Here's Chapter Two

Also, someone commented about how Stanley was able to be a great warrior and sailor with one hand and anemia. Completely my fault, I just have to point out a few things more clearly:

-For the anaemia, I tried to imply it was actually partially nullified by his blood. He's a Baratheon, who are naturally tough, and he's a son of Cersei, who is stated to recover faster from a poisoning than what Tyrion expected in Clash.

-For the warrior, I don't think he had any great deeds in battle, He won the tourney by staying close to Joffrey so people would avoid him. He also trains mostly with training dummies, and when it comes to people, he's able to fight well until the lack of stamina catches up to him.

Also, since he has been using only his left hand since birth, instead of right handed people who have been using their left hand as well, he is more experienced with his left hand, and also it has been noted that left handed-people in combat prove challenging to those who normally fight right-handed opponents.

-For the sailor, you can sail one handed, and I doubt (mild) anemia can compare with some Paralympic sailors I've seen, including one who was literally paraplegic.

Explanation over, now the fun stuff!


Joffrey

The King's party was en route to Winterfell on the Kingsroad. Of course, it had to be slow as a snail. Not that he minded. There were, well not great folk here, but compared to the Northern barbarians that had lain astride their road to Winterfell. The Starks were, supposedly, the leaders of this folk, if such a people could have leaders. No culture in the slightest, all they did was scorn the Seven and mill about being insolent. One bitch had the gall to not avert her eyes in his presence!

The Hound had taken care of that though, but no-one had heard about it, sadly. He asked his dog about why he hadn't barked loud enough, and he had said that it was better to do things quietly. Heh. Moron. He was the heir's dog, and completely loyal service would be rewarded. He knew what the price wanted. He wanted all to fear him, as that was the rightful place, of everyone, peasants to lords. He was the one in control, so why didn't they acknowledge that?

Sadly, even having a Hound has its limits. He had asked the Hound to kill Stanley a few years back. The Hound decided to glare at him, the arrogance of it! He was the prince, he could do whatever he wanted, right? There was a kinslaying taboo, but he was a special case. He owned this kingdom, even when Father was alive. He could do whatever he wanted to because he was in control of all. What fool would pass that opportunity up? Unlimited power and obedience, that was what you had to install your underlings.

One day, he would rule this kingdom, and all of those mongrels who refused him the courtesy and dignity that he deserved, he would track them down and make them suffer. He was the Prince, he could do that. He's be King then, and no-one would disobey. Those who did, well, he doubted they would live long enough to regret it, unless he wanted them to. He would make sure of it when he came unto his rightful place, upon the Iron throne, looking down at those beneath him. Maybe, if they were lucky, they would get a public execution!

He laughed in his room as the wheelhouse trundled on towards Winterfell.


Balon

The party trundled on towards Winterfell, slowly, but surely. The mud was not thick enough here to slow the adcance of the wheelhouse, which was what was making the journey go by "slowly and surely." rather than "quick and stable.". The mud was still thick and sticky: he pitied himself on the future journey. South of the Neck, the mud was thinner, though not so thin as the ones that accumulated on House Swann's grasslands during the winter. He had experienced two winters: one he didn't remember, during the Year of the False Spring, and another he did remember, as a page at Harvest Hall.

Prince Stanley was not complaining. The princeling was astride his horse, a courser, which stood out amongst the other palfreys in the party. The child he swore to protect did not care for riding, except for travel. He did not joust, or rather could not, as you needed a right hand for that. He rode at rings sometimes on Dragonstone, in the yard, on the rare occasions that books bored him (not often). Prince Stanley kept only two horses, a courser (which he had taken with him to and from Dragonstone.) and a charger (which he had kept in the Red Keep; the Prince later told him he intended to bring both, but Joffrey's fury at the horse being called a charger made him reconsider. The horse's name had apparently been extremely annoying to the heir until Sandor Clegane burst in two moonturn later and decapitated it. When asked to give a statement, The Hound only said: "Just following orders."

Black hair blowing slightly in the wind, the prince trotted towards Winterfell, his blue, shadowed eyes piercing in his glare, looking at what he thought as annoyances. Well, annoyance, anyway. Prince Joffrey was bored, his pouty lips growing poutier, after Stanley had reprimanded him for an incident involving Tommen the night before. Prince Stanley had chosen to wake him in the night, not once but twice, disrupting Joffrey's sleep.

It appeared that, despite being apart for so long, the sibling rivalry had only grown more intense. Not that most of the Royal Family cared (His and Her Grace.) or understood enough (Prince Tommen). The Princess (Stanley's favourite sibling.) kept an uneasy peace at the best of times, but she needed rest, unlike Prince Stanley. He had not been there when Prince Stanley still lived in the Red Keep much, most of his time was spent waiting for the date of the journey to Dragonstone, but a serving girl had told him that Stanley often stayed up late to lay tripwires outside Joffrey's door. Somehow, the heir had never caught on.

