Valyrian Steel

by mellowenglishgal

'She was ashamed to have let them down. She was supposed to look after them, after Brandon and Rickon. She was not a Stark; but Robb had entrusted Winterfell to her, to her and Luwin and Bran… She had sent Rickon off with Osha and Shaggydog and knew she would never see them again; she felt it in her marrow. She had Bran alone; and he was forgetting who he was.' ALSO ON AO3.

32. Lion Cubs in the Snow

A.N.: Hopefully the glitch has fixed itself and the newly-updated chapters are available to read! For future reference, I am also now posting 'Valyrian Steel' to my Archive of Our Own account - same username, same story-title. They'll both be updated at the same time. So if this happens again, we don't have to stress about it!

It's a small thing, but I'm getting rid of Larra's freckles.

Also, I was watching The Princess Bride and was overwhelmed by the story of Inigo Montoya, and how the actor's portrayal of that famous scene with the man with six fingers, "I want my father back, you son of a bitch" was Mandy Patinkin getting revenge on the cancer that killed his own father. And I thought…a skilled swordsman fuelled by vengeance, desperate to avenge their father's death…an elegant, stoic princess…a hero who is tormented and returns from being 'mostly' dead…the Strong Man…the tiny mastermind… The Princess Bride is so good it even transcends into other worlds…

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Valyrian Steel

32

Lion Cubs in the Snow

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"We should prepare the nursery."

Larra choked on her tea.

She turned wide eyes on Sansa, cold fear gripping her marrow.

Sansa merely raised an eyebrow at her, only mildly affronted.

"Don't look at me. I cherish every moon-flower that reminds me nothing festers in my womb," Sansa said, almost tartly, turning back to her sewing, and Larra slumped back against the settle, her heart pounding painfully inside her chest, for a second gripped with sheer terror.

"Well, it's not likely to be me," Larra said, frowning. Her last tumble had been far too long ago, though she remembered every lingering touch and deep thrust… She glanced at Bran. "Is there something you need to confess, little brother?"

"We shall have visitors," Bran said softly, his eyes sparkling as he gazed at Larra.

"And you just thought you'd try and frighten the life out of me," Larra frowned.

"Your reaction was wonderful."

"Smart-arse. That was cruel."

"It was. I am sorry," Bran said, his eyes drifting from Larra to Sansa.

They had approached the vicinity of the subject only once, Sansa's…marriage…when Larra had confessed she had not bled in years first due to the stress she had been under, then due to her skinniness. Her body could barely sustain her own life, let alone another. In the last few months, because the gods were cruel, she had started to bleed again, though irregularly, as she continued to put on weight.

As if she wasn't riddled with enough pain, anger and discomfort already.

Larra knew that if that…monster had left Sansa with a child, she would have given birth to it a long while ago - during her time with Jon reuniting the Northmen under the Stark banner.

But, like Larra, the stress of Sansa's circumstances - her near-nightly torture at her husband's hands - had given her the smallest of blessings: Sansa's moon-blood had stopped coming. She had not become pregnant. He who exalted in and cherished violence, mutilation and death could not force life on Sansa, no matter what else he did to her. No life; no child. His seed had not quickened in her womb, forcing her to bring forth his offspring into the world.

Sansa had told Larra quietly that she could not imagine anything worse than being a mother to a child forced upon her by that creature - to never be able to love it, to dread its embrace as she dreaded its father, to taste the nausea and grow cold, gripped by terror, at its smile. To be a prisoner in her own home, abused…to be locked away from herself inside of her own mind, forever…to spend her entire life enslaved by her hate toward and fear of her own child…

"When I have children, I shall have them by a man who is brave and gentle and strong," Sansa had told her, that quiet evening by the fireside. When, Sansa had said. Not if. That gave Larra hope that her sister was not broken by what had been done to her; it gave her hope that Sansa had not been so brutalised that there was no hope for her recovery, for her to live a life of her choosing, one that brought her contentment and joy - a life that was not dictated by the horrors she had survived, but one she designed for herself.

That Sansa could even think of such an occurrence - having children by a man who was worthy of her - was a tremendous milestone in her healing. Sansa had blushed demurely, lowering her eyes to her sewing.

No, Sansa was the farthest thing from broken. She kept herself guarded, though - not just physically, with her intricate leather belts and her standoffish nature - but emotionally: it was Larra herself who had coaxed Sansa into being intimate with another person - because Sansa had recognised the need in Larra for emotional intimacy. For compassion.

Larra, well…she wondered whether there was anyone in the world worthy of Sansa.

She did not think that just as a sister, but as someone who marvelled at Sansa's strength of character, her grit and her sophistication.

"Why must we make ready the nursery?" Larra asked, frowning over at Bran, who was sifting idly through raven-scrolls in his lap, dark eyes glittering as he read some and crumpled others in his fist. "The castle is filling to the rafters with little children, why are these so special?"

"They are the first wards of the King in the North in three centuries," Bran said softly. "The entirety of Westeros will be watching them."

"Jon has taken on wards?" Larra blinked at him, glancing over at Sansa, who looked flummoxed. "We prepare for war and he takes on wards - why?!"

"For the girls," Bran said softly, and Larra frowned, wondering which girls he meant. There were so many vulnerable little girls, after all. The last of the Lannisters; the little rosebuds that were missed during the Uprooting of Highgarden; even Ladies Karstark and Mormont. "None of this is their fault… We should prepare the schoolroom, too." He glanced at Larra, with a ghost of a smile glittering in his eyes. "You will be far more suited to teaching them than anyone else. Maester Luwin crafted the most extraordinary, comprehensive curriculum for inspiring young children to become excited in their learning. And they will love your games and toys and your stories as much as Rickon and I did…maybe even more; they will truly appreciate them, after comparing their time with you to their education under their septas."

"Septas should confine themselves to elocution, dancing and embroidery - and their gods, of course," Larra sniffed scornfully; she had never had any patience for the Seven and all their ridiculous rules, and even less patience for Septa Mordane prattling on about her gods, filling her sister's head (Arya was as resistant as Larra) with nonsense about songs and prayer and seven-sided crystals and incense and books written by men having anything to do with living in a way that honoured the gods.

To live well by oneself and others was a simple thing, needing no such embellishments.

At least, in Larra's opinion: Maester Luwin had raised her with a healthy scepticism for all forms of worship, even the worship of the written word, which could never be taken out of context or relied on utterly, but with that scepticism, he had instilled in her a respect for others' beliefs. Larra's disgust of the Faith did not come from the religion itself, but from her disdain for the only person she knew to follow the Faith and call herself a godly woman - Lady Catelyn. And yet her treatment of Larra and Jon was far from the teachings of the Book of the Mother, who taught compassion, love, tenderness and guided all who would live by her example to protect the innocent as if each was their own child.

"Otherwise they've no place in the schoolroom. Let the maesters teach arithmetic, history, geography, philosophy, agriculture or strategy; it's what they have devoted their lives to studying," Larra added.

"Septa Mordane was very good to us," Sansa said softly.

"To you," Larra corrected, with a smirk. "You, she adored. You were ideal, the image of what a lovely young lady should be. Arya and I - we were the terrors of what she had the nerve to call a schoolroom."

"Do you know how often Septa Mordane used to tell me, 'your sister Larra always persevered', 'your sister Larra had her own struggles'," Sansa said, smiling.

"And you replied, 'my half-sister Larra'," Larra smirked, and Sansa rolled her eyes, though she blushed, because they both know it was true. Sansa had always made sure to make the distinction - to correct others on their mistake. "Alright, well, how many of these wards are we to expect?"

Bran thought for a moment. "Eleven. Seven in one chamber, five in another, and one shall stay with his parents."

"That's thirteen, Bran," Larra said gently, her lips twitching toward a smile. His arithmetic lessons had been cut brutally short.

"Three shall join Little Jon and Ragnar."

"Seven," Larra mused, glancing at Sansa, understanding that Bran wasn't going to mention the thirteenth child he had counted. "Those will be the last of the Lannisters."

"Why on earth is Jon bringing them here?" Sansa asked, wide-eyed, pausing in her writing.

"The closer they are to danger, the farther they are from harm," Larra said, shrugging. "The dead can only kill them. What would the two Queens do, fighting over them?" She sighed, gazing at Sansa. "They will give the North political leverage - provided we live, of course."

Sansa frowned thoughtfully. "That will be Lord Tyrion's doing."

"You think so?"

"Jon would never take little girls as hostages," Sansa said firmly. "He's far too honourable to even think of the advantages they could give us."

"They're only useful as leverage if they have value," Larra said, with a delicate wince. It was a horrible thing to say, but it was true; and the Dragon Queen had burned anyone who had ever thought them precious.

