The Barrowlands

314 AC

Duncan Mormont felt like pinching himself.

For the last four days of travel alone, he and his men had been trudging through perhaps one of the most dreadful blizzards that he'd ever experienced.

The wind had only been one long scream in his ears, blasting his face with fresh snow and a screeching cold which quickly numbed both his ears and his cheeks within minutes.

He knew they were somewhere in the Barrowlands. As just earlier that morning, they finally left the shelter of the Wolfswood behind. Five days before that, it had been smooth riding from Torrhen's Square through Tallhart lands, albeit a rather muddy and unkempt journey.

Yet the blizzard had kept them for far too long. And, Duncan hoped that soon enough they'd find relative shelter at Castle Cerwyn. Perhaps overnight, the storm would disappear.

One hopes thought Duncan to himself. He shifted in his saddle as his stallion, Eregar, had started on an upwards angle along the kingsroad. A fresh blanket of snow shook free and fell unceremoniously from his shoulders and lap.

At least theirs was a small party. They were able to move much faster because of it. Duncan had left Bear Island moons ago with only ten men. Though they made some private complaints about the weather amongst one another, they were resilient enough to put up with it.

Duncan, for his part, was not concerned about the storm itself, but the reception he might receive once they arrived at Castle Cerwyn. Or if they would receive one at all. No doubt some Cerwyn men-at-arms were out on duty, but would they be able to see Mormont's group through the thicket? Perhaps, perhaps not.

House Mormont and House Cerwyn were never particularly close before, and it's not as if Duncan being half Targaryen made that paltry relationship any better. So, the cold, formal treatment he would likely be given hadn't bothered him in the slightest. He would only be there for the evening, and then he would move on. Winterfell was just a day and a half ride from Castle Cerwyn in any case.

Mormont had taken care of this matter, as he'd planned ahead in advance. Before leaving Torrhen's Square, he made sure to use the rookery and send a raven to Winterfell. He was at least sure that Winterfell would inform the Cerwyns to keep a lookout for him.

For all his precautions, Duncan still preferred to not die an agonizingly bitter and icy death in the heart of winter.

Live and let live, I should think, thought Duncan again. At least if he did perish, somehow, it would be because he made the decision to be in the thick of it.

He looked up and peered further into the storm. For a brief moment, he was rewarded with a small cut into the wall of white mist, and saw something darker within. Something rigid and gray in appearance. Castle walls perhaps? Duncan grinned as his imagination got to work, quickly producing the mind-painting of Castle Cerwyn, and of its front gate not terribly far ahead of him. As well as the image of a black battle-axe on a field of silver-the Cerwyn coat of arms.

The cut expanded, and soon enough he was shown the tall gray walls smattered with snow and ice and a high wooden gate.

Immediately, Duncan averted his gaze to what was beyond the ironwood gate and saw what he thought was stern orange light being waved back and forth. Must be a guard out on watch.

He waved to the men behind him to pick up the pace and made for the mouth of the castle. Once he arrived at the foot of the gate, he saw the light get closer and closer. Until, finally, the gate shuddered with a sharp thump! Chains rattled and clinked to life inside the stonework, and slowly, the gate opened.

Duncan swung his legs over and dismounted. A brief wave of warmth spread through his legs as the blood within them started flowing again. The light approached him, being held by a man wearing a thickly padded helm and a wool scarf pressed up against his lower jaw and neckline.

"Lord Mormont!" Yelled the man with a heavy northern accent. "We've been expecting ye! Come! Right this way!"

The other men behind him dismounted too, and Duncan led the way as he took Eregar's reins in his right hand.

As Duncan followed the guard, the storm began to deteriorate. Once they stepped inside the barn-like gatehouse which also acted as a sort of stables, the white noise in Duncan's ears noticeably calmed down.

"You can leave your horses here, my lord." Said the guard with a hollow voice. Duncan noticed his rosy thin, hooked nose. "Welcome to Castle Cerwyn. The keep is just beyond there," The man gestured to the twin pine doors behind him. "The Lord is waiting for you inside."

