Copyright Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback does help encouraging my writing.
Chapter 47: King in the North
"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again!?"
– Lord Jon 'the Greatjon' Umber
Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, the Lady Catelyn's bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards.
That was a little thing, in summer; in winter, it was the difference between life and death. Winter was all but Here.
Catelyn's bath was always hot and steaming, and her walls warm to the touch. The warmth reminded her of Riverrun, of days in the sun with Lysa and Edmure, but Ned could never abide the heat. The Starks were made for the cold, he would tell her, and she would laugh and tell him they had certainly built their castle in the wrong place.
She awoke alone however – no husband to comfort her – she crossed the room, pulled back the heavy tapestries, and threw open the high narrow windows one by one.
The wind swirled around her as she stood facing the dark, recalling simpler times.
"I will refuse him," she could almost hear her husband saying.
His eyes were haunted then, his voice had been thick with doubt.
"You cannot," she'd told him. "You must not."
Gods, how she'd give anything to have told him otherwise.
"Refuse him," she wished she'd said. "Tell him you're Mine, and that you're staying Home…"
Ned didn't ever wish to be Hand – she knew that – but she'd feared the King's wrath should he be refused.
And what good did that bring? Catelyn frowned, the cold air biting at her skin as she dressed.
"At least the children are safe," she thought. "You'd be so proud of them Ned…"
Robb was coming home. Her sweet boy, her eldest, her first son; all grown up and returning home from war.
The war itself wasn't quite over though. Robb was returning to the tune of a bitter-sweet victory of sorts, having bested Tywin Lannister at every turn but not quite defeating the man in truth. King Stannis was dead, his brother Renly was dead, that left only a small girl to rule. Would the North follow a child inflicted by a curse?
"Let him stay home," Catelyn preyed in silence. "Let there be peace again…"
There was the matter of Sansa's betrothal, her poor sweet girl, doomed to wed a Frey…
"No," Catelyn scolded herself. She mustn't think that way…
Robb was married to one of them already…
Roslin Stark. In his letters, he called her pretty and kind…
"May she give him happiness," Catelyn decided, swallowing her disgust of the Freys. "May she give him sons and daughters to love…"
He'd name one Eddard, she didn't doubt, to honor his father…
Catelyn realized suddenly how cold it had become, closing the window.
Maester Luwin was shown in soon enough.
He was a small grey man. His eyes were grey, and quick, and saw much. His hair was grey, what little the years had left him. His robe was grey wool, trimmed with white fur, the Stark colours. Its great floppy sleeves had pockets hidden inside. Luwin was always tucking things into those sleeves and producing other things from them: books, messages, strange artifacts, toys for the children. With all he kept hidden in his sleeves, Catelyn was surprised that Maester Luwin could lift his arms at all.
The maester waited until the door had closed behind him before he spoke. "My lady," he said. "Pardon for disturbing you. I've received word of Lord Robb."
Catelyn's eyes shun at that.
"Is he here?" She smiled happily.
"Soon my lady," Luwin smiled too, loyal as he was; the man's joy was as genuine as her own.
"We must prepare," Catelyn started pacing back and forth. "Robb's men will be hungry, no doubt; there's so much to do…"
"Our stores can only take so much, my Lady," He fingered the collar of his order; a heavy chain worn tight around the neck beneath his robe, each link forged from a different metal. "Perhaps a modest feast, for the lords? The Citadel fears that a long Winter is here and we would be wise to listen…"
"Of course, Luwin," Catelyn nodded, still grinningwide. "I'll see to it."
The maester placed the parchment on the table beside the bed. It was sealed with a small blob of wax.
"What's this?"
"A raven from Torrhen's Squire," Luwin explained.
"Robb?" Catelyn assumed, breaking the seal to read the letter.
He'd taken back the castle – gods be praised – her heart all but soured to hear he was well; the castle secured.
House Dustin came with him, it appeared, they'd marched up from-
"Oh my," the Lady of Winterfell gasped.
"My Lady?" Luwin asked, concern suddenly on his face.
"We may need to dig deeper into the stores than I'd like…"
Robb's letter spoke of Prince's and a vast host… of Dragonstone and of Prince Willam's kin…
She'd never quite trusted the man – not at first – she'd thought perhaps he was a mummer's wolf here for handouts, to take advantage of her husband's trusting nature. Such thoughts abandoned her mind when the Prince had returned from King's Landing with her children. He'd saved Sansa, Arya and Bran, for that she was grateful.
"The bastard boy too," some part of her mind betrayed her.
Jon Snow. He was… well- she didn't know what to think anymore…
Her uncle Brynden had knighted the Snow for his service in the war. He'd written to her of it, going so far as to scold in some small way for having spoken so ill of the bastard – now Ser Snow, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms – the Blackfish vouched for the boy's character. She trusted her uncle's judgement… but still…
Many men fathered bastards. Catelyn had grown up with that knowledge, so it came as no surprise to her when in the first year of her marriage she learnt that Ned had fathered a child on some girl chance met on campaign. He had a man's needs, she told herself, and they had spent that year apart with Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father's castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts then were more of Robb – the infant at her breast – rather than of the husband she scarcely knew…
A husband was entitled to whatever solace he might find between battles, such was the way of the world. She'd even expected that he would see to the child's needs.
His honor would demand it, she knew, but he'd gone so far beyond what his honor demanded. Ned brought his bastard home and called him "son" for all the north to see when the war was over at last. Catelyn had ridden to Winterfell to find Jon Snow and his wet nurse had already taken up residence in her new home.
That had cut her deeply. To make matters worse, Ned refused to speak so much of a word about the boy's mother, that left her ears open to every whisper and rumour; most whispering of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, deadliest of the seven knights on Aerys's Kingsguard, and how their young lord Stark had slain him in single combat. It was said that Ned had carried Ser Arthur's sword back to the slain knight's beautiful young sister who awaited at Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea.
Ashara Dayne was her name, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes.
It had taken Catelyn a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, she'd asked her husband for the truth of it.
That night was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her.
"Never ask me about Jon," he'd said, cold as ice. "He is my blood, and that is all you need to know."
She'd pledged to obey; she told him, then from that day on the whispers stopped. Ashara Dayne's name was never heard in Winterfell again.
Whoever the boy's mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely; for nothing Catelyn said would persuade Ned to send the boy away from Winterfell. She'd come to love her husband with all her heart, but she'd never found it in her to love Jon. She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned's sake – so long as they were out of sight, but Jon Snow was never out of sight. As the boy grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him…
Somehow, that fact had made things so much worse…
"Jon must go," she'd told Ned before King Robert's visit.
"He and Robb are close," Ned answered. "I had hoped…"
"He cannot stay here," Catelyn told him then, cutting her husband off too harshly. "He is your son, not mine. I will not have him."
The look poor Ned gave her then was an anguished thing. She'd not let it break her resolve…
"You know I cannot take him south. There will be no place for him at court. A boy with a bastard's name… you know what they will say of him. He will be shunned…"
Catelyn had armoured her heart against the mute appeal in her husband's eyes. "They say your friend Robert has fathered a dozen bastards himself."
"And none of them has ever been seen at court!" Ned blazed. "The Lannister woman has seen to that. How can you be so damnably cruel, Catelyn? He is only a boy. He-"
His fury was on him then. He might have said more, and worse, but Maester Luwin had mercifully cut in.
"Another solution presents itself," he said, his voice quiet. "Your brother Benjen came to me about Jon a few days ago. It seems the boy aspires to take the black."
