CHAPTER 2: WINTERFELL

The man stopped his mount as he began to make it out, taking a moment to absorb what he was seeing before him. Winterfell. Home of his father and forefathers. Ruling seat of the Starks, Wardens of the North. He had never had the opportunity to come north, to truly know his father's lands. He knows that he received much from his father in the way of coloring and the sound of his voice, deeper than a man of his height would think to have. Now, he truly sees what was denied from him. The beautiful landscape, clean and vast, each hill rolling and blending with the next before leveling out before the castle and town. Yet, it doesn't quite feel like home.

As he looks back to the royal procession, he remembers exactly who he is riding wit-

"Boy," his grace grunts, "truly remarkable isn't it?"

"Yes," the man finally responds, "it is everything I ever could have hoped it to be."

"Ha!" the fat King laughs, "this is the land that your father's family has ruled for thousands of years, my best friend rules in that castle. Does he know you are coming?"

"Yes," the man replies, "I send Lord Stark a raven before our departure informing of my coming, your grace."

The King responds with an apt dismissal, having grown bored with his fancy, "Excellent, boy, now off with you, the royal impediment needs guarding, and the seven know that I can't leave the Kingslayer alone too long, he will start trouble and delay us further."

"Of course, your grace." The man responds, as he begins to travel back toward the royal wheelhouse, which had mercifully not broken yet today. Alas, there was much sunlight left in the sky, and Winterfell nearly a day away yet.

As he rides into the courtyard with Ser Jamie, he looks upon his Uncle's trueborn family. He sees Robb, a man he was said to greatly resemble were his hair any shorter and red. Next, his cousin Sansa, the unfortunate target of the crown prick if he were to bet. Brandon, a boy not much older than the young Prince Tommen, looked as stark as his brother, though he shared a more southern build with his sister than he did the stocky build he himself shared with Robb. Arya came next, looking as stark as he, maybe even more so, given the lack of Lannister cheekbones in her face. Young Rickon stood with his Aunt Catelyn, the boy looking half a wolf in the way he had ruffled his clothes in the mere moments he'd seen him. His aunt herself, looked to be the proper southern lady. Slim, just curvy enough and tall. A shame that that gene seemed to have skipped all the children but Sansa, though Brandon seemed to have a chance of following suit.

Then, he saw his uncle, and his uncle saw him. It was a quick glance, as the King had chosen that moment to make himself known. But that look had carried weight, he saw relief at having his blood in the north, the last remaining bit of it if his guesses were correct. All the rest of the Stark litter was here, bastard or otherwise.

As his uncle and the rest knelt for the King, he couldn't help but wonder, would they accept him? His lord uncle had a bastard himself, but the lad seemed to be missing from the greeting party. Before he could ponder upon that further, his grace decided to open discussion with his oldest friend.

"You got fat!" Oh your grace, never change.

Lord Stark merely looked him over and raised a brow, a move he never would have thought to witness, and got the King to give a heartly laugh and hug in greeting.

As his grace greeted his aunt and met the Stark children, he locked eyes with his uncle again, with him seeming to just speak now, but being interrupted by his grace in his special way.

"Take me to your crypts, I would pay my respects," I stand corrected, if you would change right now that would be great.

Her royal highness tries in vain to keep the King here 'did I truly miss their departure from the royal eyesore?' and failed exactly as expected. Exasperated at his friend's carelessness toward his wife, his lord uncle proceeds to lead his King down toward the Stark crypts to see his aunt's grave.

As he dismounts and leaves his steed with a stableboy and a silver, he notices a Stark-looking lad come up to him. He looked almost a copy of his uncle, with a prettier face and a more southern build. His hair a shade brighter than his own, and eyes a darker shade of grey.

"Lord Stark said you were coming," the grim lad begins with.

"Aye," the man responds, "I wouldn't miss a chance to see this place for the world."

"I'm Jon, Jon Snow," the lad says, while looking slightly hopefully at him, as if looking for the approval of a brother.

"A pleasure to meet you Jon, Lord Stark has spoken of you to me before." The man pauses for a minute before responding, "I'm Asher, Asher Hill."

In the long hours before he was called to his uncle's solar, he got to know his cousin. Jon was a good lad as far as he could tell. He was scared half to death of Lady Stark, but from what he could tell he was really only scared to shame his father any further. 'Ahh, what a luxury. A living, breathing father.' The lad wasn't half bad with a sword either, even giving him a bit of a push. However, one did not squire to the best sword in the land and not pick up on more than a few things.

He told stories of his brother Robb, heir apparent to the Lordship of The North. Of how him and his brother were the closest of friends, and were even closer until Lord Stark brought the cunt Theon Greyjoy home to Winterfell. Alas, that son of rapists and murderers will be in Winterfell far longer than either of them, as he is slated to stay even after the two of them depart. That was something he hoped he could dissuade Jon from doing, joining the Night's Watch. Theon Greyjoy would fit in far better with a group such as them.

