CHAPTER 3: THE FALL OF SUMMER

As Tyrion awoke in Winterfell that morning, he knew the day would be long. The King was determined to take the whole of the court with them into the Wolfswood for a hunt. A grand old spectacle, were it not for the hundred or so people attending scaring game away for ten hours. Ah well, not his problem per say, his problem would be entertaining himself while on such an excursion. It was not as if he could strike down a great stag or boar for himself, as small a man as he could hardly fell a yearling, so that was out. While King Robert would hardly care about a whore's presence in a normal occasion, these were the King's prudish friend's woods, and whores were hardly welcome on such affairs as this anyhow. Asher would be joining them, but he longed for more than just one traveling companion that he could converse with. Jamie would be staying in Winterfell for reasons only obvious to him, as far as he knew, and would not be joining the party.

'I wish the children would come, it would certainly liven things up to watch them flail about on horseback or otherwise trying to kill as well as I can'. Tommen was hardly one for the killing of animals, 'a sweet boy that one, Robert and Cersei must be furious at times that he has neither of their aggression, and most certainly none of his father's boldness'. Myrcella would likely be in the company of that dreadful septa that Lady Catelyn keeps about to annoy her younger children into submission. Speaking of said younger children, young Arya Stark was likely underfoot, as her moniker would suggest around these halls. Young Brandon, named for Asher's departed father, would likely be scaring the daylights out of his mother with such skill that all young precocious boys possess. The babe Rickon is likely too young still for but the most basic of lessons, as with his inherent wildness, similar to his second elder sister, he was likely a terror to anyone who would have him sit still for more than a scarce few moments. 'Such sweet summer children, I hope nothing brings anything into their lives to ruin such a thing. Certainly more than I was afforded by my lord father'.

In between their attempts at finding game, Asher finally got the opportunity to ask his Lord Uncle about Jon Snow's future. To say the answer was lacking in substance would be putting it lightly.

"I'm sorry Asher, but Jon will not go south. I'm already wary of bringing half of my family with me, never mind a son without the protections afforded to my other children."

Asher, nearly stunned at the rebuttal against what he though was the easiest way for a bastard to make his way in the world, replied almost pleadingly in favor of his idea, "Please Uncle Eddard, think of his options. The future paths this may open for him."

Lord Stark, almost sadly replies, "I'm sorry Asher, but Jon will stay in the North upon our departure."

Now angered, Asher nearly shouts, "The only other place for him after you leave is the Night's Watch! Me and Uncle Benjen got him to finally put aside serving with rapists and murderers for at least a few years, and you say that it is far too dangerous? What do you think life was like for me! I'm the bastard of a fortuneless woman of an ancient house and the heir to another, living every day knowing that I was shaming them both by merely existing! He feels the same, despite the fact that you are still around to tell him otherwise. He will still feel that way until he feels that he has truly made a way for himself in the world. Only then, will he finally be able to say that he is content with living his life."

After watching his nephew catch his breath following his rant, Eddard Stark places one hand on his shoulder and repeats his final judgement about Jon Snow's future, "The watch is an honorable order that the Starks have served within for thousands of years, from its' inception to mine own brother serving with them now. If Jon sees a future with them here in the North then I see no reason to deny him. That you are willing to do so much for a cousin you've only just met lad…that shows me that you have more than our blood, you have the Stark character as well."

While most certainly touched at the gesture from his uncle, Asher cannot help but feel saddened for the future of Jon Snow. The lad was a more than promising swordsman, and he would be greatly wasted spending his whole lifetime slaughtering savages and holding to celibacy on the edge of the civilized world.

He hoped Jon would forgive him for his failure in convincing his lord father, for Lord Stark would surely hear Jon's opinion on the matter as soon as they returned.

Despite the upsetting setback on attempting to change the path of his bastard cousin's future, he did have the pleasure to finally relax with his trueborn one. Robb Stark was like himself in many ways, yet different in the ways that more than showed his heirdom upbringing.

While he had a veritable whoremonger for his second closest friend, not incredibly dissimilar to Asher's own life, he himself has never partaken in the pleasures of the flesh. While both of them trained in the yard, Robb would never be able to dedicate the time necessary to become as good a sword as either of his bastard relations, or even his lord father once had as a second son. He was excellent with a lance, but then so were many southern heirlings. The boy's hair curled in a similar fashion to his own, but in a Tully way rather than the Lannister's. Maybe the Stark hair gene is weak, for all three of the older sons of the house had hair that curled unlike their fathers, though Jon is tortured by the idea of getting anything from his unknown mother.

He was a genuinely good person to talk to, and, like his Lord Father, did not seem to care much about his bastardy. The two of them could honestly pass for brothers, for he had similar enough looks to both him and Jon. It was like he bridged the gaps between them with his southern looks and northern coloring. Lord Stark said that he and Robb both inherited their grandfather's face, though his infamous Lannister cheekbones would beg to differ.

