Late October, 300 AC

The Arya Stark who rode north up the kingsroad was very different from the little girl who had ridden the same road south.

Once Arya had gaped from her saddle, greedily drinking in new sights and sounds as she rode to adventure in the wide world. She'd wandered away from the column with her friend Mycah, finding strange flowers she'd never seen before, and even stranger animals. The butcher's boy had shown her a lizard-lion, had shown her to rub mud on her arms when the purple poison kisses she'd picked gave her an itchy rash.

Now Mycah lay in some grave in the Riverlands, cut down just because she asked him to play with her. How was Arya to know that Joffrey would barge in and demand to fight Mycah, or that the stupid prince would blame the butcher's boy because she had bested him with a tree branch and a direwolf pup? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but it had happened all the same.

"Cows!" Meri cried out, shielding her eyes with one hand against the sun. Arya could not leave the column, not with Ser Perwyn Truefaith and Dacey Mormont guarding her as usual, but at least she had Jeyne Poole and Meri to keep her company.

In the distance Arya spotted the cattle who had gotten Meri so excited. The barrow lands were full of them, ponderous beasts who grazed the pastures of brown-green grass that lay between golden fields of barley and oats. Sometimes they saw smallfolk in the fields, swinging long-handled scythes in practiced motions, cutting down the barley and gathering it in bundles.

Meri continued to gasp over the cattle for the next several days, beaming with joy each time they passed another herd. Arya was used to northron cattle and their long, shaggy, red-brown coats; the cattle further south had looked oddly naked by comparison. Meri, however, was not, and when they saw a group of calves with their mothers Meri almost had a fit, she was so delighted.

At last the barrowlands gave way to the wolfswood, grassy fields yielding to ferns and mosses and trees. Blackberry thickets lay here and there on either side of the kingsroad, planted and tended by humble crofters and foresters eager for a few coins. Small rivers and streams wound through the forest, trees sprouting from their banks. Dark evergreen and proud oak, tall soldier pine and smooth beech, and dozens more she could not name. Three nights they slept in the wolfswood, and each night Arya planted one of the precious weirwood seeds, praying to the old gods to help them sprout. On the third night she saw a treecat watching her as she buried bloody meat beside the seed, but one snarl from Nymeria and the treecat fled.

When the host stopped to make camp outside Castle Cerwyn, Arya could have screamed with frustration. They were so close to home, only a half-day's ride from Winterfell, yet here they were, stuck because the stupid night was falling and stupid Robb didn't want to risk the horses in the dark. Robb slept inside the keep as Lady Cerwyn's honored guest, but after Arya lost her temper and shouted at a household knight during dinner, she found herself back in her tent, Jeyne and Meri keeping her company as always. Seeing her black mood, Ser Perwyn even brought Gendry for a quick visit, watching closely as the pair sparred until Arya was sweaty and tired and ready for bed.

The next day dawned clear and cool, the sun hiding behind pale grey clouds. For most of the morning Arya forced herself to be patient, keeping pace with the rest of the column as they ambled toward Winterfell. Then, through the midmorning haze, she glimpsed steep roofs atop eight-sided stone towers. With a yell she kicked Faithful into a gallop, Nymeria loping alongside as she raced toward the home she'd missed for so long. Behind her she could hear Ser Perwyn shouting, but she didn't care. Finally, finally, she was back where she belonged—

She jerked the reins. Her mare skidded to a stop, bewildered. Why was her rider stiff as stone? Arya ignored Faithful's grumbling, her eyes fixed on Winterfell. To the west rose the Servant's Keep, the godswood and its heart tree hidden behind it. There was the library tower, and at the heart of Winterfell the Great Keep, small windows gleaming in its four towers. Great stone arches ringed the top of the rookery atop the maester's tower whence ravens came and went, and to the east loomed the broken tower, the top cracked and shattered by lightning, the First Keep squat beside it.

Tears stung at her eyes. How could Winterfell look the same? How could the direwolf banners dance lightly in the wind when Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were dead, never to return, never to scold her or tuck her in at night? How could this be her home when little Bran was missing, disappeared into the northern mountains, and Sansa...