"Lucky me," Duncan quipped without emotion.

The guard looked like he wanted to say something, but caught himself after having looked at the other ten men-at-arms behind Duncan. Instead, he was merely content with shaking his head and giving one last bow. Then leaving Duncan and his men to their own devices.

Duncan made sure to set up Eregar in his own stable, one which was previously empty. "Well done, boy." He said to the tall tanned stallion and brushed away stray flecks of snow. "Storm should let up soon enough."

Please, Eregar's pale green eyes twinkled sharply, that storm ain't nothing. Bet you I could've made it here blindfolded.

"Of course, you could have." Duncan rolled his eyes and reached into his satchel, procuring one of three crisp green apples he'd kept with him since Torrhen's Square. "Here you go,"

Eregar happily took the apple, breaking it cleanly into chunks between his teeth.

Duncan turned back to his men. Each of them were tending to their own horses. Some of them were speaking quietly amongst themselves. "Let's get some food, lads."

The mention of food seemed to put some energy back into them. They followed him out into the main courtyard, where the blizzard hit them with a renewed rage. Yet it was easier to see where they were going now, and it wasn't long before they made it to the main keep. The high twin wooden doors opened for them, and they stepped inside.

Castle Cerwyn was beautiful to see along the harsh snowy tundra of the North. At the same time, it wasn't particularly large. Not to the extent of Torrhen's Square, and certainly not to the sheer scale and magnitude of Winterfell.

Yet, this did not stop the Cerwyns from having a sense of superiority over the other northern houses. A sort of reserved, and likely undeserved haughtiness. This was largely because of their rather close proximity to House Stark. It was quite often that the Cerwyns traveled to Winterfell to visit their liege lord and his family. Though their holdings were pitiful, they'd always be able to maintain that close, familiar connection with the Starks than any other house in the North.

As such, Duncan didn't have a particularly high opinion of the Cerwyns, though admittedly, he seldom thought about them in the first place. To his knowledge, they hadn't done much with their holdings in the last few years since the Starks officially took up the Iron Throne. Duncan believed they were content enough with what they had, even though it was reasonable to assume they could expand further along the White Knife, or perhaps down the Kingsroad. A pity, that.

Duncan was immediately greeted with the glimmering silver banners with white borders, inside them being the black battle axe of House Cerwyn. And extending before him was the long hall of gray stone. Chandeliers made of goat horns, two twin hearths on either side of the hall, and several long wooden tables made of pine. With the one at the back being the shortest. Beyond that was a tall seat, likely the throne.

Mormont began walking towards it and to the man sitting in it. More than a dozen guardsmen were standing in the hall on duty, and even more men were eating at each of the tables.

He did not miss the fact that dozens upon dozens of pairs of eyes were now focused squarely on him. He didn't miss a beat. He marched up the stone steps, moved by the high table, and stood before Lord Cley Cerwyn himself.

Two hard dark brown eyes stared into him as if attempting to peek into his soul. Cley Cerwyn definitely was not a fan, it seemed. In those first few moments, a sort of unspoken, muted hostility was traded between the two of them. The North Remembers, doesn't it?

Duncan knew it for certain as Lord Cerwyn had not even stood to shake his hand. Though the cold reception was better than seeing a sword on the man's lap, it left much to be desired.

"Lord Cerwyn," Duncan said amiably. "You've been expecting me?"

The older man nodded slowly. "Indeed. Lord Stark was certain you'd arrive yesterday. What kept you?"

"The weather, unfortunately." Duncan was not in the mood to deal with this lord's petty judgment of him, nor with the man's disregard for proper titles. "Would you be so kind as to shelter us for the evening? My men and I will be leaving at dawn."

Once again, there was yet another cold pause. Mormont still kept his eyes locked with Cerwyn's, yet the idle conversation at the high table from the rest of the man's family had grown noticeably tense and stifled.

Lord Cerwyn seemed to be looking for something. As if he was trying to discern whether or not the cocky young man who stood before him was somehow going to summon a fire-breathing dragon with but a snap of his fingers. As if at any moment now, Duncan would start screaming "Burn them all!"

