Boryn
They were nearing Winterfell now, the ancient seat of House Stark, and Boryn could see the great grey walls rising in the distance, a stark contrast to the white snow. The sight of the fortress brought a thrill of anticipation, and a faint smile curled his lips. His father had spoken often of Ned Stark, his old friend from the rebellion, and the bond they had forged in blood and battle. Boryn had grown up on those tales.
As they passed through the towering gates of Winterfell, Boryn's gaze fell upon a figure standing with a group of men-at-arms, watching the procession with a calm, measured gaze. He was a young man, not much older than Boryn himself, with the look of a warrior about him—broad-shouldered, with a mane of auburn hair and the grey eyes of the North.
He stood side by side with his father, Lord Eddard Stark, a man with a weathered face and a heavy brow. Boryn had heard the story from his uncle Stannis, the story of Brandon Stark and Rickard Stark being executed by the Mad King all those years ago. It seemed that Lord Stark carried that grimness with him till' this day.
The Prince laid his eyes upon Sansa Stark, and when their gazes met she shyly averted her eyes from his. Boryn had been informed that she was young, yet she was tall and womanly with long fiery red hair and cool gray eyes. She was a beauty, that much he could not deny.
The King dismounted from his horse and greeted Lord Stark, as well as his wife Catelyn Stark, and all of the Stark children. He then bid Eddard to take him to the crypt to pay his respects, and Boryn saw his mother scowl at the thought. She tried to sway his father not to, which was a fool's errand, and King Robert brushed her off and Lord Stark gave her a courteous bow before following him to the crypts down below.
Boryn dismounted from his horse and approached the eldest Stark son, Robb.
"Well met, Robb Stark," Boryn said, his voice carrying the rough edge of the Stormlands.
"Well met, my Prince," Robb replied with a nod. "Welcome to Winterfell."
Boryn inclined his head in return and the pair traversed through the courtyard. "It's an honor to finally meet you. I've heard much about your father, from mine."
"And I, yours," Robb said, a slight smile touching his lips. "Our fathers last fought together to quell a rebellion."
Boryn's smile grew broader. "Aye, and one day, perhaps we'll do the same."
Robb's eyes gleamed with a kindred fire. "The North remembers, and we Stark men are always ready for battle."
"As are we Baratheons," Boryn replied, his voice tinged with excitement. "My father says there's no bond stronger than one forged in the heat of battle. I hope we get to test that one day."
"Speaking of tests," Robb gestured to the training grounds where a youth that appeared to have been near their age with dark hair swung his sword at a training post. "Would you like to go a round?"
Boryn could not help but shoot the young wolf a smirk.
Jon
Jon had heard tales of the young prince, the eldest son of King Robert and Queen Cersei Lannister. They said he was as fierce as his father, bred to be a warrior of his ilk by his uncle Jaime and the legendary Ser Barristan The Bold.
Jon's eyes narrowed as he studied Boryn, noting the way he held himself in the saddle, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. He looked every inch the warrior.
When the procession halted, and the lords of Winterfell came forward to greet their guests, Jon kept to the shadows, observing.
He saw Robb Stark, his brother in all but blood, exchange greetings with the Prince. There was something in Robb's stance, the set of his shoulders, that spoke of anticipation. Jon knew that look. Robb was eager for a test, a challenge, and it seemed Boryn was as well.
Later, when the formalities were done and the evening feast a way's away, Jon found himself in the training yard with Ghost by his side. The direwolf was silent, white fur blending with the snow that had begun to fall. Jon leaned against the cold stone of the wall, watching as Robb and Boryn crossed swords in a dance of steel and sweat.
Robb fought with the stubbornness of the North, every strike carrying the weight of his heritage. He was a natural, strong and sure, his movements deliberate, his face set in concentration.
But Boryn—Boryn was something else entirely.
There was a raw ferocity in the way he moved, his strikes fast and unrelenting, like a storm battering the walls of a keep. He was relentless, pressing Robb back with every swing, his eyes alight with a fire that Jon had seen in King Robert's gaze.
But Robb did not yield. He gritted his teeth and met each of Boryn's attacks with a calm determination, parrying and striking back with a precision that only a Stark could muster. They were evenly matched, and the clash of their swords rang out through the yard.
"Snow!" Boryn's voice cut through the air as he and Robb circled each other. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, found Jon's. "Will you not join us?"
There was a challenge in those words, and Jon felt a familiar surge of pride and doubt. He was no true Stark, no nobleman's son, but his blood was as hot as any man's. He stepped forward, Ghost padding silently at his heel.
Robb handed him a practice sword, and Jon took his place in the circle. Boryn's gaze met his, and for a moment, they stood in silence, sizing each other up. Then, with a nod from Robb, they began.
Boryn came at him with the same ferocity he had shown against Robb, his strikes wild and powerful. Jon dodged the first blow, feeling the wind of the sword as it passed his ear. He countered with a quick slash to Boryn's side, but the prince was already spinning away, bringing his sword around in a sweeping arc.
Jon ducked, rolled, and came up on his feet, his own sword flashing out in a series of quick, precise strikes. Boryn blocked them all, his teeth bared in a grin, and pushed Jon back with a sudden, forceful blow that sent a shock up Jon's arm.
They fought for what felt like hours, neither giving an inch. Jon was quick, his movements a blur, but Boryn's strength was undeniable. They were two halves of a whole, matching each other blow for blow. Jon felt the sweat dripping down his back, his muscles burning, but he did not relent. He could not.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, they found Robb watching them with a grin.
