- The Red Keep -

Bran's eyes were wide with wonder as the sprawling city of King's Landing unfurled before him. Though not the oldest, nor the most fortified, it was by far the largest city in Westeros, a teeming hive of life sprawling from the banks of the Blackwater to the hills crowned by castles and ruins. The books he had poured over in Winterfell's library told him that nearly half a million souls called this city home, yet the famed Goldcloaks, its city watch, numbered but a fraction of that.

The air here carried a strange blend of aromas—salt from the sea, the tang of smoke from countless hearth fires, and the stench of so many lives packed close together. Bran wrinkled his nose at first but found his curiosity soon overwhelmed any discomfort. For all the hardships of the past weeks, his awe at King's Landing's scale rekindled a spark of excitement deep within him.

It had been a grim journey southward since the events at Ruby Ford. Bran still cursed himself in the dark hours for the terror he'd felt at the Prince's cruel sneer. He had wept bitterly in the nights that followed, mourning Summer's absence and longing, at times, to escape the South entirely and return to the familiar embrace of the North.

Worse still was the weight of being near the King and his retinue. Their casual disregard—or, worse, quiet defense—of Prince Joffrey's actions stoked a fury within him that he was too young to fully express. Yet now, as the carriage rattled through the cobbled streets, his head turned toward the looming landmarks of the capital, and his spirits found temporary solace.

There was the Great Sept of Baelor, a majestic beacon of faith with its soaring white domes and seven-pointed star glittering in the sun. His gaze followed the winding streets upward to the summit of Rhaenys Hill, where the broken silhouette of the Dragonpit stood in solemn ruin. The weight of history clung to those blackened stones, a reminder of the age when dragons ruled the skies and wars of fire and blood raged below.

Bran could scarcely contain his curiosity. "Father, can we explore the city?" he ventured, knowing even as he asked what his father's response would be.

Lord Eddard Stark's gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice grave. "Absolutely not, Brandon," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The city is dangerous, rife with cutthroats and schemes. If ever we leave the Red Keep's walls, you shall not stray an inch from my side."

Bran slumped back against his seat, grumbling under his breath. His father's keen ears caught the sound, and Eddard turned his sharp eyes upon his son, a silent warning that quieted any further protest. Yet even as the Warden of the North returned his gaze to the road ahead, Bran's thoughts lingered on the vast labyrinth of streets and alleys beyond the gates, his imagination running wild with the possibilities that awaited in the heart of the city.

They rode through the towering gatehouse, the great iron portcullis casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Bran craned his neck as they passed beneath, his wide eyes drinking in the sight of the Red Keep, its crimson stone glinting faintly in the fading light. A smile broke across his face as he marveled aloud, "The Red Keep, raised during the reign of Maegor the Cruel."

His voice carried a note of awe, though tinged with unease at the history he had read so diligently in the halls of Winterfell. "It is said," he continued, his words brimming with youthful enthusiasm, "that when the fortress was completed, King Maegor held a grand feast to honor the workers and masons who had toiled to see it built."

He fell silent for a moment, his expression shifting to one of solemnity as the darker part of the tale came to him. "But come morning, the King had them all cut down," Bran recited, his voice quieter now. "He feared that they knew too well the secrets of the keep—the hidden tunnels and passageways that might one day be used against him."

The shadow of the Red Keep loomed high above, its towers piercing the heavens like sharp thorns. Bran felt a shiver crawl down his spine, imagining the ruthless determination that had shaped the fortress, its very stones steeped in blood and treachery. His father, riding beside him, cast a sideways glance at his son's thoughtful expression but remained silent, the weight of their arrival in King's Landing pressing heavily upon him.

The wagon shuddered to a halt within the shadow of the Red Keep, and Bran glanced up to see his father, Lord Stark, stiffen as though bracing himself. Before he could speak, a man in the livery of the Red Keep approached swiftly, bowing low before him.

"Lord Stark," the man intoned, his voice smooth yet bearing the clipped urgency of one accustomed to the intrigues of the court. "You are most welcome to the Red Keep. I have been bid to escort you, my lord, for the Small Council has convened and awaits your presence for their first session with your lordship."

Bran noted the way his father's jaw tightened, a subtle movement that betrayed the weight of responsibility now resting upon him. Lord Stark turned to Jory, his tone measured but firm. "Jory, see that Bran and the girls are settled in."

Jory bowed his head. "As you command, my lord."

Septa Mordane stepped forward, her expression laced with maternal concern. "Will you return for supper, my lord?" she inquired, her voice tentative yet dutiful.

Lord Stark inclined his head in response. "I shall," he said simply, though Bran could sense the reservation beneath his words. Without further delay, his father followed the man, his strides purposeful but heavy as he disappeared into the Red Keep.

Bran watched him go, his gaze lingering as the pair moved toward the imposing silhouette of the Tower of the Hand, where his father's new chambers would lie. The grandeur of the Red Keep, with its red-stone walls rising like bloodstained battlements against the sky, seemed almost to consume his father's figure as he ascended its steps. Bran felt a pang of unease, a faint whisper of doubt that he could not yet name.

The scent of the city lingered in Bran's nostrils, a mixture of salt air and humanity pressed too close together. Jory's voice, steady and reassuring, broke through Bran's thoughts. "Come, young master," he said, gesturing gently. "We'll find your chambers and get you settled."

As the wagon creaked forward and the keep loomed ever larger, Bran turned his eyes from the retreating figure of his father to the labyrinthine fortress that would now be their home, his heart fluttering between curiosity and trepidation.

Later on, he and Arya would sneak about and explore.

