The rotten buggering sod.

Jon nudged his horse faster as they picked up a gallop through the forest, the rustling of the wind around him filling his ears.

Others take the whey-faced Lannister spawn and that entire accursed family.

Father had sent Jon with Uncle Brynden and some of the Winterfell guards out to "attend" the Lannister men on their hunt—he had understood Father's look of disgust, even through his Lord Stark Face—and if truth be told, Jon wished he were hunting the men instead of pretending to chase the direwolf.

In the training yard, Jon had watched, frozen with incomprehension, as the burned knight they called the Hound had taken one step behind his sister and hauled her off the ground like a sack. Yet, before any of them could protest, Joffrey had scrambled up like a tenacious roach and tried to skewer Arya, his ruby hilt shiny like blood. Jon gritted his teeth. He was still seeing red, and the scene flashed again and again in his mind, no matter how fast he rode.

Jon, Robb, Theon, Roderick and even Arthur had all lunged at the prince at once, but before they could reach him, their mother's direwolf had leapt out from somewhere behind them all. Chaos reigned then. The air swarmed with panicked shouts and dull thumping footsteps. The wolf had knocked Joffrey down into Arya and the Hound, snarling, with lip rolled back to reveal fangs the width of a child's arm. In that second Jon froze to the ground, watching in awe as Joffrey disappeared behind the giant.

Robb yanked his arm hard, however, and, without really knowing what he was doing, Jon dove after his brother, tackling the wolf so that her fatal fangs only grazed the prince's shoulder. Yet there was blood, and hysterical screams, and in a blur of gold and red and grey, all Jon had been able to do was hold on to her scruff for dear life, knowing full well that, though he wished to sink his own teeth into Joffrey, they could not let the damn prince die.

When at last all was calmed and the Lannister men had long hurried Joffrey inside to tend his wound—Jon noted that not a single one other had stayed behind to attack the wolf that had savaged their prince, the cowards—he had picked up a stunned, red-eyed Arya off the ground and into the Great Keep as if she weighed nothing.

He had settled his sister onto her bed, never mind that she was covered in dirt, and bellowed into the hall until her maid Palla came running. Soon, their mother had soon flown into the chamber, eyes glassy and wide, her robes flying behind her. After some words Jon could not remember, he had removed himself from the castle and jumped feet first into the freezing black pool in the godswood.

Jon Snow had never in his life wished to commit cold-blooded murder. Oh, there had been a few moments over the years when he wished to smack Robb on the head with the flat of his sword or perhaps push Theon off a short wall, but never had he wished to end another's life. Not until today, when he saw the prince charging at his flailing sister with a sword in hand.

In that moment, he had been at once icy cold and burning, as if fire was exploding in his belly. Perhaps if the wolf had not attacked, he would have driven his own sword in Joffrey's back. Even as he had floated in the pool, letting his body go numb from the cold, he could not help imagining the various ways in which he could detach Joffrey's head from his body or carve his heart from his chest.

His brothers and Theon had joined him in the pool soon after, and then they had all gathered in Arya's room, telling the events to his mother before Father returned from his ride out with the king. In an hour's time, the royal party did return, and Jon found himself standing in the Great Hall, trying his best to keep his head down and stand off to the side with the guards.

His mother had looked at him as they were descending the stairs, as if she needed to say something but did not know how, but Jon understood. Best not to make the queen even angrier than she was by reminding her that Jon had been training around the princes. It was no matter. Jon did not even feel the sting of it this time. Anything to keep the queen's wrath from Arya.

Questions were asked, and it was mostly Robb and Ser Roderick who answered. Arya would have insisted on speaking, but in her chambers, their mother had ordered her to stay put in that hard, terrifying voice she used on very rare occasions, brooking no argument. Arya had gone white again and nodded.

When it came time for the Lannister men to speak, however, Jon was sorry he had left his sword back in his chambers, for he sorely wished to cut each of their tongues out before he slit their throats.

