Stupid Lia and her stupid treasure.

As they raced through the halls towards the maester's turret, Arthur could not help glaring daggers at his sister. Lia, dark curls wild from their climb and the wind atop the broken tower, gave him an impish grin, not at all sorry that she had made them late for lessons.

"Others take you, Lia. Now Maester Luwin's going to make me copy out timber yields again."

"If you'd just memorise them for when he tests you, he'd have no reason to make you copy out the boring stuff," she replied airily, and Arthur scowled.

"Not everyone can have a freak memory like yours," he muttered. Lia could remember writing at a glance, and she did not even like to read. None of it was fair. His own memory served well enough, but only for the interesting things, like history and politics and the different ways smallfolk lived their lives depending on if they fished or farmed or grew grapes for a living. Arthur did not have a mind for numbers, and of late, having to memorise how many board feet of oak or soldier pine the North exported to each of the Free Cities each year was making Arthur's head all jumbled.

Lia shrugged.

"My freak memory and I will get to leave lessons early as usual."

Arthur resumed his glaring. His sister had come to him after the midday meal today, intent on showing him something she'd found buried in the ruined rooms at the top of the broken tower. She had been up there alone the day before, while the rest of them had been at lessons, memorising numbers. Another thing that was not fair—how much more time Lia had for climbing.

"I swear on my life that it's lost treasure," she had said. "It's all golden and shiny and has ancient symbols carved on it. Come and see if you can get it out for me."

Arthur, unable to staunch his curiosity, had strapped small shovels to their backs and climbed to the tower with her, even knowing they only had an hourglass turn's time before lessons began. They had left their pups Dawn and Mouse with their mother and littermates—the mother wolf was well enough to stand on her own for short bursts of time now—though Arthur wondered when, if ever, it would be safe to bring their pups climbing with them.

Since before he could remember, he and Lia had explored every foot of Winterfell's walls and turrets, their shoes tied up with string and slung over their necks, their fingers and toes digging into the chalky crevices between stones. They found passages inside walls and hidden bridges between towers, often emerging atop turrets entirely on the other side of where they had started.

Sometimes they would veer off on different routes, picking a point to meet up at, and other times Arthur would climb alone, a book tucked safely in his doublet, and read for hours where no one could disturb him.

Yet most often, they climbed together. Though by now everyone knew they climbed, it still felt like their secret.

Because Arthur was better, he often went first, and when he emerged alone somewhere impossibly high, for a few moments, he would breathe the crisp, sweet air, silence filling his ears, feeling like he could see through the eyes of the birds that glided overhead.

Then, in a few moments, he would turn to help Lia up, her laughter dancing on the air around them, and Arthur would think there was nobody in the world so wonderful as his sister. When they looked out over the walls and the rolling hills beyond, just the two of them, like two sides of a single coin, nothing could ever go amiss in the world.

Climbing was one of the only things in which he could beat Lia, though they had only raced each other up towers and along old runs of machicolations half the time, and not nearly so often now that they were getting older. More often now, they simply perched atop walls and turrets and watched the daily life of Winterfell play out below them—the cooks in the glass gardens, the soldiers drilling in the yard— and it made Arthur feel like they were lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know.

Lia had different ideas, for her mind could never still, and anything it churned up would eventually make its way out her mouth. As they watched the people go about their day, she contrived to make up the things they seemed to be saying to each other, sometimes concocting conversations so ludicrous their sheer nonsense made Arthur laugh until his belly ached.

"Oh, those two by the washing well are definitely talking about the wart on the undercook's nose," she'd say, squinting, then continuing in a falsetto,

"'She came so close to me this morning, I could count the hairs on it,' the blonde one is saying. Oh, no, see, the redhead looks scared. Wait. She's flapping her hands, what on earth? Oh, I know! 'Watch your tongue,' the redhead's saying, 'I don't care about warts. The undercook's got ears like a bat's.'"

Once, when they had been six, Lia had insisted they compete to see who could hang upside down longest from the gaps in the machicolations. And so, they had been hanging there, letting the blood rush to their faces, when their mother happened to walk past. Lia had not been able to help giggling, making Amma look up. She had nearly fainted.

"Are you sure the two of you are children and not squirrels?" she had asked when she'd made them come down, intently watching their practiced movements on the walls. She had asked them if they could find some other form of entertainment, one that would not risk her heart giving out every time she saw them, but Lia had simply shrugged and said,

"Or we could just keep climbing and make sure you never see us."

Her eyes had gone wide.

"If you fall, you will have no sympathy from me, Elia Stark," she'd said, though Arthur knew she did not mean it and was struggling not to smile.