Ned had looked shocked to hear that. "He asked to join the Night's Watch?"
Catelyn had said nothing, thinking how Ned work it out in his own mind; her voice wouldn't have been welcome. Yet gladly would she have kissed the maester in the moment. His was the perfect solution. Benjen Stark was a Sworn Brother. Jon Snow would be a son to him, the child he would never have. And in time the boy would take the oath as well. He would father no sons who might someday contest with Catelyn's own grandchildren for Winterfell. It was perfect.
Maester Luwin said, "There is great honor in service on the Wall, my lord."
"And even a bastard may rise high in the Night's Watch," Ned had reflected. Still, his voice was troubled. "Jon is still too young, a boy of fourteen…"
"A hard sacrifice," Maester Luwin agreed. "Yet these are hard times, my lord. His road is no crueller than yours or your lady's."
Ned had turned away from them to gaze out the window, his long face silent and thoughtful. Finally, he'd sighed and turned back.
"Very well," he'd said to Maester Luwin. "I suppose it is for the best. I will speak to Ben…"
It would never come to pass though; the boy turned his tail at Castle Black to adventure with Prince Willam instead.
At the time she'd been wroth to hear it, but now? Perhaps the gods knew better? Perhaps…
"He helped save my children," she thought, trying to smother her long rooted mistrust of the bastard. "And at the Crag…"
She could imagine Ned now as if he stood here. He'd be so proud, she knew that… he'd have beamed with pride for all his sons…
Catelyn silently vowed to treat the boy better. Not as a son of her own – that thought turned her stomach – but at least as befit a Knight.
"I'm trying Ned," she'd promised, hoping it was enough; that perhaps Ned was smiling down at her now…
It was a short walk from her chambers to the children's.
Sansa was already awake, dutiful as she was; her sweet daughter greeted her with a smile and a hug – while Arya was also up, her reasons were less lady-like, ever since her 'Dancing Master' had returned with her she'd started getting up near enough to the crack of dawn for her lessons in the Godswood.
"It's quiet," Arya had explained with a shrug when Catelyn had asked her why they didn't use the yard like everyone else.
Apparently, the uneven ground, roots, and leaves made for better practice? Whatever the seven hells that meant exactly, she couldn't say.
Catelyn couldn't begin to understand it. She'd tried to put a stop to it, in fact, but Ned had allowed her daughter this freedom and Arya had begged…
She'd only just got her daughters back. Catelyn didn't wish to see them sad… so she'd turned as best of a blind eye to the training as she could…
Bran's door was closed, as usual; he'd been having trouble sleeping ever since he'd returned from the capital.
"Bran," she'd called his name, opening the door to his chambers.
He was abed, with Summer curled around the foot of his bed.
The direwolf's bright yellow eyes lifted up to greet her happily.
"Summer," she smiled back at the beast.
They'd grown scarily smart for wolves…
"Bran," Catelyn stood over her son, looking down at him.
He stirred but made no more to wake; she shook him ever so lightly.
"It's morning Bran," she told him in a hushed tone.
Still her boy made no effort to wake.
A frown etched its way onto Catelyn's face.
"Wake up Bran…"
The boy stirred under his covers.
"Bran," her frown faded the moment her son's eyes opened. "You've overslept again…"
Gods, how she wished he'd never gone to the capital with Ned and the girls. Her sweet boy was so troubled now…
"You must get dressed Bran, your brother is coming home."
"Robb?" Bran's eyes widened.
"Yes sweetheart," Catelyn smiled brightly at him.
Her son was coming home. Her family would be together again, thank the gods.
They poured through the castle gates in a river of grey and silver and polished steel, five hundred strong, a pack of banners and horses, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen banners whipped back and forth in the wind, emblazoned with the direwolf of Stark and countless others; some that Catelyn didn't know…
Her son Robb rode at their head, looking so much like his uncle Edmure with his red stubble that she'd almost mistaken him for a brief second.
She knew many of the riders. There came the Greatjon loudest and first beside her son, and there was Lord Karstark beside his son with forlorn looks on their faces. The one closest to her son was Jon Snow – now Ser Jon – looking so much like her dear Ned that Catelyn's heart practically leapt to her throat at the sight of his ghost.
There were others beside her son that she didn't know at all. Their guests, she assumed…
One wore a silver circlet atop his raven locks, so similar to how she remembered Willam Stark's arrival.
"One of the Princes," Catelyn thought as she watched them approach.
The other beside him looks similar, all dark hair and ice-grey eyes – this one locked his eyes onto her as he rode forward.
"Mother!" Robb had vaulted off his warhorse and came to crush her with a hug.
In that moment, she could have died happily, as a wave of joy and relief washed over her.
"Robb," she hugged him back. "Gods, let me look at you!"
He looked so much older than when she'd seen him last. Had he grown taller?
"You look just like your Uncle," she squeezed him in another hug and all but refused to her him go.
Robb chuckled at that. "I've missed you too mother…"
In his blue Tully eyes, she could see that her boy wanted to cry.
"Come," she quickly ceased her affections – putting them aside for later – she moved to-"
"Cat," she knew that voice – all messy red hair and blue eyes as he leap off his stallion.
"Edmure!" She hugged him too. It seemed the gods were returning all her family to her… almost all…
"Gods cat," her brother looked happily. "You've grown – beautiful as ever!"
"Charmer as always I see," she hit his shoulder playfully.
"Uncle send his regards," Edmure told her. "He wished he could've come too; but someone had to stay and defend home…"
Was that a hint of distaste in his voice she heard? Robb had been forced to all but abandon the Riverlands, for now, though he'd had no choice.
"Robb!" Arya introduced herself suddenly, crashing into her brother with a wide smirk on her lips. "You're late!"
Their direwolves were pouncing about the courtyard without a care for who witnessed their own reunion, all tails wagging; as if they were puppies again.
"Sorry sister," Jon Snow answered her. "We were-"
Arya flung herself at him and Jon all but swung the girl in a circle.
"Missed you too Arya," he put her back down.
"Trying living with her," Sansa stepped forward, all smiles.
"Shut up," Arya rolled her eyes happily.
"Bran," Robb greeted his little brother.
"Brother," Bran was smiling, though he looked tired with those bags under his eyes.
Rickon was quiet, standing beside his dark direwolf; the youngest Stark kept his distance.
"Lady Cat!" The Greatjon stormed over and hugged her too.
She laughed when the giant of a man released her, somewhat embarrassed.
"Lord Umber, a pleasure as always Greatjon."
"Isn't it?" The Umber laughed heartily.
"I could disagree," Theon Greyjoy offered with a smirk.
"Piss of squid," Lord Umber barked some laughter, slapping Greyjoy on his back and making him stumble a little.
"Theon," Catelyn greeted at her son's friend. "It's good to see you're well."
"And you my lady," Theon bowed his head at that. "My thanks..."
"We have guest's mother," Robb told her then, turning to look at the newcomers.
"Lady Stark," the first one bowed to her respectfully, all courtly politeness in his smile.
"Prince Darion Stark," Robb introduced him with a smirk of his own.
"You've already met my wayward Uncle, I've heard?"
"Prince Willam," Catelyn nodded. "Indeed, he was a good man…"
"Is," the other Prince corrected her on that.
"My brother Varin," Prince Darion sighed.
"Our Uncle lives," Prince Varin insisted harshly.
Catelyn was no stranger to that sense of hope for loved ones.
"Of course," she told the young man. "There is always hope, I shall prey for him."