They had insisted that the wild Stark girl had played dirty tricks to down their gallant prince. She had her sword at his throat and was about to truly cut him, so overcome with bloodlust was she. The Hound had pulled her aside, but just as the prince regained his bearings, the direwolf had come out of nowhere and savaged him most gravely.

Joffrey had stepped before the high table then, before his parents and the king and queen, and made a great show of opening his bandaged shoulder so that the whole room could see the bloody mess. Amma and Father wore matching stone faces, cold with anger, while the queen lamented her poor, dear boy, making Joffrey bristle. Jon thought he was going to be sick from biting his tongue.

It seemed he was not the only one sickened. The king, whose face had been flushing an unnatural red the whole time the men spoke, finally stood from his chair and pointed a shaking finger at Joffrey, grappling for words. The silence in the hall was suddenly so stifling Jon could feel the still air press against his ears.

"You…you…how can you be a son of mine?!" Thundered the king, gasping for air. He heard the queen gasp, but King Robert's words came down like a hail storm, echoing in the hall.

"You lost to a little girl? A year younger than you?! How…you…she does not even reach your bloody shoulder…and you let her put a sword to your throat?!"

Joffrey's eyes had bulged like a fish, and Jon had to admit to no end of satisfaction at hearing him stutter.

"I-I-I-no-Father-I—you heard the men! You heard them! She played tricks, she fought without honour, she—"

"You'd have me believe those buggering sods? That Ned Stark's daughter fought without honour? You…! Lost to a little girl! How can you—"

"Your Grace!"

The queen had shot from her seat too, eyes burning like wildfire.

"I would remind you that Joffrey is your heir!" Her gaze swept like a blizzard across the Winterfell guards before landing on Father. She turned back to the king.

"And he let a girl fell him!"

"I know only this: that Robb Stark has lost to Joffrey these past days. Am I expected to believe Lord Starks' daughter is a better swordsman than his heir?"

The king stiffened.

"Oh, I saw with mine own eyes what that girl is capable of, Your Grace. Flinging needles too fast for the eye to see, insulting the Crown Prince without compunction…A true king would have had her punished for her words alone."

The king's fist pounded on the table.

"It seems to me she had the right of it! Even your men say she held her sword to his throat!"

For a moment Jon thought the queen might strike the king. Instead, she clenched her fist and heaved a sharp breath.

"Joffrey is your heir and your son, Your Grace," she said, her voice like death.

King Robert seemed to deflate as the room again filled with mutterings. Jon felt his indignation swell, but Father and Amma continued to sit stiff and grave, neither speaking up to defend Arya. She was a girl, after all. There was no need to defend her good name in the training yard. Jon did not know if this was fortune or no, but he knew now why his mother had ordered Arya to stay in her chambers.

The king waved his hand, sighing.

"Enough, enough. Let it pass, all of you. Gods, what did I ever fucking do to deserve this? And where is the girl, anyway?"

"She's in her chambers, Your Grace," answered his mother. "My healer had to give her milk of the poppy."

Robert turned to her sharply.

"Is she hurt? No one said she was hurt too."

"No, only terribly, terribly frightened." Amma's face was twisted in maternal worry. "It's my fault, really. She has always liked riding and sword-play, and so we've let her do as she pleased, but she is only fifteen. You know how fifteen year old girls can be, Your Grace. Headstrong and lively and wholly inconsiderate of consequences. And just a girl, in the end."

Her eyes scanned the Lannister men who had told their blatant lies.

"I am sure the truth was confused in the chaos, but whatever happened has frightened Arya terribly. She hasn't spoken two words since my son carried her up."

The king stared at Amma for a moment longer, he's thick jaw working as if in pain. Finally, he threw up his hands, cursing at the hall at large.

"Just a damfool sparring row between children," he bellowed to no one in particular. "You all let the folly get this bloody far? Between children!"

But the queen, exquisite eyes flashing, was after blood—if not Arya's, then the direwolf's. Jon watched his mother then. She had turned slowly to the queen as the woman spoke of killing the wolf for her crimes, and her eyes were jagged like amethysts, sharp enough to cut. Jon knew that his mother did not carry her knives in her sleeves when inside Winterfell's walls, and he thought perhaps he should be glad of it. If she had them within her grasp, Cersei Lannister's tongue might no longer be attached to her head.

