The frigid northern air brushed against his face and watered his eyes as he swung open the door to his rooms, it was many years into summer, but he knew he still wouldn't appreciate the weather even on the warmest days in the North, he wrapped the cloak tighter around his chest and strode out into the waking castle.
The years, and the wars, were all catching up with him, the nights he would be not startled by some nightmare or other were far and few between, and it usually left him in no mood to return to sleep. Not five hours ago he'd gone out into the castle in the dead of night, bundled in enough furs to make him look like a fat bear, but it kept the cold from biting his bones, and the only things that walked with him were ghosts and memories, neither could tell any tales of how the Blackfish was wandering the castle looking like a sheep.
The nightmares were waning somewhat, he didn't know if it was the growing years since the wars or the sight of his great-nephews, or both, he would watch the rascals run, play and occasionally fall face first onto the ground, they would attempt to throw snow at each other, or at him, which they often regretted but still tried every time, they would clamber and trip and play, it reminded him of what he fought for, and the weight of his house's words.
And to say nothing of Robb, the boy was only five and ten, but he was already formidable, tall with a firm handshake and intelligent eyes, his voice could command the attention of the room and his laughter could lift the spirits of anyone who heard it, he was phenomenal with a sword and even sharper with his mind, Brynden had worried how loyal the northern lords would be to the son of a southerner if he had been as facile and feckless as Edmure, but now he had no doubt the in his ability as a liege lord when he came of age.
It was almost enough to make him go back home and start a family with a litter of his own, but then he would have to suffer his brother's attitude, and he was too stubborn to even consider it.
Hoster had grown insufferable with age, they were never the image of brotherly companionship, but when their house was threatened, they could always bite their tongues and swallow their prides to present a unified front. There was no such necessity in peace, and their egos clashed until he finally needed to leave.
The buildings, smithies and stables sprawled out in front of him, smoke plumes rising into the pink and blue sky as the castle stirred from its slumber, not a far cry from the castle of his youth but, much as he hated to admit it, twice as grand and probably many times as old. On his midnight walks he'd visit the abandoned quarters and districts, littered with derelict buildings not used since before even the Andal invasions, wandered and trod by millennia of Stark children, the blackened arches, shattered stones and rotted wood still harbored a morbid life about them.
Now though, he'd break his fast and entertain the children for some time, later he promised to overlook some training in the fields.
"Good morning, uncle." Catelyn said, a smile beaming on her face, and Brynden couldn't help but return it as he took a seat next to her, by the gods he missed his nieces and nephew so dearly, he had only taken up the post at the Bloody Gates to be closer to Lysa, but she ended up away at the capital for years at a time, he saw Edmure every once a while at some tourney or feast or other, but Cat? He had not seen her since she was a scared young woman riding away with a babe in her arms and a cold husband at her side.
"How is the Vale, ser?" Lord Stark asked, sitting on the other side of her, he was as cold and daunting as the man who defeated the Taragryan dynasty ought to be, but Brynden had also caught sight of him being warm and kind with his children and wife, he felt no end of relief to see Catelyn at least had found a happy marriage, a large family, and a comfortable place in the world. "I have not been since my youth, are the mountain men quiet?"
"They tend to cause chaos every few years." He said, diving into the plate of eggs, sausages and cheese laid out in front of him. "A raiding party will burn a hamlet or two, a merchant will go missing on the mountain roads, but eventually they're caught and quiet down until a few years later."
"Just as it was when I was there last." the Stark said. "Just as the wildlings do in the North."
"Are the harvests fruitful at least?" Catelyn asked, turning to lighter matters.
"That's more Nestor's field than mine." Brynden said, "Nestor Royce, keeper of the Gates of the Moon, we're met to hold different castles, but in practice, he handles all the administrative matters for Lord Arryn and I the martial business."
"I remember him." Lord Stark said with a small smile. "Once, Robert tricked him into letting us into the wine cellar, Lord Arryn was so cross he had us cleaning the stables for weeks."
They continued to talk about trivial matters for some time, until the Lord's plate had emptied and the Maester came to whisper something in his ear, the Stark took his leave from the table and left him alone with his niece.
He dearly valued the time he could spend with her, knowing all too well how little of it he'd have before he was gone, not just from Winterfell but onto the next life as well, their duties forced them into different kingdoms for decades at a time, leaving him to wonder if the paths he had chosen had taken him too far from those he loved.
But their attention was soon drawn to the rambunctious laughter at the other end of the table where the children were sitting. A younger looking Eddard had the young ones and the heir besides enraptured in some tale or other and they hung on his every word and were laughing endlessly at whatever he was saying.