Joffrey was idling, his boredom evident on his face, and often had to be reminded to push ahead with his palfrey by the Hound, riding alongside. His green eyes matching the Queen's in sparkling with malevolence, he stared at the few common folk who dotted the surrounding countryside the way a mountain lion stared at a weary and unarmed traveller: predatory, but wary to go if trouble became too great. Cruel and cowardly. The future King would not see Balon much, as he intended to stay Stanley's protector until it became unnecessary. Prince Stanley, for his part, would avoid the King like the plague. However, at the moment, should anything happen, it was the man beside the heir that was the true danger.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, had no honour as a knight, but Balon at least commended him on being honest enough to not bother taking the vows of one. House Clegane had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist. Ser Gregor holed up in the Keep for years, and he never showed any intention of politics, or even siring an heir. At least three wives, of Houses Jast and Clifton and Crane, had been known. Only the Crane one was ever thought about again, but her cousins of the main branch knew to keep quiet. They would not like being loud.

Sandor would never attract any maidens, either. That scarred tissue and exposed bone made him out to be the ender of festivities: whenever he approached where you were, it wouldn't be good. The day of his arrival at King's Landing for the journey, when he approached a newly-made knight, of a Crownlands house sworn to Duskendale, the knight declared himself "better than you" due to bearing the title of "Ser" in front of his first two names, Lyonel Ramm. Ser Lyonel was disabused of his misguided notion rather efficiently. Prince Joffrey grinned ear-to-ear, despite, or perhaps because of, the weeping of Prince Tommen. Princess Myrcella looked on, stone faced, as did Prince Stanley.

Something was off about Prince Stanley, it was whispered. Ser Balon Swann had to say that this was not without its basis in fact and truth. There was a curious tale that occurred over many years, about companions, meaning, of course, boys that were taken in by the Royal family to act as, well, companions, to the children. This tale was not told of a companion of Prince Stanlay Baratheon, but rather his lack of desire or affection for those companions.

All of the Royal Children had at least one constant companion over the years, arranged for by the Queen (Prince Joffrey's one had fled the capital whilst Stanley was on Dragonstone. From the reaction, it seemed that whatever the heir had done was severe enough to warrant a complete removal from the other companions that Joffrey had.) She had always disliked Prince Stanley, but had tried to find a companion for him regardless, both in King's Landing and some on Dragonstone. But no-one ever suited the Prince. He had not lost his quiet coolness in his daily life, but a quality that made for (comparatively) simple and smooth interactions between him and adults made his conversations with those his age awkward (for them) and annoying (for him). Any attempt at humour was broken like waves on rocks by his stoic face, and his own jokes often found themselves amusing only Ser Balon.

Every new moonturn, it seemed, a new companion would arise from a Crownlands or Westerlands house. At the end of the debacle, when Stanley was in King's Landing, Queen Cersei was at her wit's end (not that she had had much to lose at that point. The endless amount of companions did a number on her well-being.), and Joffrey had noticed that. Joffrey was, and still is, hungry for attention, at which point he had less, so the heir began thinking. This was when the fly incidents began. Every time Stanley tried to quietly ignore and wait out his companion, he found a fly on his favourite seat. The wings had been twisted off.

Prince Stanley thought it had been the septon in charge of the library, and so requested to have him given leave. Cersei went one better and hanged him. Joffrey laid low when this occurred, but the incidents continued after a while. The High Steward of the Red Keep, who had always had a soft spot for Stanley, took action while taking steps to not bring Stanley into this, explained that Joffrey was the cause behind this, due to lack of attention.

Queen Cersei conceded when faced with the evidence, but obviously didn't blame Joffrey, and so Larence Shett, a reserved but valiant child, was given leave from the capital, along with the two men-at-arms and drunken, obese septon that came with him from the Vale. Since then, new companions came for Tommen, and ladies-in-waiting for Princess Myrcella, and more of the latter would certainly come for Princess Cassana when she came of age, but none for Joffrey, and certainly none for the Charger (of course, that didn't stop some lords from trying).

His train of thought was interrupted by the party laid out as an escort. Four men, clad in mail and leather, on horseback. At their head came a man with loose brown hair and brown eyes. His right hand clutched the reins of his mount, the other a large spear, a few feet of ironwood and steel. Tied to the spear was a white flag, emblazoned with the sigil of the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell, a sprinting direwolf, grey furred. The man approached alone on horsebsck, towards Kimg Robert Baratheon.

Ser Balon Swann would accompany his Prince and protectorate to Winterfell soon.


Robb (one day earlier)

Robb Stark would dress in his doublet and jerkin to receive the King's arrival. He loved the jerkin. Supple leather was among his favourite material for clothing, though its surface temperature in the cold left something to be desired (a hot surface). The same could not be said for the plain white doublet. The collar itched, the sleeves were too tight, and the colour was so deep a white it was unsettling.

Bad clothing aside, he was doubting his family as of late, whether they would be able to receive the royalty of the South. He still loved them, obviously, but a man has doubts, and he was almost one, anyways. A larger land, which he had hardly ever journeyed to: it had a taste of mystery and intrigue about it, like in some of those stories Bran and Rickon liked. Unlike "The Murder at Last Hearth", Rickon was feeling slightly uneasy. He'd never known the "wolf pup" (as Father put it) to be afraid of anything or anyone.