Yet, when the queen had spoken, it was Ser Roderick who came to kneel on one knee before the high table. From across the room, Robb caught Jon's eye, mischief flashing in the blue. Oh, so that was what he and Ser Roderick had been doing before Robb had joined Jon in the godswood. Jon lowered his head to hide his grin.

"My humblest apologies, Your Grace, Your Grace," said Ser Roderick. "In all the chaos after the…the incident, I'm afraid no one paid any attention to where the wolf had gone. I'm afraid she is no longer in the castle. I have sent scouts out to find her, but it has been hours…"

Cersei Lannister slammed her glass goblet on the table so hard that it shattered, and Jon saw his mother's throat tighten. Those were expensive, he remembered rather absurdly.

"Perhaps I should have your head instead, ser," she snarled at Ser Roderick, but the master-at-arms only bowed his head in silence. A servant rushed up to clean away the glass. The king growled.

"Others take you, woman. What was the man supposed to do, stand in front of the thing?"

"What are the Starks' intentions?" demanded the queen. "Having all these…vicious beasts in this castle when we are here? How recklessly dangerous—"

"I do beg your pardon, Your Grace," his mother cut in. Her voice was smooth and cold and hard as steel.

"That wolf once slept in my bed and carried my Arya on her back. She has been here more than a moonturn and has not harmed anyone. I truly am sorry for this…incident, but," here she turned to the king, "Your Grace, you must know that we would never harbour any threat to—"

The king sighed and waved his hand.

"Damn it, Lady Ash, you don't need to be so careful. I know Ned. But that direwolf…" he glared at the queen, who gave him a look so pointed Jon wondered if the king should start bleeding. His parents saw the look as well. Father glanced at his mother, whose knuckles had gone bone-white from clutching the table, but still, neither said a word.

"Cersei," said the king, "if you want that damn wolf dead you can send your bother and his men after it. Ned, send some scouts out with them so they don't shit themselves in your woods. Others take you all, I am done with this debacle of a day."

With that, the king pushed abruptly from his set and lumbered out of the hall.

And so here Jon was, out in the woods with Uncle Brynden's outriders and scouts, pretending to hunt the direwolf. Jon had set out intending to curtail the Lannister men's every effort, but so far, there had been no sign of her. Then again, the southerners did not know the landscape, and Jon was sure the Winterfell scouts weren't looking very hard.

Jon had heard them talk of the wolf when he had gone on Brynden's training trips into the woods. All the smallfolk thought the wolf a blessing for the Starks and for the North, and they weren't going to hunt her just because some southern king ordered them to.

Quent rode up beside him then, his wide smiling face flushed from exertion or excitement, Jon was not sure. Quent found life in general most exciting.

"D'you reckon we'll find her, Herald? But surely she wouldn't leave her pups. How'll we hide her if we do? From the Lannisters, I mean." For a scout, Quent had a piercing speaking voice and never stopped using it. Jon gave him a sideways look, and he ducked his head.

"Aye. Stealth. Sorry."

Uncle Brynden served officially as Father's Commander of the Outriders & Scouts, and Jon had been fourteen the first time Brynden asked him to ride out with the new recruits he was training.

"You ride better than any boy I've seen, Jon, and you're quiet and sleek. Come out and show these boys some of your tricks." Jon hadn't been able to sleep the night before setting out. He was the faster than all the boys and Arya, and he revelled in being able to ride better than Robb, though Robb could always unseat him with a lance.

He had set out the next morning with the new recruits, a pack on his saddle just like the others, and when they had discovered that Jon, despite his reserved ways, was rather easygoing and amicable, they had immediately dubbed him Herald.

"It's 'cause you're tall and skinny, and you're looking a lot like them poles the knights carry their heralds on, see?" Wayn had explained. Well, Jon remembered thinking, Wayn would think Jon tall. At thirteen, the boy had been shorter than Arya. He had not grown much in the intervening years.