"Then we know Lord Tyrion places value in them - or at least, he recognises his duty to them as one of their last remaining relatives," Sansa said softly. She sighed, frowning. "But why send them to Winterfell, knowing they would be leverage later on… Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Lord Tyrion never did anything for no reason," Sansa said. "He knows exactly what he is doing, he will have thought through every permutation of how this plays out, assuming we win this war against the dead… He has weighed his options, and has chosen to send the last of the Lannisters away to the North. Where neither his sister nor his Queen can get to them."

"Tyrion was never an idiot," Larra said. "And it says a lot that he does not trust his Queen with his kin. After the Ash Meadow and the Lion Culling, what do you imagine he is thinking about her?"

"Nothing very flattering," Sansa said. "He's seen far too many poor rulers not to recognise Daenerys Targaryen as one."

"She's just murdered his entire House to ensure his loyalty and undivided attention," Larra said, crinkling her nose as she mimicked the Queen. Auntie, she thought, with a foul scowl and a shudder of suppressed anger. She was everything her father had been; she disgraced Rhaegar's true legacy. "What does he do next?"

"What he's best at," Sansa said, with a smile that bordered on adoring. "Undermine her at every turn - without making her aware of what he's doing, if he wants to survive; but if he gets too caught up in the game, he may take pleasure in it."

"Do you think he'll get caught up in the game?" Larra asked.

Sansa sighed, frowning thoughtfully. "If she was more like Joffrey, relishing cruelty and indulging in her every whim for it gleefully, then, yes. But Joffrey was stupid; Queen Daenerys is self-righteous, and that is far more dangerous. She believes in herself absolutely, to the detriment of everything around her because she refuses to listen… I think Lord Tyrion has been shocked out of his wrathful grief at being betrayed by his family, by the Dragon Queen burning his entire House, down to almost the last child. The desire to annihilate his family and the reality of the wholesale slaughter of his House are two very different things - not least because the ones he had truly wished to punish are the only ones left alive… And Lord Tyrion is, in his heart, a good man. He will carry his family's deaths with him for the rest of his life, knowing they died because she wanted to make an example of them to him, of her power over him."

"And so he sends the last of the Lannisters to the North. To the one kingdom in Westeros that has declared its independence and consolidated its strength," Larra mused. "The ones preparing for war against an undefeatable enemy. Giant wights and Night Kings or dragons, it makes little difference."

Sansa frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"Say we do, somehow, by the grace of whatever gods there may be, and by our own efforts, manage to defeat the Night King and his hordes… What next? What if Daenerys Targaryen takes King's Landing, kills Cersei, subdues the other Lords, and continues to burn her way through Westeros, only to end up here, in the far North…and here's a castle that has undergone intense fortification, and a people hardened by a fight for their lives the like of which can never be imagined - and who will fight again to preserve their freedom," Larra said, and Bran turned his face to hers, glowing in the firelight, his dark eyes twinkling thoughtfully. "After what we shall face, three dragons will seem like child's play."

"Only a Targaryen would link dragons in the same sentence as child's play," Sansa said, her lips twitching, the closest she had come to teasing Larra about the horrible truth since Larra revealed it.

Larra crinkled her nose. "And there's another point…what happens when Daenerys Targaryen discovers her brother's children live - with a far greater claim to the Iron Throne. Do you think she will content herself to let Jon live, sitting on the Northern throne?"

"No," Sansa said, sniffing delicately. "I don't. I don't believe for a moment she would let anyone stand in the way of her getting what she wants. And she wants the Seven Kingdoms. Jon has already earned one, where she has been wholly rejected by Westeros so far. That wounds her pride now, let alone discovering that Jon has the only legitimate claim to the Iron Throne - and always has." Sansa blinked dazedly at the last comment. Jon has always had the only true claim to the Iron Throne. Sansa stared at Larra.

"He was born a king," Bran said softly. Larra gazed at him.

"Was he?"

"First Rhaegar was killed at the Trident…Aerys and your half-brother Aegon were killed in King's Landing days later," Bran said softly, his face a little pinched - as if remembering the horror; because he could see it. "Aerys, Rhaegar, Aegon, all dead…and then you were born. Aella Alarra first, with Aegon Torrhen coming later. Our Larra. Our Jon. The line of succession had been wiped out, but for Prince Viserys on Dragonstone, Rhaegar's seven-year-old younger-brother. With Jon's birth he was Aerys' direct successor through Rhaegar. He was King the moment he was born."

Larra gazed gloomily at Bran. She hated the reminder that discovering her true parentage had given her nothing; only taken what she had never even had. Mother, father, brother, sister, grandmother, uncle, aunt… That same aunt had now invaded Westeros, intending on claiming it for herself and subduing any who dared oppose her conquest.

"Torrhen," Sansa murmured. "Jon's name…it was Torrhen?"

"Aegon Torrhen. Uniting two ancient Kings," Bran said, his smile soft and dreamy. He sighed, gazing into the fire. "The Conqueror always respected Torrhen. He did what Aegon could not and kept the Northmen in line. And though he was named the King-Who-Knelt, Torrhen never lost the respect of his bannermen. Torrhen was a hard man who understood that a man who kneels may yet rise again, blade in hand."

"Well, it only took three centuries, but here we are," Larra said, feeling suddenly exhausted, as if she had lived every moment of those three centuries.

"Torrhen," Sansa murmured again, frowning. "I don't think I could ever call Jon that."

"Don't; it's not his name," Larra said softly. "He's Jon."

"Until he's not," Sansa said, with a sigh. "We have to think carefully about the inevitability of people discovering your true parentage."

"Who's going to tell anyone?" Larra frowned. She sighed. "There are only five people who know the truth - three of them are in this room; the fourth will be hidden among the marshes of the Neck by now; and the fifth ranges beyond the Wall and kept the secret as long as Father did."

"No," Bran said softly, and Larra's heart seized. Meera…Uncle Benjen… "We are not alone in knowing the truth. Not all who witnessed your birth died at the tower Rhaegar named Joy… A spider has been twitching threads on his sticky-web, long ignored…but not forgotten."

"Spider… Lord Varys, you mean," Sansa said, with a slightly scornful frown. "The Master of Whisperers."

"And the most effective since Lord Bloodraven," Bran murmured, and Larra sighed, staring into her earthenware mug of steaming, fragrant tea. Lord Bloodraven… She had far too many ghosts, Larra realised. Lyanna, Rhaegar, Rhaenys, Aegon, Rhaella, Brandon, Rickard, Father, Robb, Rickon and Osha, Maester Luwin, Brynden Rivers the Bloodraven, Leif and the Children, Jojen and Hodor and Mikken and Ser Rodrik and all the rest… People she had known and loved, and people she had never met, whose lost love she grieved for…

"He knows, then," Sansa was saying to Bran, who nodded slowly.

"He does not yet know that Larra lives," Bran answered softly. "Only that Jon thrives in the North. He has learned the truth of their birth from Wylla, their first wet-nurse. Soon he shall discover documents declaring their birth official…that they are legitimate…soon, all of Westeros shall know that Rhaegar and Lyanna wed on the Isle of Faces…that Rhaegar and Elia were officially separated, intending for Elia to retire to the Water Gardens for her health, while the Dornish gave their strength to Rhaegar in a coup to enforce a regency on his father's rule, along with Northern support through his marriage to Lyanna… Soon, Westeros shall know that the only true heirs to the Iron Throne are Rhaegar's surviving children by Lyanna Stark, secreted away by her brother Lord Eddard, who was every bit as honourable as people believed."

"So the Spider has his eyes on Jon," Sansa frowned.

"He is disillusioned with Daenerys Targaryen; this is how he would supplant her," Larra said, with a heavy sigh. "Using Jon."

"He has seen Jon's true quality," Bran said softly. "He has observed Jon long enough to be able to compare his leadership with that of Daenerys Targaryen's…and to find her wanting."

"But he still supports her?" Sansa frowned.

"He is adaptable," Bran said thoughtfully, watching the flames flicker. "Lord Varys will use who he must and act in whatever way he must to secure the safety and prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms and all its peoples. He supports no single person, but uses them for his endgame."

"And he's decided he can just use Jon to get whatever it is he wants? Without Jon's knowledge or consent?" Larra scowled.

"No-one Lord Varys uses ever gives their consent," Sansa sighed softly. "They never know they're being used to give their consent."

Larra winced. "People cannot discover the truth before Jon learns it."

Bran sighed softly. "Someone has made allusions to the circumstances of your birth," he said softly, glancing at Larra.

"Who?!"

"The Queen of Thorns," Bran murmured, and Sansa pulled a face, almost smirking.

"And what did she have to say about it?"