Well, in that case, Lord Cerwyn would surely be disappointed. Duncan didn't have a dragon, not like his siblings did, at least.

You're the great-grandson of the Mad King. What else would you expect from them? That harsh little voice spoke up in his head. Duncan quickly forced it back down.

Minutes seemed to pass by. Finally, Lord Cerwyn dipped his head. "Of course, Lord Mormont." He rose from his seat and waved to a servant who had been waiting in the wings. It was a girl no more noticeable than a tavern wench, who came over to Duncan holding a silver platter with bread and salt.

Duncan felt relieved at the sight of the ancient ritual and nodded cordially to Cley Cerwyn before he took the bread, dipped it into the salt, and took a large bite out of it.

Things got mildly warmer from then on. Lord Cerwyn invited Duncan to eat with him and his family, though Duncan could tell the invitation was more of a formality. Instead, Duncan opted to politely decline and said he would feast with his men before getting some well-needed shut-eye.

He was again offered a room inside the main keep, but Duncan again declined. Lord Cerwyn seemed perfectly content with his decision. Instead, Duncan and his men were given sleeping quarters in one of the guard towers.

As Duncan lay back in his bed later that evening, not even caring about the rougher blankets and patchworked pillows, he looked up at the ceiling and simply thought about a girl, brown-haired, and laughing delightedly as she ran in the snow ahead of him. Warmth flooded his senses as he recalled the memory, and slowly closed his eyes.

He'd be seeing that same girl, very very soon.

The difference in weather was, literally in this sense, night and day.

Overnight, the blizzard cleared. And when Duncan woke with his men at dawn, he got a good glimpse of the blood-orange skyline flecked with creamy white clouds.

They got back onto the kingsroad with no difficulty. The chill in the air was reminiscent of the day before but was by no means the same. It was several hours before his cheeks had reddened, and several more before he rose over the last hill and looked down into the tundra plains below. And beyond them, was the sprawling, majestic castle that was once the home of the Kings of Winter.

Winterfell. Ah, what a dream.

Duncan Mormont grinned again. Some of his fondest memories took place precisely within that castle, at the high table. Years ago, he recalled asking his father if they could take one of the Stark direwolves back to Bear Island as a pet. Of course, now he knew that was impossible. But to the four-year-old boy that he was, it would've been a dream come true.

Those were the days, he thought to himself, just before he led the way down the hill.

Outside of Winterfell, was Wintertown. Unlike Castle Cerwyn, it had experienced plenty of growth in the last decade alone. Duncan set eyes on the wide array of homes, shops, and towers. Clusters of houses had sprung up around the outer edges, around which a great palisade wall was currently still under construction.

Duncan figured that the overall population must have increased by five thousand, or perhaps even more, in the last decade. A definite improvement, as there was far more activity and liveliness within the market square during the day. Copper and silver traded hands more frequently, and many merchants roaming from the South had identified Wintertown as an ideal sort of trade hub. Even more so since Queenscrown was just further to the North, White Harbor to the East, and to the West: Bear Island and Westhelm.

It wouldn't have come as a surprise to Duncan that, at least by now, the North could very well keep up with the South when it came to its own economy. Years prior it might've done well enough, but now it was positively booming with coin.

Let it be known that House Mormont played its own part in that, of course, thought Duncan. Perhaps the history books would look more favorably upon his family than most Northmen did in the present.

Once they reached the edges of Wintertown, the sun had already shifted to the middle of the light blue sky. The occasional cloud passed under it, briefly blocking out its gaze. It hadn't really made much of a difference against the cold in his estimation, but it was certainly more welcome than the blizzard they got the day before.

The guardsmen posted at the two wooden watchtowers between the gates had immediately taken notice of them, one even nodded as Duncan and his men approached. He nodded back.

Soon enough, the gates shuddered open slowly, showing Duncan glimpses of the homely town on the other side. And-

"Duncan!"