Bran was climbing more than ever. He wondered why Bran did that. Did he dream for himself to see what no one else but birds could see, for him to spy the rugged beauty of the North? Why did he continue to climb then, if he had already seen it? Maybe he would just never know. He thought that it was a habit, maybe, that Bran Stark climbed because he had always climbed. Whatever the case, he was climbing a lot now, maybe to distract himself from the stress of the arrival… but Bran loved knights and chivalry, so why would he be stressed?

Whatever the reaction of the people of Winterfell, Sansa and Jeyne Pool's were different to almost everyone. Constantly in a state of fantasising, gossiping and gushing, they had become the center of attemtion for Winterfell's women. His lady mother seemed to be happy at that, always smiling at them whenever they told of their gossip, or on the rare occations that they weedled a new piece of information out of someone. And then there was Arya.

Arya was spending time with Jon more than ever, as if she felt that the time that she would be seperate from her brother at the feasts would have to be made up for earlier. She and Sansa were arguing less, though he put that down to lack of contact between the she-wolves rather than anything else. In actuality, it seemed that tempers were shorter (not to him, of course: the servants kept their tempers in check with him, however short they may be.), and many were feeling the pressure of preparing for the arrival.

He was feeling it too. Every night, he was doubting. The doubts coursing through his mind were unlike him. Were they more like dread, though? Because he knew that something was off. Or rather, something was about to happen which would change lives forever. It was just a Royal visit, right? So why was he feeling this way? Westeros wasn't the sort of place where everything and anything falls apart on the whim of a few men, right?

He did not know. He did not want to know. If that made him a poor heir to Winterfell, so be it. He wanted to pray. It would take his mind of things, at the least. His faith in the Old Gods would never be shaken by his doubts. All he had to do was sit near a godswood, and their power would be obvious. In nature it was, and in man-made objects, in all people. Good or ill, they were a part of it all. He believed that for all the evils that good men would endure,

His Father believed that too. Father was calm as ever, but he couldn't help but see that he was slightly off. He seemed more somber and stoical than usual. Arya and Jon had noticed it too. The others, bless their hearts, had not noticed. He wondered why. Usually men were overjoyed at seeing their friends again, and King Robert Baratheon was his friend, at least, that was what he was told. Maybe the thought of dealing with the Lannisters served as an irritant, overshadowing the reunion since Pyke 9 years ago.

He had never met a Lannister, but he had heard tales of them, one being the truth, little known to others, of what actually happened during the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion. How the Reynes were trapped under their castle, sealed off by soil and rock, as the Old Lion, Lord Tywin diverted water through holes in the ground. He shivered. The mines of Castamere had never been re-opened, maybe for fear of the proof of Lord Tywin's vengeance. He had never met Lord Tywin, and he was glad for it.

On the topic of the other Lannisters (at least the main branch, not counting lesser branches, the Frey-Lannisters, the various branches in House Crakehall and the dazzling amount of cousins and related good-sons in Lannisport belonging to other but related vassal houses), they seemed the opposite of the North, especially the Starks, in every way: fair where the Starks were auburn or brown, and green where the Starks were blue or grey. Proud and cunning lions, he had heard. Now that pride of the prideful would be living amongst a pack of wolves.

He dreaded had happened next. Because he knew someone would get bitten.


Stanley (One day later)

Winterfell was a large castle, larger than the Red Keep, maybe? Of course, the Red Keep was not where people would say was the most secure castle, in spite of Cersei's proclamations. Winterfell had two walls, strong and sturdy. The Red Keep also had those, but most were technically defences for King's Landing. Getting past one of Winterfell's would lead you to face the same problem. In King's Landing, the Red Keep would not hold up for long. And besides, such an old castle, with its ingenious, efficient often under-appreciated heating system and hidden crypts had to have a way to escape certain capture.

He would have very much enjoyed poking around in those crypts. Very much indeed. But it would have been a sign of immense disrespect to ask to be shown their secrets. He would have hoped, but that would have been pointless. If you tried to grab the stars, you'd grab naught but air. One of Uncle Stannis's proclamations, which all held a deep meaning within his mind.

Well, actually Stannis was more of an idealist that people gave him credit for. He had a quality of never giving up on his duty. If he was forced to reach for a distant star, he would gladly defy gravity to do so. He would never give in if he thought that they were orders. Everyone must do their duty, even if it comes at a cost.

His Father was more of a dreamer, he had heard. The key word in that sentence was "was". The death of the Lady Lyanna Stark took that out of him. He had heard that Robert Baratheon was completely confident in smashing three armies in a single day. Stannis would have thought it folly, even now, when it had succeeded once.

Though, Stanley couldn't help but wonder: was it because Stannis thought he couldn't face three armies in a single day, or because he couldn't face three armies in a single day? Would the strength of the enemies be his undoing, or the fact that morale would have been worse under him?

Some people had a natural knack on getting people to like them, and others for driving people away. Oddly, his Uncle Tyrion had both, on account of his wits and appearance, respectively. Then again, wits were not measured with beauty, Tyrion was certainly proof of that, or phrenology, despite the claims of that idiotic minority in the Citadel.

The King's party must have been a sight to see for most in Winterfell. Of course, there had been visits to Winterfell before, but those were in the age of the Targaryen dragonlords (and later on, would-be dragonlords.), where silver haired princes with purple eyes discussed with the Lords of winter (and more than once with their serving girls, he'd wager).

