still too young," Robb says. "I'm thinking of Sansa. After her marriage pact with Joffrey is annulled."
"Let us not get too far ahead. We need to break their betrothal first."
"My plan for the moment," he says cheerfully as he sheathes Ice, "is to take his head when we meet in battle. Problem solved."
4-III
Val thought Winterfell was a marvel. As someone who had lived her whole life in caves and thatched houses and the occasional lean to, it had overwhelmed her at first. Crenellated walls, inner baileys, a godswood within its boundaries, and the warmth...oh, the warmth. Hot water piped in from the hot springs beneath the castle, pumping life into the hard gray stones.
It was part of why she felt so comfortable here from almost the minute she and Robb crossed the threshold. The castle, for as ominous and gray as it could appear, was full of life. There were children playing and men and women working and fires crackling and meals cooking. It was a community, as much as her village had been. Moreso. She understood the kneelers when she was in this place, she understood their desire to bend the knee. This was what their life was like when their overlords were honorable and considerate and strong. She was sure there were plenty of peasants all over the realm (bigger than she could have ever dreamed when Robb showed her a map of Westeros) who suffered because of the evil or incompetence of their lords. More fool them, she thought. But the Starks? Her husband's family had ruled the North, the harshest land in the world, for eight thousand years, and they did not rule it by fear, but by respect and honor and love.
She found that not just in the castle, but in her goodfamily, as well. Their reaction to her may have been different if Robb had been gone for only a few months, if they had not given him up for dead (all but Catelyn, she found out). It may have been different if she was not carrying the next Lord of Winterfell in her belly. But the circumstances were what they were, and they had opened their hearts and hearth to her, and showered her in gifts - some good like a new weirwood bow, an ironwood spear, and a strong, slim chestnut courser, and some bad like a bevy of dresses in a myriad of colors she never thought to put a name to.
They showered her with attention, as well. Too much, she thought, as they had gone far past what Robb told her to expect. Luwin, of course, was teaching her how to read (she knew how to read the Old Tongue, so it was not difficult to learn another language) and do sums and the histories of the Northern houses, and Mordane was instructing her on the ways of ladies in the Seven Kingdoms, nevermind that her needlework is and had always been immaculate since she started sewing up both furs and gashes when she was six. No, they were positively coddling her, bringing her tea and honeyed milk and extra pillows or scrubbing her when she bathed or helping her dress or fetching her plate for her. Not that she minded all of it. Her confounded belly was wearing on her back, her ankles and feet were swollen, and it felt as if she hadn't had a decent shit in a moon's turn. So the pampering was nice. The tea to help her bowels was nice, the extra pillow for her back was nice, Robb rubbing her feet at the end of the day was nice.
But she had been a wildling, damn it! "Nice" could be a weakness, as much as cowardice or sloth. She was graceful and beautiful and dangerous, and she was not the only one. The other spearwives were just like her - many of whom had birthed strong sons and daughters before her and many of whom would birth strong sons and daughters after. Her sister had been fetching water from the Antler up until a week of giving birth. Waddling her round self from the hut to the river every morning. Not three moons inside a proper Southern castle, and what was she doing? Lying around all day being tended by an army of servants.
She would not have it, she told Robb. The oaf, of course, responded with a shrug and a laugh that earned him a night on the floor while Grey Wind snuggled with her on the bed. In the morning, she made her point even more clearly. She would not be useless to this family. They gave her their trust and their love; mayhaps only for the sake of their son, but they gave it nevertheless. Now, she would do what she could to earn both, even if she waddled while doing it.
So it was after Bran's fall that Val volunteered to bring Lady Catelyn her tea every day.
Little Brandon's accident had been horrendous. She'd seen mangled bodies before. Men and women torn apart by snow bears or shadowcats or other men, she had inured herself to it. Mangled children, she could not. Ever. Seeing her small goodbrother's pale skin and crumpled legs was a shock and brought despair into her heart, but it had to be nothing compared to what it had done to the rest of them. So she made a choice to be strong for her new family and quickly took up Lady Stark's chores. For the ones that required Luwin's help, she fetched Luwin, for the ones that required Sansa's help, she fetched Sansa. She picked it up quickly, and in the two weeks that the King lingered, she felt that she had a good handle on the workings of the castle. This was confirmed by Lord Stark himself before he departed for King's Landing.
