280 AL

The water ran hot against her skin, reddening the flesh. Steam rose from the surface to spread about the room. Lyanna submitted herself to the care of the serving girl who scrubbed her skin and washed her hair.

In Winterfell the walls of her home ran warm with the water of hot springs. A sense of sadness swept over her. She would never go home. If the King had his way she would become the Queen. A queen's place was by her king. And Lyanna intended to do well by the man if he did wed her. The truth remained; she would not return to her girlhood safe heaven. No warm walls for her. She would have a crown instead. A crown of gold would be set of her head, a crown in the image of that the King wore. A slim band of gold set with seven different stones. It was the same crown the first Jaehaerys had worn – Jaehaerys the Wise he was remembered. Did the King hope for that wisdom to be passed onto him, Lyanna wondered as the cloths scraped against her skin and quick fingers washed her hair with tugs and pulls. Lyanna grimaced at the sting.

The sun spilled through the open doors of the balcony, but it did not enter further enough to disperse the shadows. Her eyes sought the place where light and shadow met, mingling together. She'd dreamt of blood before the sun's first rays touched the sky.

Stepping out of the bath, Lyanna was covered in clean linens, patted and rubbed dry. Her hair was wrung, combed and dried as well. They did not place gold or silver in her tresses, nor dressed her in the colours of her lord husband. Instead she was given a dress of light blue colour. Blue for purity, she reflected with a small smile.

The Septas came in hours later, their stern faces reminding Lyanna of cold statues. One of them was relatively young. Lyanna even thought she might be of an age with her, but no. Though she stood only an inch or so taller than her, the Septa's face was older and her bosom larger, as were her hips. Her body was that of a woman as well inside her robes. Would they treat her kindly? The Seven were not her gods. But she still prayed, for the strength they held in the South, that these gods would set her free. The other Septas were well ahead of her in years and their eyes were empty and incredibly light, a sort of film covering them.

They'd brought a horn with them. Lyanna had heard some tales of magical horns. Supposedly only a chaste woman could drink from it without turning the pure water into poisonous blood. A pitcher was held by another Septa. How could a woman know if the water itself hadn't been poisoned? Lyanna held her tongue, though she might have said something as trust ran thin insider her veins. Besides a horn could only prove that her balance was acceptable, not if a man had touched her or not.

Of course it was not her maidenhead they would be concerned for. Nor would it matter if Robert had indeed bedded her, not truly. It was his seed inside of her they feared. Rhaegar had given her the same impression and she did understand the reasoning. Should he wed her as she was and a child was upon her, he would be in difficulty to name the babe not his own. No man would freely admit to his wife giving him horns.

"Are you Lyanna of House Stark, daughter to the Warden of the North?" the seemingly eldest of them asked in a tremulous voice. Her face was wizened and gaunt, her frame tall but slightly stooped due to her advanced age.

"I am she," Lyanna answered without hesitation. She fought the urge to worry her hands. It would do no good. All she had to do was tell the truth, which was an easy enough task.

"How many years do you have, child?" another asked in such a thin voice that Lyanna found her ears tingled with it. This one was ancient as well, for all she stood straighter than the other.

"I am three-and-ten," came her answer half a heartbeat later. The truth was comfortable, like an old glove that fit her hand perfatly.

"Are you flowered yet, my lady?" the third of them questioned. Her eyes caught Lyanna's attention. They were wide and blue of colour and the light caught in them. Pretty eyes. But her voice held none of that prettiness.

"That I am, good Septa." It had been come time. In fact she was sure that soon enough she would bleed again. She waited for another question to be posed.

The youngest of them spoke then. "Has your marriage been consummated? You say nay, but the servant girl you had in Lord Baratheon's house sings a different song. She says you have taken to bed with him even as soon as your first day of bleeding was over." Lyanna thought their speech might have been rehearsed. Her eyes narrowed at the question though.

