A.N.: You thought you'd heard the last of me! I started my first teaching job in January - hasn't gone exactly what you'd call 'to plan', what with the lockdown! So I don't have as much time to write - meaning: I don't have any time to write! So, that's why I haven't updated.

I've also changed Rhysand's name. On repeated re-reads of ACOTAR, I'm getting some dangerous Daenerys vibes from him - the narcissism, hypocrisy and entitlement. So he's been renamed to Cadeon. Cadeon Baratheon has a lovely ring to it, doesn't it?

I've also realised who I want Larra to become like - Tywin. In the best way possible. There's a great analysis of Tywin by King McKay on YouTube, detailing what made Tywin the man he became, and one line stuck out to me: That Tywin the man was created because he had to rebuild his family and their status after his father ruined them. That's basically Larra: She was left to repair the damage created by her family's mistakes - not just Ned's and Robb's but Rhaegar and Lyanna's, though that'll come later.

This chapter is dedicated to Nocturnal-Nessa, thank you for your PM!

Valyrian Steel

34

Under Watchful Gazes

Fat snowflakes whirled idly around her, gentle and deceptive. As a girl, she had always thought of snow as peaceful. The way everything seemed to slow down, to calm and become still.

All those years beyond the Wall had taught her the dangers of snow. Pelting through it at breakneck speed, clinging to the sledge as Shadow dragged them through the worst snowstorms she had ever endured… Larra sighed, and her breath plumed around her, illuminated by the flickering torchlight that made the stars so high above wink and twinkle dully. So many torches, so many lit windows, the muted hum of thousands of labourers in and around the castle… She stifled a laugh, startled to realise she missed the silent solitude of the great weirwood… Perched on the threshold of the cave, she used to sit and stare up at the endless velvet night-sky for hours, counting the stars…until the dawn traced a delicate silver-pink blush along those eternal snow-capped mountains that had tried for eons to pierce the sky, to reach those stars.

Strange how much she missed them. Those stars, those snow-capped mountains. The space.

The freedom.

The Free Folk said she had the True North in her now. For her, there was no going back - she'd never be a kneeler. She knew that to be the truth, at least. But she had never lived a life without responsibility, lawless as she had become beyond the Wall.

She had had Bran to think about, and still, even though he was independently mobile and taking a more active role in the running of Winterfell, Larra didn't believe she would ever lose the sense of accountability she felt for Bran. Too many of her thoughts and choices for far too many years had been devoted to him. The near-obsession over his health and wellbeing was now the weakest it had ever been since his fall, but it was still there. Even as she watched the stars, and blocked out the sounds of the people working, to enjoy just this brief moment of calm, Larra felt the tug to scan the godswood for his wheeled chair, for those glinting dark stranger's eyes in an ancient young-man's face, to search the castle for him and ensure he was fed and warm. Always warm.

Always, she worried that Bran was warm enough.

It did her good to step away.

It had done her good, these last few days, to ignore him completely. Yesterday, she had sat to supper with the children, prising apart Rosamund and Altheda as they squabbled over the ribbons Ser Davos had gifted them while Neva winced at the noise and carefully guided Leona as she haphazardly used a spoon and Cadeon nettled Narcisa - all of them overwrought from their journey, anxious in their new surroundings and desperate for the familiar - realising she hadn't thought about Bran for three days together. It was an odd, horrifically liberating realisation that had filled her with shame, then anger at her guilt over not prioritising Bran.

Larra had devoted her days - and many of her nights - to the lion cubs, to Little Jon and Ragnar, to Neva the Lyseni, and the reckless, riotous, charming and larger-than-life character that was Cadeon - who held the boys of Winterfell in awe with his 'war wounds' and knife skills. The children had commandeered her time and all of her focus, and Larra was glad of it, though it made her heart ache. There was no going back, no replacing Bran or Rickon with the children, no slipping seamlessly back into the old routines she had cultivated with her brothers when they were under her care. To do so would be to break her own heart over again.

And yet…

She could not help but be drawn to the children, so particular in their differences from her siblings yet so similar in many ways.

Just like Bran and Rickon, the seven Lannister girls were fraught from the loss of their families and all that they knew, everything that they recognised. Even the warmth of a plain woollen overdress was unfamiliar to them. They were summer girls, Southern girls; they had no notion of austerity, of cold…of winter.

Experience was a brutal teacher; they were learning. It fell to Larra to guide them: no-one else cared to take on the responsibility. Sansa looked at the girls and was reminded all too vividly of Cersei, and Larra wondered whether the Queen haunted Sansa worse than the horrors she had experienced for even so brief a time as captive in their own home. Cersei had had Sansa for longer; the wounds inflicted on Sansa's mind went far deeper than those inflicted on her body.

Larra had taken on the girls as her responsibility: with Sansa excelling in her role as castellan of Winterfell, Larra had needed to find her place in the castle. No-one else in the world cared about the little lion-cubs: Larra knew how that felt. They had no true home anymore, no-one to champion them. Jon had named them wards of the King in the North, yet Sansa was in many ways a girl still, and had no experience. Not like Larra. So she had become what the Lannister lionesses needed, just as she had for Bran and Rickon all those years ago.

The girls did not know her as her brothers had, to trust her as they did; but they were learning who she was. They were starting to understand that when they woke whimpering from dreams drenched in terror - in memory - she would be there, sat in the rocking-chair under the window cracked open against the stifling warmth of the heated walls.

They knew she would coax them to climb into her lap, and her gentle singing would soothe them as she wiped their tears and rocked them. When they were calm, she would tuck them up with their cousins under mounds of blankets, eiderdowns and furs to keep them warm. They knew that by the time Larra woke them - long before the idle winter sun had risen - their youngest cousin would already be cuddled up in Larra's rocking-chair, enfolded in thick knitted blankets, chatting contentedly around her thumb while Larra used a spurtle to stir a cauldron of porridge that coaxed the girls out of the warmth of their beds, wrapping robes around themselves and blankets around their shoulders, to enjoy a large bowl of porridge to and fill their bellies for the morning's learning with a quiet, gentle maester who had earned the position of their teacher through his gentle voice, kind nature, boundless enthusiasm for learning and deep compassion for all living creatures. Larra was impressed with him; even more so because he was so in awe of the progresses Maester Luwin had curated for Larra's education. The girls' first lessons had been very simple, more to introduce them to the maester and the schoolroom than anything else, based on discussions of ideas to glean what the girls already knew and what they would like to learn. Larra collected them at midday, the only time it was guaranteed to be quite bright outside, and took them for a long walk in the godswood. She had noticed some of the girls shuddering with dread at the sight of the great weirwood: it was an ancient, eerie place - a Northern place. What did these little Southerners know of the Old Gods, of the wolfswood and the rich, ancient cultures of the endless whispering moors and mountains embraced lovingly by blankets of snow?

They were starting to trust Larra: She made them feel reassured, settled - safe. Enough to be coaxed out into the brightness of the brittle winter sunlight a few days after their arrival, wearing knitted mittens and bonnets over their bright gold hair, to explore the godswood while the daylight lasted.

"You're preparing for a battle."

Snow crunched underfoot and the idyllic picture of children playing innocently in the snow fractured: Calanthe's stubborn little face, nipped pink by the chill, frowned up at her.