"Just that the timing of everything was highly suspect. They discussed it long enough - and bluntly enough - that Jon is left wondering… When the time comes, he will be ready to accept the truth - however horrifying the ramifications may be," Bran sighed, gazing into the distance, a soft frown drawing his features. Larra watched, as he reached down to grip the polished rims of the wheels of his chair, guiding himself around, and, with some effort, pushed himself forward to the great working-desk. He glanced up, and saw Larra, who was smiling radiantly. "What?"

"That's the first time you've ever done that," she said softly. "Wheeled yourself around."

The first time he had taken agency over his own movement since his fall. Hodor and Larra had carried him past the Wall and back: Now, he had that clever wheeled chair. For the first few months, he had been content to let others wheel him about. Now…

He did it himself. No longer just allowed others to push him around, but actively engaging in his surroundings and how to navigate them - as if he was truly here, not just a shell that resembled Bran, filled with memory out of context. This was Bran, her stubborn, impish, curious little brother.

And he was learning how to be independent once more, for the first time since his fall.

The Three-Eyed Raven teaching him to fly had not freed him; Maester Wolkan's wonderful chair had. It had given him independence.

The fact that Bran was choosing to move about the solar, and going about it himself, was an extraordinary thing to witness - for the girl who had been with him since he had woken, frail and broken and frustrated and deeply wounded, upset, the life he had imagined for himself stripped from him with one stumble…

Bran gazed at her, and for a second, as the firelight flickered, Larra imagined it was ten-year-old Bran gazing through the mask of his older face, dimpled and sweet, his dark eyes dancing - modest pride radiating from him, as it had when they finally buckled him into Lord Tyrion's marvellous saddle.

He still needed help moving Sansa's chair from behind the desk; Larra rose to carry it out of the way, so that Bran could adjust his wheeled chair behind the desk, tucked close, and his dark eyes scanned the papers and parchment and books stacked on the great table. Moved by his sweet little smile, the glimpse of Bran beneath the mask, Larra reached out to trail her fingers through his inky dark hair, and leaned in to give his brow a tender kiss. She heard him sigh softly, and he had his eyes closed, his expression almost wistful, when she withdrew from him. He blinked, and rustled some papers; then he lifted a neat scrap - a raven-scroll - pinned it down with weights, and eyed Sansa's ink-well and the earthenware pot of new quills waiting to be used.

"And what are you doing?" Sansa asked, gazing at Bran with a slight frown, as he reached for a quill.

"It is one thing to know that there is evidence; it is another thing entirely to navigate a snake-pit to find it," Bran murmured. "And Prince Doran, though less notorious than Lord Varys, is no less cunning. He has his own endgame… I intend to help them see that they may serve each other's purposes well."

"What are you going to do?" Larra asked darkly.

"What should have been done decades ago," Bran sighed, dipping the quill into the ink-well. "Rhaegar failed because he cared too much what others thought of his actions, however necessary they were. Nor did he wish for others to be punished and blamed for what he was about to do, should his father learn of it prematurely… The coup to install a regent never occurred because Rhaegar kept everything too covert. He did not trust the Spider to want the same things he did…"

"And if he had trusted the Spider?"

"The last twenty-five years would have been rewritten," Bran said simply. He sighed, frowned, and gazed down at the raven-scroll, quill hovering inches above it. Unsure what to write, perhaps - or unfamiliar with the feel of a quill in his hand, after so many years. He raised his gaze to Larra. "I think you and Sansa should go and make ready the chambers for the children - and their carers. They will be here in three days' time."

"Carers?"

"Escorting them are Lord Tyrion's companion, Tisseia, a Lhazareen khaleen of the Dothraki named Zharanni, and Nymeria Sand, ostensibly as an envoy of Daenerys Targaryen," Bran said.

"But not in fact," Sansa said.

"'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken'," Larra said, with a delicate smirk. "The Dornish serve the Dornish… I hear tell the Sandsnakes are more dangerous even than their father was… Still, we shall have an envoy from the Water Gardens at Winterfell. That will be beneficial later."

"Anyone else?" Sansa asked, glancing at Bran.

"Two septas and three maids accompany the Lannisters. Each of the Lannisters has been assigned their own bloodrider to protect them - and an Unsullied soldier, to keep the bloodrider in check lest they are tempted to give in to their culture," Bran said, and Sansa scowled.

"Strange the Queen felt the need to protect the girls from their assigned protectors," Larra sniffed, frowning.

"Where are they coming from? The Kingsroad?" Sansa asked.

"They sailed from Dragonstone to White Harbour," Bran said softly.

"And before that, they journeyed from Casterly Rock toward King's Landing, and were diverted to Dragonstone," Larra sighed, shaking her head. "All that within, what, two months? They'll be exhausted."

"Did Lord Manderly host them?" Sansa asked Bran, who nodded.

"Yes. Lord Manderly increased their escort, and sends more provisions, including another shipment of obsidian, and half his men. But the smallfolk remain at the harbour city, to lessen the strain on Winterfell's resources and to man the Northern fleet. They may yet be called upon to ferry the last of the Northmen from the mainland," Bran said gently.

"And where would they sail to?" Larra asked, frowning. "Skagos? The Free Cities? Wherever they flee, the Night King will follow."

"Unless he falls."

Larra smiled sadly, "Winterfell may yet be the place where winter fell?"

"Perhaps…"

Larra and Sansa spent the next day preparing chambers for another influx of guests. Wards of Winterfell, seven of them would be, and southerners who had never experienced snow, let alone true winter. Like Bran, they had all been born in the Long Summer; they had never known anything else. Larra insisted that the seven Lannisters share a chamber - and she chose Brandon's old chamber, wood-panelled for extra warmth, with a good sized hearth, little windows and easy access to the nursery and their former schoolroom - and Larra's chamber down the corridor. They tucked a second large bed in beside Brandon's old one - the girls could fit three to a bed easily - and a small cot for the youngest child.

Rickon's bedroom had already been rearranged for Little Jon and Ragnar, who were thick as thieves and did not seem to appreciate that their little haven away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the castle - and Larra's eagle eyes - was being violated by the addition of new children. A second bed was tucked into Rickon's room, beside the larger one Rickon used to somehow go missing in - as she helped the maids tuck fresh linens over the bed, Larra couldn't help but remember how she spent several hours one morning desperately searching the castle for Rickon - who had managed to tuck himself along the bottom edge of the bed beneath the sheets and quilts and furs where he went unnoticed, sleeping away peacefully.

She squashed the memory trying to poke at her mind, the one of Rickon's statue in the crypt - the statue of an adolescent young man, no longer the little boy of her memory.

In Larra's chamber, where Maester Wolkan had had the trunks filled with Larra's progresses sent, as she had requested, Sansa sat on Larra's bed, while Larra rocked gently in her chair beneath the window, and they went through the contents of Larra's trunks, deciding what to decorate the schoolroom with that would ignite curiosity and inspire delight in the children confined to it for several hours a day.

Sansa alternated between playing with the wooden games and hand-painted jigsaw puzzles and combing through Larra's paintings, her progresses, and Larra's stories.

"'She-Wolves and Winter Kings: The Starks of Winterfell'," Sansa sighed, smiling, as she opened a fat tome Larra had created with her brothers' and Maester Luwin's help. It was the first manuscript Larra had ever learned to bind, and only after Maester Luwin had worked with them for months on writing biographies - seeking facts, inferring from text, understanding context and perspective, and paying close attention to the long-term ramifications of particular choices made by their heroes. She, Jon and Robb had each worked on writing biographies of the legendary Stark kings and she-wolves they had researched, even some of Old Nan's stories preserved on the parchment. Maester Luwin had settled the argument over who got to write about Lord Cregan Stark, their mutual hero, by determining that they should work together on his biography. Larra had illustrated every single entry - their faces had appeared in her dreams, as had so many others.

The last entry…was Robb, as Larra remembered him in the courtyard, armed and armoured and riding to war in the last of the late-summer snows, surrounded by his bannermen.

The two-dozen parchment pages that followed his likeness were pristine.

Larra had left room for more. For Robb's children, and his grandchildren. They hadn't known it, then, that those children would never be born.

Larra had never dared to dream that it would be Jon who was crowned the next King of Winter.

Sansa sat cross-legged on Larra's bed, surrounded by puzzles and toys and dolls, her face shining as she tenderly caressed her fingertips over their brother's portrait.

