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Chapter Text

“I’ve got it, Ned!” Robert roared, throwing open the door. 

Eddard Stark cringed a little as he watched the door handle slam into the wall, sending a thudding sound echoing down the hallway. Slowly setting down his quill, he silently bemoaned the spray of ink the King’s entrance had sent splattering over his parchment. Nevertheless, he stood, bowing his head in greeting as Robert entered. 

“Your Grace,” he said, mildly surprised to see Robert looking so gleeful. He moved to pull out a chair for the king, but he just waved him off, grabbing the seat on his own and situating himself with a sigh. Ned followed suit, growing a little wary as Ser Jaime and Ser Arys of the Kingsguard entered the solar as well, situating themselves in their guard positions just inside the door, which Jaime closed.

“I’ve figured it out!” Robert repeated, banging his hand on the table, and Ned raised an eyebrow at him.

“I won’t be taking your position as Hand of the King if that’s what you mean, Your Grace,” he replied carefully, settling his hands much more gently on his desk. “You’ve tried for the past week; the offer is a great honor, but I’m still needed at Winterfell.”

“Bah! Forget the Hand business!” Robert waved a hand dismissively, and Ned blinked. That was not what he had been expecting. Ever since he had first turned down Robert officially several days ago, his old friend had been dead set on convincing him to go south and run the kingdom for him. “I’ve got a different offer for you.”

Ned pursed his lips, eyes flickering over to where Jaime was watching him with a semi-interested gaze. He wasn’t quite sure he liked the look of this. 

“Well, I suppose I will hear it out,” he said, a little wryly, and Robert laughed. Whatever idea he’d cooked up, he was proud of it. 

“You better!” He blustered, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve just sent the raven to appoint Tywin Lannister as Hand, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that.”

Ned was certain he would, though he didn’t miss the faint twitch in Ser Arys’ face at the blatant insult to the Warden of the West. Still a little uncomfortable, he leaned back in his seat as he continued. 

“What is this offer of yours?” He asked, and braced himself for an idea of pure genius or pure idiocy. With Robert, it was always hard to tell, though his ideas trended towards the latter when it came to politics. 

“I’ve been speaking with my men, and we’ve come to an agreement,” Robert replied. “That it’s time we draw the North out of the little shell you’ve tucked it inside over the last decade.”

Ned blinked. If he’d been expecting something, it wasn’t that.

“Your Grace?” 

“Oh, for the last time, stop calling me that! And yes, Ned, the shell! All you do is pay your taxes and swear your fealties, but no further. The only major northern lord to come south of the Neck in the past few years is Lord Manderly, and that was three years ago! You’ve got five children, Ned, and none of them were fostered, even in the North. And now you turn down my position as Hand.”

“It’s not unusual for a Lord to not foster their children,” Ned replied, but sounded like a flimsy excuse even as the words left his mouth, because it was. Oh, minor lords could get away with not taking wards or sending their children to foster, but such a case was much rarer for a Lord Paramount. His father, Rickard, had him and Brandon fostered in the Eyrie and Barrowton respectively, and a little belatedly, he realized that Brandon had gotten betrothed at around Robb’s age. Ned had received a few offers for his son, but he had yet to bring them up with Robb or Catelyn. At the time, he’d convinced himself that Robb was young still, and didn’t need to worry about marriage just yet. But faced with Robert in front of him, Ned found himself regretting not taking up Lord Karkstark’s on his offer of his daughter, Alys.

He knew it all was because of his paranoia. Ned was a man who had always found himself painfully aware of his failings, even as he nursed them in the background. After the Rebellion, he’d been more than keen to keep his family close around him. Jon Arryn and Robert had raised and grown up with him, yes, but they were not family. It was only after losing all but his younger brother that Ned realized that he’d never gotten to know his blood. Not really. Now that Benjen had joined the Watch, he found himself loath to let go of the new family he had built, to let them run to far-off places where they might never return. Betrothals were something he’d similarly avoided, after the whole business with Lyanna. Sansa’s desire to go south and see herself married was what had convinced him to promise her to Joffrey, but that wouldn’t be for several more years yet. Robb had yet to show much interest in marriage, and Ned’s other children were too young, so he’d made no promises to anyone as to who they would wed.

In the end, he knew it was for his own benefit, and no one else’s, and yet had done nothing about it. And as punishment he now found himself without much of a defense when Robert accused him of retreating into himself. The uneasiness grew in his belly, and he glanced at the two Kingsguard again. 

“It’s high time you start forming some better relationships with the rest of the kingdom, Ned,” Robert was saying, and Ned forced himself to pay attention. “Right now, the only tie you have to the outside world is the Riverlands, through your wife. What about your heir? Has he even left Winterfell before?”

“Yes,” Ned replied tightly, leaving out the fact that it had only been on the occasional trips Ned himself took around the North, never for longer than a few weeks. 

“Not enough to have allies! Even I know the importance of that.”

Someone had put Robert up to this, for he was clearly spouting an agenda that he wouldn’t have thought up on his own, or at least he would have brought this up quicker. Ned wondered who it had been, coming up with the answer that whoever it was, the person had to be smart, because they had found a hole in Ned’s defense that he couldn’t readily patch.

“Forgive me, but where are you going with this, Robert?” He asked. “Sansa is already betrothed to Joffrey. Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course not!” Robert scoffed. “The marriage benefits us some, yes, but once it’s over with, Sansa will be living in King’s Landing and the North will be as secluded as ever. And if you won’t take my offer to be Hand, we’ll have to rectify this another way.”

It clicked in Ned’s head, then, what Robert was insinuating, and he knew Robert could see when he realized it as well, because his grin grew wider. 

“Robert, no—”

“Oh, stop that!” The king interrupted him. “I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime here! Your heir can’t be stuck in Winterfell all his life before he ascends. Let me take him to King’s Landing, teach him the ways of court. It’ll only be until he comes of age. A year and a half, Ned, that’s all I’m asking.”

“You can’t just take Robb south,” Ned protested still, even though it looked like Robert had long made his mind up on the matter. “He’s needed here, he has lessons, duties—”

“The Others take your duties! You’re thirty-four, Ned, not seventy-four. Robb will have plenty of time still to learn from you. No, let him come south now, while he’s still young. We have families visiting the court all the time; he can make friends! The Tyrells have several children near his age, I know, and Renly’s close enough as well. And when he comes north, he will have people his age he’s friendly with south of the Neck.”

“King’s Landing is a pit of vipers,” Ned shot back, something cold curling in his veins. “I won’t send him into that alone.”

“He’ll have me!” Robert protested, and when Ned gave him a flat look, seemed to realize how especially stupid that statement was. “Fine, fine. Take someone from your household and give him a small guard. When I can’t keep an eye on him, they can.” He paused then, thinking. “Though I suppose that won’t satisfy you, will it?”

“I won’t do it. Starks don’t do well south of the Neck, and King's Landing is the worst of it all.”

But Robert wasn’t listening. “I know! Send your bastard with him. I’ve seen them hanging around, they look like good friends. Reminds me of us when we were boys, honestly. Those were the good old days, chasing skirts across the Eyrie.”

Ned let him prattle on, the cold in his veins shattering into ice. 

Promise me, Ned.

“No, I won’t let Jon go!” He exclaimed, cutting Robert off. “Robb isn’t going to ward with you, and Jon won’t join him. Their place is here, in the North.”

Ser Jaime snorted softly from his place by the door, sharing a look with Ser Arys. Ned ignored them, carefully watching Robert as he finally let his jubilation simmer, a frown gracing his features as the two studied each other.

“Why not, Ned?” Robert repeated, at somewhere resembling a normal level of speaking. “You’re freezing yourself into isolation up here. Time south will do your boy good, even if it’s only to realize how the Red Keep stinks. Let him take some guards, your bastard, and learn a thing or two about the wider world. Make some friends, or at least get to know who his future constituents will be.”

“He’s doing that well enough with your family here.”

“For three weeks? I think not!”

Ned floundered. 

What could he say? He could refuse Robert outright, but after already refusing the position of the Hand, that put him in a precarious position. Robert might forgive him, yes, but with the Kingsguard here, he had no doubt the rumors of his protectiveness would soon spread all over court. The last thing he needed were the other kingdoms whispering about his abilities as Lord Paramount. And even then, keeping Robb home against the wishes of the King was something he could barely explain away. Jon was another matter entirely.

“I… will have to speak to my wife about this,” he finally said, and Robert grinned, knowing he’d won. 

“Fine, fine!” He replied, standing up. “Talk to the woman, maybe she’ll see sense!”

Ned privately disagreed. Catelyn would be more than happy to see Jon gone, but Robb was an entirely different matter. Hopefully she would help him think of a way out of this. 

Despite his tumultuous thoughts, he rose and bowed again as Robert swept out of the room. Ser Arys followed after, but Ser Jaime lingered, watching Ned for a moment with a curious eye. Ned frowned at him, and Jaime smirked. A moment later, he was gone, white cloak swishing through the air behind him.

Ned collapsed into his chair once the door shut, hand going to cradle his forehead as he thought. 

“I should have just accepted his offer to be Hand,” he said to the room. He knew he was right as he said it. Ned had gone south once in his life, and though it was more than enough for him, he’d do it again. The last thing he wanted to do was let Robb out of his sight. And if Robert’s suggestion of Jon wasn’t a passing whimsy, if he brought it up again…

Promise me, Ned.

Which would be better? Refusing to let Jon go south, raising even more suspicions as to why Ned was keeping him so close? Or letting him go, straight into the dangers of King’s Landing? Jon had been safe up North, but south, where people still remembered the Targaryens?

But it might not even matter if people started seriously thinking about who Jon’s mother was. Tywin was Hand of the King now, and had access to many more records than he had at Casterly Rock. If he thought to go looking in the wrong places… but which choice would make him more suspicious?

He was getting ahead of himself. Ned let out a long breath, trying to steady his racing heart, and picked up the ruined parchment he’d been working on, rolling it up to copy to a clean slate later. His mind was racing now, and he doubted any work he tried to do would be successful. No, let himself enjoy the day, he thought, and talk to Catelyn about this whole affair later. She would have wise counsel on how to turn Robert down, at least. 

“It would be a good idea,” Catelyn said, after a long minute of silence, and Ned had never felt more betrayed. 

“It’s foolishness,” he shot back, perhaps a bit sharper than he meant to. “He wants to carry Robb off to a city six hundred leagues away with this idea of making him a ward. I can’t accept his offer to be Hand anymore, not now that Lord Lannister had received the offer, so I won’t be able to go with him, either.”

“It would only be for a year and a half,” Catelyn replied quietly. “Not the many years I would expect you to be away for, if you were Hand. And he would learn much down south. Jon Arryn was a good foster father to you. You learned much from him, I know.”

Ned shook his head, getting out of their shared bed to pace away the jittering energy that sung in his bones. He considered opening the windows, and almost did, but decided against it when Catelyn followed him out of bed, watching him with Robb’s eyes.

“Jon Arryn was a good man,” he agreed after a moment. “But Robert… even if he was the same man I knew in the Rebellion, I don’t know if I would have trusted him with any child of mine. And I’ve seen him here; he whores and drinks more than he rules! No, Tywin Lannister will be the real power behind the throne now, and I will not send Robb down to live under his rule.”

Catelyn didn’t answer him, the corners of her lips pulled tight against her face as she watched him. Ned watched her closely, and realized with a pang in his heart that she disliked this proposition as much as he, but wasn’t voicing it. She sighed, grabbing a robe and pulling it over her shoulders as she walked up to him. 

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” Catelyn said. “Robert loves you, Ned, or he loves the idea of you he has from the Rebellion. He thinks the two of you young men still, unmarried and free to gallivant across the kingdoms as they wish.”

“It was Robert who gallivanted,” Ned protested, but the pang in his heart rang true at her words. Robert was no longer the man he had known as a boy, but instead all of his worst traits exemplified.

“And it’s Robert who wants a Stark at his side. If he can’t have you, I suppose he thinks Robb is the next best thing. A Stark boy close enough to the same age you were during the Rebellion.”

“I was nine and ten during the Rebellion, Cat, not four and ten.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?” Catelyn laughed sharply, ending it in a sharp sigh. “But it can be a good thing as much as a bad one, Ned. Robert won’t let anything happen to Robb if he’s using him as a placeholder for you. And he was right in his other points. We haven’t fostered any of our children, or taken any wards into our own household. I know you’ve had offers.”

“We have Theon,” Ned protested, weakly.

“Theon is a glorified hostage, Ned, and you know that.” Catelyn shook her head. “No, I don’t think we can refuse this. Not without raising more questions about how capable Robb will be to lead the North, when the time comes. It will look like we are sheltering him. Any other lord would be jumping at an offer like this.”

Ah, so that’s what it was. Ned conceded the point to her. He’d hoped that speaking to her would bring some magical solution to keep their son home, but even his wife couldn’t conjure up an option that didn’t exist. Catelyn wasn’t a miracle worker. Just smarter than him.

“I cannot think of a good excuse for him to stay,” Ned murmured, and Catelyn drew herself closer to him, watching him with those eyes of hers. Absent-mindedly, he found himself playing with a strand of her hair, soothing himself by letting it curl in his fingers. “It is one thing to turn down the position of Hand of King. I can get away with it by claiming I have duties here. But a wardship under the crown is something else entirely. Robb has no formal role here, besides being heir.”

“I can’t imagine Tywin Lannister having anything to do with Robb; I doubt he’s even important enough for him to even acknowledge our boy. And he would learn much in the South, if only the reason why you Northmen look down on the Southern kingdoms so.” Ned opened his mouth to protest, but Catelyn gave him a light look, and he realized she was teasing him in the midst of their seriousness. “If… we can send Rodrik or Jory after him, and our most trusted guards, he would be safe from common crimes, and no one would think to seriously hurt him with you still in the North, capable of calling the banners.” She paused, thinking, then added: “And Lord Baelish is a childhood friend of mine, on the Small Council. I could write to him and ask to look out for Robb, to stop him from being taken advantage of.”

Ned pursed his lips, second-guessing himself. Perhaps he was overreacting. It was very possible that King’s Landing, while dangerous, wasn’t about to go and swallow his son whole. 

“You must stop making so much sense, my lady,” he said, dropping her hair to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Catelyn smiled softly through it, even as the corners of her mouth crinkled in worry.

“That’s precisely what I don’t like about it,” she sighed, letting the smile fall. “That it makes so much sense.”

Jaime Lannister’s smirk flashed in Ned’s mind again, and he scowled, twisting away from her as he raised a hand to run through his beard.

“Someone put Robert up to this, I think,” he said quietly. “You are right. Robert was making too much sense when he brought this up to me. He never has so many reasons lined up when he wants me to do something.”

“Why would they want Robb in King’s Landing?” 

“Who knows?” Ned shrugged, lost himself. “Robert kept on talking about making connections with the rest of the kingdom. Perhaps some southerner wants better relations with the next lord of Winterfell. There is no way to really know.”

Catelyn pursed her lips, thinking deeply at his words, then let out a long breath.

“We will have to let him go,” she said quietly. “It’ll only be until he comes of age. Not a decade or more, if you were Hand.”

She was clearly trying to reassure herself as much as him, and Ned’s insides twisted.

“I can tell him no,” he offered, more desperately than he’d like to admit. “Robert never holds his anger for long—already he’s almost forgiven me for turning him down to be Hand.”

“Robert might forget, but will the Lannisters?” Catelyn returned. “The other southern lords, who will think we are growing isolationist? Our own bannermen, who might think Robb sheltered? Because he is, Ned, and you know that.”

“We have plenty of time for Robb to learn of the world.”

“ We know that is true, and we had our plans for him, but do those around us know our minds?” Catelyn wrung her hands, then guiltily added, lower, “Death can come suddenly, Ned. It happened to your father and brother. And you were fostered and knew the world, when you came to Winterfell.”

It was a low, biting blow, but Ned couldn’t begrudge her bringing it up. As always, she was right. Ned had never been supposed to be lord; he had taken everything from Brandon’s cup: his castle, his bride, his rights. He'd been raised as a second son, yes, but Catelyn had been right when she said that Jon Arryn had taught him well. Ned had never been meant to be a lord, but Robert had been, had become Lord of the Stormlands while in the Vale. And every lesson Robert received, Ned learned as well. He’d followed Robert on his escapades through the mountains, befriended their lords and learned their politics, and when he went North to raise the banners, he’d only floundered as Lord, not drowned.

Would it really be so bad to see Robb south? He was receiving a good education here, and Ned had planned on taking him through several tours of the North as he grew older, but that could always happen after he returned home. Robb could learn the ways of court, perhaps make a few friends that could become alliances as he grew. When he returned home, knowing of the South, Ned would tour him through the North, where his bannermen could befriend him as well. By the time he was twenty, he would be a well-connected, well-educated heir. If anything happened after that, if Ned died or was incapacitated, he would rest easy knowing Robb could take his place with ease. 

Catelyn waited for him patiently as he thought. She too was loath to send Robb south, he knew, but she saw the benefits of it, same as him. With Sansa betrothed to Joffrey and Robb with friends in court, they could carry the new dynasty’s favor well into the next generation. Robert had been generous with nearly everyone in the kingdom, but Ned knew that any king born of a Lannister mother would require more than help given a generation past to curry favor.

“Fine,” he grunted, and Catelyn nodded. He sighed, pressing his knuckles to his lips as he finally let himself give in. 

“I don’t like it either,” Catelyn sighed, crossing her arms. She stepped closer to him, and Ned let himself lean into her gentle warmth. He was tired after such a long day, and yearned to slip back into bed with her again. “But I really do think it will do more good than ill. When I was a girl, and still my father’s heir, he took me down to King’s Landing for the same purpose. It was only a few weeks, but I learned much there.” She looked up at him, gently teasing once again. “Even if it was only how much the city stunk.”

Ned closed his eyes and tilted his head in a gentle agreement. “That, I will agree with you on, my lady.”

“Eventually Sansa will have to follow him,” Catelyn continued. “It will be expected of her to visit her betrothed before they marry. If Robb has friends there, I would rest easier for her.” She shifted beside him, her voice becoming more grieved. “Robb is the only one of our children who will return to Winterfell, once he is grown. He will always return to us, but the others will one day go to make their own paths in the world.”

She was right on that account. Sansa was to marry Joffrey, and in a few years Arya would start receiving her own offers. It would have to be a northern husband for her, after Sansa and Robb went south, and Ned figured that would be the right choice anyways; Arya would chafe even more under southern customs. Bran still held his dreams of becoming a knight, perhaps even a Kingsguard for his sister, and Rickon would inherit a holdfast of his own.

Even Jon would leave, in one way or another. Ned found himself thinking of Robert’s offer again, and frowned. No, not King’s Landing if he could help it. Perhaps the Night’s Watch, where Benjen could watch over him. Or he could become Captain of the Guard and serve Robb, though Ned doubted Catelyn would be happy to have him stay in Winterfell. Wherever he went, one day he would no longer be under Ned’s protection, and he feared that day more than he did for any of his other children.

“I will speak to Robb in the morning, then,” he said, once he realized he had been silent for a time. “And tell Robert after. He’ll announce the fostering at dinner, I assume.”

Catelyn hummed, then placed a kiss on Ned's shoulder.

“It’s hard to let him go,” she whispered.

“Aye, my lady,” he replied, and hoped he was making the right choice.

Chapter Text

It was a warm day for Winterfell. Robb let himself revel in it, the wind tossing his hair to and fro behind his head as he leaned on a fencepost, watching Bran and Tommen wack at each other with wooden swords. Both were so padded with armor they looked more like pillows than boys. Even though they were sufficiently prevented from hurting each other, they’d been at it long enough that they both were staggering about anyways, swords waving aimlessly through the air. 

It wasn’t a very good distraction. Robb let out a huff of air, watching the Lannister men on the other side of the yard. Prince Joffrey lounged next to his sworn sword, a man who had an ugly burn covering one side of his head, with a bored look on his golden face. The boy, two years younger than Robb was, had yet to impress him. 

All of them had yet to impress him, really. When the royal party had first announced their intentions to visit Winterfell, he’d been elated. Maester Luwin had told him of the times the King of the Seven Kingdoms had traveled so far north, and they could be listed one hand. Combined with the stories of the Rebellion he’d grown up on, from Robert Baratheon at the Trident to his Father and Jon Arryn at the Battle of the Bells, he’d expected them all to be… more impressive. 

Ser Jaime Lannister had been the only one to surpass his expectations, but Robb’s expectations for the Kingslayer had already been low, considering his reputation. It was the King himself who was the greatest disappointment. Robb had expected the god among men who had killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, not the fat, drunken man who whored more than looked at his wife. The Queen was better, beautiful as all the stories said, but her smile was ice, and Robb hadn’t missed the cold looks she sent Father at the welcoming feast.

He hadn’t had much expectations at all for the younger children. Tommen so far was living up to those lack of expectations, but he seemed sweet. Robb had seen him and Bran go searching for kittens the other day. He hadn’t really interacted with Myrcella since he’d escorted her to the feast those weeks ago, but he’d heard from Sansa that she was excellent at needlework. Or at least, everyone said she was. 

But Joffrey. Joffrey. Robb found himself quickly growing to hate the putrid little boy. Snot-nosed and cold-eyed, he left much to be desired. Robb could barely believe that Father had allowed him to be betrothed to Sansa, or that Sansa even saw anything in him. He was a prince, but a bully of a prince, ill-suited to be king unless he grew up. Robb had been expecting someone more like himself, but with more responsibility. Joffrey seemed to have none at all, which was odd, considering how Maester Luwin always spoke of heirs needing to learn the ways of their people young.