Prince Varin looked ready to say something less than flattering about that.
"That is kind of you Lady Stark," Darion said instead, all warmth when he spoke.
"I'm Sera," a young woman introduced her then, standing beside Prince Varin.
"Princess Serana Stark," Darion explained with a roll of his grey eyes. "My cousin…"
"Just Sera is fine," the young woman insisted.
She was a pretty one, and seemingly wild too. It reminded her of Arya.
"You've a sword," Arya had rushed over to the Princess.
Serana looked confused by that obvious observation.
"Aye," she replied simply, one brow raised. "As do you, I see?"
"Mhmm," Arya nodded frantically. "I've been training!"
Needle rested on the young girl's hip on a fine leather belt.
"Oh?" Serana looked to her brothers for rescues that never came.
Darion tried to look elsewhere while Varin smirked devilishly at her misfortune.
"I'll show you," Arya insisted, grabbing the woman's hand. "Come with me!"
"Arya," Catelyn scolded her daughter quickly.
"It's quite alright Lady Stark," Darion was amused in truth.
"Come on Jon!" Arya shouted as she led Princess Serana away.
Jon Snow chuckled and made to move towards his sister and the Princess.
Catelyn watched him like a hawk. The bastard held himself with a confidence she'd never seem him wield.
"Ser Jon," she called to him before he could leave.
The courtyard seemed to have a wave of silence wash over it.
"I-" Jon Snow halted, blinking in surprise. "My Lady?"
He'd no doubt expected to be ignored entirely.
"Mother," Robb made to stop her. "You-"
"Welcome home," Catelyn told the bastard simply.
Robb's eyes widened, but none seemed so shocked as Jon Snow.
"I-" He stumbled over his words, but quickly found his courage again. "Thank you, my Lady…"
"COME ON JON!" Arya's voice demanded his immediate attention.
Sansa was giggling at the dumbstruck look on her half-brother's face.
"You'd best get moving Ser," Catelyn told him, mustering a very slight smile.
"A- Aye," Jon nodded, moving across the courtyard in a hurry to catch up with his sister.
Robb was beaming at her then with all the warmth of a summer sun.
"I hope there is room for us My Lady," Prince Darion cut through the tension in the air.
Catelyn was glad for it. "Of course, Prince," she told him. "You're all more than welcome. If you'd follow me?"
"Gladly my lady, you've our thanks," Darion was still all smiles and warmth enough to melt the winter snows.
They'd entered Winterfell proper with some five hundred, leaving the rest of their vast host outside the walls.
Inside – once she'd seen the Princes and Princess to their rooms – Catelyn turned to her son with a frown.
"Mother," Robb could read the look on her face easily enough. "What's wrong?"
"I-" she looked down with uncertainty.
"Tell me," Robb insisted, sounding so much like Ned.
"I received a raven," Catelyn told her son. "It's about your father…"
Arya was attacking – with her skinny sword – a leather sack bound with straps to make it resemble a human torso.
"Wrong," her Dancing Master scolded. "A girl get too close! A dead girl hack blindly at her target! I told the dead girl, use her very tip of the needle, at the opponent's artery! A man's artery is not atop his very head, dead girl, is it? A girl must concentrate!"
Arya decided to attack without delay, not allowing further criticism.
"You've been teaching her well," Jon Snow said quietly. "She's fast…"
"A girl learns," Syrio replied. Jon had met him before – back at the capital – a slight bald man with a beak for a nose.
Arya executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.
"A girl lands true!" shouted Syrio. "Now, you must go again – least it were a fluke!"
"See!?" Arya turned to Princess Serana and bowed. "Told you I could do it!"
"I saw," Serana was smiling over at the little wolf.
"A girl goes again now," Syrio yelled over at his pupil.
Arya practically leapt back to form by the dummy.
"A girl practised for months without sword," said Syrio, watching his pupil like a hawk.
Jon watched his little sister dance with her needle, agile and swift, full of a near-feline grace, moving like an acrobat.
"She's quick," Prince Varin's voice came up behind them.
"Prince," Jon greeted the man without taking his eyes off Arya.
"Ser Snow," Varin moved beside the pair. "Your sisters not half bad…"
"She never liked to be a lady," Jon smirked at that.
"My cousin and her share that thought no doubt, as most I've met from home would…"
"You'd do well on the trials," Serana was telling the girl with a smirk on her lips.
"Trails?" Arya tilted her head in question.
"It's a sort of… well-" Serana didn't quite know how to explain it…
The Sunset Islands had great eras of peace throughout their history – wars were brief and fairly few – so the islands inhabitants had long since taken to games to distract impatient sword hands. The Grand Melee was first held by the Shipwright himself to celebrate their relatively successful enterprise… but other traditions grew…
"Games are a tradition among my people," Serana explained it to the girl. "You can thank the Empire's influence for it all; one supposes – men got tired of hitting each other with swords and started challenging themselves. There's one thing, named a Mill that… well it's used to learn to dodge and attack…"
"Mill?" Arya tilted her head to the side…
"I didn't pick the name," Serana smirked. "It spins though, with arms that turn and wave, it'll knock you silly if you don't move quick…"
"Soooo-" Arya blinked. "A dummy that fights back!?"
Serana stifled a chuckle "Aye, I suppose; that's about it…"
A straw dummy hardly made for a challenging target after all.
"It stops fools catching fear so easily too, in a way…"
"Huh?" Arya asked, brushing her raven fringe from her forehead.
"Fear," Serana explained. "If you never learn to be hit, you'll catch fear."
"Fear is good, dear cousin," Prince Varin wandered over to the woman and the girl.
"I don't get it," Arya frowned in annoyance.
"I'll show you," Varin offered. "If you like, little wolf?"
The girl's eyes lit up with a fire.
"Cousin," Serana moved to refuse for her.
"Yes!" Arya readied her Needle.
"Not with that stick," Varin shook his head. "Fetch a real sword, little girl…"
"I-" She faltered, her eyes looking over to Jon.
"Are you afraid to fight me, little wolf?"
"Varin," Serana scolded her cousin with narrow eyes.
"The girl wants to learn," Varin didn't so much as blink at her. "I agree, she should; with a real sword…"
"You don't have to Arya," Jon Snow walked over with a blunted sword in hand.
"I'm not afraid," she bravely took the sword from her brother and shifted her footing.
"You should be," Varin picked up a blunted sword of his own. "It'll keep you alive someday."
"When something bad happens, you have to go straight back up," Arya Stark told him. "If you're frightened, you'll be hopeless, so I mustn't give up! Master Syrio said so!"
Prince Varin merely smiled passively at the little Stark.
What followed was an array of Varin shouting "lunge, attack, dodge!"
Jon Snow watched his little sister carefully with Ghost at his side, along with the Princess and Syrio.
"Thrust, dodge! Balance!"
Varin was swatting away her attacks with ease.
The Prince – for all his apparent cockiness – was taking his lesson seriously.
"Are you tired?" He asked after some time. "We'll take a break, if you like?"
"No!" Arya denied, sweaty and winded. "I can go on. I'm not that weak, you know!"
Varin mummed his doubts.
"If you say so little wolf…"
Arya leapt forward with a swift lunge.
"Don't show off," Varin deflected the girl easily. "Steady on your legs! And breathe, girl, breathe! You're panting like a dying dog!"
"Am not! That's not true! Liar!"
"Don't bark," Varin scolded. "Practise! Attack, dodge! Parry!"
