Author's Note

I do not own Game of Thrones.

One day, when Robb was eleven, his father told him to take a servant and pack up clothes for a journey.

"Oh, Ned, no," protested his mother. "He's just a boy!"

"He's eleven, he's old enough. Jon, Theon, you're coming too."

"Where are we going?" asked Robb.

"Bear Island."

Father explained that the Lord of Bear Island, Jorah Mormont, had been caught selling poachers as slaves, which meant Father had to execute him.

"One day this will be your job, Robb," Father said. "That's why you have to come."

Winter came along too, trotting along beside Father's horse. On the third day he killed the biggest stag and let them share of the meat. Jon set some out beside him for his ghosts. It seemed wasteful, but it was gone in the morning. Scavengers, probably.

It took them two weeks to ride through the Wolfswood to a little town where they could buy passage on a boat out to Bear Island. That was Robb's first time on a boat, and he decided he didn't like it, not at all. Father patted him on the back and told him he'd find his sea legs.

Jon spent his time bounding about on deck, giggling and making grabs at something. "Sara! Stop it! What if we leave you behind? Or fall in? We'd never be able to get you out!"

"Mad as a hatter, your bastard brother," muttered Theon.

Robb had to agree.

Bear Island was a rocky, scrubby place, with only a single road cutting away from the sea and up to the wooden fort set a short distance back from the rocky shore. Wooden huts and clumsy stone cabins huddled around its wooden outer walls.

A rider with a grim face met them at the harbour, startling at the sight of Winter.

"What is it?" asked Father.

"Lady Maege will meet you at the castle. I believe it's best you hear things from her," came the response.

They were brought a wagon for the trip up to the castle and set off at the big gates, where it seemed most of the castle's occupants were gathered to meet them. A short, greying woman in dark furs stepped up to greet Father. Behind her stood five girls, from about of an age with Bran to a near woman grown. The smallest one stood and stared at Jon with eyes as big as the moon.

"Lord Stark," said the Lady.

"Maege," he replied, taking her hand. "I'm sorry for what has happened."

"Thank you. But we need to speak." She smiled at Jon. "Are these your sons?"

Father clasped Robb's shoulder. "This is my eldest, Robb, and my baseborn, Jon. The other is my ward, Theon Greyjoy."

Her eyes narrowed a little at the mention of Theon's family, but she said nothing of it. "Perhaps they'd like to meet my girls while we talk."

"Mama," whispered the youngest, her words a choked whisper. "Mama, he's got a monster."

Father laughed and patted Winter's head. "Oh, don't worry. This is Winter."

"Not him. That." She pointed to something behind Jon, maybe about the same height as his waist. Robb's stomach twisted.

"There's nothing there," Robb said before anyone else could speak.

"But it's a monster!"

"Jon, please have your monster go elsewhere," said Father.

A few of those gathered laughed.

The little girl screamed like something had torn her open – and bolted.

Father moved faster than anyone and caught her, swinging her from the ground. "Whoa there, little one. Where are you running off to?"

The girl continued to wail, her face red with tears and anger.

"Lyanna!" scolded Maege, stepping forward to take her from Father.

He shifted her against him. "Lyanna, is it?"

She snivelled, dragging a hand across her face.

"Named for your sister, my Lord," explained Maege.

Father struggled to smile. "That's very… thoughtful of you. What is it you see, Lyanna?"

"The monster!" She waved her little arms. "Now it's a person!"

"Yes," said Father, passing her back to Maege. "That is most inconsiderate of it."