Larra had no favourites among the children, of course.

But Calanthe was her favourite.

While they had been adjusting to the castle, the fierce little lioness spent most of her time eluding her septa, spying on drills in the training-yard.

She was too like Arya. And Larra found herself sympathising with how Father must have felt, watching his girls who were so like fierce Lyanna - filled with depthless love intertwined forever with sorrow and heartsickness. She could not long watch Calanthe without thinking of Arya, and it hurt. Watching Calanthe hurt. Though she was as like Arya as the sun and moon in looks, vibrant and fiercely just Calanthe was so like Arya in her passion and tenacity that it gave Larra stomach-ache.

Larra was determined to give Calanthe and her cousins an arsenal with which to face the world. To be better-equipped to handle the grim realities of the world, without ruining what little innocence the Lion Culling had left them with. To give them the chance neither Sansa nor Arya ever had. A chance Larra barely had, only because she had fought tooth and nail for it. In crafting a curriculum by which to educate the lionesses, based on Maester Luwin's excellently curated curriculum created for Larra herself, Larra had determined that none of the girls would ever have to fight her tooth and nail to learn to protect themselves. That was what it came down to: Giving the girls every opportunity, not just to survive. To thrive in spite of all odds.

On her better days, Larra thought she and Sansa had done miraculously well, all things considered. Thus far, they had certainly beaten all odds stacked against them - not always with aplomb, but they had done it. They had conquered horrific odds to come back home, to come back to each other, without ever realising the other still lived. They had endured - often without hope.

A better opportunity to thrive was all Larra would have wanted for her sisters, looking back. But she would not trade Sansa, as the young woman she now was, for anything. Though it would have saved Sansa a lot of grief and heartbreak to learn some things sooner rather than later. And Arya…

As Sansa said with more than a touch of bitterness, "Father never wanted his daughters to know how ugly the world truly was." Neither Sansa nor Arya had been prepared for it. Sansa's new view of the world was harsh, but how could it not be? Larra knew there was still beauty in the world, no matter how rare in some circumstances.

But there was beauty, goodness, loyalty, bravery. All of the qualities Father had held sacred, qualities he had passed on to them: nobility of action rather than birth, loyalty and justice, humility and devotion, wisdom and generosity.

Larra did not blame Sansa for having trouble seeing them: She was still healing from the brutal lessons life had dealt her.

So was Larra, in her own way.

Her sigh plumed in front of her as she lifted her gaze to the boundless sky, dreaming of touching those twinkling lights so high above, away from the noise and clatter, the heavy responsibilities she had placed on herself, the dread of the coming storm, all of it. She breathed out, slowly, and let the cold nip at her lungs and fat snowflakes caress her eyelashes and her nose as they drifted by idly.

The girls' rare giggles were muted in the godswood, the ageless trees sheltering them from the fiercest of the flurries, and a ghost of a smile whispered at the corners of her lips. Children lived in the moment in a way adults could never understand, and most had forgotten: The girls experienced their first snow with the same innocence and awe that Larra had once also viewed it. It was refreshing, to see the world through their eyes. To recapture, even if for only a few heartbeats, the pure wonder at nature's most beguiling trick. To experience their delight and their rapture, and try to absorb some of it as her own. To see the snows as the girls saw them, without the shadows of wights and White Walkers lurking beyond the fragile, vicious snowflakes.

"We are indeed," Larra acknowledged.

"When it comes to it, I want to be the one to kill the Queen," Calanthe said stoutly, and Larra glanced down at the girl. She was learning the girls' natures very quickly. Narcisa was aloof, elegant and prideful but also very emotional and easily nettled by Cadeon, with whom Larra suspected she was rather infatuated despite herself. She was at that age, her attention ensnared by a pair of pretty eyes. Rosamund was tearful, confused - she woke each morning expecting her mother to greet her with a kiss, and was heartbroken all over again when she did not, fretful and anxious, but drawn to Larra for comfort. Altheda was wide-eyed and remained quiet, easily startled and seemed to have to concentrate to focus on anything, unsettled to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings; she handled this disorientation by lashing out - usually at little Neva, who always gazed at Larra with moon-eyes, shy but consistent, delicate in nature but caring, and who was most often to be found amusing tiny Leona or sitting contentedly with fragile Crisantha, who drifted about as if guided by invisible strings, utterly compliant, completely non-vocal, her eyes perpetually glazed as if locked inside her own memories. Larra knew that look from Brandon far too well.

It was Crisantha's complete disengagement from the world around her that Larra was most concerned about. Sansa had murmured over supper one evening that she remembered feeling the way Crisantha looked after Father had been executed - her body had moved as if of its own volition while her mind remained foggy, brittle and silent but for her occasional screams of despair, the sound of her heart breaking reverberating through her mind.

Larra approached each of the girls differently. Narcisa responded to unyielding sternness: she had, after all, grown up at Casterly Rock with Lord Tywin Lannister. Narcisa responded best to strictness: Larra gave Narcisa no room to sneer at her over her bastard status. Narcisa had been raised the eldest daughter of a powerful, wealthy man, was haughty and rather spoiled - in an instant, the tragedy of her family's fate had undone the worst of the damage to her truest nature, which was fair, stern, courageous and hopeful. Rosamund and Leona, Larra only had to offer her arms and they climbed up for cuddles, desperate for the comfort and safety of a deeply maternal embrace.

There were many ways to communicate, and while Crisantha remained silent, locked inside her own mind, Larra communicated through touch. Frequent, tiny touches full of tenderness. They told Crisantha without Larra having to say anything that here, she would know only gentleness. Larra had spent hours washing and then combing out Crisantha's thick hair so that it dried into voluminous, bright-gold curls, untangling the knots and smoothing balm through the curls the same way Larra had always treated her own riotous curls. Always gentle, always patient and tender.

Rosamund and Leona were always the first to approach Larra when she entered the room; but Crisantha remained nearest to her for the longest. Even now, as Neva and Rosamund played with Leona beneath the weirwood, Crisantha stood beside Larra, close enough to share their warmth, silent and eyes downcast, her mitten-covered hand held loosely in Larra's bare one. Crisantha often reached for Larra's hand as if completely unaware she was doing it; perhaps Crisantha was terrified of being snatched away by the wind like fallen weirwood leaves.

If Crisantha had a perfect opposite, it was Calanthe.

She was fierceness, tenacity, obstinate righteousness, unguarded honesty and a charming sense of earnest decency mingled with flashes of haughtiness, impish mischief and deep loyalty. She was also unexpectedly emotional; she was nine years old.

Larra found Calanthe utterly delightful - and horrifying in her similarity to both Arya and Rickon.

"I'm afraid over a hundred-thousand Dothraki screamers stand between you and their khaleesi," Larra said, glancing down at Calanthe, keeping a close eye on little Leona gathering weirwood leaves at the base of the ancient tree, close to the pond where Father used to cleanse Ice after every execution. The pond remained unfrozen, like the river where the dire-eagles gathered to fish throughout the winter: In the half-light of dusk, they could be forgiven for believing that the ground was smoking as vapour drifted up eerily from the black water.