Jon could tell the Prince was toying with her. As much as his sister was learning – and her speed was impressive – she was still only a child.
"Half-pirouette! Parry, full pirouette! Steadier, damn it! Don't wobble! Lunge, thrust! Faster! Half-pirouette! Jump and cut! That's it! Very good!"
"Really?" Arya was panting, her breath ragged. "Was that really very good, Prince!?"
Varin raised a brow at that.
"What fool said that to you?"
"You did!" Arya barked at him. "A moment ago!"
"That doesn't sound like something I'd say," Varin squinted at her, then shrugged. "Attack! Dodge! And again! Where was the parry!?"
"You-" Arya snarled. "You didn't SAY PARRY THAT TIME!"
"You always parry after a dodge," Varin rolled his eyes. "Deliver a blow with the blade to protect your head and shoulders! Always!"
"B- But you didn't say so!"
"What am I, your mother!?" Varin batted one clumsy swing away.
The girl was tired beyond measure now, her breathing fast and heavy.
"You never know what's happening behind you," Prince Varin lowered his blunted sword. "You always have to cover yourself. Foot and sword work! It's got to be a reflex. Reflex, understand? You mustn't forget that. You forget it in a real fight, and you're finished. Do you understand?"
"I-" Arya hesitated. "Yes, I understand!"
"Good," Varin doubted that. "Again, one last time girl! Parry!"
She moved gracefully despite what must have been the ache in her bones.
"Good! See how it lands? You can take any strike from there, even backwards if you're good enough. Now, show me a pirouette and a thrust backwards!"
"Haaaaa!"
Good enough, though still sloppy…
"Very good," Varin told her instead. "You see the point?"
"I'm not stupid," Arya huffed at that.
"You're a girl. Girls don't have brains…"
"Excuse me Princeling!?"
"All right," Varin ignored Serana's protest. "That's enough, we're done here."
"I'm not tired!"
"I am," Varin shrugged uncaringly.
Arya pouted. "Can we practice again tomorrow!?"
"Ask Serana," Varin motioned over to his cousin. "She's not half bad, for a girl…"
"Piss of," Serana smacked her princely cousin across his hair as he passed her by with a smirk.
The little wolf rushed over to the Princess in a flash, despite her soreness and near lack of oxygen.
"He's good," Jon muttered as the Prince left the courtyard.
"A man is brutish," Syrio huffed. "Confidence at least, he does not lack…"
"Nor skill," Jon argued from what he'd seen.
"Perhaps," Syrio didn't seem convinced. "Time shall see."
Arya was busy begging the Princess for another around.
"You're tired Lady Ary-"
"Just Arya," she pouted.
"Tomorrow," Serana chuckled.
"Okay then… you promise, right!?"
"Promise," she said with a weary sigh.
The little wolf ran over, hugged her brother, then darted inside.
"You've done it now Princess…"
"Have I?" Serana mumbled. "And please, it's Sera.,."
"Princess Sera," Jon smiled innocently at her in reply.
The glare he received in return was sharper than valyrian steel.
"A man is a fool," Syrio told him as the Princess left the yard.
"What did I do?" Jon Snow blinked in confusion.
The Braavosi left the yard silently at that too.
Ghost looked up at his master with an odd look.
"You too?" Jon frowned at the wolf as it pawed away from him.
War, battle, sieges, killing; these were easier than understanding women.
The snows fell again that day, fine snowflakes initially, but they soon turned into a blizzard that fell throughout the night and, in the early morning, the walls of Winterfell were near enough drowned beneath a snowdrift. Winter had well and truly come now; the snows were thicker and growing worse by the nights.
Come the dawn, Arya Stark was wide awake and ready for practice.
"We'll go through it slowly so that you can master each move, alright?"
Serana had a training sword in hand as she spoke, with fine snowflakes melting in her hair.
"Now," she positioned herself. "I'm attacking you, taking the position as if to thrust… why are you retreating?"
"It's a feint!" Arya grinned knowingly. "You can move into a wide stance or strike with an upper cut – then I'll retreat and parry!"
Smart girl. Her observation skills were impressive…
"Is that so?" Serana hummed. "And if I do this?"
"Auuu! It was supposed to be slow!"
Serana only shrugged as explanation.
"Her words lied," Syrio was watching them.
"-but her eyes didn't," Arya scolded herself with a sigh. "How could I have stopped you, Sera?"
"You couldn't," she answered honestly. "I'm just taller and stronger than you are..."
Arya blinked.
"That's not fair though!"
"There's no such thing as a fair fight," Serana explained. "You have to make use of every advantage and every opportunity that you get. By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into my strike. Instead of retreating you should have closed to the left and tried to cut at me from below, the chin, the cheek or throat."
"As if you'd let me do any of that," Arya mumbled in frustration.
"It would be a poor teacher who lets you win," Serana stifled some laughter at that idea. "How do you think I'd stop you?"
The girl paused in thought for a moment, thinking hard on all she'd learned…
"You'd reverse," she guessed. "And get my neck from the left before I can parry!"
Serana looked at the wolf girl blankly before answering.
"Maybe," she shrugged. "Maybe not…"
"How am I meant to know then!?"
"You have to know," she grinned devilishly. "Or you're dead…"
"Oh," Arya huffed and growled. "Sure, that's easy, I'll get right on it!"
Serana's eyes darted to her wolf Volki briefly, sitting beside the much larger Nymeria. The direwolf towered over Volki…
"This is how I learnt from my cousin, Brandon-"
"You've a Bran too!?"
"-who learnt from his father, Prince Artos; the best sword on the Sunset Islands. It may be harsh, but you'll learn."
Serana leant on her training sword as if it were a cane, thinking up one of Brandon's lectures that he'd stolen from his father…
"What we're doing is fighting. I'm your opponent, Arya, I want to and have to defeat you because my life is at stake. I'm taller and stronger than you so I'm going to watch for opportunities to strike in order to avoid or break your parry – as you've seen. What do I need to dodge for? I'm already in position to close our distance, see? What could be simpler than to strike here, under the arm, on the inside? If I slash your artery, you'll be dead in a couple of minutes."
Serana lunged at the girl and yelled "defend yourself!"
"Haaaaaa!"
"Very good," she gave the girl a nod of approval. "A quick parry. You should exercise your wrist more though, to improve. Now pay attention Arya – a lot of your opponents will make the mistake of executing a standing parry only to freeze for a second, and that's just when you can catch them out, strike – like so!"
"Haa!"
"Good!" Serana approved. "Now jump away, immediately! I could have a dagger in my left hand!"
Arya danced backwards with all the grace she'd learnt from Syrio.
"Good! Very good! And now, Arya? What am I going to do now?"
"How am I to know that Sera!?"
"Watch my feet! How is my body weight distributed? What can I do from this position?"
"Anything!" Arya's eyes shifted franticly
"So move, force me to open up! Defend yourself! Good! And again! Good! And again!"
"Owwww!"
"Not so good..."
"Arghh… what did I do wrong!?"
"Nothing," Serana said. "I'm just faster…"
"This isn't fair," the girl huffed in her annoyance.
"You'll not master it in a day, or even two; or three for that matter."
"A girl must learn patience," Syrio was still watching. "A Princess speaks well."
"How many times must I ask you call me Sera?"
Syrio Forel didn't so much as blink in reply to her request.
"Gods," Serana sighed. "Come then, Master Forel, it's your turn…"
"A man knows," Syrio stepped forward and immediately took position.
