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Chapter Text

Snow was falling.

It was the first thing he noticed through the haze and mist. The ground was covered in snow as far as the eye could see to the point he could barely see where he stepped. He moved instinctually, as he trusted his body to take him where he needed to be. Snowflakes gathered in his hair. If there was a chill, he scarcely felt it. 

He looked up, the sky above him grey and obscured. Shadows loomed over the space, making it feel even more desolate and empty. He stepped forward, eyes adjusting to the scarce source of light coming from above. It felt as if everything was steeped in grey. The crunch of snow under his boots echoed through the room, the only noise to be heard beyond his quiet breaths and the pounding of his own heart. The place felt hollow and unfamiliar to him.

He took one step, and then another, but he barely registered the movement. His gaze was fixated upon the stained glass image of the seven pointed star ahead of him. It was the only flash of color within the grey wasteland, the vivid blues and yellows standing out amongst it all.

Odd. He thought. He hadn’t seen the star of the seven in years.

His focus drifted back up again, head tilting as he took in the image before him. The roof was ragged and broken, as if it had been chipped away. Snow continued to fall as he stared. It hit his skin, and yet he barely felt a thing. Whatever this place used to be, it was in ruins now.

He’d never seen a place like this before. Not even in the worst of his dreams. It made him feel lonely. There was a hollowness to it all that unmoored him. Something terrible had happened here. He could feel it, deep in his bones. He would not be seeing it otherwise. 

A pit formed deep in his stomach.

He let himself properly look around the room. Even in the dim lighting, he could make out the colossal pillars holding the space from crumbling in on itself. The spiked bases beneath them were threatening, adding to the room’s general foreboding aura. He felt small and unwelcomed, yet continued ahead.

Why was I seeing this? He wondered.

He did not put much stock into dreams. They were fleeting, never truly amounting to much. They were as useful as prayers. If you believed in them, you were a fool. Many people had met their ruin chasing after dreams and prophecies. He did not intend to be one of them.

He turned to his right and found himself staring into an abyss of darkness. It was swamped in shadow, as if it did not wish to be seen. He cautiously tried to take a step in that direction, but found his feet would not move. He could not go there even if he tried.

A quiet huff of frustration slipped past his lips, staring into the void for a moment longer before finally turning away. His whole body tensed. It was like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. He found himself filled with a sense of dread as he finally turned to the left.

It loomed ominously above it all. A monstrosity of ragged edges and melted iron. The snow had covered it in a sheet of white, but could not hide its warped nature. Whatever this thing was, it was evil. Of that much he was certain. And yet, despite it all, he found himself moving towards it.

Stop. He tried to will himself away, but he could not control the dreams.

The snow was falling harder now. 

He found himself at the base of the seat steps. If he took the climb, he could never come back down. Once more, he felt small. He could not be certain if the throne was truly that large, or if the dream had distorted it, but either way it felt wrong.

He was not meant to be here.

He could not control his arm as it reached out to touch one of the blades, the palm of his scarred hand reaching out to feel its sharp edge. He was so close, and yet he felt so far away. 

He awoke with a gasp, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. He blinked rapidly as he tried to re-familiarize himself with his surroundings. The room at the inn was modest, with one singular widow allowing moonlight to pour in. The cot was thin and scratchy against his skin, only large enough for a single person.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed as he gripped at the edge of the hay stuffed mattress. He reached for the sword he had propped up against the side of his bed, glancing across the room towards the neatly stacked pile of his belongings.

He had realized one thing; it was time to go home. 

Chapter Text

Torchlight bathed the room in a warm glow. Nymeria sat in the embroidery circle, surrounded by the Stark girls and Wendolyn Manderly. Nymeria kept her focus on the task at hand. Golden thread weaved through soft silk with the same kind of tactility she used to string her bow. She had never been much of a perfectionist in her endeavors of painting but embroidery was different. She felt it needed a sort of foresight that she typically did not use when approaching other projects.

“They’ve been gone for some time now,” Lynara grumbled, growing bored of her listless attempt at mediocre embroidery. In more ways than one, she resembled her little sister. “They should be back.”

Theon Greyjoy and the Stark men had ridden out earlier, a deserter of the Night’s Watch having been caught fleeing. Nymeria almost pitied the man.

“I am sure they will be home soon…” She uttered softly, continuing her careful stitches with a steady hand. In and out, in and out, in and-

“They have never taken so long before.”

Fuck!

Her brow twitched, finger quickly shooting to her lips at the pain. She could hear Septa Mordane’s words in her head; Use a thimble, girl!

(She hated thimbles, just like she hated Septa Mordane.)

The girl tried not to scowl over the dot of red now staining the soft cream colored silk.

“I am sure they are fine,” Nymeria assured, shaking her head. She gently settled her hand over the top of Arya’s head, attempting to calm the squirming girl before she could-once again- be scolded by the Septa. “You know how they are, they have likely gotten distracted by one thing or another.”

“Oh,” Lynara waved her hand dismissively, seemingly unconcerned. “I am sure they are fine. I am only bored. I would have rather gone with them.”

“You are always bored.” Sansa mumbled under her breath petulantly. At sixteen, she was in a phase of finding everything and everyone irritating. Nymeria hid an amused smile. She could remember herself at that age, bright-eyed and determined, and how heightened every emotion had felt.

“Are we not entertaining enough for you, Nara?” Wendolyn questioned airly, her tone light and teasing. Wendolyn’s soft brown eyes were wide in amusement, shining in the torchlight. Her golden waves were pulled back into a simple braid, falling over one of her shoulders. “I feel hurt.” She pouted. Her embroidery hoop rested on her lap, giving the Stark girl her full undivided attention.

“You? Always. However, who am I with no brother to torment?” She stood, stretching her limbs. She looked every bit like her father, with straight raven hair and eyes that were the same cloudy grey as the North's overcast sky.

The small girl by Nymeria’s side darted off, earning a gasp of Arya! from the aforementioned septa. Arya ignored her in favor of pressing her face to the chilled glass of the window.

“They’re coming!” She cheered. “I see them! Father, and Robb, and Alaric, and-”

“We get it, Arya. They’re back,” Sansa huffed. 

Nymeria stood immediately, eager to reach her husband. She bundled up her skirts in her hands, rushing out the door despite the calls of Septa Mordane to come back! She found herself skipping over steps as she ran down the winding staircase of the Great Keep. She’d always been light on her feet, something her Uncle Oberyn had said made her good in a fight. She reached the base of the steps, and did not even think to find a spare cloak before she slipped out the door.

The cold hit her harshly. The northern winds were frigid, nipping at rosy cheeks and sinking into her bones. She had begun to grow accustomed to the temperatures over her time in Winterfell, acclimating from the arid heat she had grown with in Dorne.  

Nymeria Martell had been betrothed before she could even speak. A fresh babe, she had been. Not even old enough to speak for herself, or make her own wishes known. It was purely a stroke of luck that it had been Robb Stark that she now calls a husband. She was lucky, she knew that. Many women did not love their husbands, many more were with husbands who were terrible men. 

Neither of those things were true with Robb.

“What took you all so…” Her words trailed off as she caught sight of her husband's wide smile and the squirming bundle in his arms, his brothers trailing after him with excited smiles upon their faces. “What is it?”

The yard was busier than ever, with servants and staff alike all bustling about. She loved how alive Winterfell was. It had a living, breathing soul. For as barren as the North was, it never felt cold. It was home, for better or worse, and she’d come to love it more than anything.

“Direwolf pups,” he exclaimed breathily, dismounting from his horse. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and his eyes were wide in excitement. “Eight of them.”

Her eyes went wide at Robb’s words. “Eight?” She questioned, disbelief coloring her tone as he handed her the small pup he had been cradling. She took it, adjusting it in her arms on pure instinct. 

“This one's ours. I thought of naming him Grey Wind.”

Nymeria looked down. He was adorable. Possibly the cutest thing she has had the pleasure of seeing.“Grey Wind,” she cooed, rocking him as one would a human babe. The pup yawned, resting his head against her chest. “He is still frightfully young. He will need milk.”

“You sound like my father.” Robb teased, watching Nymeria handle the wolf as if it were her own child. “I have already told him I will provide anything Grey Wind may need.”

Nymeria hummed in acknowledgement, her gaze flicking back towards Robb. “And he will need a warm bed. He will not sleep in the kennels like some animal.”

Her husband chuckled. “Then he will sleep in bed with us.” He wrapped the tail end of his cloak around her shoulders, tucking her against his side. 

Nymeria immediately warmed at the contact, leaning into him. She held onto Grey Wind, falling into step besides Robb to join the Stark siblings, Wendolyn, and Theon where they gathered. . 

“We all get one?” Nymeria heard Sansa ask as they joined the group huddle. Sansa’s eyes were bright with excitement, just barely restraining herself from snatching one of the pups herself. 