Mormont raised an eyebrow upon hearing the familiar voice. He grinned when he finally set sight on a young man only a few years his junior sitting on a gray horse opposite of him. The boy was perhaps six-and-ten, with rugged black hair, a strong lean build, and a stern jaw that reminded Duncan of old Uncle Arthur way back in the day.

"Artogan!" Duncan said with equal jubilation upon seeing the Heir to Winterfell. "I didn't quite expect to see you so soon, but you're just as welcome."

The two of them stopped next to one another and shook hands, each giving the other a short firm squeeze before letting go. "Had to come see you myself. And Lyarra wouldn't stop pestering me, anyhow." Artogan chuckled. "She would've all but ridden out to Castle Cerwyn to meet you if Mother hadn't ordered her to stay at Winterfell and wait for your arrival."

"And why is that?" Duncan asked. "I was under the impression Lady Stark thought rather highly of me."

"Something about maintaining one's dignity, or along those lines." Artogan snickered. "As befits a proper lady…" he said in a mock voice which mimicked his mother's.

Duncan laughed, but he couldn't blame Lady Stark for not allowing her eldest daughter to ride out into the snowstorm that was present the day prior. He would've done the same in her position.

"You'll also be happy to know that Mother's whipped the kitchens up extra early today," Artogan said. "She figured you were living on nothing but dried beef and stale bread these last few days, after all."

"That's something to look forward to," Duncan grinned, going along with it. He turned in his saddle and looked back at his men. "Hear that lads?"

The men shared smiles with one another. A good, hearty lunch was what they needed after a week on the road.

"Come on, then." Artogan waved him forward. "I'd also like to get in a sparring session if you don't mind. I should think my chances are good today."

Duncan grinned with renewed excitement, "We'll have to see if there's any truth to that, my friend."

They decided to spar before eating luncheon.

Duncan Mormont never considered himself to be as great with the longsword as his father was. In his mind, his father was single-handedly the greatest swordsman to ever live. When Duncan's father drew his blade, he would create masterpieces the same way a Braavosi artist would with a paintbrush or a worldly Archmaester would do with a quill. It was simply and utterly fascinating. Duncan aspired to be just like his father. And in this regard, he took up swordsmanship far more eagerly than most others.

This was in part, due to how often he'd witnessed the inhuman duels carried out between his father and his uncle Arthur. Especially as he got older, when he realized that most fights on an actual battlefield would last mere seconds, that Duncan wanted to replicate this fantasy, the ideal of an epic battle between two forces of equal measure that would stand the test of time. So that those after him would forever remember his name.

And so, it was this obsession that led him to train as hard as he could. To be the fastest, strongest, most durable version of himself. It was his art. It was a way of life.

He stood in the middle of the frozen, muddy courtyard directly in front of Winterfell's Great Hall. In a small arena fenced off with wooden posts. Opposite of him was Artogan Stark, who himself was pacing the small arena like a hungry wolf.

They'd changed out of their regal wear and had donned the more traditional padded training armor and blunted swords.

Artogan was no slouch when it came to swordsmanship. His father was the Sword of the Morning, after all. Yet Duncan was almost two heads taller than the Heir to Winterfell and definitely held the strength advantage. Their relationship, that being more so of close brothers, was certainly a competitive one.

It was, by no means, a fair duel. Duncan was stronger, faster, older, and more experienced. Yet Duncan felt much the same kinship with Artogan as he did with his siblings, and as such, felt inclined to indulge him.

"Time to give up," said Duncan with a knowing smile. He, of course, would never openly admit that Artogan was somehow getting faster as the rounds progressed. Still, Duncan had beaten him each time.

His opponent shook his head, wiping away the large beads of sweat that adorned his reddened brow. "Not on your life."

Duncan allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath. He'd already planned out his next assault. Artogan was fast and durable, but he relied too much on his overhead guard. If he was knocked off his feet, he'd be finished.

Just before he could put his plan into action, Artogan had sprung forward. Fortunately, however, Duncan had expected such a scenario to potentially happen.