And soon I will be living with him, he thought, and resisted the urge to frown. His conversation with Father that morning still rang clear in his head, and he didn’t really know what to think about it.

Finally, Bran knocked Tommen on the ground by going for his legs. The little prince fell over on his back, and unable to get up through all his padding, rolled about like a turtle with his arms in the air. 

“Good job, Bran!” Robb called out, more halfheartedly than he meant to. Tommen was supposed to be his foster sibling, soon enough, and he was faring much worse than Bran, who spent more time climbing the castle walls than attending lessons. He wasn’t impressed with either of them, really, but Bran showed talent, at least.

“Enough!” Ser Rodrik called the battle to an end before Bran could hit Tommen while he was still down. The master-at-arms had two Lannister men pick the prince up, and he and Bran scuttled off the field, already giggling again.

The king should have asked to foster Bran. At least he actually gets along with Tommen.

Robb could see it now. Bran, who had always wanted to be a knight, would be more than honored by the request. Perhaps he’d even squire for Kingsguard, like he always dreamed. He’d be much more happy than Robb, who had no idea how to feel at all.

“Prince Joffrey, Robb,” Rodrik called, and Robb pulled himself out of his thoughts as he turned to listen. “Will you go another round?”

Under normal circumstances, Robb would have said yes. Part of him still wanted to say yes, because beating the prick to the ground would feel good. But Joffrey was crown prince, and Robb always had to be careful not to win too easily against him, or even that often. Ser Rodrik had already warned him once, after he had put Joffrey to the ground within a few minutes a week ago.

And Joffrey was to be his foster brother, even if Joffrey didn’t know that yet, and so Robb found himself wanting to spend as little time with the prince as possible while it was still polite to do so. He’d have enough to suffer through it all once they started for King’s Landing anyways. 

“This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik,” Joffrey responded, looking bored. His pale green eyes flickered over to Robb, and he bristled under the disdain in them. 

“You are children!” Theon laughed, a few feet away. He’d found much more entertainment in Tommen and Bran’s play fight than Robb had, and was still grinning from the show. 

“It’s alright,” Robb said, drawing the group’s attention. He knew he was probably making an embarrassment of himself, and found that he couldn't care less. He’d already fought Joffrey once today, and had enough of the careful tightroping he had to do around the crown prince, especially now that he’d heard the news. “I find myself tired today.”

Theon looked at Robb in surprise, but Ser Rodrik just nodded, turning his attention to some of the Lannister squires. Joffrey and his goons laughed at him, believing victory, but Robb just ignored them, getting off the fencepost and walking back to the keep.

You must learn how to hold your tongue, Father had said that morning. You won’t be able to get away with fighting with Joffrey outside of Winterfell’s walls.

Father better be damn happy with him. Robb had done it once and he already found it exhausting. 

He paused for a moment, then mentally apologized for insulting his Lord Father. He hadn’t looked too happy about it either, though he had only spoken of the opportunities fostering with the king would open for him. 

“Hey, Stark! Where are you going?” Theon called from behind him, and Robb turned to see his father’s ward strutting after him with a displeased expression on his face. He stopped long enough for Greyjoy to catch up, then started walking back to the keep again. “You made a fool of yourself back there! Passing up a chance to pound Joffrey in the dirt?”

“I told you I was tired,” Robb replied, and felt burdened enough for it to be true. “Leave it be.”

“You’ve been moping ever since you met with Lord Stark this morning,” Theon shot back, knocking him on the arm with his elbow. “What did he tell you?”

Robb scowled, debating whether to tell him or not when he caught sight of a dark-eyed face in the window of the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. Arya’s eyes widened when she realized she’d been caught, and ducked out of sight. 

That girl. Robb cursed under his breath, half out of fondness and half out of annoyance, and hurried after her. He was only a few strides away, and the window had no glass, so he crossed the gap in a few moments, jumping through the window and right onto his youngest sister. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked, catching her by the scruff of her dress before she could get away. Arya let out a groan and went lax, shooting him a dark look with their father’s eyes. 

“Watching the fight,” she grumbled. Robb raised an eyebrow at her. 

“I thought you were supposed to be practicing your needlework with Septa Mordane.”

“It was boring.”

“Oho, we’ve got a little spy on us, I see,” Theon put in, leaning in through the window. Arya looked up at him and stuck out her tongue. “Watching two little boys whack each other is a tad more entertaining than needlework, I’ll give. More amusing than anything. Shame your brother stormed off, then we might have got a real show.”

“I told you to drop it,” Robb complained, and got a smile in return that let him know Theon wasn’t going to drop it. 

“Why did you walk away?” Arya added, ganging up on him. She looked at him, annoyed. “I bet you could have beat Joffrey.”

“He can and has,” Theon reported. “Ser Rodrik made him lose a few matches because he was so good and hurt the prince’s feelings.”

Arya giggled at that, and Robb was torn between utter annoyance, exhaustion, and fondness.

“I didn’t feel like pounding into the ground again, then,” he said, standing up and looking about. “Was Jon here? He said he was going to wait for me until the bouts were done.”

Arya shook her head, and Robb huffed, shaking his head as well. He had wanted to tell Jon the news first, before anyone else, and hadn’t had a chance yet. The bouts with the Lannisters had kept him occupied since he’d spoken with Father about it earlier that day.

“Well, you better get back to your lessons,” he finally said, and she groaned in response. Robb smiled at her and knocked her a little on the side of the head. “The show’s over, and Mother will have your hide if she finds out you ran off.”

“But I hate needlework!” Arya protested, hitting him. “It’s not fair! Why can’t I go out and fight?”

“Because you’re a girl,” Robb shrugged, and got a cry of annoyance for his trouble. “Off you go.”

Grumbling and grouching, Arya slouched off, her direwolf following at her heels. Robb watched them go, remembering that he hadn’t spent much time with Grey Wind in the last few days, and made a mental note to go and visit him in the godswood soon.

“Alright, you’ve got to tell me now,” Theon said, once she was gone. He slipped in through the window and sat down on the sill. “What’s got you all moody?”

Robb gave him a long look, then sighed. Theon was a ward, so maybe he could give some advice. He forgot that the Greyjoy wasn’t part of the household sometimes, he’d been around so long. Still, he could probably give some insight. 

“Father is sending me off to foster,” he said, and was watching Theon close enough to see the flicker of true surprise on his face before it was tucked away again. 

“Really? He got tired of you and finally is throwing you out?” 

Robb scowled at him. “I’m still Father’s heir, you know! And he didn’t want to, but got convinced.”

“He said?”

“I could tell.” He thought so, anyway. Father’s eyes had been crinkled around the edges when they’d spoken, in that way of his whenever he was thinking a lot. 

Theon just scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Whatever, it’s long past time, anyways. Who’s the lucky lord?”

“...The King,” Robb said after a moment’s hesitation, and Theon laughed out loud. He laughed for a good while, until Robb got mad and hit him. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s very funny!” Theon roared, fighting to control himself as he batted off Robb’s assaulting fists. “Gods, you and the prince already hate each other. Imagine living in the same keep!”

“You prick,” Robb grunted, and pulled his arms away. “Father told me this morning. I’ll leave with the royal party and stay at King’s Landing until I come of age. Maybe even longer.”

“You’re going to live with the King, and you’re acting like you’re being sent off as a hostage of war. Liven up a little.”

Robb opened his mouth, preparing to retort, but it died on his lips. Theon had just described himself, and considering the glint in his eyes as he spoke, he knew it. Still, it was a little frustrating. Theon was a ward, not a hostage, even if he’d been sent off to ensure Lord Balon’s good behavior. His Father had treated him well!

But he didn’t say any of that, having learned long ago that the Rebellion was a sore subject for Theon, even if he brought it up himself. Instead, he took a moment to center himself before he responded. 

“Do you have any advice?” He asked, and Theon shrugged.

“Don’t forget where home is,” he said, eyes going off to rest on the far wall. “Write often. Maybe your parents will actually reply.”

Robb blinked at him, surprised at the admission, but before he could reply, Theon hopped off the windowsill and started down the hallway, opposite the way Arya had gone. Robb hurried after him, and considering the twist in the other man’s lips, decided to let the matter drop. 

“Come on,” he said, nudging him. “Want to practice some archery? Soon enough you’ll have to do your rounds with Jon.”

Theon scowled at that. “The bastard can’t even aim properly.”

Robb let the name slide this once, and laughed instead. “No, he can’t. Much better with the blade, I’ll say. Don’t you want a few halfway decent rounds with me before I go?”

“You can hardly aim, either!”

“Aye, but I can hit the target.”

Theon snorted, rolling his eyes. “Most times.”

Robb let him go, a smile edging on his lips. Practicing with Theon would be a much better distraction than watching Joffrey’s leering smirk. He wasn’t that talented with the bow, not like Theon was, but he was decent enough for Ser Rodrik, and so far the Lannisters had avoided the range. 

The armory was empty when they entered, the blacksmiths likely out to watch the Lannisters still at their sparring in the yard. Robb grabbed his bow from its place on the rack, pausing for a moment to string it, then snatched a quarrel of arrows. Theon joined him a minute later with his own signature longbow, and sent him a cocky grin as he passed him by to the exit. 

Robb shook his head and followed him outside, turning away from the yard and towards the shooting range, which had a few targets set up. There were a few arrows stuck in them, and Robb remembered that there was a hunt scheduled tomorrow, before the king (and he) left. It looked like someone had tried to get in some practice before the party set out in the morning. 

It meant there was no setup needed for them, and Theon hurried ahead, but Robb paused when he heard the sound of faint voices in the background. He turned, and blinked in surprise when he saw Jon standing under the overhang of the armory, back to him, talking to someone.

He blinked harder, and almost gaped when he realized the other man was in armor. White armor, with a white cloak draped across his shoulders. He was speaking to Jon with an expression Robb couldn’t determine from this distance, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

“What’s Snow got himself into now?” Theon sneered, following his sight. Robb didn’t know, but the Kingsguard noticed him in the next moment. He said something to Jon, who turned around, and Ghost bounded into sight from around the building. 

“Jon!” He called, and hurried towards him, afraid his brother had gotten himself in trouble. 

“Lord Robb,” the Kingsguard greeted him with a dip of the head, and Robb copied the motion back at him. 

“I’m sorry Ser, but I don’t know your name,” Robb said, feeling a bit sheepish. The man was familiar; he’d seen him at the King’s side more often than not, but they had never been introduced. 

“Robb, this is Ser Arys Oakheart, of the Kingsguard,” Jon said, remembering his courtesies. Robb nodded. “Ser Arys, you already know, but this is my half-brother, Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell.”

“My brother hasn’t been a bother, has he?” he asked, and while Jon frowned, Ser Arys just gave him a crooked smile. 

“No he has not,” the knight replied. “Worry not, Lord Stark, he’s not in trouble. I just sought him out to speak for a moment.” He turned to Jon, inclining his head a little, and Jon bowed to him. “I imagine your brother has some plans for you, Jon Snow, so I won’t hold you any longer. Good day.”

“Good day,” Robb and Jon replied in unison, and Arys nodded at them and walked away. Ghost nudged at Robb’s hand as he left, and Robb absently gave him a few pets until the knight was out of earshot, upon which he grabbed Jon’s arm and tugged him away.

“Hey!” Jon protested, but Robb stopped in front of the armory door, tugging it open. 

“I’m going to practice shooting with Theon,” he said. “You can join us.” He grabbed Jon’s bow and passed it to him, searching for more arrows. “Gods, Jon, what did you do to get the attention of a Kingsguard? I thought you were in trouble!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jon protested, stringing his bow with a scowl. “I was going to wait for you to finish in the yard, but he just showed up and started asking me questions. I couldn’t exactly say no.”

Robb found a few more arrows, and after testing their quality, slipped them into his quarrel. 

“What did he talk to you about?” He pressed, and Jon shrugged.

“Odd stuff. How I was doing in my training, especially with the sword. Some historical facts. Brought up Ser Addison Hill and asked me if I knew who he was. I don’t know why.”

“Ser Addison?” He questioned, and Jon shrugged again, finishing stringing his bow. “Who was he?”

“The second Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Jon replied. “The Bastard of Cornfield, picked by Visenya Targaryen herself. Don’t worry, I barely remembered him myself.”

A bastard knight, Robb thought, and wondered why Arys had brought it up. To mock Jon? Or some sort of misplaced encouragement? He knew some people called his brother the Bastard of Winterfell, though never in hearing of him or his family. 

“If he shows any ill intent, you can come to me,” he decided to say. They left the armory for the second time. Theon had gone on without them to the range, and was already lining up a shot. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

“I don’t even know what he would want to try with me. There’s not much point in it, is there?”

Robb didn’t answer. Jon was right. What in the world had Ser Arys Oakheart, a knight from the Reach, wanted to do with Eddard Stark’s bastard? The court had done well enough in pretending Jon didn’t exist before now.

“Don’t bring it up with Father,” Jon sighed, drawing Robb out of his thoughts. “He’s busy enough with everyone leaving and the hunt tomorrow. They’ll be gone in a few days, anyway.”

“Get yourself in trouble, Snow?” Theon jeered, now within earshot, as Robb swallowed at the reminder. He was leaving Jon behind, he remembered, and with Theon here he realized that when he was gone, the only people truly affectionate to Jon left would be Arya and their father. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Jon snapped as Theon let loose his shot, hitting just shy of the bullseye. “He just asked how good with a sword I was.”

“Odd question.”

“You’re telling me!”

Robb shook his head, pulling up next to Theon and lining up with an arrow of his own. Taking a few moments to aim, he loosed his arrow, and hit the second ring from the eye. Not too bad.

“I need to tell you something, Jon,” he said once the arrow had flown, and as his brother snatched a handful of arrows out of his quiver. Beside them, Theon let loose another shot, this time hitting almost directly in the center. “It’ll be announced at dinner tonight, but I figured I’d tell you before that.”

“Mm?” Jon hummed, lining up own arrow. Robb waited until his shot was done, barely catching the edge of the target. Theon snorted at it, while Jon frowned. 

“I’m leaving with the royal party,” Robb said all at once, and winced when Jon turned on him. 

“What?” He near-exclaimed. “What for?”

“He’s made a good impression on the King,” Theon interjected, before Robb could reply. “His royal grace wants Robb to foster with him until he comes of age.” He side-eyed Robb. “Maybe longer.”

“Only if I want to,” he muttered. “Which I won’t.”

“We’ll see what you say when you’ve got a whiff of some of those Crownlands girls,” Theon snorted. “I hear there’s a whole street of brothels in King’s Landing.”

Robb went red, and punched him, hard this time. 

“I’m sure it’ll be a great opportunity,” Jon said, voice tight. Robb snorted.

“Now you sound like Father,” he replied. “Pinched voice and all. He didn’t sound like the greatest fan of it either. I think the King convinced him to do it.”

“He did turn down the offer to be Hand,” Theon shrugged, firing a third arrow. “Robert probably wanted something else to secure the Stark’s loyalty.”

“My father and the King are close friends!” Robb protested. It’s not like Lord Balon, Theon. You know that. “They don’t need assurances like that. Father says it’s so I can learn some southern politics before I become lord. It’ll only be a year and a half.”

“Year and a half’s a long time.”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Robb protested, turning back to Jon. But his brother’s eyes were on the target, pulling out another arrow and shooting. This one flew far clear of the range, and he sighed. 

“I’ll likely be gone by then,” he said. “To the Night’s Watch.”

This time it was Jon wincing while Robb turned on him. 

“The Night’s Watch!” Robb exclaimed. “Don’t go off on me going south for a year when you want to go up there for a lifetime!”

“Even bastards can rise high in the Watch,” Jon replied, as if he was quoting someone else. 

“And we hardly ever see Uncle Benjen! Are you going up with him?” 

Jon shook his head. “Father told me he wanted to wait until I came of age. After that, he can’t keep on excusing me to Lady Catelyn. I can go on my own once I’m a man.”

“And I’m older than you by a month,” Robb replied, scowling at the reminder of his mother’s relationship with his brother. “You can wait a moon’s turn for me to come back. I’d at least see you off.”

Jon didn’t say anything for a long moment, but there was a look of affection in his eyes when he turned back to him. 

“I suppose you’ve never seen the Wall,” he replied, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“Exactly,” Robb agreed, feeling satisfied. If his brother still wanted the Night’s Watch in a year and a half, Robb wouldn’t protest his going. He would, however, protest not being able to be there when he left. He could even make the excuse to Father about going north with him, seeing the Wall for himself and perhaps stopping by Last Hearth as well. 

“Bastards do well in the Watch,” Theon said after a long moment. “I know one of my granduncle’s bastards is up there, heading Eastwatch. My uncle mentioned him once.”

Robb was surprised at the admission, but Jon seemed to take heart in it, nodding to himself. 

“It seems like we’re all off on our separate ways,” Jon said, and Robb sighed. 

“Boys no longer,” he mused. 

“You’re both still boys,” Theon sniped, and Robb waved a hand at him.

“And I’m sure you can hardly stand our youth, Ser Nine-and-Ten.”

“My back aches more every day!” 

Robb laughed, a true laugh, and knew he would miss Jon and Theon terribly, once he was gone. Prince Joffrey would be a very poor replacement for either of them.

Chapter Text

When the hunting party left the next morning, Jon was left behind with the women and children.

He tried not to let it bother him. He’d known all his life that he was a bastard and what that entailed, had learned it when Lady Catelyn tucked Robb into bed and not him. Even if he hadn’t, the arrival of the King had firmly reminded him of his place in Winterfell. No longer was he allowed to train in the yard with Robb, or take his lessons with his half-siblings and Theon. No, when Robb had to train, it was with Joffrey, and Jon considered the boy a very poor replacement.

He almost felt sorry for Robb, having to go south with the spoiled prince at his side, but then he remembered that he was going out to see the world, and Jon was still stuck in Winterfell, not even able to leave for the Night’s Watch as he had wanted to. He’d spoken to Uncle Benjen and finally gotten his approval, but when he’d approached his Father with the proposition, his hopes had been firmly dashed.

Not yet, Father had said, shaking his head, when Jon had asked him why. I’ll not see you take those vows while you’re still so young. Not while I’m still here.

Jon didn’t understand why he’d say no, not really. Bastards grew up faster than other children, he’d been told, and he was inclined to agree with Maester Luwin, Uncle Benjen, and all the rest over his father on this. There was nothing for him here in Winterfell, nothing except Lady Stark’s scorn and Theon’s jeering. He didn’t see the difference between going when he was fourteen and going when he was sixteen.

Robb would be gone, too, and that made the next year look even bleaker. Jon had never thought on how constant his brother was in his life until he was about to leave. Last night, after the dinner announcement, he had come across a pair of maids packing Robb’s room on his way to bed, and the sight had made his heart ache. Jon was the one who should be leaving Winterfell, not Robb. 

Arya would still be around, and the careful love his father gave him, but it wouldn’t be the same. Arya was still a child, for all he loved her, and Father was as much Lady Catelyn’s husband as he was Jon’s father. There was only so much either of them could be to each other, and Jon was well aware of how Father was pushing societal norms for him by having him be raised at Winterfell, in equal status with his trueborn children.

As the sun rose in the sky over an empty Winterfell, Jon found himself wandering outside, Ghost nipping at his heels. That was someone who wasn’t about to go anywhere, he supposed, and he paused a few times to rub the direwolf’s head. Ghost had grown three times over since Jon had found him in the snow all those months ago, and was the size of a small dog now, but was still a pup who loved to play. 

He waved to Bran, who he crossed paths with as the boy dashed in the direction of the First Keep, probably to go climbing all over the old building, and made his way over to the training yard. He had half an idea in his head to practice on one of the straw dummies the Lannisters had left out from the day before, so that’s where he ended up, weighing a wooden training sword in his hands and trying to decide on what he wanted to do.

Finally, he tried an overhand swing Rodrik had been teaching him before the party had arrived, carefully walking himself through the steps and motions. He was out of practice, though, for he’d been mostly out of the yard since the King had taken over the castle, and when his sword came down on the dummy’s shoulder, he finished entirely off-balance. 

“You put too much weight on your front foot, Snow,” came a voice from behind him, and Jon jolted, nearly losing his grip on the training sword. He turned around, and nearly dropped it again when he realized the visitor was Ser Arys. He was only in leathers today, not his armor, but his cloak was still draped across his shoulders, a pure white wool to match Ghost’s dancing in the wind. 

“Ser Arys,” he greeted, lowering himself into a bow.

“Jon Snow,” Arys returned, though he didn’t bow. He stepped into the ring, and Jon realized that he, too, was wearing a wooden training sword. 

“I thought you were out with the king, Ser,” Jon said after a moment, his confusion building. Being cornered by Arys on the way to watch Robb spar had been odd enough, but this was the second time they were meeting, which meant he couldn’t call it a coincidence anymore. He realized a moment too late that he might be coming off as rude, and bowed again. “Excuse me, Ser, I can give you the yard if you have need of it.”

Arys waved a hand dismissively, eyes flickering to Ghost as he walked past Jon and picked up the straw dummy, carrying it out of the fighting ring. 

“I do have need of the yard,” he replied. “And so do you.”

“Ser?” Jon echoed, confused. 

“I find myself curious,” Arys shrugged, setting the dummy out of bounds and returning to the ring. “How well can the Bastard of Winterfell fight?”

Jon resisted a scowl at the moniker, and drew himself up as tall as he could.

“Well, Ser,” he replied. “Ser Rodrik says I swordfight better than most my age, and I am good with a lance.” He didn’t mention his bowwork, clearly remembering his ill attempts at the range with Theon and Robb the previous day. 