“Yes.” Jon’s expression was firm and steely. “But father said it’d be your responsibility.”

“Oh! I’ll take care of her!” The young girl cried out, reaching for one of the pups Alaric was holding. “I swear it! I’ll take care of her!” She pleaded, eyes wide and desperate. 

Alaric looked at his siblings and shrugged. “She said she’d take care of it.” He dropped the pup into her arms, earning an excited squeal from the young girl. 

Nymeria laughed, her fingers brushing through Grey Wind’s fur. “I am sure she will do well. She has a good temperament.”

“Does she?” Arya grumbled from where she stood behind Jon. The two of them shared the Stark look of their lord father, with solemn grey eyes and dark hair. “Which one is mine?”

“I thought you could have this one,” Alaric grinned, nodding to one of the pups wiggling in his arms. The whole scene had Nymeria’s head spinning. She could only imagine how Lord Stark was going to explain this to his lady wife. “She seems feisty, like you.” 

Arya locked eyes with the pup, taking a long pause before finally; “I’ll take her!” 

“Mothers heart will stop.” Lynara laughed, taking one of the wolf pups for herself. 

“No fault of ours,” Alaric shot his twin sister a grin. “Only fathers.” His eyes gleamed with mischief, the pair wearing twin grins.

“Of course,” she responded, dry yet humorous. “Only fathers.” She parroted.

Nymeria shook her head as she laughed at the twins' antics. They never failed to make her laugh. She had known his family for years now, visiting often in her youth to acclimate her to the North, and she felt as though his siblings were her own. She loved them fiercely, and dreaded the day that they’d all have to go their separate ways. She wondered for a moment if her own family back in Dorne had felt that same melancholy when she’d left for Winterfell.

She gently nudged Robb with her shoulder, nodding in the direction of the Godswood once she caught his attention. They’d always had a knack for speaking without needing words. Sometimes it felt as though all it took was one glance to know what the other was thinking. It was a blessing of knowing each other for as long as they had.

They walked through the Godswood together in silence, the sound of the wind rustling the leaves echoing with every step. Even if she worshiped in the Light of the Seven, she held reverence for the sanctity of such a sacred place. She often liked to bring her prayer beads with her whenever she visited. Even if their Gods were different, she recognized it as somewhere holy all the same.

“What did you think?” Nymeria questioned, looking up at the red leaves of the old weirwood tree. “Of the deserter?”

“A mad man,” Robb dismissed. “Raving of tall tales worthy of Old Nan’s stories. Ice creatures and disappearing corpses.”

“Mhm,” Nymeria hummed, taking her seat on the tree's sprawling roots with Robb. She loved Winterfell’s godswood. It was a comforting place, a peaceful silence always blanketing over the wooded sanctuary. It was a good place to go whenever she wished to escape the bustling of Winterfell in exchange for some quiet. She set down Grey Wind, smiling as he waddled towards the water of the cold pool right in front of them. He barked at his reflection in the black water. “So it was nothing then?” 

“It was nothing, love.” Robb assured, resting his head atop of hers. “All is well.”  

Nymeria smiled, leaning into her husband’s embrace, and closed her eyes.

All was well.

Chapter Text

Something hung over Winterfell. Something dark and dreary. It felt oddly ominous despite the sun's rays beginning to break over the horizon line, painting the sky and ground in a warm golden glow. It was chilly, nothing new when it came to the North, but Lynara had hardly noticed the biting chill nipping at her bare skin. The young woman might as well have been made for this kind of weather. Her darling direwolf, Rose, was a rust colored blur, weaving between and around her legs. She was a hyperactive pup, chewing her way through anything that dared to stop her. Lynara’s door was no different, chunks of wood now missing from when she had been left alone in the girls chambers for only a moment.

The young direwolf barked as if she could speak, and if she could, then Lynara was sure she would have a lot to say. Lynara herself had never been one for idle gossip. She had little to no care for who did what or who Theon Greyjoy’s latest conquest has been (surprising as it is to her that he has gotten any to begin with). But word often spreads in Winterfell quickly, no doubt in thanks to the help of Nymeria’s meddling ladies. 

The royal family would be visiting Winterfell. She knew that much. Though she had never met the king and queen nor their family, she did not find the visit too odd considering the nature of her fathers relationship to the king. She and her siblings had been raised on stories of her fathers exploits with the future king Robert during his rebellion. Despite always being guarded and sparse with the details, the stories of the attempts to save her aunt Lyanna and avenge her uncle and grandfather had always seemed heroic when she was a young girl but now she saw it for what it was.

Wistful. Longing. Sad.

A tragedy.

The war had lingered long after its end.

It hung above everyone and everything, even now. Although it was scarcely talked about she could feel its presence looming. Like a ghost from one of Old Nan’s scary stories. It was all she could ever think about whenever she saw her aunt’s statue within the crypts.

She tried not to trip over Rose, having half the mind to simply bend over and scoop the little thing up, but before she could get the chance the pup took off. She yipped, chasing after her brother, Ice Eyes. Lynara followed, keeping an eye on the playful duo. The pair looked similar, nearly indistinguishable from one another. The pups gathered near the training yard, dashing around the outskirts of the area. Grey Wind, one of her brother’s pups, squirmed in Nymeria’s arms.

Lynara simply laughed as her good-sister set him down to join his siblings. 

Her steps led her up the old rickety stairs to the bannisters looking over the training yard. Her gaze fell on two of her brothers, Robb and Alaric. Robb was the eldest of the bunch. He took his responsibilities as a husband and future lord of Winterfell seriously, always having been the type to take care of his wife and siblings as much as he could. He shouldered it all with an ease Lynara had always envied. She wondered what it was like to be the beloved heir, the golden boy. She wondered how it’d feel to walk with the ease and freedom of a man. Of a first born son.

Alaric, her twin brother, on the other hand was a nuisance. She loved him dearly, yet she knew it to be true. All of the time he’d spent with Theon Greyjoy over the years had only made him more obnoxious than he already was. She could easily see how desperately he wanted the other boy to like him. Alaric had always been the type to seek out validation from others, even when they were children. 

Even now, Theon watched the fight, spurring the two of them on. He leaned in towards Nymeria, no doubt whispering to make a bet on who’d win. Her good-sister rolled her eyes, irritated and glowering. It seems Lynara was not the only one aware of their not-so-secret visitors coming from the South.

The clanging of their swords rang out. Steel against steel, a sharp grinding noise that could make ears ring. She loved it. She had always adored the feeling of a well balanced sword in her hand, and the pressure in a fight. It all felt like such a distant memory now. She can hardly recall the last time she had been able to practice without the constant scolding of Septa Mordane calling her away. 

“Did you hear?” Jon asked, cocking his head as his half sister came to stand beside him. His voice broke her from her thoughts.

“Hm?” She looked up, her gaze snapping away from the scene down below.

“Have you heard?” He repeated.

“Oh. Yes. I have.” Lynara hummed, leaning against the wooden railing of the bannister. “Word spreads fast.”

“Not much to gossip about otherwise.” Jon spoke plainly, pushing his hair away from his face. She never understood why he would not just tie it back. “Things have been too quiet as of late beyond the deserter.”

“Yes. I suppose so.” She shrugged. “What do you think?”

“Of the visit?”

“No, Snow. The weather.” She rolled her eyes.

He glared at her, his expression twisting into a scowl. “Very funny.” 

“I’m hilarious.” She shot back, shoving at his shoulder. “So, tell me. What do you think?”

Jon shrugged. “I do not think anything. Only trying to figure out where I’ll run off to hide. I doubt your mother will want me seen at the welcoming feast.” 

“I’ll sneak you some ale.” Her smile was teasing but her gaze was apologetic, guilty. As a child, she had never understood why Jon was treated so differently to her and their siblings. It wasn’t until she was older and able to grasp the concepts of bastards that she then understood. 

“I’d appreciate it…”

If anyone was to be blamed for Jon’s existence, it was father. She had never understood the point in blaming her half-brother for circumstances beyond his control. It was not his fault that their father had been unfaithful to her mother. It angered her, sometimes, when she was up late at night with nothing to do except ruminate. How could her mother turn a blind eye to father’s sins when he had dishonored her so? People did stupid things when they were in love, it seemed.

“Do you think they’re going to betroth Alaric to the princess?”

“It’s possible.” Jon contemplated. “Why else would they visit?”

Lynara hummed thoughtfully, her finger tracing over the wood grains of the railing. There was a guilty sort of relief that settled over her. The potential of a betrothal between Wendolyn and Alaric seemed to be becoming a dying concept. 

How long would it last?

Wendolyn in Winterfell, now that other options are being explored- how long till she has to go? Till her father finds another male prospect?