Calanthe sighed, her beautiful features drawn into a scowl of deep annoyance. Though they were all blonde with pale eyes, it was clear that the girls were cousins rather than siblings; they shared similar traits, but were unique in their looks. They were all, however, very pretty girls, and if they were lucky, may grow to be stunningly beautiful women. It had occurred to Larra many times that she had taken responsibility for who those women would be. Calanthe glared at the smoking pond. "The smallfolk say there's a dragon under there. They say it lives in the crypts beneath Winterfell."

"There's no dragon beneath Winterfell," Larra assured her gently, for though Calanthe never said it, Larra could sense the girl's fear. For all her ferocity, Calanthe was still a little girl fresh from her family's massacre. And none of them sat near to the fire in their chamber, no matter how cold they were.

Calanthe went very still, not looking at Larra. She was easy to read. "How do you know?"

"Because I've been down to the very first foundation stones," Larra said quietly, suppressing a shudder. Three days and nights she had been gone, to invoke ancient spells and call upon older vows, and all the while she had fought to keep the story of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels out of her mind. She had always felt that was the most horrifying of Old Nan's stories. "There is nothing down there but dust and decay, and the ghosts of the Kings of Winter."

"The King in the North," Calanthe breathed, with a quiet awe. Her intense face softened with a wistful smile as her hand drifted to the knife belted at her waist, a knife she had proudly told Larra that Jon had allowed her to keep, even showing her how to correctly hold it so that she would not do herself an injury. Larra's lips twitched with a smile, answering Calanthe's. "King Jon said I should learn how to use my knife."

"I'm certain he did," Larra said softly, her lips twitching as Calanthe gave her a sly look. King Jon…

"When shall I begin my training?" Calanthe asked, and Larra gazed down at the girl.

"Are you to begin training?"

"All the other girls are," Calanthe said. "I've been watching them in the yard. The King has commanded that all boys and girls from the age of ten must train."

"You're a ward of the King in the North," Larra reminded Calanthe gently. "You're here under Jon's protection; you're exempt from his command."

Calanthe went still, frowning. After a moment, she said quietly, "I must learn to fight."

"Learning to fight is a very different thing to killing," Larra muttered, glancing down at Calanthe with a wince. "The children sparring in the yard will likely die in battle within a few months. If you pick up a sword now, you will never live to be the pride of your family."

Calanthe sniffed. "My family is dead. What does it matter if they're proud of me? I'd rather train to fight so I can protect people from her… All she has, all she has taken - she doesn't deserve it. She deserves to be dead."

Larra sighed heavily, glancing down at Calanthe, and perhaps it was the very real sorrow heavy in her voice that made Calanthe take notice, and remember Larra's words all her life.

"Some who live deserve death…and far too many who have died deserved life. Can you give it to them?" she asked gently, and Calanthe's shoulders drooped, sighing as she reluctantly - regretfully - shook her head. "Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement."

Calanthe sighed heavily, then frowned up at Larra. "Aren't you angry?"

"About what?"

"The Red Wedding," Calanthe said, wincing, and Larra went still. "Everyone knows about it. The North remembers… "And we are Lannisters. Why are you taking care of us, not tormenting us?"

"I shan't punish children for the mistakes made by their elders," Larra said grimly. "They've enough to contend with."

"What do you mean?"

"All you see around you is the work of my brother and sister; they had to rebuild Winterfell, when it was taken from our family, when the North was snatched from us through treason and bribery and backstabbing," Larra said. "They had to unite their bannermen after their trust was broken, after their faith was shattered. My father was loved by his men as much as he was respected as a fair ruler. It is in part due to their abiding love and respect for him that Jon and Sansa could call on their oaths of fealty. No-one loved Tywin Lannister; they dreaded him. And without the threat of his ruthlessness if they dare go against Lord Lannister, there is little now to inspire loyalty among Lannister bannermen. You and your cousins will have a hard enough fight when you're older; I am determined to give you the skills you'll need to fight. And I do not mean on the battlefield." Calanthe's lips had parted eagerly; her mouth closed as she frowned thoughtfully.

"What kind of fighting can we do if we're not on a battlefield?" Calanthe asked, and Larra smiled sadly.

"Oh, even more dangerous games," she said. She shook her head. "The War of the Five Kings did not end because of a decisive victory in the battlefield; my brother Robb died undefeated in battle. The North lost the war because of politics, Calanthe. The duplicitous arts of diplomacy, tact, backstabbing, cunning, blackmail and bribery, ruthlessness and single-minded purpose. Playing cyvasse with queens and armies across continents rather than carved icons on a board."

"Grandpapa plays cyvasse," Calanthe said, her eyes brightening for a heartbeat - only for her vivid emerald eyes to darken. "He played cyvasse. He would sit me on his knee and tried to teach me the rules."

"Tried to?"

"I wanted him to tell me stories about the Dance of Dragons," Calanthe said, with a wince that seemed almost guilty. Larra smiled softly to herself, feeling a pang as Arya's soft voice coaxed her for one more retelling of the Battle Above the Gods' Eye before bed, and how often she would undo her freshly combed braids so that Larra had to stay and sit and neatly braid her hair, allowing for that last thrilling retelling.

Larra glanced at Calanthe. "Are you a Green or a Black?"

"A Black, obviously. Rhaenyra was much older, and was her father's chosen heir," Calanthe said passionately. "Aegon was only chosen because he was a boy." Larra's lips twitched as Calanthe scowled. "Why are you smiling?"

"You remind me of my sister Arya. She was a fierce advocate of Princess Rhaenyra, too. She loved to listen to the stories of the Dance of Dragons. Blood and Cheese was her favourite. She had a bloodlust for justice, too. Before she ever learned what death and war truly are."

"It all seems like rather a lot of waste," Calanthe said softly. "All those dragons, all those children. Dead."

"Yes," Larra agreed.

"Twice they passed over women, first Rhaenys and then Rhaenyra. And doing so led to the Dance of Dragons," Calanthe frowned. "Why are men so delicate about their pride? Are they so threatened that a woman would upstage them?"

"Usually," Larra said, and chuckled, though it was a grim, tired sound. "How much grief might the Seven Kingdoms have been spared, had the lords of Westeros respected primogeniture? My brother Robb and I always argued over it; he was the eldest trueborn son, after all - but I was the eldest child, and more devoted to my studies and my duties because I knew it was a privilege to sit in the schoolroom alongside my brothers. Which of us do you think was better prepared to rule?"

"They say King Robb was a commander such as is seen only once in a generation," Calanthe mused, frowning. "But to be good at war is a different thing than ruling over people. And you wouldn't have been distracted by a foreigner, no matter how fair she was."

"Would I not?"

"No. You're too stern."

"Robb was stern, too."

"Yes, but he was a man," Calanthe sniffed. "They are so easily led."

Larra laughed. "Where did you learn that?"

"Aunt Genna," Calanthe said, her eyes glittering, her smile rather cheeky. "She said it all the time… When Lord Tywin went to King's Landing, it was Aunt Genna he left to rule the Westerlands. Most people were more afraid of Aunt Genna than Lord Tywin. Why are girls taught embroidery because they're deemed unfit to rule, yet are left to rule when the men go off to kill each other? What are needles to dragonfire?"