Moving backward would've only emboldened Artogan, so Duncan shifted to the left and brought up his blade into the middle guard stance. This would signal to Artogan that he'd been prepared accordingly and would blunt his approach and his courage.

Sure enough, there was hesitation in Artogan's advance. Duncan took advantage of the brief window and swung his blade in a sweeping arc aimed at the right shoulder.

Artogan was forced to deflect the attack, and in less than a second, quickly followed up with an overhead strike heading for Duncan's neck. In response, Duncan brought up his blade to block it and sidestepped to the right, this time separating himself from Artogan and reforming his guard.

He could see the frustration in Artogan's eyes now. Good. Now, while he's recovering!

Mormont charged forward suddenly. The blunted training blade had come for him again. To any other man-at-arms, it would've been an incredibly painful shock to the ribs, and it might've cracked bone. Instead, Duncan redirected his blade upwards to block the strike, stepped in closer, and grabbed the lower end of his sword with his left hand. Slow.

Artogan's look of shocked realization told Duncan that it was far too late for him to do anything about what would happen next. In one swift corkscrew motion, Duncan twisted his blade inside Artogan's guard, and then up and away before kicking him hard in the chest.

The separation was clean, precise, and expertly done. As Artogan fell and rolled on the ground with a sharp grunt of surprise, Duncan came away holding both his opponent's training sword as well as his own.

"Yield," Said Artogan as he sat up out of breath to find Duncan holding his blade to his throat.

Duncan drew back his sword and offered a hand to his friend. Artogan accepted it gladly, rising to his feet and dusting himself off.

It was then that Duncan took notice of the rather large audience that they'd gathered from their late morning spar. Men-at-arms and servants surrounded the fenced-off arena, some even traded copper pieces with one another, likely having taken bets on who would win.

That wasn't all, of course. Up on the high balcony, Duncan saw the Lord of Winterfell himself standing there arm-in-arm with his Lady Wife.

Both of them seemed to have aged wonderfully. Lord Robb was almost the spitting image of the late Lord Eddard but with his mother's darker coloring. Black curled hair and purple Dayne eyes. Along with the reserved gait and long face that all Stark men carried. Duncan nodded respectfully in his direction, and he smiled when Lord Robb nodded back.

Lady Wynafryd herself was much lighter when it came to her own coloring. Her hair was a shimmering brown kept in an elegant northern braid. She had the same full lips and high cheekbones of the Manderlys and brought just as much joyfulness to her household and family.

And… there she was, too…

A warm smile graced his lips then. She was standing next to her parents, both of her hands placed prudently on the wooden support beam. Her body unconsciously leaned in his direction, and her eyes glued directly onto his own.

Lyarra Stark was a short girl, a bit shorter than most women he'd been with. Yet it had not taken away from her elegance. She was not the most well-endowed, nor the prettiest, but had a rather delightful and healthy combination of all the good things that Duncan Mormont preferred in a woman. She was kind, sweet, and most of all, knew when to be quiet.

She certainly took after her mother, Lady Wynafryd, with her curled brown hair bound in a long braid. Though, unlike her mother, Lyarra had the purple Dayne eyes which belonged to her father, Lord Robb Stark. long face, sharp cheekbones. Wide hips, but a narrow waist. Duncan Mormont certainly understood why the heirs of many other northern houses would tie up their tongues just trying to speak to her. Not that he shared their sentiments, of course.

And it was because of her that most northern lords actively despised both Duncan Mormont and his Lord Father. As Lyarra Stark was not simply another girl to be added to his collection, but his betrothed.

It was no secret to the other northern lords that the late Lord Eddard Stark had been close friends with Duncan's father, Lord Starag Mormont. Similarly, Lord Robb had also taken up a strong kinship with Duncan's father, and it was much the same with Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, who just so happened to be Lyarra's grandfather. The thought of an arranged marriage-alliance between all three houses was, simply put, the opportunity of a lifetime.

Duncan understood the desire to finally tie their families together. And he had no objections. Lyarra was a fine girl, and though Duncan would never admit it openly, he was rather fond of her.

