Chapter 3: Where Winter Fell

Winterfell was the warm, beating heart of the north. It pulsed with life, especially on cold nights when feasts were laid out for the king.

Closest to the high table, the grey walls of the Great Hall were draped in Baratheon gold, Lannister crimson, and Stark white. Given a few years to grow, Arthas had no doubt the direwolf pup with yellow eyes that followed Lady Sansa around would be every bit the snarling direwolf that graced her house's banners.

As if to make a point to all present, Arthas had been instructed to escort Sansa into the Great Hall after his parents entered with Lord and Lady Stark. It ought to have been Joffrey in his place, but with the betrothal plans, well... Joffrey seemed none too bothered in any case. His twin had been left to escort the plainer Arya instead, and he was regaling her with the finer points of his swordsmanship.

It didn't bother Arthas much. Sansa kept him busy enough with polite chatter. She had her mother's high cheekbones, and smelled sweeter than Myrcella's roses.

"What is it you normally do around the Red Keep?" Sansa asked.

"My life's not terribly interesting, I'm afraid," Arthas said as a slender man of middling height took out his lute to perform another song for them. "A normal day revolves around praying, training, meals, and sleep."

"But you're a prince," Sansa said, staring at him with her vivid eyes like the Trident's waters, like Jaina's.

"A second son nonetheless," Arthas said. "Joffrey will be my king one day. My place lies elsewhere." It is not my place to rule.

The musician's playing was passable, and his voice fair, but he made up for it with eagerness and the breadth of songs he knew. He'd played favorites of Father's like "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and "A Cask of Ale", but also stranger northern songs Arthas had never heard of such as "The Winter Maid" and even a song about giants.

"So what do you want to do?" Sansa asked, before daintily cutting herself a slice of lemon cake.

I want to be a paladin again. "I want to be a knight, the worthiest Westeros has ever known," Arthas said instead.

She graced him with a sweet smile, a real one and not those that were bared like knives in his father's court.

The deserts were brought out. There were all manner of cakes and sweets brought out—applecakes for Tommen, a golden custard that matched his sister's hair, and even a plate of pumpkin pie topped with ground nutmeg and a healthy dash of cinnamon. Arthas breathed in the sweet scents, and thought of home, of Lordaeron on Hallow's End.

"Here," Sansa said, cutting him a slice of the pie.

"I don't want any," Arthas said.

She scoffed. "You stopped talking entirely, and have been staring at it for half a minute now. Eat the pie, Prince Arthas," she said, before taking a dainty bite of her lemon cake. By the way her face lit up, Arthas could only presume she enjoyed it very much.

It would be the height of impropriety to refuse Sansa after she'd gone to the trouble of serving him a slice. The piece he allowed himself tasted like Hallow's End, and Jaina's soft lips on his…

It was nearing the fourth hour of the feast now, and Father was deep in his cups. His laughter was loud and booming, and a serving girl had found her way onto his lap. It was a sight Arthas was familiar with by now, and often paired with Mother's passive look that could only be veiled contempt and the social necessity of hiding it rolled into one.

Boisterous, loud, and easy to laugh, Arthas could see how his father had come to be acclaimed king. But being acclaimed king and being kingly were two different things. Father lacked the grace for it—not that he could throw stones.

"My father mentioned you wanted to see Winterfell's godswood," Sansa said. "I thought you followed the Faith of the Seven?"

I follow the Light, Arthas corrected, though he did not give words to his thoughts. He'd found no real equivalent for it. The Essosi religions condoned, nay encouraged, blood and human sacrifice which were outright heretical, while the Drowned God of the Ironborn sounded altogether too… eldritch to offer true salvation. Of all the faiths, the Seven seemed to share the most likeness with the Light, though even they had given birth to no paladins in recorded history.

Perhaps he was truly damned? Would the gods have given me a second life just to damn me… surely not.

He'd been quiet for too long, he realized. "I do hold to the Seven," Arthas said, "but I'm… curious, I suppose, about the old gods. It's difficult to find anyone who knows what it's really about in the south." Those that did know tended to speak of it in rather sanctimonious tones.

"I could show them to you, if you'd like," Sansa said.