"Far more useful," Larra said, and Calanthe gave her a surprised look, confused by Larra's response. Larra smiled. "Needles can repair anything - ever since the Doom, dragonfire has only ever destroyed. The Conqueror sparked a dynasty of relentless destruction that lasted three centuries - and just like fire, it consumed itself to the last ember. Only the Ancient Valyrians knew how to wield magic and dragonfire to create things; their skills have been lost. Anyone can pick up a needle and mend or create something with it. But most people would rather have dragons."

"Most people are idiots," Calanthe said tartly. Larra barked a laugh, startling Crisantha. Even Calanthe looked surprised; as she had said earlier, Larra was stern. She didn't laugh much anymore.

But Calanthe reminded her so much of Arya.

"In the North, we learn how to mend things, rather than just decorate them. And we acknowledge that those without swords still die upon them," Larra said. "It's a hard land, and we rule over a stern people, with even more ruthless people constantly aggressing our borders. We must learn when to be tender, and when to be hard."

"Like Lady Mormont," Calanthe said, her eyes lighting up again, delight blossoming on her beautiful face. "She told me she has learned to sew only to mend her clothing and stitch up battle wounds. She doesn't like us at all. Her mother was at the Red Wedding. As if we had anything to do with it! Why doesn't Lady Stark wear a sword?"

"Because she has no skill to wield one," Larra said softly. "Her mother was Southern: she wanted to raise her daughters as Southern ladies to prepare them for their future marriages, where they'd have no need to learn about warfare and suffering. My sisters have not lived the lives their mother imagined for them."

"Lots of things happen that we don't ever imagine," Calanthe murmured softly, almost to herself, and Larra glanced down at the little girl. Larra often wondered whether Calanthe was an only-child, surrounded most of the time by adults, for she was rather an old head on young shoulders; sometimes she said things that seemed far too mature for her age. She was echoing what she had heard elsewhere. And she was utterly delighted to find herself amongst her cousins; they were a novelty, after such tragedy. Calanthe gave her a sly, sidelong look. "I heard that Lady Stark fed her captor to his own hunting-hounds. Is that true?"

"Aye. Our way is the old way," Larra sighed. The new kennel-master - the younger son of the Karstark kennel-master, who liked dogs far more than he did men - was training a few litters of fine dogs from the Umber, Karstark and Manderly kennels. They were gorgeous breeds - the Great Northern boarhound, the famed Umber deerhound as well as the usual sheepdogs as well as pit-bulls usually used in the North to protect noble nurseries - they were more ruthless than any guard when attacked, yet gentle as a lamb with those they were loyal to. Larra enjoyed visiting the kennels, cooing over the pups. So did Sansa. Larra could always find her in the kennels when Sansa was unsettled; the pups soothed her, bolstered her when she was feeling vulnerable or overwhelmed.

"What does that mean?" Calanthe frowned, her expression curious. Surrounded by Northmen all her life, Larra took it for granted that other cultures in the continent knew what she meant. The old ways; the ways of the First Men, of the North.

"Here in the North, those who pass the sentence must swing the sword," Larra told Calanthe grimly, sighing heavily; her breath plumed before them, glowing in the moonlight. It was not late; but the nights were long, and beautiful. She gazed up at the endless stars, missing the silence and the freedom of the cave yet drawn to the little lionesses, charmed and grief-stricken by them all at once. "We believe that if you would take a person's life, you owe it to them to look into their eyes and hear their final words. If you cannot bear to do that, perhaps that person does not deserve to die."

"Don't you have a headsman?"

"No. We don't hide behind paid executioners," Larra said grimly. "It is all too easy to forget what death is… You've seen it yourself. One word and an entire family was wiped out, without Daenerys Targaryen ever getting her pretty braids mussed."

"The Lion Culling," Calanthe whispered, and Larra nodded. Crisantha's hand twitched in hers, and Larra stroked her thumb against the back of her hand. The Lion Culling…the Red Wedding… People were so tongue-in-cheek about tragedy - as long as it did not touch their own families. Calanthe frowned, then glanced up at Larra. "Winter has come. I don't want people to think I'm a spoiled Southerner because I won't fight when everyone else must, and eat people's rations."

Larra frowned. "No-one having met you thinks you're spoiled. You're from a very different place; a wealthier place. It's a different way of living, is all," she sighed. "Who's mentioned food rations?"

"One of the old maids. I heard her say that Winterfell shouldn't have to fuss over Lannister whelps when thousands of Northerners will go hungry before spring," Calanthe said, looking slightly uncomfortable. Larra sighed heavily.

"Which maid?" she asked, wondering if Father had felt this heavy sense of foreboding as he had headed off to silence the rumours about Lady Ashara Dayne being his bastards' mother. One battle she could do without having to fight, not within the walls of Winterfell, not with the looming threat of the Night King. General discontent over the presence of Lannisters.

The North remembers.

It did put things in perspective, though. Even with the Night King's imminent invasion, Larra still had to deal with the mundane everyday; the grudges and long-held prejudices. Northmen and wildlings, Valemen and Dothraki, Unsullied… Winterfell was filling to the rafters with people from vastly different cultures, none of whom tolerated each other very much: They were bound to clash. It was inevitable.

Larra knew it was a matter of managing the disputes.

But sometimes she'd rather go back to slaying wights and evading White Walkers.

The discontent amongst the Northmen surrounding the Lannisters' presence at Winterfell reminded Larra, even more so than the girls themselves, of the all she had missed while stuck beneath the weirwood tree. The Stark-Lannister war that had torn apart the Riverlands; the Red Wedding orchestrated by Lord Frey on Tywin Lannister's behalf when the Old Lion realised he would not easily outmanoeuvre the Young Wolf in the field of battle.

Dirty tricks, bribery and backstabbing had won Tywin his last war: but everyone would remember that it was his dwarf son who murdered him while he took a shit.

Everyone would remember Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. King in the North - the first in three centuries, who had been murdered, undefeated in battle, beside his pregnant wife, in front of his mother, during a wedding he had been invited to as a guest. People would remember that guest-right had been violated. And they would remember what happened when winter came for House Frey. Their names would not be erased, as House Bolton's would: The North remembered. And the rest of Westeros would forever wonder just how House Stark had managed it - the total eradication of House Frey in retribution for that violation.

Many would imagine the gods themselves had a hand in it.

Leave one wolf alive, the sheep are never safe, Larra thought. She glanced down at Calanthe, suppressing a shiver as she thought of the Frey children. Arya had annihilated every man, woman and child bearing the name of Frey - and those with Lord Walder's blood, if not his name. She had murdered innocent children.

Wolves hunted in a pack for their survival; in prides, it was the lionesses who hunted and killed. The largest and strongest male spent most of his time slumbering - unless harassed to protect his pride of females and their cubs, and his position within their pride.

Like the Old Lion himself, Larra thought. Tywin Lannister, as Hand of the King to Aerys II, had effectively ruled Westeros for twenty years, providing the continent with peace and plenty. He had only reared his head and proven himself brutally effective in conflict when challenged - by Robb.

Robb was dead; so was Tywin.

Sansa and Arya lived; the Lion Cubs lived.

Her sisters had learned how to fight their own battles - Sansa with her etiquette and her wits and feminine wiles and being perpetually underestimated because of her prettiness; Arya with her Needle, her tenacity and grit and that ferocious bloodlust that had kept her warm through the miserable nights and worse days.