Lynara could still remember the day Wendolyn had first arrived to be a ward of Winterfell. It had been cloudless, with the rays of sunlight catching in golden-yellow hair. The middle of Sir Wylis Manderly’s daughters had smiled at her in greeting, and she had never wanted to be parted from her since. They had spent practically every waking moment of every day together, whether it was racing through the Wolfswood or gossiping in bed by candlelight, and the thought of losing that closeness was enough to make her sullen.

Why did their golden childhoods ever have to end?

It felt as though everyone was growing up now, even her direwolf pup, and it made her yearn for time to slow. It wouldn’t be long before her siblings were far from home, herself included, and it stirred up a feeling of dread that she couldn’t quite shake.

She rested her head against the palm of her hand, eyes drifting shut. Jon was silent but she could still feel his presence standing besides her, quiet and imposing. 

“Bran!” Jon called out suddenly.

Lynara’s eyes snapped open. She peered down the bannisters, her grey eyes going wide at the sight of her little brother hanging one-handed onto the lowest rung of the railing. “Bran!” She parroted her half-brother. “Get down! You’ll fall!” 

The boy was clinging to the wooden railing with all his might. “I’m fine!” 

Lynara clenched her jaw, shaking her head. She leaned over the railing, trying to get a hold of her stubborn baby brother. “You’re always getting into trouble! How many times must mother tell you not to climb things you should not?” 

“I know what I’m doing!” Bran yelped as Lynara gripped him by the back of his tunic, hauling him over the railings and onto the wooden floor. His brown eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked up at his two elder siblings, with an expression upon his face that was not too dissimilar to that of an animal who had been caught somewhere it shouldn’t be.

It reminded her a bit of their new pups, actually. Right down to the way he hung his head a bit at their scolding, eyes focusing down onto the wooden flooring beneath them as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. If he had a tail, then it most certainly would’ve been tucked behind him.

For a moment, the thought nearly made her laugh. “You can not just go climbing structures like this, let alone with a chaperone.” Jon frowned, as worry came across his features in the form of a furrowed brow. “You’re going to get hurt.” He looked, and sounded, so much like their father whenever he fretted.

It was one of the many things they had in common. She had always been told how similar she looked to her Lord-father, lacking any of the prominent Tully features that most of her siblings bore. It was something she also shared with her youngest sister, Arya, who often felt like her mirror image. She was wild, care-free, and hated rules. The adventurous part of Lynara that she’d worked hard to tame hoped that Arya never lost her free spirit.

She often wished she hadn’t lost hers, either.

“It’s not that high-up!” Bran whined.

“Brandon,” Lynara chided, as she mustered up her best impression of their mother. “I know it’s fun, but it’s also very very dangerous. What if you’d fallen? And got hurt? Summer would miss you so terribly, as would I.”

“And I,” Jon added.

Bran looked as though he was about to protest their words, mouth-opening to reply, before he suddenly looked incredibly guilt-ridden for someone so young. Lynara wondered if they had been a bit too harsh on him. It was just a bit of fun, after all, even if it was dangerous. But the closer she looked, the more obvious it became that he wasn’t looking at them at all.

Instead, his gaze was focused in the space directly behind them.

That could only mean one thing.

Or, more precisely, one person.

“Mother!”

She whirred around the moment Bran uttered the word, finding herself face to face with her mother’s blue eyes and sternest gaze.

“Lynara, what is the meaning of this!?”

Gods have mercy, she was in trouble.

Chapter Text

Nymeria Stark was not one to be so easily flustered. However, as she had now learned, preparing for the arrival of the royal family was hard work. In an endless cycle she ran around Winterfell carrying out tasks with Lady Catelyn. It had felt like a month of never-ending work. There had been little time to rest. It felt as though every time she tried to get off her feet, something new needed her attention.

It did not help that Lynara, her favorite helper, had gotten into so much trouble with her brothers that she had spent most of the last few weeks hiding away in the Godswood or in her chambers. She didn’t dare to ask Sansa for help, as the teen would’ve surely rebuffed her, and as much as Arya was probably dying for something to do… she did not want to risk Lady Catelyn’s wrath if something went awry.

“You look like death warmed over.” Theon had cackled earlier, eyeing her frizzed hair and weary expression with a resounding lack of sympathy. 

She had only rolled her eyes, shoving the stacks of fresh linens she had been carrying into his arms. “Then be a gentleman and be useful for once.”

“Oh, no! I can not—!”

“Go now! We have yet to finish!” 

The Stark’s ward scampered off, having no choice but to listen. He knew better than to argue with Nymeria when she was in a cross sort of mood. 

Now she stood between Alaric and Robb, her back tense and her head held high. Her lips tilted up in the briefest moment of amusement as Arya scampered by, huffily pushing her way past Bran and Sansa with an annoyed “Move!” which caused Lynara to bark out a quiet laugh as Sansa shuffled towards her to give the youngest Stark girl space to stand. 

Nymeria shook her head, refocusing on the incoming guests. The reassurances that Robb whispered into her ears the previous night swirled through her mind. 

The weeks will be over before you even know it. He had said. It will be as if they were never even here. 

Dread coiled around her shoulders, pressing down against her collar bones as the gates opened. It felt as if the king's entire army had ridden in, infesting the land like a swarm of cockroaches. 

There were hundreds of people in the procession, with so many banners flying that she could barely make sense of it all. All she knew is that she was sick of seeing the colors crimson and gold. It was hard to keep track of who was who, but she did her best to identify everyone she saw.

The kingslayer was at the head of the group, if the golden hair peaking out from underneath his golden armor was anything to go by, with the crown prince trailing not far behind him. They were flanked by Sandor Clegane, whose elaborate helmet did nothing to hide the ugliness lurking underneath. She would never forgive his family for the evil they’d inflicted upon her own.

While some may have forgotten the crimes of House Baratheon and House Lannister in the wake of the Rebellion, she would never forget the fact they had raped and killed her aunt Elia before murdering her two young children. She would never understand how her father could ignore such a crime. These people were monsters, and they deserved to pay for what they had done to House Martell. The fact that Ser Gregor Clegane, of all people, lived and breathed while her aunt rotted underneath the cold ground was enough to turn her murderous.

It made welcoming them warmly a near impossible task. Yet, as always, she performed her duties with grace. Even if every fibre of her being wished to jam a spear through their skulls.

A man as large as a wild boar rode in behind the ornate carriage that was undoubtedly carrying the Queen and her ladies. He looked bloated, haggard, and ugly. Was this the great warrior they sang songs of all throughout the kingdom? The mighty dragon-slayer, the demon of the trident? He looked nothing more than a pathetic old man.

Her good-father knelt to the ground at the sight of the king and the rest of Winterfell followed his lead. As little as she respected Robert Baratheon, she did not wish to lose her head for insolence. She dropped to her knee in a bow, eyes shifting to where her husband knelt beside her.

Robb was freshly shaved for the occasion, with his hair having been sheared and styled to be out of his face. He looked… groomed. She could not say it was her favorite look. Nymeria preferred her husband bearded, wild, and every bit the wolf she knew him to be. Although she supposed the future lord of Winterfell did need to maintain appearances.

The wolf could stay between the two of them. She watched passively as the oaf they called a king stepped off his horse onto the offered step stool. She wondered if the man was drunk. She had to resist the urge to grimace at the sight of him. Nymeria knew that her eyes were meant to be downwards, but she could not stop herself from wanting to see who was before her.

She’d never understand how anyone bowed to this man.

It felt as though the entire courtyard was standing still. Beside her, she could hear the way Alaric was trying to keep his breathing steady. Robert Baratheon approached her father-by-law with heavy steps. She could scarcely see what was happening from her spot beside her husband, but she caught a glimpse of Lord Eddard rising out of the corner of her eye and took it as her sign to follow suit.

Nymeria did not wish to spend a second longer on her knees.

“You’ve got fat,” The king was speaking directly to his old friend.

Robb looked her way the second the words were uttered.

Can you believe this? His eyes said.

Yes, actually, she could.

Ned Stark said nothing in return, offering only a look the other man’s way. The king laughed in response before pulling the other man in for a hug. She heard Lord Stark chuckle as the two of them pulled apart, a rare feat considering how sternly he typically presented himself.

As the king exchanged pleasantries with her mother-by-law, she allowed her gaze to drift around the courtyard. She spotted the king’s youngest brother, Ser Orys, amongst the crowd. He bore a striking resemblance to his eldest brother, but looked absolutely miserable from where he stood near the gates. He was dressed head to toe in golden armor, standard wear for the Kinsguard, but wore a sword that’s hilt was clearly styled with the horns of a stag.

Her focus shifted away as the doors to the ornate bespoke carriage that was carrying the rest of the royal family finally opened. A gaggle of handmaidens descended down the stairs, giggling merrily the whole time, before the young prince Tommen and the two princesses followed suit.

Myrcella was sweet-faced and youthful, while her elder sister was every bit the lioness that her mother was. If the King had gotten his way all those years ago, then it would’ve been his eldest daughter Alyssa standing where she did now.