Jon had decided, however, that the name had been given in good humour, for the recruits all seemed truly in awe of his skill on a horse. He took it willingly, and it had stuck ever since. Yet, it was not only the satisfaction of being looked to for direction that Jon returned with from that first trip.

For days they had camped in the woods, Uncle Brynden showing them the best ways to disguise themselves amid the trees and guide their horses through the undergrowth with the least disturbance; which leaves could be used to make a drinking cup and which contained irritants and poisons they could use for sabotage; how to follow animal leavings and prints to guess the movement of people, and how to track and shoot down a raven while making hardly a sound.

Jon had been fascinated by all of it. This stealthy sending and gathering of information made him buzz from head to toe with anticipation and purpose, just as he felt when wielding his sword in a duel. Since that first trip he had all but wrangled himself into Uncle Brynden's company, training with the scouts whenever they set out for overnight trips.

He knew that being a scout was perhaps not the most respected position in an army or a lord's service, but what did that matter? He was already a bastard. People would not whisper about his choice if he went this route. And besides, Uncle Brynden was nearing sixty. One day, Robb would need someone he trusted just as much as Brynden to command his scouts and outriders.

Never had Jon dared to ask Father about his future, not when Father's face would grow stiff whenever he reminded him at all that he carried the name Snow. Perhaps his father found shame in the name too. He had heard talk of other bastards in the North—Lord Bolton's son, who lived with his peasant mother, and Lord Hornwood's son, who was fostered at Deepwood Mott—and it seemed to Jon that he would have to make his own way in the world one day.

He supposed he could become a travelling knight without being knighted, perhaps even make a name for himself and make his parents proud. But he wished, too, to stay at Winterfell. He wished to be with his family, and he wished to spend his days as he did now, laughing with Robb, bickering with Theon, sparring with Arya and listening to Sam prattle on about some ancient cooking pot.

Jon did not know what to think about his future, and so he did not think. Now was good. He would soak that in and leave the worrying for later.

Jon cast a curious glance at Quent.

"You're actually trying to find the direwolf? I thought we were—you know—not trying."

Quent shrugged.

"Some o' us want to see her one last time. From afar, mind, no up close. Still scares the bejeezus out of me, them eyes and teeth, but from afar. Ma'nif'cent, she is. Me pa saw her the once ten years ago, and I made him tell me 'bout it for months. Was so excited to see her with my own eyes! Me pa's been meanin' to come up to the castle now that I told him she's come back an' all, but he don't got the time what with—Herald?"

Jon frowned, his entire body suddenly alert.

He had heard something on the wind, he was sure of it. Something…something like the human whisper he had heard when he found Ghost on that riverbank. It was meaty and round and light, all at once. As if he were not truly hearing with his ears, but with his mind. A voice whispering words that almost held meaning. He silenced Quent and jutted his chin, and carefully the two picked their way towards the direction of the sound. Was it the wolf? Was this something the direwolves could do—bend the wind to wrap around Jon's mind?

He felt a tingled down his spine, not quite ice, not quite fire. What was going on? Suddenly, Jon felt fear churn and settle in his belly, though there could be nothing to fear. He had heard something. He was so certain, but now…

Each thicket they passed only yielded more green. Soon, the sound had dissipated like smoke into the sky, and Jon could only wonder if it had truly been there, when just a moment ago he had been so sure. They came to a clearing then, lush and still, and all he heard, now, was the rustling of the trees in the autumn chill.

000

As Jon had predicted, their afternoon's efforts were for naught. The direwolf had faded into the woods, nowhere to be found, as if she had been swallowed by the humus-laden earth. After unloading his horse and bidding goodbye to his scouting friends, Jon made his way back to the Great Keep, looking for Ghost.

As he passed the training yard, the sound of swords scraping and layered, laughing voices made him pause. Lannister men were gathered in the fading light, swords scattered on the ground as if resting from sword practice. Jon walked a few steps nearer.

"…should have seen your face," a squat man was saying, slapping his friend on the back. "Looked like you were 'bout to piss yourself!"