Sansa should be here. They had left together, they should have returned together. For a moment Arya imagined practicing her water dancing in the godswood, Sansa smiling to herself as she embroidered beneath the heart tree, Bran climbing trees with legs that never shattered, Rickon rolling in mud with Shaggydog, Robb shoving Jon Snow into the pond after an afternoon of swordwork.

A fist clenched tight around her heart. It wasn't her fault that Jon Snow had chosen to join the Night's Watch. He'd probably forgotten about his little sister, now that he was the Lord Commander. It wasn't her fault that stupid Theon had attacked Winterfell, driving Bran away. But it was her fault that Sansa had followed her to Rushing Falls, that she had taken the wound that knocked her into the river and carried her away to Lannister hands.

The Dornish have to give her back, they have to. Robb had sent envoys to Sunspear, their ship sailing from White Harbor the same day Robb's host broke camp. While Robb returned to Winterfell to finish healing from his wounds, Greatjon Umber and his men marched to besiege the Dreadfort. She hoped the Greatjon did skin Roose Bolton. It would serve him right for betraying Robb.

Arya wished the Greatjon could be in two places at once. With his booming voice and massive sword, he would have made the Dornish give back Sansa. Robb had not agreed with her reasoning, choosing Robett Glover to head the group of northmen sailing south. Lord Robett had won a great victory against the ironborn at Moat Cailin, Robb informed her, and he was both brave and subtle.

"Why does he need to be subtle?" Arya asked. "They forced Sansa to get married, and it was in a sept so it doesn't count anyway."

"Almost all Valemen and Rivermen worship the new gods, as do the Manderlys," Robb answered, staring at Arya as if she'd lost her wits. "To declare Sansa's vows null because they were sworn in a sept would be to declare that all my people must follow the old gods; even Maegor the Cruel could not withstand angering the Faith, and he had dragons. Besides, the Lannisters might have forced Sansa to swear vows in the godswood after the ceremony at the Sept of Baelor." He swallowed. "Father once told me that he and mother swore vows in the godswood at Riverrun, before the time came for their bedding. Lord Tully wanted his daughters wed before the Seven, but father did not feel right until the old gods bore witness."

Arya blew her hair out of her face, staring at the walls as she ignored Ser Perwyn, who had caught up with her. She had wanted to go south with Robett Glover, but Robb wouldn't let her. Peace treaty or not, Robb had instructed Robett Glover to sail straight to Sunspear, avoiding all harbors in the Crownlands and Stormlands unless absolutely necessary. And it would be a difficult journey, with autumn storms rolling across the Narrow Sea. Her big brother seemed oddly fixated on the chances of the ship sinking and taking Arya down with it. For once Arya bit her tongue, resisting the urge to point out that even if the Dornish did agree to return Sansa, a ship could sink just as easily sailing north.

It was not until Robb led the way across the drawbridge, bronze crown glimmering atop the shaggy mane of auburn hair that fell past his shoulders, that Arya noticed something she'd never realized before. Unlike every castle she'd seen in the south, Winterfell had two sets of walls. The outer wall of Winterfell rose eighty feet, as if a giant had drawn a circle of stone around the base of the flat hill atop which the ancient Starks had built their keep. A deep moat covered the hill's slopes, trapped between the outer wall below and the inner wall above. The inner wall was built around the perimeter of the hilltop, linked to the outer wall by heavy drawbridges at the gatehouses, and by smaller wooden bridges spaced between the watch towers that could be collapsed in case of attack.

"Why two sets of walls?" She asked Ser Perwyn, gazing up at the iron portcullis looming above her head. He shrugged, his brown curls covered in dust from the road.

"I suppose-"

"ARYA!"

A small shape sprinted across the grassy yard, weaving between horses and stableboys. She slid from her saddle, landing on her feet only to be knocked down by the force of a small boy slamming into her. She barely had time to lean into the fall, landing on her bottom rather than her back as Syrio Forel had once shown her.

