Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted and favourited this story. It really means a lot, so thank you. This story is totally unrelated to "Before the Dawn", so it's not a fluff story at all – so have no worries on that front. Everything belongs to GRRM and HBO.

Also, I'm assuming everyone knows about the coded letter Lysa sent to Cat warning her about the Lannisters. So, instead, I'm telling that part of the story from the children's point of view, where they sense that something isn't quite right in camp Stark.

Chapter Two: Childhood's End

"Something's going on; what aren't they telling us?" Robb pummelled his left fist into his open right palm as he paced the length of his chamber. A caged wolf, he couldn't hold still. Back and forth he went, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards.

By contrast, Jon was still and silent as he perched on the windowsill with one knee drawn up under his chin. He followed Robb's relentless progress with the line of his dark grey eyes. He wished Robb would hold still, even if only for a few minutes. The rhythmic thump of his boots was driving him to distraction. But he had noticed the change himself. He could pinpoint, almost to the hour, when the atmosphere shifted and the mask of bonhomie slipped from this grand royal visit. It was that morning, when Lord and Lady Stark appeared to break their fast with the children, stony faced and exhausted looking. Although they tried to maintain the outward show of gracious warmth to their royal visitors, it rang hollow when followed by Lady Stark's narrow-eyed, furtive glances towards the Lannisters. Even Maester Luwin seemed infected with the same distrust and distaste, although nothing was spoken aloud. It was worse than raised voices and shouting matches; it was an insidious undercurrent of impending hostility that made the atmosphere in the castle crackle.

Then, that very afternoon, things had been exacerbated by a catastrophic practise session with Ser Rodrik and the royal progeny. Joffrey had wound Robb up to the point where Theon had had to restrain him from punching the pouty-lipped shit square in the jaw. Jon would have been tempted to let him fly at the little toad. As far as he was concerned, a shit was still a shit no matter how politely you addressed it, no matter how bright its golden crown shone.

'Robb may be a child; I am a Prince…" Joffrey had sneered after Rodrik forbade live steel to be used. It was then that Theon had had to kneel on Robb to prevent civil war from breaking out.

Eventually, Jon broke his silence. Although he did not show it, he was just as concerned as Robb.

"I did try to tell you, just the other day, that things were not as they seemed," he said, reminding his brother of the conversation he had overheard. "Maybe father just told Lady Stark about being made Hand of the King and they had a row? They love each other; they don't want to be parted. Now Lady Stark is blaming the Lannisters."

Finally, Robb came to a halt by the hearth and looked Jon dead in the eye. He sprang forward, closing the gap between them with a few long strides. When he stopped again, their faces were close enough for the tips of their noses to touch.

"Tell me again, brother, everything you heard," Robb urged him, a fevered look in his normally bright blue eyes. "You said they talked about Jon Arryn, didn't you? What did father say? What did the King say?"

Jon inched backwards, pressing his back against the mullion window in an effort to put some distance between himself and Robb. It wasn't often that Robb displayed the same levels of desperate intensity as their father, but when he did it was equally intimidating. He felt as though he was being put squarely on the spot. Making matters worse, he barely recalled what was being said beside stuff about his own mother.

"I don't know, Robb," he answered. "Just things about Lyanna and the old days. I didn't listen to what was said about Jon Arryn. All I can remember is that the King said he died fast; that he'd never seen a fever burn through a man so quick."

A muscle twitched in Robb's jaw, but he backed away and allowed Jon the space to once more breathe.

"Was there anything else?"

Jon sighed heavily. "If I remembered I would tell you, Robb!"

He didn't mean to snap, but he was starting to suspect that Robb was forming a vendetta against their visitors. This was more than just the tetchiness of the adults rubbing off on them. To distract himself from Robb's glowering visage, he turning to gaze out of the window; to see if he could see the banners of the hunting party riding out over the horizon. The only thing that caught his eye was a tiny figure shinnying up the broken Tower, bringing a smile to his lips.

"There goes Bran," he said, nodding his head towards the spot for Robb's benefit.

Now Robb was sighing. "Seven hells, mother will throttle him if she catches him."

"Just as well she's not here," Jon laughed, still watching the tiny figure scale the walls. He was as graceful as a spider when he got going, almost gliding up the lichen covered bricks and over the leaded roofs. Jon himself had only ever tried it once, and the sheer drop below him made him retch his stomach lining all over the flagstones. A cascade of vomit that narrowly missed poor Hodor below him. He turned from the window and looked to Robb once more. "Has father still not said anything to you?"

Robb shook his head. "Nothing."

