The Pack Survives

by WhigBiskey

First Timer. Title is terrible, I know. No Dragons, No Others. When he is fourteen, Robb gets lost on a ranging north of the Wall searching for the stolen daughter of a Wull. He is thought dead, but returns three years later. Events are pushed back three years because the canon ages don't work for me. Everything belongs to GRRM.

11. Chapter 11

11-I

The dreams are getting more intense. And more frequent. Dreaming of Nymeria, no, that is not quite it. She is dreaming of being Nymeria. When they were traveling to the capital, she had a few dreams of being her wolf running through the forest with a gibbous or full moon shining down on her. Now, though, she is in their room in The Tower of the Hand, looking on her own face as she sleeps, looking on Sansa's, meeting Lady's eyes, Lady's blue eyes, not yellow ones, and recognizing her sister. Three nights in a row now. She looks at her sister, just now rising from the bed, and the words fall out.

"I dreamed I was Nymeria last night. The last three nights in truth. And not Nymeria in the woods, stalking a deer or anything fun like that. I dreamed I was her." She gestures around them. "Here. In this room. I watched over me sleeping. And watched over you. And I saw Lady, and she was doing the same. Except she had blue eyes. Your blue eyes."

Throughout her speech, Sansa went from sleepy and barely paying attention to wide-eyed with her hand over her mouth. "It's just a silly dream, Arya," she says as she jumps from her bed and crosses the room to her desk. "Come, get ready so we can take the wolves out to make their water." She grabs a parchment and quill and quickly scribbles something down before holding it up to her.

"Godswood."

Arya nods and dresses quickly, buckling on her swordbelt last and slipping Needle, propped upright against her bed, back in its sheath. Sansa does the same, strapping her dagger to her leg and bundling her stilettos in her hair, and they quietly exit their room.

It has only been five days since The King ended the betrothal. Sansa was correct about the rumors, they started the next morning, and the snickering and sniping immediately after, but they had not been physically accosted or even approached. Father still insisted that they have guards with them at all times, but Arya had talked him down to none as long as they had their wolves and weapons, at least while they were still within sight of the Hand's Tower and her father's men.

They pass through the tower's entrance. The morning sun hasn't quite crested The Narrow Sea, and the castle still sleeps. At the bottom of the stairs, Fat Tom and Cayn stand guard. Cayn's back is straight, Tom leans against the stone bannister. In The Middle Bailey about sixty yards away there is a small group of men she can't quite make out in the low light engaging in exercise. When they walk down the steps, Tom gives her an arched eyebrow. Arya points to the wolves then the godswood. He gives her a wink and a nod. She points to the group in the courtyard and arches her own eyebrow.

"Walder is introducing Lord Beric and the squires to anvil training," he tells her with a grin.

Arya looks again and realizes Ned and Gendry are the squires. They are both stripped to the waist and carrying anvils in their arms while Walder and Beric observe. They reach a chalk line on the cobblestones, put the anvil down, stand, squat, pick it back up, all leg, no back, and then walk to another chalk line. Back and forth they go. Arya had heard Robb and Jon talk about this exercise of Walder's; it was something that he has done nearly every morning since he was fifteen, supposedly. Something both Robb and Jon had done and groaned about to Arya.

"It's a ridiculous exercise because only Walder is strong enough to carry a full anvil like a baby for twenty turns," Robb had told her at the time.

"He carries two sometimes," Jon added.

But Gendry was carrying his and looked to have it well in hand. Ned was struggling, even though she could tell his anvil was half the size of Gendry's, but that was okay because Ned was only just fourteen. For a moment, she wonders if she could lift that one. She feels her arm and is proud of the hardness she finds there. Maybe she will come out and train with the boys and Walder in the morning.

"Arya," Sansa exclaims in something of a loud whisper. "Come, let's get the wolves to the godswood to make their water."

Arya pulls her eyes from the boys and their training and follows her sister past the entrance to The Red Keep's garden. Sansa turns as the wolves immediately go crashing into the trees.

"Arya, you know we aren't supposed to speak of matters of import inside any part of the castle."

"You think anyone eavesdropping cares about my dreams?" Arya asks.

"I do," Sansa replies. "Because last night I dreamed I was Lady. And I saw Nymeria, but her eyes weren't yellow. They were grey. Like yours."

"Was this the first time you dreamed of being Lady?"

"No. It is one of many," Sansa replies.

A word enters her mind, and then another. Words from Old Nan's stories and the scary books she read about wildlings when she was younger. "Skinchanger? Warg?"

"Robb," Sansa says.

"Winter," Arya responds. Their brother unlocked this gift beyond The Wall with the great, old wolf, and had been honing his skill the last three years. "I wondered why Grey Wind was always so far ahead of the rest of the wolves. Robb's a warg. So are we. So are the boys?"

"I would think so." Sansa is pacing a bit. "How likely was it that Winter saved Robb instead of killing him? How likely that she would whelp exactly the same number of pups as Father has children."

"The old gods," Arya says.

Sansa waves her hand. "No. Well, yes. Maybe. I don't know, but maybe Robb's connection with her, his ability is why she saved him. Maybe his connection with her is why she had six pups. A cause and effect?"

Arya likes the old gods explanation better, but she sees her point and lets her continue.

"Lady has always been obedient to me, to my commands. Nearly from the beginning. It was always so easy, and I never even thought about it."

"It's more than that, San," Arya says. "She is like you. Calm and well-behaved until it is time to hunt."

"And Nymeria is like you. Wild and wilful."

"Aye, just like the rest follow the personalities of the boys. Ghost is silent and observant. Shadow is impetuous, quick to play, and quick to anger. Bran's..."

They had gotten a letter from Robb when Bran woke. He named his wolf Summer. She clenches her fists, thinking of The Lannisters throwing him out of The Broken Tower, thinking of them sending a footpad to slit his throat.

Sansa gives her a sad smile. "Bran's wolf is sweet and friendly and open like he was before the accident and like he still is."

"Yes, he is," she says, her anger settling if not completely subsiding. "The real question is how do we warg into them when we're awake?"

"I don't know, Arya. Without Robb to show us how to control this power…I think we need to be careful."

"This ability, if we truly have it, changes everything for us here. It is a boon, or at least it can be. I'm your Master of Whisperers. What if I can warg into a mouse or a cat? I could hear anyone's secrets."

"What if you warg into a mouse and get eaten by a cat?" Sansa asks. "Do you die?"

She grins at her sister. "Maybe just cats then?"

"This is not a joke, Arya," Sansa says in a bit of a hiss.

Arya doesn't stop smiling. "It is worth the risk. I...We could learn every little secret about this place. The Queen, The Kingslayer, Joffrey. They'd be in a cell or headless within a fortnight."

"Or you could be dead or some mindless husk."

"Robb can do it, Sansa. So can I."

"With a proper teacher, yes, you can. Just as, I'm sure, Robb had a teacher among The Wildlings." She walks over and takes Arya's hands. "This is...it's magic, Arya, and we do not know how this magic works."

"Then let's find out. The dreams are getting more frequent. It could be that this ability is growing stronger within us no matter what we do."

Sansa lets go of her hands, rubs her face, looks to the rising sun. "I've had dreams of Lady every night since Father broke the betrothal." She turns back to Arya. "Fine. We will practice every morning at dawn here in the godswood. We will get in and get out. If I cannot get out after...say, thirty seconds, then you must...slap or shake me and force me out."

"Do we start now?" Arya asks.

Sansa says nothing, just grabs Arya's hand and leads her deeper into the godswood and out of view of any in the courtyard. She stops, and, still holding onto Arya's hand, closes her eyes. When she opens them a few moments later, Arya gasps. They are completely white. Lady comes ambling from the trees in the godswood and sits at her feet. Sansa's eyes then go back to blue and she gasps and falls to her knees, pulling Arya down with her.

"You did it!"

"I did," she says as Lady leans forward and gives her face a lick. She throws her arms around the wolf. "I touched her mind, and she...she let me in."

"My turn to try."

"Wait, Arya…"

But that is all she hears as her focus goes to Nymeria. Her smell, her sound, she feels her mind...expanding? No. More of a reaching out, and then a connection! It is her and her wolf and nothing else. Nymeria (Is it Nymeria if she is in her mind?) comes over and gives her a lick as Arya scratches her ears...and then she is inside her wolf and everything is...heightened. She can smell pork cooking from the kitchens and the scent of coal and sweat and steel that she knows is Gendry's, and even the unwashed Lannister guards at the entrance to Maegor's. She runs and it is as fast as riding a horse, but so much better because she doesn't need to rely on an animal to carry her, she is this fast, she is this strong. She leaps, and it feels almost as if she is flying, and she comes to a stop in front of her sister and her sister on two legs and...and herself. But herself just stands there motionless, and she licks her arm to make her move, but she does not. Then her two legged sister is shaking herself and then hits her…

"Hhhhhnnnngggghhhh!" She gasps and doubles over. Sansa is frantically calling her name in her ear and stroking her hair, and Nymeria is nudging her. "I was Nymeria," Arya finally says between deep breaths. "Not in her, but I was her. Or...or she was me. She took control, I think."