She had made them promise before the weirwood tree that they would never do anything that felt dangerous or risky when up in the air, then made as if to leave them be. Over the next months, however, Old Nan, Maester Luwin, and Wylla had all used various methods to convince them of the dangers of climbing. All to no avail—for none were a match for Lia's infuriating tongue. Their mother has even recruited Septa Dyna, though Arthur was not certain why she thought either of them would listen to the unsmiling woman. Amma's own eyes would glaze over when the septa spoke about holy days and the joys of prayer.

Arthur had been feeling guilty about putting their mother through so much worry when the last person she recruited had set their minds at ease.

"Your Amma's asked me to convince you to stop climbing," Yli had said one day when Arthur and Elia came to help her dry herbs. "The utter shamelessness of the girl. As if she did not ride alone into the Red Mountains or set out into the open sea on a piece of wood and make us all fear she would die. You Starks may be wolves, but the two of you have got the luck of cats. Just be sure to land on your feet, and you'll be right as rain."

The next morning Lia had repeated Yli's words to their mother, and after that, no one ever questioned their climbing. Arthur wasn't sure why Amma had ever been worried. Not once had either of them fallen.

Up on the broken tower that morning, Lia had shown him the golden knob buried deep in the compact rubble of the collapsed rooms. It was bronzed with age, and there were symbols Arthur had never before seen etched on the cold metal. The exposed bit was a half circle perhaps the size of his palm, and there seemed to be a hole in the middle, but that was mostly filled with caked dust and debris.

Centuries of rain and snow had made the mixture of pulverised ruins hard as the ground itself, and no matter how they chipped at the debris, they could only scrape bits of dust from its surface, and had no luck in exposing more of it, let alone pulling it out completely.

"What do you think it is," Lia had asked, picking at it absently with her nail when they had decided to give up on the shovels.

"No idea," sighed Arthur, his shoulders beginning to ache from the shovelling. "Can't even tell how big it is."

Lia sat back against a piece of building rock, absently swatting away an audacious crow that had flown too close to her head.

"We'll have to come back, then. With chisels next time, and maybe some water to loosen the dirt."

"You want to carry water up here? I'm certainly not going to do it."

She pouted at him.

"But you're the boy. Aren't you're supposed to be all…strong and stuff?"

Arthur gaped at her.

"You're joking, right? What was it you said when I asked you to mend my favourite shirt the other day?"

She blushed.

"Well, no one is born knowing how to do needlework," she said stubbornly, "but boys are naturally stronger than girls. You don't need to learn anything for it, you just are."

Arthur rolled his eyes at her.

"Oh, come on, Art, I don't believe for an instant that you're not just as curious about the thing as I am. Imagine Maester Luwin's face if we present him with some thousand-year-old lost treasure."

And that was when they had both sat up as if stung. They had no hourglass with them, but it was clear just by the sun that they were terribly late for lessons. They had eschewed climbing down through the godswood, instead leaving their shovels atop the tower, carefully descending onto the First Keep and dropping to the ground from the back

By the time they had reached the maester's turret, both were out of breath.

"Don't tell anyone about this," Lia whispered as they mounted the steps to the chamber where Maester Luwin held lessons. "If anyone's going to dig it out, I want it to be us."

"Fine," said Arthur, rolling his eyes again, though if he were honest with himself, when he got over the annoyance with his sister, he too would be burning to know what on earth the golden knob buried in the ruins was.

Thankfully, Maester Luwin seemed in a forgiving mood today, and only set Arthur and Elia onto writing out a comprehensive account of trade relations with each of the Free Cities and those in Slaver's Bay, gleaned from the records of the past few decades. It was not so monotonous, most of the records were new—some written in his mother or father's hand back when Arthur was just a babe in arms—and Arthur found the entire bit of history fascinating.

According to the maester, the North did not always trade so with Essos. There had long been limited exports of sentinel and pine to Braavos for their ships, but since his mother had arrived in the North, she had brokered many exclusive agreements through connections in Braavos and Norvos, and even as far south as Lys.

The elites of the Free Cities now prized Northern oak for their front doors and lightweight ironwood for furniture and weaponry. When it grew cold in the nights in Pentos and Myr, it was Northern furs the wealthy women wore around their shoulders. And of course, now nearly all merchants and city fleets alike built their ships with Northern wood. Most had not known before that trees could grow so large, and the wood itself could hold up so strong, but now they would not source their wood form elsewhere.

His mother had discovered, too, that the snow marble mined around the low mountains north of the Wolfswood could be exported to the Slave Cities.