"That would be very kind of you, my lady, but I pray quite early—"

"Before dawn, right?" she asked.

"Yes," Arthas said. Did her father tell her? "How did you know?"

She tilted her head towards the table of squires where Tyrek toasted with a red-faced Jon Snow, Lord Eddard's… son. "Your friend told me. He was quite helpful in answering my questions."

"Alas, my cousin betrays me for a pretty face," Arthas said dryly. It seemed Lord Eddard had already told his own daughter of his plans if she'd taken such keen interest in him instead of Joffrey, like most girls her age did. He didn't blame them for that; Joffrey was the heir after all and had "much nicer eyes to get lost in," as a Rosby girl once put it.

Sansa giggled. "It's decided then. We'll meet on the bridge that connects the Great Keep to the armory before dawn."

Arthas quirked his brow at her. "Is it now?"

"Of course," she said. "I wouldn't want you to get lost in the godswood. That would be such a shame."

"I was led to believe it wasn't all that big? Only three acres?"

"It's stood untouched for ten thousand years, and the trees make for a dense canopy," Sansa said. "I'm going with you."

Arthas was all too familiar with that tone from a woman who'd made up her mind, so he bowed to her in acquiescence. "As you wish, my lady. I wouldn't mind some company."

The musician finished belching out his song about giants, and Father hollered for another of the man's songs, as he groped the woman on his lap.

"I should retire soon, I think," Arthas said, finishing the last of the watered down summerwine in his cup. He brought Sansa's hand to his lips, and rose from his seat. "Thank you for the evening, Lady Sansa."

She flushed. "Sleep well, Prince Arthas."

Tommen, plump and still a young thing of seven, was already falling asleep in his chair, while Myrcella had not stopped giving Robb Stark shy looks and timid smiles all night—not that the heir to Winterfell minded by the way he grinned. Arthas dearly hoped his sister wouldn't get too attached. If his own betrothal with Sansa pushed through—and it seemed likely unless he'd vastly misjudged the girl—it would be improbable another match with House Stark would be made.

As he walked past the squire's table, Tyrek stood and approached, a cup in his hands. "Dawn at the sept?"

"No," Arthas said, "the bridge to the armory. Lady Sansa offered to show me the way to the godswood. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

Tyrek grinned. "Just looking out for you, Cousin. When a woman as fine as that expresses an interest, you do what you must to nurture it. You seemed to enjoy her attention this evening, enough that you let yourself be convinced to eat sweets for once. You never did that with the Cerwyns, the Freys, the Rootes, the Darrys, the Buckwells—"

"She was more pleasant than the Rowan girl too," Arthas interrupted before his cousin listed all the keeps they'd stopped at on the way to Winterfell. The insipid girl had not stopped gushing over how handsome Joffrey was during their nameday feast, badgering him with all manner of pointless questions. A man could only take so much of that before preferring celibacy.

"Ah, progress!"

Arthas wrinkled his nose. "Not a particularly high bar you've set for yourself."

"Progress is progress, and every step forward helps. I'll crack your type sooner rather than later."

TheKingIsDead—

That Sansa had beaten him to the bridge wasn't surprising. She did grow up in Winterfell after all. No, what struck Arthas was how she could hum a pleasant hymn during the small hours, and how her eyes betrayed no lack of sleep. Tyrek, by contrast, had been doing this for years, and still looked like a zombie shuffling behind them.

"You're staring," Sansa said, wrapping her blue wool scarf around her delicate neck before they stepped outside of the armory's walls to face the northern wind and biting chill. Lady, Sansa's pup stood beside her mistress with eyes large and trusting.

"Am I?" Arthas asked with a wry smile.

Sansa turned away from him, her pace quickening towards a wooden gate and Lady's paws bounded behind her. As he kept pace with her, Arthas could see her ears reddening, from the wind maybe?

Tyrek cursed softly behind him.

Trees of ash, chestnut and elm passed them by until they stood at the center of the grove, not far from the Guest House and the three steaming pools beneath its windows. Closer to them was a pool of black water, feeding an ancient weirwood with a solemn face.

"This is the heart tree of the godswood," Sansa said.