Lyanna shook her head. "If that is her word then she lies. My lord husband did not know of my flowering. And if he found out it was not from me. I have tried my best to protect my virtue." Come to think of it, Alys might have told Robert about her moon's blood coming. It would certainly explain his anger and his hurry to depart. Her father must have approached him and suggested that he let go of his wife, Robert would have refused and then took off and would have taken her with him.

"Then you should not have any difficulty with our task, my lady," the one standing in the middle spoke. Her sister in faith filled the drinking horn with something that Lyanna only now realised was not water. The colour was darker, yellowish, a bit like tea. The Septa confirmed her suspicion a moment later. "We have made for you a drink of moon tea, my lady."

"I thought you were to examine my maidenhead," the young woman said softly as she wrapped her hands around the large horn.

"A young lady who rides is likely to have her maidenhead ruptured by such activities. And which lady does not ride?" another voiced with her pale face shining in the light. "It would be fruitless to search for the maidenhead, my lady. Instead have this drink and your moon's blood shall be upon you by the morrow."

She was in no danger. Unless Robert had a way of giving women his seed with only lecherous looks, of course. Though Lyanna was sure she would have known by now if she was with child had Robert actually forced himself upon her. She drank deep from the horn the first time. And deeper still on the second. The third swallow almost chocked her. They'd added too much honey. Lyanna wrinkled her nose and continued to gulp at the antidote. The liquid settled in the pit of her stomach, warm. The sweet taste of it lingered still even after the handed the horn back to the wrinkled hands of the Septa closest to her.

"There shan't be much blood," the same Septa said after a moment of silence. "Keep some cloth under your skirts and if you feel queasy take some sweet water." The others gave her nods and grim faces. "You may choose which of us remains with you until the morrow."

"Then I wish you would keep me company," Lyanna replied easily. Her decision was met with silent answers. She had chosen not the youngest, not the oldest, and certainly not the one with the sweetest of voices.

Lyanna shared her food and some stories with the Septa and was surprised to find out that the wizened woman had been a girl unflowered when she had been given to the Faith. "I was born into House Marbrand and my two sisters were given husbands, my brother a wife. Instead I was given to the Septas."

"Did you never wish for a different life?" she asked as they sat together in the orange light of the falling sun. The life of a Septa was lonely.

The woman laughed. "I am what I am, my lady. There is little point in wishing something else. Just as you yourself are what you are, my lady. Does it serve to wish you'd been born a man or that you hadn't been married to your Storm lord?"

Of course not. Lyanna nodded solemnly. "Nay, I suppose I cannot help what I am. But I never wished to be a man, truth be told. When I was little it seemed the greatest thing to me that I would one day be a great lady like my mother, though I admit I found some pleasure in sparring with my youngest brother in the godswood."

"You are proficient with a sword, my lady?" There was no reproach in her voice though, so Lyanna was not put out of ease.

"I know only a bit. But I was not built for combat for all I would fell my brother. He was younger and shorter than me until a year ago. I am sure he is now above me in height. I am a very good rider." If only she could have ridden away from Robert to the ends of the earth.

"And yet you claim that being a lady would have pleased you." The Septa gave her an inquisitive look. "Is the Lord of Storm's End not grand enough?"

"He claimed to love me," Lyanna confessed, her face going pale. "But he barely knew me and I did not like what I knew of him. Robert could be gallant, I grant you that, but that was only until he would worm his way between a woman's legs." She sniffed indignantly. "Still, I did not dislike him for that. There are many men who take paramour and father children on them. But Robert loses any need for a woman after he puts a babe in her belly. I would not delude myself that I was different."

"There is more." It hadn't been a question. Lyanna blinked slowly at the woman. "What else made you reluctant to give your heart to him?"

"The very fact that he demanded my heart. The night of our wedding he offered me wine. I rarely take wine, and only watered besides." Her eyes glazed over in remembrance. "Tis' not the fact that he gave me drink, though. When I refused him he gave me such a dark look that I thought he might strangle me then and there."

"A violent soul," the Septa observed. "Most men are so. They have a taste for blood those of them that are the best fighters. Though, the same might be said about some woman."