Rickon squeezed her tightly around her waist; his mop of tangled auburn hair headbutted her in the chin. Where was the little baby she used to play with, who begged Jon Snow for sweets when everyone else had already told him no?

"Why are you so big?" Arya demanded, trying to loosen his grip while still hugging him back.

"I'm five," Rickon growled, face buried in her tunic.

"Rickon!" Robb dismounted, striding toward them with the first tentative smile Arya had seen in weeks. Rickon did not reply, but gripped Arya harder, so hard she could barely breathe.

"Robb needs a hug too," Arya whispered in her baby brother's ear. "Let go, it's his turn."

"I don't want to hug him," Rickon snapped, dark blue eyes blazing as he turned on Robb.

Robb's smile disappeared as if it had never been. For a moment he stood there, dull-eyed and grim as he watched Rickon cling to Arya. Grey Wind sat by Robb, whining softly while Nymeria inspected Rickon, sniffing and nuzzling before licking his face with her raspy pink tongue. When Ser Rodrik Cassel approached and knelt before Robb, Arya barely heard what the old castellan was saying over Rickon's giggles. Finally Rickon released her, and Ser Perwyn helped her to her feet, having kept close to her as always.

"Where's Shaggydog?" Arya asked. Rickon's little face turned thunderous, and he glared at Ser Rodrik.

"In the godswood, princess," Ser Rodrik answered. He turned back to Robb. "Much has happened in your absence, Your Grace. When you are refreshed from your journey—"

"Food can be brought to my solar. A bath can wait; duty comes first." He glanced at Arya, who was brushing dust off her tunic. "Arya, come."

Another meeting? Already? Arya bit back the urge to pout and complain, only to find Rickon doing it for her.

"You can't," he said haughtily. "She's my sister, you can't have her. We're going to play with Shaggydog." He turned to Arya, clearly sure that she would say the same.

"I have to go with Robb," Arya said, casting her eyes about for Jeyne Poole and Meri. She spotted Meri first, hovering by Jeyne as they waited for a stableboy to take their horses. Arya beckoned the girls over. "Do you remember Jeyne? She was friends with Sansa." And my friend now too, Arya realized abruptly.

"Where's Sansa?" Rickon's voice was small but angry. "Where's Bran?" He stamped his foot, scowling at Robb. "It's your fault, you lost them and didn't bring them back."

Robb flinched as if he had been struck. Ser Rodrik turned pale, then red as he scolded a mutinous Rickon for speaking to his brother so rudely. As Jeyne and Meri drew near, the rest of the men scattered, giving the Starks a wide berth, careful not to eavesdrop on their king and his siblings.

"You are a Stark of Winterfell," Robb said finally, when Ser Rodrik and Rickon had both fallen silent. "But I am the Stark of Winterfell, King in the North, King of the Trident, and King of Mountain and Vale. You will comport yourself as befits my- my heir."

"Bran is your heir," Rickon grumbled, arms folded over his little chest. Robb breathed deeply as though the words pained him.

"Nevertheless, you are a prince, and shouting in the yard dishonors both yourself and our family," Robb said sternly. Arya bit her lip. He's only five. "Now, while the princess and I meet with Ser Rodrik, you will show Jeyne Poole and her maid around Winterfell. I suggest you start with the dairy."

And so Rickon stalked off, Jeyne and Meri behind him, and Dacey Mormont following after. Go with him, Arya urged Nymeria, and the direwolf licked her hand before trotting off. Grey Wind nudged at Robb's hand, and Robb absentmindedly scratched his ears, staring hollowly at nothing before he caught himself.

"The private solar," Robb said, and turned on his heel, facing north. They crossed the yard and passed under the portcullis of the inner gatehouse. Within all was as she remembered. Before her loomed the Great Keep. On her left stood the Great Hall, bustling with servants preparing for the evening meal; on her right lay the little sept and the square keep that housed the armory. Soldiers crossed the covered bridge linking the armory to the Great Keep; in the inner yard servants were fetching firewood and carrying buckets of water. The largest well was tucked between the Great Keep and the Great Hall, but for some reason no one was using it.