Arthas took a step towards it. "A septon once told me you worship trees. Is that true?"

"No, but they're important. The old gods watch over us through them, and no man can utter a lie in front of one."

The heart tree's eyes seemed to bore into Arthas, judging, weighing his worth. "Is that so?"

Her red crown bobbed. "Unlike my mother, Father doesn't speak to any priests. The olds gods have no holy texts or songs of worship."

"Then how do you worship?"

"We pray in silence before the gods," she said, gesturing towards the heart tree.

"That suits me just fine," Arthas said.

Sansa smiled prettily. "So what is it you like to do, besides praying and fighting?" She tilted her head towards the face carved in wood. "Remember, the gods are watching."

"Would I lie to you?" Arthas asked.

"Yes," Sansa said without hesitation. "You said you didn't want any pumpkin pie last night, but you ate it anyway."

"I was being polite."

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. "Everyone likes dessert."

"Dessert is for good children."

"Why don't you think you deserve dessert then?" she asked.

"I've made mistakes," Arthas said.

"Everyone's made mistakes," Sansa said. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't get to eat any."

"My mistakes are more serious," Arthas said again. "I'm not worthy." But I will be worthy.

Sansa scoffed. "No one's really worthy. No one's perfect. It's why we need to ask forgiveness from the gods." Lady whimpered, circling around Sansa's skirt. She scooped up the pup into her arms like a baby. "I think this one's hungry," Sansa said.

"Do you need to go?" Arthas asked.

She looked torn for a moment, before nodding. "I probably should. Septa Mordane won't be too pleased if she catches me out here with you."

"We're not alone," Arthas said.

"Your friend's already sleeping by a rock."

And Tyrek was. Arthas looked back to her. "Then thank you for the company, my lady."

"I'll leave you to it," Sansa said.

Arthas knelt before the sight of the old gods.

"No one feels he deserves it... its grace, pure and simple... but the Light loves us anyway," Uther had said to him before Arthas took his paladin vows.

If only it were that simple. In the end, not even Uther could stand the sight of him.

Even now, the Light refused to answer his calls, no matter how desperate or fervent, not even a spark of warmth. And after all his atrocities… did he really expect anything else? What had he done to deserve absolution? What could he do to deserve absolution? He could pray and make penance ten lives over and it still would not be enough to balance out the countless evils he had wrought.

Tyrek stirred to life behind him. Yawning, he asked, "Are you nearly done?"

He was not yet absolved of his sins.

Arthas stood and nodded. Spears of light were now peeking through the thick canopy, and the chill had abated some given Tyrek was no longer shivering so much in his furs. I will never be absolved.

"Good, it's about time we broke our fast." Tyrek stretched. "I could go for a rasher of bacon and some hot bread and a warm cup of tea."

"That sounds positively simple fare for you," Arthas said as they found a gate leading out of the godswood.

"Well, we are in the north," Tyrek said. "I'd hate to eat our poor hosts out of their home. That wouldn't be very polite."

"Neither is insulting our hosts while we're under their roof."

"So you're saying insulting them is fine when we're not under their roof?" Tyrek asked, glancing at the open sky meaningfully.

Arthas sighed, then he glanced at the stables. "Go ahead. I think I'll see if Tansy's settling in."

"That's what the master of horse is for." Tyrek paused. "Do you want me to bring you something?"

"I'm not feeling particularly hungry." He wasn't feeling particularly anything at the moment.

"Are you sure?" Tyrek asked. "I doubt Lady Sansa will be pleased if she hears you skipping meals."

"Perhaps she'll worry enough to come seek me out," Arthas japed.

He waved his cousin off as his feet carried him into the stables, sandwiched between the Bell Tower and the smithy. Heaps of hay were piled high and it was clear the Starks remembered their house words despite the past nine years of summer. It was easy enough to pick out Tansy's fine black coat and head with white spots among the stalls. Arthas patted his horse affectionately, inspecting his state with a keen eye.

Suddenly, Tansy neighed, rearing up as Arthas backed away. The other horses were agitating too, and his ears picked up on a faint growling behind him.

"Ghost!"