His companions all found this uproariously funny, but the man he'd slapped glared around the circle.

"Oh, don't act like all you bastards didn't think you were going to piss yourselves too. That was no wolf—that was a bear with fangs."

"Thom's right," came a reedy third voice from a young squire. "That was a real monster. How'd you think the Starks kept it here so long without it tearing them all into shreds?"

The one called Thom lowered his voice, but his whisper still carried.

"I reckon those Starks have sorcery—something evil in their blood. How else do you explain those wolf pups that follow Stark's brood around? And the Stark girl? That's not natural, a girl fightin' like that."

"Don't matter if they did," said the squat man. "We'll find the beast, just watch. And the queen'll have a brand new mantle!"

More laughter, and Jon felt this blood begin to heat. How dare these men sleep under Father's roof, eating his food and drinking his wine, all the while insulting his family so?

"With all that fur?" the reedy voice was asking. "The queen'll disappear in it! Better make it a bed covering."

"D'hear Lady Stark saying the wolf slept in her bed?" asked a fourth man. "I always knew the Dornish were savages too."

"Hah!" cried the squat man. "Well, I'd have liked to trade places with that wolf in her bed, I can tell you that—what in fucking hells?"

For he stared now at the point of Jon's sword, its blade shimmering green in the fading light.

"Pick up your sword," said Jon. His voice did not sound like his own, for it was cold and lifeless. "I will give you one chance to pick up your sword and fight me like the man you pretend to be, or I will cut out your tongue before I geld you."

The man, to his credit, did not flinch at the blade in his face. Slowly, he crouched to pick up his sword, and when he had the means to defend himself, his face broke into a sneer.

"My, my, your talk is big for such a spindly boy. And who the fuck are you?"

Jon did not answer.

"You're Lord Stark's bastard, aren't you?" asked the reedy-voiced squire. "Jon Snow."

"Ah, Lord Snow," grinned the squat man. "Well, well, I suppose I could have the time to play with children." He raised his own sword, and his companions heckled, the sound of "Snow" on their tongues like the squawking of crows. Jon charged, letting his indignant anger crystallize into cold purpose. He had grown up next to cursing soldiers and crass guardsmen his whole life, but never had he encountered so many men so blatantly without honour.

The squat man lost his smile after two of Jon's swings. On the third, his sword flew from his hand. Jon raised his boot and kicked him in the chest—a good, solid thump—and the man fell back into the snowy dirt. Jon did not spare him a second glance, instead boring his eyes into the group of Lannister men who seemed suddenly to have grown silent.

A heartbeat, then a younger, taller man stepped forward. Without a word, Jon met his sword, and in moments he, too, was on the ground.

"Who's next," Jon asked, his voice still even. It felt good, this. His arm hummed and he could feel his blood thumping from his face to the tips of his big toes. He could do this into the evening, teach the Lannisters how to show respect.

"I think I am," came an amused voice from the back of the crowd. Half the men visibly stiffened, and soon enough they had parted ways for its owner. Hair catching the dying light, a crooked smile on his face, Jaime Lannister walked towards Jon like a king, unsheathing his own sword.

"Kingslayer," said Jon, and he did not even mean to cause offence. He had not referred to him as anything else in his mind, for all that he was rumoured to be the best swordsman in the realm. A Kingsguard at sixteen, an oathbreaker at eighteen…no boy in Westeros was unfamiliar with the life of the Kingslayer. Though he no longer wore the white cloak, he still trained the city watch and the king's royal armies, and it was said no man alive could beat him.

Jaime Lannister's smile deepened.

"Bastard. I rather enjoyed that little show just now. Come then. Let me see what that sword of yours can do."

The flame was back, roaring wildly in his belly, and Jon did not know if he was angry or anxious or eager. No, he tried to tell himself. This may be the Kingslayer of legend, but he is only just a man. Keep your head.

He raised his sword, and tried to forget that his hand shook.

"Gladly."