The wheelhouse was trudging along behind them, making an irritating noise as it trundled over the Northern roads. It was an incredibly irritating noise. He could not decide what was worse: the rare, heavy thunks that occurred over large rocks, or the more common, quieter but more tedious crunching that occurred over pebbles and loose gravel.

Joffrey was looking bored, no doubt he'd be ready to snap at some poor smallfolk man. He would not want to be around Joffrey Baratheon if they had been riding in worse weather and for longer: then if a smallfolk man came within their sight, Joffrey would order the Hound to ride them down and maul them (well, not literally. For all of Joffrey's idiocy, even he knew that the Hound wasn't a dog. Didn't stop him treating the man like that, though).

His parents were quarrelling, because of course they were, they were the Baratheon royals. Sighing deeply, Stanley decided to peel off and talk to someone for a while. He wasn't much one for idle conversation, but, loath as he was to admit it, Joffrey had a scarce good point: riding here was boring. He told Ser Balon to fetch him of his Father sent for him when they reached Winterfell, then turned his horse.

Edging past the quarrelling royals was the Kingslager. Ser Jaime Lannister. A man who, in Stanley's mind, hated the world for the events in his life and his his mind behind a smile that hardly ever seemed to fully reach his eyes. The times that it did were terrifying to behold, as if a puppet had had its mouth strings pulled up to their logical extreme.

Ser Jaime looked certainly like a fish out of water with his beaten gold hair and green eyes. His white armour may have been more fitting in with the North, but its brave shine in even the dim sunlight made him look knightly on this land of grimness, and there wasn't any snow for it to appear alike to it. Ser Jaime remained beardless, which must have chilled him at least slightly when the winds rose.

He began the conversation with a greeting so simple it didn't qualify as a greeting, just an expression of their relationship: "Uncle".

Jaime Lannister moved out of his blissful daydream, his warrior's cerebral instincts surely contributing at least partly to the way he snapped his head round to look at the Prince, and in the way he simultaneously put on his smile that, credit to him, almost reached his eyes. "Nephew", the disgraced knight replied, "what is it?"

"Nothing, Ser." replied Stanley. Whatever else he was, he'd be damned if he was discourteous (...Joffrey didn't count.) "I merely find that I have not talked with you much on the road on the journey here. In fact, I believe the last time I did this was just before Barrowton."

"Yes Nephew. Actually, I think we have not discussed the birth of Princess Cassana at all."

"No, we haven't, now that I think about it. I believe that she will grow up to be a good member of the Royal Family."

"And why do you think that?"

"Because she will likely be exempt from both our family's flaws, at least partly. She will have less pride as a Lannister by being last in line to the Iron Throne, and she will not be put in situations that require use of Barethon stubbornness as much as the men."

"Baratheon women are just as stubborn. It runs in the family, even in second cousins. I met one, at the start of His Grace's reign, whilst we were on Greenshit. She was determined for someone," He shot a significant glance to Father. "but I really don't know whom.

Stanley grew annoyed at the smirk playing on Jaime Lannister's face, and he was already annoyed to hear a loyal vassal's castle being disparaged. "You go too far, Ser. Also, the start? No, you're mistaken. The reign of Robert Baratheon truly started with you, Kingslayer." He said nothing of the scene accusation: it was likely to be true.

The smirk never faltered, but the eyes became slanted but grew large and turned livid. "Prince Stanley Baratheon," said the Kingslayer in his normal, albeit strained voice, "forgive me if I angered you with my version of events. Perhaps Grand Maester Pycelle will be more to your liking than the most dangerous knight in the Seven Kingdoms."

"That is true, Ser, except but one point. I prefer Ser Barristan Selmy to Grand Maester Pycelle." Leaving the Lannister scion , Stanley trotted on towards Winterfell. In fact they were almost there already. The King's party had nearly reached Winterfell, and the introductions would start soon after.

They did, after an extended session with Renly's gifts. He really didn't see the point in these handmaidens-for-males. He looked royal enough with clothing alone. That said, the perfect earrings that matched his dark blue eyes brilliantly were a favourite of his, and the two men knew exactly when to use them, and which pair.

The almighty wheelhouse started braking. The sound was as deafening as it was irritating, so of course it sounded like a large pile of sonorous metals dropped down a flight of stairs. He was sure he saw a Winterfell serving girl hold her hands over her ears. We are the true harbingers of bad omens, to them in this peaceful Northern castle. The harbingers of bad omens indeed.

The Starks were all lined up. At one end was Lord Eddard himself. Five-and-thirty, and yet looked much older, owing to his greying, closely-cut beard. The stern glare that was famed even in the South was relaxed now, giving him the appearance of a bystander, not an actor.

Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully, was there, and 4 auburn haired (and one black haired) children, all standing in a line dutifully for the ceremonial welcome ceremony between a host and a guest of great importance.

Prince Stanley Baratheon dismounted his horse, and nodded to a nearby Ser Balon. It was time for everyone to act out their lines like mummers. What greater show was there, but something passed down generations, the greeting ceremony?