Arthas turned around, and for a moment, he thought Lord Eddard had shed decades overnight. Jon Snow was built lean, and quick on his feet by how easily he turned the corner of wooden stalls. Arthas could see Lord Eddard's long face, brown hair, and grey eyes in his bastard.

The albino direwolf pup continued to snarl near silently at him, baring his fangs at Arthas.

Lady's bigger than you, and I've seen direwolves in Northrend the size of destriers. Arthas smiled.

"Ghost, heel!" Jon commanded, and the pup slunked back to his master, his bushy tail drooping. Jon knelt and Ghost nuzzled at his face, but kept his wary red eyes on Arthas. "I'm sorry about that, Your Grace."

He didn't look sorry at all. "It's no matter," Arthas said. "You're Jon?"

"I am," he said. "You're Prince Arthas."

"I am," Arthas said. "What brings you out here so early in the morning?"

"I could ask the same of you," Jon said.

"I was seeing to Tansy," Arthas said, gesturing behind him. He could hear Tansy stomping his hooves still. "My horse, the black one. He gets skittish in new places and I wanted to see if he was settling in alright."

"Tansy," repeated Jon, hesitating.

Arthas tilted his head. "Spit it out. I doubt my bite could best your pup's."

"You named your horse after the tea they give to girls?"

"No, it's a nickname," Arthas said. "It's short for Repentance."

Tansy neighed.

"Tan-ce," Jon said again, standing. "Odd name for a horse. Why'd you pick that?"

"It's tradition to name your steed after a quality," Arthas said. Uther's had been Steadfast, and his father's was Courageous. His old colt he'd named Invincible, when he was still young and brash and thought little of what the world might challenge him with.

"Do all southerners name their horses like you do?" Jon asked.

"No, it's—" Arthas paused. "It's not a Westerosi tradition."

"From Essos then?" Jon asked.

"No, even further east than Essos," Arthas said. "When I was little, I was told stories of a distant land called the Eastern Kingdoms."

Jon raised his brow. "That's not a very good name."

"Lord Eddard is the Lord Paramount of the North, because it's in the north," Arthas said.

Jon crossed his arms. "Okay, so these Eastern Kingdoms?"

"They were similar to the Seven Kingdoms in many ways," Arthas said. "Lordaeron was the greatest nation in that far off land, with kings and knights, but also holy warriors that wielded magic to smite those who'd do the smallfolk harm." Arthas shook his head. "It's… it's a silly story for children, and it's a tale that ends badly."

"If you say so," Jon said.

"Will you be at the practice yard later?" Arthas asked.

It was customary for the sons of lords to spar together. "Nothing like friends made after a fight," Robert had said.

Jon gave him a half smile. "If a young prince such as yourself were bruised by the likes of me, it wouldn't look good. You'll be bested only by trueborn blades today."

"I'll be bested, will I?" Arthas asked. The Stark had two, maybe three years on him physically, but he was the veteran of a dozen wars. Mandon only bested him by virtue of brute strength, but he liked his odds against a boy closer to his age where his skill could bridge any difference in physicality.

"Robb's a fine swordsman. He'll best you alright," Jon said with utmost confidence. "You and your twin brother both."

Arthas wished he had as much confidence in his brother as Jon did, but Joffrey was rarely in the care of the Red Keep's master-at-arms, Ser Aron Santagar. Besides, Joffrey had the Hound do all his fighting, and the Kingsguard too.

"How about a wager then?" Arthas asked.

"What would the son of a Lannister and a prince besides need with more gold?"

"I don't want your money," Arthas said. "I want a story."

"What."

TheKingIsDead—

Only two of them wore black at the training yard.

Dressed in a black doublet emblazoned with the golden kraken, Theon Greyjoy did not hide his look of wry contempt as Tommen and Bran swatted at each other with padded wooden swords. Arthas himself wore a black surcoat made of sable and golden trimmings, the crowned badge of his father over his heart. Joffrey wore red, like he always did, and the ornate shield embroidered on his sleeve was the lion of Lannister.

"We're two halves of a coin, you and I," Joffrey liked to say. "I'm the head that'll wear the crown one day, and you'll be the tail my shit falls out of."