- Winterfell -

Robb leaned back in his father's high seat, its carved direwolf heads seeming to loom over him as though judging his readiness for the role. The young Stark's gaze was sharp and unyielding as he looked down upon the slight man who stood before him. At his side sat Willam, his expression tight with restrained anger, and Rickon, fidgeting but wide-eyed with curiosity. The hall was colder than usual, or so it felt as the exchange began.

Only days prior, a raven had arrived from Jon at the Wall. Robb had lingered over the parchment, his heart heavy as he read of his brother's early struggles amidst the unforgiving life of the Night's Watch. Yet Jon's tone had shifted toward hopefulness, for he spoke of new companions and of the man he was becoming. Despite this, Robb could not escape the ache of loss. He had wished—still wished—that Jon might forgo the vows that would bind him forever to a life of duty. The prospect of his brother never returning to Winterfell was a wound that would not soon heal.

Among the letter's tidings was mention of the very man now standing in their hall, having come south from the Wall alongside wandering crows. Robb regarded him with suspicion, his blue-grey eyes narrowing. There was much to distrust about this man, more so for the lion sigil that marked his House.

"Winterfell and its warmth welcome any man of the Night's Watch," Robb began, his words steady and measured, though a flicker of steel edged his tone. His gaze lingered on Tyrion Lannister, sharp and watchful, as though daring him to refute the courtesy extended.

The Lannister dwarf tilted his head, his lips curling into a smirk that made the torches' glow flicker against his sharp features. Insolence seemed to cling to him like a second cloak. "Any man, but not I, boy?" he retorted, his tone light yet needling, cutting through the solemn atmosphere of the hall like a blade.

Robb bristled, his thoughts turning dark as the weight of recent events bore down upon him. The direwolves—symbols of the North and bonds of his family—had been cruelly slain on their way south. Accusations whispered of Lannister red cloaks, though no proof yet stood to confirm it. Yet in Robb's heart, the connection seemed as clear as the snow on Winterfell's grounds. He forced himself to swallow his anger, but it simmered close to the surface.

"I am the Lord here, Lannister," Robb said, his voice steady but his gaze unforgiving.

"Then learn a Lord's courtesy," Tyrion quipped, his words barbed yet said almost lazily. His sharp eyes trailed to the entrance of the hall, softening briefly as they caught sight of a familiar figure. "Ah, my beloved niece."

The doors parted to reveal Myrcella, who swept into the hall with the grace of a court-trained lady. Her demeanor shifted the air within the hall as she moved to Tyrion, her face alight as she bounded forward to embrace her uncle.

For the barest of moments, Robb felt a flicker of shame touch his conscience at his earlier thoughts. He cleared his throat, his voice steadying as he spoke. "Maester Luwin," he said firmly, "prepare my betrothed's uncle a chamber to rest in."

Tyrion cast Robb a sideways glance, his smirk deepening. "Pay no mind to me, Lord Stark," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I passed a brothel on my way here that looked warmer—and far more inviting—than these dour halls." His gaze returned to Myrcella, a rare softness in his tone. "The North seems to be making you colder, my dear."

Before Robb could interject, Myrcella spoke, her tone warm but breaking protocol with its boldness. "You should stay, Uncle. Supper is soon, and we can provide you and your companions with a place at the table."

Though unconsulted, Robb let it pass for now, though he marked it in his mind. Rising from his seat, he watched as Tyrion strode from the hall, his gait jaunty as Theon followed close behind.

Robb turned to Myrcella, his voice tempered but firm. "Princess, we only just held a feast. I do not think it wise to invite all of your uncle's guards to sup with us."

Myrcella flushed, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. "I am sorry, Lord Robb," she said quickly, abashed. "I didn't mean—"

Robb raised a hand, waving her apology away with a small sigh. "Forgiven," he said, his tone softening slightly. "Your uncle and his men will have a place. You are to be Lady Stark, my wife. Any word given by you is the word of House Stark."

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, before reaching out and taking his hand in hers. Myrcella gave it a small, grateful squeeze before retreating from the hall to find her uncle, her golden hair trailing behind her like sunlight against the shadowed stones.

Robb watched her go, his jaw tightening as his thoughts turned back to Tyrion. Whether the imp accepted their hospitality or not seemed of little consequence to Robb, but the presence of a lion in their den was not something he would overlook so easily.

The hall was nearly empty, the last echoes of departing footsteps fading into silence. Willam lingered near the entrance, his gaze cold and calculating as he stared toward the heavy wooden doors. Behind him, Rickon was at the long table, gleefully smashing walnuts with the hilt of a small knife, the crack and crunch filling the still air. The sharp sound was at odds with the heavy weight hanging in Willam's chest.

Robb shifted in his father's high seat, his shoulders tense as he leaned forward, his voice low. "I hope Mother isn't gone too long. Did you see?"

Willam's eyes narrowed as he gave a slight nod. "Yes," he said simply.

Robb's face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "He was looking for her," Robb muttered, his words carrying both irritation and concern. "Let's hope he believes the tale, that she's off to see to matters with House Hornwood."

Rising from the chair, Robb moved to place a hand on Willam's shoulder, his grip firm. The gesture carried both reassurance and an unspoken demand for focus. "We should train today, Will. I still owe you—for stopping me from thrashing that wretched Prince with live steel."

Willam let out a low grumble, shifting under his brother's touch. His frustration was not aimed at Robb but at himself. He wasn't blind to the gap in skill between them; Robb's prowess with a blade far outstripped his own. It gnawed at him, but more than that, it drove him. Someday, Robb thought humorously. Someday, he'll get better.

Robb gave Willam's shoulder a pat before turning toward the armory. Rickon, oblivious to their exchange, let out a triumphant laugh as he sent another walnut shell skittering across the table.

"Come on, then," Robb called over his shoulder, his tone lighter now, though the weight of their earlier conversation still clung faintly to the edges of his words.