Women were better at concealing their desire for violence. "I do not desire to fight. I am not of the mind that a marriage is a competition between wife and husband to see which had the most power between them. But I want someone who will not treat me as an object. Is that too much to ask for?"

"Not at all. You shall be well served by your annulment." The Septa soon told her it was time to lie down and sleep.

Lyanna was happy enough for that; her stomach had started to ache. The linen pad was placed between her legs gingerly and she wondered if it wouldn't slip during the night. But she wore her smallclothes under and so that would be difficult.

Under the blankets it was warm and snug and the heat helped with her discomfort. It was easy to fall asleep and she wasn't even bothered by the additional weight and the strangeness of another human body next to hers.

The moon shone high in the sky, its silvery light bathing everything but a few corners which not even those long rays could reach. Dreams found her soon. Lyanna would not remember those dreams ever. She would not waste time wondering how others remembered their nightly visions. Lyanna heard songs.

Tywin's lips curled in dismay as he crossed paths with Rickard Stark. The man had a daughter about Cersei's age. A wisp of a girl to be sure, comely and in the middle of an annulment. The King had taken a disturbing interest in her. Tywin hadn't seen this Lyanna Stark, but he had heard that the King paid her visits and he was partial to her. A maid of three-and-ten, if indeed she was any maid at all, had charmed the wits out of Rhaegar Targaryen. It was a feat his Cersei had been trying to accomplish for the past couple of years.

It seemed to work not at all. No matter how his daughter smiled and cajoled and tempted the man, the King repaid her with a gentle look of reprimand. Cersei was the most beautiful maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms. Certainly fairer than the late wife of the King. Elia Martell had been older and taller than her husband when they wed. She was of Dorne, and though her looks had been exotic, they were not beautiful. Striking, for sure, but not stunning. Dark hair and dark eyes with sun browned skin. Her frame had been thin, her chest flat and her hips narrow. She was unremarkable at best and downright unappealing. Her death had been the perfect solution to Tywin's dilemma about what he would do with Cersei. The King was free. He should have jumped at the chance to have the beautiful Lannister maiden for his queen. Yet Rhaegar refused.

His father had refused as well, Tywin remembered. Aerys Targaryen had been a boyhood friend of Tywin's. They had grown up together and he was of the few who remained with Aerys throughout the years. Their first real quarrel had been over Joanna Lannister. Aerys had wanted her and he had implored King Jaehaerys to allow him to wed her. The King had refused and instead given him his sister, Rhaella. Aerys hadn't been pleased, yet he'd done as was required of him and took his sister to wife – to disastrous ends, if the rumours were to be trusted. The Queen-mother was safely away on Dragonstone with the King's brother. She had been well pleased when her husband fell ill and took to his bed. He was soon dead and set afire.

The second quarrel was over their children. Tywin had suggested a match between Aerys' son and his own daughter. Aerys had refused him without giving the matter a moment of thought. Cersei had been a child back then, but it was already clear that she would grow up to be a beautiful woman. Aerys had remained unmoved. He would not wed his son to Tywin's daughter. By way of reply he'd brought that Dornish woman and foisted her upon his son. Tywin had almost refused to attend the wedding.

"My Lord Hand," Lord Stark said by way of greeting. His eyes were cold and freezing, though amusement shone in them. His lips curved in a smile, a mocking thing meant to rile him. Tywin ignored it.

"Lord Stark," he offered just as coolly. "How fares your daughter?" He almost hesitated. The King was interested in her. Tywin knew just the thing to dampen the newfangled ardour that seemed to burn in the man's chest.

"She is well enough," Rickard Stark replied curtly, suspiciously. Tywin was not surprised. "If it please you, my Lord Hand, I must make haste. There are matters I must attend to."

"About that unruly son of yours, no doubt," Tywin said as a parting shot. Rickard Stark gave him no answer.