She did not know why that thought bothered her as much as it did.

Nymeria quickly shook the image away as her attention fixated solely on a young raven haired woman that was descending the steps with the help of one of the Kingsguard.

Tara Arryn.

Prince Joffrey’s new bride had been a ward of her father’s in her youth. She saw Lady Arryn as a sister, and it was her presence alone that made this entire spectacle worth it in her eyes. If seeing her was the only good thing about these weeks, then so be it. She’d grit her teeth and bear it as she always did.

Cersei Lannister walked down the staircase with all the enthusiasm of an animal being sent to slaughter. She looked bored already, the smile on her face looking more pained than joyful. In an odd sort of way Nymeria could understand the Queen’s frustrations, seeing as she also wished to be literally anywhere else at this very moment in time.

“What have we here?” The King’s voice boomed out from beside her. He greeted her husband with a grin and a firm handshake. “You must be Robb.”

He spoke with pride, undoubtedly due to being his namesake, and had a twinkle in his blue eyes that made her almost take pity on him.

Almost.

Robb’s jaw was clenched tight. He said nothing in reply, opting to only bow his head in respect, as he shook the King’s hand in return. She could tell from the look on his face that her husband did not like or respect the man standing before him.

That mere thought alone pleased her.

Robert Baratheon set his sights upon her the moment he let go of her husband’s hand. He looked at her as if he was seeing her solely as a piece of meat. It made her feel like an object, yet she held her head high as he began to approach her.

“Not often you find a snake in the North.”

Her curtsy was smooth and well practiced. A bitter taste settled over her tongue as if she had sucked on a particularly sour lemon. Robb’s shoulder brushed against hers, a warming and comforting touch. She ached to take his hand in her own, wishing for a more solid comfort.

But she refused to show weakness in front of the royal family, so her hands stayed firmly in place at her sides despite every fibre of her being wanting to reach out for her husband. 

“I would hardly call myself a snake any longer, your grace.” Her smile was dazzling, her eyes crinkling forcibly at the corners as she peered up at the king. “It is a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance.” 

The king moved on, the gravel crunching under heavy leather boots. His focus shifted to where her brother-by-law stood beside her. “Alaric.” He greeted, reaching forward to firmly shake the younger man’s hand. “Gods, the ladies must love you.”

“Aye, you could say that.” Alaric replied, earning a hearty chuckle from the King. 

“This one's going to be trouble, Ned!” Robert called out, still laughing, before he finally broke the handshake. His gaze immediately shifted to where Lynara stood side by side with her twin brother. His eyes widened the moment he saw her, looking as though he’d seen a ghost. 

Something about his stare made Nymeria deeply uncomfortable. 

“If I were a fool, I would have thought you to be your aunt.”

Nymeria’s eyes snapped towards Lynara, head tilting in a barely perceptible movement. Lynara’s smile was strained. The girl had lost count as to how many times she’d heard these words fall from the lips of their guests over the years. “Thank you, your grace.” 

Nymeria released a relieved breath as the King finally moved onto the next sibling. Her gaze darted towards the queen, keeping her smile pleasant and friendly. 

Cersei Lannister looked just as miserable up close as she did from afar. She was a beautiful woman, with golden locks of hair and deep green eyes, but the expression upon her face was one of barely contained disgust.

She must’ve looked at her husband this way often. The thought came, sarcastic and biting. The older woman's eyes lingered on her father-by-law, lips twisting upwards as Lord Eddard kissed the back of her hand. 

“My queen.” He greeted, echoed by Lady Catelyn. Nymeria barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes, gaze flicking towards Robb in exasperation. His head tilted in acknowledgement. They’d both much rather escape this affair than continue standing before the royal family.

Just a little longer, she assured herself. 

“Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

The old bastard had a sense of respect? Color me surprised. She did not think the fool was capable of such a thing. 

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.” The queen protested. Nymeria hated to agree with the woman but her words rang true. The visitors looked cold and exhausted, likely having ridden since dawn. Tara was arm in arm with her husband, with a smile upon her face despite the circumstances. The sight of her was enough to make Nymeria grin. 

“Ned.” Robert nodded at the man, urging him to lead them on. Lord Eddard took the lead, taking the man down to the crypts. Catelyn heaved a weary sigh as they disappeared out of view.

Cersei did not stick around for any further greetings, stepping aside as quickly as possible as she made a beeline towards her twin brother. The words they whispered were unintelligible from this far away, but it was clear from the look on the Kingslayer’s handsome face that he was annoyed by whatever it was she had said.

“Lady Stark,” Tara greeted warmly, taking control of the awkward situation with the skill of a future queen. “You are as lovely as your sister described, as is Winterfell. It’s a pleasure to be your guest these next few weeks.”

Prince Joffrey had taken after his mother in more ways than one if the scowl upon his pinched face was anything to go by. He pouted in silence as his wife led the conversation.

“I was sorry to hear about your uncle,” Catelyn replied. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you, it means more than you know.” Tara said softly. “I’ve been keeping your sister and nephew in my prayers.”

Lady Catelyn looked as though she was about to ask more about her dear sister, but she was interrupted before she had the chance to utter so much as another word by a grating voice.

“I’m cold!” The little princeling, she believed he was named Tommen, shrilly whined. “Can we go inside already?”

“Funny,” Joffrey scoffed. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”

Were all of these stags going to be as insufferable as this lot?

Tara, however, seemed entirely unfazed by the attitudes of those around her.

“How about a tour of Winterfell?” Nymeria chimed in, earning a look of confusion from her husband and his siblings at the offer. Her desire to reconnect with an old-friend outweighed her hatred of this particular family.

“I’d love that,” Princess Alyssa, dressed head to toe in crimson, finally spoke. “Is it true you have an indoor garden?”

“Yes.” Nymeria smiled. It did not seem to reach her eyes. “You are speaking of the glass gardens. We can start there if you’d like.”Alyssa smiled merrily at that, turning to her soft-faced handmaiden with a look that said she had been looking forward to this one particular thing for a very long time, before turning back to her and offering only a simple nod of yes.

Rudeness ran in the family, it seemed.

“Perfect!” Nymeria forced a cheery tone. “If you’d all follow me…”

All of this would be worth it, she reminded herself as they headed out towards the Godswood, and it would be over soon if not. Her husband fell into step beside her and sneakily reached for her hand, offering a small squeeze of reassurance before he began to tell their golden-haired guests about the history of Winterfell and the Stark family.

Nymeria looked behind her shoulder and shared a look with Lady Arryn that no one else seemed to catch before she turned back around and smiled, really smiled, for the first time all day.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so awful after all.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alight with the sound of laughter and merriment. The smell of spiced ale and smoked venison filled the air. In all of her twenty years, Quinn Lefford had never seen a sight so lively. Her mother had never been one for hosting, more often than not withdrawn into her prayers, and her father did not like to flaunt their wealth. Her childhood had been one of relative isolation.

It’s why she was grateful for the princess. If it had not been for Alyssa Baratheon, she would likely still be trapped within the Golden Tooth. Becoming her lady-in-waiting had changed the course of Quinn’s life for the better.

She leisurely sipped at her goblet of wine. Quinn had never been one for drinking, although she could see the appeal for those who had nothing better to do with their time. She hated feeling inebriated, as though she could not control her own thoughts and actions. But the princess drank as if there were no tomorrow, having taken after her uncle in regards to her love of wine.

While Alyssa sat with her siblings and the Stark children near the head of the table, Quinn had been put with Nymeria Martell’s ladies in waiting towards the end. It had taken a few drinks for them to warm up to her presence, although even now she felt apprehension. Dorne certainly held no love for the crown. She had seen the way Nymeria had glared at Cersei Lannister as she took her seat at the high table. It was a glare of pure unfiltered hatred, and it had only made her wish that she’d been seated closer to the future Lady of Winterfell.

There was scarcely anything she enjoyed more than getting to mock the Queen.

“Do you like it in the capital?” One of the girls, a pretty blonde named Jennelyn, had asked in between bites of her honeyed bread. “I’ve heard it’s a horrible place, and that the smell of rot reeks everywhere you go. It must be miserable.”

“It can be horrible at times.” Quinn took another gulp of her wine. “But it has its virtues, too.”

“Is it true that Alaric is going to marry the princess?”

She froze at the question, caught off guard by the bluntness of it. How did they know about that? Quinn had only just learnt about the betrothal during their trip to Winterfell, and she had ways of knowing about almost anything happening within the Red Keep. It was supposed to be a secret, although she knew that meant truly little in the grand scheme of things, and even the princess herself had not been told yet.

“Maybe,” She responded coyly. Even if they had caught her off guard, it did not show on her face. She had become an expert in masking her true feelings. “Do you think he’d like it in the capital?”

“No,” Elysia, a soft-featured girl with wide brown eyes, immediately replied. “I don’t think he would.”