Unlike with the Sunsets style of teaching, the Bravo was far kinder to the girl; though no less impactful at a glance.
Serana had never seen a style quite like his – with what he called Water Dancing – the man was a fencer, that was a style far more suited to Arya and any of a lighter build. This didn't make it better or worse than other styles, in truth, but one didn't try to master the impossible unless they wished to taste only failure. People had their limits.
It reminded her somewhat of the Imperials, though far more graceful; there were similarities in the fluid movements and mastering of one's senses.
Arya was excelling at her Water Dancing it appeared, the girl had scarcely missed a day of training since she'd returned to Winterfell.
Her lady mother hadn't been pleased, according to the girl, but she'd allowed it simply to see her daughter happy.
"A girl must focus. Relax. Breathe in, breathe out. Attack!"
"Ouch! Owwww… Damn it! What did I do wrong now!?"
Serana watched the pair, leaning up against one of the yards walls.
"A girl moved at too even a pace, and her feint was too wide and-"
"Arya," Jon Snow arrived with Ghost at his side.
"Ser Snow," Serana eyed him judgingly, waiting.
"Sera," Jon wisely dropped her title.
She smiled at him for that. Took him long enough.
"Jon!" Arya came bolting over. "I'm getting better, did you see!?"
"I did," Jon ruffled her hair playfully.
"Lord Snow," Syrio named him. "A man has purpose?"
"Aye," Jon hummed. "Robb wishes us dressed and ready for the feast…"
"I want to train more though!"
"Afterwards little sister, I'll even help; how does that sound?"
"Promise?" Arya scowled, daring him to refuse.
"I promise," he chuckled at her in reply.
"Fine," Arya rolled her eyes and moved towards the castle.
"Prin-" Jon caught himself awkwardly. "Sera, your cousins asked for you too…"
"Very well," she rolled her own eyes. "I suppose duty calls; eh Ser Snow?"
Volki darted over and began sniffing at Ghost – not that the silent direwolf seemed to mind, or even notice.
"It's Jon," he replied with a rather charming smile.
"Jon," Serana hummed.
"Shall we then?"
She sighed and surrendered.
"I hate feasts," she muttered wearily. "Lead on then, Jon…"
The pair walked together to the feast ahead as if it were a battlefield.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, grey, silver: the direwolf of Stark was chief among them. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangour of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.
It was the second hour of the feast laid for Robb's return home. Jon had – to his surprise – been seated with his siblings, on the raised platform where Robb and Lady Stark sat with Prince Darion and his brother, plus Sera. In the past at such gatherings their lord father would've permitted each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. While this rule was adopted by Robb for Bran and the others, no such rules were affecting him nor Robb any longer… thank the damn gods…
Robb sat happily, smiling beside his lady wife; who was dressed in fine white-and-grey furs. Roslin Stark looked content at a glance.
Lady Catelyn had been showering the girl in affection since they'd met, as if the women was her own daughter… and by law she was…
Robb had entered first, escorting his wife. She was a pretty for a Frey and the pair looked good together in Jon's opinion.
Next came Prince Darion with Sansa on his arm, much to her apparent delight; as her smile shun like the very stars.
Prince Varin escorted in his cousin Serana. She looked stunning, Jon's treasonous thoughts lingered, with a silver tiara gleaming amidst her hair its diamonds perfectly matched the silver-grey of her eyes. Her cousin helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat. She looked like a different woman than the one in the yard…
Then came the other children, with Little Rickon managing the long walk with all the dignity a child his age could muster while Arya looked terribly unhappy to be dressed up by her lady mother, she moved awkwardly; as if the dress were a death trap that could close at any moment to squeeze the life from her very bones.
Jon's eyes fell on the pair that came behind: the Vossstark brothers, from the Company of the Rose. Prince Darion had hailed them as Starks by Blood.
There was an almost fanatic sense of familial loyalty among the Sunset Starks, it seemed to Jon; as Darion treated even cadet branches as if they were his brothers.
"Blood is Blood," the Prince had told him when he'd asked before, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
That said there was clearly a hierarchy among them, as the Greystarks entered before the Seastark who were followed by the Sunstarks who were followed by the Karstarks and finally the Vosstarks too; much to Lord Karstarks annoyance. The Umber's and the Mormont's and Lord Boton all entered afterwards.
Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him.
"Hungry again?" he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the centre of the table. Jon reached out and knifed the bird whole, letting the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. The hall was full of wolves. Their father ha dforbidden them at their last feast… but Prince Darion had dismissed the notion when Lady Catelyn claimed a feast was no place for wolves. Robb had – surprising for his mother – agreed with Prince Darion and allowed the wolves.
Jon swallowed another gulp of wine and watched his direwolf devour the chicken in only a few rips and bites, large as Ghost was now.
Dogs moved between the tables as always, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer bravely.
Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes.
The bitch snapped an angry challenge, bloody brave thing that she was even now.
Ghost did not move. His head loomed over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs.
The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better; slinking away with one last defiant snap to save her pride.
Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle the white fur. Some things never changed.
The direwolf looked up at him, smirking if a wolf could smirk, then went back to eating as the feast carried on.
Hours passed as guests old and new, loudly announced by the herald, were content in their cups. The high table was large, rectangular, and could seat more than twenty men easily. Robb was sat at the head of the table on a chair with a high backrest. Darion sat on his right, and on his left, his Frey wife looked pretty if not nervous.
Three more chairs at the head of the table, on Robb's left, were filled by Jon Snow, Prince Varion and Serana. To Darion's right, along the table, sat Edwyn Fisher and Edmure Tully who had joined them on their ride North; leaving his Uncle in command of the Riverlands. Beyond them were high lords – the sullen and silent Lord Bolton and the grim looking Karstark among them. Further down were the colourful knights from Winter Harbor. They'd needed an extra-large seat for Lord Manderly.
New guests had been arriving throughout the feast as the hours passed.
"Lord Lambard Lightfoot!" announced the herald as another group entered.
"Lightfoot," mumbled Lady Catelyn, nudging her son. "Lord Karstark's bannerman..."
He was a thin and whiskered man, bowed low, his eyes were shadowed and tired.
"Greetings my Lord," said Robb ceremoniously. "We are happy to see you – please, take seat…"
"And I am happy to be here," declared Lord Lightfood with a sigh. "Would that it were for better reason Lord Stark…"
"Times are hard it's true," Robb fought the frown on his face.
"Ranger's Refuge is lost," the Lord revealed to the shouts of dismay from the other lords.
"Lost," Robb's frowned broke through. "How?"
"Aye," the Lord's eyes turned angry. "Wildlings, my Lord, thousands of em… it was all I could do to flee with my girls…"
Lightfoot had no sons and precious few prospects ruling the minor holding of the Weeping Bay. He was a Karstark's banner.
"I'm sorry Lambard," Lord Karstark spoke his peace. "We'll set things right, have no fear my man."
"I came to warn you my lords, the wildling host is vast and… gods… well-"
"Speak freely my lord," Robb bid him.
The bard had ceased his music by now.
"Giants," Lightfoot declared. "They've giants…"
The hall erupted into mutterings and shouts of denial.
Prince Darion was whispering something in his brother's ear.
Robb Stark raised his hand to silence the chatter and the hall fell silent.
"Years ago, even my father thought Direwolves were lost to us," he declared with a deepening frown. "Prince Darion travels with wargs – those among you have seen for yourselves that the Old Ways are live and true. Giants, our Lord Lightfoot says? I see no cause to doubt his words…"
"Nor I," Karstark agreed somewhat reluctantly.