Mormont saw her beam right back at him. It was then that he noticed another girl standing behind Lyarra. Probably her handmaiden, he thought. She said something to his betrothed, which actually managed to draw a blush out of Lyarra. He was just about to wave when he heard Artogan shuffle right next to him.

Duncan remembered where he was and what he'd been doing. Later, he told himself.

He looked back to Artogan and handed his blade to him. "Much better than last time. What have you been doing for endurance?"

Artogan shrugged, still rubbing at his chest. "Burpees. Sets of a hundred or so as quickly as I could manage."

"It's paid off." Said Duncan. "By my mark, you were keeping up rather well. Just make sure to be prepared when you get up close and personal. Were we on the battlefield, I might've drawn a dagger on you. Make use of your fists, or have your own dagger ready for that occasion."

His friend nodded and thanked him for the advice. Yet Duncan knew well enough what he would be feeling right about now. The bitter taste of defeat was hard to swallow for all men. But thankfully, Artogan also had a drive to improve, and that was all that mattered here. Duncan knew he would remember these lessons well.

"Six laps." Duncan rested his hand on Artogan's shoulder. "Better get started."

"Arghh," Artogan grunted in an annoyed fashion at the prospect of running along Winterfell's walls. It was an all too familiar sentiment that Duncan shared. "Alright then. See you at luncheon? Save me some coffee, would you?"

Mormont grinned. "Naturally,"

And with that, Artogan Stark made his way over to the armory, quickly handing off his padded armor and sword to Ser Jory before making his way to the gatehouse.

When Duncan glanced back to the balcony, he saw that Lyarra had gone. So too had her parents. Time enough for that, later. First, a good bath is in order. Then onto lunch.

He took off his armor and stepped out of the ring, making for the armory. Casually, he tossed the padding onto one of the nearby racks and left his training sword in the pile with the rest of them.

"My lord?"

Duncan glanced over his shoulder and let go of any tension in his aching muscles. A girl was standing by the entryway. He recognized her as Lyarra's handmaid. A comely girl around the same age as her. She wore a pretty cotton dress and had her dirty blonde hair in the same northern braid.

She gave him a polite, courteous smile. "A note for you, my lord." She said, offering him a small slip of paper in her hand. "From your betrothed,"

Mormont nearly laughed. He unloosened his shirt collar, approached her, and took the note. This is what it said:

Come and find me in the godswood.

- Your Lya

Duncan glanced back at the girl. "You're one in a million. Thank you."

It was snowing in the godswood.

With the dim light of the late morning sun fading in and out between thick gray clouds, there was a certain ambiance about this hallowed place that simply charmed Duncan Mormont.

Even, he thought to himself, as he searched for his prey.

As he gently closed shut the iron gate behind him, Duncan took the time to coldly and efficiently analyze the grove before him.

A collection of differently colored trees; ironwood, ash, chestnut, elm, oak, and sentinel. All clustered together and spread out over the earth packed with humus and moss. Even with the coating of fresh snow, the cracked footpath of stones shone out a path for him to follow. Though Duncan already knew that it would simply lead him to the ancient weirwood tree in the middle of the grove, the one with the dour, melancholic face carved with blood-red sap.

And yet… as Duncan continued to look along the forest floor, he spied a set of nearly concealed bootprints, just barely hidden by the snow.

By all means, a lesser man wouldn't have noticed them. Yet Duncan did not count himself among such men. Instead, he merely grinned in satisfaction. Got you.

She'd likely thought he'd lose his way in this place. After all, she spent far more time here than he ever had.

Duncan still decided not to leave anything to chance. He looked along the ground for any other signs or misleading bootprints. There were none. She'd chosen a singular direction to go in. A sign of overconfidence. She was certain of her victory.

He rose to his full height and decided to follow the trail she'd unknowingly left behind for him. Duncan figured that attempting to hide his presence was a fruitless endeavor, as he was practically three heads taller than her.

The trail led along the eastern wall until it soon made a left turn deeper into the heart of the grove. Once more, Duncan had checked the forest floor and made certain of no other divergent paths. He forged on.