Brynden had little time to talk to the boy, outside of the brief introduction they had, and they were supposed to be leaving together in a few days.
"Is that him?" He asked, keeping his voice low. "The bastard."
"Spitting image of his father, is he not?" his niece said bitterly, nodding without even looking over.
"Aye." He said. "If only Stark had thought before he acted, and to humiliate you further by bringing him into your home..."
"Then perhaps my children wouldn't have survived the wildlings in the woods." She said solemnly, and he turned to her with a puzzled look. "When they were younger, you would not believe the wroth I felt when Robb told me his bastard brother was outperforming him in the yard day after day. I was so sure the bastard would take any opportunity to be done with them and have his father name him his heir, and so, I didn't believe their tales when they had come back, not even when it was from Tywell's lips, not even when I saw him cleaning the blood from his steel, it was not until I saw Harwin and Olaf being buried, to think after everything, he had actually fought for them, bled for them…
"I was going to thank him." She continued. "To apologize for how I treated him in the past, I approached him in the fields one day, after they had finished training, but I… I couldn't bring myself to do it, even after everything he'd done, when I looked at him, I could only see his mother's face."
"And so, you wrote to me." Brynden said. "This is as much for your sake as his."
"I am sorry to ask this of you, uncle." She said. "I know your duties—"
"Nonsense. You could ask the world of me Cat, and I would do my best to deliver it." Brynden said, looking over to the boy, he was still all smiles and laughter. "Besides, he seems a fine lad, and the Vale always has place for men like him."
He was still blown away every time he saw Robb fight, and the boy was barely a decade and a half of age, he had known boys that age to fight in battles and wars if the times were difficult enough, Brynden himself was only seven and ten during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and his nephew seemed as capable as he was at that age.
He could see everyone overlooking the field from his raised position, guards and knights, the Greyjoy, even serving women and cooks would stop and watch before continuing on with their daily duties, most of their attention was fixed on Robb and some other boy trading blows, his opponent looked older and bigger, but the young heir was dominating him through technical skill along.
Robb is twice the swordsman Edmure was at that age. He thought, and he was not one to flatter or lie, Robb's skill would grow to exceed most of the Lords in the realm, of this, Brynden was sure.
His mind and eyes wondered off, only giving the field an occasional glance, until he realized that the last match had concluded, and young Robb was now locking blades a man grown, in a match that seemed far closer than the previous, completely absorbing his attention again.
The young man had a few years on Robb, something which made a world of difference at this age, when boys can randomly grow a foot taller in a matter of months, but Robb was keeping up with him far, far better than Brynden could have ever hoped.
"Come on son," Brynden whispered, the anticipation in him bubbling. "Come on."
But Robb's form was collapsing, he was close to tripping over himself, and the man's attacks were still grazing him even when he blocked, he needed to come back before the man broke him.
No sooner than he blinked, the man found an opening to draw his foot back slam it with frightening speed at the younger boy's shield, sending him tumbling into the mud.
"Yield!" Robb said, Brynden's shoulders slumped, but regardless Robb had still performed impressively, were they the same age, the man would be the one on his back.
"Need someone to redeem your honor Stark?" he heard someone say below him, it was the bastard, offering his brother a hand while the two smiled.
"Don't take me for some damsel, Snow." Robb said, shaking his head. "I was so close."
"You were, but your footwork can still use some work." the bastard said, readying a sword and squaring up against the man who downed his brother.
Much as it hurt Brynden to admit, he was better than Robb, far better, he could tell as much from the second their dull blades clashed, his footwork was drilled to perfection, his flurries were explosive and relentless, and the man's sword was never even close to hitting him, the bastard read every move seconds before his opponent did them.
It was such a shocking display of skill that Brynden forgot who the boy was for a second, and could only admire his movements, they were almost foreign to his eyes, northern and harsh, but he could not deny the beauty in their brutality, nor their effectiveness.
Has Robb had to live in his shadow his entire life? He looked over to Robb, but the boy seemed more content than jealous at his half-brother's performance.
He looked back to the fight, if it could even be called that, it was more akin to a slaughter, regardless of the difference in age, the bastard was on a completely different level, near a completely different species, he set the pace of the fight from the start, and he had decided when and how it would end, with man landing face first into the mud.
"He's far too good at an age too young." Brynden suddenly heard someone say behind him, and it was none other than Eddard Stark himself, coming to stand beside him. "I'm proud, but I only pray it does not lead him to an early grave."
"Stark." Brynden said. "You do not mind him standing up your trueborn heir like this? And for how many years?"