"That's why I said we had to be cautious," Sansa says, still smoothing her hair back as Arya manages to sit back up.

"Let me try again."

"No, not yet, let me figure it out slowly and…"

"Sansa, I need to try again. Please." The fear is still with her, and she knows if she does not conquer it now, it will become an issue.

Her sister looks her in the eyes for a moment before nodding. "Get in, get out," she says in a voice that sounds eerily like Mother.

Arya puts her arms around her wolf, closes her eyes, and then reaches out again. Connection. She feels Nymeria's mind, feels the wolf probe, feels her wish to focus on the smells of leather and sweat and blood, feels her wish to run and hunt, but she tamps them down and remembers that her name is Arya Stark. She opens her eyes, and sees herself, sees Sansa with her worried look, sees Lady sitting perfectly still next to her. She begins to draw back, more and more, closes her eyes once more, and then lets go. When she opens them, she is back in her body, and her breathing is normal. Sansa's worried look melts, and she gives her a smile and a pat on the hand.

"We can do this," Arya says, and she feels the corner of her lips tugging upward into a grin.

"We can," Sansa says. "But we do not practice this art without the other one here for support. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Arya says, rising to her feet. "I'm hungry for bacon. Let's go break our fast."

11-2

Little Beren Stark loves the godswood.

Val discovered this on his fifth night in this world, when his screaming woke her and Robb up in the middle of the night. Robb, the oaf, rolled over and told her to call for the nursemaid. She icily informed him that she may be the current Lady of Winterfell, but she was still Val of the Free Folk and would not abide another woman nursing their son. Robb grunted and mumbled curses, but he rose from bed and sat with her as she tried to feed their squalling child.

Nothing could calm him that night, however. Not the teat, or her soft singing, or Robb's strong hands rocking him gently. Nothing until Grey Wind nipped at her leg and whined, and Robb connected with the growing direwolf and said, "He wants us to follow him."

Follow him, they did. Out of their room, down the stairs, through the Hall, and into the yard. The air was crisp and cold, but the babe did not seem to mind as his cries softened in the night air. As soon as they crossed from cobblestone to loam, little Beren quieted completely, his eyes wide and curious and wonderfully blue in the moonlight. When she sat against the Heart Tree and leaned into Robb's arms, the babe yawned and fell right to sleep.

They all awoke there the next morning to the sound of distraught guards and Maester Luwin's fussing. Yet none of them had a chill, and she even felt stronger than before.

In the week since, they had made it a point to spend as much of their day as they could with Beren by the Heart Tree.

This day, she is nursing the babe in the crook of the great tree's roots while she and the Reeds watch Robb and her goodbrothers practice their talents. Robb had introduced them to Maester, his great horned owl, and it only took a day before the two boys warged with another animal. Rickon chose a goshawk that he saw flying above them, and, despite Robb's warnings that a grown animal is much more resistant, the bird flew straight down to them and landed on his little brother's arm.

As impressive as that was to her, Brandon was even more so. He touched the minds of dozens of animals and all of them approached - from a mouse, to a snow goose, to a grown shadowcat, even larger than the direwolves. He bonded with none of them, however, only patted them or scratched them behind the ear and sent them on their way. Now, he is tinkering with a massive flock of crows, sending them flying this way and that overhead to Rickon's delight.

Dalla had named Robb the most gifted skinchanger in generations when the full nature of his abilities had been made clear. His killing of Varamyr and the release of his animals only proved her point true. She wonders now what her sister will make of Bran...if she gets to meet him any time soon.

The Smalljon's letter brought tears to her eyes, of both joy and sorrow. Her sister had always been a bit of a mystery to her - she walks in two worlds her father had told her when she was young. That explanation was sufficient then and it remained sufficient throughout her life. When Dalla left on a pilgrimage to see the First Heart Tree in the Land of Always Winter when she was fourteen, when she wed the crow Mance Rayder, even when she insisted that she and Robb go south beyond The Wall all the way to Winterfell, Val had accepted her elder sister's decisions. When she read Umber's words, however, she could find no acceptance in her heart, and it had taken Beren's crying and Robb's reasoning to stop her from sailing to Skagos and dragging Dalla and her nephew to Winterfell where they would be safe.

"Look, Val!" Rickon exclaims, taking her from her thoughts. The boy is pointing skyward at the flock that Bran controls. Val looks up and gasps. Her son's name is being spelled out by the birds.

"That is incredible, Bran," Robb says in a hushed tone that suggests he's just as amazed as she.

"Sorry, but I can't make them write the 'n' properly."

Rickon giggles. "It spells 'Berer'."

Bran's eyes go blue, and the birds disperse in confusion before finding their natural formation again. "The about face turn in the 'n' is unnatural for them, so impossible."

"It is impossible that you were able to control them like that at all," Meera Reed says, awe on her face.

"It isn't that hard, really," Bran says, blushing a bit and lowering his eyes from Meera. "The lead bird is the key. Warg the mind of the lead bird and just touch the minds of the rest."

"Your talent is far beyond my own. To the point of incredulity," Robb says.

"He is The Winged Wolf," Jojen says.

"Yes, he is," Meera adds with a pat on Bran's hand, which causes her goodbrother's face to flush red all over again.

Val smiles at the scene. She has come to like Meera a great deal. The crannog girl is cheerful and kind, but she is also pragmatic as those raised in harsh lands tend to be. And despite her petite stature, she is also a proper warrior with her three pronged spear and round shield and net. The day before, she had bested both Dacey Mormont and Alyn in the yard, her net entangling them long enough to get them on their backs

Val asked her immediately after to teach her the use of such a cunning weapon, but Maester Luwin, in his damned smothering way, forbade her to train for at least a fortnight to allow her body to heal from the birth. Robb sided with Luwin, but she only agreed when both Meera and Dacey sided with him, as well.

"It warms my heart that the Lady of Winterfell is a warrior," Dacey told her.

"Then why argue against my return to the yard?" Val asked.

The older woman smiled at her. "Carved into the very walls of our Halls are depictions of The She-Bears of House Mormont. In all of them, we hold an axe in one hand. Do you know what we hold in the other?"

Val gave a slight shake of her head.

Dacey smiled and gently placed her finger in little Beren's hand. He gripped it and gurgled something at her, which caused the warrior to laugh. She looked back to Val. "A babe. It is a burden, having to be both warrior and mother. It was something born of necessity, and it remains so for the same reason. My mother has been one of the fiercest warriors in the North for my entire life." She placed her hand on Val's shoulder. "But she was always my mother first."

Her spear in one hand, little Beren in the other. Warrior and Mother. Val holds to the old gods, and she always will. She never even knew there were others until she came south, but she thinks now that there is truth in what the Andals teach. There is a time and a season for everything. Now, her season is motherhood. Soon enough, she thinks, looking first at her husband laughing with his brothers, then down at her precious little one, it will be time to be a warrior again.

Robb will call the banners, and they will march to war, leaving her in Winterfell with Beren and Rickon. Brandon, too, she believed initially, but seeing Robb's eyes light up at his brother's ability, she knows that his mind is turning, developing strategies that take full advantage of her goodbrother's talent. Crippled or not, Robb will take him to war. With The Lannisters or The Iron Islands or both.

She will stay, though, and be a mother to Beren, an aunt to Rickon, a ruler as The Lady of Winterfell in her husband's absence, and a warrior when the war comes to the gates of Winterfell. She thinks on the captured sellswords in the dungeons and believes that may be sooner than they'd like.

"He is incredible," Robb says, plunking down next to her and making faces at Beren as he gives him his finger to grip.

Val smiles at him. "Beren or Bran?"

Robb kisses his son's brow. "Beren will be stronger and wiser than me, the greatest Lord of Winterfell to ever live. But he will not be as powerful a warg as Bran." He looks at his brother. "No one will."

"You sound certain of this."

"Greenseers," Robb tells her. "They are all sickly, physically weak. Like Jojen or Ryk's brother Styven from Ygritte's village. Bran was talented from the beginning, I could see that. As talented as Rickon, who is more powerful than I am. But now…" He nods at the family of squirrels that are scampering all over him and Rickon. "Now, he is beyond powerful. He is miraculous."

"You think his accident has enhanced his ability?"

"Aye."

Val looks at her goodbrother, and her memory takes her to Blind Rolf from her village. He lost his sight as a boy, not in a battle or an accident, just the will of the gods. Everyone thought he would die, but his mother and father worked with him, taught him to use the skills and abilities he had and not dwell on the one he lost. By the time he was an adult, he was one of the best trackers in the village. When the wind was right, he could smell an elk from what seemed like a mile away. When there was silence enough, he could hear a hoof crunch through a fresh blanket of snow from across the village. He was a miracle, Val thought. "The gods give, but they do not give freely."

"Aye," Robb says again.

"The question then, is how can a crippled boy with a miraculous power help in the coming war?"