The footsteps led him over to the gleaming pool of cold black water in the center of the clearing. Next to it was the infamous heart tree belonging to House Stark. The largest, and oldest weirwood to have survived countless wars and winters in ages past. The carved melancholic face still ran red with fresh sap out of the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. As Duncan approached it, still keeping his eyes on the branches above, he got the feeling that it was watching him somehow.

Snap!

Duncan glanced sharply over his left shoulder and glanced further up at one of the larger oaks surrounding the pool. There was something up there…

Sure enough, a small twig had tumbled off each of the snow-topped tree branches until it eventually landed on the ground about eight feet away from him.

"Found you," He muttered to himself.

It was a dead giveaway. Yet to be thorough, Duncan scoured the ground just to make sure the footpath led straight to the oak.

The original trail had led around the weirwood, looped around some of the nearby pines, and back over to the oak. It was then that Duncan knew for certain that she was hiding up there.

"The game is up. You can come down, my lady." He said, firmly and confidently projecting his voice into the grove.

There was no immediate answer. Duncan grinned. She wanted to play hard-to-get. So be it.

Or… Duncan thought to himself, she wants to play another game…

His instincts had alerted him to what came next. Duncan had heard something whistle sharply in his direction. Instantly, he sidestepped towards the pool.

The splattering explosion of fresh snow had left its mark at the base of the oak tree. Duncan analyzed what he could of its possible trajectory, glancing up and over to the tall ironwood that stood next to the oak. And high up in its branches, he saw his target.

"You'll have to do better than that, Princess." He said as he looked at where the snowball had landed. Then back at the girl sitting on the branches above him. He saw her dangling legs swaying playfully back and forth.

"You have a nasty habit of not addressing me by my proper title, Lord Mormont." Came the unexpectedly prim and proper voice of a northern-born young lady. "I could have you whipped for such an offense, you know."

Duncan grinned disarmingly. "Drawn and quartered, I'm sure." He shook his head. "Get down here, then. Your little sneak attack has failed, I'm afraid. It seems I've won."

"And what exactly gave you that impression? Perhaps my snowball gambit was meant to fail."

He merely raised an eyebrow out of mild confusion. "Then what-"

Duncan never got to finish his sentence, as he was then tackled to the ground by a large mass of white and brown fur and lean muscle. As tall and strong as Duncan Mormont was, it seemed that even he could not withstand a surprise attack from a fully-grown direwolf.

He found himself lying on his back in a mild daze. Meanwhile, two massive paws had planted themselves on his chest, and above them was the snarling canine mouth consisting of rows of jagged sharpened white teeth. And to top it all off, two black eyes that might as well have stared into his very soul.

Duncan was quick to recover and simply stared unashamed nor unafraid into the direwolf's black eyes. And after a few moments, he smiled cheerfully. "Who's a good boy, hmm?"

Immediately the direwolf ceased to snarl at him and turned its head curiously upon hearing his question.

"Well? Who's been a good boy, Starfire?"

The affirming licking of its own snout had told Duncan that the direwolf agreed with him. That in fact, he had been a good boy. And that he still was and always would be. Out of his peripheral vision, Duncan saw the excitedly wagging tail move back and forth before he was bombarded with several licks to the face.

Duncan patted the wolf on the head and pushed Starfire off of him. It was surprising just how quickly they could grow, and not entirely unlike his siblings' own dragons.

As he stood, he dusted any snow off his coat and cloak and looked down into the now excited and energetic charcoal-black eyes of Starfire. The direwolf looked back up at him as if he were looking upon an old friend whom he hadn't seen in over a decade. The sentiment between the both of them was mutual.

Snow crunched a few feet away from him then. Duncan glanced away to see the cause, who just so happened to be his target.

"So you admit it, then?" Lyarra asked with a victorious grin as she planted her hands on her hips. "I bested you today. Go on then, I'll wait."

Duncan merely smirked in response, crossing his arms as he looked down into the girl's unwavering eyes. "You lost at hide-and-seek, my lady. However, I will admit that you certainly made creative use of your wolf in order to surprise me."