Up the stairs of the Great Keep they climbed, pausing only so that Ser Rodrik could send one servant to the kitchens, a second to Maester Luwin, and a third to the guard hall. The servants trotted away, and they crossed the keep to the northwest tower. The stone steps were the same as they always were, as were the weirwood sconces and their torches that lined the walls, red flames gleaming in place of leaves. They passed Rickon's chambers, then Bran's, then Arya's, then Sansa's. She expected Ser Rodrik to open the door to Robb's chambers, but he passed them, and then Lady Catelyn's, until at last they reached the last set of chambers near the top of the tower.

"These are father's apartments," Arya protested, trying not to pant from exertion. She'd forgotten what it was like to climb so many stairs every day. Robb said nothing as Ser Rodrik opened the doors and as Ser Perwyn and Robb's guards took their places in the hall. A fire blazed in the hearth; the ancient weirwood table and chairs shone as if they had been carved and polished just this morning. Grey Wind sat on his haunches beside the lord's chair, father's chair. But father was dead, and it was Robb who took his place, while Arya chose a chair halfway down the table.

"Ravens have been descending upon Winterfell since news of your imminent return, Your Grace," Ser Rodrik said bluntly, ignoring Arya. She wished Nymeria was with her; the she-wolf excelled at startling people.

"Why can't Rickon have Shaggydog?" Arya blurted. It wasn't right. Nymeria had saved her a dozen times, just like Grey Wind protected Robb.

Ser Rodrik frowned. "Princess, His Grace and I have urgent matters-"

"Answer her, Rodrik." Robb was almost painfully formal, his posture stiff as a corpse. "I should like to know as well; five minutes will make little difference."

The castellan shifted in his seat, tugging at his white whiskers as he thought. "Your Grace recalls how wild Rickon grew before you left Winterfell?"

"He refused to bid me farewell." Robb's voice cracked, as if he were twelve again.

Sweet Rickon, refuse to say goodbye? He'd hugged Arya over and over before they left for King's Landing; Sansa had been appalled at Rickon's muddy hands and forced him to wipe them off on his tunic before he could hug her. Lord Eddard had laughed softly at that, and embraced Rickon, mud and all, before swinging up on his horse, not knowing he would never return.

"He did what?" Arya asked. Robb blinked.

"I never told you?" She shook her head, and her brother sighed. "Before I left... Rickon was frightened, and upset. He cried, and screamed, and punched Old Nan. Then he hid in the crypts with Shaggydog, and when we tried to bring him out, he set Shaggydog on us. Gage can show you the scar on his arm-" Robb swallowed. "And Shaggy tore a chunk from Mikken's thigh. Grey Wind had to wrestle Shaggydog into submission, and then Farlen chained him up in the kennels."

"After you left, Shaggydog savaged Maester Luwin." Ser Rodrik tugged his whiskers again. "He also bit one of the Frey boys sent here to foster. After that, we confined the direwolves to the godswood. The direwolves left Winterfell when your brothers fled, and when Lord Manderly's men brought Prince Rickon back, the direwolf was as wild as ever. When word came of the Red Wedding..."

Ser Rodrik's eyes were wet; he drew a long, shuddering breath. "Rickon cried for his mother for a long time, then he turned angry. He lured the Walders to the godswood, and Shaggydog would have killed them both but for Wylla Manderly. She forced Rickon to call the direwolf off."

"Thank the gods. I will not blame children for their grandfather's sins." Arya stirred at that. She only trusted Ser Perwyn because he had proved his loyalty; these Frey boys could be as honorable as their half-uncle or as weaselly as their grandsire. "Let us pray Lady Wylla proves agreeable to having a half-feral wolf for her betrothed," Robb sighed. "I doubt Lord Manderly will give her any say in the matter."