Sansa

Father seemed happier. Jeyne, for some reason, wasn't able to see why, until she had explained to her. She was a bit thick sometimes: obviously it was because the royals were coming? Southern chivalry lightening up the grim north. Also, the King was Father's best friend! So obviously Father was happy.

Arya seemed like she was spending more time with their bastard brother Jon Snow than ever. You really couldn't tell why with Arya. Did she think she was going to be separated from him when she was taken down to the South? Seriously? She doubted even Arya could be that foolish.

Mother had scolded her for her reply, but Mother knew it had to be true, right? She had told Arya "Don't worry. You won't be separated from Jon. You're not enough of a lady for the South". She was just being honest, but Arya decided to escalate things by saying "And why do you say that I'm not a lady but you are?" Sansa replied: "I'm only joking. I am sure some stableboy will make you the lady of the stable. You'll be the prettiest of all the horses."

Arya had burst into tears and fled to the yard. So childish. Anyway, she wasn't going to let her sister get her down, because the royals were arriving right now! Yes, she was out and standing in Winterfell, in the snow, anxious for the King's party to advance and arrive. They would arrive soon, right?

...

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the party arrived. Looking at it through the gates, she saw a few men and women on palfreys, well-fed and healthy even after such a long journey. There was a wheelhouse behind, so big that it couldn't be brought into Winterfell. And columns upon columns of knights and retainers and servants and squires making up the rear of the party. It was glorious.

The gates were opened at her Father's command, and the royals rode in on their horses. One wasn't a palfrey, though but a warhorse. She would have asked Mother that, because it would be presumptuous to ask him, but the greetings and welcoming were about to occur, and spoiling it would be Arya's job, not hers.

The man at the head was a large... no he was a... she blinked. Surely not. The king appeared to be wearing heavy clothing. Yes that was it. No true king could have been as fat as that, no, he was definitely wearing heavy clothing, maybe even too heavy for even the North at just this time of summer. Yes, that was obviously it.

Definitely.

The man had the thick black hair and beard of the Baratheons, and the blue eyes of them as well. Apart from his fa- heavy clothing, he looked the picture of a king, looking mighty under his crown. The same, sadly, could not be said for his horse, looking pained under His Grace. However, it was best to not voice such silly thoughts.

Then came the Queen. She was as beautiful as was rumoured, so full of dignity and grace and elegance. Her blond hair shone even in the cold, dim light, her green eyes so calm, radiating peace and order. Her face was set in a queenly frown, looking disappointed. Obviously, she had been tired from the journey. After all, they had travelled from so far away.

She moved her eyes to the next person, and he met her gaze. She couldn't help but stare, even if her shocked gaze was very unladylike. That must have been Prince Joffrey. The eldest, the heir to all of Westeros. He was the King to be. And just from looking at him, Sansa knew that he would be an even greater king than his father.

Prince Joffrey rode his palfrey wearing a cold mask, indifferent, and neutral. Always assessing the situation, like a king should do. He looked the picture of a king-in-waiting, tall and strong for his age, with a handsome face framed by a falling waterfall of golden locks. Flashing green eyes, thick lips, a clean face... he looked just like the good prince in stories.

Behind him rode a much more odd figure. Ah yes. Prince Stanley Baratheon, he who had not inherited the Lannister looks, but the Baratheon ones. He was slim like his elder brother, but he looked sinewy, and skinny, giving him an unhealthy look, further exemplified by his pale skin. Prince Stanley had black hair, and his dulled all light that came into contact, giving off no shine.

The most unsettling thing about the second son of the Royal family was his eyes. A blue, a dark blue, so cold and dark a colour that Sansa knew to distrust them in sight. They had shadows under them which made them bore into the castle of Winterfell with an icy gaze. Sansa felt terrified of him, instinctively. She looked desperately at the other members to achieve some semblance of peace.

Princess Myrcella came next, a happy smile on her face. The Royals were stopping, so Myrcella looked her way and Sansa smiled back. Myrcella was almost the spitting image of her mother, with golden hair and green eyes, but with softer, gentle features that made her smile bigger and more radiant. She formed up in a lien with the rest of the royals, but Sansa was still able to make out Prince Tommen.

Tommen was chubby, almost round, although maybe he, like his father, preferred heavy clothing? She did not know. Maybe it was both. The Prince walked shyly, his head held down in abashment, for some reason, and she saw him give a fleeting, but fearful look to his elder brother. She thought it was Stanley, but to her confusion, it was definitely Joffrey. Hmm. Maybe he was jealous, or embarrassed of being in his brother's spotlight?

A booming cry then cut through the cold air: "Ned! How good to see your frozen face again!"

"Your Grace, welcome to Winterfell."

Welcomes and introductions were soon exchanged. Her heart stopped when Prince Joffrey came over to her, but his was awfully curt. That was fine, obviously, as the heir, he had a lot on his plate. That was it. Otherwise, why would Stanley's reply be more courteous? No other reason came to her mind. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen had been wonderfully polite, though Prinde Tommen seemed a tad shy. She would have wondered why, but she was soon distracted.

Because then, the feast was underway.