The lord shook his head, and gestured back at the field, the two brothers were standing off to the side, having made room for another spar.
"What sidestep?" Robb asked, scratching his head.
"When he tried that crouching lunge." The bastard said, gesturing with hands. "Bah, I'll show you later."
"In truth, he's the only reason Robb is half as good as he is." The lord said, leaving Brynden a little stunned, A bastard is a better brother than I. "They're both my blood, and I love them more than anything, so I must have your word ser, on your honor as a Tully and on your honor as a knight, that you will keep him safe."
"You forget that I raised your wife, my lord, no harm will come to your boy, Stark." Brynden said offhandedly, a little offended that he would assume him a careless guardian, regardless of the history between the boy and his niece. "You grew up in the Vale, my lord, you know it is far from a cruel or dangerous place."
"I know, ser and Jon can take care of himself, but despite that… I must ask for your word ser, promise me you'll keep him safe."
"Then my word you will have, Stark." He said, Cat had told him the lord loved his baseborn son, but Brynden did not expect him to humble himself for the boy's sake, a request like that from a Lord Paramount was not something someone could say no to. "I'll protect him as best I can."
It had been another restless night when he decided to bundle up and wander the dead halls of Winterfell, a few hours from when the castle would spring to life with the rising sun.
It was on that night that he heard a voice behind him, one he had heard on the fields and the dinner table since he'd arrived.
"Ser Brynden?" the bastard asked from behind him, and the knight turned and froze. "What's with all the furs?"
The old knight wasn't entirely sure how to respond, he was never one to worry for his reputation, but he would rather his aversion to the cold not become common gossip.
"What are you doing up at this hour?" Brynden asked, deciding to deflect.
"I… couldn't sleep much." He said, bringing up a hand to clear his eyes, he recognized the look, the restlessness, the boy was far too young for it.
"Is it those wildlings?" Brynden asked, his too many layers forgotten. "The men you killed? Do they come to haunt you?"
"It was only one man." The boy said, but nodded. "Father says that it's nothing to be ashamed of, that Arthur Dayne still comes to him on some nights."
"Your father has the right of it." Brynden said. "At my age the faces all blend together, but the stench of death never leaves you."
"Is that why you're up ser?" he asked.
"Aye." Brynden said, then turned begrudgingly, though the youth ran to walk alongside him. "And it's why I must thank you, me and my niece, the only thing that keeps that stench at bay is the warmth of family, and you were ready to bleed to protect them, you're a finer brother than I was."
"Why do you say that ser?" the boy asked, his tone inquisitive, Tully family disputes were unlikely to reach his ears in Winterfell. "Are you and lord Hoster on bad terms?"
"If we weren't, I would still be in Riverrun holding a different moniker." Brynden said, for a moment, his eyes gazed off as he was lost in would haves and could haves, before snapping back to reality. "Don't grow bitter or petty Snow, it's never worth it."
The boy nodded then turned back to him, seemingly trying to piece his words together
"Say, ser Brynden." the boy said after a pause. "Your family, you don't get to see them often, do you?"
"Far less than I'd like." The knight said, shaking his head. "This is the first time I've seen Cat in a decade and a half."
"I… I won't get to see much of them either in the years to come, will I?" the boy asked, somehow looking even more sullen.
"You won't, lad." the knight said, his heart somewhat aching for the youth. "Part of you wishes you would stay home?"
"I'd be a liar if I denied it." He said. "I've wanted to leave Winterfell for years, since I first bested Ser Rodrik in a spar, since my opponents grew stale and stagnant, but now that it's here…"
"It's a difficult thing." Brynden replied, he had never been one for words, even less so for feelings, but he had been where the boy was now, however long ago. "But you'll find a new home, people who'll make you smile and argue, and when you see Robb and the rest again, you'll talk and talk as if though no time passed at all."
"I.. thank you for your words ser, truly." he said, a moment later, he slowly nodded to himself then grew more confidently. "I should go rest, but your secret is safe with me."
The boy gestured at his furs and left him with a wink, Brynden couldn't help but laugh at his gall, truth be told it was a familiar brazenness, one that earned him his moniker as much as his enmity with his brother.
On his way north, on the many days sailing from Gullstown and riding along the White Knife, he had worried that he'd hate the kid, that it would be years stuck with some bitter, hateful bastard he would have to wrangle, but it seemed to be anything but.
As for Jon, he hadn't known how he would, or should, treat his new knight, should he treat him like his father? Like Ser Rodrik? Like Lady Stark?
But now he knew, he would just treat him like the blackfish.