"Giants," Lord Umber muttered. "Gods, that's something…"
"What news of Karhold?" Torrhen Karstark pried eagerly for news of his home.
"I can answer that Torr," a cloaked figure beside Lord Lightfoot revealed herself.
"Alys," Torrhen stood up in a flash, knocking over his chair.
"Daughter," Lord Karstark immediately stood.
"Father," she smiled sweetly at him.
"How did-"
"Lord Lightfoot came to Karhold seeking shelter…"
"I was turned away My Lord," Lightfoot snarled at the memory.
"Turned away," Lord Karstark glared. "Why in the gods name is that!?"
"Your uncle Arnolf named me a craven for fleeing my castle," Lightfoot shook his head at that. "It was Lady Alys that vouched for us – spoke on our behalf – though your uncle did not take kindly to that; he sent us on our way. On the road, the Lady Alys met us… she spoke of foul things…"
"Uncle-" Alys paused, scowling at the memory. "I overheard him father; he meant to pledge Karhold to the Lannisters…"
"Madness!" Lord Karstark shouted at that.
"Sister," Torrhen had rushed down to meet her.
"It's true," Alys swore. "I heard him – wishing for Harry's death and plotting to wed me to that beast Cregan!"
"We took ship from Weepton," Lord Lightfoot revealed. "It was a perilous journey, but the gods are good…"
"Gods," Lord Karstark cursed at it all. The man itched to return home and set things to right.
"This will be dealt with," Lord Robb declared firmly. "You have my word, Lord Lightfoot, Lady Alys."
"Our thanks my Lord Stark," the Lightfoot bowed.
"Thank you, Lord Robb," Alys curtsied with all her grace.
She was a tall, skinny, coltish girl that he'd danced with once; in what seemed like a lifetime ago now.
There had been no word of her brother Harrion since King's Landing. They could only hope that he still lived.
No news was not necessarily good news however, as Robb had learnt, silence could just as easily mean death.
"My Lords," Robb stood up from his chair and quieted the room, standing tall and waiting for silence. "I fear – adding to the dark news of Lord Lightfoot – that I must share with you all darker news still; though it pains me to do spoil our night with cold truths… you all deserve to know them…"
Jon's eyes darted to his brother, suddenly so serious.
Prince Darion had the same look about him – suddenly judging his host.
"My mother received a raven from Dragonstone," Robb held the parchment up between two fingers.
"My father," Darion eyed the broken seal of grey wax knowingly.
"Aye," Robb nodded. "King Rodrik sends word of his victory at Dragonstone – the sinking of the Redwyne Fleet – with Stark banners flying above the island now; alongside Queen Shireen's own it appears. A great victory, to be sure. I scarcely believed it myself…"
"The Redwyne Fleet!?"
"The Reach is bested!?"
"How'd they manage that!?"
"Gods be praised!"
The voices leapt out at him.
"What else lad," the Greatjon shouted above the others.
"Lord Umber is right to worry," Robb sighed. "This victory is no small thing – but it comes with grim tidings as well…"
"What is it Robb?" Jon asked, noting the hurt in his brother's eyes.
"I-" He looked to him. "My father is dead…"
The hall was quiet as the grave, until it wasn't.
"Bastards!" The shouts began with a fury.
"Vengeance for Ned!"
"Fucking Lannisters!"
"We'll kill them all for this!"
"Justice" and "Vengeance" rang loudest.
One lord yelled "Send them Ser Kevan's head!"
Another agreed with "Send all the bastards heads South!"
They'd all feared this news for months, in truth.
Jon hung his head as the hall erupted into a hundred angry voices.
None hurt to hear so much as his siblings, who Robb had apparently not thought to tell in private.
Rickon Stark was quiet, stabbing at the venison on his plate.
"He can't be dead!" Arya yelled. "They're liars! LIARS!"
"Arya," Sansa tried to comfort her sister.
"NO!" Arya screamed.
"I'm sorry Ary-"
Arya Stark threw her plate aside, storming out of the hall.
"I'll get her," Sansa stepped up and followed after her in a hurry.
Catelyn Stark felt a dagger in her heart to see her children this way.
"King Rodrik learnt the truth from his captives," Robb revealed. "Eddard Stark is dead…"
"How'd old Ned die!?" Lord Umber demanded to know, having stood up and all but thrown his chair aside.
"In his cell," Robb scowled. "Rodrik believes – at least, there was no execution… at least publicly…"
"Cravens," the Greatjon raged at the news. "I'll crush their skulls with my own hands, damn it!"
Jon's thoughts were swirling like a storm of emotion. Dead. Dead. Dead…
Prince Willam had once dared to suggest it before anyone else… but now it was real…
"What now!?" One northman yelled out.
"The fuck you mean 'what now' eh Mollen!?"
"Queen Shireen will give us Justice!"
"You'd have us follow a mere girl!?"
"She's cursed by Greyscale for god's sake!"
"MY LORDS!" Lord Umber shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Here is what I say!" He spat. "The Iron Throne is nothing to me, nor Stannis's girl neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in the South? What does a scaled child know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their southern gods are wrong! They've killed poor Ned! Prince Willam too! The Others take the Lannisters, and the Baratheons, I've had a bellyful of them all!"
The Lord of Last Hearth reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword.
"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again!?"
The hall fell silent at that. Robb's eyes locked onto the man…
"It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!"
He pointed at Robb with the great ugly blade.
"There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to," he thundered. "The King in the North!"
And he knelt, laying his sword on the ground before his liege lord. Lady Catelyn's eyes locked onto her eldest boy…
"Aye," Lord Karstark said. "They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well!" He eased his longsword from its scabbard and yelled a phrase that hadn't been heard in Winterfell for over three hundred years. "The King in the North!" he said proudly, kneeling beside the Greatjon and bowing his head.
Maege Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared and laid her spiked mace beside the swords.
Robb stood then, eyeing the lords that knelt one by one…
Prince Darion and his kin were silent, watching, judging…
"I-" Robb seemed conflicted, glancing to Greywind and then to Jon Snow.
"We cannot bend to you," Prince Darion said before anyone else could speak out. "My father is our king, now and always; but the Sunset is far from these lands – even foreign to us in ways. That said, we've a saying: Blood is Blood. We stand with our kin whatever your decision Robb Stark, the Old Blood stands with you."
"You all honor me," Robb declared to them all, steeling his courage.
He looked to his brother and saw a sudden flash of worry in his grey eyes.
"There is another," Robb said loudly, causing a wave of hushed whispers.
"Robb!?" Jon struggled to not choke on his wine.
Robb ignored his brother entirely.
"Lord Howland Reed!"
The man stood, being one of the few lords that had yet to kneel.
"Lord Stark," Howland bowed his head to Ned's boy.
"My father made a promise once," Robb told him. "Did he not?"
"He did my Lord, to his sister – the lady Lyanna…"
Another wave of whispers. Ned Stark had rarely spoken of his sister.
"What's this about Reed?" Lord Umber looked at the small man, towering over him.
"It is a long tale," the crannogman warned.
"You needn't do-"
Jon couldn't get a damn word in.
"Tell us the truth Lord Reed," Robb ordered his lord.
Lord Howland Reed began his tale and the hall fell quiet as stone.
It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but the Lord of Greywater remembered the events as if he lived them only yesterday…
A short man rode into the lists in ill-fitting armour that appeared patched together from different suits. The knight's shield was blazoned with the image of a white weirwood, with a laughing red face. Mystery knights oft appeared at tourneys, concealing their faces, but few were so bold as this one appeared...