Overall, Robb Stark would grow to be a great lord and better man if he remained on his current path, but Theon Greyjoy would die of the pox before he would have the chance to see it happen. The lad was truly with a whore nearly every night, spending what meager allowance that was afforded to him on the finest "Lady" his gold could buy. He was a cunt about it too. While Tyrion was a whoremonger, he didn't brag about paying for women the same way the Greyjoy did. The man would go on and on about the moans that they would release from his pleasures, but experience tells that he probably is merely receiving what he paid for.

At least the Greyjoy was an excellent shot. If there was anything he could brag about, it would be bringing home the only true game from the entire royal excursion. True to form for a hunt with hundreds of clustered people, the only ones to score are those smart enough to sneak away by themselves.

When the news of Brandon Stark's fall came to the party, their return was hastened tenfold. With Lord Eddard storming through the gates of Winterfell followed closely by his sons and nephew. The boy was found at the base of the broken tower by a serving woman walking the grounds, and the maester was called. The elderly man immediately set to examining the boy and, by the time those of Stark blood returned from their rush back to Winterfell, was almost set in his diagnosis. The boy could possibly wake, but would never walk again.

When thinking back to the past few days of meeting the cheerful boy that was Brandon Stark, a boy named for his father, he cannot imagine someone cursed to be abed for the rest of their days. The boy would never be the tourney winning knight he dreamt of from as soon as he knew what they were, he would never ride a horse or finally learn to shoot that bow straight, and he would never be his squire.

Would that be the curse of all Brandon's for the rest of history? Sure, there were great Brandon's in the ancient Stark history, but lately the name seemed to only bring death and worse upon its' owner. His own father was said to be restless up until his death. Never able to stay in Winterfell long, he often found himself wandering around all the different holds and towns of the north, sampling their women and wine with his group of cohorts. How would he react to this? Not being able to ride and fuck anymore, would he break? Would he become a better lord for it, with a strong focus on what he could do as a cripple, with strong heirs from Uncle Eddard's line. He'd never know the answer to such a question, but he knew Lord Stark's line was strong, and Bran would fight as hard as his ancestors always had.

The children of Lord and Lady Stark did not take the new well that their brother may never wake, let alone live his dreams. Arya kept talking to herself under low tones, "Bran can't fall…he never falls…" Sansa nearly fainted at the news, and could be heard sobbing from her quarters late into the next morning. Rickon was mostly confused as to why "Bwen" was asleep and not playing with him, but sensing the group's sadness cried and whined as well. Robb too…the man looked paler than normal, even by Tully standards. He was white as a ghost and seemed to completely shut down until he noticed his mother and siblings appearance, and took it upon himself to take everyone to their quarters to rest and regain their thoughts. He really would make a good lord someday, though if the king gets his wish it would be sooner than he thought.

His aunt, Lady Catelyn, never left his bedside. She resided there for all of their remaining days in Winterfell, long and dark as they were without the young Bran to infuse Winterfell with his boundless energy. The woman scarcely said a word when he came to bid his farewells, a glare reserved for Jon on her face as he retreated from the room, leaving an awkward situation as it would be.

Jon, for his part, was nearly as quiet as his wolf in the following days from the accident. Once the news broke that his Lord Father had forbade him from going south, he didn't once risk confrontation and further disruption in the family by arguing with him. Seemingly set on celibacy, the boy, still not a man, would depart with their uncle Benjen for The Wall. He had mixed feelings on that subject, thinking that Jon was too good a man and a sword to be wasted on The Wall with only rapists and murderers for company. He made sure to let him know that whenever they sparred, which was almost daily now, and hoped such talk would reach Lord Stark in time, and allow it to change his mind.

Following young Bran's accident, Myrcella tried her best to keep as many minds off of it as possible. With the freeing knowledge that the boy would live, Myrcella was able to sleep more soundly at night. In order to accomplish what she deemed as her small part in taking care of her royal duties, she took to occupying whichever Stark she was near with both her wit and any old activity she could come up with. Lately, she had taken to dragging Sansa Stark around Winterfell's grounds as the girl seemed to take the boy's fall among the hardest in her family.

As Myrcella walked with Sansa Stark through the upper halls of Winterfell one evening, they arrived at the balcony overlooking the castle's training yard. Looking through the grounds, she found her friend sparring with his cousin.

"Sansa, what do you think of them?" she asked.

Sansa gained a mildly confused look upon her face, and replied, "Who Princess?"

Myrcella smiled slightly, gaining a near playful tone to her voice, "Why, Ser Asher and your brother of course."

"Half-brother," Sansa almost reflexively replies, "They are very skilled with swords, my Princess, and Ser Asher looks very gallant in his armor."