"Well, there you go then," Jon replied. "If he was seriously thinking of going you would be the first to know. He would want you well prepared to take over."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Robb retorted, once more taking to pacing. "I am his heir! If he leaves, I am the one who must step into his shoes. Then there's you and your-"

Just at that moment the door was flung open, cutting Robb off immediately as they both whirled round to where Theon was poised in the doorway. For a long moment, the Ironborn looked from one to the other, as though he realised he had interrupted something. Almost two years previously, Lady Stark had offered Jon some words of wisdom: "Of all the people who must never know the truth about you, Theon Greyjoy is near the top of that list…" Those words resonated once more.

"Bran's climbing again," said Theon, grey eyes darting between them both.

"So? What's new?" said Robb, shrugging.

Jon had to admit he was thinking the same thing.

"So, Lady Stark will be furious when she finds out," he said, pointedly. "And there's no way I want to be the one who knew about it and said nothing."

Robb laughed. "Well, now you've said something. You've performed your duty."

Theon smirked and nodded his agreement. Without invitation, he closed the door behind him. Inwardly, Jon groaned. It wasn't that he disliked Theon; they would just never be best of friends. The old pecking order still lingered for Jon, when he was bottom of the Winterfell heap with Theon lashing his hostage frustrations out on him. Since his legitimization a standoff had developed, with Theon looking on suspiciously as he and Robb spent hours ensconced alone together and talking endlessly of their shared secrets. Now that he had walked in on them again, Jon just wished he would go.

"Did father not need you on the hunt?" Robb asked Theon.

He was supposed to be Lord Stark's squire, after all. But he had been treated more like a son. Again, the Ironborn shrugged. "Doesn't look that way."

He squeezed in next to Jon on the windowsill, forcing him to move and make room for him. But before he sat down, paused while facing the window. His expression froze before hardening into narrow-eyed horror.

"He's fallen!" he shouted.

Jon had never heard Theon sound scared before. He shifted round to see what he was watching, even Robb was slow on the uptake.

"What are you talking about?" asked Robb, now peering over their heads to see out of the window.

Without wasting another second, Theon had turned and bolted from the room, imploring them to follow. Jon hesitated for just a fraction of a second, scanning the length of the Broken Tower. All he saw was the bare bricks and blank, empty windows and felt his stomach painfully folding in on itself. Then, he pelted after Robb and Theon so fast his feet barely touched the floorboards.

Alone at last, Catelyn breathed easily for the first time since the royals arrived. But she was far from appeased. She had cried off the hunt, pleading a headache. But in reality, she needed to be alone, to gather her thoughts and clear her swirling head. She had closed the shutters of her chamber windows, blocking out the light. Beeswax candles dotted the room, giving off a soothing scent and warm yellow glow. Anything to help ease her troubled mind.

Even so, she found herself kneeling by the hearth of the fire that had long since burned out. With an iron poker, she gently raked through the ashes, making absolutely certain that not a single remnant of Lysa's letter remained. She would burn the ash all over again, if she had to. As she mechanically raked over the cold, powdery remains, she found herself cogitating over the previous night's events all over again. The Lannister's poisoned Jon Arryn. Over again, Lysa's warning resounded.

Her hands trembled now, as she faced the prospect of a future without Ned by her side. Emotion swelled inside her, making her eyes mist over. She willed the tears not to fall. Even as she inwardly cursed them, she felt the small, damp trail leaking down her cheeks and dripping from her nose. They had no choice. He had to go. Sansa would take the Court by storm. Arya would eventually blossom into the beautiful young lady that she knew was budding inside her. Bran, she thought wryly, would help heal the rift that had already opened between Robb and young Joffrey. She could have slapped Robb when she first heard of what occurred. Not because he offended the Prince, but because it sealed Bran's fate and forced Ned's hand when deciding whether or not to bring Bran south. Now, her son had to go whether they wanted it or not. Once more, the choice was being taken from their hands.

At least she had Rickon, her baby. With a painful spasm of her heart she realised he would also, more than likely, be her last. She resolved herself to try for one more before Ned headed south and spend the coming months kneeling in the Sept and praying to the Mother for just one more baby to quicken in her womb. Another little piece of Ned and her, for the sake of prosperity. Another girl, she thought to herself, smiling. Another boy would have nothing to inherit and probably end up in the Night's Watch, especially now that Jon was firmly in the fold. But another little girl would cement alliances and secure their future interests. As well as bring joy to the hearts of her parents and siblings. But with Ned in the south, running Robert Baratheon's kingdom, would he or she even know their father?

In her heart, she was preparing for the moment of separation. If you love someone, you love them enough to let them go. Once more, she thought of Sansa. The future Queen of Westeros, if Ned's and Robert's plans worked out. She could not hold her daughters back. She had no choice but to let them go.

But where did all that time go? She wondered to herself. It seemed she had turned her back on her babies for no more than five minutes. When she looked back, they had fully grown and were ready to forge a path of their own making.