Interesting,

Quinn had once been told that there was an art to reading others. That if you knew what to look for, then everyone you met became an open book. For some it could take years to learn this skill, while for others it came naturally. She liked to consider herself a part of the latter group.

Elysia could scarcely hide her blush, nor the look she’d sent the princess’ way when she’d been escorted in to feast by the Stark’s second son. Alaric was objectively handsome, with blue eyes and a dimpled smile, but it was not enough to charm her. Or Alyssa, for that matter, if the bored expression on her face as he spoke meant anything at all.

“If you say so,” Quinn shrugged. “You certainly know him better than I do.”

Jennelyn laughed merrily at that, hiding a fit of giggles behind her hand. It was still not enough to stop Elysia from sending a sharp glare in her direction, which only made her laugh more. They interacted with the kind of familiarity that only years of friendship could foster.

It bored Quinn.

Perhaps it was a general feeling of restlessness spawned from the month of travels, but she felt as though she might drop dead if she spent another second amongst them. The conversation had begun to dissolve into fawning over the elaborate golden hair piece holding Nymeria’s hair in place. Which, while undoubtedly beautiful and finely made, was the last thing she wished to spend her evening discussing.

“Would you excuse me?” She asked the girl sitting beside her, some wisp of a thing named Mira, before standing to her feet. Quinn climbed off the bench they were seated on with all of the grace one could muster in that position. Which was, to say, not very graceful at all.  But she had never been one for propriety, and nobody within the hall seemed to care what she was doing or where she was going.

Why would they? In the grand scheme of things, she was nobody.

She weaved past servants, many of whom were carrying trays of ale and mead, on her way to the exit. Ethan was standing guard tonight, judging by the way the Kingslayer roamed about freely, and she knew he’d gladly cover for her absence. Her little brother was better than her in every way imaginable. Soft where she was sharp, and kind where she was cruel. She hated that he would have to spend the rest of his life as a glorified sentry for unworthy kings.

Robert Baratheon was a drunken lecher, and his heir was an arrogant little shit. The thought of her brother giving his life for either one of them was enough to fill her with rage. For as much as she loved the princess, she truly did despise the royal family. It was a wonder to her how such a rotten tree could produce something as good as Alyssa.

She looked back to the table she’d abandoned with worry. Was she making a mistake by leaving the princess alone with the wolves? All her concern vanished when she saw Alyssa laughing along with Lady Sansa, a pretty girl with copper hair much like her own, as the Stark’s ironborn ward waved his arms about dramatically as he spoke. If anything, her presence would only be a hindrance.

Quinn smiled and continued on towards the door. The sound of music began to fill the room as the king’s bard started his rendition of the Rains of Castamere. She hummed along under her breath, the melody practically ingrained in her memory after having heard it so many times at court. The Lannisters were a proud family, and they never wasted an opportunity to play their victory march. 

She slipped out the door just as Marillion started in on the second verse.

Ethan was waiting in the hall, just as she’d predicted, with his white cloak and golden armor. It never failed to amaze her how much the full regalia aged her brother. It made him look like a grown-man, instead of the gap-toothed boy she knew him to be. She’d forever struggle to reconcile that the baby brother she loved was now a knight of the Kingsguard.

“Quinn,” Ethan huffed. “What are you doing?”

“Going for a walk,” She grinned. “Care to join me?”

Even now, she knew how to irritate him like no one else could.

“Very funny,” He tried to straighten out his posture, but was weighed down by the heavy golden armor all the men of the Kingsguard wore. “If you wish to freeze to death, then by all means be my guest.”

“It was worth a try,” She quipped. “Did you know that you’ve become very serious since being appointed to the Kingsguard? I hardly see you smile anymore.”

“It’s a very serious position.”

“Indeed,” she murmured. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

She started to make her way down the hall when her brother’s voice suddenly rang out.

“Quinn!”

She turned back around the moment he’d called. Even behind his helm, she could see the warm brown of his eyes. He took after their father, with dark hair synonymous with the Lefford name,  whereas she had always been told she was the spitting image of their mother. The differences did not matter to her, for they were siblings all the same.

“Be safe,” He smiled, showing off the gap between his teeth as he did so. It was the one feature he shared with their mother that she did not.

Quinn cackled in amusement before turning back around and continuing down the hall. It took her mere minutes to find a way outside, slipping past Ser Orys without so much as a word. The King’s youngest brother was many things, but friendly was certainly not one of them.

Ethan had told her that he was stern, and that did not surprise her given his general demeanor. He seemingly sucked the air out of every room he was in. It was no wonder his own brother had sent him out into the bitter cold for the evening. She had never once seen the man smile.

Winterfell was gorgeous, more so than she would’ve ever admitted, with buildings so ancient it was hard not to marvel at the sheer history of them. She had always been fond of reading as a girl, having often spent whole days nestled away in the tiny library of the Golden Tooth with history books in her lap. Her favorite stories were those of the conquest, but she had a special place in her heart for the ancient tales of the long night. The sun, the moon, and the stars were the famed heroes of old. She knew they were just fables, mythical figures who may have never existed at all, but she liked to imagine they might have treaded the very same ground.

She let her gaze drift to one of the tall towers of the Castle, the sounds of birds cawing ringing out in the distance. There was something hauntingly beautiful about Winterfell. Not to mention it was huge, at least in comparison to her family’s keep. The Golden Tooth was small, with more vaults for gold than rooms for people. She shivered at the thought of what the weather must be like back home. This chill almost made her miss the Westerlands.

Almost.

It was far colder than she thought it would be, with goose pimples breaking out across her skin as the wind hit her full force, but it was not enough to send her back inside. If anything, the chill made her feel alive. She walked towards the courtyard with hurried steps, her dark blue dress dragging on the ground behind her as she moved.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The sound grew louder with every step she took.

“May I ask what he did to deserve it?”

Jon Snow whirred around suddenly, his brown eyes wide as saucers. It seemed as though she had caught him by surprise. The thought alone was enough to make her smile. She had taken note of him earlier in the courtyard, catching a glimpse of him from where he stood behind his trueborn siblings, but he had snuck off before she was able to properly introduce herself.

The Gods worked in mysterious ways, it seemed.

He opened his mouth, yet no words escaped him. She had rendered him speechless.

“By all means, do not stop on my account.” She waved her hand in the direction of the hay target he’d be attacking with vigor. 

He blinked once, twice, and again before it seemed that his senses finally returned to him.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” He sighed.

“Yet here I am,” She replied with a teasing grin. “Are you going to tattle on me?”

He looked insulted at the notion.

Jon Snow was a pretty lad of twenty and one, with dark curls and pouty lips. Despite being a year older than her, they were roughly the same height. He bore a striking resemblance to his lord father. There was no question that he had Stark blood, even if he bore the bastard surname Snow.

“No,” he countered. “But you still shouldn’t be out here. You’ll freeze with no cloak, you southrons aren’t made for this weather.” 

It was chilly. The northern bite to the air was one she was not accustomed to. It had never gotten this cold in all of her years living at the Golden Tooth, nor during her time in King’s Landing. It was a foreign sensation to be freezing to the point she felt it deep within her bones.

“I do not think anyone is made for this weather,” She scoffed. “Perhaps you all learned to adapt over time, but living in this type of chill can surely not be normal.”

“If you think this is chilly, then I’d like to see you in true winter.”

He set his sword down against the wooden fencing of the yard as he cautiously stepped closer. She watched him intently, never letting her gaze drift from his form. This was far more fun to her than sitting inside some crowded hall with a bunch of people who were so drunk that they could scarcely hold a conversation.

“Why?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. She clasped her hands behind her back as she took a few leisurely steps in his direction. “Do you have a thing for freezing maidens who you can save from the bitter cold?”

“No!” He spat it out immediately. The look of insult upon his face was enough to almost make her laugh. “All I’m sayin’ is your tone would change if you ever experienced real winter.”

“Would it?” She tilted her head as she studied his face. “Why are you out here, then?”

A dark look came over his features at her question. It was clear that she’d struck a nerve, given the way he literally retreated backwards. Jon looked up at the moon, the silver light illuminating his features, before he let out a heavy sigh.

“Lady Stark did not find it appropriate to seat a bastard in their midst,” He sounded tired. “So, here I am.”

Oh.

Quinn sucked in a deep breath as guilt gnawed at her ribcage. She knew that bastards were often mistreated, but it had never crossed her mind that he’d be excluded from the feast because of his surname. She should have known better. As much as she liked to pride herself on her ability to read people, there was still a lot she did not see.

“I’m sorry,” It slipped out without thinking. “That’s not very fair.” 

“I could not be allowed to insult the queen's delicate sensibilities. It would’ve been a dishonor.”

“The queen is anything but delicate,” Quinn snorted. “They’d have my tongue if I ever spoke my mind on her.”