“I spoke with Ser Rodrik,” Arys replied, drawing the wooden sword. “When I went to fetch this. He says you are very good with the sword as well. Better than your half-brother, I hear.”

“He wins at times, and so do I, when we spar,” Jon replied, cheeks heating up. The fact that he was a better swordfighter than Robb usually made him proud, and the fact that Ser Rodrik agreed should have made him more so, but in the face of the Kingsguard it only brought a mild embarrassment. He was well aware of how the royal party thought of bastards. 

Do you know the story of Ser Addison Hill? Arys had asked him yesterday, and Jon pushed the memory away. It would do him no good to put his hopes in faulty half-dreams.

“I wish to test that,” Arys said, raising his sword, and Jon swallowed, raising his in return. 

Usually, it was Ser Rodrik who started their practice bouts, but he had left with the King and was somewhere in the Wolfswood now. Jon was unsure of how to begin, unsure why this was even happening, and in the end it was Ser Arys who made the first move, a straight strike towards his chest.

Jon barely deflected it, telling himself it was because he was caught by surprise, but Arys had him on the back foot from his first movement. He parried the strike to his chest, then an overhead hit, and danced back from another strike towards his middle. Wood on wood clattered through the yard, and Ghost yipped what Jon thought was encouragement as he barely kept himself on the defensive. 

Maester Luwin had taught them that the Kingsguard were supposed to be the best knights in the realm, but it was only then that Jon realized what it meant. Ser Arys was good, better than Ser Rodrik, better than Father, and it was all overwhelming enough that when Arys knocked Jon’s sword from his hands and pressed the blunted blade to his neck, he yielded without any argument.

“Not too bad, for a northern bastard,” he said, lowering the sword, and gestured to where Jon’s laid discarded in the dirt. “Try again.”

Jon grabbed his sword, shaking his hands to lessen the sting in his hands from losing it the first time as he turned back to face the Kingsguard. He wasn’t sure if he had done well, but took Arys’ word for truth, sucking in a deep breath as he settled back into a fighting stance.

“Why are you testing me?” He asked, still confused, and Arys smirked at him. 

“I’ll tell you if you pass,” he replied, lunging forwards again. Once more, Jon barely brought his blade up in time to avoid a sharp hit to his ribs, and this time used one of Ser Rodrik’s tricks to move with the blow, sliding to the side and going for a hit of his own. Arys knocked it away, but Jon blocked his next attack as well, and he thought he saw approval in his opponent’s eyes.

Their swords rapped against each other, ringing through the yard, and Jon was able to get in one more offensive blow before Arys hit him, hard, in the center of the chest. He gasped out a yield in return, and Arys stepped back, giving him time to recover.

He hits hard, Jon thought, massaging his chest as he slowly straightened. Harder than Robb or Ser Rodrik. It would leave a bruise almost for certain.

Arys had set his sword point-down in the ground, and was regarding him with a thoughtful look as Jon drew himself up and looked the knight in the eye. 

“I’m glad to see that your Master-at-Arms wasn’t lying,” the knight said, and Jon swallowed. “Forgive me for wishing to test you myself. I find that both teacher and student tend to boast when a Kingsguard inquires of them.”

“It’s alright,” Jon replied, setting down his own sword in a copy of Arys’. After a moment, he couldn’t help himself, and asked: “Did I pass?”

Arys laughed shortly, then nodded. “Yes, boy, you did. I didn’t expect you to win against me, and nor did I hold back to make it possible. I wanted to see how well you held up against a Kingsguard at their full might.” He paused, and Jon fought to keep the blush from his cheeks. “For the Bastard of Winterfell, you did exceedingly well.”

“Thank you, Ser,” Jon replied, bowing head a little, and swallowed against the name the knight had used. That was the third time the knight had called out his station. 

“You’re a bastard, boy,” Arys replied, catching him anyway. “You’ve been treated very well by your father, but if you’re going to go south, he won’t be able to protect you anymore. There, people will call you many names directly to your face, and you will have to bear it.”

Jon was halfway through nodding when realized what he’d said, then froze, looking up in shock. 

“Ser?” He asked, faintly.

“I’m asking you to squire for me,” Ser Arys said, and Jon nearly fainted then and there. 

“I…” He stopped, licking his lips, then bowed deeply. “That—thank you, Ser. You are very kind.”

“Didn’t expect to be singled out by a Kingsguard, did you?” Arys shook his head. “You have it right. I will admit, it was the king brought the idea up to me and Ser Jaime, and asked if you would squire for one of us. Ser Jaime refused, as is his right, but I thought to test you first. Lord Robb has a deft hand with the blade, and if you trained alongside him as I’d heard, I thought it was possible for you to be taken on.”

Jon paused, mouth working a little, but words escaped him for a moment. Thankfully, Arys did not seem to take any offense to that, continuing after a moment. 

“Of course, becoming a squire does not guarantee knighthood,” he said. “You are a bastard, Jon Snow, but even bastards can become knights and find honor. It would be difficult, and you will be met with scorn in court, but I believe I can teach you what you need to learn to be a good knight. Do you recall when I asked you about Ser Addison Hill yesterday? This is why.”

“It’s… a great honor,” Jon murmured, hands growing slick on the pommel of his training sword. 

And he could. Become a knight, that was. Knights were rare in the north, because they swore to the Faith of the Seven, but Jon knew Ser Rodrik worshiped the old gods but was a knight anyway. Squiring for one, for Ser Arys, would see him going south with Robb to King’s Landing and serving at Ser Arys’ side. He’d make his own way, be tested by his own merit, and if he attained a knighthood, it would be because he had earned it himself.

When he had been a little boy, just after he learned what the word bastard meant, he’d dreamed of becoming a knight and bringing honor to his name that way. That dream had swiftly faded, though, when he realized Ser Rodrik trained no squires, and there were no other knights in Winterfell to seek out. The Night’s Watch had taken its place instead as his dream, and it still called to him: a tempting urge to serve at the Wall, where his name would mean nothing.

Because his name would still follow him if he went south. Jon wouldn’t be able to escape Snow , but he could still make his own way in the world if he squired. And truly, was there any more honorable way to serve than as a knight? 

He could even take the black once he was knighted. Jon remembered what Uncle Benjen had said, how the Wall lacked good, trained men. If he went south and gained a knighthood, he could go to the Wall and offer his services then, as a grown man with fighting experience. His name would mean nothing, but his title, earned on his own merit, would. 

“I would like to be your squire, if you would have me,” he said, deciding then and there. “You’ve given me a great honor, Ser, and I would like to take it.”

Arys smiled at him, tilting his head a little in what Jon was starting to realize was his way of conveying satisfaction.

“We’ll have to speak to your Lord Father for permission, of course,” he replied. “Though I don’t see why he would say no. You have potential, Jon Snow, and if you’re willing to work for it, I think I can make you a fine knight.”

Jon bowed, opening his mouth to thank him again, when Ghost suddenly sat up straight and howled. Jon jerked over to his wolf, surprised, but he was off a moment later, tail disappearing off towards the First Keep. A second later, more howls followed. Bran’s wolf. Shaggydog. Nymeria. Lady. Jon could name each of the howls, and knew in his gut that if Robb hadn’t taken Grey Wind with him for the hunt, all six of the direwolves would be howling.

Something was wrong. 

“Ser, I must beg your leave,” he said, bowing deeper. “Please, something is wrong with the wolves.”

“You can go,” Arys replied, looking a little pale himself. The sound of the wolves howling was an eerie one. Jon took off a moment later, sword still in hand as he chased after Ghost. Any of his courtesies were forgotten as he ran, heart thudding in his chest, and he knew something very bad had happened. 

Ghost was standing by the Guard’s Hall, in front of the Great Keep, but as soon as Jon had him in sight, his wolf bounded off towards the decrepit tower. Another shape rushed past him, and Jon jerked in surprise to see it was Bran’s unnamed direwolf, sprinting as fast towards the tower as his legs would take him.

Jon ran faster.

He was wheezing by the time he rounded the corner and saw Ghost and Bran’s wolf sitting at the base of the tower. Ghost was back to howling, but Bran’s wolf was bent over something, whining. Jon looked closer, trying to see what it was. It was small, brown, and split second later he realized—

“BRAN!” Jon screamed, and threw his sword to the side. 

His little brother had never fallen. Not once, not even a few feet. Bran loved to climb, but he was always so deft-footed and sure of himself, Jon had never shared the fears of him falling that Lady Catelyn had. Bran had been born with his eyes to the sky, Robb would jest, and it would take much more than his mother’s scolding to keep him down. 

And there he was, fallen, staring up at the sky with glassy, unseeing eyes. 

Jon let out a wordless sound that was something akin to a shriek, and nearly tackled Ghost before his direwolf got the message and jumped out of the way. He fell to his knees, ignoring the pain of it as he put his hands carefully on Bran’s head, unsure of what to do. There was no blood, just his body, bent at odd angles, and those eyes, still staring into nothing.

Then there were a pair of larger hands removing Jon’s from his brother, and Ser Arys was there, pressing his fingers into Bran’s neck. Jon didn’t know what he was doing, but the knight’s eyes widened, breathing sharpening as he drew back. 

“He’s alive,” he said, then turned to Jon. “I’ll watch him. Get the maester.”

Jon hesitated, but Arys gave him a commanding look, and so he was off a second later, sprinting as fast as he could. Ghost bounded ahead of him, and his mind worked frantically as he tried to figure out where Maester Luwin was. His first thought was his quarters in the Maester’s turret, but that was clear across the castle, and didn’t Maester Luwin work in the Great Keep with Lady Catelyn now that the royals were here?

He didn’t know where to go, and was about to flip a mental coin when Ghost veered towards the Great Hall. Without much of a thought to why, Jon ran after him, gasping for air as he shouldered open the main door.

“Maester Luwin!” He shouted, and sure enough, the maester was there, breaking his fast later than usual with Father’s steward, Vayon Poole. The maester looked up in alarm as Jon skidded into the hall.

“Jon,” Luwin began, but Jon interrupted him. 

“Bran,” he gasped. “Fell.”

Luwin and Vayon shot to their feet, meals forgotten. The elderly maester moved with a speed Jon had never seen before, throwing his chair aside and running towards the entrance. Jon hurried after him.

“He’s by the First Keep,” he reported, slowing to accommodate Luwin. “Ser Arys is with him, and says he’s alive, but…”

“Fetch Lady Stark and prepare a room!” Luwin commanded as Jon trailed off, looking at Vayon as he changed direction to the Keep. 

The steward was off a moment later, shouting, and Jon led Luwin to the sight, eyes burning and heart in his throat as Bran came into sight again. He was dwarfed by Ser Arys, who was still knelt over the boy, holding his head carefully. 

“The neck, Ser?” Luwin asked as Jon helped lower him to his knees. 

“Unbroken,” Arys replied, and Jon sighed in relief. “But his lower spine lies at an unnatural angle. I’ve seen it before, at a tourney when I was still a squire.”

And the relief was gone once Jon looked up at Arys, whose face could have been carved from stone. The knight moved back as Luwin took his place, practiced hands running over Bran’s small, unmoving body. He pressed his fingers into Bran’s neck in the same motion Arys had used, then moved down to his abdomen, pressing carefully here and there. 

Jon watched him work, feeling more useless than ever. Bran laid there, still and unmoving, and Jon didn’t think the image would leave his mind’s eye for a long time. Slowly, he found himself looking up. A raven circled above them, but the First Keep was as abandoned as it ever was. 

Bran fell.

The unnamed wolf and Ghost howled together in the sky, joined by their littermates, out of sight.

How could Bran fall?

Chapter Text

The wolves never stopped howling.

The sounds echoed in Jon’s ears day and night, a comforting symphony in his mind and a haunting cry to everyone else. The wolves seemed to have almost made shifts for each other, switching off every once in a while, but it was Bran’s unnamed wolf who howled the most, sitting underneath Bran’s open window. 

He took heart in the cries as he scaled the steps to Bran’s room. It would probably be for the last time, if all went as expected. Ser Arys said he was going to ask for Father’s permission to take him as a squire that morning, and the royal party was leaving the next day. Robb’s room was already packed, all his clothes worth taking stowed away, along with books and weapons and all sorts of little trinkets he’d wanted to take with him. Jon had helped him choose some of the last ones, after the maids had gone through the room.

Jon was left to pack his own things alone. He hadn’t told anyone about Ser Arys’ offer to squire him, though it wasn’t out of a lack of desire. In the past week since Bran’s fall, the time had just never seemed right. He’d honestly forgotten about it for the first day afterwards, too afraid that Bran was about to die, and after that, everyone had been so busy or worried that he hadn’t brought it up. 

The king had delayed his departure out of respect for Lord Stark and Robb, but he was swiftly growing restless again, and had decided to depart once it was clear that Bran had fallen into a coma and wasn’t about to wake any time soon. Robb would leave before Bran recovered, and now it looked like Jon would as well. 

He needed to tell Robb that he was going south with him soon. He resolved to do it after he went to see Bran.

Resting a hand on the doorknob to Bran’s room, he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Ghost nuzzled against his hand, and he smiled down at his wolf, rubbing his head for a moment before pushing the door open and walking into the room. 

Lady Stark was sitting right where he expected her to be, hunched over at the side of Bran’s bed. Jon hadn’t seen her since the fall, and had heard that she spent all of her time in Bran’s room, even eating and sleeping there. The rumors were true, and she certainly looked like a woman who’d been stuck in a room for a week on end. 

But there was someone else in the room as well. Jon swallowed when he realized the second person in the room was none other than his father, Lord Stark. He was sitting on his wife’s other side, away from the door, and so was partially obscured when Jon entered. Still, Jon could see that he looked only slightly better than his wife. Jon had seen Father in the last week, but only from afar, and always with the king or the household servants, setting the castle’s affairs in order in place of Lady Stark. 

Father was saying something Jon couldn’t make out when he entered, but stopped when the door creaked enough to signal his arrival. For a moment, he stood there awkwardly as Father and his wife turned to look at him.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Stark asked, and Jon braced himself even as Father put his hand on her shoulder, standing. If all went as planned, he was leaving tomorrow. He would say goodbye to his younger half-brother before that, even if it meant enduring her wrath.

“I’ve come to see Bran,” Jon replied, braver than he felt. 

Lady Stark’s expression did not change, but Father nodded, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. 

“Let him come, Cat,” he said quietly. “He deserves to visit.”

Lady Stark said nothing, still like stone, and after a moment Jon took it as permission enough to walk in the room, closing the door behind him.

Bran looked like a ghost. He had thinned noticeably, and the hand Lady Stark held looked more like a claw than human limb, pale and emancipated. Yet through shattered ribs and a broken spine, he still breathed, his chest rising and falling in shallow paces.

Ser Arys had shown him how he’d determined Bran was still alive, in those horrifying moments after Jon had first found him. He’d asked the other day, Arys had taught him, and now he found himself copying the motion. He brought his hand up to gently caress Bran’s face (still warm), then lowered it to his neck, pressing just enough to feel the thump-thump of Bran’s lifeblood pumping throughout his body, a sure sign of life. He could feel Lady Stark’s gaze on him, burning like ice, and resisted the urge to look at her.

“Please wake up, Bran,” he whispered, trying to pretend that he wasn’t being watched. Tears burned in his eyes, and it was all he could do to hold them back in front of Father. “We’re all waiting for you. Wake up and go play with Arya, tell stories with Rickon and pester Sansa.” He leaned in closer then, pressed a kiss to Bran’s forehead, and whispered so that Lord and Lady Stark couldn’t hear: “You would have loved to see me a knight. I’ll be good enough for both of us, I promise.”

Bran was the first one he’d told. In another world, he would have jumped up and down and climbed all over him, equal parts elated and jealous. Jon could practically hear him shout. Write me every day! Bran would have declared, like he had when Robb’s fostering had been announced. He would have wanted all the details, asked Jon to see if any knight in the Kingsguard wanted to squire him, too. 

Now, Jon felt like he was both living Bran’s dream for him, and stealing it out of his grasp. He knew that if Bran ever recovered, it would never be enough for him to be a knight.

A tear escaped, running down his cheek, and Jon drew himself back up, contenting himself in just watching Bran breathe.

“You’ve said your piece,” Lady Stark said, after a long moment, and Jon nodded. Father let out a sigh, squeezed her shoulder, and walked Jon out of the room. 

“You must forgive my lady wife,” Father said, once the door was shut behind him. Ghost pressed his nose into Father’s hand, and got a few scratches as a reward. “She hasn’t been sleeping.”

“It must be hard for her,” Jon replied, wincing at how hollow it sounded. He couldn’t make himself care much for her, though. Lady Stark had spent the entirety of his life pretending he didn’t exist on the best of days; why should he? It was Bran he worried for. Sweet, innocent Bran, who had been given the worst fate of them all.

“It is,” Father said, a little softly, and when Jon looked up, he was staring right ahead. 

He swallowed. Ser Arys said he was going to speak with Father this morning, but if he had been visiting Bran, the knight clearly hadn’t had a chance yet. Now, Jon found himself with a golden opportunity to broach the subject himself—he and Father were alone in the corridor. 

“Ser Arys is going to want to speak with you,” he found himself saying, and Father paused in his steps.

“And why is that, Jon?” He asked, looking over at him. It had only been in the last few months that Jon had started approaching his father’s height, and having them speak on equal standing was still a little disconcerting.

“He wants me to go south with him,” he said, and Father stilled. “We found Bran at the same time because we were together—because he was asking me to squire for him.”

“I thought you wanted to join the Night’s Watch,” he said after a few moments of silence. Jon worried his lower lip, trying to think of the right thing to say. 

“Uncle Benjen said the Night’s Watch needs trained men,” he replied. “And you said I can’t join until I’m a man anyways. If I can get a knighthood, or even some fighting experience, I could be a great asset to the Watch!”

Father watched him for a long moment, and Jon fought to keep his confidence. Becoming a knight would be a great thing for him, open so many opportunities—

“No.”

“What?” It was a horrifically impolite thing to say, but all ideas of courtesy fled as Jon turned on Lord Stark. “Why can’t I go?”

“You’ll stay here until you’ve come of age,” Father replied, looking away from him. “That is what we’ve decided on.”

“We agreed on me joining the Night’s Watch when I came of age!” Jon shot back, incredulous. “Ser Arys has offered me a great opportunity, I could go south with Robb, then make my own way in the world.”

“ You will not go south, Jon,” Father snapped, eyes like ice, and Jon gritted his teeth.

“Why not?!” He asked, barely keeping his tone in check when he remembered how close to Bran’s room they were. “Why can’t I go? Any other father would be elated to see their son be knighted, especially their bastard.”

“This conversation is over. I said no.”

“Ser Arys is a Kingsguard! I’ll not get another chance like this again. He thinks I’m good, Father, the King even mentioned me to him, why won’t you let me do this?”

“I would have you stay here, Jon.”

It was a stupid excuse. Jon knew it was stupid excuse, Father did as well, and anger swelled, hot and overwhelming in his belly as he realized he wasn’t going to get the answer he wanted. 

“There is nothing for me here!” He exclaimed, balling his fists. “Nothing but Lady Stark’s scorn and a bastard’s name!”

“We will speak of this no more,” Father said, continuing down the corridor. Jon let out a wordless cry of frustration and hurried after him. “Bran is in a sickbed and Robb is leaving. Let’s focus on that for now.”

I will not let you go, went unsaid between them, and Jon wanted to pull out his hair. Why couldn’t he see? Why did he have to stay here?

“Let me squire for Ser Arys, please,” Jon begged, but received no reply. “I’ll be with Robb; I won’t be alone! The king himself wants me!”

“And that is what worries me, Jon,” Father replied, then turned a corner. A steward met him then, several rolls of parchment in hand. The servant glanced between the two, sensing that he was interrupting something, but Father started speaking to him in a low voice, taking one of the parchments, and Jon knew he had been dismissed. 

He stalked past Father, the tears from visiting Bran burning in the back of his eyes, and he resisted the urge to wipe his face as his vision blurred. Luckily, he met no one else on the way to his chambers, so when he threw open his door, fell face-down onto his bed, and screamed, there was no one to witness his immaturity.

The chance had been so close. Jon could taste it, the title of Ser, the tourneys and shining armor. It would be work, that he knew, but Jon wanted to work. Work meant earning your own way, building your own reputation, and living in Winterfell had ensured that he could do neither. He couldn’t understand why Father, who always spoke of honor and self-sustainment, had denied him this. 

He screamed again into his bed.

Jon rolled over, then laid there for a time, staring up at the ceiling as his anger ebbed, replaced with a much cooler despair. He still stood by what he said to Father; there was nothing for him in Winterfell. Would he be doomed to spend the rest of his days here, sparring with wooden training swords and weathering Theon’s taunts whenever he shot a bow? Stuck in eternal boyhood, while Robb went south and became a man?

North, south, what did it matter when Jon couldn’t move at all?

After a time, he caught sight of the rag-wrapped package he’d placed underneath his dressing mirror, and sighed. At the time, giving Arya that present had been a way of saying goodbye before he left for the Night’s Watch. After Ser Arys had offered to squire him, he’d thought that it was a reminder of who Jon would become—once he was knighted, he could come back to Winterfell and teach Arya everything Ser Rodrik wouldn’t, even if she was a girl.

Now it was just a reminder that they were both stuck here, trapped by the circumstances of their birth.

Still, he got up, rubbing his face, and snatched the wrapped fencing sword off the ground. The keep was still empty as he walked through the walls, and so Jon passed only a servant on his way up to Arya’s room, and they wouldn’t think to ask about what he was carrying.