Their stay at White Harbor had been made uncomfortable by Lord Wyman's blatant attempts to push his granddaughter Wynafryd on his king. To her credit, Lady Wynafryd seemed uninterested in pressing herself on a widower only two moons into mourning, but she could not defy her grandfather, who seated her beside Robb at every opportunity, and found every excuse to try and get them to spend time together between meals.

Robb could ill afford to complain outright, he told Arya, not when Lord Wyman controlled the largest harbor in the North, not to mention a fleet of newly built warships and the most heavy horse north of the Neck. Instead, he graciously thanked Lord Manderly for his loyalty, ignored the hints that widowers should find new wives to soothe their sorrows, and offered him Rickon instead. It was a lesser match, but still a royal one. Someday Prince Rickon and his wife would rule a great keep in Robb's name; their children might wed the heirs of powerful bannermen like the Tullys or Royces to strengthen the bonds between Robb and his vassals.

Lord Manderly wasn't the only one who seemed to want something from Robb. The Glovers wanted a town charter for the village near their keep, and gold to build a western fleet of warships to defend the North. Greatjon Umber had demanded the honor of bringing Roose Bolton to heel; Lord Daryn Hornwood wanted leave to dam the White Knife. Harrion Karstark was wroth over Lord Rickard Karstark's death during the fighting at Moat Cailin, and proposed attacking the Iron Islands to avenge his father. Helman Tallhart had fought bravely in the south, and wanted House Tallhart to be elevated from masters to lords. Even Jon Snow had written things he wanted for the Night's Watch, food for winter and as much obsidian as could be found. Robb had approved both requests, though the second request puzzled both of them.

"What ravens have come?" Robb asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Maester Luwin has received letters from Lord Royce, Lord Tully, Lord Ryswell, Lord Locke, and both the Flints. More will doubtless arrive in the next few days, I'm afraid. And matters at Winterfell require Your Grace's attention as well. When Maester Luwin arrives he will bring the books of account; a new steward must be appointed, as well as—"

On and on Ser Rodrik droned. Robb listened, his face grim, strain hiding in the lines by his mouth, and a memory swam before her eyes. Little Beth Cassel used to have a doll, a tidy little lady made of cloth and stuffed with wool. Beth had dropped it by the kennels once while following Sansa to look at winter roses in the glass gardens. Arya was busy playing with Bran, and before she thought to rescue the doll, four pups had found it and were tugging it between them, their jaws clenched tight around the doll's arms and legs, pulling and pulling until it ripped, stuffing spilling everywhere.

By the time the meeting finally ended, Arya's head whirled with facts and figures. With Robb's permission she departed, leaving him bent over the account books with the maester and a quill. She descended the stairs alone but for Ser Perwyn. Unsure of where Rickon might be, she eyed the late afternoon sun. There was enough time before she must dress for dinner, if she walked quickly. Mind made up, she stalked out the north door of the Great Keep. The warmth of the glass gardens wrapped around her, the earthy scent of soil and growing things. For a moment she was tempted to find a bench and sit for awhile, but need pressed her onward.

The kennels lay against the north wall, surrounded by a fenced yard where the hounds could stretch their legs. Arya saw the red bitch who belonged to Ser Rodrik, a new litter of puppies nursing at her teats; she saw harriers newly returned from hunting rabbits, and a terrier being trained to chase vermin. She did not see Farlen the kennelmaster. Theon Greyjoy had hacked off his head during his short rule over Winterfell. Palla, the kennelmaster's daughter, was quiet and subdued, and clung to a girl Arya vaguely recognized from the tavern in Wintertown that Robb and Theon liked best.

The smithy that lay beside the kennels did nothing to raise Arya's spirits. Mikken was dead now too, and she gripped Needle's hilt as she watched the master armorer from White Harbor pound a piece of metal against an anvil, talking all the while. Gendry worked the bellows, listening to the broadchested old man as though nothing else mattered. He barely seemed to notice Arya, except for a quick "m'lady" before he went back to his work. The guardhouse was just as bad; most of the guards she knew had died in King's Landing, and the rest when Theon took Winterfell. There was no more Alebelly who shivered at Old Nan's stories and prayed in the godswood every day; no more Poxy Tym with his scars and his smiles; no more Hayhead with the wen on his nose and the knack for naming every plant in the glass gardens.