Bran

Bran decided he didn't like the feast. He was sitting next to Prince Tommen, who was quite nice and friendly, but he was still bored after a while. He disliked bing sat down for too long. Who had to eat this much food, when he could just be doing literally anything else? Climbing or swordplay or archery, basically anything! But his mother had been strict: no running of in front of the Royal family. It was unbecoming, apparently, of a Stark to act in such a way.

So Bran decided to stay here. It would be unbecoming. He took another taste of his Northern mushroom stew. It had a rather bland, tough taste, but it lingered for quite a while and when paired with aromatic herbs and served hot it made for quite the hearty appetiser (he didn't know what half of those words meant: he was just repeating Maester Luwin's sayings when he tried it for the first time.

That happened when Father invited him up to join him, when the new cook arrived at Winterfell about 6 years ago. He remembered that day, yes, because that was the first time he remembered someone dying. Well, he had seen a few guards come and go and get killed by vagrants, and a few of the elderly had passed away i their sleep. This was different. The usually happy cook just stumbled into the hall with an odd expression, and collapsed.

He never woke up. Dylen died unmarried and childless, as he lived, and yet he still tried his best to make everyone happy. Bran cried the rest of the day, and Robb told him that people were not meant to live forever, and so they should try to live rightly and enjoy their life before they died. Bran started climbing that day. He never looked down, and he certainly would never look back.

Bran looked round to see the King guzzling meat and mead. He even pinched the bottom of a serving girl. Well... I suppose he is living rightly... by his own standards? It made sense. Robert Baratheon was a warrior, and he surely had the mindset: act in the now to soak up as much as possible. Bran liked that philosophy, but... I think he's slightly overdoing it.

His line of vision peeled off to see his father. The Lord of Winterfell, who was famed (unfairly in Bran's views) for never laughing, had the most laughable expression on his face, whilst watching the actions of his friend. Apparently, the Lord decided to not show only one emotion, but attempt to show disapproval, bemusement and nostalgia all at once. How his features were twisted apparently made Bran crack up and start chuckling mildly, and Tommen too, except the round boy desperately tried to contain his mirth.

Smiling, Bran went back to his food. It was the fourth hour of the arrival feast, and meat and mead of epic proportions had appeared since almost the start. Despite how large Winterfell's territory was, the North was still sparsely populated, so most of the wine and other beverages were going to the high table in the dais, with a few poor tables near the hall's entrance being left completely dry. It was no wonder that a few Lannister men-at-arms were trying to simply sleep through the feast.

Bran turned to the table directly below them. Jon was sitting there next to what seemed like a disproportionate amount of wine. Bran had been allowed one cup for traditional purposes. He took a sip, almost spat it out, swallowed it, tried to a spit out the aftertaste, was looked at by the Queen, then drank it all at once. Tommen did it too soon after that. Though the men-at-arms of House Baratheon were sworn to the King, it didn't stop a few from laughing at the two noble boys as they tried to force down the liquid.

Bran found it odd that Uncle Benjen had not yet gone down to talk to him. He was then filled with a stab of pity. Due to the odd placement, Uncle Benjen had somehow ended up in between Theon Greyjoy and Jaime Lannister. The ability to talk to a knight of such high calibre (for an oathbreaking kingslayer, anyway) was something which would have been good, if the knight wasn't more interested in his brother who was sitting next to him.

This, however, meant that Greyjoy was talking to him a lot, and Uncle Benjen was simply sitting there with a bored look in his face. The Greyjoy didn't appear to mind, or even see the expression on his uncle's face. That end of the table seemed awfully lifeless in comparison to the antics of the King and Queen, as well as the Lord and Lady of House Stark. Well, the latter were more reacting to the antics rather than being the perpetrators of them.

Bran was feeling awfully bored. He longed to go climbing again. He had recently found out that the old tower, the Broken Tower, the one he thought until a few months ago was unclimbable, had a bird nest on it. He had been taking bread to feed it from the table and hiding it by sitting on it. Prince Tommen had obviously noticed but decided to keep quiet.

He would have to talk to Maester Luwin later: he had not seen that type of bird egg before: it was reminiscent of a weirwood tree, with red cracks in a white shell. The bird seemed to be missing. Bran would have investigated more, but the rocks and handholds leading to the place where the bird nest was were very precarious. He didn't think he would be able to get up there, especially as some were overhangs.

He decided that it would be better off to just forget about the egg and go on his usual route. He didn't really have a "usual" route, but he defaulted to going up each of the walls in turn, then the Broken Tower, finishing off with feeding some birds at another tower. The other towers were quite tricky to climb. He had almost fallen on the other ones (almost: as he told Mother, he never fell!), so he had decided to wait until he was older, and almost a man grown to try them again.

He was almost a man grown, only a few years difference, in fact. No matter what anyone else told him, he was odd enough to climb those tower. Just not big or strong enough to climb them. After all, he could climb anywhere else with ease, so he should be able to climb a few measly towers when he was a but older, right?

Actually, he should try to climb them after the feast was over. Well, it would be late, but in the morning, he definitely would. He was sure he was plenty strong now, after all a long time had passed since he had previously tried to climb those towers. Yeah. That was it. Nothing, absolutely nothing could go wrong if he tried to climb those tricky towers.