But it was too late anyway. Tywin knew Stark's aim. He would not suffer another defeat or slight. If he had to poison each and every highborn girl in the Seven Kingdoms, he would do it. Cersei was born to be queen. She would have no less than was her due. Arrangements had already been made. If only he could find competent people. Rickard Stark disappeared down the hall, leaving the King's Hand alone with the shadows.

He was not left long in his solace. Gregor Clegane lumbered towards him. He was a mountain of a man, fierce and grim. Gregor Clegane was a dog. What his master ordered, he would do. If Tywin told him to barge into Lyanna Stark's rooms and slit her throat where she stood, he would do so. But Tywin was not cruel if cruelty was not needed.

"Come," Tywin bade him. Clegane followed into a room. "Two men shall be waiting by the gates as I have told you. You are not to hurt the girl. Not a bruise, not a broken hair stand. Make sure she does not yell out. We must alert no one of this." It was Baratheon's right to have his wife. "Gag her if you have to. And tie her if you must."

Cersei had come to him with her sorrowful song. She had it from some lady or another that the King visited the Stark girl twice a day and that he would spend long hours in her company. His daughter's rage had fuelled his when he heard that. The King had his secrets, Tywin knew. His father had been easier to read and easier to manipulate too. One of Joanna's smile would have been enough to sway the man had Tywin allowed his wife anywhere near Aerys Targaryen. He hadn't. His son was a different matter altogether. Rhaegar Targaryen was less prone to fits of anger than his father had. He was a calmer sort, seemingly imperturbable. The current King was pleased to keep Tywin at a distance where personal matters were concerned. But he was still a man. And men had weaknesses. Tywin needed only to find that weakness and his would be the eventual victory.

Tywin turned to face the window as Celgane left to do his master's bidding like a good dog.

Jaime came next. He entered. "Father, you have summoned me." The boy was growing fast. It was time to do something about him as well. Cersei would have Rhaegar. Jaime would need someone just as grand.

The Stark girl was out of question. He had promised her to Baratheon as it was. The Storm Lord could take her and make off with her as he would. By rights, Lyanna belonged to him. Perhaps a Tully girl. The younger one, to be sure. The first was already promised to some lord or another. "It is time we found you a bride, my son. Have you any thought of the matter?"

Jaime looked at him with wide eyes, green as his, as Joanna's had been. "I do not-" That was enough to earn his son a glare. "I have given it no thought."

"Casterly Rock needs an heir. House Lannister needs an heir." Tywin's hand thumped the windowsill. His son's face spoke of fear and anger. "You are no longer a child. It is time you thought of your duties. Jaime, you are my son!"

"I am still young," he offered in weak protest. "There is time enough for weddings and heirs."

Tywin shook his head. His children seemed bent on ruining the prestige of their House. Had Joanna lived, she would have known how to make their children see the truth. "Do not mistake me, Jaime. You shall be married if I have to drag you to the altar myself. I am giving you a choice. A Tully girl. Or perhaps another. You may have this choice provided that she is suitable."

If only he'd known what his son was thinking, Tywin would have likely chocked on his breath. Jaime wanted no Tully girl, nor any other for that matter. He wanted a woman that could never be his. He wanted his own sister. "A Tully girl will do just as well as any other," Jaime grudgingly accepted. He could see no way out of the situation. "When am I to bed the Trout's daughter, father? May I say my goodbyes or am I to ride away at this very moment."

"Do not be insolent," Tywin cut him. "You shall wed when I tell you to." He dismissed his son with a wave of his hand. It was enough to make his head ache the way his son put himself in the way of his plans.

The Tullys were a good match. There was no royal blood running through their veins, but they were an old house, they were rich as well. Though House Lannister had no need of money, it could not hurt to receive a fat dowry with that girl they would put into his son's bed. Tywin needed allies in court. He wondered if Clegane had taken care of matters by now. The hour would grow late soon. Very soon.