But what future will they really have? The question preyed on her mind once more. Lysa's letter loomed large over her rose-tinted forecasts. Yes, Sansa was a true lady, but she was sweet and a total innocent. How would she really fare among the back-stabbers and many-faced Courtiers? The Red Keep was like a human bear pit. Savages tearing into each other's flesh and sinew for the price of a castle in the Reach. Arya would make mincemeat of them all. Cat had no worries on that front. But Sansa was as open to exploitation as much as chivalry. If only the sisters could stick together instead of setting on each other like starving shadowcats.

As much as she willed the royal party to be gone from her halls, she regretted that they would be taking almost all of her family with them. What had started as a mark of honour had turned into a bittersweet parting of a tight knit family Cat had devoted her life to.

Satisfied that not a blackened trace of Lysa's letter survived, Catelyn set the poker aside and arose stiffly to her feet. Her knees ached from kneeling so long at the stone hearth. After a sleepless night fraught with worry, she was genuinely exhausted and her eyes felt leaden and droopy. Just behind her, her bed called to her in tones so seductive she could not resist. She let one hand ease back the furs, revealing the crisp linen cover sheet. But then, before she so much as unlace her bodice:

"LADY STARK!"

Catelyn screwed her eyes shut and groaned aloud. After everything that had happened, she could not cope with any more. Keeping as still as a statue, she hoped the boy would think her outside somewhere and go away.

"LADY STARK!"

Now Jon augmented his frantic cries with a hammering on her door. With a sickening dread, she realised it was urgent. If it was not, she would cane him until he bled. At least, metaphorically.

"Coming," she called back, hastening to the door and opening it just a fraction. "Jon?"

The boy was flushed in the face and sweating profusely. His breathing laboured, like he had run miles.

"Quick, you must come," he gasped between breaths. "Bran fell from the top of the Broken Tower. Please! Hurry!"

Her body flinched as she absorbed the news, but her brain could not seem to process it. Her jaw dropped open, hitting her chest. Jon had already turned to run back to the scene but, in her shock, Catelyn stood there dumbly and mutely as she tried to take it in. It took Jon to pause and whip back around, pleading with her again.

"Please Lady Stark, it's serious!"

The next thing she knew, Catelyn was kneeling beside Bran's broken body at the foot of the tower. She was dimly aware of others crowding around: Robb taking charge of the situation; Master Luwin administering treatments; Hodor shouting "Hodor" in a manner most distressed. Then, she was in Bran's chamber, watching helplessly as he was lain in his bed. Then, she was vaguely aware of Ned's return and a renewed frenzy of activity. All she could do was be swept up in a storm of activity, at the mercy of its relentless, rolling punches. Numb, dazed; she couldn't even find a vent for her raging grief.

The hour was late. If Robb looked north he could see the candles burning in Bran's chamber window. But as of that moment, he had no idea whether his brother lived or died. He could be breathing his last right at that moment. Or this breath could be his last, or the next one after that. Sitting there and waiting in that chamber already palled with death was more than he could endure. He had slipped out quietly, unnoticed given everything else that was happening, and sought solace in the armoury, where he could feel as if he was actually doing something; no matter how weak that veneer of action was.

A shirt of ringmail hung on a rack alongside the swords. Live steel, he thought to himself. It will be nothing but live steel from here on in. Carefully, tentatively, he lifted the ringmail shirt and laid it out on a bench, smoothing it out as though it were just another silk shirt his mother had stitched for him. That morning, he had sensed the changes in the air like a shifting wind. Now, it was oozing from the very bricks that comprised his beloved home.

Bran never falls, he told himself. He's climbed a thousand times and never once fallen. The fight with Joffrey flashed through his mind once more and he cursed Theon Greyjoy for holding him back. He knew he should have flattened the little Lannister shit there and then. But Theon could never have predicted this and Robb quelled his anger towards the man he thought of as a brother.

He shrugged off the warm fur mantle he wore and shivered as the calm night air engulfed him in its icy embrace. A shiver he suppressed and stood firm as he slipped on the shirt of ringmail over his regular day wear. Even through silk, it scratched his skin. Colder than ice, harder than steel, the joints of the tiny rings bit sharp against his flesh. Boiled leather gloves were set to one side, also. When the ringmail was in place, he reached for them and pulled them on in slow, deliberate movements.

"Come and see me when you're older, Stark!" Prince Joffrey taunted him once more. "If you're not too old."

Robb's jaw set firm as the memory replayed itself, but wounded pride had been replaced with a cold fury.

"It's rude to keep a Prince waiting," he said out loud.

This was childhood's end. There would be no more padding; no more wooden swords; no more blunt edges. Someone attacked his brother.

"But you have no proof," a voice answered.

Thinking himself to be alone, Robb gasped and reached for the nearest sword. But almost instantly the voice registered as Jon's and he immediately relaxed.