O~O~O~O~O

The search for her direwolf continued the next day, though Ashara was certain that if they had failed to find her the day before, there was no hope for the Lannister men now. That was one blessing, at least, though she had spent hours staring up at their canopy in the night, wondering if the wolf had been sufficiently healed of her wounds to hunt and run for hours on her own.

That was, when she was not incandescent with rage.

She had floated through that previous afternoon half in disbelief, her head occupied by wasps, her ears flushed hot. Had the little nit really tried to run Arya through with his sword? It seemed like a scene from a fevered nightmare, and she could barely fathom how she still housed such people in their home. Gods help them all, this was to be the next king?

And Clegane. She did not like to blame blood for the actions of individuals, but there must surely be something tainted in that family. Or perhaps the fire that had burned Ser Sandor's face had also turned any sense of humanity to ashes alongside it.

Ned had half lost his head in anger too, and at the high table she had kept her fingers dug into his knee so that he did not rise and demand that Joffrey and the Hound be whipped for mistreating their daughter so. It would not do to contradict the king in public, but oh, her reckless, intrepid Arya! Sew with the queen and keep her company, Ashara had instructed, and she had gone and challenged the prince to a duel. And called him 'coward' in front of all his men. Her reckless, wilful child. She had to know precisely what she was doing, and yet she did it regardless.

An image of Arya terrorizing King's Landing came to mind, and Ashara shivered, but then she saw her daughter's pale face and red eyes from the day before, and all she knew was hurt. She was only fifteen, for all that she was more grown up and knew more of the world than Sansa. Still a girl. Still unknowing of the dark crevices of humanity. Did she think the crown prince would simply yield after such humiliation?

Was she to simply let go of this wrong? No, Ashara thought not, but what could she do? The king had spoken. There would be no punishment save that Robert had called his son a coward before half his sworn men. Man's justice—king's justice, it seemed, did not chain Lannister to the earth like regular men. Ashara gritted her teeth.

And yet, she still could not bring herself to hate them all.

This morning, as she had descended the stairs to see to the men heading off to hunt once more, she found Tyrion Lannister in her path, bowing low before her. She stopped in her tracks, not even trying to hide her cold expression. The man was unfazed.

"Lady Stark. I hope the morning finds you well. And Lady Arya?"

"Yes," she said, trying to reign in her anger. It would not do to be discourteous. They were still guests when they slept beneath her roof. "I thank you for your concern."

He offered her a small, apologetic smile.

"Please, you needn't thank me for anything, Lady Stark. I know my nephew can be…arrogant and childish at times. He is untried and spoiled, and we will do our best to teach him. And Her Grace my sister was only protecting her son. Surely you can understand that, my lady?"

She felt her eyes narrow. Ashara had seen the way Cersei Lannister looked at her dwarf brother these past days. It was not the gaze one laid on family, but on a gnat.

"I understand that the king ruled as he saw best," she said. "And you are right that the prince and my daughter are both still young."

Tyrion Lannister gave a half laugh, sounding defeated, but did not press. Instead, he bowed again.

"I came in search of you to ask if I may visit your library, my lady. I have heard many wondrous things about the ancient books at Winterfell."

She had heard that this Tyrion Lannister liked to read. Ashara had always held an affectionate place in her heart for those who loved books as she did, and she had instructed servants to stock Lord Tyrion's rooms with extra candles and lamp oil for his nighttime reading habits. Now she could not help softening her face.

"Of course, my lord. You are welcome to the library. And if Septon Chayle is napping, there is no need to wake him. More like than not, my son and my husband's ward will be in the library as well. You can ask them to assist you."

His eyebrows twitched.

"Oh! I see. Your son the scholar."

There was no malice in his voice. Ashara studied his face. There was much he could have said to her—remarking on the irony of Arthur's name, lamenting how her only natural son had not been born a warrior—but as much as she did not want to know it, she could see that Tyrion Lannister meant her family no ill will at present.

She smiled reluctantly, and saw his eyebrow twitch again.

"Yes, my son Arthur. May the library not disappoint you, Lord Tyrion."