Arya was in a similar situation as Jon, it seemed, for when he entered her room she too was screaming into her mattress. The action was a little more forgivable, though, since she was nine.

“What happened this time?” Jon asked, forcing himself to set aside the disappointment from earlier. Arya’s head jerked up, brow furrowed until she recognized him. She smiled then, and Jon was glad to see that someone was happy to have him around. 

“Septa Mordane caught me throwing mud at Prince Joffrey,” she grumbled. Jon resisted snorting in amusement. Their differing genders were currently the only thing stopping the crown prince and Arya from murdering each other, he was sure. Robb, at least, knew when to keep his mouth shut, but thankfully Arya was a girl, and younger besides, so the prince rarely crossed paths with his most impulsive sibling.

“I bet he wasn’t happy about that,” he replied conversationally, sitting on the edge of her bed. Arya scrambled into a sitting position as well, crossing her legs as she brought herself close to him.

“He was complaining about Bran,” she said quietly, tugging on her hair. “Said he was taking too long in dying.”

Jon didn’t reply immediately, mouth parting a little in surprise. Joffrey was a prick, yes, but would he really openly wish for Bran to die in the middle of Winterfell?

“Well, then he’s as stupid as he looks and deserved some mud to the face,” he finally answered, because Arya deserved to be reassured, if nothing else. “Bran is going to wake up, Arya. I went and saw him today, and he looked strong.”

Arya nodded, lips pursing in worry, and Jon drew her into a side hug. His little sister was his favorite out of his siblings, he had to admit. Out of all of Lord Stark’s trueborn children, she was the only one who took after their father in coloring. Sansa had his straight hair, and Rickon his nose, but it was he and Arya alone who had Lord Stark’s grey eyes, brown hair, and furrowed frown. He still remembered her coming to him when she was little more than a babe, convinced that their likeness meant she was a bastard, too.

At the time, it had hurt, even as he’d reassured her, but now it was a fond memory that made him chuckle. Bastard or no, he was Arya’s favorite too, and he supposed if anything good was to come from staying at Winterfell, it was keeping her around for a bit longer.

“What’s that you got?” Arya asked, curiosity leading her to change the subject. Jon smiled and passed the package into her lap.

“A gift for you,” he replied. “It was supposed to be a going-away present, but it looks like I’m staying here, so now it’s just a gift.” He nudged her, chuckling at her fidgeting. “Go on. Open it, but carefully.”

Arya’s hands flew to the rags, pulling them back, and she gasped when the steel flashed in the afternoon light. She went even quicker after that, and soon enough the Braavosi fencing sword Jon had commissioned for her lay silver and gleaming in her lap, and her hands ghosted over it in shock.

“Is this for me?” she whispered. Jon nodded, his previous disappointments fading in the face of her excitement.

“All yours,” he replied, and Arya squealed a little, picking up the sword by its handle and lifting it up in the air. “Careful. That sword is live steel, so you can seriously hurt someone with it.”

“Like Joffrey?” Arya asked.

“Only in jest. He’ll be gone tomorrow, anyways, and then we’ll never have to see him again.”

“Except when Sansa marries him,” Arya scowled, and Jon pushed away the uncomfortable feeling of Sansa marrying that boy. He would mature with age, in all likelihood. He hoped.

“But that’s years away. Tell me, what do you think of the sword?”

“It’s so cool,” Arya grinned at him, and Jon smiled back. “Do you think you could teach me how to use it?”

“Your mother might kill me,” he replied, but found the idea of angering Lady Catelyn not daunting at all. What was she going to do, throw him out? That was what he wanted.

“I can keep a secret!” Arya protested, and Jon mussed her hair.

“Alright, then. First lesson: Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” 

She whacked him with the flat of her blade. “I know which side to use!”

“Then you’ve solved half the problem!”

Arya laughed, long and loud, and they barely heard the approach of someone else over her giggles. Eyes widening, Jon gestured to Arya frantically. She threw the sword on the ground, kicked it under her bed, and it was just out of sight by the time the door opened to reveal Robb.

“What are you two up to?” He asked, letting himself in. He was holding Rickon in one arm, the toddler clinging onto the front of his oldest brother’s tunic with an angered expression, lower lip jutting out in a pout.

“Complaining about Joffrey,” Arya said, ever the better liar, and Robb smiled wryly.

“Aye, at least you won’t be living with him,” he responded, half in jest.

“But you’re going to be in the capital, so it won’t be all bad! You’ll write and tell me all the adventures you have, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. You’ll get a letter every week once I make it to King’s Landing.”

Rickon made a distressed sound, pounding his little fists into Robb’s shirt, and got his hair ruffled in return. 

“What has you carting around our wild wolf today?” Jon asked, moving to make the same motion, but Rickon snapped at him, so he withdrew, unoffended. Rickon’s moods and current favorites shifted like the wind. One day he would cling to you like Robb, the next he would scorn you like he did Jon.

“He’s upset that I’m leaving,” Robb replied lightly, bouncing Rickon on his hip. 

“The king is mean!” Rickon declared, tugging on Robb’s shirt. “Not nice!”

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Robb replied, with all the ease of a brother who had said the same thing several times before. “But before I go, I’ll be glad to have you at my side.”

“I’ll tell the king not to take you!”

“I’m sure he’ll listen.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Rickon,” said Arya, patting him on the leg, and nearly got kicked. “Hey!”

“Leave him be, Arya,” Robb cut in. “Septa Mordane sent me, by the way. She wants you to go down and apologize to Joffrey.” He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about throwing mud at the crown prince?”

“He deserved it,” Arya grumbled, right back to her previous discontent.

“I’m sure he did, but he’s still the prince. You’ve only got to be nice one more time. Off you go.”

Arya scowled at him, but then Robb nudged her with his foot, and she was off, stomping down the corridor and towards the courtyard. Jon watched her go, a fond smile on his face. Robb sighed once she was gone, shifting Rickon in his arms.

“Getting tired, Stark?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow. Robb sniffed. 

“Of course not,” he lied, starting down the corridor again. Jon followed him, idly scuffing his feet. Tomorrow, Robb would be gone, and Jon would not be going with him.

They walked in silence for a little longer, until Jon’s frustrations got the better of him. Giving Arya the Braavosi sword had done wonders to his mood, but it did not change reality, and now that she was gone, he felt as frustrated as he had been speaking to Father outside of Bran’s room.

“Ser Arys said he wanted to squire me,” he said after a moment. Robb gasped and opened his mouth to say something, and Jon cut him off before he could make it any worse. “Father said no, so don’t expect anything to come of it.”

Robb’s mouth closed, his expression morphing from confused excitement to confused horror. 

“What?” He near exclaimed, fumbling Rickon, who protested being shaken in such a way. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know! He kept on saying he wanted me here in Winterfell and wouldn’t elaborate. I tried to get him to see reason, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Robb scowled. “Are you kidding? Even bastards can become knights. If you’re willing to take the vows, you could have a good life. And squired by a Kingsguard? Half the lords of the realm would be fighting over you by the time you were knighted, name be damned.”

“That’s what I said,” Jon replied. “I could still take the Black like I originally wanted, too. There are hardly any knights up on the Wall. I could do so much good up there!”

“I don’t understand why he would say no,” Robb repeated, still confused, and Jon made a sound of frustrated agreement.

“Make Father say yes,” Rickon offered, tugging on Robb’s shirt. 

“I wish,” Jon scowled, but Robb looked thoughtful. He gave his half-brother a searching look. “What are you cooking up in there?”

Robb just hummed, speeding up a little bit as he hurried down the hall. “Nothing!”

“Don’t do something stupid!” Jon said, lengthening his stride to catch up. “I know you, Robb, I know that look.”

“Rickon might have a point, is all.”

“You can’t convince Father to let me go!”

“No, but I know some people who might.” Robb turned to Jon, a light in his eyes as he grinned. “I can talk to Maester Luwin; I know he wanted Bran to go south and—” he cut himself off for a moment, and they both lapsed into silence as they remembered Bran’s condition, hovering between life and death in his rooms. Robb shook his head after a moment, and continued at a slower pace, more serious. “Bran would have wanted you to go south, Jon. I bet I can get Maester Luwin on my side, and if he has a Kingsguard and our Maester asking, Father might be convinced to say yes.”

Jon swallowed, shaking his head a little. 

“Bran’s never going to be a knight,” he said softly, and Robb visibly swallowed as he nodded. 

“No,” he agreed. “But Father and Mother will make sure he has a good life, whatever he’s capable of.” He ruffled Rickon’s hair again. “If he can’t leave Winterfell, can’t walk… I can take good care of him too, when the time comes. He’ll never want for anything.”

But would it be enough? Jon thought. He’d grown up in Winterfell with never a want for anything of the material nature, and he’d long felt the pull to go elsewhere to make his own way in the world. Whether it be in the Night’s Watch or as a squire, his place was no longer in his childhood home. 

Could it be enough for Bran, always so precocious and hyperactive? Jon didn’t know. 

“I’d like it, if you were able to go south with me,” Robb said, after a period of uncomfortable silence. “Sansa will visit by the end of the year, almost certainly, but I’d like to have you by my side if I could.”

“Me too,” Jon said quietly. Even if it were just for a few more years, he found that having Robb around made the idea of going to the Night’s Watch even easier than his initial decision was. 

“You’d be busy, but also be fine without me, with Ser Arys’ protection,” Robb continued. Jon could practically see his mind whirring with plans. “I wouldn’t have to make you part of my household either. It’s a win-win!”

“Except for Father. We still don’t know why he said no.”

“I’ll tell him to say yes,” Rickon declared, eyes hard, and Jon couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Don’t get my hopes too high,” he said instead, and Rickon nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied with his contribution. “Thanks, Rickon.”

“You are welcome,” Rickon replied, all Lady Stark’s courtesies, and seeing it on his youngest brother’s face made Jon laugh. 

The three of them continued down the corridor, to where the maids were starting to move Robb’s travel chests. Rickon complained when Robb set him down to help, but Jon found his mood considerably lightened at his brother’s side. 

It lightened entirely when, at dinner, Ser Arys approached Jon at the lower tables in the Great Hall and told him that his father had agreed, however reluctantly, to let him squire. That night, he drunk himself merry, declared his intentions to Uncle Benjen, called Robb a miracle worker, and went to bed smiling. 

He was going to be a knight.

Chapter Text

King Robert and the rest of the royal party left well into the next morning, with all the appropriate fanfare such a parting required. 

Quite frankly, Ned was growing tired of fanfare. His head still swam some, thanks to having one too many cups at the farewell feast last night, and it lowered his patience even further. No, greeting the dozens of visitors with a false smile and fake pleasantries was more of a chore than ever today, and Ned was glad to see Robert go, as sad as the fact that he felt so made him.

It certainly didn’t make departing with either of his children easier. 

Robb had given his informal farewells earlier in the morning, but courtesy dictated Ned meet him again in the courtyard. He’d done so gladly, giving his goodbyes to Robert, Queen Cersei, and their children, and turned to Robb after it was done, grasping his eldest son’s arms in his own. For a moment, he was twenty once more, standing in this same courtyard as Catelyn presented their firstborn son for the first time. He’d been a little, squalling thing then, and Ned had taken him into his arms and fallen in love immediately. 

Catelyn wasn’t here this time, though. Ned had tried to have her come down to see her son off, but his wife had refused to leave Bran’s side, terrified he would worsen if she left him for even a moment. Robb had said goodbye to her that morning, in Bran’s room, but she had been distracted, and he knew that it had bothered his son, even as he’d kissed her and Bran’s brows. 

“Return with honor, son,” Ned said, the words he’d rehearsed to himself saving him when he looked his eldest child in the eye. Robb was still a boy, and still a little shorter than him, but he was growing. Next time he saw his son, he might be a man in name as well as body. Perhaps, next time, Robb would be the one looking down on him. “And learn all you can.”

It was time he started considering betrothals. Nothing would be arranged until Robb returned, in all likelihood, but Lord’s Karstark’s offer of Alys had been opened in his solar last night, and considered. Ned considered it progress. 

“I will make you proud, Father,” Robb replied, and Ned smiled at him. “And I will represent the North as best I can.”

“I know you will,” Ned agreed, nodding at him, and the side of Robb’s mouth curved up as he moved to Sansa, standing on Ned’s right side. Brother and sister embraced, sharing reassurances with each other, then he moved on to Arya, who chattered at him excitedly. Rickon, last in the lineup, pouted all throughout their formal farewell, and Ned let him, for pouting was better than a full tantrum.

Jon approached him next, but said nothing, simply bowing to him. Ned was still upset that he was going south, and Jon was still angry that his father had initially refused him. Ned would have held to that refusal too, no matter how angry it made the boy, if Luwin hadn’t come to him with Robert in tow, both asking very uncomfortable questions as to why he wouldn’t let his bastard accept such a grand opportunity. By the end of it, Ned had barely restrained himself from shouting at his old friend. He knew that Robert had put Ser Arys up to squiring Jon, and the man made no secret of it.

I know bastards, Ned! He had laughed, as if it were all some great joke. Your Robb needs a friend. Give the boy a job in court and they’ll both be fine. What’s got you so worried?

Too many questions, and none of them were ones Ned could answer honestly. He’d felt foolish enough when he’d brushed off Jon’s desperate requests, and in the face of Robert and Luwin’s suspicion he had crumbled entirely, unable to think of a passable defense that wouldn’t sully his son’s name further.

Promise me, Ned.

In the end, he said nothing to Jon, simply nodding in return. It felt like the wrong choice, to let Jon stew in his anger and hurt, but Ned didn’t know what to say to him save for the pointless platitudes he’d given him the other day. Even silence was better than a repeat of that. Jon deserved better than that, even if it was no explanation at all.

Jon’s goodbyes to his siblings went better. Sansa kept to polite courtesies, noticing Ned’s coolness with her half-brother, but Arya jumped up and hugged him tight, whispering something in his ear that made him smile. Rickon gave his goodbyes as well, and then Jon was gone, hurrying over to Ser Arys’ side to mount his horse. Robb, meanwhile, remained near the King, who was shouting out orders to and fro. Jory, Harwin, and Alyn, who Ned had assigned as his personal guard, stood around him, clapping his shoulders and keeping him at ease in the midst of the royals. Jory was already jesting with his boy as they mounted, and while Ned was glad to see his eldest son safe, he wished he could have gotten away with assigning guards to Jon as well.

Robert shouted to the party to be off, then turned and raised a hand to Ned in farewell. Ned raised a hand back, despite himself, and prayed fervently that no one would look into Jon any more than was absolutely necessary.

Then they were gone, a rumble of hooves and dust left in their wake. Ned watched them go, eyes flickering between Jon and Robb until they vanished into the mass of swirling cloaks.

“Father, are we free to go?” Arya asked, as soon as the gates were shut. Ned nodded, and his youngest daughter was off in a flash, racing towards the battlements to watch the party make their way down the Kingsroad. Sansa picked up Rickon and turned to go inside, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel taking her sides as she left. Slowly, the courtyard emptied, yet Ned felt bolted in place, staring at the great gates of Winterfell.

Somehow, he felt like he’d been left behind, and he didn’t like it at all.

The next eight days came and went in a blur. Little news of the King passed up from the Kingsroad, traveling as they were, but there were snippets here and there. Lord Cerwyn sent word of the King’s passing through two days after their initial departure, speaking of both the expenses and Robb being given a place to sit at Robert’s left side at the ensuing feast. Another letter came as the King passed through a village with a rookery and maester, and attached to the end was a quick note from Robb, saying only that he and Jon were well.

It was all Ned could ask for, and in all honesty, as much as he could dwell on as well. He thought he had been busy before Robert had arrived, but it was only after he was gone that Ned really started his work. The royal party had nearly eaten them out of house and home during their month-long stay, and he found himself spending long nights with Luwin and Vayon, pouring over Winterfell’s accounts as they prepared for winter’s arrival.

When he wasn’t neck deep in ledgers, he was organizing hunts, preparing for the planting season (which would likely be the last, with autumn coming), and spending time with his children as time allowed. Ned saw Sansa at least once a day, during supper, and spotted Arya a few times sprinting through the courtyard. He’d even gotten her to break her fast with him twice, but she seemed distracted, always running off into the godswood, and he was too busy to really care as to why, as long as she was attending her lessons. 

Rickon, when he wasn’t following Arya or Sansa about, trailed after him, and Ned let him. The boy was still young enough that the workings of the castle flew right over his head, and more often than not Ned could leave him with some toys in the corner of his solar while he worked at his desk. It was not something he usually allowed, as Rickon had nurses who could watch him, but the boy had been unusually temperamental and clingy after Jon and Robb had left. As with Arya, it wasn’t something Ned had time to address at the moment, so he simply worked around it, letting Rickon play in his solar if he was quiet and follow him about. A few times he fell asleep, and once Ned took him into his lap as if he were a babe again, contenting himself to feel his youngest child breathe as he sorted through Winterfell’s current grain supply.

Throughout it all, Catelyn and Bran remained his greatest worries. Bran remained stable, thank the gods, but Luwin had no idea when or if he would ever wake. Catelyn remained at his side, still refusing to leave, and Ned worried that she was going to drive herself into a sickbed of her own at this rate. It had been on more than one occasion that he’d had to force her to sleep, and his other children were starting to feel her absence as well. The longer she remained shut in Bran’s room, the more delirious she grew, and he feared for her mental health as much as he feared for Bran’s physical health.

It was that worry that had Ned closing the books early on the ninth day, calling for a bath to be drawn in Catelyn’s chambers. He made the familiar trek up to Bran’s room as the sun lowered towards the horizon to speak with his wife, heart heavy in his chest.

He opened the door softly, knocking on it after a moment when Catelyn made no move to acknowledge him. She looked about as terrible as their son, and Ned cursed himself in letting things get this far. He sighed, sitting down next to her, and gently pulled her hand away from Bran’s. His son’s hand had somehow shrunk even further, sallow skin stretched over jutting joints, and he couldn’t help the wave of fear for his boy that rose in his chest.

Ned didn’t like being in Bran’s room, though he had spent as much time as he could there. It was unnatural to him, seeing Bran so pale and drawn, and he found that he couldn’t look at him for long. Being in here served as a reminder to him that all but one of his sons were now in danger, and Ned could do nothing to help either of them. The fact made him want to grit his teeth.

Instead, he turned his attention to Catelyn. Her face was as pale and as drawn as Bran’s, hair stringy and matted where it had fallen out of her braids. Ned knew she hadn’t been eating much, and he wished he knew exactly what to say to comfort her, that there was some spell that he could cast to restore Bran back to full health.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you, my love,” he said after a long minute of silence. Catelyn was already shaking her head, but he drew her hand into his, holding it as gently as he would any of his children. “You do Bran no good withering away up here.”

“I can’t,” Catelyn whispered, still shaking her head. “Ned, what if he…”

“He won’t,” Ned replied, rubbing circles into her palm. “And you have three other children, Cat. Bathe, change, then go to the Great Hall and sup with them. Rickon’s been asking after you. He thought you left with Robb.”

Catelyn pursed her lips, eyes still firmly fixed on Bran’s chest, rising and falling ever so slowly. Ned knew that she was blaming herself for this, on her inability to keep Bran off of the castle walls, and wished once more that he knew the right thing to say. 

“It’s been two weeks,” he finally decided. “What is an hour? I’ll stay with him, and will fetch you immediately if anything changes.”

There was another long moment of silence, then Catelyn bit her lip, lashes fluttering as a tear trickled down her cheek. Ned slid his arm up and around her shoulders as she shook, then sobbed, and let her cry into his shoulder. For some time they sat there, simply holding each other, and Ned pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, running his fingers through her loose strands of hair. Even unkempt and unwashed, the strands shone like fire in the sunset light. 

“Go and bathe, my love,” Ned said as she calmed, her shaking fading to the occasional shudder in his arms. “Bran will live, I swear it to you.”

It wasn’t something he should swear, for Ned knew what his oaths meant, even when made over something he had no control over. Still, it soothed Catelyn, and she shook her head a little, rubbing at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, once she had better control of herself. “I fear I’ve been hysterical.”

“All is well,” Ned replied, unable to deny it. “Go and wash, Catelyn, and eat with the children. You’ve been working on so little sleep, I’m not surprised to see you so. Take a break. I’ll watch over Bran.”

Catelyn shuddered in his arms again, staring at Bran’s unmoving face, and for a moment, Ned thought she would refuse him. Then, she let out a long sigh, and stood up.

“You’ll fetch me if anything changes,” she said, hands going to worry the ends of her braids. Ned nodded at her.

“You have my word.”

She stood there for a few minutes longer, lingering between the bed and the door, until finally Catelyn turned and left, closing the door with a soft click behind her. Ned slumped once she was gone, sending a long-suffering look at Bran’s prone form. He ran a hand through his boy’s sweating locks, wishing more fervently that he would finally wake. 

“Get well soon, my son,” he said quietly. “Or your mother might never recover.”

He sat there for a long time, and gradually the light from the sunset faded into a dim blue glow, and then into darkness. Little wisps of lamplight trickled in through the shutters, above where Bran’s unnamed direwolf still howled, and yet Ned couldn’t bring himself to light the candle to see any better. He felt Bran’s breathing all the same, rhythmic and present, not yet strong, and leaned back in his chair, running through his head the next shipments of hoes and rakes that would need to be ordered from White Harbor. Perhaps he should ask for some extra panes of glass as well, it had been some time since he’d replaced the ones in the glass gardens…

Wake up, Eddard Stark.