“Well,” Jon looked around the training yard before he finally met her gaze. For a brief moment, she thought she saw the hints of a smile. “There’s nobody here to hear you but me.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow as a form of silently questioning him. She often had to hold her tongue around most men she met. They were often threatened by women who spoke their mind, least of all a woman who spoke with the type of candor society had only allowed men. But Jon only nodded in response, with a look of genuine curiosity in his big brown eyes.

“In that case,” She started. “I think she’s a royal cunt.”

There was a long beat of silence.

For a moment, Quinn worried she’d completely misread their exchange. Did she go too far? Gods, if he told anyone what she said… Ilyn Payne would be cutting off her tongue. Or even worse, her head. As much as she loved the idea of going down in infamy, dying was not very high on her list of priorities.

Jon started to laugh. Not just any kind, either, but the sort of deep belly laugh that only occurred when somebody was truly amused. His entire face lit up as he did so, which only caused her to start laughing too. They stood there for what felt like hours just giggling like fools, until their laughter eventually died down. The silence that enveloped them both was oddly comforting.

“I’d hate to leave you out here alone,” She said after a moment. Quinn let her gaze rake over the training yard as she tried to find anything they could talk about. Her focus eventually settled onto a pair of wooden swords met for children. “Want to go a few rounds with those?” She nodded in the direction of the play swords with a smile.

Jon looked at her inquisitively. “You know how to fight?”

“Gods, no.” Quinn shook her head. “I tried to join my brother's fighting, once, as a girl. It went about as well as you‘d expect. My father found us and put a stop to the whole thing.”

In truth, her father had never known about her attempt at trying to spar with Ryam and Ethan. Although she did not doubt he would have screamed until his throat was raw if he had. She had been thoroughly swayed away from the training yard when Ryam had cut her from collarbone to shoulder with live steel. To this day, he claimed it was an accident. But she knew in her heart that he had meant to make her bleed.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jon replied.

He still looked quite serious, but there was a hint of joviality in his gaze that amused her. Who knew that the bastard of Winterfell could smile? It was a secret that she was going to keep all to herself. She had always liked knowing things that no one else did.

“Indeed,” She beamed. “Perhaps you’ll teach me, then?”

He paused at her words, a look of apprehension on his face.

“Or not,” Quinn pivoted. She breezed past him with ease, the edges of her skirts bunched up in her grasp, as she made her way towards the wooden swords. “It can’t be that difficult to get a hang of.”

“What are you doing?”

She picked up one of the training words, feeling the small markings etched into the finely carved wood, before she twirled it playfully. It was a bit heavier than she thought it would be, but still quite easy to hold. She had never understood what it was about these things that turned the men that wielded them into such beasts.

“Fighting you.” She pointed the sword in his direction.

“What?” 

He looked just as baffled as he sounded. It was easy to wonder if she was once again overplaying her hand, but fortune did favor the bold. Besides, she was having far too much fun to care about the consequences of her cravenness.

“You heard me,” She chirped. “I’m challenging you to a duel, Jon Snow.”

Jon raised an eyebrow in response, the hesitation slowly melting off his features. Once more she was greeted with the familiar feeling of satisfaction. There was a perverse sense of pleasure in getting to sway someone to her side, or at the very least convincing them to do something they shouldn’t. It made her feel powerful.

(A feeling she had been chasing her whole life.)

“Are you?” Jon took a few steps away from her. His gaze flickered to where the training swords laid, before focusing back onto her form. She smiled, as if daring him to make a move, and that was all it took for him to rush off in an attempt to grab one from the pile.

Quinn chased after him as quickly as she could, the fear of tripping over her own gown floating around in the back of her mind. Of all the men to embarrass herself in front of, she supposed there could be worse ones than Jon Snow. Like the sword of the morning, or that little ferret faced Frey who always leered at her whenever they both were in attendance at court.

The sheer thought of him made her shudder.

Jon was quicker than she thought he’d be, a sword already in hand by the time she got anywhere near him. He wielded it with the comfort of someone who had been doing this their whole life. He might have been a bastard, but there was no mistaking that he had received a proper lord’s training.

“‘M not going to take it easy on you,” He warned. Jon was holding his sword in one hand, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as he watched her carefully.

“I’d never expect you too,” Quinn retorted.

And, with that, they were off.

Quinn tried to strike first, having rushed at him as quickly as she could in an attempt to hit him directly in the chest. Jon dodged her with ease, whirring around to lightly smack her in the back. She huffed at the contact, but did not let it deter her from trying again. She ran at him a second time, their swords finally making contact with a heavy clopping sound. It was easy to see why her brothers had loved the training yard so much as boys, as this was more fun than any sewing circle she had ever been forced to participate in as a girl.

She had never wanted to truly try her hand at embroidery, for fear of liking it just as much as her mother did, and therefore had always made sure her stitching was sloppy whenever she was seated in lessons with her Septa.

“Adjust your grip,” Jon suggested. “Put your dominant hand above the other.”

Quinn looked down at her hands with wide eyes, and a faint blush began to spread across her cheeks as the realization of her grip being wrong the whole time settled over her.

She fixed her hold on the hilt of the wooden sword as quickly as she could, earning a quiet mumble of that’s better from Jon once she finally got it right, and returned the favor by attempting to strike him once more.

Jon laughed in audible surprise at her actions as he parried her attack.

“Is that supposed to be a thank you?”

“No.” She replied.

It only made him laugh harder.

They danced around the courtyard in their own queer sort of way, dodging and lunging with the reckless abandon of youth. It felt like time was standing still. Quinn could hardly recall the last time she’d ever had this much fun. She tried to rush at him again, laughter escaping her as she swung at his side, but suddenly found herself tumbling forward into Jon Snow’s arms.

Fuck.

The edge of her heel had gotten caught on the skirt of her gown, and it had sent them both toppling to the ground despite Jon’s attempts to steady her fall.

They hit the ground with a loud thud. The wind had been thoroughly knocked out of them both, judging by the wheeze he let out as he collided with the floor. Quinn’s hands were gripping onto his shoulders, her training sword having fallen from her grasp in the chaos of the moment, and her breathing was ragged as she tried to process what had just happened.

She let her gaze focus solely onto him. It was as close as they had been all night, their faces mere inches apart from one another’s, and the urge to turn this into something more was clawing away in the back of her mind. There was no denying that he was handsome, but the thought of having him here felt wrong for a reason she couldn’t quite place. It felt like her mind was at war on what to do, especially when every instinct within her wanted to turn this into another conquest.

It was what she always did when someone got too close.

“Are you alright?”

Jon’s voice brought her back from the metaphorical ledge.

“Quite cozy, actually…” She teased. “This is my favorite position.”

The sight of a blush spreading across his cheeks was enough to make her whole year.

“I-” Jon opened his mouth to speak, but he was quickly cut off.

“As fun as this was,” Quinn pushed herself off of him suddenly, the urge to run overcoming her senses as she all but rushed to her feet. “I better head back inside before I freeze.”

Or before she does something she regrets.

Quinn grabbed the hem of skirt once more, determined to avoid tripping twice in one evening, as she marched back the way she came. She liked to keep people on their toes. If nobody ever knew what you were up to, then you’d always have the upper hand. There was no better gift than the one of surprise. It gave Jon Snow a chance to wonder about her, to form some image of who she was in his head that she could inevitably never live up to.

Being idealized was certainly easier than being known.

“Quinn!”

His voice rang out from somewhere behind her, clear as a bell despite the noise from the feast drowning out all else. She had gotten several paces ahead by now, yet she stopped completely in  place once he’d called out to her. It wasn’t him speaking that had given her pause, however, but the fact that he had spoken her name.

A name she had never given him.

Quinn could not fight the smile that spread like wildfire across her face.

The courtyard was now bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, illuminating them both in a soft incandescent glow. There was something almost dream-like to the scene before her as she turned around to face him once more. It was hard to temper her smile, but she managed to at least feign a look of relative disinterest.

“Yes?” She hummed.

She couldn’t see him well from this far away, but there was a certain softness behind his gaze that was unmistakable even with the distance. Nobody had ever looked at her that way before. There was something about it that almost made her uncomfortable, but couldn’t quite name or place why.
Finally, Jon spoke.

“Goodnight.”

It was all he said.

And, perhaps, it was all he needed to say.

“Goodnight, Jon Snow.”

Chapter Text

Ethan Lefford had always wanted to be a knight.

Some of his earliest childhood memories were of his mother’s maid telling them stories of Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire Egg. While his siblings had listened with waning interest, he had absorbed every word with rapt attention. He had been a sickly babe, born nearly two moons too early, and his survival had been considered nothing short of a miracle by the maester.

If someone like Ser Duncan could rise to become Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, then it felt possible that he could be knighted one day as well.

His eldest brother, Ryam, had called him a fool for believing such a thing.

“You’ll never be a knight,” He’d jeered once while out in the valley of the Golden Tooth, their father’s attention always focused anywhere but his two young sons. “You can barely hold a sword.”