"How indeed?" He asks, grinning the same charming grin that first made her realize that she loved the boy in the cave. He holds his arm out, and she gently places Beren in the crook. Robb rocks the babe slowly as he whispers prayers over him, and soon enough, Beren yawns, closes his eyes, and falls into sleep.

"I am not a greenseer, Lord Stark," Jojen Reed whispers. Val did not even notice that the eerily quiet crannog boy had moved closer to them. "I dream green, but I do not control animals or the forest and waters, and I cannot see through the Heart Trees."

"Styven could do none of those things, either," Val says.

"He had the sight, but that is all," the boy says. "It does take its toll, however. You were correct about that."

"Are you saying that Bran will be able to bend rivers and forests, nature itself, to his will?" Robb asks, that same light in his eyes, the same wheels turning in his mind.

"He is The Winged Wolf," Jojen replies.

"The Winged Wolf," Robb repeats in a whisper.

"Is there a living greenseer to teach him?" Val asks, though she thinks she knows the answer.

"No," Jojen says. "I felt his death two years ago."

"So did Styven," Val adds.

"Styven?" Robb asks.

"The Three Eyed Raven?" They were camped a league away from The Weeper's village, had slain all the scouts with Winter's help, and were going to attack at dawn. But around the Hour of the Wolf, Styven woke up shrieking about the Three Eyed Raven. "He is dead! He is dead! The Three Eyed Raven is dead!" The man shouted and would not stop until Jarl choked him out.

Robb nods, remembering. "Thought Jarl was going to have to kill the poor bastard." He looks to his little brother. "So Bran is the last greenseer?"

"Or the first of many to come," Val counters.

"He is the first," Jojen says. The Winged Wolf will be a father to a dozen, and that dozen will spawn scores…" It looks as if the boy will say more, but he keeps his silence.

She and Robb lock eyes. Maester Luwin has already told them that Bran will father no children. Yet there is hope in Robb's eyes after Jojen's words. She gives him a smile, for that is what he needs right now. She knows Maester Luwin is correct. Bran will be no one's sire. But she also knows that Jojen is correct, as well. The Winged Wolf will live long after she and Robb and even little Beren here are in the crypts, and he will watch over the Starks for generations to come, and he will teach those with the talent, and The North will be as strong as it was in The Age of Heroes. She knows that Robb knows this, as well, but his hope and love for his brother has him now, and she would not take that away. It will fade, as it always does, until only the truth remains, and he will accept it.

"Robb," Bran says in a loud whisper. His eyes are white. "There is a small party of riders approaching."

"I see them, too," Rickon shouts.

"Not so loud, Rickon. The baby is sleeping," Meera tells him.

"Sorry," Val's youngest goodbrother returns, managing to pull a sheepish face despite being warged into a goshawk.

"Can either of you see their banners?"

"No banners," Bran says, "And my ravens are too far away to see what's on their liveries."

"Squawk can see them!" Rickon shouts excitedly, and is hushed again. Admonished, he says in a softer voice. "Two axes criss-crossed and a black crown on a yellow field on most of them, but the lead rider has a red man with red raindrops on a pink field."

Robb's face hardens, and Val can feel her own anger stir up. They have no evidence, of course, but The Smalljon laid his suspicions out briefly in the raven he sent them, and the prisoners they took corroborate his theories.

"Which houses are those, Rickon?"

"House Dustin and House Bolton, Robb," the youngest Stark says.

Bran's eyes go blue, and Val can see concern in them, if not fear. He has been privy to their councils, he knows of Umber's suspicions. "Why are they here, Robb?"

"I do not know, Bran," her husband says, eyes still hard, even as he leans down to kiss their son on his little brow.

"Why have we received a half dozen ravens in the past week? Word of Sansa's broken betrothal to the Prince has reached the entirety of the North." They received the missive from Lord Stark a day after Theon and the Braavosi left. Robb began thinking of marriage options right after. The Smalljon being the most prominent, after they discovered that his betrothal to the Royce girl was never finalized. Harras Harlaw was another name, and one that made political sense, as it would bind a new vassal house to them along with fifty longships. Domeric Bolton's name was never mentioned.

"You think they are here to negotiate a marriage?" Robb asks, his anger building now.

"Why else?"

He nods. "And give their house a claim to Winterfell." She can see him struggle with the gall of it. House Bolton secretly sending mercenaries and assassins to kill him and his friends, and then riding to Winterfell to suggest a marriage. He stands, careful with their sleeping son, sighs, and his face transforms from the hardened, angry warrior, to the charming, handsome Lord of Winterfell. "Come," he says to her. "Let us see to our guests."

11 - III

"I will be attending my lessons today in the Tower of the Hand with Lord Eddard's daughters," Myrcella tells Ser Arys as she stops before the Maidenvault.

Her wonderfully handsome shield gives her a grin and a bow. "Your word is my command, Princess," he says.

She cannot stop the blood from rushing to her face nor can she contain the giggle that bursts from her lips, but she only curtseys back to her protector, turns, and walks on to the tower, the smile on her face due in part to Ser Arys acquiescence to her will, but mostly to the defiance that she has come to crave since she first tasted it three days hence.

It was a week after the tourney and they were watching her father hold court - a week for her mother and Joffrey to spread their rumors about Sansa and Arya. Vulgar tales of wantonness and debauchery that Myrcella knew held no truth. They were only used to cover her brother's own indecencies. No matter. They spread quickly and soon enough her newfound friends, the first friends that she had made because of who she was and not what she was, were shunned and mocked by the majority of the court.

In the Great Hall, the Stark girls were seated on the opposite balcony from the royal family, their only company being a small contingent of Riverlanders, Loras Tyrell and a few Reachmen, and Lord Dondarrion and the Daynes. She met Arya's eyes from across the throne room, and the youngest Stark girl gave her a wave and a smile. She waved back, only to have her hand slapped down by her mother. Before, she would have lowered her eyes and taken the chastisement like a good princess. That time, however, she remembered Arya's words to her at the tourney. She was twelve, soon to be thirteen, nearly a woman grown. So instead, she stood, took Tommen's hand, and walked them away from her mother and Joffrey, down the stairs, and across the throne room. The petitioners stopped as she did so, and every eye followed her as she led her brother up the opposite staircase and straightaway to the Stark's balcony where Arya had made room for them to sit. The silence continued on for several moments until she stood, curtsied, and said in a loud voice, "My apologies for interrupting court, Your Grace."

The King, who before had seemed so bored that he appeared nearly asleep on the throne, was wide awake and grinning broadly. "No apology necessary, Sunshine," he said as he gave her wink.

On the opposite balcony, Joffrey's stare was murderous, and her mother's was not much better. Being nearly a woman grown, she did the only thing she could think of; she stuck her tongue out at them. Arya cackled her infectious laugh, making her and Tommen giggle, as well, but over it all was the boisterous, raucous guffawing of the King, who shared a look with Lord Eddard before clapping his hands and booming out, "Alright, you asslickers, let's keep this thing going, or we'll be here past sundown."

Her mother struck her that night. Struck her twice across the face while digging her fingers so hard into her arm they left bruises. Myrcella did not care. She let her mother rant and rave about the Lannister name and legacy and the dangerous and filthy Starks. When Myrcella reminded her that she was a Baratheon and not a Lannister, her mother struck her once more and said, "There is nothing of that man in you," before sweeping out of the room. When she was sure her mother was gone and not coming back, she asked Ser Arys to bring her father a message. Not a quarter hour past that, the king walked into her room, a grave look on his face as he examined the marks on her arms and face.

"After you were born," he said, plopping his large frame into the chair next to her, "before your mother began to keep you away from me in earnest, I nicknamed you Sunshine. You were so small and beautiful and golden, that was always the first thought that came to my mind whenever I saw you. Sunshine. And that is what you were for a time. My own small bit of sunshine in this damnably dreary castle." He cupped her cheek and gave her a broad smile. "You were that again today. Sunshine. Just a bit of hope in this place of wickedness."

She could see the tears in his eyes, could feel them forming in hers, and she threw her arms around his thick neck and pressed against his scratchy beard and realized that she was happier than maybe she'd ever been.

"There there, Princess," he said, holding her close to his warmth and patting her gently on the back. "There there. She won't be hitting you ever again." He pulled away from her, wiped his eyes against his sleeve, and called for Ser Arys, who entered straightaway. "Ser Arys…Oakheart? Correct?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the man said.

"Stormlander," the king said, seemingly to himself. "I like that. I like the idea of a Stormlander protecting my daughter." He looked up at Ser Arys. "From now on, you do as my daughter tells you. She's a woman grown and knows her own mind. Her mother has no sway. Understood?"

Ser Arys went to a knee. "Understood, Your Grace."

"Good man," he said and gave him a hearty slap on the back as he walked to the door. Before he left, however, he turned back and added. "Don't let her jump into a snake pit or anything like that." He looked at Myrcella. "You don't want to jump in a snake pit, do you?"

"No, papa," she replied. "I just want to go riding with Sansa and Arya."

He nodded his head, grinning. "Riding. That would be fine."