Larra glanced at Calanthe. She must learn to use her cleverness as well as her claws if she's to survive, Larra thought grimly. They all must.

Yet she worried what Calanthe would do with it if she put a sword in her hands.

Larra let the girls play a little longer, anxious thoughts gnawing at her regarding the girls. Regarding Jon's plans for the children he had ordered be trained in combat, who trained now in the yard with spears and bows.

She couldn't do it. She could not rally for siege and battle with children stood beside her.

She would not allow it.

Many things might have been different, had Larra fled south with her younger brothers, rather than North. Had she grabbed Robb by his auburn curls the moment his gaze lingered on the Volantene healer and dragged him away to do his duty; for that is exactly what she would have done. No pandering to her brother because their bannermen had been so impressed with his tactics in battle that they named him their king.

Larra would have reminded her brother of his duty.

She would have dragged the Volantene healer by her braids to a ship bound for Essos. She had healed their soldiers, yes; and irrevocably fractured their commanders' trust in Robb. He had forgotten his duty. Larra had never been one to hold her tongue, especially with her brothers. She had never been one to forget the privilege of duty and service that was Robb's by right of his parents' marriage.

Jon had always sulked and slinked away into the shadows; Larra had always snapped back, her bite as vicious as her howl. She had never backed down in a fight with Robb in her life, and would never have started because their bannermen thought he was good at organising slaughter. Larra could not remember arguing with any of her siblings more fiercely than she had with Robb: They had not always seen eye-to-eye, much as they had loved each other. Robb had always been wary of three things: Losing his father's respect, being denied his mother's love, and igniting the fire in Larra's wolf-blood.

Because she was the eldest of them all, and sometimes he needed a smack to be put in his place - to be reminded of his extraordinary privilege.

How she missed him.

"Come along, girls," she said softly, and the girls turned pink-cheeked faces breathless with delight to her.

"Is it supper-time?" Altheda asked, clambering through the snowbanks, and Larra nodded. Her face thawed as she smiled at the little girls toddling towards her through the snow, stumbling and smiling, and Leona clutched fallen weirwood leaves in her hands, gazing shyly up through her long, curling lashes as she offered them to Larra. She crouched to the little girl's level, smiling gently as she examined the treasures Leona had gathered up in offering.

"You've chosen the finest leaves," Larra smiled warmly, and Leona beamed. Neva stood a few paces behind, her fingers, encased in mittens, clasped around something she was examining closely. "We shall have to arrange them in a vase. They'll bring some colour to your chamber."

"What have you got there, Neva?" Larra asked. Neva was unused to being around nobility: Given the choice, she would happily have melted into the snows rather than be singled out. She was shy by nature, gentle and compassionate, but too easily dominated by larger personalities like Cadeon and Altheda, who Larra kept an eye on for bullying the Lyseni girl. Larra had to coax Neva to speak, but she was happy enough to play with Leona and Rosamund, taking care of the younger girls.

"I don't know what it's called," Neva said, in her hushed, accented voice, like a breathless sigh on a rich summer breeze. If Neva was breathless, exotic warmth, then Cadeon was the lightning crackling across a stormy summer sky.

"It's an acorn," Altheda said, with more than a touch of asperity. Larra gave her a quelling look, offering her hand out to Neva, who passed her the acorn. It was far larger than a regular oaknut or even a horse-chestnut, fitting into the palm of Larra's hand, weighty, the tender seed buried within a shell of pure white: it looked like a snowball. Maester Luwin had once shown her a dissected weirnut; inside the tough, protective shell was a seed of vivid red more brilliant than any Qartheen ruby. And, to Larra, far more precious.

"We call it mast," Larra said gently, smiling at Neva. "It is the fruit of the forests, nuts and such from trees and shrubs. Through winter most birds and small animals will survive on the nuts shed by trees in the autumn and frozen in the first snows of winter. Weirbirds and ermines and Northern shrews and such are very clever about sniffing them out. Even deer and elk will survive off them. This is the first time in my lifetime the weirwood has given fruit. I was Leona's age when the ravens arrived declaring winter was finally over; this weirnut has been forming ever since, dropped as Robb rode off to war. My father's bannermen said they had never seen the weirwoods so heavy with weirnuts. They called it a good omen that the North would rise, stronger than ever before, that Robb's war would be victorious and return the old ways."

"What do you think?"

"I think there are far too few weirwoods left in this world; I believe we should do all we can to plant more," Larra sighed, examining the weirnut. She wondered which of the great weirwoods had pollinated the tree in Winterfell's godswood, for she had read of no saplings growing in the North in centuries; Maester Luwin could not tell her which was the youngest weirwood in Westeros. They were all ancient beyond the count of years.

Leaf would have known, a little voice whispered sorrowfully in the back of her mind. The Children could have told her about every single weirwood - the ones that were left. Below the Neck, there was only the famed Isle of Faces, last haven of the weirwoods in the South. Last home of the Children, legend told. Leaf had never mentioned such a place to Larra; nor had the Bloodraven.

But Bran did… The place where Rhaegar and Lyanna wed. In front of a heart-tree on the Isle of Faces, Larra thought, her mood dropping like a stone. Rhaegar hadn't just married Lyanna; he had married her in possibly the most sacred place in Westeros - a forest-island of weirwoods each carved with a face, so that the gods could bear witness to the peace pact between the First Men and those who sang the song of the earth.

Rhaegar had wanted Lyanna's gods as witnesses, not just his friends and Kingsguards.

"What is spring like?" Delphine asked, almost wistfully.

"I can't speak for everywhere. But here in the North… I remember great oceans of green, and new rivers and waterfalls rushing everywhere as the snows melted," Larra said sadly. One of her earliest, most vivid memories was of riding across the moors, great carpets of lush new grass and jewel-bright wildflowers, Uncle Benjen's rich laugh echoing off the air filled with the scent of pollen and rain and new life as they chased each other on horseback. She remembered her legs aching after her first true ride out in the open moors so much that Uncle Benjen had had to carry her from the stables, slung over his shoulder and laughing all the way; it had been his first visit since the snows melted, since taking the black.

She had forgotten how young he had been. That he had laughed…

Another pang, another drop in her mood. Larra felt it like a stone settling in her stomach, pulling everything else down with it.

"Do the gods really look out from the faces?" Calanthe asked curiously, glancing over her shoulder at the weirwood tree, her expression dubious.

"Gods, and ravens," Larra said cryptically. "You should ask Bran what he sees through the trees."

"How can a person see through trees?"

"'Tis a rare skill, it is true," Larra acknowledged, a twinkle in her eyes. "Now, come along inside before Leona falls asleep in the snow. Before bed, perhaps we shall ask Bran to recount the true story of how it was Lann managed to swindle the Rock from the Casterlys."

"Through cunning," Calanthe said, her eyes vibrant.

Altheda frowned. "What exactly is cunning?"

Larra chuckled, promising to explain. Without letting go of Crisantha's hand, she scooped up Leona in her other arm, tucking the little girl against her waist; Leona immediately nestled against Larra's chest, the soft yarn of her woollen bonnet tickling Larra's bare skin, Vaidence the doll tucked between them, the hem of her little skirt already fraying from constant twiddling from Leona's fingers. Narcisa and Delphine walked arm-in-arm before her; Rosamund latched onto Larra's belt, staying close.