"You startled me, brother," he said, letting go a long breath of air. "Don't creep up on me like that."

Jon stepped out from behind the Armoury's open doorway, entering the room in a carefully measured pace. There he paused, gaze raking up and down Robb's length, taking in his new look.

"You look like you mean business," he quipped, drily.

He was only attempting to lighten the mood, so Robb bit down on his anger at the ill-timed jest. Instead, he fastened the boiled leather gloves in place, clumsily but with growing confidence. Picking up on his mood, Jon tempered himself.

"I mean it, Robb," he added. "You have no proof Joffrey was involved. You have no real proof that anyone was involved-"

Robb cut him off with a dry bark of laughter. "Now you truly do jest me, brother."

Jon stood firm. "I speak true. You have no proof and if you act without proof you make yourself a traitor to the crown. Please, listen to reason and put that sword down."

Robb didn't even realise he was still holding it. "I'm not going to do anything right now!" he hurriedly explained. "I'm not just going to cut his heart out, Jon. Calm yourself. I'm just preparing. You would be wise to do likewise."

"And I will," Jon assured him, now stepping into the armoury proper. "But at least wait until the Lannisters have been swept back south before you start preparing for war. If they suspect us of suspecting them it will only put them on their guard. Do you understand me? For now, I suggest we play by their rules and let them think we believe this to be an accident."

At least he was believed. That alone made him feel a little lighter. But Jon was right. He had no proof. Just wounded pride and a blossoming grudge against Joffrey.

"Bran knocked Prince Tommen into the dirt at that practice session," he said, casting a wary eye at Jon. "I wonder if that's why His Disgrace decided to do it?"

"That's not proof."

"It's a motive!" Robb corrected him.

Jon looked thoughtful. "It certainly is," he replied. "Bran didn't just knock him into the dust, but did so in front of everyone. Even Arya was there, sitting with me. We watched it unfold together. Joffrey wouldn't like that. Still, at least they'll be going now. They cannot possibly stay here after what's happened."

Robb didn't argue. The sooner they were all gone, the better. Their father, surely, would stay with them now. Lord Stark could not possibly leave while Bran lingered in some cruel hinterland between life and death.

It was the next day, when Robb was back in his Lordly finery, that he discovered he was wrong about that. He and Jon stood side by side in their father's solar, putting on brave faces as the circumstances were read out to them. They had no choice; Lord Stark had to leave and he would be leaving soon.

All his life had been leading up to a moment like this. Now Robb was standing face to face with the responsibilities of being Lord of Winterfell. In his father's absence, he would also be acting as Warden of the North. He could almost feel the weight of that responsibility settling over his shoulders. A yoke tethering him to a great cart. He thought it was childhood's end the night before. It certainly is now.

Lord Stark dismissed them both once he had explained everything. But as Robb made to follow Jon outside, Eddard placed one hand on his chest to stop him.

"Not you, son," he said, gently.

Robb met his father's gaze, blue on grey, but said nothing. Once Jon was out and his footsteps receded down the passageway outside, Lord Stark invited him to sit. He did so uncomfortably. Eddard also drew up a seat before sitting down heavily, running a hand through his hair and looking weary beyond his years.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

No. But Robb nodded. "Yes, father."

He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn't come.

"Since Jon learned the truth, I worried that you felt overlooked," said his father. When Robb went to contradict him, he held up a hand for silence before continuing. "I think I have, and hear me out, Robb. No one can ever be ready for a burden like this. Gods, when I was your age I was still fostered at the Erie and as green as summer grass. I didn't even know I would be Lord of Winterfell. But I know what you're capable of, son and I know you can do this. Don't be afraid to fall; don't be afraid to ask for help." Lord Stark paused, varying degrees of pain chasing themselves across his face. But Robb held his silence and let his father speak in his own time. "I've taught you all I know, which may not be much, but it's a start. And you have your mother and Maester Luwin. Seek their council and be true and just. You'll not go far wrong, son."

The protestations had long since died in Robb and he looked over at his father through a surge of affection. "I'll do you proud, father. I promise you."

Lord Stark raised a pained smile and reached over to him, ruffling his hair the way once did when Robb was a little boy. He did not mock his father.

"Look after Jon. He's still scared and confused, underneath it all."

"I think he'll be looking after me, father."

"Look after each other, then," Eddard replied. "Most of all, look after your mother and younger brothers. They need you now more than ever before. Look after yourself, too."

"I will," he promised again.

With that, they both stood and hugged each other. Briefly, firmly. It was almost a gesture of farewell. But Robb knew he wasn't leaving for another week at least. But they parted ways all the same. Lord Stark onto the pastures of the south and Robb, shouldering his burden, advancing into a future he could not second guess.

Thank you again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.