"Maybe…maybe you could come with us sometime?" She looked down at her hands. "Watch me race Arya?"

"Maybe, Sunshine," he said, his eyes glistening again before he coughed and looked away. "Ahem. Well. Back to kingly business."

She squealed after he left, causing Ser Arys to burst out laughing. "Tomorrow, I will go riding with Sansa and Arya!" She declared, giddy with the thought of her new independence.

She did not, though. Her mother had outsmarted her, piling her studies and needlework and dancing and harp lessons together to keep her from having the time to do anything else. And it was much the same the day after.

Today, however, will be different, Myrcella thinks as she walks to the Tower of the Hand. The guards there welcome her with warm smiles and the one named Fat Tom escorts her to the girls' room.

"Noble thing you did in the throne room, if you don't mind me saying so, princess" the man says as they ascend.

"Do you believe so, Ser? I only sat with my friends."

The round man blushes a bit. "Oh, I'm no knight, princess. Just a man-at-arms. And aye, I do believe it. In my experience, it takes a rare sort to sit with the truth when everyone else stands for the lie."

"Wise words," Ser Arys opines from behind her.

"Yes, that was very well said," Myrcella agrees.

The man shrugs. "Words tend to be wind, princess. It's deeds that count, and what you did in the throne room was well done." They reach the girls' door. Tom gives it a knock and announces her. Myrcella hears Sansa's voice call out in response. Tom turns and says, "The whole of the North will know your quality, Princess Myrcella, and they won't forget." With a bow, he takes his leave just as the door opens halfway, and Sansa, still in her shift, grabs her hand and pulls her into the room.

"Wait outside for her, Arys!" Sansa calls out as she slams the door shut with her foot.

Myrcella laughs at Sansa's impetuousness, thinking it is a bit out of character for her, but it only comes out as a croak as when spies Arya crawling through a small door at the back of the hearth. She opens her mouth to say…something, though her mind is completely blank, but Sansa puts a finger to her lips and another to her own. She slowly pulls her finger away before walking to her bed to grab her riding clothes - a tunic and a pair of breeches. She eyes Myrcella curiously for a moment before rummaging through her trunk to pull another set of clothes out. "Here you are, princess," she says, handing the garments to Myrcella. "Ladies such as ourselves cannot go traipsing through secret passageways in fine dresses like that."

The princess giggles and nods and dresses just in time for Arya to crawl headfirst back through the small portal in the hearth. "Sansa," she says, excited and a bit out of breath. Her face is streaked with soot, but her smile is ear to ear. "Hello, Cella!" The younger Stark says when she sees her. "We found a passageway in our fireplace!"

"Arya, hush! Ser Arys is outside the door."

"Oh, right, sorry," she says, crawling all the way out of the hearth. Two rats follow her out, causing Myrcella to yip loudly.

"That's just Merry and Pippin," Arya says matter-of-factly. "Don't mind them."

Myrcella tries not to, but finds it impossible when the two rats move to the gigantic direwolves lying together at the foot of one of their beds and snuggle in with them. "What…am I looking at?"

"Animals can be friends, too, Princess," Sansa says as if that explains it before turning to Arya. "So…where does it lead?"

"To a short tunnel and then a ladder. Or rungs, anyway. Fastened into the wall. It goes up all the way to the top, I think. There's probably another portal like this in father's hearth."

Sansa's brows furrow. "Varys."

"Varys?" Myrcella asks.

Sansa nods, and Arya mimics her move. "Maegor the Cruel, remember?" the younger Stark sister says. "He built this place, and built a lot of secret tunnels and passageways to sneak about the castle without being seen."

"Tunnels that make it good for spying and eavesdropping," Sansa adds. "That's how The Spider knows so much. He must have listeners in these passageways, in the walls, as they say."

The idea horrifies Myrcella as she remembers all the things she's said to Rosamund and Myrielle in her room…or the things she has done while alone. She feels her cheeks burn. "Do…do you think there are passageways in The Maidenvault?"

"Without doubt," Sansa tells her. "Maegor built that keep, as well, before it was named The Maidenvault."

"But we'd have to explore to find out for sure," Arya says. "The ladder goes down a long way. I couldn't see how far, even with a candle, so I dropped it and followed the flame. I think it's even farther than the base of the tower, which means the secret tunnels run under the bailey to everywhere in The Red Keep."

Sansa looks perturbed. "It also means that your candle is down there at the bottom."

Arya catches on quickly. "Which means that Varys or whoever will see it and know someone else was down here."

A flood of horrible thoughts fill Myrcella's head. "Which means The Spider could visit you both at night…and…while you're sleeping…"

Arya shakes her head. "Not with Nymeria and Lady at the foot of our beds. Anyone coming in here through that passage will lose their gullet quick enough."

"Still, we need to retrieve it," Sansa adds. "I would not wish to take any unnecessary chances."

Arya walks over to her swordbelt and buckles it on, making Myrcella wish that she had a blade, as well. "And we can explore some." She grins at Myrcella. "We probably want to let Ser Arys know not to come in here for a bit."

Myrcella smiles back. "Of course." She walks to the door, cracks it open a bit. The knight stands a bit straighter. "Ser Arys, we will be about important business here for the next…hmmm…hour let's say, so we do not wish to be disturbed. Can you see to that, please?"

He gives her his charming smile once again, and she feels herself turn crimson again. "Of course, My Princess," he says with a deep bow. Myrcella giggles a bit before shutting the door. She turns and sees Arya going through the portal with Sansa right behind.

"Come, Princess," the elder Stark says, stuffing an unlit candle and its small holder into a pocket. "Let us get into some mischief."

Myrcella almost claps at the thought, but composes herself lest her new friends think her a silly little girl. She scrambles after them and finds herself in another world. The air is close and stuffy, the walls and floor cold to the touch. Growing up in the castle, she never really felt its years or its history as she skipped through the halls, but she does now. Thoughts of Maegor or Aerion Brightflame or all the other mad dragons roaming these secret tunnels and doing their fell deeds in the black of night come to her mind, and she shivers, and wonders how much blood was spilled because of these passageways.

"You can stand up," she hears Arya say. "There's a short wall that prevents you from falling off the edge. To the right, it's open, and you'll see the rungs." She can see her step off the edge.

"Be careful. Make sure you have a good grip before swinging your leg around. It's a long way down." She puts her candle down, and Myrcella can see her face as it descends into the abyss. Sansa finds her hand, squeezes it, and follows her sister.

Myrcella is glad for the light as she moves to the short wall and follows it to the edge and grips the rungs. They are cold, but not damp, and for that she is thankful as she swings her leg over the chasm and her foot finds another rung. The descent seems to go more quickly than she imagined, but when she reaches the bottom and sees the faint flickering light of the candle so high above them, she wonders if she'll have the strength to climb back up.

A scrape of a dagger on flint breaks her reverie, and then the larger passageway is illuminated by torch. Arya is smiling. "It was in the sconce," she says, pointing to the now empty holder on the wall. She looks down one end of the tunnel and then turns to look down the other. "Which way should we go?"

"I'm not sure," Sansa replies. "I have lost my bearings a bit."

"That way," Myrcella interjects, pointing to their left.

Arya gives her a curious look. "How do you know?"

The princess returns a shy smile. "Well, we were facing north on the ladder, and the tunnel runs perpendicular to it. Walking away from the ladder means we are moving south, so left would be east, toward the Maidenvault and Maegors and the dungeons, and right would be west toward the throne room and then out to the city."

Arya gives her a nod. "Brilliant. Left it is," she says as she walks off in that direction. The journey does not last long, however, as they are foiled by a locked gate.

Sansa inspects the lock, Arya holding the torch close. "Well…we will need to visit the criminal element of Kings Landing and engage the services of a lockpick…or we will need a skeleton key."

"Gendry can make us one," Arya pipes in.

"Gendry?" Myrcella asks. The Stark guardsman who so resembles her uncle has been a curiosity since she saw him at the tournament.

"Yeah," Arya replies, "He was a blacksmith, but now he squires for Walder."

"I remember him…from the tournament. He was very gallant." She looks down for a moment then back up at the sisters. "He's my brother, isn't he?"

They exchange glances before Arya nods at her. "He is a good man, Cella, and he'll be one of the greatest knights in the realm when Walder is done with him."

"Does he know?"

Arya shakes her head.

Myrcella purses her lips. "As his sister, I will tell him."

The Stark sisters look to one another again, and they seem to have an unspoken conversation before Sansa turns her eyes to her. "He is your father's eldest son. Bastard or no, that paints a target on him for Joffrey or your mother. Pardon the insult to your family, my princess, but this is the truth of the matter. Too many people know or suspect his lineage already, and if he rises too quickly…such as a lowly squire garnering the attention of a royal princess, then that target grows."

Mycella gives a slight shake of her head. "Attention such as the daughter of the Hand and the betrothed of the crown prince dancing three times with him at a royal feast?"

Arya scoffs. "She's got you there."

Sansa sighs. "That was a mistake. I was stupid and caught up in the moment and was not thinking about consequences."