"You must go behind," Altheda said imperiously, and Larra glanced over her shoulder to see Neva's slim shoulders droop beneath her neat woollen cloak, the dip of her chin, the gleam of her silver eyelashes as the moonlight gleamed off her pearly head.

"Stop being such a shit, Altheda," Calanthe snarled, shoving her cousin; there was a wail as Altheda toppled into a snowbank.

"Stop your thrashing, Altheda," Larra said grimly. "You shan't drown. Calanthe, pull her to her feet. Both of you apologise to each other, and Altheda, you owe Neva an apology."

"I do not. She's a whore's get, I heard Cadeon say her mother was a brothel-keeper," Altheda sneered as she clambered to her feet, slapping Calanthe's hand away and dusting snow off her skirts. Her cheeks were aflame with humiliation at being pushed, and being caught out in front of Larra.

Larra levelled her gaze on the girl, unimpressed.

"I don't care where you are from or how wealthy the family you were born into, how important you were raised to believe yourself," Larra said coldly. "You will learn to treat everyone with consideration and respect, or very quickly learn that you are not respected." Altheda scowled at her. "Wipe that look off your face," she ordered, and Altheda's face turned mutinous.

"Altheda's mother spoiled her," Narcisa said, giving her younger cousin an imperious look. "Everyone in the family knew it."

"I'm not spoiled!"

"Yes you are!" Calanthe snapped. "You're spoiled and sour."

"Neva's been nothing but lovely since we met," Delphine said, in her calm, gentle voice. "She does not deserve your nastiness."

"Girls, go on ahead," Larra said quietly, watching Altheda as the other lionesses circled, ready to pounce. It was not kind for Altheda to bully Neva; nor was it kind to allow the other Lannisters to gang up on Altheda. Narcisa gestured for the other girls as Larra handed Crisantha to Delphine, and Calanthe marched through the snow with her spine straight, following her three elder cousins. Larra sighed and turned to Altheda, who was pointedly dusting invisible snow from her skirts to avoid eye-contact with Larra, and Neva, whose gaze was downturned, still and lovely as any statue. "Altheda, I want you to consider how Neva feels to have you say such unkind things to her. She is your playmate and companion, not someone to hurl abuse at to make yourself feel better."

"I don't - "

"Yes, you do. I've seen it with my own eyes," Larra said sadly. "And I know it makes you feel better to do so. When we are hurt, we lash out, it doesn't matter whether we are Men or direwolves or lions. But now you are causing hurt. You are not malicious by nature, of that much I am certain. I do not know that you were spoiled; your mother had your past. I am privileged to have your future. You're mine, now, and I am yours. I will teach you how to harness your grief and your pain into something of ecstatic beauty, if you let me. Will you let me?"

Altheda's eyes were glazed, her expression mutinous - attempting to conceal her emotions, the way Larra doing so often at the same age, hiding how Maester Luwin's gentle words cut right to the heart of her anguish and rage. Because he knew her. He knew the source of that wrath, that pain - could do nothing to cure it, as Larra could do nothing to soothe Altheda's grief and pain - but acknowledged it and guided her through her vicious emotions, helped her master them and herself, and in turn, how to master any situation that pitted her against Lady Catelyn. Her father's wife had always been a slave to her hatred and distrust of Larra and Jon; Maester Luwin had taught Larra to place herself above it and win every battle of wills by taking the emotion out of it.

"I want to go home!" Altheda whimpered, and burst into tears. Neva jumped, startled, and Leona blinked owlishly from Larra's waist, gazing at her cousin as Larra tucked Altheda against her.

"I know," Larra said hoarsely, her throat burning. She wanted to go home, too. To Winterfell, with Father and Bran scampering up the walls and Rickon playing tug-o-war with Shaggydog and Osha smiling at her and her sisters braiding each other's hair and teasing Theon as they shot arrows in the yard and Robb's sapphire eyes sparkling as he grinned across the cyvasse board, Jon's soft husky laugh echoing in her chamber as she finished another chapter of The Princess Bride and Uncle Benjen flying down from the Wall to dance with her at feasts and listen to her sing and the stable-boys giving her fistfuls of wildflowers behind blushes, cuddling with Hodor as Old Nan told stories and Larra knitted to the crackle of a small fire and he gossiped in the kitchens with the young scullery maids, her friends, the scent of porridge and roasting meat and fresh herbs and stout and cooking apples heady, and playing kiss-chase with the serving boys thrilled her as they darted through the was home to her. Where they were all safe, and whole. "I know."

Many moments later, a hiccoughing Altheda detached herself from Larra, trying to catch her breath and wiping her face with her knitted mittens, her face streaming, nose red.

"I should not have been unkind to you," Altheda mumbled to Neva, looking her in the face. She did not see the flicker of uncertainty on Neva's face as she turned and trudged through the snow after her cousins.

"Neva?" Larra said gently, and the exquisite Lyseni turned her gaze to Larra. The moonlight turned her lavender eyes to the palest purple quartz, her pale pearly hair hauntingly lovely. She looked half a ghost, shimmering with iridescence in the snow about her. Larra reached out, to cup the girl's chin tenderly, offering her a sad smile. "I am sorry I did not tell Altheda off for her nastiness sooner."

"Lady Altheda was picking on the little ones. She kept pinching Lady Rosamund when the septa wasn't looking," Neva said softly, looking almost guilty. It was the most Larra had ever heard her say. "I didn't mind her saying nasty things to me; I didn't like her bullying the babies."

"Altheda was pinching Rosamund? Why didn't you tell Lady Tisseia or Lady Nymeria? Or me?" Larra asked curiously.

Neva's eyes glowed enormous and pale, glittering quartz. "She's a lady."

"Oh," Larra nodded, remembering. Who would take the word of a whore's bastard over a highborn lady's? Hadn't the Wall been manned by those who had no power to speak against their liege lords? "You can always come to me. I was raised to be a good listener."

Larra reached out to stroke Neva's shimmering hair. "Come, let's go inside before your eyes turn blue."

"You say many strange things," Neva said softly, gazing up at her. "Cadeon likes you."

"Does he, then?"

"He likes the way you tell stories," Neva said, smiling up at Larra.

"And what do you like about the North?" Larra asked.

"I like the smell of snow," Neva said uncertainly, with a delicate smile. "It is clean. I like hot baths and my woollen dress and cuddling with Lady Rosamund and Lady Leona and knitting and porridge."

"I'm glad," Larra said.

"My father would like it, too," Neva said softly. "He said when he was in the Riverlands, he had never seen so many different kinds of green. I like white; white is quiet."

"Yes," Larra agreed, with a sad smile. Hadn't she always thought the same when she was Neva's age? "It is quiet."

Quiet and brutal and magnificent.

She took Neva's hand, and they wandered through the godswood. Larra's lips quirked toward a smile as she saw a cluster of little lionesses huddled beneath an ancient oak, their pale faces little more than glowing orbs in the incessant gloom of the godswood, ancient boughs catching the moon's light.

"It's too dark to see the path," Narcisa's voice said, rather haughtily, and Larra chuckled.