Arya wanted to cry. She wanted her mother to hug her close and kiss her hair. Instead, she trudged to the sept, hoping her mother's gods might give her some comfort. But the sept was wrong too. The stained glass windows had been smashed, the altars overthrown, the candles scattered over the floor. A few men-at-arms whose tunics bore the blue-green badge of House Manderly were righting the benches; one had found a broom and had begun sweeping the shards of glass into a pile.

Dinner passed in uncomfortable silence. Jeyne and Meri sat at a table below the dais with Beth Cassel, Rickon was refusing to speak to her, and Robb was busy talking with Ser Rodrik. She joined in their conversation only once, to ask what had happened to Septon Chayle. Maester Luwin answered her from Robb's other side, his face as grey as his robes as he informed her that Theon's men had thrown the septon down the well, a sacrifice to the Drowned God the ironborn worshipped.

Her bed was as soft as she remembered, and no one stopped Jeyne and Meri from serving as her bedmaids. As usual they lay on the left side of the featherbed, curled up close as sisters. Arya listened as their breaths slowed and softened, wishing she could sleep so easily. It was past midnight when a noise stirred in the hall outside her chambers, and Arya slipped from her bed, dagger in hand. The door was not barred, only locked. It was the work of a moment to unlock the door and pull it open.

Rickon stood there, draped in a long sleeping shift that had once been Bran's. His eyes were red-rimmed; he scrubbed at them with his little fist and sniffled, his nose puffy. "Beg pardons, princess," the guard who stood outside her door whispered. He was old and wrinkled, his strong shoulders slightly stooped, his whiskers more grey than black. "I didn't mean to disturb you, m'lady, but he won't go back to his bed, and I'm not allowed to leave my post until the changing of the guard."

"I'll take him," Arya whispered. The guard nodded, relieved. He must have been new, for he didn't question her when she led Rickon up the stairs rather than down.

There were more guards posted at the door to the lord's chambers, four of them. Arya drew herself up and thought of Sansa.

"I require an audience with His Grace my brother," she said firmly. The guards looked at each other, confused.

"The king is sleeping, princess," the shortest guard said. Arya glared up at him, Rickon's hand clasped in hers.

"The king is my brother," she repeated, as if the guards were stupid children. "Now are you going to let us pass, or do I need to tell King Robb that his guards saw fit to defy their princess?"

Before the guards could answer, the door creaked open. Robb stood in his dressing gown, his head as bare as his feet. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the long scar on his cheek shone white in the torchlight. He looked even thinner without his layers of tunic and mail.

"Your diligence is appreciated," Robb rasped through dry, cracked lips. Had he drunk anything at dinner? She remembered him sipping slowly at a cup of wine, picking at his food as he sent the best portions to his bannermen. "The prince and princess are to be admitted to my chambers at any time, unless I am hearing a lord privily."

So there, Arya did not say, but she did stick her tongue out at the guards as she closed the door behind her.

The table was still covered with account books, quills, and bottles of ink. Robb's bed was as perfectly made as it had been that afternoon, not a pillow out of place. Arya huffed as she dragged Rickon over to the bed, tucking him in as best she could before climbing in and curling around him, her arms wrapped about his waist. He fell asleep almost immediately, his hands clutching onto her arms where she held him.

When Robb made to sit down at the table, Arya hissed like a cat. Startled, Robb looked at her, his brow furrowed.

"You have to sleep," she whisper-shouted, turning her head so she didn't yell in Rickon's ear. Robb hesitated, eyes flicking to the account books. "Please?" Arya begged, making her eyes big like Sansa would when she wanted another lemon cake. She wasn't sure how long she'd been staring at Robb when he finally moved, blowing out the candles and crawling in beside her. We slept like this when I was little, Arya remembered, when the nights were cold and mother and father were away visiting some lord.