Nobody in Westeros had ever wished to build with the silver-veined stone, for it heated slowly and cooled far too fast, and spending winter in a castle laid with snow marble floors would be a miserable affair indeed. Even the Dornish did not wish to build with the stuff, for winter nights in the desert could be cold enough to freeze off ears and toes.

The only reason the mines were still open at all was because lords in the south liked to line the walls of their ice cellars with the marble, and perhaps serve cold summer sweets in a few cold bowls.

But Amma, ever the voracious reader, had found travel accounts of Slaver's Bay written a century ago. Inside were passages in which Ghiscari graces of old praised white and silver stone, claiming such marble was made from the dust fallen from the palaces where lived the gods of Ghis.

The Northern mines had been expanded like never before these last fifteen years, and it was said that the Temple of the Graces in Meereen was now lined completely in snow marble. So, too, were the fighting pits—for the blood spilled to please the Ghiscari gods was more vivid than ever on white stone. When Arthur had asked his mother about this with a frown, she had only pursed her lips.

"We do our best for the people we can help," she had told him. "I am not a god, only a woman, and your father only a man. There are always cruelties and injustices in the world, and we can do no more than try to make life in the North a little better for our people without directly causing harm elsewhere. Do you understand?"

Arthur thought he did. Still, the idea of spilling human blood for sport made his head spin with nausea.

An hour into lessons, Maester Luwin was called to Father's solar. As soon as he was out the door, Theon leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table, tossing aside his quill and shaking out his hand. He had been writing an account of the Gardener kings during and after the Andal invasions, and his dazed expression made it clear just how much attention he had been paying to his work.

"Seven hells, why was every Gardener king called Garth? And what kind of name is that? No wonder my ancestors always reft their shores. Rich men named Garth are just asking to be relieved of their coin."

Robb laughed, the sound filling the room, and beside him, Arya choked on her water. Everyone else was smiling too, but Sam looked up from his own parchment, twirling his quill at Theon with an earnest look in his eye.

"They were all named after Garth the Gardener, the first mythical king from the Age of the Heroes. I imagine Garth is a name from the language they spoke way back in the day. Many houses do this, of course. Cycle through a short list of names, at least for the boys, I mean. There have been more Brandon Starks than most people can recall, for example, and it's the same thing with House Greyjoy, Theon. If I remember correctly, there was a Theon III during—oof, hey!"

Theon had thrown a cushion at Sam's face, then opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to stop himself. He rolled his eyes instead.

"You don't always need to remind us you're the smartest one here, Tarly. Say any more, and I might be tempted to make you write the rest of this for me."

Sam's face went pink.

"I'm not smarter. I just read more."

Sansa looked up from the castle ledgers. She was in charge of Winterfell's regular activities this month, and had less a mind for numbers than Arthur did, meaning she carried the ledgers everywhere, trying to keep up.

"We all read, Sam," she said. "But only you can remember all these interesting details and pull them out at the most relevant moments. You mustn't belittle what you can do. You've got an incredible mind." She beamed at him, her cheeks dimpling, and Sam turned the colour of boiled shrimp.

Robb and Jon shared a sly grin over the table, and Arthur saw Arya and Theon roll their eyes at the same time, while beside him, Lia tried to choke down her laughter. Sam turned redder still. Arthur thought that, had Sansa smiled so at anyone else, Jon and Robb would likely drag him out of bed in the middle of the night and invite him to a long chat in the practice yard. But Sam was—well, Sam. Harmless. And Sansa was only smiling.

Arya heaved a great huff through her nose and leaned back in her chair as well, her feet on the table, and stretched like a cat.

"Why'd we need to have lessons today anyway? You'd think Maester Luwin's got enough to worry about with three hundred of the king's men coming to stay any day now."

"Arya, put your feet down," frowned Sansa, tapping Arya's leg with her quill.

"Why?" She swung her legs so that her feet were on Sansa's stack of notes and lists. "Am I bothering you?" Arya raised a dark eyebrow, and it was Jon's turn to choke on his water. Sansa's eyes widened.

"Arya—"

"How tall is the imp, anyway?" Lia cut in, her eyes shiny. "And who do you think is taller, him or Arya—sorry, sorry! But you are the shortest one here!" Arya had hopped off her chair in a flash and come to prod Lia's ticklish side, but Lia was faster, dashing away so that Arya was made to chase her around the classroom.

Robb laughed again, while Theon watched the exchange with a glint in his eye.

"Careful, little sister," said Robb. "Don't let Amma catch you calling him that." Their mother had insisted they be courteous, and refer to the Lannister dwarf only as Lord Tyrion, but so far, only Sansa had complied.