In the silence Tywin fell to wondering about the Baratheon lord. Robert was a fool. He was sure he was in loved with the Stark girl, a child really. Perhaps he ought to have told Clegane to take care of the Storm Lord and his little bride. It was best if the King never found a way to come to the girl's rescue. Rhaegar was not his father's son; he could not ignore a woman's pain. The fact was proven when he speedily agreed to have his mother out of the Red Keep when she complained about the bad memories that assaulted her whenever she walked the halls as the night fell.

The Targaryen were mad, most of them. Not every one of them had a violent madness to them, but mad all the same. It ran in their blood. Tywin wondered if it came with loosing their dragons. It could not be that. The Targaryen had been mad even before that. Valyrian blood. Dragon blood. It all came down to blood, Tywin thought with a grimace.

Aerys had been proud of his son, as proud as Tywin was of his own. He used to say that the Valyrian blood ran strong through the veins of his firstborn. But it was his second son that was more like him. Viserys Targaryen was prone to fits and tears and anger. Of course it would have been much easier to sway Viserys. Cersei could have surely charmed him. But Viserys was too young to wed. And Rhaella would not have welcomed anyone trying to part her from her babe. She forever saw him as a babe cradled in her arms.

Rhaella Targaryen was as mad as her brother had been. Her madness was born by long hours spent in the company of Aerys. Tywin was sure. Aerys had been unhappy in his marriage and his wife had had to suffer through every night with him some said. Rhaella hadn't always been mad, just sad. Sadness was a part of her just as smili8ng had been part of Joanna. The Sun had been the Lannister maid with rays of sunshine in her hair. The moon was Rhaella, shinning with a lesser light. There was a sweet sadness to her once upon a time, and it turned into bitterness and despair.

Rhaegar had saved his mother in a fashion. Yet Tywin could not seem to find a way to make the King notice his daughter. He had offered Cersei a large dowry and had served the new King loyally. Cersei had been placed in his path and close at hand. Perhaps he thought Cersei too young. Or mayhap he was truly enamoured with the Stark girl. Whatever the case may be, Lyanna Stark would remain only a memory to the King. Cersei would be his only option and he would have her and father children on her, children with golden hair and violet eyes.

He would be the grandfather of the next king, Tywin thought with satisfaction. A little lion for the Iron Throne. That ought to take the madness out of him. A sane king. No one could possibly ask for more. If they had a daughter, Tywin would insist they name her Joanna. In his mind she had golden blonde hair and the brightest green eyes he had ever seen.

Brandon looked at her with wide eyes that did not understand. He was a good fighter, stronger than any of his brothers, stronger than most Northmen and faster than those whose strength he could not match. But even he had little hope against a score of men without his sword and with a blade held to his neck. The steel gave his skin a sharp cold kiss, a trail of blood trickled down his neck. His eyes narrowed. "Why?" was the only thing he asked.

Barbrey watched him with pity written all across her face. That only made him angry. He would have understood had she fled in the night. He could have understood that even if she'd taken all the money and her belongings with her. But she hadn't. Instead she called upon her father's men. Why? He'd brought her no harm. "I would have wed you."

"And made a beggar out of me, aye," she replied in a small sad voice. "You have nothing to give me, Brandon Stark." She tied the clasp of his cloak. Even with her mouth in a stern line, she was still the prettiest woman he had ever known.

Not even Catelyn Tully could match her. And Catelyn Tully was a good-looking woman. She was tall and graceful, with flaming hair and the bluest eyes Brandon had ever seen. His own mother had had blue eyes, but hers had been light as ice. Catelyn Tully, by contrast, had a darker shade of blue in her eyes. Though he'd liked her well enough, Brandon had loved Barbrey too much to even seriously consider wedding the Tully girl. He should have thought better on that. His father had been right to pick him a wife himself. His own heart could not be trusted with such a task, it would see. Brandon snarled as he was pushed forward, almost tripping over his own feet.

"I have nothing to give you?" he questioned her incredulously. "I shall be Lord of Winterfell when my father is no more." He wondered if she'd let go of her sanity.