Ned jolted awake to the sensation of falling from a great height, unaware that he had even closed his eyes. He blinked once, twice, then caught his bearings as he looked around Bran’s room. First his attention went to Bran, the unfamiliar command still ringing through his head, but his son was still sleeping, his breathing patterns yet unchanged. He let out a long breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Perhaps he, too, needed a good night’s rest.

A caw jolted him into vigilance once more, and Ned turned around to see a raven on the windowsill. It tilted its head at him, squawked again, then flew out the partially open shutters in a flutter of black feathers. Ned watched it go, mystified.

There was light coming in through the window. More light than before he had dozed off. 

Ned jumped to his feet and threw open the shutters the rest of the way, ignoring the cold blast of air that entered the room with it. He stiffened as, from Bran’s room in the keep, he had a near perfect view of the library tower.

The library tower, which was currently on fire.

The books in the library were priceless. There were many one-of-a-kind tomes housed in its walls, survivors from the book burnings of Baelor the Blessed, and even more ancient scripts from even before the Andals, copies of copies that had been handed down through the generations. All made of parchment. Very flammable parchment.

Winterfell’s fire brigade was already on the scene, little figures below him shouting wordless commands in the air, tinged with the howling of the wolves and barking of dogs. Ned sucked in a sharp breath, hesitating for a moment when he remembered Bran. Then he shook himself, closing the shutters again and hurrying to the door.

No, Bran would be alright. He’d send up one of the girls to keep an eye on him once he had the chance. 

He was out of the room a moment later, turning the corner as fast as he could as he ran through the figures in his mind. Hopefully the fire hadn’t been going for too long—no, no one had gotten him yet, so it must still be young. They needed to divert the water from the hot springs to fight the fire, and avoid drenching the books if at all possible. No one was supposed to be in the library at this time of night, but what if some page or servant had been trapped inside?

Ned turned another corner, heading for the stairs, and was going so fast he barely saw the knife in time.

Turn with the blow! Jon Arryn shouted in his ears, an echo from two decades past, and it was the only reason Ned survived the first strike. Instead of trying to stop the attack, he pivoted on his foot, throwing himself into the nearby wall and pulling up his arms in a defensive maneuver. Instead of his neck, the blade cut deep into his left forearm, and Ned gasped in surprise and pain as he nearly fell over. 

The knife flew at him again, but this time Ned was able to avoid it, kicking his assailant’s legs out from under him. The man lost his balance, and Ned took the moment provided to catch his own and regard who had just tried to kill him in his own home.

Whoever the man was, he didn’t look like a trained assassin. Instead, he was a small, filthy man, clad in naught more than rags. Dirty blond hair sat upon a stout head that stunk of horses, and Ned knew immediately that he wasn’t part of Winterfell’s household staff. In one hand, he held a dagger coated in blood. Only his own blood, hopefully.

“Yer not s’posed to be here,” the man muttered sourly, raising the knife. The blood glinted gold in the torchlight. “No one was s’posed to be here.”

Ned looked at him in confusion—this wasn’t an assassination attempt on his own life? But no, how could this man have predicted that Ned was going to relieve his wife from her vigil at…

Bran.

“GUARDS!” Ned bellowed, his veins turning to ice, but he could hear no one nearby. Then the man was upon him, and he could think on it no further.

When Robert had been a boy, he’d had a phase that had resulted in him taking wrestling lessons for a year. As with all of Robert’s fancies, it was a hobby he had thrown himself and all around him into headfirst, and as his foster brother, Ned had found himself dragged into lessons alongside his friend. At the time, it had been miserable and humiliating, as those lessons had usually consisted of him constantly getting thrown about by Robert’s greater size. 

Now, over twenty years later, he found himself in Robert’s position when he grabbed the man’s outstretched knife hand, pulling it past himself. He stepped forwards with one leg, fisted the front of the man’s shirt with his other, and threw both of them onto the ground, pressing his uninjured forearm into the man’s throat. 

They hit the stones in a heap, and distantly, Ned could hear one of the wall’s tapestries rip and collapse to the ground. It tangled over their legs, and his assailant was able to use it enough to get his knife hand free, striking towards Ned’s face. He twisted away at just the last moment, getting a nick on his cheek for his efforts, and was forced to abandon choking the man to unconsciousness in favor of going for his knife hand. Throwing himself over the man, he hooked one arm over the other’s shoulder blade and twisted until he howled and dropped the knife, sending it clattering away.

Left to hand-to-hand combat, Ned tried desperately to remember the various moves Robert had made him learn back in his youth. Despite all appearances, the assassin was strong, wiry, and fast, and above all slippery to hold onto. Ned pulled on his arm until he heard a satisfying crack, but he was hit between the legs the moment after, which sent him flinching backwards with a wheeze. 

The man used the opportunity to throw Ned off of him, sending him sprawling as he lunged after the knife with his good arm. Ned narrowly prevented that from happening by throwing himself into the back of the assassin’s knees, forcing them both back to the ground.

They grappled once more, and the man got himself on top of him by digging his fingers into Ned’s eyes. He shouted in pain, trying desperately to get away—

“LADY!”

There was a rush of air above him, and then the weight of the assailant was gone. Ned groaned, blinking the spots out of his eyes in time to see a direwolf—Lady, Sansa’s direwolf—crunch down on the assassin’s neck. The man’s lifeblood spurted onto the ground as Bran’s direwolf raced past them, heading towards his master’s room. 

For a long moment, Ned just laid there, gasping for breath, then there were hands on him. Sansa’s face appeared in his line of sight, pale and shaking, and that forced him back into the present. Sights and sounds registered in his head again, and he groaned as a great wave of pain shot up from his injured arm. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he grunted, trying to get himself into a sitting position. His eldest daughter hurried to help him, taking his uninjured arm and helping to pull him against the wall. He leaned his head back against the warm stone, working to steady his breathing, and raised his injured arm and propped it on his knees, turning the wound upwards to quell the bleeding as best he could. “Child, I need your cloak. Pack the wound, and quickly. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Sansa nodded, bottom lip trembling dangerously, and Ned cursed having to let his eleven year old daughter do this work for him. But his injuries throbbed, his head swam, and he did not trust himself to wrap the wound as tightly as Sansa did as she threw her cloak over his arm several times over. Instead, he just focused on the breathing techniques necessary to prolong consciousness, keeping a careful eye for any other assailants as Lady prowled the hallway, blood dripping from her maw.

“Who was that?” Sansa cried, tears dripping down her cheeks. “Ser Rodrik said you were alone with Bran and needed to come. But Bran’s wolf was scratching at the door when I came to the keep, and I know I’m not supposed to let the wolves inside, but—”

“You made the right choice,” Ned cut her off, pausing to breathe again. “I think that man was the only one. Bran is safe, and his wolf can watch him now. Bran… he’s alright,” he repeated, more to reassure himself. “What did he want to do…”

His breath left him again, so he stopped. Sansa looked down at him with worried eyes, then moved to the staircase, standing up, but as soon as she did so, there was a commotion downstairs. Ned waved for her to stay then, and she returned to his side. He instructed her on how to press down on his elbow to try and quell the bleeding more, which was beginning to soak through her woolen cloak, then to scream for help from the guards coming from downstairs. 

That was how Ser Rodrik, Catelyn, and half the household guard found them a few minutes later. There was a great shouting, once they saw him, and then there were hands all over him, holding his arm, his shoulders, pulling him up to his feet. Ned could just make out Catelyn running to Bran’s room out of the corner of his eye before his vision swam enough that he could hardly see at all.

“Gentlemen, you’ll have to question me later,” he announced over their incoherent voices, then promptly passed out.

Chapter Text

“Valyrian steel,” said Ser Rodrik, carefully holding up the blade. It glimmered in the morning light, dark ripples flashing as he examined it. “An expensive weapon for a lowly criminal.”

Catelyn pursed her lips as she watched Winterfell’s master-at-arms set the knife down on the table. Ned’s solar was filled with the lead members of his household. Ser Rodrik and Hullen sat on one side of the desk, and on another side were Vayon Poole, Theon Greyjoy, and Sansa. Catelyn had found herself sitting in Ned’s chair, facing all of them as if she hadn’t just recovered from a weeks-long bout of hysteria.

She was still ashamed of herself for how she had acted, after Bran had fallen. Running up the stairs of the Great Keep to the sight of Sansa screaming for help, a dead body, and her husband covered in blood had been like a bucket of ice water to the face. Bran had been safe, thank the gods, but her husband had been the target of an assassination attempt, and she had been too wrapped in her grief over her middle son to realize the danger he was in.

What would have happened if Ser Rodrik hadn’t sent Sansa to fetch her father? Catelyn hadn’t even thought to send for him from Bran’s side while the fire was fought, so worried was she for his safety. No, she had wanted to keep Ned at Bran’s side, and because of it had put both her husband and son in mortal danger.

And now she was acting Lady of Winterfell once more. With Ned and Bran incapacitated and Robb gone, authority fell to Rickon, technically, but Catelyn made all the decisions, since he was little more than a babe. It felt wrong to be sitting in Ned’s seat for the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion, but someone had to do it. So let it be her, rather than Rickon or even Sansa.

It was morning now, and everything had started to calm after the frantic pace of last night. Despite herself, Catelyn had slept through almost all of it, once she had confirmed that Bran was safe and Ned was going to live. Her husband had been right; once she was reassured that everything was alright, and was able to leave Bran with a guard, she’d slept long and hard.

“We’re sure that there is no one else?” She asked, and Ser Rodrik nodded.

“Lord Theon and I swept the grounds with the household guard from top to bottom,” he reported. “We’ll search Wintertown as well, but it seems our assassin was acting alone.”

“It looks like he had been living in one of the stable stalls, my Lady,” Hullen added, bowing his head. “After the king’s men and the party bound for the Night’s Watch left, almost half were empty, and one showed clear signs of being slept in.”

“One of the stableboys found a bag with ninety silver stags under some straw,” Theon said, brow furrowed. “A little cheap for the life of the Warden of the North, isn’t it?”

Something cold settled in the pit of Catelyn’s stomach at the thought of her husband’s life being bartered, as if some goods in a market. Who would even want him dead? Ninety stags was a good amount of money—perhaps not for a lord, but more than a smallfolk could see in several years. Whoever had hired the assassin, they had paid him well.

“Sansa,” she said quietly, turning to her daughter. Sansa looked over at her, looking at her through Ned’s straight locks of hair, even if they were the same shade as Catelyn’s. She had been deathly quiet, once her father had been taken to Maester Luwin, and Catelyn had not had a chance to speak to her yet. “Please, tell me what happened. I know you’ve already told Ser Rodrik, but I would prefer to hear it from you.”

Sansa shivered, arms going up to hug herself, but she nodded, eyes flickering about the gathered men.

“We were in the Great Hall eating, when the fire started,” she began, and Catelyn nodded. This, she had been present for. Rickon had sat on her lap as she picked at her food and listened to Arya complain about her lessons, her mind on Bran all the while. “And you went with Hallis when he came in running to warn us. I took Rickon and passed him to Arya, then Ser Rodrik told me to go get Father, since you’d left him with Bran. I ran to the Great Keep with Lady, but when we got to the door, Bran’s wolf was there.”

“Bran’s wolf is always by the Great Keep,” Theon said, crossing his arms. The wolf’s howls had been enough to ensure that fact was known all throughout the castle. But Sansa shook her head, continuing on.

“No, Bran’s wolf was trying to get inside. He’s never done that before, but he was scratching the door very badly. And I knew something was wrong, then.” Sansa took a long, shaking breath to try and steady herself. Catelyn reached over the table and gripped her daughter’s hand. “I knew it wasn’t allowed, but I let Bran’s wolf in, and Lady followed me when I went after him. We hurried to Bran’s room, and…” she trailed off, pale, but picked up again before Catelyn could reassure her. “I heard Father shouting at the top of the stairs, and there were these crashing sounds, like something was falling over. I ran up to find the assassin on top of him, pressing his fingers into Father’s eyes.”

“Then Lady attacked the assassin?” Catelyn prompted gently, when she stopped again. Sansa hesitated, then nodded. 

“There was so much blood,” she whispered, and Catelyn had to agree. They still had maids scrubbing the stains out of the stones and tapestries in the hallway. “Father was still conscious at that point, but he was fighting to stay awake, I could tell. He told me to wrap the wound on his arm, and how to stop the bleeding best I could. Then he kept on mumbling about Bran and his wolf keeping him safe. I was about to run for help when the guards arrived.”

Catelyn’s heart throbbed at the last part; Ser Rodrik had not mentioned that, when they’d spoken earlier that morning. Bran will live, I swear it, Ned had said to her that night. Even after an attempt on his own life, he had thought of their son.

I was a fool to think I had to be so close, she thought. What would have happened if Ned hadn’t come to relieve her last night? Surely the assassin wouldn’t have tried to attack while he was with his guards. No, instead the fire’s distraction had left her husband and son dangerously exposed.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, and Sansa nodded, growing quiet once more. Catelyn took a deep breath, centering herself before she spoke.

“Who do you think this man was?” She asked, and silence descended over the party. Ser Rodrik in particular looked aggrieved, fingers tapping the table as he stared at the knife.

“He was from the King’s party,” Theon announced, looking straight over at Rodrik. After a moment, the older man nodded, and her ward continued: “No one recognized him from Winterfell’s staff or Wintertown, and he was sleeping in one of the stalls they were using.”

“There’s no reason for King Robert to want his friend dead,” Rodrik replied, running a hand through his beard. “They think too highly of each other for that.”

“The king wasn’t the only person here,” Theon shot back. “And don’t you think it’s a little convenient that there’s an attempt on Lord Stark’s life only a week after his son and heir is taken as a ward of the crown?”

Lannister. The name went unsaid, but it was the only other major option. Catelyn had spent enough time to notice that there was no great love between King Robert and Queen Cersei. Ned had certainly never trusted the Lords of the Westerlands, and she remembered his words again, back when they’d discussed Robb’s fostering.

“Ned mentioned to me that Tywin Lannister was offered the position of Hand of the King,” Catelyn said, leaning back in Ned’s chair. “And my husband believed that he would be the real power behind the throne. Robert is a warrior, not a ruler. Tywin will be king in all but name.”

And I sent Robb right into his grasp, she thought, horror seeping through her veins. Gods, I told Ned that Tywin wouldn’t even notice our boy. Staring in the face of the facts now, however, the opposite seemed apparent, and it felt like a slap to the face. 

“Is Robb in danger?” Sansa asked, eyes wide. “Should we send for him to come back?”

Ser Rodrik shook his head, but it was Theon who spoke first. “No, that would be stupid,” he replied. “We don’t have any proof besides conjecture, so any accusations would fall flat. If the Lannisters are hoping to get their hands on the next Lord Stark, it is best we pretend to not know anything about it, lest they make him a more direct target.” He paused, glancing over at Catelyn. “The line between ward and hostage is surprisingly thin.”

Catelyn bowed her head, acknowledging. As much as it went unsaid between her, Ned, and Theon, they all knew the figurative sword hanging above their ward’s neck. That had never been denied, as much as they liked to pretend it didn’t exist. As such, Theon, more than any of them, knew what it was like to straddle the boundary between guest and prisoner. 

“What makes me pause is this: why the North?” Vayon spoke up for the first time, drawing her attention. “There are more… appealing targets for Southerners such as the Lannisters. House Tyrell comes to mind; I know they have several marriageable children. The Riverlands, too.” He glanced at Catelyn. “Forgive me, my lady, but your father grows old and your brother is yet unmarried, and the Riverlands are a fine land, rich in food, linen, and other exports.”

Forever caught in the squabbles of the seven kingdoms, Catelyn added silently, momentarily struck by one of her father’s lessons.

“And out of all those kingdoms, which is most closely allied with the King?” She said aloud. “King Robert, not the crown.”

“Lord Stark, my lady,” Hullen said, realization dawning in his eyes. “Lord Arryn died… right before the king went north.”

Ser Rodrik sucked in a sharp breath as he realized what he was implying.

“Nothing of what we said here will leave this room,” the knight announced, and Sansa nodded fervently. Catelyn suddenly wished she hadn’t brought her daughter into this meeting, even if she had wanted her to verify her accounts of last night.

“I think that’s a little obvious,” Theon muttered, waving a hand. “The Lannisters are the most powerful family in Westeros right now, and they’ve got Robb in their grips. The question is what we’re going to do about it.”

No one answered him. Catelyn worried her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to think.

“It would be best for Lord Robb to remain with the King,” Rodrik finally said, eyes dark. “We don’t have the evidence needed to extricate him from his wardship. He will be safe as long as it appears that we don’t suspect the Lannisters of any wrongdoing.”

The solar door opened just as he finished speaking, and Catelyn looked up to see Maester Luwin enter. Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight; Luwin had been attending to her husband all morning. 

“Lady Stark,” Luwin greeted her, dipping his head. “Pardon the interruption, but I thought it best to inform you that I’ve finished tending to Lord Stark’s injuries.”

“How is he?” Catelyn asked, hoping she didn’t sound as frightened as she felt. 

“All things considered, Lord Stark is doing remarkably well.” Luwin walked forwards and took a free chair next to Hullen, sitting down with a sigh. He glanced down at the knife Ser Rodrik had left on the table. “As long as we prevent infection, I see no threat to his life. That is the weapon?”

“Valyrian steel,” Rodrik replied, and Luwin nodded. 

“I suspected. If I’m not interrupting anything too important, may I speak to Lady Stark in private?”

Murmurs of assent filled the room, and slowly their impromptu council filed out of the solar. Hullen was first out, followed by Vayon and Ser Rodrik. Catelyn nodded to Sansa, who then let herself be guided out by Theon, one hand on her shoulder. As the door clicked shut behind them, she turned to the Maester, heart heavy in her chest.

“How bad is it?” She asked. She hadn’t seen her husband since last night, when she’d briefly checked in before seeing to her other children. It had been enough to spy his face then, marred by a deep cut to the cheek, but now her worries rose again. 

Luwin closed his eyes for a long moment. “Like I said, he will live,” he finally replied. “How long his recovery will be… if he will fully recover… that is another matter entirely.”

Catelyn swallowed. “Tell me.”

“There are a few injuries. There’s a small cut on his cheek that will likely scar, but I have no qualms about its healing. There is bruising to his face and arms, but what worries me most is the wound to his forearm.”

That was what Catelyn remembered most clearly from last night. She could still see Sansa’s cloak wrapped around his arm, stained red despite the thick layers, though she hadn’t seen the wound itself.

“Is he in danger of losing the limb?” She asked, and Luwin shook his head. He raised his left arm, and pushing up his sleeve to expose the skin, laid it on the table.

“The laceration starts here,” he said, laying his right index finger at the midpoint of the inner arm. He dragged it down, wrapping towards the outer elbow. “And ends just shy of the elbow. It is deep, my lady, and almost breached the bone in one place. I was able to suture the skin and muscle back together, but I’m unsure how effective it will be. Assuming no infection, it’s possible it might only scar. It’s just as likely that he will lose all feeling in the limb.”

First Bran, now Ned, Catelyn thought, a little despairingly. How many more of my family might become crippled?

“How is he now?” She asked quietly.

“Sleeping,” Luwin replied. “I plan to have Lord Stark on milk of the poppy for the next few days at least, and he should wake only to eat and use the privy. After that, I’ll consider lessening the dose, depending on how he heals.”

“He won’t like that,” Catelyn laughed hollowly, and Luwin smiled wryly at her.

“I trust you to keep him in line, my lady.”

“Could I go and see him?”

Luwin thought, then nodded. “Yes, as long as you don’t touch the arm. Your children can go and visit as well, if they are quiet, one at a time.”

Catelyn stood then, and Luwin followed her as she left the solar, pausing just outside the door.

“I’m going to tend to the rookery, my lady,” the maester said, bowing. “But I left one of my stewards to mind Lord Stark. If anything happens, please send for me.”

“Of course,” Catelyn replied, then blinked, realizing something. “Also, we want no information about this attack leaving the castle just yet, maester. That includes any letters passing through your hands.”

“I’ll see it done, my lady.”

They separated in the corridor, then, and Catelyn walked up towards the bedchambers. Her route brought her past the children’s chambers, and she couldn’t help but wince as she passed the poor maid who had been tasked with scrubbing the blood out of the floor outside his room. Most of it was the assassin’s, she knew, but some of it was her husband’s, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much.

She forced herself by, however, and stopped at Bran’s room. She had posted a guard outside his room after the attack last night, and passed him by now, entering the room silently.

Bran, of course, remained unchanged, entirely unaware of the upheaval that had turned his family upside down. His breaths remained shallow but steady, and his wolf was now curled at the foot of his bed. The beast’s eyes raised to meet Catelyn’s as she entered, eerily intelligent, and she suppressed a shiver as she passed him by, bending down and pressing a kiss on her son’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry I cannot stay with you longer, my child,” she murmured, running a hand through his hair. “But your father can’t exactly go about doing my job for me anymore.”

She lingered for a moment, then left, doing her best to ignore the wolf. It had refused to move from Bran’s room since last night, and Sansa had convinced her to let him stay as a last line of protection. After seeing what Lady, the gentlest of the litter, had done to protect Ned, she had been easily persuaded.

The way to her chambers was further down the hallway, and Catelyn nodded to the two guards at the entrance to the corridor leading to her and her husband’s rooms. She had persuaded Luwin to make Ned’s sickbed in her room, where it was significantly warmer, so that was where she headed. She knew Ned would find it uncomfortable, once he woke, but she knew very well that opening windows to the snow outside would do more harm than good. Better to be warm than to catch a chill.