Lannister squires in crimson and Stark's sworn swords called out encouragements, the loudest of them Robb. The Stark heir was standing with his back towards the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep which offered a view of the whole yard. Arthas could pick out Jon seated on the window sill, watching and waiting for a bottle of Arbor gold he wouldn't win.

"That's enough!" said old Rodrik Cassel. The master-at-arms was a great stout keg of a man with white cheek whiskers. He stepped forward and yanked Tommen from the dust he'd been rolling in, like an overturned turtle. "Well fought, both of you."

The boys were huffing and puffing from the morning exertion, and they gave Rodrik their thanks.

Arthas had gone four bouts already against Tyrek, Theon, and two other squires whose names he could not place. He'd won each time, but despite having fought the most so far, he hadn't started sweating yet. This far north it was impossible for a boy of his disposition to work one up.

Robb, though, he'd not been matched with yet. Rodrik wrongly thought he needed a break, so the honor had gone to Joffrey. He'd been thrashed by the fourteen year old once already.

"Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?" Rodrik asked.

Arthas understood the offer for what it was: a chance for his twin brother to correct his poor performance in the eyes of the watching northmen.

"Arthas will fight on my behalf," Joffrey said.

"Prince Arthas cannot practice for you, Your Grace," Rodrik said with disapproval.

Joffrey smirked. "No, but he can weed out those unworthy to face me."

"Are you afraid of another beating, Joff?" Robb asked. "I promise I'll hit you lightly this time."

Theon gave a bark of laughter.

Joffrey looked at Robb. "Oh, terrified. You're so much older and stronger than I." In turn, some of the Lannister men laughed.

Rodrik turned to Arthas. "What say you, Prince Arthas?"

"Finally," Arthas said, swinging his wooden sword testingly in the air. They'd not managed to find a practice hammer for him, but the sword was more familiar to his hand…

"My brother is a prince," Joffrey said. "He grows tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."

Arthas stilled, looking at Joffrey in askance. He recognized that drawl when he was up to something.

"What are you suggesting?" Rodrik asked, tugging at his whiskers.

"Live steel," Joffrey said.

"Live steel is dangerous," Rodrik said.

No doubt that was what Joffrey was counting on. If Robb was injured, he'd sleep all the better for it.

"War is dangerous," the Hound said derisively. He fixed Rodrik with a stare through his burned and scarred face.

"They will have steel when they are ready. When both are of age," Rodrik said, putting some live steel behind his voice.

"My brother trains with live steel daily in the south," Joffrey said. "I didn't know you northmen played at war so safely!"

"Done! Live steel it is," Robb said. "You'll be sorry!"

Tyrek was already stepping forward with Arthas' warhammer when Joffrey shook his head. "No, my brother's played with his toy long enough. Look at that thing!"

"Not even an edge to it," the Hound said.

"I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges," Rodrik said, putting a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him.

Jofftey sighed wistfully. "So much for valor!"

Robb bristled at the insult, and his wounded pride would not let him keep quiet a second longer. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Beat him with a tourney blade then," Rodrik said.

"A tourney sword will suffice," Arthas said before Joffrey could get another jab in. He had a bet to win.

Robb's tourney sword was as wide as his hand and taller than the Stark boy. Arthas recognized it as a greatsword similar in size to the one Lord Eddard wielded: Ice. His hands itched for a sword with its reach instead of the bastard sword he'd chosen, a sword more familiar in his hands than any hammer or edged weapon that it became an extension of his will. A sword thrumming with energy and covered in frost runes—

No, Arthas quashed the thought, selecting a blunted practice axe with his left hand instead of gripping his hand-and-a-halfer with both.

They took up positions across each other. Men in red, gold, black, and white yelled out wise advice like "Show these soft southron folk how we do things in the north" or "Ten stags on the Pious Prince!" The last one was mostly Tyrek.

With a weapon in each hand, Arthas settled into a thane's stance, the style of the mountain kings. Muradin would have wept to see his student use a sword instead of a warhammer as was traditional, but it'd be no less effective for it.

He approached Robb testingly. Robb swung out in a wide arc, and he leaned back, not bothering to parry.