Larra tenderly shuffled the colourful, illustrated cards she had made of the alphabet, and the phonics sounds to enable Rickon with his reading…every morning, she had been woken by Rickon climbing into bed with her for a cuddle. Before they broke their fast, before they even climbed out of bed, Larra would go through the deck of cards with Rickon, quick and easy, holding up one card and waiting for him to make the sound. She would shuffle the cards, introduce them in new ways - after their breakfast, they would sit in the godswood with a basket Larra had filled the previous afternoon with things that had the same letters as the sounds they were focusing on in Rickon's reading - feather, fern, fish, fan, frog, flower. She used to walk with Maester Luwin in the afternoons as she collected items for Rickon's treasure-basket, as he had called it. And they would sit by the pond in the godswood, practicing their letter-formations, dragging a stick through the mud. It was the only way to get Rickon to learn: He would not sit in the schoolroom at a table. Maester Luwin had educated Bran: And he had let Larra implement creative strategies to coax Rickon into engaging with his own learning, understanding that the two boys were vastly different. Bran had always been very bright and curious, eager to learn: Rickon had to be coaxed and almost hoodwinked into being educated. As long as he was playing a game, and as long as he had Larra's attention, he was happy - and happy to learn.

The cards were rippled in places, where Rickon had spilled his tea on them, or muddy, where they had been dropped in the godswood, and some of them were bent; one of them even had a hole punctured through the parchment - where Shaggydog had attempted to help pick up the dropped cards. These cards were precious; they were her mornings with Rickon, their special time together. They were his cuddles as they went through the cards, his tawny curls tickling her chin, his giggles, and his smiles when he went through all the cards without a single error, and they moved on to the simple stories Larra and Maester Luwin had written together to introduce simple sentences and more complex words.

She tucked the cards in a neat pile and tied the sapphire velvet ribbon around them, as she had every other time before, and tucked them in Rickon's treasure-basket full of trinkets and toys and artefacts Larra had unearthed to reinforce his lessons… She stood up, bones aching, and went to sit with Sansa on the bed, which was utterly too soft for her, but she sat with her sister, and gazed down at Robb's handsome face.

"I never imagined it would be Jon," she said softly.

"Who could have?" Sansa sniffed, finally turning the page, to the last Larra had written about Robb.

Beneath She-Wolves and Winter Kings: The Starks of Winterfell open before Sansa, another leather-bound manuscript caught Larra's notice. The leather was dyed red, and a three-headed dragon ouroboros was embossed on the cover, a title embellished in silver-leaf beneath it. She lifted the book into her own lap, tracing her fingers over the lettering that had taken her weeks to emboss, so particular was she about it.

"'An Abbreviated History of the Dragon-Riders, Notorious Princesses and Terrible Kings of House Targaryen'," she sighed. "Otherwise known as my family-history. Gods…"

Her heart squeezing, Larra grimaced and turned to the last page.

A portrait of Prince Rhaegar with Princess Elia Martell, their daughter Princess Rhaenys standing in her father's lap, her tiny fingers wrapped around his forefingers for balance as she smiled, infant Aegon still in his swaddling, cradled in his mother's arms…

And another portrait, this one of Rhaegar alone, grim-faced and exhausted, silver-gold hair pulled back from his face by a neat leather cord, a swathe of dark-gold across his jaw, a battle-beard that he had not worn at Harrenhall, slogging through the carnage of battle, dressed in serviceable black armour, battered and battle-scarred, the only concession to ornament the rubies embellishing the three-headed dragon on his gorget.

Larra stared at the painting.

Not because Rhaegar was handsome and exhausted and hated war.

But because, entering the throne-room of Dragonstone that first day he had arrived, grim, exhausted and unimpressed…Jon had never looked more like him.

"It is uncanny…" she murmured, frowning down at the portrait. She trailed her fingertips over Rhaegar's face, as Sansa had Robb's.

"What is?" Sansa asked, her voice rather thick, as she wiped her face.

"In my dreams…I saw their faces," Larra said distractedly, still gazing at Rhaegar. She had his eyes. Exactly, his eyes. She had seen it, in the memories Bran had shown her during their journey home…but she hadn't even realised it as she painted this picture, all those years ago… She was painting her father. Their father. And Jon…though Lyanna's solemn beauty dominated their looks, Jon did resemble Rhaegar.

In their childhood, their resemblance to Lyanna was almost horrifying… As a man, and a seasoned warrior, Jon looked more like Rhaegar than he ever had before. She sighed, shaking her head, wincing, and her eyes stung. "My terrible family. This is Rhaegar, exactly as he was during the Rebellion."

"He looks like Jon," Sansa said quietly, and Larra nodded. Sansa saw it too - but then, she knew Jon the Lord Commander, Jon the King. Larra remembered Jon her twin-brother, Jon who had left Winterfell for the Wall, not even yet really a man…her first glimpse of him had been in the throne-room at Dragonstone, and even then…he could not see her.

Her eyes scanned the paintings. Elegant Elia, and her little babies… Larra's older sister, her older brother…

She gasped, feeling as if someone had just punched through her gut with a burning lance.

Rhaenys had their father's eyes. She had Larra's eyes.

Larra turned the page, tracing her fingers over the gold-and-silver lettering pronouncing Rhaegar's name, his unofficial title - The Last Dragon. The name by which the songs would always remember the tragic prince… Larra read what she had written, wincing. As with Lyanna, she had never been particularly forgiving of what she considered to be Rhaegar's utter lapse of judgement in sneaking off with Lyanna when he should have been securing a regency to end his father's tyranny - whether or not Lyanna had consented to it (and Larra being a fierce Northern she-wolf herself, never believed for a moment that Lyanna would have allowed herself to be carried off; she had believed Lyanna to be a selfish idiot who mucked it all up for everyone else). Larra read her entry on Rhaegar, from his birth during the Tragedy of Summerhall, to Duskendale, to the Tourney at Harrenhall…to his death at the Ruby Ford, his chest caved in by Robert Baratheon's great war-hammer, his heart crushed, dying with Lyanna's name on his lips.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, grimacing, and kneaded her chest with the heel of her palm at the sudden ache, uncovering the third painting connected to Rhaegar's section… Lyanna.

Moonlight and shadows. Obsidian and snow. Lyanna's serene, haunting beauty was captivating.

And, except for Lyanna's grey eyes and her cascade of straight treacle-dark hair, Larra was Lyanna.

Larra had her father's violet eyes, and her paternal grandmother's curls.

Otherwise, it was uncanny. It was…horrifying.

It was the reason Father's joy had always died at the sight of Larra's smiles.

At her back, Larra reached for her hunting-knife, unsheathing it, gripped with horror and grief and an unaccountable sense of guilt, her own handwriting burning her skin like a brand of shame as she gazed down at the page, and she started to cut through the leather thongs binding the gathers inside the leather covers.

"What are you doing?" Sansa yelped, swatting at Larra's hand, looking horrified. "Don't ruin it!"

"It's not right," Larra said, stunned to hear her voice so hoarse, strained, her eyes burning. It wasn't right. Sansa laid her hand gently on Larra's, forcing her to still.

"Don't ruin it," she repeated gently.

"How could I think so horribly of him?" she asked hoarsely, sniffing.

"We all did."

"Why did Father let us grow up believing the absolute worst of Rhaegar?"

"It was safer that way. You had no illusions," Sansa said gently. The grip of sudden grief and madness and guilt eased, and Larra gentled, the grip on her knife loosening; Sansa took it from her, placing it gently on Larra's bedside cabinet. She was a little more comfortable with holding one now, after her near-nightly lessons with Larra in the privacy of Sansa's chamber.

"Do you know something…in all my life, I cannot remember Father ever saying a bad word about Rhaegar," Larra said, squeezing her eyes. "Rhaegar, who…was indirectly responsible for the deaths of his father, brother and his sister…"

"I imagine it was a terrible sort of privilege," Sansa said, her voice soft but thick, and Larra frowned curiously at her. "To raise Rhaegar and Lyanna's children, who were born out of love - out of a desire for them to be born. To know that all that death, the War…was built upon a lie… That it was an unjust war. And the ones who truly suffered were the innocent - you, and Jon. You were left orphaned because of him, because of Robert."

"He didn't start the War…though it became his when people believed his love had been snatched by Prince Rhaegar," Larra said gloomily. "Lyanna saw through Robert… She chose another, and Robert could not forgive Rhaegar for it… But it was Jon Arryn who called his banners, protecting Robert and Father from the King. He would not yield the boys he loved as his own sons… The real reason for the War became lost over time. It was Jon's love for his surrogate sons that started the War. Robert never loved Lyanna; he lusted after her…he imagined he loved her 'til the day she died, for she was the one woman in the world he could not have. She was a paragon to him, of all he thought he deserved… She was so much more…and Rhaegar knew it. He understood her true quality. That's why she chose him… Because he was worthy of her. That's why Father never said a word against him…because Rhaegar was a good man… It's worse to know that he was good."

"It's a bloody mess," Sansa said, giving Larra a glum look.

"It is indeed that," Larra agreed, with a tremulous smile, feeling no humour. It was worse to know that Rhaegar had been good all along.

