Of White Trees and Blue Roses

I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.

~X~

Chapter Twenty Two – A Year in Westeros, Part 4 – The North

"But father..."

"Not another word, Ben." Lord Stark paused, apprehensively turning to face his youngest son with his pleading puppy eyes. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know that."

Benjen looked as if his face was about to crumble. Feeling himself weaken, Lord Rickard patted him on the head and turned away. As he walked out into the courtyard he called out, "Winterfell is yours until we return. Make sure we find it in one piece."

When winter had decided that it wasn't quite ready to leave, his great uncle, old Ser Rickon, had succumbed to a chill. Though the elderly man had lost most of his sight, he hadn't lost his wits, and Rickard was always more than comfortable with their ancestral home in his capable hands.

Now he had the hard choice of who to leave in charge.

It had to be a Stark—a rule set down so long ago no one really knew how it originated. The only true Starks left were himself, his heir Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, or Benjen.

Brandon was the one being married, and Eddard had returned to the Vale. If only his second son had been here, he would have been just as solid and dependable as Old Rickon had. In fact, he would trust Eddard with the running of Winterfell even more than the son it would eventually fall to. It made Rickard guilty to think that way.

With Eddard too far away, it made much more sense to meet him in the Riverlands for the wedding. That left Lyanna or Benjen, both of whom would not be happy at being left behind.

In the end, he'd decided to take his daughter and leave the youngest of his children in the capable hands of Maester Walys, watching over the Stark family lands and interests. He told himself he'd chosen Lyanna because she needed to build bridges with Lord Robert, her betrothed, but he knew deep down that it was because he couldn't refuse her, and that she was as likely to listen to Maester Walys' words of wisdom as was the wind.

Like the wind...that was exactly how Lyanna seemed. Sometimes soft and gentle, but unpredictable, wild, and with a tendency to turn and blow a gale without warning. Was her temperament, and Brandon's, his fault through his inability to curb the whims of his offspring, or borne from their Stark wolf's blood?

Lady of Storm's End—a fitting future title if ever there was one. Would being a wife and mother calm her, or would there be no end to the hurricane that was Lyanna Stark?

Typically, the Starks married amongst the families of the North. It had been the Maester that had first planted the seed of looking further south for marriage alliances. Lord Rickard had heard whispers that indicated the northern noble families saw this as ambition to further his reach; the truth was that he wanted to seek out suitable husbands and wives for his wilful children.

Brandon and Lyanna, as easy on the eye as they were, would not be easy for their spouses to live with.

For Brandon he'd chosen a daughter of a fellow great lord—Lord Hoster Tully. Even Brandon should have the sense not to slight such a man. It was also said that Catelyn was pretty—essential if she was to keep Brandon's attention—and sensible for a girl of her age.

Lord Rickard shook his head as he remembered the angry letter Lord Rodrik had sent with regard his eldest daughter, Barbrey. The sooner Brandon was wed the better. Family, duty, honour were the words of House Tully. Lord Rickard hoped his heir might take them on board.

The procession rolled through the gates, snaking over the rolling hills of mud and grass that constituted the main road into Winterfell in springtime. Slow going, but it was better than trying to travel through thick drifts of snow. It had been the weather that had delayed the happy event as long as it had.

Carts, wagons, soldiers on foot, and those keen to speak to their Lord stayed back once they reached the King's Road, and Rickard watched Lyanna, Brandon, and Brandon's close friends disappear ahead of them.

Lord Rickard wondered how many days it would take for them to get bored and ride off, leaving the slower traffic far behind.

Three days, it was, before Brandon and his companions raced away, and naturally Lyanna followed. Or was it Lyanna that had instigated the separation and Brandon joining her? All their father could see was the small group breaking away at the front of the train, far in the distance.

Thinking for a moment, Rickard signalled one of his men.

"My lord," the knight said with a respectful nod of his head.

Rickard pointed in the distance. "Take some riders and follow my daughter." As the knight agreed, the lord quickly added, "Make sure they are quick—she won't be happy about the company. Even if she commands you to leave, my orders are that you shouldn't leave her side."

"Yes, my lord. I understand."

With a deep sigh, Lord Stark held back to watch the knight gather nine other horseman together, quickly take some supplies, and then gallop across the soft earth where his children had rode not long before.

Please gods, Rickard thought, let me get Brandon to Riverrun before he or his sister create more trouble.

Startled, Rickard's prayer was interrupted when a raven briefly landed on the roof of a nearby wagon, and then took flight again, heading north. As it did so, the aging Warden of the North felt a squeezing pain in the centre of his chest. Struggling for breath for a moment, he was pleased when the invisible grip relaxed.

Sucking air into his lungs, he found Torghen Flint looking straight at him.

"Lord Stark, are you well?"

Rickard managed a smile. "Aye. Children...they give me indigestion."

Torghen laughed and handed over a wineskin, which his liege lord gratefully took. He had never been one for drinking, but he hoped the bitter red liquid might away the lingering soreness before slowly rejoining the snake of people, horses, and wagons.