Before Asher could think more on that amusing thought, his lord uncle's guards called him forward. As he entered his uncle's solar, he saw that he was ready for the feast coming in the next hours.

"Asher," his uncle began, "I hope these past years have treated you kindly?"

Asher smiles, as he responds, "I am a knight with my spurs, though I have yet to choose a sigil. Three years too late if some of the other knights are to be believed."

His uncle smiles a bit at the attempt at levity, before setting back with this normal stern face, "The honor of knighthood means much south of the neck, have you thought on a name or sigil? You could always take your father's name as your house."

Asher thinks a moment, before responding, "Asher Brandon does have a ring to it, but I do not think it sounds quite right. I could always go for mountain, a nice even mix between snow and hill."

Lord Stark grimaces a bit at that, before responding, "You should pick a sigil at least, have you thought of taking the inverted colors of either of your parent's houses?"

Asher sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, "I have, but the red lion is a title for a dead house, and the white wolf is something you have in Winterfell now, do you not?"

Lord Stark cracks another small, fond smile at the jest, "Those wolves we found, no normal animals. Their mother was as big as any horse in the stables, and I doubt they will be any different."

As they fall into a semi-comfortable silence, Asher thinks on the subject of wolves. 'Maybe I am a lion after all, there was no wolf for me.'

As the time comes closer to the evening's feast, Lord Stark eventually bade Asher farewell for the evening, leaving to escort his wife and family into the great hall. As Asher wandered through Winterfell, quite taken with his dead father's home, he found himself late to the grand feast in the King's honor.

Jon Snow was angry. Not at anything unreasonable, in his mind anyway, merely at his father's wife. 'Of course Lady Stark would find a way to bar me from being with my family. Even Asher was allowed to sit higher than me, is it because he is a knight?' as he ponders briefly on that, briefly as in the split second between cuts at the practice dummy, he begins to hear voices as two men walk towards him.

He sees the Queen's dwarven brother, Lord Tyrion Lannister, and his cousin Asher approaching him. As they approach, he hears the tail end of their conversation.

"-ey really were the best whores in the north! Ahh that red headed beauty, I could almost take her back to King's Landing. Alas, a man such as me will never be tied down to one woman, no matter how skilled!"

Jon sees his cousin pinch his nose in seeming exasperation, but could tell the two held a fondness for each other.

"Jon?" Asher says as he notices him, "Why are you not at the feast?"

"I could say the same to you ser," Jon japes, "Why would such a chivalrous man such as yourself be away from all of the fine beauties to protect?"

The little lord laughs as his cousin smirks, they then descend into a brief, comfortable silence until Lord Tyrion breaks it abruptly.

"You are Lord Stark's bastard, are you not?" the dwarf carelessly asks.

"Lord Stark is my father," Jon shortly replies.

"But Lady Stark is not your mother?" the dwarf replies.

Before Jon can get angry, Asher cuts in, "Do not be so angry Jon, Tyrion here simply likes to be blunt. He gave me great advice when I was younger that I follow to this day."

"Ahh yes," the dwarf replies, as Jon looks on intrigued, "No one will forget who you are, bastard, so wear it like armor, so no one can pierce through it and get to you. It had worked wonders for me throughout the years."

Almost without thinking, Jon snarks, "What could you know about being a bastard?"

The mood dropping so fast that the two bastards could feel the air shift, Tyrion darkly replies, "All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes."

In a moment of levity, Asher snarks, "Well said Tyrion, may you enjoy bastardy as all of the bastards you have surely made do."

At that, the two smile a knowing smile at each other, before Tyrion parts ways with the bastards to attempt to rejoin the feast.

After Tyrion's departure, the two cousins are approached by a man in black. Completely. Not a feather out of place in his raven cloak. As Asher stares confusedly at the black brother, Jon approaches him with a happy shout, "Uncle Benjen!"

As Asher puts the pieces together, he too approaches at a more sedate pace.

"So you're Brandon's boy?" the watchman asks, "You certainly look the part of a Stark."

Asher shakes the man's hand as he replies, "Aye, that I do. It's caused me a bit of grief down south, but here, it makes me feel like I fit in."

Benjen smirks as he replies, "As it should. You may not have our name, but you have our blood."

They fall into a companionable silence before Benjen mentions his post at the watch.

"Can I come with you, when you go back?" Jon quickly says, excitement freely bleeding into his voice.

"You're still young, the watch will not go anywhere," Benjen replies, looking slightly concerned at the boy's excitement for celibacy.

"There's nothing for me here, when father goes south, Lady Stark will not stand my presence." Jon says, though it is obvious the first part is a lie.

Asher quickly replies, "You could come south with me! You could squire for me, learn to become a better sword before joining the watch at the very least. I know that most of the men the watch gets are in dire need of a good trainer."

Benjen grimaces in recognition, then affirms, "He is right, you know. If you were to learn from him for a time, earn your spurs, you could become a great asset to the watch in your own time."

Jon, seemingly encouraged at such an opportunity, asks, "Do you think father will allow me to? He's upset enough I think at any of us going south, let alone his bastard."