About six feet, Arthas thought, and its handle added another two feet to it. Against such weapons, you had to get inside their guard and turn its reach from boon to bane like pesky orcish blademasters were wont to do.

"Are we sparring or are you going to stand at a distance all day?" Robb asked.

Arthas grinned. "Just wait 'til you see me in action."

He stepped within his reach again, and Robb's sword came crashing down from overhead—and Arthas burst into motion, stepping forward, crossing sword and axe to keep northern steel in check. The force behind Robb's swing broke against his guard like waves on a rock, then Arthas pushed the blade to the side, dashing forward now.

Robb reared his arm to swing again—

—Arthas threw his axe just so that it'd hit Robb with its butt instead of its head.

Robb dodged, displaying a nimbleness most grown men lacked, but as Muradin liked to say: "It's not about hitting 'em, lad. It's that you made them flinch."

Robb had dodged the axe, but in doing so let Arthas break so deep into his guard that the Stark couldn't swing his sword effectively. Years of fending off blademasters had taught Arthas never to let up in this position.

Arthas changed his one-handed grip into a two-handed one, striking and stepping, stepping and striking, never giving Robb enough time to put any distance between them. Robb had been forced to grip the tip of his greatsword with his thick leather gloves, wielding it like a quarterstaff just to fend against his relentless barrage of slashes and stabs.

Robb did well for a boy of seven and ten, but Arthas was the victor of seventeen hundred battles just like this. Admittedly, he was usually the one with the greatsword, but that only meant he knew how to make it difficult for Robb to recover.

With a final thrust, the side of Arthas' sword slapped Robb's hand away from the greatsword's hilt, and the sword hugged snow like Robb did as he stumbled over his feet trying to retreat.

Robb was panting, sweating, as the Lannister squires and knights cheered.

Joffrey bounded up to Arthas, slapping him on the back and grinning ear to ear. "It couldn't have ended any other way, Brother!" He looked pleased as a peacock, like he'd been the one to strike Robb down instead of being a mere spectator.

Putting on a handsome smile, Joffrey turned to the fallen Robb. In a loud voice, he said, "You certainly showed them how we do things in the south. Come, Tommen. We're done playing with the children." The Lannister men laughed again as Arthas' brothers walked off, save for Tyrek who waited on him.

Still sitting in the snow, Robb cursed loudly.

Arthas shook his head, picking up the greatsword and swatting off the snow clinging to it, before approaching Robb. "Need a hand?" he asked, moving the swords to his left hand, and extending his freed right hand towards him.

Robb looked at his hand for a moment, and Arthas could see pride battling with sense behind his blue Tully eyes.

"But the truest victory, my son, is stirring the hearts of your people."

"Your brother Jon told me you were a fine swordsman," Arthas said, glancing at Jon and offering him a friendly nod, before looking back down at Robb. "I didn't believe him," —Arthas grinned without malice— "but I should have known better than to doubt a Stark's honesty. That was bloody well-fought!"

Robb smiled back at last, and accepted his hand. He got onto his feet and accepted his greatsword with a grateful nod. "I've never felt so outmatched," he admitted.

"You're too hard on yourself," Arthas said, clapping him on the back. "The trick is not to swing too early, or you'll leave yourself open to what I just did. Swing once, but swing true."

"I'll keep that in mind," Robb said. "You've met Jon?"

"Aye, he was nice," Arthas said. "Wouldn't mind sharing mead with a man like that."

Robb grinned widely. "He tells me he's developed a taste for your southron wines."

"Ah, well, I do have this beautiful vintage of Arbor gold," Arthas mused.

"I imagine he'd like that," Robb said.

Jon wouldn't win the wine, but he'd never said Jon wouldn't get to drink it.

TheKingIsDead—

"A story," Robb repeated as he turned to Jon who was cross-legged on a bearskin fur and leaning against the frame of Robb's bed. "What? Like the tales Old Nan likes to tell?"

"No, not that sort," Arthas said, topping up each of their cups with the sweet southern wine he'd asked Uncle Tyrion for. "A story about your sister, Sansa."

The pair of Starks stared at him. "Why the interest?" Jon asked.