"It is not your fault," Myrcella says. "My mother's ambition and my brother's…wrongness are at fault for any ill intention toward him. But he should know. As should my father, who could protect him."

Sansa looks to the ground for a moment, looks to her sister, then back at Myrcella. "Perhaps. Yes. He is a man grown. We have no right to keep this from him." She looks around and sighs. "But perhaps now is not the best time to have this discussion. Come, let us return to our room. Ser Arys will be expecting us, as will Septa Mordane. After our lessons, we will find Gendry. Agreed?"

Arya nods and grins.

"Agreed," answers Myrcella and then freezes. Behind Arya stands a child. The boy, if he is a boy, Myrcella cannot be certain, is bald and dressed in simple woolen clothes, but they are not raggedy. He wears no shoes on his feet. But in his hand, a dagger glints in the torchlight.

Arya sees her face, gives a small grin that Myrcella cannot fathom, and spins, quick as a cat, swinging the torch just as the boy lunges for her. The torch nearly catches him in the face, but he falls to his knees and slides under it. He thrusts upward to catch Arya in the belly with his weapon, but she has already sidestepped and kicks out, catching him flush on the jaw and sending him and his dagger falling to the stones.

Sansa rushes over and kicks the knife away as Myrcella falls to the child's side and checks to see if he is still breathing.

"Is he alive?" Arya asks.

"Yes," Myrcella says just as Sansa grips her beneath the arms and hauls her away from him.

"He may have another blade, Myrcella. It's not safe for you to…Arya!"

The younger Stark is next to the unconscious boy, rummaging through his pockets. She pulls out some papers and a thick piece of sharpened lead. "No knives, just these," she says, handing them to Sansa.

Sansa peers at the papers in the torchlight. "Notes. Written in shorthand, but easy enough to make out. Father spoke to Jory and Walder in his solar early this morning. About nothing really important. The men, security for us, training Gendry." She eyes the boy shrewdly. "This child and others like him are Varys' spy network. Small enough to move around in the tight spaces, and barefoot, so no one will hear their footsteps."

The boy stirs, gets on his elbow, puts a hand to his jaw…and then seems to remember. His eyes dart up, and he scrambles up and lunges at Arya, but she grabs him, spins him around using his own momentum, and throws him back against the wall where he crumples to his knees. His eyes are wide, panicked. He stands, his hands balled into tiny fists.

Myrcella thinks he will attack again until Arya pats the hilt of her sword. The boy starts shaking a bit, slides down the wall until his knees are against his chest, buries his head in his arms and begins sobbing, a wail escapes him, a pitiful sounding thing, almost unnatural, and Myrcella feels her heart break just a bit for this child. Once again, she moves to his side.

"Myrcella…" Sansa begins.

The Princess cuts her off. "Hush, Sansa. That is a command." She places a hand gently on the back of the boy's head and another around his shoulder. He is so small, she thinks he cannot be any older than six. "Do you know who I am?" She asks, and he nods, his head still in his arms. "Look at me, child," she says softly. He does. His face is a mess of tears and grime and snot accentuated by a quivering lip and hitched breathing.

"Here," Sansa says, handing her a handkerchief.

She takes the cloth and wipes his face clean. "There, that is better," she says, but she hardly believes it. The child is not malnourished, but he is still much too skinny, and while his face is clean, the rest of him is covered in the grime of the tunnels. "Are you hungry?" She asks. The child blinks at her, glances at Sansa, at Arya, looks back to Myrcella and gives a short nod.

Myrcella smiles at him. "Would you like to come with me to the kitchens to get something to eat?"

His eyes go big again and fill with tears, and he flinches away from her as he shakes his head over and over and his wailing starts once more, and Myrcella's heart goes cold as she sees why his cries sound unnatural. He has no tongue. Not even a stub. She pulls the boy back to her and takes him in her arms, gently rubbing his back and neck - the same thing she would do for Tommen when he was younger and had nightmares. It works as well now as it did then, and soon the child rests his head on her shoulder.

She glances over at Sansa and Arya. "Did you see?" She asks though she knows by the looks on their faces that they did.

"Their task requires silence, so they tore out their tongues as babes," Sansa says, her anger plain in her voice.

"I'm going to gut that bastard Varys," Arya says.

He starts shaking again at the mention of that name. "Shhh," Myrcella coos at him, rubbing his back.

"Will Varys punish you if we do not let you go? If he finds out we saw you?" Sansa asks.

The boy lifts his head from Myrcella's shoulder and nods.

"When are you due back?"

He makes a gesture with his hands, but none of them understand. He points to the paper and the lead. Sansa hands them back. He writes:

Sundown. Night replacement comes.

"You are still meant to be listening to my father?"

He nods.

"You heard us, didn't you?"

He nods.

"You came to investigate?"

He nods.

"Why did you attack us?"

Scared. The Princess saw me. Didn't know what else to do.

"What's your name?" Arya asks

A shrug.

"You don't know your name?"

He shakes his head.

"What does Varys call you?" Sansa asks.

He holds up three fingers, brings them down, then holds them up again.

"Thirty-three?" Myrcella asks.

He nods.

"Well, thirty-three," Myrcella says, "would you come with us to Sansa and Arya's room? We can have food brought to us and can leave the hearth door open if you like."

He looks wary, uncertain.

Sansa bends down next to him, puts a tender hand to his cheek. "After you eat, we will let you go back to your post at my father's door."

"Sansa?" Arya asks.

She does not take her eyes away from the boy. "Father speaks of nothing important inside the walls anyway. He can listen, and he can report back whatever is said there. We will let no one know that we saw you, and you will let no one know that you saw us. And who is to say, perhaps we may leave a plate of food by the hearth every day around the lunch hour."

The boy blinks, looks at Myrcella. She smiles and nods.

He wipes at his eyes, writes on his paper.

Nothing in return?

Sansa shakes her head. "Nothing…" she pauses, "Well, friendship, perhaps?"

He looks at Arya, who hands him his dagger back. He turns it over in his hand before sheathing it and turning again to Myrcella. "Friendship," she says, trying to hold back tears for this sad, desperate child. He smiles for her and nods, and her tears fall. She wipes them away with her sleeve and takes his hand. "You are a brave little boy."

He shakes his head.

"You don't think you are brave?"

He shakes his head again and writes something down.

Not a boy. Girl.

11 - IV

No bread. No salt. No guest right. They were taken immediately after riding through the gates. Their men were kept under guard in the barracks. Lady Dustin was taken to a guest room in the east tower of the Great Keep. Bolton the younger to one in the west tower. Neither said a word to the servants who tended them other than to inquire after the other. They were patient, content in their silence and captivity. Even when Robb had the guards bring in the captured sellswords, bloody and haggard from their wounds and detention, the pair kept their silence.

"Speak the truth, my love," Robb tells her before she walks into the room; before she sees Domeric Bolton, more hale than he looked months prior, and a handsome lady close to her goodmother's age if she had to guess. Her hands are laced together and resting in her lap. One of his covers hers. Domeric rises after she enters the room. After a moment, the lady rises, as well.

"Lord Domeric, a pleasure to see you again," Val says to the young man, who seems completely unperturbed by his circumstances. She remembers her manners and dips into a curtsey.

"Lady Val, the pleasure is mine," he replies with a bow.

She then faces his companion and curtseys again. "Lady Barbrey of House Dustin. It is my honor to make your acquaintance."

One eyebrow is raised and despite her shorter stature, she is somehow able to look down her nose at Val. Still though, she returns the gesture. "Lady Val. Lady of Winterfell. Lady of the North. And a wildling. Remarkable, I would say, your ascension has been."

"So I have been told," she replies before walking past them to pull back the drapes and then unlatch and open the windows. On a branch just outside, a giant horned owl sits and watches her with its river blue eyes. She gives the creature a slight smile before returning to the middle of the room and the seat that was placed there for her.

"Lady…Val," the Dustin woman says with a disdain that she either cannot quite hide or does not care to. "Why have we not been given Guest Right? Are we prisoners?"

She smiles. "We have had many troubles of late, enemies who perhaps believe Winterfell to be weakened with my goodfather away in the capital. My husband, not knowing who to trust, chooses to trust no one…until they prove themselves trustworthy."

"How can we prove that, my lady?" Bolton says in his quiet manner. He really does look much healthier, Val thinks. Broader in the arms and shoulders, more color in his cheeks. He is still skinny, but not frightfully so, as he was before.

"By trusting us, Domeric," she says. "Trusting us with the truth. Without the safety of Guest Right."

"That is absurd," Lady Barbrey says immediately, but Bolton is quiet. He only looks at her. His remarkable pale blue eyes convey an intensity that she has found in very few - her husband being one. She holds his gaze firmly and waits.

"Ask your questions," Bolton says.

His aunt jerks her eyes to him as she grips his hand. "Domeric!" She hisses.

"This is our purpose, Lady Aunt," he says in answer. His fingers intertwine with hers, but his eyes remain on Val.

"Will you answer truthfully?"

"We will," he says.