The knight dipped his lance before where the King sat and, boldly, challenged "Frey!", "Haigh!", "Blount!" as he came to a halt; voice booming through his great-helm to the shock of the lesser champions. They accepted this newcomer – as if they had a choice – no doubt confident of victory over this upstart.
Howland had smirked when they flew from their saddles, one by one, bested and humiliated.
The crowds cheered for the man they dubbed the "Knight of the Laughing Tree" and relished in the entertainment.
It was short lived. To any man who'd visited in the Red Keep they'd learnt to read the paranoid king, who sat now; leaning with a smirk that seemed to fade and return again within an instance. He was thinking, a dangerous thing too for a mad man. King Aerys stared at this strange knight with a ravenous hunger...
"Teach your squires honor," the Mystery Knight was heard speaking to the defeated champions. "And that shall be ransom enough!"
This knight, as bold as he appeared honourable, vanished soon after; while the champions scolded their squires in full view of the stands.
"Traitor!" The King yelled- nay, screamed at his people. All voices died. "Bring me that man! I want that traitors head!"
The lords, ladies, knights and smallfolk alike seemed confused, to say the least.
"He laughs at your KING!" Aerys declared wildly, barely appearing to stand and wave his hand around, as if it was steel.
"Father-" Prince Rhaegar had tried to calm him.
"Silence when I speak, boy!"
"Your Grace!" Thundered the voice of Lord Robert of the House Baratheon, black of hair and muscled like a southern maiden's fantasy. He stood eager and able with good friends at his side. "Allow me to bring you this Mystery Knight! The bastard can't have gotten far and I-"
"Yes!" Aerys waved the Storm Lord away. "Go, Steffon!"
Robert Baratheon's fury seemed to fade at the mention of his father.
"And do NOT fail me again!" Aerys ordered, returning to his seat with muttered curses and mad whispering.
The shadows of the day grew long. In the Godswood, they found them alone, as Howland helped the knight from his armour.
"Ouch," the Knight huffed at the pain.
"Sorry my lady," Howland chuckled at her.
"Damn straps," the Knight removed her helm, revealing long flowing brown hair and grey eyes on a long face.
"We must hurry My lady-"
"Lyanna," she scolded. "It's just Lyanna, how many times must I tell you?"
"At least once more my Lady," Howland smiled sheepishly. "As always…"
Lyanna Stark huffed and rolled her eyes, taking off her remaining gauntlet in a hurry.
"All the straps are-"
"I'll be damned," a stranger's voice made Howland spin around.
His helm was emblazoned with a black bat, its wings spread against white-silver steel.
"You owe me a dragon Whent," another stranger was smirking like a fool.
"Bastard," Whent frowned. "You cheated somehow; I know it!"
"You wound me brother," the second laughed.
"Piss off Os-"
"HEY!" Lyanna Stark shouted at them.
The white knights all looked surprised by that.
"Is it common for the Kingsguard to spy on women undressing!?"
At least one of them had the decency to blush at that notion.
"Oh," Whent certainly didn't. "You've a mouth on you, girl…"
Lyanna scowled at that, all fangs and courage.
"Sers," Howland stepped up bravely. "Y- You shouldn't be here!"
"Have no fear My Lord, no harm will befall your fair Lady from us."
This knight removed his full-helm, revealing indigo eyes and silver-blond hair.
"Prince Rhaegar…"
Howland knelt instantly.
The Prince smiled charmingly.
"Rise," he told the lord. "No need for formalities here…"
"Rhaegar," another of the White Knights spoke from beneath his helm.
"I know, I know," the Prince frowned briefly.
"I've done nothing wrong," Lyanna stepped in front of Howland and snarled at the dragon.
The act only seemed to amuse the Prince greatly.
"I know My Lady," he told her with a hint of sorrow. "Alas, my father has demanded the arrest of the Knight of the Laughing Tree…"
"Y- You can't take her!" Howland shouted, hand gripping the shortsword on his hip.
"Think you could stop us, eh little man?"
"Ignore brother Whent," the helmed one sighed.
"Piss of Dayne," Whent huffed and pouted.
"He's all bark," Rhaegar agreed, smirking. "We mean you no harm Lady Stark."
Lyanna lowered her sword and threw her shield aside.
"Why are you here then, Princeling?"
Ser Whent stifled some laughter at that.
"To avoid a tragedy, My Lady…"
Lyanna stared at him…
"That's stupid," she told him, sheathing his sword.
Whent burst into a laugh at the wolf's words.
"I like her," the Bat-Knight declared then.
"You must come with us," Rhaegar said. "You'll-"
"I'll do what I like!"
"-be safer in our company."
The dragon and the wolf stared at each other.
"My Lady?" Howland muttered, eyes darting. "The Prince may be right… with the whole castle looking for us…"
"The others would never dare look for the Knight of the Laughing Tree in my own chambers."
"Y- Your chambers!?"
Lyanna only huffed and rolled her eyes at Howland's outburst.
"So forward Princeling," she smirked devilishly. "I am betrothed, didn't you know?"
"To my dear cousin, I'm aware," the Prince hummed.
"He would be furious to learn I spent the night…"
"My Lady," Howland looked surprised by her then.
"Oh calm yourself Howland," she said innocently. "The Prince will sleep elsewhere, won't you?"
"This one has balls," Whent scoffed with a twisted grin. "Can we keep her Dayne, can we!?"
"Shut up for once Oswell," Arthur Dayne sighed at his brother's antics.
"As my lady commands," the Prince bowed theatrically, ignoring his knights entirely.
Lyanna's smile turned prideful, victorious, relishing her in her own apparent amusement.
Ser Arthur guarded the door that night, Howland would later learn; as Lyanna spun him the tale with noticeable glee.
Nearly a year passed and on the eve of Brandon Stark's marriage to Catelyn Tully, the Lady Lyanna was said to have gone riding beyond Riverrun's walls – as she often loved to ride – only to never return. Brandon Stark turned his horse around on the road to his bride, heading instead to King's Landing and ultimately his death.
The war ended for the realm when Rhaegar fell at the Trident and Robert Baratheon walked over the corpses of children to sit atop the Iron Throne.
It ended for the North however with three knights in white cloak at a tower in Dorne, with Lyanna Stark in a bed of blood and winter roses.
Howland recalled the names and faces of Martyn Cassel, the faithful Theo Wull and Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon's squire. Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart. Lord Dustin on his great red stallion and lastly, Howland himself alongside a young Ned Stark.
They were seven facing three… but they were no ordinary three…
They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder.
Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings.
Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned Stark said to them.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.
"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."
"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them next, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them…"
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne.
"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold.
Howland had moved beside Ned with the others, swords in hand. Seven against Three.
"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands.
The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light…
"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and blood, Howland could still remember Lyanna screaming. Her screams still haunted his dreams. "Eddard!" she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.
Howland – to his shame – had pounded his dagger into Ser Arthur's back to save his liege lord.
He'd been too wounded to follow, but Ned Stark but did not return from the tower alone.
In the present, the Great Hall of Winterfell was awash with an awkward silence.
"Lord Stark made me swear to keep his secret," Howland frowned. "He promised his sister that the boy would live – that he'd be happy and be loved – and he vowed to me that one day he'd tell Jon Snow the truth of his birth. Lyanna's boy deserved to know, I told Ned, and he'd vowed…"
Jon Snow had lowered his head and gripped at Ghost's fur as the direwolf sat uneasily by his side.