"I suppose you haven't been told," Arthas said, leaning forward in conspiracy. More for dramatic effect; there wasn't anyone else in Robb's room at this late hour. "My father and Lord Stark have spoken of betrothing me to her. I thought I'd get to know her before it was announced."

Jon barked in laughted. "Oh, Sansa would just love that."

"She always did want to marry a prince," Robb said, grinning ear to ear. "Thank the gods its you and not Joffrey."

"He'd be insufferable," Jon said.

"He's not that bad," Arthas said.

"He's your brother, you have to say that," Jon said.

Arthas took a sip. "You don't choose family."

"Aye, that's true enough," Robb said.

Jon shifted guiltily. "I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of stories to pay you back. Sansa and I…"

"They're not very close," Robb said.

"Ah," Arthas said, frowning. "Well, it's no matter! I'm honored to have made friends like you regardless. To friends!"

"To friends!" the boys said, clinging their cups with his, ringing like the bells of Baelor's Sept to his ears.

When Robb set down his cup, he asid, "Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts. I have a story if you'll take that as payment instead."

"Thank you, Prince Arthas! I won't forget all you've done for my family—" Falric said, tears in his eyes. Arthas shook the memory away. One more man raised from the dead in the end. One more friend betrayed.

"I won't hear anymore of payment," Arthas said. "There are no debts between friends."

"Then this isn't payment, just a story shared over wine," Robb said.

"Stories make them taste better, or so your cousin Tyrek said at the welcoming feast," Jon said. "We couldn't get him to shut up once he was deep in his cups."

That sounded like Tyrek alright. "Who am I to stand in the way of better tasting wine?" Arthas asked.

"This was years ago, when we were young," Robb said, "before Sansa got it in her head she was a quaint southron lady. When she used to run and play wolfpack with us. I couldn't have been older than seven."

When Sansa was four, before she could possibly have understood what a bastard was, Arthas thought.

"Old Nan had just been telling her a story," Robb said. "It was about the last hero."

"I think I remember this," Jon said. "We still shared a room back then, and Sansa snuck into ours, deathly afraid and crying about the children."

"The children?" Arthas asked.

"During the Long Night, when winter was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man, kings and swineherds died all the same. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve," Robb said. "They'd be found frozen with icy tears on their cheeks like crystals."

"Sansa cried about the Others too," Jon said. "Made Robb and I swear to grow into strong, shining knights that could make cold, dead things flee."

"I didn't know the north had knights," Arthas said. That they followed the old gods seemed to be the major obstacle, for he'd bore witness to their nobility and skill at arms and had not found them lacking in the least.

"We have some, but not many," Robb said. "The Manderlys at White Harbor hold to the Seven and many knights serve Lord Wyman."

Cold, dead things… "These Others," Arthas said, "what are they?"

"Creatures of myth who raise servants, dead and dread. Creatures unhindered by steel, who do not take pity on maidens and suckling babes," Jon said. "Nothing but monsters lurking beneath the beds of little children."

The monster is real, and closer than you know, Arthas thought. "The risen dead?"

"Things that despise iron and fire and the touch of the sun," Robb said.

Different from the undead I know of. If such things did exist out there, it made visiting the Wall all the more important.

"Jon and I will never be knights," Robb said, "but you will. Take care of our sister for us when she leaves."

Arthas nodded. "On my honor, I swear it."

They toasted again, finishing off the bottle.

The next morning, his betrothal was announced, and the king called for a hunt. The hunting party assembled at the courtyard—a mix of knights attached to the royal party and Lord Eddard's men. Normally, they'd not be allowed to hunt, but Arthas could hardly be asked to sit it out given it was to celebrate his betrothal. Where he went, so did Joffrey, and it was hardly fair to the Starks if Robb wasn't allowed to join them—not that the boy was in a fit state after last night.

"Brother!" Joffrey said, grinning. "Glad I caught you before we left. Hound, you have it?"

"Aye, Prince Joffrey," the Hound said, unstrapping a leather scabbard from his back and offering it to Arthas. It sheathed a longsword replica of Joffrey's Lion Tooth though of poor make and heavier than it ought to be. Double-edged and brittle-looking, it had a golden stag's head for a pommel, mouth open like it was mounted on a wall.