Asher grimaces, as he replies, "I will ask him on the morrow. For now, let us enter the hall as family, and get dead drunk as one too!"

They all smile as they make their way forward towards the hall, knowing warm drink and company await.

"So, you are our cousin?" a precocious voice demands, as he is resting himself after a spar. Jon really was the only competition he would get in this yard. The guardsmen he'd been fighting hadn't sated his appetite for a challenge, and he knew Ser Jamie would not be free from duty for the vast majority of their stay.

As he looks up, he sees young Arya Stark, staring him down being downright cute trying to intimidate him in a dirty girl's dress. "That would, indeed, be the case my lady," he responds with a smirk.

"I'm not a lady!" she quickly yells, gathering the attention of the yard, with some chuckling fondly at what must be a frequent occurrence.

"Shhh, you don't want us to be caught by the septa do you?" quietly yells Brandon, who he now notices followed his sister to confronting him.

"How might I be of service, my noble cousins?" Asher asks, bowing at the waist and bringing a laugh out of the two young pups.

"We wanted to meet you!" Brandon yells, forgoing his prior declaration to Arya in an attempt to be heard over her.

At the same time, Arya yells, "Jon said you were strong!"

The two glare at each other, as Asher nearly falls over laughing at the two. "Well, honorable cousins, my name is Ser Asher Hill, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The two stop and look at him, as Arya quickly takes the center of attention again, "I'm Arya, and this is Bran!"

Bran. Not Brandon. Was the name of his father not good enough? Did it have to be changed after eight thousand years? Or did Lord Stark not feel he could bear hearing his dead brother's name so constantly?

"Hey! Are you listening?" Arya yells, as his focus begins to wander.

"Ahh yes, sorry, my mind begins to wander when faced with something I deem interesting," Asher replies, "You were named for my father, were you not Bran?"

The boy grows almost shy at finally being singled out, but answers, "Yes, ser. I was named to honor uncle Brandon, and all of the Brandon's of house Stark."

Asher smiles, as he responds, "Well, let us hope you do them justice, lad. You seem like the type that wants to fight, do you not?"

"Yes! Do you think I could be your squire?" Bran yells, unthinking of what exactly he just implied.

"No, stupid!" the girl replies before him, "Jon wants to be his squire, remember?"

"He can have me after!" the boy yells, "When Jon is a knight, he can have you!"

As the two seem to come to an agreement before him, the yard looks to have thickened up. A look up shows Jon, overlooking the surrounding men. He sees his cousin Robb come over to them to collect young Bran, it would seem he is to spar young Prince Tommen.

"Go on now," he tells the lad, "Do my father and the other Brandon's proud."

Bran smiles, before leaving with his trueborn brother.

"Come on," Arya cries, "Follow me, I know where we can watch all of the action!"

As he gets dragged along by the young girl, he wonders if this is what having a sister feels like? He always thought that what Myrcella and him had was like that, but now he could see how such things were different. A sister pulled along her brother, dragged him really, to and fro until she felt tired, then made you carry her. Myrcella just made him carry her.

As they arrived, the "spar" had only just begun. He greeted Jon with a pat on the shoulder, then sat down with the siblings to watch the two balls of padding bang into each other with sticks. As Tommen fell to the ground under Bran, the crown prick made himself known. Calling for real steel and a spar against Robb Stark. A spar that no one but the dullest of fools thought Joffrey could win. When he saw fit to make jokes at the Stark's expense for their caution in harming a Prince, something Joffrey would be more than thankful for if he was smart, nearly causing a brawl in the training yard in the process. A brawl in which he did not know who he would assist. Would he help the wolves or the lions? He refused to call Joffrey a stag, there was no blood of Robert apparent in the shit, but he most certainly had the temper of an ugly, cunt of a lion.

Golden Wolf. Grey Lion. That was what he was, an amalgam of his houses, but which was he? It would be lazy for him to just halve his sigil between such things, but where was the fun in that? He would need to be decisive about something for once. Maybe Tyrion could provide some insight on his choice, the man always knew just what to say about something like this, provided he didn't try and turn it into a jest.

During a stormy night in a mountain castle, a woman brought into the world a boy. The woman got one single look at him, and knew she would see him no longer. The boy was quiet for a babe, simply looking around at his surroundings. It became quickly apparent that the boy had northern heritage. What few hairs the babe was born with were a deep, dark brown, turned black by the birthing fluids when he was brought into this world. His eyes, blue as they were now, would probably grow into the grey of his father's. She named him a northern name, one that also had history in a region of her homeland.

His father was dead, this she knew. The mad Targaryen King, Aerys II, had him strangled while the boy's grandfather was burnt at the stake. When she heard tale of her lover's demise, she felt nothing. A slight pain for her child, for they would never know the man, but one did not grow to care for a man who they had lain with but a single time, that was for the weak.

As her view faded of her son, she could only hope that he would want for nothing in his future, that the lord of the castle would provide him with a future and a full life.

AN:

Thank you for the kind review