Myrcella inwardly flinches at the almost instinctive correction and labeling at her brother's bastardy, but almost can't keep her emotional mask up when she is shown a considerable double standard when it came to her bastard cousin, "Do you not care for your brother, Sansa?"

Sansa, nearly emotionless and definitely automatic, almost as if coached, quickly replies, "Half-brother Princess, and bastards are creatures of lust and sin, and not to be associated with."

Barely holding in her emotions, Myrcella retorts, "But what about Ser Asher, is he not a bastard? A knight anointed with the seven oils, trained by my uncle, a kingsguard knight, and one who has slain many of those who sought to harm those both smallfolk and highborn."

Sansa, seemingly taken aback from her hypocrisy thrown in her face, stutters a moment before responding, "W-well, it is as you said. Ser Asher has had noble teachers and demonstrated noble deeds before those around the royal court."

Myrcella, close to ripping her hair out at this point, which just wouldn't do, tries her best to bring Sansa down to earth from her high view of knighthood, "Sansa, there are many with a knighthood that simply bought it or earned it from doing the most unsavory of things. Many of my Frey cousins, for example, would not even bother to help a woman carry an extra basket of bread across a street. Men like Asher are rare indeed, and your brother seems to be of a similar kind. You Starks are lucky to have such fine men in your family, for I find my own to be somewhat lacking at times."

Taken aghast at her dismissal of the royal family, Sansa asks, "What do you mean by lacking? The royal family has such kind, handsome men and beautiful women, such as your brother the prince and your mother, her grace the Queen."

Myrcella openly laughed at this point, her filter pushed beyond its' limit at the absurdity of Joffrey being kind of all things, "Sansa, you may find that those you meet may not hold up to your expectations. Take my father for example. I am sure that your father told stories about my father as a warrior, leading armies and crushing rebellions. I am sure that he was not fat in your mind before you met him."

Sansa visibly recoiled at her crass description of the king, "That is your father, the King you speak of! His grace is a kind and noble man, and has ruled the real dutifully in his time as King."

Rolling her eyes and repressing further open amusement, Myrcella looked to the grounds for her friend once more. She found him lifting Jon Snow off of the dirt, and complementing the young man once more on his swordsmanship, throwing in a passing comment on a future other than the daft old Wall in for good measure. Once done, he looked up to the balcony overhead to see any spectators. He reserved a smile for her, as always, and waived to both her and Sansa from below. Jon, seeing her shortly after his cousin, bowed at the waist and quickly left the field.

"You've scared off my sparring partner Princess, now how am I to train and improve?" Asher snarks up to her, Sansa lightly gasping at the familiarity present.

"Oh noble Ser, perhaps my noble guard Ser Arys could be of assistance? As long as we remain within sight, I am sure he would not object?"

As she finishes her question, she turns to Ser Arys for an answer, for which he replies with a small smile, "If it is my Princess's wish, than who am I to refuse."

Laughing as she guided Sansa and Ser Arys to the yard, she prepared to watch a now familiar dance between two old friends, both skilled and dangerous with a sword.

Ser Arys put up a fair fight in their bouts, managing to give out a respectable amount of hits against his friend, but was unable to score a single win in their bouts.

'Wow,' Myrcella thought, 'he still cannot beat him, even after all these years since was knighted, Asher has surely improved. Ser Arys has not been complacent in his training either, so for him to outlast him his own training must be vigorous still.'

Creylen thought of himself as a gifted educator of men. While serving under the greatest house of the Westerlands, and one of the greatest in all of Westeros, maybe even the world, he and his aides had educated more than his fair share of golden haired lions. Call him surprised when a dark haired boy walked through his door one day, curious and searching with his gaze in a way that betrayed both his curiosity and intelligence.

As the lad finally finished his scan of the room and his gaze settled on him, he was surprised when the boy himself started the conversation.

"Hello," the boy simply said.

Mildly amused at the boy, Creylen responded, "Hello there young man, what brings you to my solar?"

The boy's eyes darted around the room again, before he responded, "You teach people how to read, right?"

Curious now, the middle-aged maester responded, "That I do young man, I teach all of those who my lord would have me teach."

The young man nodded, and asked, "Could you teach me sir?"

Creylen pondered a moment, and tried to think on where the boy had learned this complex language if he could not even read yet, before asking, "What is your name my boy?"

The boy stared at him for a moment with his pale eyes, before simply responding, "Asher, sir."

Creylen thought on the name for a moment, and, when nothing appeared within his mind, he asked the boy, "Follow me lad, we'll go speak to the lord about you."

AN:

I'll try and have these out rather regularly, the first two chapters I wrote months ago when I got bored one day. When I dug them back up one day and looked them over, I made a few changes and finally took the leap. If anyone wants to be a beta for me , feel free to PM me.