"Evenly matched," Robb said, his voice filled with approval. "But perhaps we should call it a draw, before one of us loses an eye."
Jon laughed, despite himself, and even Boryn's fierce expression softened. They stood there for a moment, catching their breath, the weight of the sparring swords suddenly heavy in their hands.
"You're quick, Snow," Boryn said at last, a hint of respect in his voice. "And strong. The Night's Watch would be proud to have you."
Jon stiffened at the mention of the Watch, the words stirring something deep within him. The life of a black brother had always been in the back of his mind, a shadowy path he knew he might one day take.
"You honor me, Your Grace," Jon replied with a bow of his head. "I seek to be of service to the North."
Boryn nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. "The North," he echoed. "They say the true threat lies beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch stands as the first line of defense, or so the tales say."
"They're more than tales," Jon said quietly, thinking of his uncle Benjen. "There's truth in them."
Robb, sensing the shift in tone, clapped Boryn on the shoulder. "Come, let's get out of this cold. We've a feast waiting, and I don't plan to miss it."
Boryn smirked. "Aye, lead the way, Stark."
Jon chose not to join them, instead he turned his attention back towards the training post, and struck at it with renewed vigor.
Sansa
The hall was ablaze with light and laughter, every corner filled with the noise of celebration. The great hearth at Winterfell roared with flames.
Sansa Stark sat at the high table, her hands neatly folded in her lap, the embroidered edges of her gown brushing against her fingers. She could feel the excitement bubbling within her, a heady mixture of nerves and anticipation.
She glanced toward the far end of the hall, where King Robert Baratheon held court amidst a throng of bannermen and knights. His booming laughter echoed through the hall, drowning out the murmurs of the lords and ladies that surrounded him. But it was not the King who held Sansa's gaze; her eyes were drawn to the figure beside him, Prince Boryn Baratheon, the crown prince and heir to the Iron Throne.
Boryn was everything the songs promised a prince would be, tall and strong, with the dark hair of House Baratheon and the sharp features of the Lannisters.
His face was impassive, a contrast to his father's exuberance. He was dressed in black and gold, the colors of his house, with the stag of Baratheon emblazoned across his chest. Sansa thought he looked every inch the prince of her dreams, the one she had imagined since childhood.
"Isn't he handsome?" she whispered to Jeyne Poole, who sat beside her. Jeyne's eyes widened as she followed Sansa's gaze.
"Oh, yes, my lady! So handsome," Jeyne agreed, her voice filled with awe. "Do you think he's noticed you yet?"
Sansa's heart fluttered at the thought. "I don't know… should I speak to him?"
Jeyne giggled, nudging Sansa with her elbow. "You must! You're to be his lady wife someday, after all."
The words sent a thrill through Sansa, but also a wave of anxiety. The idea of speaking to the prince was both exhilarating and terrifying. She had practiced her courtesies in the mirror, imagined what she might say, how he might smile at her, but now, with him so close, her mind went blank.
She watched as the prince stood, moving away from the king's table. He walked with an easy grace, his expression unreadable as he made his way through the hall. Lords and ladies bowed as he passed, but he seemed to notice none of them. Sansa's breath caught as he stopped near one of the great pillars, where the shadows from the fire danced across his face. He stood alone, the throng of revelers leaving a respectful distance around him.
Jeyne squeezed her arm. "Now's your chance, Sansa."
Sansa nodded, rising from her seat with as much dignity as she could muster, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She smoothed her skirt and drew a breath. She was the daughter of Winterfell, she reminded herself, and someday she would be Queen. She could not let her nerves best her now.
She crossed the hall slowly, each step seeming to stretch into an eternity. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her hands were cold despite the warmth of the fire. When she finally reached the Prince, she curtsied low, as she had been taught, keeping her eyes downcast until she rose.
"Your Grace," she said softly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "I hope you are finding Winterfell to your liking."
For a moment, there was only silence, and Sansa dared to lift her gaze. Boryn was staring down at her, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and distant. He did not smile, did not speak, and Sansa felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
"It is cold at night. I fear how terrible the winter will be," he said at last, his voice flat. His gaze flicked over her briefly, but there was no warmth in it, no sign of the tenderness Sansa had hoped for.
"I… I am sorry, Your Grace," she stammered, unsure of what to say. "I… we hope you will be warm here, in the hall. The fire is strong…"
Boryn's attention had already drifted away, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for something more interesting. Sansa felt a pang of disappointment, sharp and bitter. She had imagined this moment so many times, had dreamed of the Prince looking at her with admiration, with love. But now, faced with the cold indifference in his gaze, those dreams felt foolish and far away.
"Is there something you need, Lady Sansa?" he asked, his tone curt, as if her presence were an inconvenience.
Sansa swallowed, her mouth dry. "No, Your Grace. I only wished to… to welcome you."
Boryn nodded absently. "Consider me welcomed, then. Now if you would excuse me, I wish to retire for the night."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Sansa stood there, feeling small and foolish, her heart heavy with the weight of disappointment. She had hoped for a connection, a sign that the songs were true, that the prince would see her and understand her, that he would see her as someone worth noticing. But Boryn Baratheon, the crown prince, had looked at her and seen nothing at all.
She lowered her head and made her way back to her seat beside Jeyne, who was waiting eagerly for her to return.
"Well?" Jeyne asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Sansa forced a smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. "He… he was very kind," she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.
But even as she spoke the words, Sansa knew they were empty. The Prince had not been kind, nor had he been cruel. He had simply not cared. And that, perhaps, was worse than anything else.