"You have been a boon to us, Val. You have been a boon to Lady Stark."
"It has been an honor to be of use, goodfather," she returned. "In truth, I am not used to this lifestyle, and I do not feel myself if I only lay about all day."
"Take care you do not wear yourself down, Val. You carry a precious bundle."
"We are of the North, Lord Stark. We come from hardier stock than most." When he made to protest, she quickly added, "But I do know my limits, my lord, and I will not push them."
"Thank you, gooddaughter. That is all I ask." He made to step away, but then paused. "May I?" he asked, holding his hand out.
"Of course," she said, taking his hand in hers and pressing it to her belly. "Perhaps the little wolf will give you a kick."
"Perhaps," her goodfather said, "Lady Stark only seems to gain clarity when speaking of the baby. That is why I worry...Oh!"
The baby kicked. Val laughed as the cub kicked again, and Lord Eddard joined her. He was tired and wan, but his smile and his laughter were genuine, and his face was lit with joy. "He is a strong one," the Lord of Winterfell said.
"He is," she said.
The next day she decided that she would bring tea to her goodmother whenever the baby was at his most raucous. The first time she visited, Lady Catelyn said nothing. When Val took her hand and placed it on her belly, and the baby kicked for his grandmother, the Lady Catelyn broke down into sobs while Val held her goodmother in her arms and rocked her back and forth. Since then, she had been talking more and more, telling Val and the baby stories of the children, telling stories of Bran and his adventures. And always Val would take her hand and let her feel the baby respond to his grandmother's voice, and little by little, she began to return to them.
4-IV
She receives the tray from the kitchens and, same as always, feels herself waddle out of the great hall, waddle up the stairs, and waddle down the hall. Maybe not the same as always, as she is almost sure that her waddle is more pronounced, that she could balance the entire tray on her belly, that maybe soon she won't even have to use her hands to carry the damn thing across the castle. This is what she is thinking when she finds Robb hurtling down the hall before she can reach Bran's room. "Robb? What…"
"Fire in the library!" he says, moving past her. "Stay with mother!" he calls out over his shoulder.
She sees the fire from the window and regrets all the times that she cursed the place in her lessons with Luwin.
"You wasn't s'posed to be here," she hears faintly from down the hall. From Bran's room. She has been in Winterfell for less than three moons, but she has become friendly with nearly all of the residents of the castle. This man's voice is unfamiliar to her. She feels her brows draw down and she moves a bit faster, the tray starting to clatter a bit.
"What? No!" She hears her goodmother cry out.
"You wasn't s'posed to be here," comes that voice again. It's gruff, dull, and the accent is not of the North.
She is running now and the tray may as well be a bell warning of her approach, but that does not matter. The door to Bran's room is open and a hulking figure is inside and has a handful of Lady Catelyn's hair, so Val grabs the spoon and flings the tray of hot tea at the man as he turns and the hot water catches him full in the face. She jams the spoon as hard as she can into the man's shut eye, feels it find purchase, and yanks it out, pulling out an eyeball as she does.
The man screams and flails about wildly. Lady Catelyn immediately jumps on Bran, shielding him from any danger. Val sidesteps and dips, nearly loses her balance thanks to her confounded belly, catches herself with a hand on the stone floor, and kicks out, catching the man in the knee and collapsing him. Unfortunately, he pitches forward, and is on her before she can scramble out of the way. He has her leg, and he drags her to him as he raises the dagger in his hand. She can hear her goodmother scream "No" as she crosses her wrists to block the blow, but it never comes. A silver streak passes before her eyes, and the man's weight is off her.
She looks over and sees Bran's direwolf, near as big as a normal wolf now, standing over the man. His muzzle is covered in blood and gore, and the man's throat is a ruin. Then Lady Catelyn is hugging her, holding her, and crying hysterically. Val takes a deep breath and comforts her goodmother as the direwolf crawls up onto the bed with Bran.