She looks out the window and locks eyes with the horned owl for a moment before turning back to their 'guests.' "Who is Ramsay Snow?"

"My bastard brother," Domeric says immediately.

"Did you recognize the sellswords the guards brought to you?"

"No," the lady says.

"Not their faces," Domeric answers, "but I know of The Red Hands. Their company."

Val nods, but does not pursue that thread any further. "Why did you come?"

"A union," Lady Barbrey says.

"Between Domeric and Sansa?"

"Preferably, though we can wait for the younger sister to come of age."

Val stares at the Dustin woman for a moment before turning her eyes to Domeric. "Why did you come?"

The Bolton meets her gaze and says nothing. Ten heartbeats pass, twenty, thirty. "I want you to kill my bastard brother." Another ten heartbeats. Then he surprises her by turning to look at the horned owl with river blue eyes. "And my father."

The owl's eyes go back to yellow, and the bird flies away. Robb enters just a moment later, Grey Wind at his side. He stares at them for what seems an eternity, and Val knows he is measuring them. Neither flinch back from his gaze. The lady appears hard…defiant, but Lord Domeric's visage is different. It is open, honest, with hints of both sadness and strength. She realizes that she trusts this man.

Robb seems to come to a similar conclusion. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, opens them, and then bows and says, "Lord Domeric of House Bolton, Lady Barbrey of House Dustin. Be welcome in Winterfell." He gestures toward the door. "Come. There is bread and salt and more being prepared for you in The Great Hall. I will hear your tale in its entirety, and you will hear mine and others and perhaps together we can find the truth…and a way forward for both our Houses."

11 - V

Tyrion is in the library reading what should be a fanciful book about wargs. It is a children's tome, full of folklore and wives tales, meant to scare little children into obedience, yet it has made him shiver at least half a dozen times within the first fifty pages despite the fire in the hearth and the blanket draped over his shoulders. He finds that fanciful tales can be quite terrifying when one knows that the creatures trying to eat the little boys and girls actually exist. And knowing that The Starks are good, decent people does not change the fact that their presence, their abilities, have changed his world forever.

If wargs are real then what else? Giants? According to Robb, he spoke with their king. "Fourteen feet tall and covered in long brown fur streaked with gray, he was," Robb said. "Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg was his name, but we called him Mag the Mighty."

"What of grumkins? Snarks?" Tyrion asked. "Children of the Forest?"

"No. No. Yes." He replied. "Though my goodsister and some of the other wise women believed that the former two were variations of the latter. Maybe a branch of them that had gotten twisted by the wars with The First Men and then The Andals."

"The Others?"

Stark became quiet. "I never saw them…but there are places beyond The Wall…places that just feel…wrong…as if they are not of this world…as if something foul watches and hates and bides its time…" He blinked, breathed deeply, then just smiled. "I never saw them," he repeated.

Tyrion does not think confirmation of their existence could have terrified him more.

"Lord Tyrion," comes a soft voice from behind that makes him nearly jump out of his seat and drop his book to the floor.

"Apologies, my lord," Sam says, picking up the tome. "I did not mean to startle you."

Tyrion waves it off. "I was half asleep. No apology necessary, Sam. Now, what is it?"

"Lord Stark requests our presence in The Great Hall."

"The Bolton?" Tyrion asks as they exit the library tower. He was in the courtyard when the young Bolton heir arrived with his aunt, the Lady of Barrowton. He was as surprised as they were when Robb leveled Ice at them and their guards and had his men arrest them. There were enough Barrowton men that a fight would have been a bloody affair, but the young Dreadfort heir told his men to throw down their arms and comply with their gaolers.

Since then, he had heard little and less. Even Wylla seemed not to know what was happening - only that they were being kept in separate rooms and that everyone was being treated fairly.

"He did not say, Lord Tyrion, but I think it may be so. Lyddie…one of the girls at the brothel, she told me that a guard told her that they brought the sellsword prisoners to them last night."

"Lyddie, hmmm?" Tyrion says with a smirk. The boy blushes, but not too deeply. His time in Winterfell has been good to him. He has lost nearly two stone. His trips to the brothels certainly provided some exercise, but Stark had actually gotten him to train with weapons. Treat it like a dance, Stark had said, and Sam had taken to it, practicing the forms on a rhythm until he was comfortable enough to spar. Wooden swords, heavy padding, light training, initially, and then upping the intensity gradually until Sam was sparring with the other boys his age and not completely embarrassing himself. And at the end of every third day of good training, Robb would credit Sam at the brothel. The boy was becoming a man. To the point that Robb, in his cups, hinted at the possibility of Sam becoming a Northern Lord.

He had no answer to that, and Robb had not mentioned it since, but he had little doubt that Stark had forgotten or said it in jest. Stark's eagerness to strengthen his lands through economic expansion, military invention, and now, recognizing, cultivating, and perhaps poaching talent like Sam's was an obsession for him. Did it come from his years of want beyond The Wall? Perhaps. He had learned the wisdom of humility at an early age. Through that humility, he learned that the natural state of every creature who is born is poverty, and that prosperity, and the safety that comes with it, must be created - oftentimes at the expense of others.

Others like the sellswords who attacked them in The Wolfswood. Perhaps others like the Bolton heir and his aunt, he thinks as they make their way into the Great Hall.

The food is already prepared and two tables are pushed together - enough for twenty or so to sit around and face one another. Bolton and Lady Dustin are already seated, Val is next to the lady, and Robb beside her. Bread and salt are on the table. They have come to some accord.

Other than them, he and Sam are the first to arrive. He takes a seat opposite them. Sam sits to his left. Robb pours wine for Val and Lady Dustin, mead for himself and Lord Domeric. He looks to Tyrion and Sam, raises an eyebrow.

"Please," Tyrion says as Sam nods. Stark pours two more and walks them around before taking his seat next to his wife.

"How do my trebuchets look, Sam?"

The boy brightens. "Very well! We've gotten the twenty-two foot weirwood arm to fling a six stone projectile over three hundred yards. Lord Tyrion suggested using weirwood for the wagon wheels and the axle system, as well, and that has produced wagons that can not only take more weight, but also more capable of handling the, uh, rigors of the roads."

"Meaning what, Sam?"

"Meaning we can carry trebuchets with the army and not have to construct them on the battlefield. With the weirwood wheels and axles, we can transport the base with less complications and delays while carrying the arms and counterweights and projectiles in different wagons."

"We would be able to set up the trebuchets within…what? A day?"

"Not even that. Half a day, maybe less," Sam replies.

"You'd have to brace the wheels of the base wagon," Tyrion interjects.

"I thought of that. Six large iron rings are attached to the outside of the wagon. Ironwood posts go inside the ring, knock them into the ground like pegs for a tent, and the base is stable."

"Very good, Sam," Robb says with a grin. "Very well done."

"Thank you, Lord Stark."

"We're the same age, Sam. Please call me Robb."

"As you say, Lord Robb," Sam finishes.

Before Robb can correct him again, the door opens, and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik enter, followed by The Reeds, The Glenmores and The elder Forrester siblings. Wylla is next and finds a seat beside him and immediately takes his hand resting atop the table. Tyrion instinctively laces his fingers with hers, and then wonders if this is a true display on the girl's part, or if it is for their guests' benefit. Robb and Val glance at the gesture and grin. Domeric seems unconcerned by it, but his aunt raises an eyebrow for half a moment.

Ser Alyn and Dacey Mormont are the last to enter, Tyrion thinks, until a huge man steps through. It is the Smalljon Umber. Tyrion had no inkling of his presence in the castle, but Robb betrays no emotion at the sight of his bannerman, so he surmises the Umber must have arrived early this very morning. A suspicion that Wylla confirms to him in a whisper.

They all find their seats, and Robb, only sipping at his mead, tells The Smalljon to tell his tale. After the giant's harrowing story is complete, he has Arthur Glenmore tell of the attack in the wolfswood. Dacey interjects to speak of the clearing fight, and Tyrion gets to go into detail about his skirmish with the crossbowman.

At the end, Robb breaks a loaf of bread in half, dips it in salt and hands each half to his guests. They both take a small bite. Robb looks to Domeric Bolton and says, "Bread and salt. Meat and mead. You have guest right. I am obligated to honor and protect you while you are under my roof. You are obligated to return that honor. No lies now, Domeric. I will know, and knowing, I will declare your guest right forfeit and throw you in the dungeon."

"Understood, Robb," the Dreadfort heir says, and Tyrion sees no hint of fear or even anxiety. The lad seems undisturbed by the import of the moment.

"Who is Ramsay Snow?"

"My bastard brother," Domeric answers immediately.

Tyrion shares a look with Wylla and sees the same look of surprise on her face that he can feel on his own; the same look that is on everyone's face around the Hall. Except Lord Domeric and Lady Dustin's. And Robb Stark and his wife. The Lord of Winterfell's face is stone, his blue eyes dark. His wife is just as stoic, neither giving anything away, but Tyrion can sense that there is a bit of mummery here. They have already spoken of this in private. So we are here to witness Lord Domeric's…testimony? Or confession?