She gazed down at the book in her hands.

She had not left empty pages: She had not even included the two Targaryen exiles flung across the world, Viserys and Daenerys. In her mind, the Last Dragon was Rhaegar.

Larra still believed that.

She was a Northerner. She was a Stark, even if Father had denied her the name to protect her life. The wolf-blood flowed through her veins. She was as much a part of the North as it was a part of her.

And yet… Rhaegar was not the last Targaryen.

She wondered how he would have felt - how they would have felt, him and Lyanna - to know that Jon would rise from bastardy to become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and King in the North, uniting men against the Night King…

Rhaegar had loved songs. Lyanna had been raised on Northern legends. Larra wondered whether they would both have been simultaneously proud and horror-struck that Jon had endured a life out of legend.

We both have, she added, somewhat offhandedly.

Everything she had written about Rhaegar was wrong.

It was a disservice not just to him, but to Lyanna and Ned and Larra herself and Jon, not to correct things.

Larra sighed, and set aside the manuscript with its mangled cover, feeling guilty over her hastiness. She had nothing to replace Rhaegar's chapter… But should she replace it? Everything she had written, she had believed - as the majority of Westeros did - to be accurate. Over twenty years after the fact, the truth had been revealed. Her previous writings now filled her with shame, because she could see the scorn with which she had written about Rhaegar: A scorn he did not deserve - not from her.

"Perhaps you can amend it," Sansa said, tenderly smoothing out the parchment featuring Rhaegar's war portrait, the one that showed his marrow-deep weariness and hatred of war, far more punishing and accurate than anything Larra had written about him. That portrait showed his true nature - and so did the family portrait, with his daughter on his knee, smiling and deeply affectionate, proud… Larra wondered what it would have been like, to know the deep and abiding love of a father unbridled by anything…

Now, Larra knew Father's love for her had begun with his love for Lyanna, and yet it had always been strained and tarnished by that same love - and the presence of his wife.

Not for the first time, Larra wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a mother, her mother. She wondered now what their lives would have been like had Lyanna lived…had Rhaegar lived…

The last twenty years would not have happened, Bran had said.

There would certainly be no Dragon Queen turning her greedy gaze to the Seven Kingdoms, threatening to annihilate them all so she could nestle herself comfortably on a throne of fire and blood…

The Dragon Queen.

She bore the name of Targaryen yet Larra could not reconcile Daenerys with the dynasty carved out by their forefathers - because she had been separated from the culture of that extraordinary family just as effectively as Jon and Larra had. Daenerys had risen on her own, yet had only risen because of her dragons - and Larra did not believe Daenerys was anything without them.

And Daenerys did not plan a restoration so much as a total conquest of sovereign nations that had effectively and irrevocably cast off three centuries of her family's oppression.

Rickard and Brandon Stark had been the last spark to ignite the wildfire that saw House Targaryen destroyed with fire and blood.

"I shall make it up anew," Larra declared tiredly. Rhaegar deserved better. And Daenerys Targaryen's conquest needed to be recorded.

She would start with Daenerys Stormborn's birth, nine moons after the Sack of King's Landing, at Dragonstone; her marriage to Khal Drogo; her collusion with her horse-lord husband to murder her brother the Beggar King…the birth of the dragons in the Dothraki Sea, and everything that had happened since - everything Larra had witnessed in Bran's memories, saving the people of Slavers' Bay from their savage ways, an imperialist, the pride of her Valyrian forefathers…

Perhaps Larra would compose a unique manuscript purely to record the rise of the Mother of Dragons…and her descent…

That was the thing about flying, she knew, from nursing the dire-eagle all those years ago and watching it test its healing wings and take to the air. There came a point where the creature could fly no higher…when it inevitably had to fall - either back to safety, or to its death. Sometimes they were snatched by unexpected air-currents, flinging them off-course.

Dragons were no different. Even they had their limits.

"Larra… Look what I've found!" Sansa beamed fondly, and she showed Larra a very slim volume that Larra had created on her own, without Maester Luwin overseeing the process. It was a very slim manuscript, with a Braavosi sword burned on the plain wooden cover. "Do you remember this? I'd forgotten… It was our favourite…"

Larra found herself smiling, taking the book from Sansa. "The Princess Bride…"

"I remember Arya was so disappointed when you asked me for the title; then you asked her for the hero… A pirate," Sansa said, beaming, clicking her tongue fondly at the memory - and their sister's tomboyish nature - and Larra smiled. "Truest love and sword-fights."

"The makings of every good story," Larra said softly. She took the slim book, opening the dainty clasp, and flicked through the pages. It was a very simple story, not highly detailed - but it was theirs. Hers, Sansa's, Arya's - and the boys' too, even the older ones. It was a story Larra had created, first for her sisters, and then her brothers had fallen in love with it. But it was clear it had been written by a novice, more time spent on the illustrations; the story itself had always varied in the retelling, Larra remembered. "Hmm…"

"What?"

"It could be improved," Larra said fondly, gazing at the painting of the Dread Pirate, and another of the Princess Bride in her exquisite golden gown.

"Well, we loved it," Sansa said, smiling fondly, and Larra chuckled.

"I know. Even Rickon adored it. The Dread Pirate duelling with the Braavosi swordsman," Larra sighed. "He asked if Hodor was the Strong Man - and if I was the Princess, going to be taken away to marry a prince in a foreign land… I said yes: Prince Oberyn the Red Viper. He raged and bawled for days, thinking I was going to be taken from him. He would not forgive me for teasing him." Larra's smile turned tremulous, her eyes smarting. She sniffed, her smile brightening. "Until I brought him a treacle sponge pudding in secret, and between us we ate every single crumb…" She pinched her eyes, sniffling, her nose and throat burning, overwhelmed. "I never used to cry at all."

"You haven't had years to reconcile their deaths…as I have," Sansa said with a gentleness that was surreal to hear from her now. "And I wept…"

"You wept…but you weren't allowed to grieve," Larra said succinctly, eyeing Sansa's black mourning clothes. Now, she had the freedom to mourn, to grieve their loved ones - and themselves. What they had survived was nothing to scoff at.

"Read it to me, like you used to?" Sansa said gently, eyeing the book.

"You want me to?" Larra asked, and Sansa settled back against the embroidered bolster-pillow, cradling an old doll Larra had made years ago. Larra sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, glanced over at her sister and smiled. And she began, as she had begun every telling: "'The Princess Bride. Chapter One: The Most Beautiful Woman in the World'…"

She read the story, in its simplest form. And as she did so, the adventure she had imagined came to life in her mind for the first time in years. Long after Sansa had retired to change for an evening with the nobility in the great hall, Larra sat in her chamber, embellishing and improving the story of the Princess Bride in her mind, her fingers itching for a stylus and her paint-set. The little story she had created for her siblings - one of so many - was expanded and embellished, improved and revised, and she started to imagine the motivations and backstories of the characters - her soft-spoken Braavosi, in particular, who thirsted for vengeance, the most masterful swordsman in the world; the sweet giant; the calm tenacity of the elegant princess; the devotion of her hero; the sheer repugnance of the handsome prince.

The characters were all people she had loved in her own life: The humour and wit she gave them was her own.

It made her happy to think of her story, and her characters, and to write the notes down, and to anticipate telling the story to other little children. It gave her something to focus on, rather than drift through the shadowed corridors of Winterfell at all hours when she did not sleep for dread of never waking.

Her mind came alive with the story of the Princess Bride and her pirate-hero, a sweet giant and a chivalrous, vengeful swordsman, a story of miracles and intrigues and the deepest and most abiding love. Of grit, and of hope.

---

By the time the caravan of wagons and wheelhouses was sighted over the moors two days later, the first chapter of the original version of The Princess Bride was stuffed with inserts and notes on scraps of paper, all documenting the flurry of ideas and improvements Larra had thought up for her characters and her story.

She was excited to share them.

They saw the Manderly colours flying, but no Lannister lions - except those inlaid into the polished sides of the two wheelhouses that trundled laboriously over the moors. Larra could never understand wheelhouses - with so many jolts and lurches, surely it would be more comfortable to ride? More wagons trailed behind, lots of them, and Manderly soldiers marched behind them with spears and shields.

As the Lannister wheelhouses drew to a stop, Larra and Sansa met in the courtyard, which was bustling with people all devoted to their daily chores - the everyday running of the castle, alongside siege-preparations for the war. The days were very much shorter than they were all used to, night falling barely the fifth hour after midday now, and the torches and braziers had all been lit so the work could continue. The moon was bright tonight, though, which also helped, and limned everything with silver, making the fresh snow glimmer and glisten, and made their faces glow. There was just enough light, with the torches and braziers and moonlight, to keep working, at least for a couple of hours until supper - at which time the torches and braziers were doused, heedful that their wood supply was not unlimited. They did not insist that people worked through the night: Exhausted soldiers did not make an effective army. And they had to go on under the assumption that battle could commence at any moment. They all needed the strength to endure the storm.