Robb

Swordsmanship was an important skill for any noble scion, or just combat training in general. Rob knew this, as any son of a Lord, let alone a Lord Paramount, ought to. He remembered first starting out with his training. He shuddered to think about how he had decided to grab the blade of his wooden sword and batter over the head Jon with it. Ser Rodrik was on the brink of an apoplectic fit for a good while after that.

He doubted that he was trained more or every the same amount, as the elder Prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, Joffrey Baratheon, was. After all, he would be king one day, and would have to lead his men in battle, crushing rebels and invaders and bandits. Robb did not expect to win against Prince Joffrey, and rightly so. So, to him, what was happening right now made absolutely no sense.

Robb Stark was beating Joffrey Baratheon. Soundly. Well, that was a major exaggeration, one which the honest heir and further Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North would never dream of saying out loud to anyone, nevertheless one of such noble stock. They were fairly evenly matched, but... the Prince was getting slower, and sloppier. Robb now had the advantage, if only due to stamina.

Robb would force his way in when the Prince made a mistake, and get driven slightly back by an easily parried and wolf but nevertheless rapid an dangerous flurry of attacks. Joffrey would then go for a wide mistake of a swing, which Robb parried. Robb would then force his way in again, and get driven back. They were in equilibrium, or at least they would be if Robb had been tiring as quickly as the Prince. He wasn't.

There was anger in the eyes of the Prince, after a particularly skilful feint by Robb (he had copied Jon's darting, stabbing one: almost like a spear movement: knock the blade askew from its path, quickly pull back and out to push the blade out more, then lower the pint into the opening, right into the opponent's ribcage and gut. He had beaten Robb and Theon many times with this) had allowed him to score the first point of the match after a long while of a stalemate.

Robb quickly analysed what he knew of the Prince. This was hard to do on the ever-changing field of battle, but this was a chance he couldn't miss. The Prince was obviously not ignorant at all when it came to rudimentary swordplay, at least: he was able to match Robb blow for blow at the start. He would now he was doing something wrong, and he was obviously going to notice that he was running out of breath.

The Prince was going to change up his offence, it could be told easily if you looked at his eyes, and also more subtly in the ever-growing smirk of confidence on his Lannister-featured face. Right. Best to play defensive for now, Robb thought. I have a lot of space, roughly 5 large steps back from here, but I should attempt to block his attacks whilst also not giving ground, as I doubt I can keep track of his attacks and the ground I have at the same time.

I need to watch his movements, so I should not attempt any feints or complex parties just yet. To push back if he almost succeeds in forcing me back, I'll have to use my superior strength and sturdier build to force him back with brute force. Once I've fully read him and figured out a way in my head to parry and not just block his attacks, I'll see if I can turn his strategy against him, or, if failing that, make him work for his defence by parrying, tiring him out whilst I can stay in the same place doing repetitive movements. I think this'll work.

Robb had figured out what to do just in time, because the Prince charged. His stamina topped up, Joffrey charged straight at Robb, who was holding his sword in a way to guard his upper torso, and in a way that allowed him to drop his blade to guard his abdomen or raise it up to defend his neck and head. Prince Joffrey came closer, and dropped into a crouching sprint, his sword pointed forward. The perfect position for a jab to the stomach.

Robb dropped his sword to block it head on, and push the Prince back when he was stuck in the awkward potion caused by committing to a low stab that was blocked. However, the Prince dipped his sword, transitioning swiftly into a diagonal cut, aimed directly at Robb's legs. Robb couldn't react in time, and the sword collided with his legs, and his reprisal to allow himself breathing space was slow due to twisting his blade slightly in anticipation for the faked stab.

This meant that the Prince, who had almost immediately adjusted his grip, as free to chop through the air in a rising cut that was hastily blocked in an awkward manner, the wooden training sword being somewhat torn from Robb's firm grasp. Fortunately, the next attack, a swing to Robb's midsection, was received by a prepared Robb, who, although he couldn't parry it completely, was able to earn himself some breathing room.

Said breathing room was at risk, due to Prince Joffrey continuing his relentless assault. However, Robb was now off the back foot, and he kept increasing his swiftness, beginning to parry and force Joffrey back. They broke off again after a while, circling, but this time, Robb didn't give him time to strategise. He charged, and whilst Joffrey admittedly parried every single one, he was forced out of the legal circular area of the duel, granting Robb a point.

This continued for some time, and eventually they broke off. The score was Robb with 9 points and Joffrey with 8. Next up, Robb decided it was time to move on to his next opponent, after a small break of course. Once the break was completed, he came back and noticed Prince Joffrey stalking off. He was informed by Ser Rodrik Cassel about what had occurred.

Whilst left somewhat angry about the Prince's arrogance, he decided to merely focus on his next duel in swordplay. Against the Charger, no less. Robb admitted that he had expected someone... well, to be blunt, more warlike. Prince Stanley Baratheon was pale as a sheet, and, while he had a warrior's look about him, he was not interested that much in combat, apparently.

When questioned on this by Winterfell's master at arms, he merely said "I know men who enjoy honourable combat. They will be in for a rude awakening once my brother ascends to the throne and fights in different ways." This would have been all he said, but Joffrey rounded on his brother, saying "Are you implying that your future King would not be an honourable and chivalrous one, brother?" "Yes." said the younger Prince. "It appears I was successful."