"Come along, my little lionesses," she cooed, and each girl took their cousin's hand. She led them through the ancient godswood, to the lonely gate and the ruckus of the yards that had been muted by the high walls and even more ancient trees. Torchlights flickered, small fires crackled here and there as the smallfolk went about their chores - it was barely the fourth hour after noon, yet dark had descended. Smoke from the fires obscured the stars, the shouts of labouring peoples shattered the timeless quiet of the godswood, and Larra's fine boots sank into sludge churned up by mud and grit and salt as wagons were wheeled in and out of the yard, cattle and geese were herded to the barns and young lads trained with wooden daggers, girls practising their archery.

A brief respite from the rest of the castle, and Larra winced at the noise. Sometimes it startled her, just how loud the castle was. Sometimes it was entirely too much. Sometimes the walls closed in and she could not breathe, desperate to flee, to find quiet and calm.

"Neva!" Larra shouted, heart in her mouth as Neva darted in front of a loaded cart heavy with obsidian. The enormous draft-horses whinnied as Neva darted across the courtyard, quick as a minnow, running headlong for the gate. "Neva!"

She asked Narcisa to take the other girls inside to the great hall and hoisted Leona on her hip, striding after Neva, her heart thundering with dread. Careful as people were, mindful of each other as they laboured, accidents still happened, and it would not have taken much for Neva to be trampled beneath the great draft-horses' hooves. What had caught Neva's attention? What was so important she had thrown all caution to the winds and flung herself headlong across the yard?

A cluster of snow-blown people wrapped in furs were climbing off exhausted horses just inside the gate, accompanied by a party of direwolves led by Last Shadow, who yawned widely, shaking herself, as stable-boys avoided her and ran to care for the horses, while wildlings converged on a fiery redhead.

Tormund Giantsbane, Larra thought, her breath leaving her in a soft rush. They have returned. And Shadow's pack had guided them home.

She hitched Leona up on her waist and pushed through the yard, tracking Neva, who wound her way through the wildlings and men in black to reach the tallest and broadest of the wildlings, who carried an enormous war-hammer strapped to his back, nearly as tall as Larra and probably far heavier, lethally spiked in several places. Curved bronze horns gleamed wickedly in the firelight, and Larra slowed as she noticed the man helping Yaskier off their horse.

Above all other voices, she heard Neva's high, young voice - and the enormous man did, too. He froze, turning sharply, to let Yaskier grimace and hunch over his aching legs, blue-lipped and in agony after a ride that had nearly killed their horse. Neva threw herself at the enormous man, who dived to catch Neva as she slipped in the sludge and careened ungracefully into his waiting arms.

He hoisted the little girl into the air, smothering her in his embrace, and Larra slowed, stunned, as his furred hood was knocked back. He had his eyes tight shut, face drawn into a fierce grimace of relief and something close to pain, hugging Neva, but Larra knew his face. She recognised those fierce good looks, though the years had turned him from a charming, adaptable youth to a confident, capable, fierce man.

High cheekbones, an attractive and imperfect nose, firm lips and a fierce jawline swathed behind a short black beard, the dimple in his strong chin just barely visible. Frozen curls tangled around his head like a dark halo, the wind snagging and snaring them, flirting with his ears, coiling over his forehead. He was fiercely masculine and intensely handsome. The ferocity of his expression made Larra's heart stutter - not with fear, but with longing.

Watching him hug Neva tight to him, as if he had never thought to see her again and would never again let her go, the little girl seemed even tinier in his arms, made her yearn for such an embrace.

To feel safe.

Watching Neva, Larra was certain there was nowhere in the entire world Neva felt safer than in that young man's arms, brutally strong as they were, fierce and intimidating as he seemed, well over six and a half feet tall and built like a bull, with massive hands that Larra couldn't help notice as he clutched Neva to him with surprising tenderness, enormous, long-fingered, scarred and clever. Gentle.

He was fierce and rugged, raw and intimidating - yet tender and gentle with the child in his arms, vulnerable in front of others in a way few men dared ever be. He was utterly attractive to her.

He peeled Neva away, just enough to give her a kiss, tickling under her chin to make her smile as she silently wept with relief, her lower lip trembling as she attempted a smile. He raised his gaze, and even in the flickering firelight, his eyes blazed like sapphires as they landed on a tall, pale beauty who reminded him so vividly of Arya, he did a double-take, startled.

Not Arya.

He blinked, dazed. Dark-haired, with a long, solemn face and vivid eyes the colour of violets Arya had once picked as they trudged through the Riverlands, the colour of the deep, velvety petals reminding her all too painfully of her eldest sister.

And she was staring at him, with an intense, unguarded expression that seemed to cut right through him, utterly familiar to him though they had never met. He had seen it before; he now knew where Arya had learned it, though she had been a novice in comparison to this implacable gaze. A few loose curls had escaped her braids; they tangled into coils and brushed lovingly against her moon-pale skin and her neat dark eyebrows settled over those vivid eyes. She was far taller than Arya, slender as a whip and dressed in fine leather armour adapted to her figure, twin obsidian direwolves shimmering across her chest, a priceless sword and dagger belted to her waist. She bore many weapons, he noted, all of them incredibly fine, and not merely for decoration; she carried a small golden child on her hip - one of the Lannister girls - but he could see her hands, her long slender white fingers webbed with scars that came from constant handling of weapons.

Tall and slender, pale-skinned and dark-haired, she was moonlight and shadows.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Arya had had a rough, impish sort of charm, could make friends with anyone and hide in plain sight as whoever she chose to be in that moment. This woman was serene and still in a way Arya could never be - predatory in a way he had watched the direwolves be, ever since the pack had joined their party, leading them to shelter, and then to Winterfell, rather than attacking them for the horseflesh they rode on. This woman was still and cunning the way the biggest of the direwolves was: Quiet, watchful and gentle unless provoked.

Forgetting himself, he stared at her, and was reminded of the True North, of the great snow-meadows and ageless, unforgiving mountains, of the depthless sky littered with more stars than he could ever count, of the cold in his lungs that had seemed to draw all his notice to the fact that he was alive, exhilarated - and liberated. The True North: Brutal and beautiful. Deceptive in its beauty and unforgiving of the unwary.

The flickering firelight lovingly caressed the high planes of her face, throwing her cheekbones into relief and illuminating those intense violet eyes - he stared dazedly. Arya had always compared her sister's eye to violets. But he gazed at her and saw the precarious moment when molten obsidian was tempered to its strongest, its most unbreakable - the entrancing violet flames that whispered of enduring strength.

He knew who this woman was. If he ever second-guessed his instincts, the enormous black direwolf, large as his own horse, padded silently to the woman's side. The monstrous direwolf had led a great pack and corralled their party south to Winterfell. Without looking away from him, she reached her hand to the enormous wolf, which dwarfed her, yet she did not cower or tremble or look even the slightest bit uncomfortable or wary about being crowded by the giant beast; she offered her fingertips, which the direwolf nipped lovingly, licking, before raising its muzzle to sniff and lick at her neck, her ears, tucking her nose under the woman's chin in an affectionate gesture that awed him.

The woman stared at him, and a smile blossomed on her face, startling him. Unsmiling, she was perfect and pale; with a delicate tilt to the corners of her lips, she was radiant, gentle and almost sweet. Arya seemed to shine from her smile - or perhaps because he knew Arya's face so well, and ached to see it again, he saw Arya in her sister.