"Not any longer. Your father had chosen to transfer that inheritance upon your younger brother," one of the men spoke. "The boy even followed the Old Wolf to King's Landing. There's no doubt about it." Brandon could hardly believe his ears. His father had spoken of stripping his birthright away, but Brandon hadn't rightly believed it. "You have nothing to give our lady." He was once again pushed forward.

That piece of news gave him pause. His father had warned him in truth. Rickard Stark was not a man to make empty threats. Brandon had learned that much a long time ago when he had been only a child, barely about of his mother's arms. He had been five or six when out of sheer curiosity he'd snuck inside the stables, climbed atop his father's best horse and somehow spooked the beast into setting off. Brandon had almost fallen off, but he'd grabbed the horse's mane and held on. He'd never felt anything like that before or after – almost like flying. His father hadn't been quite as excited about it when they found Brandon in a pile of snow. The horse had thrown him off and his leg had needed splinters, but he pulled through for all that.

Alas his father told him that if he ever got anywhere near the horse he would get himself such a punishment as he'd never received before. Brandon had thought on that until the evening meal, after which he'd promptly crept back into the stables. His mother had caught him though. Brandon thought himself safe enough, but when she did not take him back to his chambers, a fear stole into him. Lyarra Stark had been a gentle woman, not given to taking a switch to her children for disobeying her. Rickard had been different. Brandon received from his father a good spanking that night, which cured him of any desire to visit the stables for the next few weeks.

Lyanna was the only one who ever got away with any mischief, on account of being the sweet, seemingly innocent and the only girl. Of course, if there was any trouble to be had, Lyanna was sure to find it. Brandon was always happy to help, Ned would keep watch and Benjen would toddle after them wanting to be just like his older siblings. But when it came time to face the music, he, Ned and Benjen received the brunt of it. Lyanna usually got away with a scolding; Brandon put that on account of her making a properly contrite face.

Brandon bit his tongue so hard that he could feel the blood in his mouth, its metallic tang almost making him gag. What was he going to do is father took Winterfell away from him? He had been ready to abandon the keep for Barbrey. But it seemed she would not have him without his birthright. Something like dread filled him them. His father had predicted that also. He sighed.

Surely Ned would not accept Winterfell. His brother was a good person and a dutiful son, but he also loved his siblings. Brandon knew he could count on Ned, and in any other situation it would have been enough. But not when it came to lands, it seemed. Doubt crept upon him. Ned was a second son, perhaps he resented that. Had he been born first he would have been Lord of Winterfell, and a better one than Brandon could ever hope to be. Ned had the head and temper for it. Brandon not so much.

He could return. The realisation lifted his spirits for half a heartbeat. Then it all came crashing down. He would not run back to his father with his tail between his legs. He would not give him that satisfaction. Rickard would expect him to beg for forgiveness. Brandon could not give him that. He would not give him that. Barbery might be a poisonous snake, but he would not offer his father the chance to retaliate against House Ryswell. Brandon could not hurt her. What a man he was! Even angered he could not lift a hand to her.

She was so close. He needed only to escape the watchful eyes of the Ryswell men and he could throttle her. Brandon gave her a sour look. Perhaps he ought to crush the snake's head. He should have taken her when he had the chance. Would she dare refuse him with a child inside of her? She would've had to wed him then even if he'd been poor and dirty. He scowled. How could he have been so deceived in her?

Suddenly gleaming steel flew past his head and sunk into one of his captors' skull. The sound of flesh ripping apart and bone crumbling and splitting assaulted his ears. The steel hissed against his skin, leaving behind a thin red cut. It was not deep, barely even there. Brandon ignored the sting and made for the other man at arm, knocking him to the ground. A woman's shriek tore through the roar of his blood pumping through his veins. Brandon paid it no mind; he was too busy punching his fists into his opponent's face. A bludgeon would have been even better, but he would take what he could get. Blood spurted from the man's broken lip. His nose was next. Brandon set upon his savagely. He might have even killed him had he not been stopped.