She made her way down to the bailey then, but it would seem she could not keep the Lannisters at bay this day. As she directed the servants in handing out bread, cheese and water skins to each of the outriders, she heard footsteps beside her and turned to see the queen's other brother beside her. He grinned, the expression holding none of the tentative contrition his brother's had. Nonetheless, she smiled back tightly.

"Ser Jaime."

"My lady."

"Can I help you?"

He turned to look at his men.

"I wished to tell you, my lady, that I had the most marvelous sparring session yesterday."

She raised an eyebrow, though her nails dug into her palm. What was Jaime Lannister playing at?

"How wonderful, ser."

"Yes. Yes it was." He grinned. "It was against your husband's bastard. Jon Snow. Quite a swordsman, that boy. Took me by surprise, and I almost had to yield to him."

Ashara blinked, but he quickly continued.

"It's funny, my lady, that he should not be your natural son. When we were sparring, more than once I thought I was fighting the Sword of the Morning himself."

Ashara heard the rush of air from her throat as if she were underwater. Even after all these years—and so many of them spent calling her son's name—the sudden thought of her brother could knock the wind from her lungs. She clenched her fist tighter, surely breaking the skin on her palm, and turned to Jaime Lannister.

"What a lovely thing to say," she said, and was surprised her voice did not sound raw. "Jon has trained hard all these years. No doubt it would make him proud to hear your praise."

And it was, in truth. When the familiar wave of cutting grief had passed and her mind had again cleared, Ashara felt what could only be a fierce pride swell in her chest. She did not know if Ser Jaime meant his words, but if he did—if Jon had managed to to impress one of the best swordsmen in the realm…

Ser Jaime's smile widened.

"'Tis a shame he is a bastard, though I have heard of some becoming knights. Your husband did not wish to foster out his sons to be squires?"

Must this family vex her so? One of the best swordsmen Jaime Lannister might be, but skill with a sword was no promise of tact and honour. He had proven that seventeen years ago, and was proving it again now. Or perhaps he hoped to irk her with his words. If that were so…

"All my children keep the old gods of the North. They have no need to be knighted."

She narrowed her eyes then, and tilted her chin, considering him. For a few moments neither spoke, and Ashara could see the slight shift of unease in his eyes when they met hers. She smiled.

"Ser Jaime, you were knighted by my brother, were you not?"

"I—yes, I was." She did not move her gaze. He could not seem to look away. Ashara had always known her eyes were the exact same colour Arthur's had been.

"I believe you were knighted for valour on the battlefield. After you Kingsguard knights defeated the Kingswood Brotherhood?"

He grinned again, almost absently.

"I am most flattered by your sharp memory, my lady."

Ashara laughed lightly.

"I remember every letter my brother ever wrote to me, Ser Jaime. I would sit with my feet dangling off the ramparts on Dragonstone, reading and rereading each and every one. I believe I know a great deal about your youth."

The grin faltered. Still, Ashara did not look away, but let her own smile fade into a soft frown.

"Tell me, Jaime Lannister. Whatever happened to the earnest and good-hearted boy in Arthur's letters?"

All traces of humour melted from his face like paint in the sun. His jaw tightened, yet he did not shy away from her probing look.

A moment passed, then two, the air thick.

Finally, he said,

"I have not been that boy in many years, Lady Stark."

"I see. I am not the only one who would consider that a great shame."

His nostrils flared and his brows were low. He looked almost in pain, as if in battle with himself, debating whether to speak his next words. Finally, just as Ashara was about to curtsy and leave this petty, maddening man, he opened his mouth.

"Aerys wished to murder my father. He commanded me to do it."

Ashara laughed.

"Aerys wished to murder a great many people. He once told me he would have my hair tied to resemble a wick and light me on fire like a candle, and yet here I stand."

He stared at her an instant, and then he, too, broke out in a laugh. The sound was bitter and humourless like the brown stalk of dead flowers, so jarring coming from his golden head.

"Oh, you have the right of it, Ashara Dayne. Aerys indeed wished to murder a great many people."

And he turned on his heel and stalked off without so much as a nod.