Even now, the memory made him smile. There was scarcely a thing Ethan enjoyed more than proving others wrong. The look on Ryam’s face when he’d been knighted by Ser Jaime had been retribution enough. His brother could keep his lordship and the Tooth, for he had something far greater.

A page in the white book.

He’d forever be immortalized next to the likes of Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Duncan the Tall. He’d only been a member of the Kingsguard for four moons, and with that came all of the assignments that his fellow knights would rather not take. Mainly, it seemed, watching over Prince Joffrey and his siblings.

The courtyard of Winterfell was overcast, grey clouds blocking out the sun for as far as the eye could see, with winds brisk enough to turn his cheeks pink. The castle was well-worn, with stone walls surrounding the modest training yard. His armor did well enough to shield him from the cold, albeit he still shivered with every particularly bitter gust of wind.

“Ser Ethan!” Tommen shouted from across the yard, waving his wooden sword about jovially as he tried to get his attention. He had lost three bouts to young Bran Stark, but had laughed merrily every time he’d been knocked down thus far. “Ser Ethan, did you see that?”

He had finally gotten a good hit upon the Stark boy, a clean hit right to the torso. The two boys were dressed head to toe in protective gear, but Tommen had swung hard enough to at least catch Bran by surprise. There were over a dozen men gathered in the yard to watch them spar, and enough noise from them all to make it sound like double that number.

Out of all Ethan’s charges, Tommen was by far his favorite. Nearing nine, the young prince was a sweet natured boy with a tender heart. He reminded the young knight of himself at that age. He knew all too well the plights of having a rotten older brother and felt pity whenever Joffrey’s venom was spewed in his youngest sibling’s direction.

“I did, your grace,” Ethan shouted back, a warm smile on his face as he watched from afar. “It was a good hit, you struck fair and true.”

Tommen grinned at the praise.

From somewhere in the shade of the outer walls shadow, he could hear Prince Joffrey scoff. Despite being barely older than the crown prince, Ethan felt at least a decade his senior in spirit and judgment. He had never known anyone to be so rotten. The Prince’s wife was his only redeeming quality.

Tara Arryn was a few years older than her golden haired husband and by far one of the prettiest women he had ever seen. Theirs was a match arranged by her late Uncle, the former hand of the king, and they had been wed for nearly six moons.

They stood side by side together in the shade of the yard, her arm looped through his as they watched the young boys spar. Joffrey seemed rather disinterested in the scene before him, judging by the sour look on his face, but his doe-eyed wife watched dutifully as the young boys attacked each other with a renewed vigor.

Ethan huffed in annoyance. He let his gaze drift around the yard, finding the two eldest Stark boys with their father’s young ward. Robb was a man of twenty, with reddish hair and blue eyes. Whilst Alaric was only ten and nine, not much older than Ethan himself. They both favored their mother, he’d noticed, although he saw a few more shades of Lord Eddard in the younger of the two.

“That’s it, Bran! Just like we taught you!” Robb shouted.

Bran struck Tommen repeatedly in the chest, the young princeling clearly overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught. He tried feebly to strike back, but lost track of his footing as he suddenly toppled over. That, however, did not stop the young Starkling from continuing to strike.

“That’s enough!” Ser Rodrik, the Stark’s master-at-arms, called out from the crowd. He stepped forward to break apart the two boys, whilst the men scattered about the yard laughed heartily at the sight before them. Ethan quickly followed in Ser Rodrik’s footsteps, crossing the distance in a few long strides to help the young prince to his feet.

“Are you alright, my prince?” He pulled Tommen up with ease, brown eyes meeting green as he assessed him for injuries. He could tell from one good look that the prince was fine, but if there was any doubt it was soon quelled by his bright smile.

“That was fun,” Tommen chirped. “Can we spar like this back home?”

“Perhaps,” Ethan did not have the heart to tell him that he knew the answer would be a firm no. “I’ll ask your Uncle the next time I see him. Now go on, let them help you out of your armor.”

He nodded off to where two of the Stark’s men were already helping young Bran remove his armor as he placed a hand upon Tommen’s shoulder. He nudged him forth gently, watching as the boy walked off happily towards his newfound friend. He had to resist the urge to smile at the sight of the young prince’s wooden sword dragging on the ground behind him.

Laughter that he’d recognize anywhere rang out from somewhere above. Ethan turned to look up at the modest balcony facing the training yard, and found his sister side by side with the bastard of Winterfell. Her soft red hair stood out amongst the dreary blues and greys of Winterfell like a drop of blood in the snow.

Jon Snow bore a strong resemblance to his lord father, but was completely unremarkable. With dark eyes and a brooding look, he seemed like terribly dull company for a woman as interesting as his sister. Quinn had always been a charmer, much like their mother, and had never met a man she couldn’t seem to bed.

Gross.

He quickly looked away from the two, uninterested in watching his sister’s attempts at charming the bastard. Ethan did not concern himself in her affairs, although she always seemed to stick her nose in his business. It felt like she was always watching over him.

“Prince Joffrey, Robb, how about another round?” Ser Rodrik called out.

“I’d love that,” Robb replied with a smile. “As long as his grace doesn’t mind losing again.”

Ethan winced. That would not be well received.

True to form, Joffrey reacted immediately to the jesting with a loud scoff. He stepped forward into the sun, dragging his wife along with him. His green eyes were alight with disdain.

“I’ve been taking it easy on you,” He sneered. “We weren’t even using real steel.”

Alaric could barely contain a laugh at that, but was quickly silenced by a sharp look from the master-at-arms.

“Is that a challenge?” Robb questioned. “Because I’d gladly-”

“We won’t be doing that,” Ethan did his best to muster up an authoritative tone. “Not today.”

It felt as if every eye in the training yard was upon him as he spoke. He could hear the murmurs of the Stark boys from where they stood, and without even needing to look up to see her face he could feel his sister’s sharp gaze from above.

“Says who?” Joffrey snapped. “You?”

The mocking in his tone was evident.

“Your uncle, actually.”

“The Queen is rather overprotective,” Ser Jaime had whispered in the hall whilst the two of them were standing guard outside the king’s chambers. “She’d like to avoid seeing them hurt.”

Ethan was inclined to follow Jaime Lannister’s orders. He had not only squired for the infamous knight in his youth, but been knighted by him as well. He owed everything he had to the Lion of Lannister. He had been no-one before his mentorship, and now he was a knight of the Kinsguard. There was little he could ever do to make up for how much Ser Jaime had taught him.

“My uncle?” Joffrey exchanged a wordless look with his wife. It felt like an eternity of silence, but the two of them were clearly speaking a language of their own. One of… very few words. “Very well, then. This was child’s play, anyways. Not worthy of my time.”

Ethan nearly sighed in relief.

“But,” The prince continued in a tone that bordered on gleeful. “Since Lord Stark here wishes for a fight… you should spar with him, Ser Ethan. With real steel. We shall see if you are worthy of your white cloak after all.”

Ethan stammered wordlessly, so taken aback by the request that he wondered for a moment if the prince was joking. No. He thought to himself. Joffrey could never be that funny.

“Alright,” It was all that slipped out. “If that is what you wish to see, your grace.”

“Robb would be honored to fight a knight of the Kingsguard!” Theon Greyjoy grinned wickedly, as if this was the most amusing thing he’d ever seen. “Wouldn’t ya’, Stark?”

“If Ser Rodrik allows it,” Robb was trying to hide his smile. “Then gladly.”

The master-at-arms stroked at his white whiskers thoughtfully. “One round only.”

“Excellent!” Joffrey clapped his hands together merrily.

Ethan was not sure who this was meant to humiliate more. Was this the Prince’s queer way of punishing him for speaking out of turn? Or was this some backwards attempt at getting to best Robb Stark by using him as his proxy? Either way, he did not like being used as a pawn in someone else’s game.

Robb seemed none the wiser to any nefarious intent as he chatted happily with his brother. The Greyjoy lad handed the young lord his sword, and then ruffled his auburn hair teasingly for good measure. The sight stirred an odd sense of jealousy in him.

You’ll never be a knight.

Ryam’s voice rang out like a bell in his mind.

You can barely hold a sword.

Ethan took a deep breath in and out before unsheathing his sword from its scabbard. It had been a gift from his sister when he’d been inducted into the Kingsguard. It was made from fine steel, with a sapphire nestled in the pommel of its golden hilt. It was far from the famed Dawn, or even Valyrian steel, but it was a good enough weapon for the likes of him.

“Stark,” He greeted his opponent with a curt nod. Ethan had quite a few inches on Robb despite being a few years his junior, something he hoped would be to his advantage. “I’ve never fought a Northman before.”

“First time for everything, eh?” Robb laughed, giving his sword a twirl as he got into a sparring position.

“Indeed.”

Ethan raised his sword up without another word. His lord father had once told him that favoring his left hand would always put him at a disadvantage. It had only made him work twice as hard.