"Explain, my lord," Robb says in a soft tone.

"He's a devil made flesh," Lady Barbrey answers.

Robb does not even acknowledge her. His eyes remain on the Bolton heir, who firmly holds his lord's gaze.

"My father raped a peasant woman. On a whim, was how he put it. The desire struck him, so he acted upon it. Nine moons later, she birthed him a son. I never knew about him, not until I returned from my fostering with Lord Redfort and his sons." His aunt takes his hand. Lord Domeric does not break his gaze from Robb, but his fingers interlace with hers. "I visited him, thinking to know this brother of mine. My father warned me against it, but I was determined. He was correct. I was poisoned."

"That's why you didn't fight with us," The Smalljon says. "We were told you took gravely ill."

"He nearly died," Lady Barbrey puts in.

Domeric takes his eyes from Stark finally to offer his aunt a smile that changes the boy's entire face, and Tyrion can see past the gaunt, haunted lad before him to the hale, healthy, and handsome knight he used to be. "I would have died if not for my aunt."

"Roose put leeches all over him. That foul man thinks those things suck away impurities in the blood; he believed they could suck away the poison." She shakes her head. "Instead, the fool nearly drained all the remaining life from Domeric. I came to the Dreadfort to see my nephew for the first time in two years. I pleaded that he stop, but he would not listen, not until it seemed certain that Domeric would die. Only then did he give the care of him over to me, and only then did my beloved sister's son begin to heal."

"I have stayed mostly in Barrowton since my return from The Redfort. After leaving Winterfell, I went to my aunt instead of my father. I wrote down my thoughts and my report on our meeting with the king and gave them to my father's men to take back to The Dreadfort."

"Your bastard brother tried to kill the heir to The Dreadfort, your father's only legitimate son," Tyrion asks. "Why is he still alive?"

"Roose fears the gods. He will not become a kinslayer," Lady Barbrey says.

"This bastard attempted fratricide," Robb says. "Yet Lord Bolton doled out no punishment to an attempted kinslayer because he does not wish to be a…kinslayer?"

"That was his reasoning to me," Barbrey replies. "Though he did exile the bastard."

"When I was a boy," Domeric says in his soft voice, "before my mother died, I found the secret torture chambers in The Dreadfort; the ones that were said to be sealed and forgotten." He shakes his head slightly. "Forgotten. The paring knives that hung on the walls were not rusted. The rooms were not covered in dust. The hinges on the doors did not creak. The blood," he says, sweeping his eyes about the room, "the blood was still fresh enough to gleam in the dim firelight, as did the salt that covered the pale skin lying flat on the table. My mother told me that it was an animal hide, but I knew she was lying. She died not long after that, and I was sent to Barrowton as a page." He locks eyes again with Robb. "Ramsay was exiled by my father after he attempted to kill me. Exiled to Essos with a score of The Dreadfort's most loyal and amoral men and enough gold and silver to quickly start a sellsword company."

Tyrion takes a drink of his mead. "A sellsword company loyal to him. Smart. My father uses them for brigand's work during war."

"Except everyone knows that The Bloody Mummers are in your father's employ," replies Ser Rodrik.

"Only because he wishes it so. Easy enough to have them strike their banners and do their work anonymously if it suits his purpose." He nods toward Domeric. "It seems Lord Bolton has had a similar notion."

"Quite bold of him," Robb says. "My father would have seen such an action as a preamble to rebellion if he had known."

Ser Rodrik harrumphs. "You were believed dead at the time, Robb. The only Stark heirs were two young boys, two girls, and a bastard. We were at the outset of a sea campaign and had little navy to speak of. For a man thinking of treachery, adding a sellsword company to his assets was a prudent decision considering the volatility of the moment."

"My goodbrother is ambitious, but not to the point of recklessness," Lady Barbrey adds. "He will create a trap, but is patient enough to wait for the perfect time to spring it."

"Then why spring it now?" Robb asks. "I have returned. My father is Hand of the King."

"Because you returned with a wildling as a wife. Because you claim wildlings as friends," Val says.

Robb shakes his head. "No, my love…"

"You know it is true, Robb," The Smalljon interjects before turning to Val. "My lady, you and your people have my deepest respect, but the old prejudices do not root out easily, and right now, your union to Winterfell can be exploited as a political weakness."

"As a political weakness," Wylla says. "One not sufficient enough to justify outright violence, especially for one supposedly as cautious as Bolton."

"You are correct, Lady Wylla," Domeric says. "My father would not act if he did not have assurances of some kind from higher authorities."

"Higher than the Hand of the King?"

"Yes," Domeric says.

Tyrion swallows and can hear his throat work in the silence of the moment. A beat passes, then another, and no one speaks, and an image comes to his mind, of this same Hall but another time - of young Jon Snow and a more sickly looking Domeric Bolton, and, of course, his nephew. His stupid, cruel, brutal, jealous, wrathful nephew. "The Crown Prince," Tyrion says. "What did my nephew propose to you, Lord Domeric?"

Bolton stares at him, his pale blue eyes unsettling. Tyrion stares right back, hoping his mismatched green and blue orbs are giving back just as well. "He proposed nothing, Lord Tyrion. Not outright."

"What did he imply?" Robb asks.

"That he hated you and Lord Jon for the praise the king heaped upon you, that if you both were to die, it would not be looked upon unfavorably when he came into his kingdom."

"What was implied as reward?"

"Wardenship. Winterfell. Your younger sister."

"What was your answer?"

Bolton looks curiously at Robb. "The prince struck me as petulant, temperamental, and myopic. Perhaps even mad. It would be foolish to trust him."

"But neither could you refuse him outright."

"Indeed. I offered no answers and instead encouraged him to write to my father with his proposals. I sent my own letter with my father's men detailing my impression of the prince and his notions. My father has apparently accepted The Prince's terms. Thankfully, my brother's competence does not match his brutality."

"Otherwise, Jon would be dead, and The Umbers would be in near revolt," Robb offers.

"You would be dead, and the Lordship of Winterfell and The North would be in the hands of a crippled boy."

"A crippled boy who would currently be in the hands of Lord Bolton. Rickon and myself, as well, I think," Tyrion muses. "It was an excellent plan, really. Foiled by luck and the Lord Jon's tenacity and battle prowess…and by you and your…unknown abilities, Robb." Wylla grips his hand just a bit tighter at that.

"Unknown abilities?" The Smalljon asks.

"Lord Stark and his siblings are wargs," Tyrion says before Robb can answer, and he feels Wylla squeeze his hand just a bit harder at those words.

Robb sends Tyrion a slightly annoyed glance that The Smalljon notices. "Robb?"

Stark's eyes go white, and then Grey Wind is there beside Jon, forepaws on the table and the beast snatches a large slab of meat from the Umber's plate. Umber hardly noticed the wolf. His eyes were on Robb the entire time. Pale white eyes turn blue again, and the giant's brows furrow in thought. "Skinchanger."

"Aye, Jon."

"You obtained this sorcery beyond The Wall?"

"No. Winter found me before I ever manifested the ability. It was always a part of me. My time beyond The Wall unlocked it, and my skinchanger friends helped me control it. As did The Children."

"Children of the Forest. Aye." The big man puts his face in his hands and rubs his temples and eyes.

"They are real, Jon."

"I know." He lowers his hands. His eyes are red. "I heard the old gods speak to me, Robb. On Skagos. Heard them whisper my name as I passed my blade across that sellsword's throat."

The air goes thick around the room. Tyrion can feel the gooseflesh on his arms beneath his sleeves. Wylla's grip on his hand becomes a vice. He leans in and whispers in her ear. "Breathe, my lady."

"The old gods stir, and the magic of The Children and The First Men is returning to The North, but to what purpose, no man can know," Robb says with a passing glance to Jojen Reed. "To dwell on it is folly. We must focus only on the things that are within our control. Such as Roose Bolton's treachery and The Crown Prince's plots against House Stark."

The tension does not disperse at his words, however, as those who were present in the grove trade glances between Robb and Grey Wind until Arthur Glenmore raises his cup. "To Lord Jon and Lord Robb and the spoiling of traitorous plans," Robb nods at the lad and raises his own cup, and everyone drinks.

Stark keeps his cup raised and looks to The Smalljon. "To those we lost, the men and women and children, dear friends and faithful servants." He bows his head just a bit as his eyes close. "The North Remembers."

"The North Remembers," everyone echoes before they all drink deeply. When their cups return to the table, the mood seems lighter.

Robb puts his cup down and taps on the table lightly with his fingers for a few moments. "Our memory is long here in The North. Prince Joffrey will pay for his betrayal though it may be moons or years or even seasons before that accounting comes." He looks to Tyrion for a moment before he turns his gaze to Domeric. "The same for the bastard Ramsay Snow. It may be some time before we can corral him." His fingers stop drumming. "Your father's debts, however, will be paid much sooner than that."

Ser Rodrik twists his mustache. "You mean to assault The Dreadfort? Robb, I am not sure that is the best plan. That castle has stood for a millennia for a reason."