Several people glanced up, gaping at the lions emblazoned on the sides of the wheelhouse as they flashed in the torchlight - and at the copper-skinned riders who guarded the wheelhouses, each of them carrying cruel arakhs and curved bows, their long braids oiled, tinkling with tiny silver bells, wearing shaggy furs that left their arms mostly bare, revealing rippling muscles. Their horses were very fine, and the natural riders among them took note of the patterned blankets beneath the Dothraki-style saddles, which were smaller by far than the designs favoured in Westeros. Marching on the outside of each rider was a soldier in gleaming black leather and black linen, wearing a spiked helmet that made them resemble beetles, each carrying two swords, a shield and spear. They were not dressed for the winter, but Unsullied had been trained to ignore discomfort. They were not uniform in their appearance beneath their helmets, the way the Dothraki were all copper-skinned with dark almond-shaped eyes and coarse black hair - some of the Unsullied were silver-haired Lyseni, some Ghiscari, some Summer Islanders, some had a Westerosi look to them, and some had the look of Dothraki. What made them uniform was their training. It had brutalised the individuality out of them: They had been trained to understand that to act alone was dangerous.

They had orders from their mistress.

Even over the noise of the courtyard, they could hear squabbling - a child crying, and the voice of a boy on the cusp of manhood, a woman speaking in a foreign tongue in frustration, high-pitched squabbling.

"Well…here they are," Sansa sighed, standing a little straighter.

"Easy," Larra warned gently, as Sansa's features turned near-glacial. She looked queenly and imposing. "They're frightened, tired little girls. Don't punish them for their relatives." Sansa sighed, glancing at Larra.

"It reminds me of her arrival," Sansa admitted, looking uncomfortable, as two Unsullied snapped to attention and unfolded the steps below the door of each wheelhouse.

"It may look similar…but it is far from the same situation," Larra said quietly, as others gathered at the edges of the courtyard - as much to witness the legitimate Dothraki screamers and Unsullied soldiers as the expensive wheelhouses emblazoned with lions. "This time, the North is strong."

A woman with a dimpled, cheerful face sighed with relief as she climbed down the steps, her embroidered skirts shimmering beneath a heavy woollen shawl trimmed with fur, draped elegantly around her shoulders. She tucked a curtain out of the way, and held her hand out; a little paw appeared, covered in a woollen mitten, and a tired, wan little face followed. A little girl clambered down the steps, one of the middling girls, Larra recognised. She was followed by another, this one very tiny, who was passed out of the door by a woman with lustrous dark eyes, dressed elegantly but not particularly warmly, with a silk shawl patterned with sunspears draped around her head like a cowl. The little girl - the youngest of the Lannisters - was red-faced and screaming, great fat tears dripping down her sodden cheeks, hiccoughing and choking on her sobs, and she looked absolutely exhausted.

"Oh, dear," Larra tutted softly, flinching as Rickon's wrathful tantrums flickered through her memory, loosening something she had tucked into her belt in anticipation, as another little girl - this one unfamiliar to her, with shimmering hair that glowed silver in the moonlight, her clothing far less rich than the other girls - slipped down the steps. There was a scuffle, and a boy on the cusp of manhood briefly tussled at the doorway with the eldest of the Lannisters.

"Oi! Cissa!" the boy grunted, as she slipped back into the wheelhouse, freeing the doorway - only to shove the boy down the steps. He fell haphazardly, hitting the wooden steps, and with a growl, he picked up a handful of muddy slush, flinging it backwards at the girl, who squealed and ducked away as she slipped down the steps.

"Rhysand!" she squealed irritably, her face drawn in annoyance, swiping the sludge off her skirts, and she reached out to shove his shoulder as he blocked the foot of the steps, and her path. Eventually, she shoved her way past in a flurry of heavy skirts and shimmering blonde hair, while the boy - Rhysand - smirked insolently, sprawled at the foot of the steps in the sludge, an elbow resting against a step, eyeing the girl up as she shook her long braid back and gazed imperiously at him.

The other wheelhouse emptied, a copper-skinned woman stepping down first, her vibrant eyes wide with apprehension as she gazed around the courtyard.

"I recognise her," Sansa murmured, and Larra looked closer.

"The Lhazareen khaleen from Vaes Dothrak," Larra said softly, glancing at her sister. The young widow whose khal had broken her ribs after delivering him a daughter at the age of thirteen. She had been the youngest in the dosh khaleen - and was now one of Daenerys Targaryen's ladies-in-waiting. Larra exchanged a glance with her sister, as the other little girls slipped out of the wheelhouse, looking sore and exhausted.

The three women looked highly relieved to be out of the confinement of the wheelhouses, especially as the youngest girl continued to scream.

Larra walked forward, as the two groups converged uncertainly. Brandon had prepared them only insomuch as he had told them where the women had come from - one from Dorne, one from Volantis, one from Vaes Dothrak. The elegant one was Nymeria Sand, the Red Viper's dangerous daughter born of a noblewoman from one of the most ancient families of Old Volantis; the one with the pretty eyes was the khaleen; and the dimpled one with sharp glittering eyes and a cheerful disposition was the former bed-slave from Volantis. Her freedom had been bought: She still wore the mark of her enslavement in the form of the teardrop tattoo beneath her eye. Lest she ever forget. Her long earrings glittered as they swung about her face, glancing around and adjusting her fur-trimmed shawl as she bent to try and coax and coo at the little girl, as two of the Lannisters converged on her to try and do the same.

Sansa approached Nymeria Sand, the most elegant and most dangerous of the women. Larra turned to the khaleen, attempting in Dothraki, "I greet you, khaleesi." There was no way to say 'welcome' in the Dothraki language. But it was a respectful acknowledgement, at least, and the woman's face - she was older than Larra, by several years, though she was still young, with extraordinary beauty because of her deep copper skin and vivid pale-blue eyes - lit up with appreciation that Larra had made an attempt.

"My lady," she said, just as uncertainly, and cast a sidelong look at Nymeria Sand before attempting a curtsy. Larra smiled, and sank down onto the ground, heedless of the sludge, to gently draw the tiniest of the girls to her - the one still hiccoughing and sobbing.

"Leona," she said tenderly, and the two girls clustered around her froze, startled that she knew the baby's name. She reached out to a pile of fresh snow, melting some in her palms, and wiped the tiny girl's flushed red face. The cold shocked her, but it also cleansed her face, cooling her flushed skin and wiped away the evidence of her despair. Larra gently stroked her rounded little cheeks, and her tiny chin, wiping the last of her perfect tears as they dripped from her long curling lashes, cradling her tiny face in her hands, and leaned forward slowly, to give the little girl a tender kiss on the lips, before gathering her up in her arms and tucking her against her chest, holding her close, allowing her calm and her heat to wash over her, to let her melt into the warmth of an embrace that was deeply maternal, a protective cocoon.

Larra had held herself together for many days after they learned of Father's execution. She had to, for Bran, and for Rickon, who had wept and raged and run away.

Larra's first memory of being held, as if by a mother, was when Osha had found her, days later, on the verge of utter collapse, so deeply wounded by the news of Father's death. Osha had given her the safe space and support to shatter. She had wrapped herself around Larra, holding her together for as long as it had taken Larra to put the shattered pieces back into place.

Osha had been Larra's only experience of a fierce and abiding maternal love toward her - a wildling woman from the True North had become everything Larra had always bitterly wished the godly Lady Catelyn should have been.

Osha was the only mother's love Larra had ever known - and treasured it still.

Larra had been nearly an adult by then: this tiny girl still had the look of a toddler, she was so tiny, just turned four, barely over a foot tall with perfect doll-like curls and wide green eyes damp with tears, and no-one had held her since her mother was burned before her eyes. All this little girl knew was that she was surrounded by strangers, her mother was gone, and no-one had taken responsibility for her care.

No-one cared.

She sighed, holding the tiny girl close, and kissed her gorgeous curls, and tiny fingers gripped at her leather armour, sighing heavily as she rested her head against Larra's shoulder, her long eyelashes tickling Larra's neck.

"Leona, there's someone who's been waiting for you," she said gently, and the tiny girl whimpered. Larra loosened the cloth doll she had tucked into her belt, and Leona wriggled, sniffling, raising her head curiously. "This is Vaidence. She's all on her own and she's very frightened…she desperately wants someone to love her."