Strong arms pulled him back. Brandon fought their hold. He tore at the arms and soon others joined them, thick fingers curling around him, pulling him to a standstill. Bloodlust won him over for a few moments and he could see nothing but red before his eyes. Those who restrained him tightened their hold to his despair.

"Enough!" a gruff voice cried and he was turned around to face a familiar man. "You may be a lordling, but that ain't be of much help if you kill these men."

"Yoren," Brandon said by way of greeting. "What are you doing here?" He was still dazed and his tongue felt thick and swollen. It was like he couldn't even think.

"Making my way back to the Wall," was the reply he received. Yoren and his brothers released him. "What are you doing here, would be a more relevant question." Yoren's dark eyes burned into his, that crooked and gnarled body of his strong despite is deformities, Brandon realised belatedly.

Two of Yoren's men had caught Barbrey between them. She was sobbing, loud and heavy. Brandon had half a mind to tell her to shut up. He wouldn't ever be able to think with all the noise she made. Tears rolled down her rosy cheeks when he chanced a glance upon her. The dress she was wearing had been torn at the lower edge and mud stained the upper folds of her skirts. Had she tried to fight too? The thought almost made him smile. She was a tall woman and robust besides, but even so, she wouldn't be much good in a fight.

"I don't know," he answered still looking at the woman. "I honestly do not know, Yoren." She wouldn't be much use in a fight indeed. Barbrey was far too scared, she didn't even struggle. "Let the woman go." Surprisingly enough, they complied. Barbrey fell to her knees, mud staining her dress anew. She made for a pitiful sight. Brandon was not moved in the least. "Where are you coming from?"

"I rode to King's Landing with your father, boy." Yoren's face was sombre. He had to know what had happened in that case. It was better for all involved. "You ought to have known that."

"Has my father named Ned his heir?" Brandon demanded to know. He ought to have known that too, but he didn't.

"Might be," the man returned. "These affairs are no concern of mine, young Brandon Stark. If your father had any reason for which he might name your brother his heir, I suppose he had done so."

"I have to reach King's Landing." He needed a horse, and something to arm himself with. He looked at the bloody man on the ground, then at Barbrey. "I cannot leave the lady with you and your men." They would tear her apart, so many lonely men on a long journey North. And alone she wouldn't last out there. Brandon did not need her blood on his hands.

"I am certain that is wise," Yoren remarked drily.

Brandon walked to where she was and hauled her to her feet. The horses hadn't run, thank the gods. "We shall be on our way then. My gratitude for the rescue, Yoren." The man merely nodded and proceeded to watch as Brandon climbed atop a horse then had Barbrey climbing after him.

It would be a long journey and not at all comfortable for them or the horse, but he couldn't trust her on her own beast. Unless, of course, he had the reins. However he did take the other horse too. Perhaps if she would prove amenable he could at some point allow her to climb atop her own horse and ride. But at the moment he didn't even trust her as far as he could throw her.

"Brandon, please," she tried to speak, her voice shaky. On any other occasion her fear might have softened him. Not now though. He refused to reply. Let her beg. "Brandon, I never meant to cause you injury. You must believe me." She was crying once more, her voice gave her away.

"Is that so?" he mocked her as she wrapped her arms around him to keep from falling. "What injuries do you refer to, my lady. My neck or others wounds?" The scratch he spoke of did not bother him. It had even stopped tricking blood. Most likely it would leave a thin line of decoloured skin to remind him of his folly.

"Please," she tried again, her tears chocking her. "It was father's plan. He wanted the heir of Winterfell as his good-son. Your father refused the match when father suggested it. So he thought that mayhap I could sway you."

And swayed him she had. She'd swayed him right out of his inheritance and birthright. How foolish he had been. Brandon marvelled at it. "You should be proud of yourself then, my lady, and so should your father. I commend you on your technique, but you will understand why I shan't prolong out acquaintance after I've delivered you back to your father, or the nearest relative I can find. It makes no matter to me which."

A/N: Title from Lovelace's "To Althea from Prison".