"She was my friend," Howland muttered the words.
"Thank you, Lord Reed," Robb was standing, looking down at the man from the high table.
"This is madness!" Lord Umber was the first to shout.
"It was a fucking lie!?" Karstark yelled, though not quite so loud.
"She was a wild one," Maege Mormont said with a sad look. "I'd always wondered…"
"You," Lady Dustin's voice screeched. "My husband died, for You!"
Jon frowned at that truth…
"I am sorry my-"
"Sorry doesn't cut it Dragonspawn!"
What could he say to her? Jon doubted there were any words…
"My brother is not to fault for-"
"He ain't your brother though," Lord Karstark snarled. "Is he!?"
Robb frowned and Greywind barred his teeth at them all in warning.
"Blood is Blood," came the voice of one Greystark. "You should remember that Karstark…"
"Who the fuck are you!?" Lord Karstark looked ready to draw steel.
"SILENCE!" Lord Robb raise his voice and the hall hushed into whispers.
"Robb," Lady Catelyn was staring at her son with eyes so wide Robb thought they might pop from her head.
"I'm sorry mother," he turned to her with a frown on his lips. "I wanted to tell you sooner, but…"
"I asked him not to My Lady," Jon said with a scowl for his brother. "I never wished-"
Catelyn Tully's mouth was agape like the trout on her family banners.
"You're the last claimant Jon, it's your right," Robb refused to falter.
"It doesn't matter," Jon groaned. "None of it matters, damn it Robb!"
"The boy doesn't even want it!" Lord Umber thundered at that. "Good, he'll not bloody get it!"
Greywind snarled and snapped his teeth, as all the other Direwolves stirred – except for Ghost, however.
Prince Darion spoke his peace. "The boy doesn't want it – that's good – only the vain or greedy wish for crowns."
"You're heir to one yourself boy!" Lord Umber huffed at him.
"By birth," Darion told him without flinching. "By duty, my Lord, not by choice…"
"A king rules for his people," Prince Varin added, sipping wine from his chalice.
"Never over them," Serana finished echoing old words.
An idolized saying, to be sure, but one they'd been taught to believe.
Any lord many indulge in personal gain, but a King? The kingdom came first…
"I-" Jon sighed, standing up to speak with Ghost by his side.
"Aemon," Howland Reed said. "That's what she named her son, after the Dragonknight."
"He's a dragon," Lady Dustin spat on the floor.
"And a wolf," Lady Mormont added in his defence.
"He's just a Blackfyre bastard! Nothing more!"
"No," Howland denied. "They married, on the Gods Eye!"
"You can't expect the North to fight for a fucking Targaryen!"
"He could turn mad like his grandfather! I'll not fight for another tyrant!"
"The boy just said he doesn't want it," Prince Varin scoffed at that lord.
"He is his mother's son," Howland all but growled at his fellow lords.
The hall erupted with denials and agreements both as the wolves grew uneasy.
In the chaos that reigned, the guardhouse bell struck, announcing midnight in a dull tone.
"Lord Umber is right!" Jon Snow yelled, his voice carrying across the hall.
All the lords and ladies hushed and raised their heads to stare at the supposed Aemon Targaryen.
"He's right," Ser Jon moved from his seat and around the high table, past Prince Darion and his brother and sister, past all of the others; he stepped down the dais and spoke "as Prince Darion is right" he moved with Ghost at his side, lords and ladies moving away from his approach. "A king rules for his people, never for himself…"
Prince Darion gave him a nod at that, watching him intently from his seat and stroking his own wolf's head to calm it.
"The North is my home," Jon began, as only Lord Umber failed to move at his approach.
"You're a dragon, boy, we fought to overwhelm those lizards," the Greatjon snarled at him.
"I'm a wolf too," Jon didn't falter. "If you doubt that, my Lord, perhaps Ghost needs to take some of your fingers?"
The giant of a man merely scoffed at him in reply.
Jon turned to look up at his brother by choice.
"Torrhen Stark once bent to a Targaryen to save his people from dragonfire…"
"I'd bend the knee to family Jon," Robb spoke clearly. "You are family, now and always."
"I know brother," Jon's smile beamed.
Ghost nudged at him with his nose.
Jon knew what was important to him.
"Fuck the South," he declared loud and clear.
The hall chuckled somewhat – although nervously.
"Why shouldn't the North rule itself again?" Jon glanced to Umber at that.
"Aye boy," Lord Umber's gaze seemed to soften somewhat even though his eyes still burnt furiously.
Jon Snow drew his steel in a flash and pointed it directly at his brother up on the high table.
"I say let the North have its own Kings again," he declared. "The King in the North!"
Lord Umber shouted "THE KING IN THE NORTH" as he knelt once more.
Robb Stark looked a strange mix of proud and angry at his cousin.
"Dragons bowing before Wolves," Lady Dustin scoffed at it all, as if it were a bad jest.
"The boy is of the North," Lady Mormont stepped forward, sending a nod to Jon.
"Blood is Blood," Prince Darion stood from his chair. "No Exceptions…"
"My sword is yours Robb," Theon Greyjoy knelt too. "Now and Always!"
"The King in the North!" Lady Mormont knelt and swore her house gladly.
"The King of Winter!" Lord Karstark knelt alongside his son and daughter to do the same.
Jon knelt and watched everyone else draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in Winterfell for more than three hundred years, since Aegon the Dragon had come to make the Seven Kingdoms one… and now another Dragon declared them free…
Nobody paid attention to Lady Dustin leaving, slamming the doors behind her…
The shouts rang from the timbers of Winterfell's hall.
"The King in the North! The King in the North!"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
My Note(s): This chapter may be one of those "controversial" chapters where some people aren't thrilled because things haven't gone exactly as they like – such is life, can't make everyone happy – but I thought long and hard about what the story needs (ultimately, I don't do anything on a whim; I've the next 40+ chapters and whole story structure to consider) and what it needs isn't Jon gunning for the Iron Throne. This isn't canon Jon Snow, my Jon is happy, he's far more confident, he's even a little respected and he hasn't lost his brothers or sisters or his home. Home and Family. That's what my Jon cares about, not some flowery seat in the South.
This makes for a far more interesting dynamic moving forward. Where once a Stark knelt to a Targaryen, now a Targaryen kneels to a Stark. Not to say that Jon becoming King in the South is off the table entirely for the future – but the North will never again bend to the Iron Throne. Robb Stark rises as King in the North.
I tried to give Catelyn some justice this chapter too, thought it wrapped up quite nicely even if I know a lot of people despite her automatically for Jon.
PS: Anyone else unable to look at Traffic Stats? It's been broken for me for awhile, I'm assuming it's the sites fault as it tends to break.
Wolftamer96: Well, they're still fighting the 'Andal' Starks in reality, the Riverlands and the North remain in open revolt :)
Natman717: Glad you enjoy it :) I was 50/50 on the whole 'Boomstick' thing but think it's a cool addition at the end of things.
246vili: Yeah the Winter Fleet is leaps and bounds beyond anything Westeros can muster really, unless they somehow got jumped; but with the use of wargs as scouts there's no real chance of that happening :P the single (largely crude) canon on their flagship is arguably less of an advantage than the wargs are… by a lot…
As for Rodrik 'asking' for the North to be free, well, behold this chapter – but Rodrik isn't the type to 'ask' for things he can simply take/do himself.