Starfire whined at him.

"Hmmm… Stubborn." She grinned back. "I see how it is, then. I suppose that trick won't work on you a second time."

"I wouldn't count on it, no."

She pouted at his self-assured answer. Yet after a few long moments, when she saw that he wouldn't budge on it, she relented and dug her foot into the snow.

Mormont felt the hunger in his stomach evaporate into nothing. Now, he was simply a man who saw something he wanted.

"Come here," He said firmly.

Lyarra did so, like an obedient child. She bolted forward and practically leaped into him.

Her arms quickly coiled around his neck. Duncan held her by the waist and pulled her closer. And when he kissed her, he felt her fingers dig passionately into his hair. All of the numbness in his cheeks and lips immediately went away, only replaced with the vibrant warmth this girl seemed to bring him. Her scent… it was of pinecones, and of rose petals.

When they separated after a few moments, Mormont set her down. Lyarra looked up at him with those damnable purple eyes of hers, filled with admiration for him.

"You taste nice," Duncan said with a knowing smirk, effectively diffusing the tension between them.

It had the intended effect. Lyarra blushed furiously and looked sharply at the ground. "S-Shut up!" She said, slapping his chest awkwardly. "It's not appropriate to say such things when we aren't married yet."

"Come now, Lya. You wouldn't have set this whole thing up," He said playfully as he pinched her in the behind. "If I wasn't this way."

"Well, maybe I just wanted to see you again."

"You got a pretty good view of me in the courtyard."

"Alone, I mean."

Duncan snickered. "Getting in the way of my lunch. Very daring of you, Lady Stark. If I wasn't so hungry, I'd have to spank you."

His brazen statement had only resulted in Lyarra becoming a blushing mess yet again. "Duncan!" She said indignantly, though she was still smiling at the corners of her mouth. "It's been moons since we've last seen each other. Father never tells me anything about what's going on with you. It's simply infuriating!" Lyarra pouted again with those puppy-like eyes of hers. "Please tell me you're staying for a while longer? Please?"

Mormont couldn't help but grin at her continued ramblings. And at her own self-admittance of being overly bored. The wolf blood runs deep in her family.

Lyarra was at times a very reserved young woman. Duncan had deduced early on that she was a private sort of girl, and it would take years for her to break out of her shell. He knew that when they were alone, she would let loose and allow herself to play, but only with him since they'd known each other for close to a decade. And, Duncan knew rather well from experience, that a woman in love will do anything and everything to be with the man she's head over heels for.

Namely, in this case: Duncan himself.

Duncan relaxed his smile. "How about this, Lya…" He began. She nodded and watched readily. "You and I will go back and eat luncheon with your family. Then, later this afternoon, we'll go riding out in the tundra. Just you and I."

She looked at him with a hopeful gleam in her purple eyes. "You promise?"

Mormont nodded. "Promise."

Lyarra seemed to be satisfied with that. "Okay." She said softly. "But how long will you-"

"Shhhhh," Duncan put a finger to her lips. She immediately quieted down. "Food first, questions later."

"Fine," She said, crossing her arms indignantly. But she accepted it nonetheless.

Mormont led the way towards the iron gate, back where he came from initially. And it was then that a small, but fun idea popped into his head.

He glanced down at Lyarra. "I'll race you to the great hall."

She raised a curious eyebrow in response, playing along. "Oh really? In that case, I should probably let you know that I race Starfire in my spare time. Whenever I'm really bored, of course. What makes you think you stand a chance?"

Duncan glanced back at Starfire briefly. "Doesn't seem like much of a challenge."

The direwolf let out yet another whine.

"Really? You think you can outrun a direwolf?" Lyarra asked.

Duncan simply shook his head and gave her one of his most lopsided, evil grins imaginable. "No, I don't have to outrun him. I just have to run faster than you."

Without warning, he took off sprinting right for the entrance to the godswood. Right behind him, Lyarra widened her eyes in shock, smiled, and started running after him.