She had posted another guard directly outside of her room, but she was surprised to see Sansa lingering outside as well. She and the guard were speaking quietly, and Sansa had her arms wrapped around herself. 

“My lady,” said the guard as he noticed her, dipping his head. Sansa mumbled a greeting as well, too quiet for Catelyn to really make out, but she understood the meaning.

“Sansa, what are you doing up here?” She asked, setting a hand on her shoulder. “I thought you were with Theon.”

“He went down to practice archery,” Sansa replied, voice dangerously thin. Catelyn sighed, leaning over to press a kiss to the crown of her head. How foolish she had been, she thought, to be so concerned over Bran as to not pay any worry for her other children. 

“Maester Luwin says your Father can take visitors, if we’re quiet,” she said. “He shouldn’t be awake, but perhaps it would help for you to see him.”

Sansa bit her lower lip, then nodded wordlessly. The guard bowed to them, then opened the door. He stayed outside as they entered, returning to attention at his post. 

Catelyn sucked in a breath as she took in the sight. She’d slept in Ned’s bed last night, to allow Luwin and his stewards to attend to her husband, but seeing him alone on her furs made her heart ache even more than before. Dressed in only a short-sleeved tunic and breeches, it made his injuries all the more apparent. His arm, wrapped in thick layers of gauze, had noticeably swelled, and there were more wrappings around his knuckles and cheek. 

The steward was there as Luwin had said, wrapping ice chips in a linen bag. He looked up as they entered, then stood and bowed.

“My ladies,” he said, and Catelyn nodded in response. Sansa had taken her hand, and she gave it a comforting squeeze as she stepped further into the room. 

“How is he?” She asked.

“Stable, my lady,” the steward replied. “The maester just left, if you would like to speak with him.”

“I already have,” Catelyn replied. “Could we have a moment alone with him? Maester Luwin has already instructed me on how to care for him.”

“I was just about to administer some ice for the bruising, my lady.”

“I can do it.”

The steward glanced back at Ned, then nodded, finishing tying the bag. He passed it to her, and it was cold under her fingertips. 

“The ice is to be administered just below the eyes, no more than ten minutes at a time,” he instructed, and Catelyn nodded, committing it to memory. The steward bowed again, and gave them his leave.

As the door clicked shut, there was a snuffle from the foot of the bed, and Catelyn jerked back in surprise when Lady’s head appeared above the woodwork. The wolf snorted again, licked her nose, then trotted over to Sansa, who smiled softly and let go of Catelyn’s hand to pet her.

“I told her to stay and guard Father,” her daughter said, before she could ask.

“Like Bran’s wolf is guarding him?” Catelyn responded, holding out a hand, and Sansa nodded. Lady trotted over and nuzzled into it. It was difficult to believe that she had ripped out a man’s throat less than a day prior.

“I didn’t want anything else happening,” Sansa murmured, and Catelyn sighed, brushing back her hair with her free hand.

“You have a kind heart, sweetling. Your father and I are very proud of you.”

Sansa said nothing, biting her lip again and looking away, towards Ned. Catelyn followed her, adjusting the bag of ice in her hands as she bent over the bed, gently brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. Despite his injuries, he slept deeply and without grimace. Still, she could see why the steward had sent for the ice; the skin just under his eyes was bruised, splotches of black and yellow casting an exhausted shadow on his face. After a moment, she placed the bag of ice over his eyes, blocking it from view. 

“He’ll be alright,” Catelyn said, taking a spare chair to sit by the bed. Sansa followed suit, Lady placing her head in her lap as she sat. “Your father is still young and strong. Luwin has no serious fears for him. He just has to sleep so he can heal properly.”

She kept her worries about Ned’s arm to herself. There was no reason to worry Sansa even further, especially as she dug her hands into Lady’s scruff. 

“It’s my fault,” Sansa said, so quietly that Catelyn barely heard her. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, turning. Sansa held onto Lady tighter. “Sweetling, there was nothing else you could have done. You saved your Father’s life by letting the wolves in the Keep.”

“I told Lady to kill the assassin,” Sansa replied, the words tumbling out of her lips like an explosion. Catelyn drew herself back in surprise as she continued, eyes watering and voice thick. “I came up the stairs, and saw that man trying to kill Father, and before I could think I was shouting for Lady. I could have taken him alive, I know Lady could have done it, but I saw him with his fingers in Father’s eyes and I told Lady to kill him.”

She sobbed at the end, tears dripping down her cheeks. Catelyn drew her hands away from Ned to pull her close, letting her cry into her shoulder, and thought on the confession.

They had all just assumed that Lady had killed the assassin out of her own volition. Direwolves were famously wild, violent creatures, after all, and weren’t often tamed for a reason. But then again, she thought, Lady had always been extremely docile, ever responsive to Sansa’s careful hand. She let Sansa put bows in her fur and eat under the table, and rarely caused trouble. In that light, then, Lady killing a man without an order seemed rather unlikely.

And so Sansa had ordered it. Catelyn hid a wince at the thought; not that the man was dead, but that Sansa had decided to do it. It was a decision she had long hoped no child of hers would have to make, yet her eleven year old daughter had made it in a second.

To save Ned.

“You made the right choice,” Catelyn said, as Sansa sniffled into her dress. She pulled back a little, looking up with her Tully-blue eyes shining with tears. “Sweetling, this was never a choice I wanted you to make, but you made the right decision. I would much rather have your father here than that man and whatever answers he might have given us.”

“But if I had taken him alive—”

“He might have found a way to kill your father before the guards arrived. Or he might have gone after you. You played it safe, as you always should.”

Sansa’s bottom lip wobbled dangerously, but she nodded, relaxing back into Catelyn’s hold like she was a little child again.

“In the songs, it’s supposed to be the gallant knight who saves the lady,” she said after a moment. Catelyn laughed a little.

“Battles are rarely fought like songs, sweetling. I’m confident your father could have defeated the assassin on his own, but he was taken by surprise and ambushed. You could not have fought in any normal circumstance, but you had Lady, and she fought for you.”

Sansa said nothing for a while after that, just watching Ned as his chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths. Catelyn was reminded of her time at Bran’s bedside, and prayed fervently that Ned’s sleep would not be nearly as long. 

“He’ll be alright?” Sansa asked after a time, and Catelyn made herself nod. 

“Yes, he just needs to heal now.” She paused, then adjusted herself, tracing a finger through Sansa’s hair. “Why don’t you go take some time to yourself, sweetling? No lessons today. Find something relaxing to do.”

Sansa paused for a long moment, watching Ned’s covered face, then nodded, standing. 

“I’ll fetch Arya, if that’s alright,” she said, brushing her fingers over Ned’s uninjured right hand. “I know she really wanted to see Father last night.”

Catelyn paused for a moment, considering, then nodded. “If she promises to stay quiet and keep her hands to herself,” she replied. “But take care not to let Rickon hear. He’s too young to visit right now, I’m afraid.”

Sansa nodded, then knelt down to lather some more attention on Lady, whose tail wagged at her affections. With a whispered “guard” to her direwolf, she turned and was soon gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Catelyn sighed once she was gone, resting her forehead into one hand.

“Our daughter has killed a man, Ned,” she said aloud as Lady resumed her guard position at the foot of the bed. “Gods, how was I supposed to respond to that?”

Of course, Ned had no advice for her. He would have known what to say. Catelyn had never killed another man before, but she knew he had, both in war and as Lord of Winterfell. There was something to be said about killing a man and how to deal with such an act, but it was always knowledge reserved for the men of her household, and she had never thought to ask. Now she wished she had.

A good amount of time passed, and Catelyn removed the bag of ice from Ned’s face, exposing the bruises once more to the open air. Despite herself, she brushed her fingers over the inflamed skin, now cooled by the ice, then dusted them over the bandage to his cheek. It would scar, Luwin had said, and she found herself wondering what it would look like. 

Ned’s breathing hitched, then, and she yanked her hand back, afraid she had somehow hurt him. For a long moment, nothing happened, then his breathing quickened, uninjured hand flexing. Then his eyes fluttered open, staring dimly up at the ceiling.

“Oh dear,” she found herself saying through the crushing relief. “Maester Luwin said you weren’t supposed to wake yet.”

Slowly, his eyes turned to her, then they widened a bit and disappeared behind a grimace. Ned winced, moving as if to try and sit up, and Catelyn leapt to her feet, pushing his shoulders back into the furs. 

“Don’t you try that,” she said, removing her hands once she was certain he wasn’t going to attempt such a move again. “Luwin spent too much time on your stitches just for you to tear them open again. Stay still, love. All is well.”

“Bran?” Ned whispered, eyes flickering about. “Is Bran—”

“Bran is the same,” Catelyn replied, forcing a smile. “Unchanged. You should worry more for yourself. You were the one attacked.”

Ned stared at her for a moment, and Catelyn could almost see the thoughts in his head slowly forming, fighting through his poppy-induced sleep to be spoken. Then he frowned, looking at her quite oddly.

“Not me,” he said, voice cracking. “I wasn’t supposed to be there, Cat.”

“What?” Was that the poppy milk talking? She wasn’t sure, but Catelyn turned, taking a pitcher of water that had been left at his bedside and pouring a small bit into a cup for him. She returned to Ned’s side and helped him drink a little, propping up his head to let him swallow. Her husband drank greedily, and the water was drained in seconds. She set the cup back on the table, taking his free hand in hers. “Ned, what are you talking about?”

“The library,” Ned muttered. His eyes flickered back and forth, as if searching for something. “I was supposed to go to the library.”

Catelyn had almost forgotten about the burnt library in the chaos of the night.

“The library will be alright,” she replied, unsure of what to say. “The books are important, but not like you—”

“Bran was supposed to be alone,” he interrupted her, eyes suddenly clear, and Catelyn’s blood turned to ice. “The man was after Bran. I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Chapter Text

The Riverlands were beautiful.

Robb had heard about the lands of his mother’s birth before, of course, but somehow he’d never realized that a place could look so green. Winterfell would always be home, but suddenly Robb understood the wistful look Mother would get sometimes, when she spoke of Riverrun and her childhood days. Even though summer was edging towards autumn, wildflowers still lined the roads, great budding trees coating the land in shades of green, blue, and brown.

It had taken them a few weeks to cross the Neck and enter the Riverlands through the Twins, but overall, the royal procession had been making good time. The Queen’s wheelhouse had only broken down a few times, and each repair had only taken a couple hours. No other major upsets had disturbed their journey, so they had continued on at a slow but steady pace. 

It was odd, being so far away from home, yet Robb found that he was enjoying himself. There was a certain amount of anxiousness to it, being the sole representative of House Stark, but slowly he was starting to know the royal party, and the Baratheon men were fun, the Lannisters tolerable, and the servant’s children amusing, as they jumped in the meandering banks of the Green Ford, whose path they were following down to the Trident. 

That was the sight that greeted Robb a month into his journey south. They’d passed through the Neck and the Twins a week ago, and now the mountains of the Vale rose to their east, a massive, distant line of rock visible from leagues away. In the early morning mist, they looked almost ethereal, and Robb found himself thinking of the aunt and cousin he had never met, living up in those peaks. His father and King Robert had grown up there as well, fostered in the Eyrie.

Perhaps I should visit, Robb found himself thinking as he dressed for the day. He’d been given his own tent, to be kept near the King’s family, but it was small, and he had to stoop to stand up. It was a relief to get out in the morning, tasting the crisp air of the Riverlands and taking in the natural beauty around him. On my way back from King’s Landing, if Father approves, I could spend a few weeks with Aunt Lysa and get to know her. Mother always spoke kindly of her.

“Lord Robb!”

An incoming voice jerked Robb out of his thoughts. He turned around in time to see Jory walking over to him, dressed in his riding leathers.

“Good morning!” He called, and Jory dipped his head in return. “Did you sleep well?”

“As much as I could,” Jory chuckled. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten too used to my feather bed in Winterfell. How is the trip treating you, my lord? You’ve been eyeing the Vale for a few minutes now.”

“Oh, I was just thinking about my aunt,” Robb replied, and at Jory’s blank face, explained. “My mother’s sister, Lysa Arryn, is Lady of the Vale. I’ve never met her, and was thinking about visiting once my time in King’s Landing is over.”

Jory looked a little green at the suggestion, eyes going up towards the far-off peaks. 

“I would say that heights have never been my strength,” he replied, and Robb laughed.

“That’s fair. I suppose I won’t know until I try it.”

Jory just shook his head, turning away from the mountains to pull a small folded parchment from a pocket. He passed it over, and Robb glanced over the invitation before folding it back again.

“Another invitation to break my fast, I see,” he remarked, and Jory nodded. This was the third time that week that he’d been invited to eat with the royal family. He was their ward now, so it wasn’t unusual… but for the first leg of his trip, Robb had spent most of his time with his guards and Jon, when he had the chance. Now, he was slowly integrating himself with the Baratheons, and he didn’t really know what to think about that.

Still, a summons was a summons, and Robb could not refuse it. He was already dressed for the day, so he tucked the parchment away and let Jory lead him through the village of tents that compromised the King’s royal procession. They had only swelled in numbers since crossing into the Riverlands, musicians, hedge knights, and wanderers of all sorts trailing them in search of work and entertainment. 

The pavilion of the royal family was easy to spot, and Ser Meryn Trant, who had ridden up the Kingsroad to meet them two days past, was guarding the entrance. The Kingsguard gave him the barest of nods as Robb passed him, which he returned with equal stiffness. Ser Meryn, for all they had never spoken to each other, clearly didn’t like him. 

It was better inside. The red and yellow tarp pinned above them let in just enough light to illuminate while keeping out the elements, casting the whole area in a golden light. Set up in the middle was a light redwood table, upon which were several courses of food, among them fresh bread and apple cakes. 

The royal family was already there. Queen Cersei sat at the head of the table, Prince Joffrey on her right hand and Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella on her left. They hadn’t started eating yet, but little Tommen looked like he was about to burst from waiting, clearing eyeing up the apple cakes. 

“Your Grace,” Robb said, announcing his presence. He dipped into a low bow as Jory did the same, just behind him. “My Princes and Princess. Thank you for inviting me to break my fast with you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Robb,” Cersei replied, looking like his presence was anything but. Robb had quickly come to learn that the Queen looked down on anyone that wasn’t her immediate family, King Robert excluded, and so he wasn’t surprised. “I’m afraid the King will not be joining us today. Please, sit.”

Robb took his seat as Jory walked off to join the servants waiting along the pavilion walls. As usual, his seat was on Joffrey’s free side, and he steadfastly ignored the putrid look the crown prince was shooting at him in favor of watching Tommen lunge for the apple cakes as soon as it was polite. 

For a time, he contented himself with staying silent, serving a good amount of lamb and bread onto his plate and eating as Tommen and Myrcella chatted. For all the frostiness between him, Joffrey, and Cersei, the two younger children were either unaware or uncaring of it as they prepared for their day. While Myrcella was the picture of perfect manners, Tommen lacked them near entirely, munching on apple cakes and speaking of his prized cat, Lord Merry, with his mouth full.

Breakfast was usually cool, since King Robert had yet to join them for one. In the past few weeks, Robb had grown well aware of how the King tended to avoid his wife and children, even more so than he had in Winterfell. Robert rode at the head of the party while his family took the wheelhouse in the back, and he was up early in the mornings, often riding for a quick hunt with a small entourage. It was somewhat surprising, then, that Robb continued to receive invitations to eat from Queen Cersei, given how she seemed to despise anything remotely northern, but he had yet to find a polite opportunity to ask why.

“Robb!” Tommen exclaimed, once he was finished with his third apple cake. The treat was his newest obsession, and Robb had yet to see him go through a meal without one. “I found a new kitten yesterday!”

“Did you?” Robb asked, humoring him, and got a nod in response. 

“Uh-huh! I saw him in the bushes this morning and made Uncle Jaime catch it for me!” Robb very valiantly resisted laughing at that mental image. “He’s this big—” Tommen stretched out his hands a foot or so apart. “And grey! Like your dog!”

“Grey Wind is a direwolf,” Robb reminded him, even though Tommen never remembered. 

“And I want to name the kitten Grey Wind!” Tommen continued, green eyes bright. “But Myrcella said I’ve to ask you first, because it’s not polite to steal a name.”

Oh no, that’s adorable. Robb tried to picture Tommen carting around a grey cat named Grey Wind, and smiled in amusement. Myrcella was also giggling into her food, while Cersei looked like she had eaten something especially sour.

“Grey Wind is a stupid name,” Joffrey declared, upturning his nose. “You should name it something better if you’re so determined to keep the thing.”

“Grey Wind isn’t stupid!” Tommen protested, standing in his seat.

“Children,” Cersei said, raising an eyebrow. Tommen slowly sunk back into his chair, muttering an apology to his mother, while Joffrey smirked haughtily. Robb resisted rolling his eyes. 

“You are free to name the cat however you like, my prince,” he put in after a moment, pausing to finish off his bread. “I’m honored that you like my wolf enough to name your cat after him.”

“He’s so big,” Tommen replied, awestruck. “And scary-looking.”

“It’s a wild beast,” Joffrey snorted. “I can’t believe Father let it come south. The thing is only going to go wild and attack somebody. We ought to just put it down.”

“Grey Wind is perfectly well trained,” Robb cut in, sitting up straight. “I’ve raised him since he was a pup. He will listen to me, and is no danger to anybody.”

“Of course it listens to you, you northmen are all savages anyway.”

Robb set down his knife, turning to look Joffrey straight in the eyes. The boy held his gaze for a moment, but soon wavered, looking away with a scoff.

“I apologize for my son, Robb,” Cersei said, not looking up from her food. “Please forgive him for his insult.”

“It is forgiven,” Robb forced out, taking a deep breath to quell his anger at the jab. It wasn’t the first time Joffrey had let his prejudices against the northmen be known, though it was the first time he’d said it so blatantly. You can’t fight with Joffrey outside of Winterfell, he reminded himself. Father had made that very clear when he’d been preparing to leave, but it didn’t make things easier.

“I like Grey Wind…” Tommen said quietly. 

“Then name the cat Grey Wind,” Cersei said, somewhat more gently. “It’s a cat, the name matters not.”

Joffrey muttered something into his food, too quiet for Robb to make out, but he could guess what the gist was, considering the tone. Still, he let it go, going back to his knife to finish his meal. 

The rest of breakfast went more quietly. Tommen had gone relatively silent, picking at his leftovers. Joffrey went back to pretending that Robb didn’t exist, and by the time he was finished, it was clear that this meal was going about the same as all the others he had attended. 

Cersei excused them after Myrcella finished her the last bit of her food, and the five of them scattered to the winds. Tommen waved goodbye as he and Myrcella ran off, Ser Meryn trailing behind them. Cersei took Joffrey in a different direction, hardly even deigning a look in Robb’s direction once the meal was over. 

“Why does the Queen keep on inviting me to these things?” Robb complained to Jory once they were heading back to his tent. Everyone was packing up to continue their journey to King’s Landing, and he had to avoid some workers carting several long rolls of tarp on their way. “It’s clear she doesn’t like me.”

Jory just shrugged. “The workings of the capital are beyond me,” he said. “But I imagine it’s something expected of the Queen, personal feelings aside. You are her ward now, so there are probably some things she’s expected to do.”

“I could do without Joffrey’s simpering,” Robb grumbled, quieter. “Did you hear about the whole cat argument?”

“It was hard not to.” Jory frowned, lips pursed a little as he recalled. “I don’t look forward to the day Joffrey becomes king, if his attitude towards the North remains the same.”

“Hopefully King Robert can knock some sense into him. I don’t want Sansa marrying a boy like that if he doesn’t mature in time. Gods, could you imagine them trying to get along?”

“No, I don’t think it would go well for his grace,” Jory chuckled, and Robb nodded in agreement, pushing aside his growing unease. Sansa had been enamored with the idea of marrying Joffrey, though Robb suspected that excitement had come more from becoming a queen worthy of song than any real love. If Joffrey remained the same, and Sansa grew old enough to see through her rose-tinted views of the south… no, the marriage would not be happy, in all likelihood. Robb resolved to write to Father about it; surely he would value Robb’s assessment of the boy in regards to the betrothal.

Alyn and Harwin were already almost done disassembling Robb’s tent by the time he arrived, and his horse stood prepped and tied to a nearby fencepost, saddled and waiting. Robb exchanged greetings with the two guards, then threw on his surcoat and traded his shoes for riding boots. All around them, the camp was disappearing into wheelhouses, wagons, and pack mules, leaving a partially ruined field in their wake. 

As Robb mounted his horse, horns called in the distance, signaling the king’s return from his early morning hunt. He looked up just in time to see the party of a dozen men strong emerge from the woods, riding towards the van. One of the riders broke apart from the rest, a dark shape slung over the horse’s haunches, and Robb knew they would have fresh venison tonight. 

“I’m going to go find Jon,” he called over to Jory, who was helping Harwin put away the last of their belongings. He got an affirmative in response, and so tapped his heels into his horse’s flank, taking off into a trot down the side of the river.

Slowly, the King’s party was starting to move, crawling their way down the Green Fork and towards the Trident. Robb passed a variety of knights and retainers as he went, and almost trampled over some poor butcher’s boy when he darted out in front of his horse. After a scolding and apologies from the boy, he let the lad go and continued on.

He could just see King Robert at the head of the party, his golden Baratheon cloak fastened to his shoulders. Two Kingsguard rode alongside him—Ser Arys was one of them, Robb knew, and he guessed the other was Ser Jaime—along with a half dozen knights. He scanned over the group, but found no sign of his half-brother, so he turned his attention backwards.