He was not finished "...but I fear I may have misled the person I was actually speaking to: I see now that that statement should have been stated as fact, and not implied. How unlike me to make such a mistake." He then turned to Robb. "As I was saying, my brother would fighters battles in a different way. However, I doubt that Joffrey is foolish enough to throw away good and leal pieces. I am a member of the Royal Family. Regardless of whether or not I chose this path, it is my duty, and that includes everything on that path, including this."

They took up their positions in the present, the Charger two metres or so away from him. Robb Stark had a Eden training sword, Prince Stanley Baratheon a wooden, back-spiked warhammer and shield, which was awkwardly strapped to the end of his right, stunted arm. Once Ser Rodrik gave the call, they were off, and Robb immediately rushed in to glance a blow at the hammer.

Wood struck wood, and the hammer was slightly pushed back. Then, the Prince tended and put all his weight into shoving back, Robb losing his balance briefly and quickly regaining it. He drew up his training sword for another blow, but was cut off halfway by the wooden shield of the Prince's wooden shield careening down onto the closer end of the "blade".

Robb was pushed back again, but he managed to parry the hammer blow. The Prince reversed this with a quick jab with the blunt but still pointed end of the shield into Robb's gut, the pressure making him squirm as he hastily pulled back just in time to block the swinging arc of the hammer's head.

Another blow with the shield, but Robb stepped back another step, putting enough distance in between them to analyse the situation again. He had merely been feeling him out for now, and now was the time to think about what he had learned and come up with tactics on how to surpass his foe.

Prince Stanley, however, was having none of that, and, to prevent a possible loss similar to his brother (mostly due to the fact that he would be on the same level as his brother), charged the heir to Winterfell with a hastily assembled strategy. He kept his charge low, his shield held tilted slightly upward and with the top edge at nose-height, his hammer drawn back.

Robb immediately moved to parry the incoming swing of the wooden warhammer, that was likely to be aimed at his cheek. But it never came. Instead, the hammer was twisted away slightly before impact, and the right rounded edge of the shield hammered the sword out of the way as it tried to drop back into a central guard.

Out of room, Robb was left in a dilemma: he could not go back due to that forcing him to out himself of the area of combat, and by extension, the duel, and he could not advance forward due to the pressure being put in him by the Prince, and he most likely could not go left because that would put him off balance enough for the tide to turn completely against him.

Trusting his honed (if not really experienced, he admitted) warrior's instincts, he decided to quickly shift right, and quickly indeed, because a swing was being prepared at any moment. He disengaged, and the Prince quickly Keane back on one side to allow himself ample time to block Robb's counterattack. His other side still remained somewhat low.

Robb decided to press ahead, and tilted his blade back for a chopping motion designed to press the retreating Prince back and give himself room to manoeuvre into a more advantageous position within the circle. He only got to tilt it back, though, because the blunted, spiked back of the Prince's hammer dug into his right ribcage.

Because, when the Prince charged low and disengaged away his feinting distraction hammer swing, he twisted it back, but not, as Robb thought and could not check due to being tied up with the shield-and-sword lock, into a standard resting position, ready for another, new swing. Instead, the Prince twisted his hammer back and jabbed Robb with the spike.

The duels did not stop when Ser Rodrik cried "Point!". But Stanley did not let up. He quickly attempted to drive Robb out with the shield he had dropped to abdomen-height. Robb recovered and parried quickly, but his attempt to chop at the Prince's undefended neck and shoulders were denied when the Prince promptly and swiftly glided forward and to his left, Robb's right.

Robb sent the advancing hammer head back and circled round quick enough to avoid the oncoming shield entirely. He attempted a rising cut whilst his foe was still recovering, meant to highlight the awkward overspecialisation of his hammer and shield to the situation.

The shield was pointed and could not defend well against a close, rising attack, and you left yourself open to an an attack if you attempted to block a rising cut with something such as a hammer or an axe or a mace. It forced you to give ground and bend over, unless you were fast or skilled enough to knock it out of the way entirely.

Prince Stanley did just that, surpassingly, but he used it as an opportunity to gain and advantage. He knocked the blade aside and charged Robb, attempting to hit him with another backswing blow with the spike. Robb was forced to give ground, but interestingly, Stanley did not pursue.

So he's getting tired and probably wants to focus on defence for the time being. There was a 5 minute time limit, counted roughly by Ser Rodrik, if no points were gained during that time. I'll have to focus on offence then: see If I can overwhelm him enough.

The fight ended with 3 points to Stanley and 2 to Robb, largely due to the near-ironclad defence of the Stag Prince, the Charger. Joffrey stayed long enough to say some disparaging words to his brother about "cowardly strategies", demand a fight with live steel, insult Robb and his brother once he was denied, and leave. Tommen was kept behind by Stanley, despite Joffrey's best efforts.


Kind of an odd place to end the chapter, but at this point I just want to end the nightmare that was writing this, and leave. For any followers of my other docs, they are soon to be released.

Once I've fully gotten my damnable schedule back on track, I'll think about writing any other fics (once I've wrapped up one of the currently running ones. I cannot deal with any more ongoing fics).