"Unless Lord Domeric knows of secret ways to enter the fortress," Dacey says.

"There will be no siege, there will be no war. I'll not lose another good Northman on account of that rat."

"What then is your plan?" Lady Dacey asks.

Robb looks at Domeric and his aunt. "Lady Barbrey controls Barrowton. Her father is Lord of The Rills. They are two of the five most powerful vassal houses in The North. House Bolton is the most powerful…" He spares a glance at Wylla, "With the possible exception of House Manderly."

Tyrion taps his finger on the rim of his winecup. "A powerful union of vassal houses, I would say."

"Indeed," Robb answers. "They command what, six thousand men all told, Ser Rodrik? Sixty-Five hundred?"

The gruff knight nods. "At full muster, I'd put their numbers close to eight."

"Eight thousand men. A dangerous enemy to have," Robb declares. "But Roose's…insanity has created a wedge; one that has brought his son to us." He pulls out a small scroll, a missive from a raven's leg. "I sent a raven to The Redforts after you first left us months ago, Domeric. My father holds that family in high esteem, so I would know their opinion of you." He unfurls the scroll and reads:

"Domeric Bolton is the finest lad to ever squire for me. Dutiful, punctual, noble, loyal, he demonstrated a keen mind for tactics and politics and a strong arm for battle. And he may be the best young lance these old eyes have seen in years. He is spare with his words, but only because the boy thinks before he speaks - a wisdom seldom seen in young men. Not to say that he is standoffish or unfriendly. Quite the opposite, really. My boys, especially Mychel, came to view him as a brother in the three years he spent in The Redfort.

All told, my opinion of young Domeric could not be higher. He has the makings of a fine lord and an excellent knight. Or perhaps I should say that he had the makings. There has been little word from him or his father since his sickness despite our many letters to The Dreadfort. Though perhaps if he is strong enough to visit Winterfell it means that he is well along on his road to recovery. Please let him know that my family and I have lit candles for him in The Sept and are eager for news of him.

Lord Horton Redfort"

Domeric does not respond, his eyes to the table as Robb reads, but Tyrion thinks he sees a hint of a smile on the boy's face by the end.

"High praise from a good man," Maester Luwin says.

"High praise, indeed," Robb answers back as he stands and walks to Lady Dustin. She turns her chair to face him. "My lady, you came here as a representative of House Dustin and House Ryswell?"

"I came here to support my nephew." She glances around the table, her demeanor haughty. "However, I do speak for House Dustin, and I still have much sway with my father and brothers."

"Roose Bolton built up this alliance, this bloc of powerful houses to oppose my father, with himself at the center. Is that a fair assessment, my lady?"

Her face gives nothing away, though she answers truthfully. "It is."

"And if Domeric was at the center, would this bloc still oppose Winterfell?"

She gives a small smile. "That depends on you, Lord Stark."

He grins back at her. "No. That will depend on Domeric." He claps The Dreadfort heir on the back before walking around the table. He does the same for Tyrion as he passes him by. "Maester Luwin, since father broke Sansa's betrothal, how many offers have we received for her hand?"

"Just over a score, my lord. The more serious ones are direct. The less so only suggest."

He stops before Umber. "Lord Jon was my first thought when word came. He is one of our fiercest fighters, and his loyalty and the loyalty of his House is beyond reproach. Most importantly, I believe that my sister could come to love him."

"And I, her," Jon answers back, his face somber.

Stark holds out his arm, and Jon grips it. "I am honored to be your friend, Jon, honored to be your lord. As a friend, I would make this match. As a lord, I cannot."

The giant's face falls a bit, Tyrion thinks, but he masks it quickly enough. "I understand, Robb."

"This I vow, though," Stark continues, arms still gripped . "Our houses will be bound in the next generation. Son to daughter or daughter to son."

Umber grins. "I suppose that I need to start making sons and daughters then."

"That is a conversation that we will have later," Robb says with a short laugh and a clap on the shoulder before breaking his grip and continuing his trip around the table.

He gets to his wife, sits down in his seat, takes her hand tenderly and kisses her palm. Her smile is warm, her eyes bright. "I have been made painfully aware of the political ramifications of my marriage. Ten years from now or fifty or a hundred, when the story of the wildling girl who became The Lady of Winterfell is told by every hearth or campfire on both sides of The Wall, and trade and friendship exists between The North and The Free Folk, the maesters and the wise men will come to say that this is the union that led our people into a new age of heroes and prosperity." He kisses her palm again before standing. "Men rarely see what can be and instead focus only on what is." He glances at Jojen Reed. "And those who can see the future rarely see beyond the lives of their children. It is in this weather that we must build our shelters." His eyes lock with Tyrion's. "War is upon us, with Casterly Rock, with The Iron Islands. Should my father fail in Kings Landing, then it will be war with the crown itself. In such settings, a man…" he glances at Dacey and then Meera, "...and a woman can prove their worth. I have two sisters whose duty it will be to ease the perceived folly of my own marriage. Politically, there are only three heirs who need be considered." He walks to Domeric and takes the empty seat beside him. "The other two are not present. You are." He is leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, but his eyes are on Bolton, and they are hard. "Politics be damned, I would murder a thousand before I put either of my sisters in the same situation your mother was in." He flexes his sword hand as his nostrils flare. "Prove yourself to me, Domeric. Keep my counsel, fight my enemies, prove yourself to be the man Lord Redfort spoke of. Prove that you are your mother's son and not your father's."

Bolton holds his gaze, but he only nods.

Rob nods with him. "Do that, and I will allow you to court my sisters."

"You do not guarantee a betrothal?" Lady Dustin asks. "Even after he proves his worth?"

Robb looks puzzled at the question. "I am not wedding him. He will have to prove himself to my sisters, as well."

"We are agreed," the Bolton heir says. Lady Barbrey makes to argue, but he only shakes his head. "We are agreed."

Robb stands and offers his arm. Domeric stands and grips it. He is taller than Robb and much thinner. Even if he was healthy, Tyrion does not think his frame would be near as bulky; he was built much more similarly to their bastard brother Jon, more like a swimmer, lithe and athletic, than a brute, heavily muscled and powerful.

"This…tentative betrothal is all well and good, Robb," The Smalljon rumbles, "but it seems to me that you have yet to answer Dacey's question."

Robb looks at Umber, then raises an eyebrow to Dacey.

"How do you plan to deal with Roose Bolton?"

He seems genuinely confused. "I will make Domeric Lord of the Dreadfort."

"Roose has to die for that to happen."

"He will," Robb says in answer. Tyrion looks at Domeric to gauge any reaction. Nothing. His face is carved in stone. His lady aunt, however, looks pleased.

"How?" Umber asks

He looks around the table. "Last night, the ravens flew, the banners were called. All the Northern lords will be here within a moon's turn."

"You mean to arrest him and put him on trial?" Asks Maester Luwin.

"I do not. He will never arrive in Winterfell."

"You mean to ambush him?" Ser Rodrik sputters.

"No."

"Assassination," Tyrion puts forth.

"In a manner of speaking. Lord Roose will have an accident on the road."

Ser Rodrik is red of face. "Robb, my lord, you cannot do this…it is…your father…"

"Bolton sent knives in the dark to kill us and take our place in The North. I will pay him with the same coin he dealt us."

"My lord," Maester Luwin says, "Ser Rodrik is correct. Your father would not condone this action. There must be a trial."

"We had his trial. Just now. The heir to The Dreadfort and The Lady of Barrowton testified that he is a rapist, a torturer, a conspirer, a traitor, and the murderer of my friends in Standfast, of women and children, of all of Lord Jon's crew save one, good men, family men, Northmen. All other testimony and evidence confirms this." He stares at each of them for a moment before his hard eyes move on to the next. "My father would have had a trial. Do you know what that would mean? It would mean that Domeric would have to testify against his father. Lady Dustin's word would not be enough. That would split The Dreadfort and drive enough of those three thousand swords to Ramsay Bolton. Enough to wage war. Enough that we cannot engage our other enemies before rooting him out of The North completely." He slams a fist into the table. "I say no. I am not my father. Not one more Northman will die by his design." He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, his eyes cold. "Roose Bolton will ride to Winterfell with his men. In The Iron Hills, something will spook his mount and it will ride him off a cliff. And the only regret I have is the loss of a good horse."

There is silence at the implication; that Robb will warg himself into Bolton's horse and take him right off a cliff with no one but those in this room any the wiser. There will be rumors, but no proof, and no one will care once Domeric takes control and is wed to a Stark. He will be a good ruler and his men will love him and his Stark bride and his Stark children. But in the back of every lord's mind will be the rumor (or the absolute knowledge) that Robb Stark can kill them without sword or word. Tyrion sees it, and knows Wylla does, as well, for how hard she is gripping his hand. "You are to be the assassin, Robb?" Tyrion cannot help but ask.

He stares at him, and Tyrion can see the weight behind the decision in his eyes for the briefest of moments before they become chips of ice once again. "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. My father taught me that."