Tiny Leona gazed at Larra, her vibrant eyes fringed with long, curling lashes damp with unshed tears, and a calmness seemed to replace her uncertainty, as yearning warmed her face. Larra raised the doll, smiling, and Leona showed her perfect pearly teeth as she smiled, reaching out fingers still deliciously dimpled, to stroke the doll's yarn hair. Larra whispered conspiratorially to her, "Do you think you could take care of her for me?"

It wasn't a big doll, barely longer than her hand; Larra had sewn it years ago out of scraps, stuffed with wool, to re-enact some of her stories for Rickon. She had even sewn a wardrobe of costumes for her to match the stories.

Leona nodded, her enviable curls bouncing at the nape of her neck and at her ears, and she clasped the doll tenderly to her chest, as if it was the most precious thing in the world. She popped her thumb into her mouth, rested her head against Larra's shoulder, and sighed, relaxing utterly into Larra's embrace.

The other girls had been watching her, some with eyes narrowed, assessing, others with a yearning that was utterly familiar to Larra; one stared blatantly at the weapons belted at her waist, her lips parted and eyes wide with intrigue and delight. Larra recognised her as the one who had vomited on Daenerys Targaryen's boots at the Lion Culling.

She stood, tiny Leona clamped to her chest, and approached the cluster of girls, who looked simultaneously filled with dread and yearning.

"Look at all these tired little faces," she sighed, clicking her tongue gently. "You've had a very long journey."

"Altheda vomited all the way from Dragonstone," said one, the middle girl.

"Which is Altheda?" Larra asked, and a shy little thing sighed heavily, gazing at the tips of her boots just visible under the hem of her skirts, which were indeed stained with vomit.

"She managed to get everyone," said the boy with the vivid pale-blue eyes and a few wicked scars. He was in that in-between place, no longer a boy but not yet a man either, stretched out and awkward, starting to grow into a man's body - and he would be a handsome man, Larra could tell, with fierce features and a wicked, ironic glint in his cutting blue eyes.

"Did you?" Larra asked her coaxingly, and the little girl's eyes filled with tears of humiliation. Larra smiled warmly at her, cupping her chin to tenderly tilt her face upwards, so they could meet each other's gaze. Larra twinkled at her. "Then you won the game, Altheda. Did your cousins squeal?"

The little girl's lips twitched, as the boy grinned.

"They did," he snickered, his vivid pale-blue eyes searching her face with almost indecent intensity.

"Well, you can give it a rest now, Altheda," Larra told her gently. "No more voyages or agonising long journeys to upset your tummy. So…I'm enjoying my delicious cuddle with Leona…but who else do we have here, Altheda? Would you introduce me to your cousins?"

Shyly, Altheda glanced at the girl beside her who had enormous blue eyes. Altheda had the daintiest lisp, and gazed demurely up at Larra through her golden lashes, telling her, "This is Lady Delphine."

Delicate Delphine dipped an elegant curtsy. With a tender smile, Larra reached out and tucked a rope-twist behind Delphine's ear; it had come loose from her hairstyle. In fact, all the girls' hair looked worse for wear after their long journey. Only tiny Leona, whose curls bobbed about her neck, and the eldest, regal Narcisa, who had tucked her long hair into a simple braid, seemed unrumpled. Larra leaned in and gave Delphine a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"I am Lady Calanthe Lannister," said the next girl, speaking for herself, raising her chin just a little, her pale gold hair loose about her shoulders and shimmering. "But the King called me the Lioness."

"Did he then?" Larra smiled.

"And this is Lady Crisantha Lannister, but she doesn't talk anymore," Calanthe declared, gazing up at her cousin. Larra turned her gaze to Crisantha. She had never seen a more exhausted, more despondent creature in her life; it was as if all the life had been drained from her, leaving an exquisite shell behind. She stood with her shoulders drooping, her unseeing gaze on the ground, and the billows of golden curls Larra had seen that day of the Lion Culling now fell limp around her shoulders.

"Crisantha… Crisantha, look at me, dearest," Larra coaxed tenderly, and she reached out to cup Crisantha's chin, lifting her head. Crisantha's eyes glowed like molten gold in the torchlight, but they seemed hollow, devoid of any expression - a stark contrast to the glittering emerald eyes of her bold cousin Calanthe. Larra stroked her cheek and sighed heavily, and leaned in, looping an arm around her tiny waist to tuck the unresponsive Crisantha close.

Murmuring in her ear, Larra promised her, "I'm going to do my utmost to make you feel safe enough that you'll return to us, Crisantha." She brushed a kiss against Crisantha's cheek, gave her a tender squeeze, and released her.

Next was a little girl Larra did not recognise from the Lion Culling, and doing some quick counting, Larra knew she was not one of the Seven.

"This is Neva," said the boy, standing behind the little girl with hair that glowed like crushed pearls in the moonlight, her dreamy lavender eyes glowing in the torchlight. Her hair was drawn back into a simple braid, a purple velvet ribbon tying the ends, and she reached up with her thumb and forefinger, delicately rubbing the expensive fabric.

"Hello, Neva. You've such a lovely name," Larra said, smiling warmly, as little Neva tucked herself against Rhysand's legs.

"Neva is my sister," said the boy. "And I'm Rhysand."

"They have no other name," said a quiet voice, belonging to the eldest of the Lannister girls. Her pale green eyes flicked over Rhysand's handsome face, his scarred mouth.

"Yes, we do. It's Waters."

"That's the name given to bastards born in the Crownlands."

"It's our father's name," snapped Rhysand, scowling at the girl.

"He's not old enough to be your father," said the eldest girl, frowning bemusedly.

"He is our father if we say he is our father. We are a family," Rhysand said heatedly. "He is my father, and Neva is my sister. And nothing a spoiled, stuck-up bitch like you can say will change that."

"That's enough," Larra said, with a stern look - at both of them. Rhysand flicked his gaze to her, wary; the girl looked faintly embarrassed. "I'll not have that language, thank you. We've enough to be dealing with, without flinging nastiness at each other." She gave Rhysand a quelling look, and the boy frowned at her, though relented. She turned her gaze to the last of the Lannisters - a little dumpling tucked behind the skirts of the eldest.

She squatted down, Leona still cuddled against her chest, to smile coaxingly at the little girl tucked behind her cousin's skirts. Huge eyes gazed back at her.

"Leona, who's this?" Larra whispered, and Leona gazed up at her, sucking her thumb complacently. Those huge eyes glanced from Larra to Leona in her arms.

"It's Rosamund," said Calanthe with a gentle sigh.

"Hello, Rosamund," Larra coaxed. She smiled warmly, holding her arm open to her, as the little girl's lip started quivering. "Would you like a cuddle?"

Eyes damp, the little girl let out a whimper and tucked herself into Larra's embrace with a sob of relief.

"Dear me!" Larra tutted, rubbing Rosamund's back as she burrowed close, and gave her soft blonde hair a kiss. "You're shivering so hard, you're making my teeth rattle!" She gave her gentle kisses, on her hair, her neck, her cheek, anywhere she could get to as she squeezed Rosamund close, and Rosamund whimpered softly and clung on, her fingernails biting the leather of Larra's armour. For a little while, she squatted in the sludge cuddling two orphaned little lion-cubs. She gave Rosamund a lingering squeeze, and straightened up; Rosamund tucked herself against Larra's skirts, as Larra stroked her hair gently.

She approached the eldest, who was truly an exquisite beauty, with pale-green eyes and shimmering golden hair falling to her bottom, dressed in the Westerlands styles adopted from Targaryen court dress, her heavy velvet gown trimmed with fur. She was tall and incredibly regal already, exquisite, tiny breasts budding against her heavy gown, just beginning to blossom into her beauty.

Narcisa glanced at Larra, bashful and proud at once, her eyes darting to Rhysand as she blushed delicately - embarrassed to have been squabbling like brats in front of her - and Larra sighed, approaching her. Narcisa's pale-green gaze flitted uncertainly to Larra's face and away, as if she could not bear to meet Larra's eye, either from fear or embarrassment. She reached out, tucking an arm around the girl's incredibly slender waist and drew her into a gentle embrace.

"When there are not so many eyes on us," Larra murmured, "and you don't feel you have to act the lady in front of everyone, we shall have a proper talk, you and I." She released Narcisa, who looked uncertain but less alarmed, and Larra reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She sighed, leaning her forehead gently against Narcisa's, leaving her no choice but to hold her gaze. It was a quiet and gentle moment, intimate; they did not know each other. And yet, Larra knew this girl. "It is no easy thing, to be the one left behind to look after all the rest."

Narcisa's eyes shimmered, and Larra cupped her cheek tenderly. Larra gave her a tremulous smile, the sorrow in Narcisa's eyes calling to her own.