"I don't see why not," panted Lia when she'd finally gotten Arya off her. "That's what he is, isn't it? I hardly think we'd be the first to call him that."

"That isn't the point, Elia," said Sansa, dusting off the papers where Arya's feet had been. She was the only one aside from their parents who even tried to remember that Lia's real name was Elia. Father never used the nickname, and Amma had tried over the years to stop the rest of them from using it too, but nicknames were stickier than overcooked caramel. Arthur didn't particularly enjoy being called Art, either, but there was nothing to be done. He knew that everybody calling out 'Lia' all the time reminded Father of his dead aunt Lyanna, but Lia had always been Lia to him, ever since Arthur could speak. He couldn't call her anything else.

"We all know what he is, but I doubt it's pleasant for him. He certainly won't forget that he's a dwarf. We needn't remind him of it constantly. And 'imp' doesn't sound very nice, does it?"

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Arya steal a glance at Jon, but Jon's face remained unchanged. Theon snorted.

"You're too kind by far, Sansa. How do you know if this dwarf is even deserving of your kindness? I've heard he's a lecherous, vile little man who's brought all sorts of misfortune to the Lannisters."

"Everyone is deserving of kindness," said Sansa, sure of herself. "It doesn't matter what evils one's committed, and I doubt Lord Tyrion is so evil, no matter the rumours."

"Sansa's right," said Sam, his voice quiet. "I'm fat, but none of you ever call me Fat Sam to my face. Because you're kind to me."

"Sam!" That was Sansa and Jon, both scolding at the same time.

"We don't call you Fat Sam behind your back, either," sighed Jon, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't say such things about yourself, really," Sansa frowned. "Perhaps we are kind to you, but above all you must be kind to yourself. You deserve that at the very least, don't you think?"

Arthur thought that kindness to himself was asking entirely too much of Sam. He still remembered Sam telling him once about the names Lord Tarly's wards had been encouraged to call him, back when Sam had lived at home. Arthur thought perhaps "Fat Sam" was one of the kinder names.

It wasn't fair. Arya was short, and Jon and Theon were spindly. He himself was too skinny, and his legs too knobbly. No one went around calling any of them Jon the Jerky or Stork-legs Arthur, so why did people like to do so with Sam? Arthur had heard stable hands and serving girls refer to "Sam the fat one" behind his back for years.

The door to the lesson chamber opened, and at once everyone straightened and made to look as if they had been focusing on their studies the whole while. But it was not Maester Luwin's grey robes that emerged. Instead, Jeyne Poole stood willowy and slight in the doorframe, her cheeks flushed.

"They're here!" She said, smiling brightly. "Lady Stark told me to come get you all. They're here, just behind the South Hill! The king!"

Robb and Arya were on their feet at once, and Lia jumped out of her chair, knocking it over. Arthur felt his own heart race, and at once his mind raced through the myriad of stores Father had told of King Robert's valour in battle. When Father or the older soldiers and lords told of their war stories, Arthur never minded that they mentioned bloodshed and guts spilling from enemies. There was something marvellous about their tales, and King Robert had been the hero of so many. He could not wait to see the king.

"Books!" came Sansa's voice, though it, too, was breathless with excitement. "Store your books away at least, and put the stoppers in your ink!" A shuffle of papers and clinking of glass, and in a flash all were filing from the room. Sansa, arms linked with Jeyne's, was walking behind Robb, heads bent together in animated whispers. Ahead of everyone else, Arthur could head Lia's footsteps pattering down the stone steps.

At the door, Arya picked up the cushion from earlier and tossed it at Jon's direction with a raised brow and a smirk. Jon caught it, smiling too, and handed it to Sam with a tilt of his chin. For a moment, Sam stared at them, confused, but then realisation hit.

"Hey, Theon!"

Theon, who had taken off his dagger for lessons and was just reattaching it to his belt inside the doorway, looked up.

The cushion came flying into his face.

"Just you wait, Tarly! When I come for you, you won't even know what hit you!"

Laughter echoed on the stone walls of the maester's turret as the rest of them filed from the room, Sam Tarly's triumphant voice louder than all the rest.

A/N: A nice fluffly chapter before the drama begins :)

I took some of the descriptions of Arthur and Lia climbing and looking over Winterfell basically directly from Bran II in AGOT. I mean, this is fanfiction after all. I'm allowed to do that right? I was rereading it for this chapter, and the section in which Bran described his climbing was just so incredible and full of foreshadowing and symbolism that I had to borrow a lot of it into this story. So, I hope you enjoy my version, though it really can't compare with Martin's writing in Bran II of AGOT. Go read that chapter again if you can. Amazing prose and imagery.