"Hello, Gendry," she said, her voice rich, warm, filled with humour. Her eyes, violet fire, flickered and glowed in the firelight, warm and mesmerising.

"Larra," Gendry said, feeling a grin tickle his lips. He didn't know why he was smiling. He was exhausted, but something about that violet fire set his blood alight, made him forget his aches and the dizziness in his head from hunger, the pressure in his temples from the relentless storm that had been chasing them, the ache in his head and his raw thighs from riding without pause, outstripping the storm.

Her smile widened, as if pleased: Her delight shone from her eyes. It softened her entire face, from harsh perfection to something even more beautiful - tender and surprisingly sweet, her eyes larger and her pretty rosebud mouth softer. His eyes were drawn to her beautiful lips.

The smile disappeared in a heartbeat, replaced by something troubled, almost upset. Emotions flickered across her face, too quickly to read, before she darted to him, slipping her free arm around his thick waist and squeezing him tight. Startled, Gendry jumped, but on instinct he clamped an arm around her, tucking his head low.

"What's this for?" he murmured against her the clean sweetness of her hair, quiet enough so no-one else could hear, enjoying the close embrace. The little lioness, Leona, gazed up at him with wide eyes, thumb in her mouth. Larra Snow released him, stepping back; there was a flush in her cheeks, making her look…delicious, he thought - but she was clearly flustered.

"For doing what we could not, what my brothers could not - for stopping Arya from getting herself killed," she said softly, gazing up at him from under her lashes. He could rest his chin on the top of her head with ease if he liked, he realised. The corners of her lips were turned down in misery, and he saw the weight that seem to settle on her shoulders as she adjusted Leona on her hip, hiding a subtle grimace of pain and grief. Her eyes landed on Neva. "Neva is yours?"

"Aye, and Cadeon," Gendry said, smoothing Neva's glimmering hair from her face as snow whirled around them, clinging to her eyelashes. Larra gave him a long, assessing look and seemed to nod her approval.

"You are raising wonderful young people," she said, and Gendry felt his spine straighten, his shoulders just a little wider. To be praised for his weapons was one thing; to have his childrearing skills praised was quite another. He had been taught how to smith weapons; he was fumbling in the dark when it came to Cadeon and Neva. To be acknowledged as doing a fine job by them…

Gendry stared at Larra Snow. Arya looked like her, with their long, solemn faces and dark hair, but the more he looked, the more he recognised the differences between the two. The more he saw Jon. The curly hair, the shape of their mouths. Jon's twin-sister. Jon.

"Jon - he thinks you're dead," Gendry said, dazed.

"He has every reason to," Larra murmured, her sigh heavy.

"I didn't breathe a word!" Yaskier appeared, teeth chattering, lips blue, hunched and in pain, but more animated than Gendry had seen him in days, gaze greedily drinking Larra in. They had had to double up on the horses, and Yaskier had taken ill about a week ago. Gendry had had to learn quickly how to manage his horse and keep Yaskier toppling out of the saddle at the same time; their journey had not been an easy one. The sight of Larra, it seemed, was enough to revive Yaskier. "He was right there before me, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him! But I didn't dare ruin the surprise."

"Yaskier," Larra murmured, in that rich voice of hers, her tone drenched in irony. A flirtatious glitter flickered in those violet eyes, kisses winking in the corners of her succulent mouth. "How did you find the True North?"

"A frigid mistress," Yaskier muttered miserably, and Larra flashed a wolflike grin that startled Gendry.

"You were successful, I assume?" Larra prompted. "You secured a wight to transport south."

"Jon and the Lords sailed back to King's Landing with it; Lord Tyrion Lannister arranged a summit," Gendry shrugged. Whether the ships had reached King's Landing, he didn't know; if the summit had already occurred, they would have had no way to know.

"How many were lost?"

"Not nearly as many as we feared," a grizzled voice rumbled, and Tormund appeared. It was strange to see the terrifying wildling look small beside Gendry. He jabbed Gendry with his elbow; Gendry grunted, grimacing, and rubbed his ribs through his furs and leathers. He had learned that Tormund was a very physical person, displaying affection and displeasure with varying strength behind his blows. "Never known a man to have this one's strength before. Nor seen them swing a hammer the way he does. Bastard saved our lives more than once - and Jon's."

"What happened?" Larra asked urgently, frowning.

"Rhaegal saved our lives," Gendry corrected quickly, not liking the harsh intensity that clouded Larra's face, the same terrifying focus that he recognised from Arya. A vicious, unforgiving focus that meant danger. "I just got us onto the dragon before the wights could tear us to shreds."

"You broke the ice, boy, kept those armies from tearing us to shreds," Tormund growled. "You gave us days. And then you pulled Jon out of the water when he fell. Kept him warm after."

"Is Jon alright?"

"He is whole and healthy," Karsi said gently, and Gendry pulled a face, remembering all that had happened when they had reached Eastwatch. Jon might be whole, and healthy, but he was not unhurt, was not invulnerable. Was not untouched by all that had happened to him, all of which had been beyond his control.

Larra noticed.

Gendry glanced back at her, gulping, and lifted Neva back into his arms, eager to be away from her cunning gaze. Larra did not ask him to explain what thoughts had caused the look on his face.

"Rhaegal is one of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons," Larra said quietly, and Gendry wondered how she knew that. He frowned, realising too late…how did she know him? Only Arya knew him, and Arya… "What was a dragon doing north of the Wall?"

"The dragons flew North," Gendry said quietly. "We'd seen them on Dragonstone; they appeared at the ice-lake just as the wights attacked. Burned great swathes of the Night King's army to ash."

"But not nearly enough," Tormund grunted, and everyone exchanged troubled glances. "And but for this boy's bellowing, we would have lost one of those dragons to the Night King." Larra glanced at Gendry, who felt flushed under her scrutiny.

"The Night King hurled a spear of ice and caught Viserion in the wing-joint," Gendry explained.

"Would've struck the beast clean through the heart if you hadn't made him swerve in the air," Karsi said. "And the Night King, riding a dragon for his mount…"

Gendry was not the only one to shudder. A muscle fluttered in Larra's jaw, the same way it did in her brother's when he was under great pressure.

"Why would the dragons fly North?"

"Daenerys Targaryen rode the largest, but she confessed to Jon they acted on their own instincts," Gendry said, scowling as he remembered everything that had happened after they returned to Eastwatch. "She almost died on the journey north, as they paid no heed to her. They just kept flying north, and attacked the army of the dead."

Larra frowned, worrying her lower lip with strong white teeth. "You said you had met the dragons on Dragonstone?"

"Aye," Gendry said. "Lord Tyrion says dragons are smarter than men. Rhaegal seemed to like Jon; I think they knew Jon was in trouble. They came for us - for him."

Larra looked startled, the colour in her cheeks disappearing, her vivid violet eyes turning stark, as if he had said something awful.

A.N.: It's difficult to show just how intimate I wanted Gendry and Larra's first meeting to be. I wish I could show rather than tell, with visuals and actors and all of that. They would have been struck dumb by each other. The world would have gone quiet, the snow blocking out all sight and sound. Music would've swelled. We would've wept.

Definitely check out stills from Night Hunter for Henry Cavill's cosy wintertime beard-and-curls combo. Absolutely scrumptious.