"Consider this a late nameday gift," Joffrey said. "I feel terrible I didn't get you anything."

"Thank you," Arthas said.

Joffrey glanced at the sword at his hip, then back to Arthas with mirth. "I dare say they're just like us. I named it Stag's Horn."

A terrible name for a terrible weapon, but Arthas nodded politely anyway.

"I mean to give it to you last night, but you weren't around, "Joffrey continued. "Mother and Father were yelling again."

"What about?" Arthas asked.

"Father wants to go to the Wall, and Mother thinks the whole idea dreadful. The rest of us are going back to King's Landing early, while you and Father go," Joffrey said. "Honestly, I don't understand what it is you want to see there."

"It's state is vital to the Starks and the north," Arthas said.

Joffrey shrugged. "If you say so. We'd smash any wildlings that dared to cross it anyway."

Father arrived at the courtyard at last.

"It's tradition," Father said, "for a Baratheon to hunt something for a feast when he's betrothed. Killing something is good for the soul. Be wary though, it's mating season for stags and they're known to be aggressive." He eyed Arthas. "Why are your eyes so red?"

"We had a late night," Arthas said, blinking.

Robb yawned not far from where they stood.

Father grinned. "Did you?" He laughed. "Hear that, Ned? Our sons had a late night!"

"Yes, I've noticed," Eddard said, crossing his arms and looking down at Robb with stern eyes.

"Ah, cheer up, Ned!" Father said. "We were young vagabond knights on the kingsroad once! Swords at our sides, and god knows we've had our share of late nights with wine and women!"

"Well, it was only just the wine for us," Arthas said, putting aside his warhammer for Stag's Horn.

Father turned to Eddard. "See? There weren't even any women." He leaned in conspirially towards Arthas as they rode out of Winterfell. "You should fix that next time. Trust me when I say it, ah, heightens the experience."

That was not kingly. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind," Arthas said.

Father nodded. "Say, when did you become such good friends with Robb Stark that you'd share a bottle of wine during the small hours?"

"He beat me in a spar," Robb said.

"A Baratheon beating a Stark…" Father mused, before turning to Eddard, "that reminds me of our first spar at the Eyrie."

Eddard cracked a smile as their party reached the edges of the Wolfswood. "Aye, and I left you with a few bruises myself. As I recall, you couldn't quite enjoy Aleena's touches as much as usual the night after."

"Aleena," Father said wistfully. "She had a pretty smile and a wonderful ass, just the right roundness and firmness for a man to grab on to. Gods bless her," Father said, "and her ass."

The hounds they'd brought began to bark, signalling they'd found quarry and was herding it towards them. Father lifted up his boar spear and shrieked with joy. "The hunt begins!"

It was a stag that came hurtling out of the bushes, the hounds nipping at its heels. It paused, veering right, then left, but found itself surrounded on all sides by dismounted men with sharp sticks and harsh language. It looked around, lowering its antlers, and stomping its hooves.

Arthas stepped forward, staring the stag down. Its antlers reminded him of Father's crown.

It launched itself at him—and Arthas prepared to thrust, but he'd never had much practice with the spear. The thrust was off, and Arthas threw himself to the side before the stag could hit him with its antlers.

His hands moved on instinct, drawing on Stag's Horn, and slicing through its hamstrings. It collapsed to the ground with a pained wail, its desperate attempts to stand up to him failing.

"Kill it quickly," Father said.

Arthas looked down on the stag, placed one hand on its chest, feeling its panicked breathing. There was fear in its eyes, and Arthas saw that it was barely a stag from the size of it—still a fawn in truth. He thrust Joffrey's gift into its heart, burying the sword hilt-deep. A quick, clean blow, then the fawn's antlers dropped to the ground as the life faded from its eyes.

The hounds howled as if in approval.

Father's laugh was a booming approval. He stepped forward, eyes alight, and lifted Arthas' arm high. "This here is my son, a trueborn Baratheon!"

The men cheered.

When they returned in high spirits, it was to tears and grim faces. "What's happened here?" Lord Eddard asked.

"It's Bran," Lady Catelyn said.