That was before Rickon, when Robb and Bran still shared a room like Sansa and Arya did. Jon Snow wasn't supposed to share the boys' chambers, but most nights he seemed to end up sharing their bed anyway. Robb's bed was the biggest, so the girls would creep up the stairs, whispering and giggling and trying to open the door without making a sound. One of the boys always heard them coming, but jumping on their bed was still fun, even if they weren't surprised, and all five of them would pile together like the puppies in the kennels.

Now there were only three of them, Rickon curled against her belly and Robb curled against her back. He was trembling, and his nose sounded stuffed up. Arya wasn't sure how long she'd lain still, pretending to be asleep, when Robb began to speak.

"I never asked for this," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Everything is wrong. I knew I would be Lord of Winterfell someday, but at fourteen... then father was dead, and duty bade me take up a crown I never wanted. I thought I could be a good king, just and brave, I beat Lord Tywin just like I beat his men, I even knew to be wary of the Freys..." He drew a ragged breath. "How could I know they would break guest right? Almost every man of my guard slain, and Walder Frey watched and laughed and mother died to save me. I should have died anyway, with that wound, and Jeyne saved me only to die herself." He laughed bitterly. "I thought coming home would make me feel better, not worse. I was wrong. I see ghosts in every shadow, all those I have loved and lost."

Arya tucked her head beneath Robb's chin, nuzzling against his scruffy beard. "You haven't lost everyone," she said softly. "You have us."

"I do," her brother answered, and wept into her hair.

NOTES

1) The geography of the North is largely based on Scotland, with the barrowlands being the lowlands, the wolfswood being the Caledonian Forest, an old growth forest in northern Scotland, and the portion between Winterfell and the Wall being based on the scottish highlands.

Northron cattle are based on scottish highland cattle. Bless their fuzzy hearts. Meri is LIVING.

2) Winterfell's design is freaking weird and enormous. The tv depiction of Winterfell is completely wrong; the book Winterfell was hard for me to visualize until I found a useful video where Shadiversity, a guy obsessed with castles, built a book-accurate 3d model that took over 100 hours of work. Yes, I ended up watching the entire thing. All 41:18 of it. It was fascinating.

As per usual, GRRM has no sense of scale. For once, I don't care, because it looks so goddamn badass. Sometimes fantasy means having a fuckoff huge castle because Romance in the Arthurian sense, not the lovey dovey sense. Also, I subscribe to the theory that Winterfell was basically built as a winter refugee camp for the smallfolk of the north, which soooorta justifies the size of living space and storage space for food.

The layout comes from the above video; labels come from me rewatching the video over and over so I could get the details straight. I desperately need visuals or I can't figure out layouts. I decided that the family apartments are in the northwest tower of the Great Keep, giving them views of the godswood and the glass gardens, as well as giving them as much protection as possible. True medieval castles usually had the lord's chambers above the great hall, but I decided that a) the ancient Starks wanted privacy, b) they were paranoid, and c) it's just cool, dammit. The Starks and their servants must have legs and lungs of steel, climbing all those stairs daily.

3) The population of Winterfell is something I think GRRM completely forgot to account for. I've seen fan estimates from a household of 200-300 of just the Starks and their household servants/guards all the way up to 14,000 when winter comes and the Wintertown is packed. When Theon takes Winterfell, Bran observes "There was no place to sit with the benches stacked against the walls, so the castle folk stood in small groups, not daring to speak... People were still being driven into the Great Hall, prodded along with shouts and the butts of the spears." When Theon is searching for the missing Bran and Rickon, he notes "Down in the yard, an uneasy crowd of men, women, and children had been pushed up against the wall."

After looking at various articles on the size of medieval households and castle garrisons, and the limited references in the books, I reached the following estimate:

-150 household servants

-200 guards (in peace time; garrison expands during wartime)

-300 additional smallfolk (families of servants, including children and the elderly)

So, Winterfell has a population of around 650 people at the bare minimum. Even at that low estimate, it makes no goddamn sense that Theon held the keep for over a month with thirty men, but we're stuck with it. Sigh.