Robb rushed forward without warning. He swung with vigor, a wolfish grin lighting up his face. This was fun for him, Ethan realized. He ducked out of the way as quickly as he could, barely dodging the edge of Stark’s blade as he stepped to the side.

“You’re good, Stark,” He quipped. “But I’m better.”

This struck a nerve with the young wolf. He ran forward, attempting to slice at his right arm, and found himself on the defensive as Ethan made his first move. He swung at Robb with a singular fluid motion. Their swords kissed, and the sound of steel meeting steel rang throughout the yard.

The murmurs of the crowd sounded like white noise to him. This is where he felt the most alive. All of his shortcomings, all of his failures, and all of his faults did not matter here. Even his father’s judgement could not reach him. He was simply one with the sword.

They swung and twirled and swung again. It felt like an eternity of fighting, even if the bout itself lasted minutes at most. Time always went still for Ethan when he was sparring. It could be hours, days, or seconds, and he would be none the wiser. Nothing else existed.

It happened in an instant. The slightest tremble of the wrist, an obvious weakness that he could exploit. If there was one thing he’d learned from his sister, it was that people always had tells. Whether it was a blink, a scrunch of the nose, or a buckling of the knee. It would always reveal itself, whether you wanted to or not. What separated the strong from the weak was if you knew how to capitalize on it.

Luckily, he did.

Ethan put all of his force into clashing their swords together, the full weight of his blade pressing near the hilt of his opponent’s. It took nothing for Robb’s wrist to give, just as he knew it would, and he watched as his opponent’s sword fell into the dirt with a pathetic clank. As rowdy as they had been the whole day, Theon Greyjoy and Alaric Stark were now dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop with how quiet it had become.

Until the sound of soft clapping rang out.

“Marvelous! The both of you!”

It was Lady Arryn, still glued to her husband’s side, who had broken the silence. With a bright smile upon her freckled face, she had easily stolen all the attention. A chorus of claps began to ring out from those still in the yard. Even Joffrey, who seemed rather dismayed that no blood had been shed, followed suit.

Ethan met her gaze, and mouthed a silent thank you, before he turned back around to where Robb stood. He was flushed and sweaty, gently massaging his weakened wrist.

“I’ll get you next time,” Robb teased.

Ethan smiled, an earnest laugh bubbling up from his chest. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

He got nothing but a clipped smile and curt nod in response. He had struck a nerve after all, it seemed. He should’ve felt guilty for his victory, yet the only feeling he could solidly identify within himself was joy.

For better or worse, he liked to win.

It was a trait he shared with his sister, who nodded in silent approval the moment their gazes met across the yard. She was still conversing with the bastard, the youngest Stark girl now nestled in between them.

“Tommen!” Joffrey shouted. “Come along now, we are done here.”

The young princeling only nodded in reply, wishing goodbye to Bran as he started to run off to where his brother stood with his wife. Ethan followed behind him, a small smile on his face at the sight of Tommen so happy. That alone had made the excursion worth it.

As they reached the entrance of the Great Keep, Tara briefly looked back over her shoulder to lock eyes with him. His breath unknowingly hitched at the sight. She had a power all her own, and she knew how to wield it. He could see why she was to be the future Queen.

You’re welcome. She mouthed, lips curving upwards into a playful grin. Tara turned back to her husband wordlessly, and playfully rustled Tommen’s hair as he fell into step at her side.

He’d think of that smile for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Dreams were a funny thing.

Old Nan often said they had powers, like magic spells, if one simply knew how to use them correctly. Lynara had never believed such nonsense, at least not when she was young. Why would she? She never dreamed of anything, or anyone, and she preferred it that way.

She was the sibling everyone went to when they were frightened from a nightmare. They could find solace in her chambers, knowing they had someone else to go to if they wished to not disturb father and mother at such a late hour. She could not count the amount of times she had consoled Bran and Rickon after a particularly awful dream on one hand. It was simply apart of being one of the eldest children. You looked after your siblings, for better or worse.

But within the most recent turning of the moon, it felt as though a lifetime’s worth of dreaming had hit her all at once.

Images flashed through her mind every-time her eyes closed, and yet when she woke she could never quite remember what it was she had seen. They came back to her in fragments, her memories a broken mosaic with the pieces scattered all about, but she could never discern anything of use.

It all felt so close, like a word resting on the tip of her tongue, but still so far out of reach.

Tonight was different.

She could recall the details, as hazy as they were, and it frightened her.

Weirwoods burned to ashes, bloody footprints in the snow, a grieving woman’s pained sob.

Lynara’s heart was racing in her chest, with every beat quicker than the last. She felt as though she’d be dropped into ice-water. She shivered helplessly, unsure of how to get the pain to stop. She had never been one to ask for help, knowing that as an eldest daughter she needed to be strong, but this had her begging to any Gods who would listen to just make it stop.

A dove’s bloody feathers, the last howl of a dying wolf, a stag set ablaze in the darkest of nights.

She tried to scream, to make any sound at all, and yet nothing came out no matter what she did.

Lynara had never felt pain like this before. It felt as though she was on the brink of death, every nerve in her body alight as if she’d been set aflame. The fear of death hit her suddenly. Was this what it felt like to die? To be on the brink of becoming pure nothingness?

The smell of rotting flesh, a lion feasting upon its prey, and a bitter-blue cold that engulfed it all.

“Lynara?” Wendolyn’s voice rang out from beside her, as steady and sure as the ocean’s waves, and it felt as though she could finally breathe again. “Lynara, are you alright?”

The taste of copper had flooded her tongue.

She felt like a bow that had been drawn, taught and released, as all of her limbs suddenly weightless despite the searing pain she had felt mere seconds ago. It took all of her energy to keep her eyes open, with everything being so blurry and out-of-focus that all she could see were the vaguest shapes and colors.

“Breathe, ‘Nara, just breathe…”

Every breath was labored, with her chest aching in a way she had never felt before, but the more air she got into her lungs the more human she began to feel. Lynara could feel her friend’s hand upon her forehead as her senses slowly began to return. Wendolyn’s touch was like an anchor at sea, tethering her back to reality amidst the chaos of a raging storm.

“Seven hells,” Lynara mumbled. “My head is pounding.”

She had always been one to cope with humor, much to her mother’s chagrin. Catelyn Stark had wanted a perfect lady of an eldest girl and instead been given her. It was hard not to feel like a failure at times, even if she tried so hard to meet all of her expectations. What would her mother say if she could see her now? Cursing and crazed, like a feral wolf?

She’d drop to her knees and pray, surely. Lynara thought tiredly. Like she did for all of her children whenever they were ailing.

“You’re okay,” Wendolyn let out a sob of relief. “Gods, you scared me!”

“‘M sorry,” She groaned. “I feel so tired.“

Lynara blinked as her vision slowly begun returned to her. The total darkness of her chambers made everything hard to decipher, but the moonlight pouring in through the singular window gave just enough light for her to see the outline of Wendolyn beside her.

“You were trembling,” She whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. It was so… violent. I thought you were dying.”

“I’m alright,” Lynara lied, wishing for all of this just to be over. “‘Twas a bad dream, nothing more.”

She did not wish to cause a commotion, least of all while the royal family was here. Lynara was in enough trouble with her mother already. If she did anything to ruin this visit… she would not hear the end of it until she was buried beneath the crypts. And, even then, she felt certain that her mother would still find a way to fuss at her from the great beyond.

“Nara…” Wendolyn did not sound convinced. “You never dream.”

Lynara did not know what to say, in part, because she herself could not explain it.

“Must be the stress,” She reasoned. “I’m unused to having so many people here.”

“It could be a bad omen.“ Wendolyn murmured. She truly believed in all of the stories of old, of the others and the grumpkins and all the other silly tales they told little children to keep them in line. Lynara had always loved the fact that she saw such magic in a world like theirs. “My sister says that dreams are the Gods telling us something we’d likely not hear otherwise.”

Lynara struggled to believe that the Gods would be speaking to any of them, least of all her. They were Gods for a reason, were they not? They surely had better things to concern themselves with, like healing the sick or the poor or the needy.

“Maybe,” She felt impossibly tired. “Maybe not.”

“Do you want me to fetch Maester Luwin?”

“No,” Lynara merely scooted closer to her dearest friend as the warm darkness of sleep begun to take her once more. “Just wanna’ hold you.”

Wendolyn smiled softly before she moved closer wordlessly. They laid together like this often, limbs intertwined, and it pained her to think about the inevitable truth that one day they’d have to live life apart.

She wrapped her arms around the blonde carefully, the ache in her bones subsiding the moment she smelt the familiar scent of her.

Salt, lavender, and a dash of honey.

She’d never forget that scent as long as she lived.

The news of her brother’s fall from the broken tower soon came with the morning sun.

And, for the first time in her life, Lynara Stark finally believed in magic.