There you are! Robb grinned as he caught sight of a flash of brown hair, half-camouflaged in a small group of squires trailing behind the King’s retinue. He turned in that direction, and the boys scattered upon his approach, leaving Jon behind, who regarded him with an errant look.

“How was the hunt?” He asked, bringing his horse alongside his brother’s. Jon shrugged, giving off an air of unimpressment.

“Officially, the king caught a deer,” He replied. “ Un officially, Ser Arys ran down the poor thing, took out its back leg, and our beloved king put it out of its misery.”

“Sounds about right. Say, what’s up with the boys? They ran off at the sight of me.”

“They’re terrified of you,” Jon said, giving him a knowing look. Robb rolled his eyes. 

“I’m a lord’s son, not the Queen herself.”

“ They don’t know that. You spend too much time with the royal family; they think you’re one of them.” Robb made a face, and Jon chuckled. “Is that where you were this morning? Breaking your fast with our beloved Queen?”

“Well, I was sleeping in a little first, but yes, she invited me again. You know how it goes. Tommen’s got another cat for his retinue, Joffrey’s a prick, Queen Cersei only spoke when she had to.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that,” Jon remarked. His head turned a little a moment later, and he turned towards the edge of the procession. Robb followed him just in time to see Grey Wind and Ghost emerge from the underbrush, nipping at each other’s heels playfully. The pair were growing quickly; despite barely being out of the puppy stage, they were the size of large dogs now, and Robb had no idea when they would stop growing. 

“You get to be a squire and follow Ser Arys around all day,” Robb grumbled, whistling for the wolves. They hurried over at his call, Grey Wind yipping and Ghost silent as always, and he bent down, letting his wolf buck up to bump his head against his hand. His horse, despite how Robb had trained it, still jerked a little at how close they got, and he rubbed her neck to soothe her. “Better than what I have to deal with. Do you know that Tommen wants to name his new kitten Grey Wind?”

Jon snorted violently into the back of his hand. “What an honor,” he forced out, barely containing himself. Robb laughed shortly as well.

“According to Myrcella, it’s impolite to steal a name, so he was asking me for permission. And so it seems that we will have a cat named Grey Wind grace our presence for the rest of our trip to King’s landing.”

Jon laughed harder.

The day continued on with much of the same banter. The weather was very pleasant, growing ever warmer the further south they got, and Grey Wind and Ghost certainly seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. They stayed to the outskirts of the procession, as the King had dictated, but were very much content there. Later in the morning, they darted off entirely, and returned an hour later with blood on their jaws, indicating a successful kill. 

Jon and Robb, on the other hand, spent most of their time catching up with each other. Despite being in the same party, they hadn’t spoken to each other outside of pleasantries for a few days. Robb often found himself caught up with the royal family and other noblemen, while Jon was much busier than he, running back and forth for Arys, fetching water, carrying his weapons, and setting up and taking down his tent in the mornings and evenings. He’d been left relatively free after the morning hunt, however, so they spent their free time at each other’s side.

It was just past midday when a call went up from the van. Robb and Jon were relatively near, and so were able to peer around and see a party coming up to meet them on the Kingsroad. The land was flat, so they’d been spotted from a good distance away, far enough that Robb couldn’t tell who they were. A pair of riders went out to meet them, but it wasn’t until a half hour later that Jon, who had the better eyesight of them, was able to see who it was. 

“That’s the stag of House Baratheon,” he said, squinting at the banners, who Robb could only make a yellow blur out of. 

“For the king?” Robb guessed, but Jon shook his head. 

“No, the king’s sigil has the Lannister lion too, and I don’t see it anywhere.”

Robb frowned, racking his head to try and remember the members of House Baratheon. “Uh… could it be Stannis Baratheon?”

“Could be,” Jon shrugged. “Dunno why he’d ride up here, though. I’ve been talking to Steffon Swyft—he used to squire for Lord Stannis, and was just knighted before coming north—and apparently the man is… very uptight. To put it in more polite terms.”

“Aw, making friends already?”

Jon rolled his eyes, squinting again. “There’s a Kingsguard with them,” he reported. “I can tell from the white cloak.”

Robb followed his line of sight, and he too could make out the smear of white that signaled the presence of a knight of the Kingsguard. As he watched, the Kingsguard and several other riders separated from the main group, riding towards the king. Robb watched them in mild interest as they joined with the head of the procession.

“An honor guard?” He tried. “We’re only a day or so north of Darry, I think.”

Jon shrugged again; they wouldn’t know until the news passed. They spent the next few minutes watching as the two parties intermingled, until a rider separated from the van and rode towards them. Robb blinked in surprise, recognizing the boy as one of the other squires that had been with Jon before he’d come over.

“Peck!” Jon called, clearly knowing him. The boy pulled himself up alongside them, and Robb realized he was only a little younger than them, tall and skinny like a stick. “What’s going on?”

“It’s an honor guard from King’s Landing,” the boy, Peck, replied, before turning and nodding to Robb. “And a knight of the Vale.”

“The Vale?” Jone echoed, confused. 

“I don’t know, but he’s asking after you, Lord Robb. The king commands you to go and speak to him.”

“Me?” Robb glanced over at the van, but they were too far away to make any details. “That’s odd.”

“You better go and see to it, then,” Jon said, still mystified. “If the king agrees with this knight, it must be important.”

“I don’t know what anyone from the Vale would want to do with me,” Robb replied, but kicked off anyways, waving goodbye. 

He galloped over to the van, slowing again as he neared, and nodded to Ser Arys as he passed him and approached the king, who was with Ser Jaime and speaking with three knights. The Kingsguard wore a set of white armor that glistened like scales, the second man green plate with a golden set of stag’s antlers on his helm. The third knight had taken off his helm, and was dressed less gaudily, in gray chainmail and leathers. His attention turned immediately to Robb as he approached, and Robb was shocked to see that he had his mother’s eyes, a bright Tully blue. 

“Ah, Robb!” King Robert said, noticing his arrival. “There you are, boy!”

“Your grace,” Robb replied, dipping his head. 

“This is the Stark heir?” The knight in green asked, looking over at him. He pulled off his helm, revealing a young man of twenty with a clear resemblance to Robert. Renly Baratheon, Robb realized. I forgot he was in the capital, too. 

“I’m Robb of House Stark, yes,” he replied. “You’re Lord Renly Baratheon, I presume?”

“You’ve guessed right!” Renly chuckled, nodding. “I’m glad to finally meet this famed heir. Our companion here has been boring Barristan and I to death with his need to speak to you.”

Robb turned again to the Vale knight, who was still watching him. 

“I believe I don’t know your name, Ser,” he said apologetically, and the knight snorted. 

“No, I would think not,” he replied. “The last I saw you, you were a newborn babe still at your mother’s breast. I’m Brynden Tully, your mother’s uncle. I guard the Bloody Gate in the Vale.”

The Blackfish! Robb had to stop himself from gaping. He’d heard the stories of his great-uncle, of course, the great knight of the Riverlands who had gained national renown in the wars of the Ninepenny Kings and Robert’s Rebellion, but had never met him in person. Brynden had written to him a few times, on his important namedays, but there had never been any real communication between them. Seeing him here was an abject surprise.

“I’ve heard much about you, Uncle,” he found himself replying, unsure of what to say, and Robert laughed. 

“He says he’s got a message for you,” Renly said, glancing at the Blackfish. “But won’t say a word as to what’s so important to have taken him from his post.”

“That’s because I haven’t read the letter,” Brynden replied, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a sealed envelope. Robb could see the silver glint of the Stark seal on the parchment. “Your mother sent this to me several days ago, and asked me to meet you on the road to deliver it. She requested that I not open it until you’ve read it first.”

“My mother?” Robb echoed, taking the letter. He was suddenly apprehensive; he hadn’t heard anything from his parents since he’d left Winterfell. “It couldn’t wait until we reached Darry?”

“That I don’t know, child,” Brynden replied.

“Oh, just open the damn thing!” Robert complained, throwing up a hand. “We’re holding up the whole procession!”

Robb was quick to obey, digging a nail under the seal and popping it off. The parchment he pulled out was rather short, and he read it within a few minutes, alarm rapidly rising as he did so. He finished, then read it again, as if the contents would change on the second try.

“Well?” Renly prodded, as Robb lowered the letter.

“There’s… been an attempt on my lord father’s life,” he said slowly, and the party went silent. “My mother wrote to inform me that he lives, but has taken a severe injury. The would-be assassin was killed before any information could be taken from him.”

“...An attempt on Lord Stark’s life?” Renly said after a shocked moment. 

“What is this?!” Robert roared a moment later, throwing out a hand. His face had gone red from rage. “Show me that letter, boy.”

Silently, Robb passed it over, and Robert snatched the parchment, nearly tearing it to get a better look. Renly and Barristan shared equally puzzled and alarmed glances, while Brynden had gone a little pale. 

“Why Lord Stark?” Ser Jaime mused as the king read. “I wasn’t aware he was a target of any kind.”

“I imagine that’s why Lady Stark wrote to her son,” Barristan replied, brow furrowed in thought. “He is with the king.”

“Damn right I’m the king!” Robert roared, thrusting the letter back at Robb. He took it gingerly, folding it back into its envelope and setting it in his saddlebag to show to Jon later. He’d want to hear the news, too. “This is an outrage!”

“Did they catch all the perpetrators?” Brynden asked, and Robb nodded. 

“She said the assassin was working on his own,” he answered. 

“But someone had to have hired him!” Robert exclaimed, pulling on his reins hard enough to make his horse jerk. “Damn it to the seven hells, I want that employer found and killed!”

“I don’t know if there’s much we can do,” Renly responded. “We’re still in the Riverlands, far from both the capital and Winterfell.”

“Then we must make haste! We ride for Darry, and we’ll get some ravens sent! I want any resources we have to be given to the Starks for disposal! Gods, right after we left Winterfell, too! It’s a shame I wasn’t there; I would have torn the assassin’s head from his shoulders!”

Robert had worked himself up into a fervor at that point, and kicked his horse onwards, shouting for everyone to start riding for Darry again. Renly pulled himself on the King’s free side, and Robb let him go, very much aware of the letter he was carrying. Such dire news on such a simple piece of paper. 

Dark wings, dark words, Old Nan used to say. Robb suddenly felt the truth of the old proverb.

“Are you alright, child?” Brynden asked, and Robb looked up to see that his great-uncle had stayed behind with him. Robb nodded, setting off at a trot again.

“Mother says Father is in no danger of dying,” he replied.

“Aye, but assassination attempts are still frightening.” Brynden shook his head, blue eyes clouded. “In his own home, nonetheless… your mother doesn’t know who the assassin was?”

Robb shook his head. “He was unfamiliar to her, and he died before he could confess anything.”

“And he attacked soon after the King’s party left, correct?” Robb paused in his saddle, eyes widening, and Brynden nodded, lowering his voice into a whisper. “She sent that letter as a warning to you, Robb. If the assassin was a tagalong on the royal procession, there might be more.”

“After me? But why?”

“Why would they go after your father?” Brynden shook his head. “No, child, better to be cautious. Be wary. Anyone who would think to go after your father could very well go after you.”

Robb swallowed. He wanted to protest such a thing happening so close to the king, but then he remembered that Father had been in Winterfell. Winterfell, his home, where the only live steel was seen on the guards and in the training yard. 

No, if an assassin could get into Winterfell, they could certainly sneak into the royal procession. And if they went after Father, they could certainly try for him, too.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing stunk.

At first, when he’d spied the city from Hayford, Jon had been awestruck. So far, none of the castles he’s seen on the Kingsroad had held even a candle to the might that was Winterfell, and he’d started to think, unconsciously or not, that none would. 

And in all fairness, King’s Land was not a castle, but a city, the likes of which Jon had never seen before. He’d heard the stories of White Harbor from Robb and Theon, when they had gone on an official visit with Father the year prior, but nothing had truly stuck until they crested Hayford hill. Hundreds of houses sprawled out across an acreage that put Winterfell to shame, dozens of trails of smoke lilting up into the air. A castle that he would later recognize as the Red Keep rose as a triad of jagged points in the back of the city, standing in defiance of the open sky.

The honor guard that had met them just north of Darry swelled to three times its size as they came within a day’s march of the city. If Jon had found himself busy on the trip south, he was even busier now, darting back and forth across the progress all day to ferry messages and instructions to the various Gold Cloaks that joined their ranks in the name of the Kingsguard.  He barely caught a glimpse of Robb the entire day, situated as he was between King Robert and the Blackfish.

Jon had hardly even spoken to his trueborn brother since the Blackfish had arrived. Brynden Tully had joined them carrying the news of Father’s attack and injury, but had yet to give Jon more than a disdainful glare whenever he drew too close. The old knight had remained at Robb’s side nearly the entire journey. Whispers had permeated camp at his arrival—apparently, the Blackfish hadn’t left the Bloody Gate since taking the post, and his decision to remain with the King’s party drew more than a few eyes.

The Blackfish had finally left them at Hayford, turning back towards his post at the Vale, but by then Jon was so thoroughly busy he couldn’t spare a moment to see how Robb was doing. One of the Gold Cloak captains and Ser Arys had gotten into an argument concerning the position of a few squads in the rearguard, which left Jon riding up and down the column with delivering various threats and conflicting orders from one man to the other. 

It was on one of those errands that he first caught a whiff of King’s Landing. It sent him nearly gagging, scrunching up his nose as he gave Ser Arys the Gold Cloak captain’s report that was really just a polite way of saying “ fuck off.”  

“There’s the real King’s Landing!” Steffon laughed, noticing him from his place next to Peck. The two young men, the only non-Lannisters in the party that were around his age, had become something adjacent to friends during their trip. Steffon was knighted, but newly so, and tended to hang around Josmyn Peckledon, Jaime Lannister’s squire, since they were cousins. Josmyn, who everyone called Peck, and Jon, meanwhile, had found themselves in close proximity as Kingsguard squires, and thus all three of them had become acquainted.

“Smells disgusting,” Jon replied, wiping at his nose.

“Best to get used to it,” Ser Arys said, drawing his horse up next to them. His white armor and cloak shone almost blindingly in the summer sun, a stark contrast to the stench. “Jon, I sent Ser Gerald to set the Gold Cloak captain straight, so you’re staying with the other squires as we ride into the city.” He turned to Steffon. “Ser Steffon, I know you’re a knight now, but see Jon to his quarters and get him situated.”

“It’ll be done, Ser,” Steffon replied with a nod, though his brow crinkled a little at the chore.

Arys nodded, and left a moment later, hurrying back to the King’s side. Jon craned his head, and if he tilted it just so he could catch a glimpse of Robb’s signature red locks, barely visible over the shoulder of Barristan Selmy. He seemed to be talking to Lord Renly, but Jon couldn’t be sure.

“Oh, stop pining after your brother,” Steffon jeered, jerking Jon out of his thoughts. He scowled at the young knight, who just grinned voraciously at him. “We get it, he’s the trueborn heir and you’re the bastard. You can at least try and be subtle about it.”

Jon jerked back in his saddle, cheeks flaming. “That’s not—”

“Leave it be,” Peck interjected, rolling his eyes. 

“I can be curious as to what my brother’s doing!” Jon protested, and Steffon shrugged.

“Then you’re being too obvious,” he replied.

“Both of you, shut up,” Peck said again, just as the bells started tolling. Jon looked away from the two, still embarrassed, but that embarrassment swiftly faded when he took in the sight before him.

Stench aside, the Gate of the Gods, which opened King’s Landing to the Kingsroad, was massive, bigger than even Winterfell’s main gates. The faces of the seven gods of the Faith of the Seven were carved above the portcullis, watching them with stoney eyes. It was an odd sight, a little unnerving, and Jon looked away, focusing instead on where the van was entering. King Robert and his Kingsguard rode in first to massive cheers from inside the city, followed by Robb and Renly, and then the Queen’s wheelhouse.

It took a good few minutes until the horses in front of Jon moved, and he spurred his mare onwards, curiosity overpowering his disgust as he finally entered King’s Landing proper. 

The distant clamor of voices became a roar as he passed underneath the Gate of the Gods. Jon instinctively found himself stiffening at the sight—never had he seen so many people at once. Smallfolk lined the streets, dirty children in little more than rags climbing rooftops and their parents to get a better look at the noblemen passing them by. The stench also increased even more, and Jon wrinkled his nose, switching to breathing through his mouth as they rode past.

“Have these people ever heard of personal hygiene?” He muttered, and Peck shrugged from his spot next to him. 

“King’s Landing has always stunk. It’s not so bad in the Red Keep, and you get used to it anyway.”

“I could never get used to this.”

“That’s what I said, when I first arrived,” Steffon laughed. “When I first came here from the Cornfield… blergh! But Peck’s right. You wake up one morning and realize that you haven’t noticed the smell at all.”

Jon frowned, privately disbelieving, but let the matter drop, instead taking in the sights as they made their way towards the Red Keep, looming ever higher on Aegon’s Hill. It certainly lived up to its name; made of red stone, the Keep cut an intimidating figure on the horizon. Below it, the smallfolk’s buildings were crammed together until they were almost on top of each other, made of gray slabs of stone and old beams of wood. From his mount, Jon could see the sharp peaks of what had to be the Great Sept of Baelor passing them by.

The procession continued slowly through the city, but thankfully was with little interruption. Soon enough, they were piling in through the gates to the Red Keep, and Jon was relieved to note that Peck was right—it didn’t smell as bad inside the castle walls.

There was a party waiting for them in the entryway plaza, and Jon was struck with a strange sense of deja vu, remembering how Father and his family had lined up to greet the King, back in Winterfell. This group was larger, but also more assorted. Standing in the front, though, was a man draped in all red and gold, more richly dressed than anyone Jon had seen before. He was tall and slender, and balding on top, with graying golden hair circling the sides of his head. As the King approached, the man knelt, and the people behind him followed his lead.

Jon was close enough at that point to just make out what was being said.

“King’s Landing is yours, Your Grace,” said the man, but Robert just grunted, swinging himself off his horse.

“Already made yourself at home I see, Lord Lannister,” he replied. Lannister. It took Jon a moment to realize he was looking at Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and the new Hand of the King. Clearly, considering the looks the two were shooting each other, there was no love lost between him and King Robert.

Lord Lannister said nothing in reply, only dipping his head in deference. Renly approached him next, and the pair bowed to each other. Robb was waved forward after that, and his brother dismounted to conduct introductions just as a finger jabbed into Jon’s side.

“ Obvious,” Steffon jeered at him quietly, and Jon swatted his hand away. “Come on, I’m supposed to get you situated.”

Jon grumbled, but did as he was told, dismounting and taking his saddlebags in hand. A stableboy ran up and took their horses, and Peck joined them a moment later, swinging his own bags over one shoulder. 

“The pages will grab your things from the wagon train,” Steffon said, leading him away. Peck picked up on Steffon’s other side, and as the royal party slowly disassembled, they had to avoid several rushing servants carting around various forms of supplies. Despite being smaller than Winterfell, the Red Keep was already much busier and much, much more crowded. “We’ll go and get settled in your quarters, and Peck will help you with your duties after that.”

“Work never stops for a squire,” Peck hummed, adjusting his pack.

Jon didn’t say anything in reply, taking in their surroundings. The walls of the Red Keep rose high, higher than Winterfell’s, and the courtyard took up most of the space inside it. He tried to remember the maps he’d studied, both with Maester Luwin and Ser Arys on the road, and reminded himself that the castle was split into roughly four sections: one for gatherings, one for the godswood, one for the servants and the Hand, and one for the King. 

“That’s the Grand Hall,” Peck said, pointing at a grand building as they passed it by. It was bigger than Winterfell’s Great Hall at least twice over, and Jon had to resist gawking at it. “The King hosts his major feasts there. He’ll probably be expecting one tonight, so we’ll have to arrive early with the Kingsguard to sweep the place and make sure nothing is amiss.”

“We have to make sure the Red Keep is safe?” Jon asked, disbelieving, and Steffon laughed shortly.

“There’s our northern boy,” he chuckled over Jon’s scowl. “Thinking the Red Keep is safe!”

“It’s something he needs to learn, then,” Peck shrugged, and he turned to Jon, mouse-brown eyes serious. “King’s Landing is anything but safe, Snow. At least for noble-borns like the King. Squires like us, we usually go without notice, but there’s been more than a few attempts on the King’s life since he took the throne.”

“Not that they ever get too far,” Steffon added, as Jon valiantly tried not to think of Robb, who was very much noble-born, and the recent attempt on Father’s life. “Yeah, King’s Landing is dangerous, but that’s why we’ve got so many guards. Back when he was here, Lord Stannis never went anywhere without at least a few retainers.”

“Lord Stannis isn’t here?” Jon questioned. He hadn’t heard about that. Steffon just shrugged.

“He took off right after we left for Winterfell. He’s at his castle on Dragonstone right now, I think. Asked me to come with him, but I was knighted and would rather not get stuck on a barren island like that.”

“So you went to Winterfell?” Peck snorted, and Steffon snorted.

“Point.”

They reached the gate in the inner wall in the next few moments, before Jon could protest them calling Winterfell barren. Steffon shouted up at the gate guards, who shrugged after a moment and let them pass through. The next section of the Red Keep was about as large as the first, but much more populated with buildings. Dominating the scene was one great tower rising high into the sky, but there were several other buildings as well, including what had to be the keep’s sept near the back wall.

“That’s the Tower of the Hand.” Steffon jerked his elbow towards the great tower. “I’ll be living there now; Lord Lannister has agreed to take me into his service.”

“You got into Tywin Lannister’s personal guard?” Peck whistled. “Impressive.”