She noticed Narcisa's gaze flit to the side, just once, but her body-language changed, going rigid, her high cheekbones hollowing with dread as she gazed past Rhysand. Larra followed her gaze, watching two of the Dothraki who had dismounted, lazily swinging their arakhs as they stared with a predatory greed at Narcisa, Crisantha and Delphine. True fear gripped Narcisa, her breathing turned shallow, pupils blown wide, and Larra recognised it.

Larra met the Dothraki's gaze - and held it, ferocious and implacable.

"Rhysand?" Larra said softly, beckoning him to her with a curl of her finger, and the boy nodded, frowning hesitantly, but walked up to her. She murmured in his ear, still watching the Dothraki, "Were those Dothraki men ever alone with the girls?"

"No," Rhysand said, and gave Larra a filthy look that spoke volumes. "I made sure of it, and so did Lady Nym." He rolled his eyes with faint amusement, "Lady Nym's been teaching Calanthe knife-skills. As if her bare teeth aren't enough to do real damage. None of the others'll dare look at a blade let alone use it."

Rhysand watched her carefully as she maintained her stoic glare at the Dothraki, implacable, unblinking - unimpressed. Until they looked away, unnerved by a woman who was fearless in the face of them.

"Aren't you afraid of them?" Rhysand asked quietly. "They're killers and rapers."

"I've faced and killed worse than Dothraki," Larra said coldly.

Rhysand frowned at her.

"You're not kissed-by-fire," he said softly, frowning at her, making her blink in bemusement. "The King said his sister is tall and beautiful and terrifying."

"And I am all those things?" asked Larra, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Rhysand answered sincerely, frowning up at Larra in quiet awe, and Larra wondered how she looked, through the children's eyes. She knew the Northmen and Knights of the Vale and even the Free Folk were wary of her - that a single look could silence the hall and make people mindful. "You're not kissed-by-fire. But you look just like him."

"I should think I do…" Larra smiled softly. "Jon is my twin-brother." Rhysand's eyebrows rose. There came a soft gasp from Calanthe, who was pointing across the courtyard at one of the wagons. Not the wagon, Larra realised, but Ghost, who had appeared, glowing in the moonlight, his long tail wagging happily as he nuzzled and bumped against a plump man climbing down from the bench.

"The White Wolf," Calanthe whispered, her eyes widening. "It is true, the King did ride into battle on the back of his giant white direwolf!"

"I thought the King could change into a white wolf," Rhysand frowned.

"Who says he can't," Larra said, glancing at Rhysand, smirking delicately at the look on his face.

"Dragons and men turning into fucking direwolves…" he muttered under his breath, and Larra reached out to gently clip him round the ear, raising an eyebrow in warning. He gave her a slightly rueful smile, rubbing his ear. Ghost's shadow abandoned him, to prowl closer, and as one the little girls - and even Rhysand - collectively withdrew as Last Shadow scented the air, and Narcisa's skirts, before nuzzling Rosamund tucked against Larra's legs, tenderly licking her face, before bumping against Calanthe and licking the palms of Delphine and Altheda, before pausing before Crisantha, gazing up at her sorrowful face, and snorted softly, before rubbing up against Crisantha, whining softly, and padded over to Larra.

The children stared at her in awe, as the horses whickered and whinnied in fright at Shadow's nearness.

Larra smiled. "Now, I know all of your names. My name is Alarra Snow. You may call me Larra."

"Are you the King's sister?"

"I am indeed," Larra smiled. "I know that you were at Dragonstone together with him; I should like to hear all about it, for I have not seen Jon in years."

"Why not?"

"He went to join the Night's Watch when we were sixteen," Larra said regretfully.

"You've not seen him since then?"

"I caught glimpses - two of them - in the years since," Larra said. "Perhaps I can tell you that story, after you tell me about Dragonstone… In a moment, shall we go up to your chamber? There is good rich stew and we've tucked warming-pans in the beds so they'll be deliciously cosy and warm. In the morning, after you've all had a good long sleep, I shall take you to the baths. How does that sound?"

"We…" Narcisa gazed at Larra, her eyes sliding to Sansa, conversing with Nymeria Sand and Lady Tisseia while an Unsullied soldier translated for the khaleen and the Dothraki. "Rhysand and I have letters for Lady Stark. For her and no-one else. They are from the King. He entrusted them to us."

"Well, then," Larra smiled. "We'd best get them delivered, and then we can go inside into the warm."

"Ghost!" a voice laughed, and Larra glanced over at Shadow's brother, who was silent as ever but fussing over the man by the wagon as he lifted a small boy from the bench. Ghost's tail was wagging madly, and he reared up to lick the little boy's face; the child giggled, reaching to grab Ghost's ears. A dark-haired woman in a fine woollen dress and fur-trimmed, richly-line cloak climbed down from the wagon, and Larra stared, her eyes honing in on the man.

"SAM!"

A laugh rippled from her, as the man jolted and turned, setting the child down in the sludge so that Ghost could lick his face excitedly.

For a second, Samwell Tarly stared across the courtyard, his gaze flitting over everyone. Then his eyes landed on Larra. And he gaped. He jolted as if struck by lightning, and a smile spread across his kind face - a tremulous smile of sheer disbelief.

"Larra!" he cried, as Ghost nuzzled against a young woman who was dressed prettily with braids in her hair; her son reached for her hand, grinning and giggling as Ghost licked his ears, tickling him.

Larra hurried over to them, Leona still cuddled against her, Rosamund and Shadow trailing after her, and Larra beamed delightedly as Sam offered her a tight hug, blinking dazedly as if suffering from a blow to the head.

"Sam. You look well," Larra said, beaming.

"You look - alive!" Sam gaped, stunned, and Larra laughed. He stared at her, horrified but awed, his gaze roving over her face. "We thought…I desperately didn't want you to go beyond the Wall… But here you are…and…and the others?"

"Bran is inside, by the hearth," Larra said softly, her smile fading, "and Meera has returned to Greywater Watch." Sam's smile faltered, his face pinched with understanding.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he said earnestly.

"So am I…" Larra's gaze rested on the girl, who was a woman now. "Hello, Gilly."

"I didn't… We thought…"

Larra's eyes burned as she gazed down at the child clutching his mother's hand, and Larra raised her fingers to her lips. Her voice was hoarse, when she said, "This is your son."

Only seeing Sansa for the first time had struck her as fiercely with the sense of time truly passing. The last time Larra had seen Gilly, her son had been days old; they had fled the True North and its horrors, the White Walkers - Sam had killed the first, with the obsidian dagger. He had given them obsidian weapons, too, before letting them through the magic door through the Wall - though it had killed him to let them go, knowing what they were to face.

But here was Gilly's baby, the infant Larra had once sung a lullaby to - as much to gentle the fussy newborn as to soothe Hodor, who had been upset by Bran's ghost-stories about the Nightfort they had sheltered in.

Gilly's son was a happy little boy with curling dark hair and a cheerful smile, chattering away as Ghost fussed over him, his tail wagging.

"This is Little Sam," Gilly said, her smile proud, and Sam nodded, his eyes twinkling. Larra sank into a squat in front of the little boy.

"Hello, Sam," she said softly. "You won't remember me… I knew you when you had just been born... I'm very pleased to meet you again. I never thought I would."

"However did you survive beyond the Wall?" Gilly asked, looking awestruck. Sam gazed at Larra, too.

Larra said softly, "I shall tell you my story, if you tell me yours. Where have you been?"

"In Oldtown."

"Sam stole books from the Citadel."

"I - " Sam grimaced guiltily, as Larra raised her eyebrows.

"You were at the Citadel?" she breathed, awed. "What was it like?"

Sam beamed wistfully. "It was wonderful."

"You hated it! All you ever did was moan!" Gilly declared.

"I disliked the maesters' nasty attitudes," Sam said, his tone fair, and Gilly smiled indulgently at him. "The archives themselves were magnificent." Sam smiled at Larra. "I know I asked Jon to send me south, but I was useless to him there, I realised. So I'm here to help, in whatever way I can. Where is Jon?"

"He left for Dragonstone before we returned to Winterfell," Larra sighed, and Sam faltered. He gazed at her.

"Does… He doesn't know you're alive. Oh, I'm so glad I shall be here to witness it when Jon sees you again. I hated telling Jon that I'd let you through the Wall… I felt like I'd let him down - I know I let you down, letting you go beyond… But you're alive."

---

A.N.: Reunions! I just love Sam. He's just so earnest and gentle and brave and good and wise…

Also wanted to show the beginnings of a bond forming between Larra and each of the Lannister girls - and that Sansa will be a bit standoffish with them, her own trauma in King's Landing still too fresh, but Larra is going to become something of a surrogate-mother to them that is founded on Larra never having had a mother herself. Also the continuity that she clips Rhysand round the ear for swearing, the same as Gendry does! I'm looking forward to writing more scenes with the children.