“It wasn’t much,” Steffon shrugged. “My sister’s married to Kevan Lannister, Tywin’s brother. She put in a good word for me.”

“What’s he like?” Jon asked. “Tywin Lannister, I mean. The King doesn’t seem to like him.”

“And even the king can’t deny how useful he is,” Peck replied. “Have you heard the song The Rains of Castamere?” Jon shook his head. “You will. Probably tonight at the feast, our new Hand loves the stupid song. That’s the best way I can describe Lord Lannister. He’s the best ally you could get—and the worst possible enemy.”

“He’s ruthless, that’s for sure, but it’s what the kingdom needs, I think,” Steffon added. “His army was the one who sacked King’s Landing and conquered it in the name of King Robert.”

Jon did remember that from his lessons. He remembered that Father had led the first part of the alliance to arrive in King’s Landing, and the one who had found King Aerys dead at Jaime Lannister’s feet. Maester Luwin had made sure they learned that, but when he and Robb had demanded to know the stories from the man himself—in their defense, they couldn’t have been more than seven at the time—Father had only gotten very quiet. They hadn’t asked again.

“He was Hand under King Aerys, wasn’t he?” He asked as they passed the Tower of the Hand. Steffon nodded. 

“They parted on a bad note, because the Mad King was, well, mad. I’ve heard he did a good job though. I’m not surprised King Robert asked for him to take the position again.”

Only because Father said no, Jon thought, but kept that to himself. Considering how Cersei and Jaime Lannister had conducted themselves in Winterfell, he had the sneaking suspicion that Lannister and Stark were not on the best of terms.

They chatted about more mundane things as they passed by what Steffon pointed out as the Maidenvault, reaching another inner wall. This one was a bit harder to get through, the guard at the gate not recognizing Peck for a good few minutes. Finally, though, they made their way in, and Jon couldn’t help but gawk as Maegor’s Holdfast, the chambers of the royal family, loomed ahead of them. Surrounded by a small boat and crossed by a drawbridge, the building itself was intimidating, red sandstone glinting in the afternoon light.

“Yeah, most people tend to have that reaction,” Steffon remarked when he saw Jon’s reaction. “Now come on, you’re staying in the White Sword Tower.”

The White Sword Tower, home to the seven Kingsguard, was built adjacent to Maegor’s Holdfast, half in the castle wall. Peck let them in, and Jon sucked in a sharp breath as the sight. The first floor was one round room, bathed in white. A great weirwood table in the shape of a shield took up most of the room, but there were intricate suits of armor on the walls, decorated with jewel-encrusted swords.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Peck said, leading them towards the staircase. There were two, on either side of the room, and they took the smaller one upstairs. “Just remember that none of it’s for us. We’re not allowed to loiter here, unless we’re in our rooms.”

The rooms, Jon found, were tiny. Peck said that the Kingsguard rooms were only a little bigger, but the squires were all doubled up, two small beds on either side of the chamber, with a desk and dresser to share. Jon found himself glad that he didn’t have much to pack back in Winterfell; he’d have decent trouble fitting what he did in here.

“I sleep two doors down,” Peck said, and left them to unpack his own things. Steffon, meanwhile, made himself at home on Jon’s bed as he started putting his things away. 

“How many squires are there for Kingsguard, anyway?” He asked, and Steffon shrugged. 

“Depends. A lot of squires help out, but directly there’s about ten of you.” He paused, thinking. “Ser Arys has another squire, actually. He’s around my age, so he’ll be knighted soon. Mychel Crane is his name, he’s from the Reach. A distant cousin of Ser Arys, I think.”

Before Jon could reply, there was a knock at the door, and he opened it to see that a maid had arrived with his travel chest. Steffon helped him bring it in, then they chatted a bit more as he unpacked. 

“Ser Jaime is calling for you to go meet with the captain of Lord Lannister’s guard, Steffon.” Peck reappeared in the doorway just as Jon was finishing up. He’d changed out of his riding leathers, and was now in a tunic and breeches. “We’re free until evening, Jon.”

Steffon groaned, but stung his feet over the bed and got up, looking like he’d started dozing. Peck rolled his eyes as he left the room, grumbling about his knightly duties as he went.

“I’m going to go to the Godswood,” Jon said to Peck, shoving the last of his shirts in a drawer. “That’s where Ghost is staying, and I want to see him before tonight.”

“That wolf of yours?” Peck echoed, eyes going a little wide. He must have spotted Grey Wind and Ghost more than a few times on their trip, but like most, had avoided them like the plague. 

“Direwolf, but yes,” Jon replied, heading out the door. He paused, looking back at the younger boy. “Coming?”

Peck considered for a moment, then sighed, muttered something about having nothing better to do, and followed him.

Jon had studied maps enough to know the general direction of the godswood, but Peck was able to point them to a small gate that connected Maegor’s holdfast to the acre of wood. They were let in without much of a fuss, and were in a few minutes later.

The godswood was… unimpressive. Jon was both surprised and not; he’d known that the godswood south of the neck were little more than glorified gardens for the six Faith-dominated kingdoms. Still, though, it was one thing to read and another to see. Unlike in Winterfell, where the air felt heavy and sacred, this felt light and pretty. Even the trees were different, alder and elm to Winterfell’s pine and maple.

It was quiet, though, and Jon could appreciate that. Soon after he entered, he turned in time to see Ghost appearing out of the undergrowth, shaking several stray leaves out of his fur. He’d grown since leaving Winterfell, approaching Jon’s chest when standing straight, but was still small enough for Jon to reach down and rub at his head. 

“Seven hells, how big is that thing going to get?” Peck asked, and Jon shrugged.

“I think Ghost is around five months old?” he said, thinking. “Yes, he’s just over five months. So he’s probably got a bit more to go, but no one’s seen a direwolf south of the wall for years, so who knows, really.”

“Big dog,” Peck said simply, rearing back a little when Ghost sniffed in his direction. He relaxed a bit when the wolf made no move towards him.

“Grey Wind’s bigger,” Jon replied, shrugging. He looked down at Ghost, holding his head in his hands. “Where is your brother, anyways?”

Ghost snuffled, licked his hand, and then trotted further into the godswood. Jon hurried after him, ignoring the confused sound Peck made as he pushed through some of the undergrowth. They emerged on a path a few seconds later, and Ghost led them down towards a grand old oak tree. As they approached, Grey Wind’s head appeared from the other side, yipping.

“There you are!” Came a voice, and Jon grinned as Grey Wind bound towards him and nudged his hand for pets. Robb followed suit a moment later, balancing himself on the roots of the oak. 

“Good to see you too, Stark,” Jon replied, smiling. The two strode forwards and embraced shortly, separating when Grey Wind pushed his head between them with a bark. 

“Grey Wind has been very indignant over the fact that I haven't been giving him all my attention,” Robb laughed, resting a hand on his direwolf’s head. He turned his attention to Peck, stretching out with his other hand. “Josmyn Peckledon, right? You’re Jaime Lannister’s squire.”

“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” Peck replied, shaking it. 

“I hope you’ll be keeping a good eye on my brother. He tends to get sullen if you don’t look after him properly.”

“Alright, I haven’t been taking the piss out of you with your friends,” Jon interjected, even as Peck smiled. “What’re you even doing out here anyway? You’ve been plastered to the King’s side ever since we left Hayford.”

A faint grimace crossed Robb’s face, eyes flickering over at Peck before he answered.

“There was some sort of small council meeting that started right after the King returned. Apparently he doesn’t go to any of them, but Lord Lannister was quick to take Lord Renly for it, and the King went off with Ser Barristan, I’m not sure where. Queen Cersei offered for me to join her family for lunch, but I had to make sure this guy here wasn’t getting in anyone’s way.”

Robb ruffled Grey Wind’s head, and Jon nodded in sympathy, accepting the excuse. He could barely stand the royal family, and he hadn’t been forced into their company for the last two months. Robb, no doubt, had only wanted some escape from whatever those people had wrong with them. 

“So tell me, what do you think of King’s Landing?” Robb continued, and Jon snorted. 

“It stinks,” he replied, and Robb laughed. 

“That’s what I said! The King seems to agree; he complained of it half the ride into the city.”

“The King usually finds things to complain about,” Peck shrugged. “But he also finds as many things to indulge in. You’ll get used to it all, I’m sure, my lord.”

“Oh, stop that,” Robb shook his head, waving a hand. “You can just call me Robb when we’re alone like this, Josmyn. I’ve got enough of these fancy titles to last me a lifetime already.”

“Most people just call me Peck,” Peck replied, this time with a small smile. 

“I hope we can be friends, Peck. Jon tends to have a good sense of people.”

“First you insult me and now you praise me?” Jon asked, rolling his eyes.

“Only preparing for the intricacies of court,” Robb japed back.

“You haven’t seen the barest part of court life yet,” Peck put in. “Just wait until the feast tonight. Do you know where you’re sitting?”

“The Queen mentioned that I would be on the high table, with the royal family, so I can be properly introduced.”

“Jon and I will be down at the lower tables, but you’ll probably be able to see us.” Peck’s gaze turned more serious as he spoke. “Word to the wise: don’t drink, and pretend we don’t exist. For this first feast, at least. No Stark’s been this far south since the Rebellion, so you’ll be a novelty.”

“Why would I have to pretend you don’t exist?” Robb asked. 

“Because we’re below your station,” Peck replied. Robb opened his mouth to protest, but Peck pressed on, ignoring him. “It would be too odd, and the higher ranking you are here, the more danger you’re in. Considering what Jon’s said of you, you’re a good man, so I’ll tell you this: make a good impression. Smile at who needs to be smiled at and ignore the rest.”

“Danger?” Robb echoed. Grey Wind’s ears swiveled, and he took off into the forest a moment later, Ghost following. Some prey must have found their attention, Jon thought. “Why would I be in danger here?”

“Physically?” Peck tilted his head, looking him up and down. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be, though accidents happen. In other ways, though… we’re all vulnerable. Your strength depends on whether or not you can see it.”

Chapter Text

“Ten more seconds, my lord,” Luwin said softly, still tapping his fingers as he counted. 

Ned just gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in through his nose. His left arm trembled where he was holding it out in front of himself, almost terribly, and shook with the effort of holding the small stone. He counted his breaths, forcing himself steady until time was up. 

“Done,” Luwin said, a messenger from the Old Gods themselves. He plucked the stone out of his hand, and Ned let the limb fall with a sigh, resting it on his lap once more. “Thirty seconds, my lord. You’re improving.”

“So you say,” Ned replied, massaging the base of his elbow with his good hand. Sitting as he was in Catelyn’s chambers, he hardly felt better than he did those first few days he had spent in his sickbed, waking only to eat and use the privy. At least now he was in a chair and not her bed, but in the moment it felt like a small victory. 

“You are progressing well,” Luwin stressed, seeming to sense his thoughts. He began packing up his things, setting another vial of ointment down on a nearby table. “When you first woke and reported no feeling in your hand at all, I feared the worst. Yet sensation has returned. Strength will follow.”

Ned grimaced, very much remembering the uncertainty of that point in his recovery. He knew that both Luwin and Catelyn had feared for his hand and its tingling numbness. Thankfully, it had eventually started to itch, then twitch and move, and now it was capable of holding a rock.

Only a small rock, though, and not even for a minute. As Luwin re-bandaged his arm, binding it tight once more, he let himself feel the humiliation of it. Besides his daily exercises with the maester, Ned had to keep his arm in a sling all day, lest he strain his wound in an uncontrolled environment. Even when he slept, it had to be separate from Catelyn, and above his furs, with his arm elevated on pillows. In the past few months, they’d essentially swapped bedchambers; Catelyn had forced him into hers as the nights grew too cold for even his Stark blood to withstand without hot water from the springs running through the walls and furs over his head. She had laughed at his protests, and simply ordered more furs when he noted that she’d always been a little cold in his bed. 

Though if there was any shining light in his life, it was his Cat. The silver lining in the assassin’s attack was that it had snapped her out of her hysteria, and since Bran himself had woken two weeks before, she had returned to the woman he had grown to love, fierce and strong as he knew her to be. 

Luwin finished binding his wound, and Ned let him wrap the sling over his shoulder, resting his arm over his chest. 

“That is all?” He asked, a little wryly, and Luwin nodded. Ned made to stand then, waving off the maester’s offered hand to instead steady himself on the table for a moment. Movement had grown easier in the last few weeks, and while standing up sometimes left him dizzy, besides his arm he had suffered no lasting injuries to the rest of his body, and he was thankful for that, at least. 

“Do you need me for anything else, my lord?” Luwin asked, and Ned shook his head. With that, the maester took his leave, and let the door shut quietly behind him. 

“I think the Godswood is calling to me today,” Ned sighed to the empty room, holding out a hand. Lady perked up from where she had been dozing at the foot of his bed, trotting over to him and bumping her head against his hand. She had to duck to do so, now at about Ned’s waist in height. 

Lady, too, had been a constant companion in his recovery. The direwolf had hardly left his side, though he doubted it was out of any sudden rise in affection for him. No, Sansa’s name was written all over how Lady now slept at the foot of his bed and followed him wherever he went. Remembering how the wolf had saved his life, how Sansa had commanded her to save his life, he’d found himself willing to accept the intrusion. Eventually, he’d grown used to Lady’s constant presence, and he had to admit he was growing fonder of her than he expected. 

The walk down to the yard went without much of a hiccup, besides the fact that he had to lean on the railing a bit to get down the stairs. He was even able to don his cloak one-handed, settling the furs gently across his shoulders. 

It had snowed some the previous day, and so Ned was hit with a fresh blast of clean air as he went outside. The shrieking of children came next, and he found himself smiling as he spotted Rickon in the courtyard. His youngest son was a summer child, as most of his children were, but he was by far the least used to snow, and was now utilizing it to the fullest. Bundled up in furs, he looked more like a ball than a boy, tumbling about with Shaggydog.

“Father!” Sansa called, and Ned turned to see his eldest daughter. With snowflakes melting in her hair, she looked even more like her mother than usual. Lady bounded over to her master at the sound of her voice, and Sansa smiled, rubbing a mittened hand over her wolf’s head.

“Enjoying yourself today?” He asked, and Sansa nodded. 

“Rickon got excited when the storm passed through last night,” she replied. “And Mother said we could go outside.”

“A wise choice,” Ned remarked, knowing Catelyn was likely still inside, working the ledgers. He would join her after noon meal, but Luwin refused to put him on a full day’s work just yet, and his wife was infuriating in her ability to keep him out of his own solar. “Winter is coming. Best to enjoy the snow before you’re buried in it.”

Sansa giggled, not understanding the reality in his words, but Ned let it pass this once as Rickon noticed his presence. The boy shouted in glee and raced over to him, Shaggydog on his heels. Sansa called the wolf off before he bowled Ned over, but Rickon had no such qualms, throwing himself onto Ned’s legs. Thankfully, his smaller size meant that Ned only stumbled, reaching down to ruffle Rickon’s scarf-wrapped head.

“Snow!” Rickon declared, very eloquently, and Ned nodded. 

“Indeed,” he replied. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Rickon nodded, then Shaggydog yipped and took off with Lady, rolling about in the snow with his littermate. That sufficiently captured his youngest’s attention, and Rickon went squalling after them, arms waving as he kicked up the white powder in little clouds around him.

“He’s having fun,” Sansa said, smiling. 

“You should join him,” Ned agreed, looking down at her. “I’m going to speak with Bran.”

Sansa faltered for a moment, glancing over where her brother had been placed underneath an overhang, Hodor watching over him. Ned gave her a reassuring look, and she eventually acquiesced, running after Rickon when Shaggydog nearly ran him over. Ned, meanwhile, went after his middle son, who looked over at him with dull eyes as he approached. 

Bran had been quiet since he had woken, after Maester Luwin had confirmed that he would never walk again. Ned had found himself spending most of his free time at his son’s side, the both of them shunted off to the side as everyone else went about their days. Except Ned was recovering, slowly getting better, and Bran would not. He was already starting to work again, and Ned worried for the day Bran found himself alone.

Bran didn’t remember how he had fallen, that day when the rest of the household had gone on the hunt. No one had seen him, either; only Jon had spotted him running off in the direction of the First Keep, and later had found him sprawled on the ground before it. He and Ser Arys had undoubtedly saved his life, but they’d seen nothing. And Ned would have just assumed he’d fallen by mistake, except an assassin had been sent to finish what the drop had not.

No, Bran had seen something. And no one had any idea what.

“I dreamt I was falling again,” Bran said quietly, watching Rickon throw snow at Sansa with a cackle. “The raven kept on telling me to fly, but I couldn’t, so it just pecked at my forehead.”

Then there were the dreams. At first, Ned had thought they were only that: dreams, nightmares from a traumatic experience. But they kept on occurring, and Bran seemed so disturbed by them. And every time he talked about it, Ned would remember the raven that had woken him that night. The raven that had so conveniently stopped at Bran’s windowsill and cawed just in time so that Ned woke up and noticed the fire. What would have happened if Ned had still been dozing when the assassin had crept into the Keep?

So he didn’t brush aside Bran’s words, and simply shifted himself closer, letting out a long breath. He did not know how to help Bran, and the fact endlessly frustrated him. 

“It’s not fair,” Bran mumbled as a well-placed snowball from Sansa sent Rickon to the ground. He wiped at his eyes, lips pursing as he fought not to cry. His eighth name day had come and gone, and Ned wanted nothing more than to take his little boy and tell him everything would be alright.

“No, it’s not,” he said instead, because he’d always been too honest. He ran a hand down Bran’s arm, letting him lean into his touch. “There will always be things you can’t experience. But there are many that you still can.”

“All I can do is sit,” Bran protested, balling his hands in his trousers. “Mother almost didn’t let me out today, even.”

“Then we aren’t being creative enough,” Ned said, almost without thinking. Bran looked up at him in surprise, but he was suddenly caught in an old, almost forgotten memory. He’d been a young boy, around Bran’s age, and he suddenly remembered a bouncing sled carrying a laughing Lyanna across the courtyard, towed by a pair of dogs. “We’ll think of many ways for you to move, Bran. Walking is only one option of many.”

Bran didn’t say anything to that, just sighing as he looked out at the courtyard. They’d already had several iterations of this conversation, and nothing truly seemed to stick. Perhaps he just needed time. Time to adjust, and to grieve. 

“I’m going to the Godswood to pray,” Ned said after a few minutes. “Would you like to join me?”

Bran looked over at him, thinking, then nodded mutely. Ned gestured to Hodor, who happily lifted him up like he weighed nothing. Hodor was a big man, if a simple one, and found joy in the most menial of work. He certainly had taken a liking to Bran, who wrapped his arms around the stableboy’s neck in an effort to steady himself. 

The walk into the Godswood was spent in silence, and Ned let himself relax as they entered the untouched forest. The trees grew ever older the further they went, and it was here that Ned liked to think he could feel the presence of the unnamed deities who watched over them. Perhaps they would give him answers, tell him what to say to Bran, perhaps even miraculously heal his legs. 

It was wishful thinking, of course, but comforting as the weirwood appeared in front of them. The Old Gods were the gods of the Starks, and while they were not kind, or prone to platitudes of comfort as the Seven were, they provided a steady strength that Ned had always found himself pulled to. It was ever-present as always today, and he instructed Hodor to set Bran down on a flat stone next to the pool at the base of the heart tree. Steam gently floated off of its smooth surface, warm even in the cold, and Bran dipped a finger into the water, smiling a little.

Ned was happy his boy seemed to find the same solace here he did. He made to sit down next to him, but stilled when there was a sharp rapping of metal against wood further into the trees. He stood up straight, trying to discern what the sound was, and it happened again, followed by a grunt of exertion. 

“What’s that?” Bran asked quietly, suddenly frightened. Ned shook his head, resting his hand on Bran’s shoulder. 

“A wandering servant, no doubt,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Bran nodded, and Ned told Hodor to keep an eye on him as he went further into the undergrowth. He ducked underneath a frost-laden branch, and turned around a tree trunk just in time for Arya to poke a hole in his cloak.

Ned lurched back, instincts pulling him away from the live steel, and Arya screamed, flailing backwards. She stumbled, caught her ankle on an upraised root, and fell flat on her back. The little sword she’d been holding (live steel, where had his ten year old daughter gotten live steel? ) went flying, clattering into the snow far enough away that Arya very thankfully didn’t impale herself on it.

For a moment, the two of them just stood, staring at each other. And then Ned’s brain caught up with his body, and he grabbed the sword as Arya sat up, rubbing at her head. It wasn’t a regular short sword, much too thin for his taste, and with a tapered point. Braavosi, or at least an approximation of a Braavosi sword, considering that Mikken’s tag was emblazoned on the base of the blade. 

“Arya,” he began, and his daughter looked up at him with wide, terrified grey eyes. He sighed. “I’m alright.”

Arya shook a little bit, clearly still startled. Her mouth opened twice before she found her words.

“I didn’t mean to,” she replied, quietly but quickly. “Honest, I just wanted to practice.”

“Practice,” Ned echoed, flatly. Thankful that his dominant hand had been the uninjured one, he gave a testing sweep of the blade. It was light in his hands, too small and too flimsy. Perfect for a little girl who would be much faster than him. And much weaker. He looked down at Arya again. “Who made this for you?”

Arya pressed her lips together and looked at the ground. “I stole it from the armory.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ned shot back, and she flinched. “Stand up, Arya, and tell me the truth. This blade has been made for you, and I know Mikken wouldn’t make something like this if you were the one who asked him to.”

Slowly, Arya got to her feet. She had a scabbard, too, neatly made, though it was tied to her waist clumsily with a length of rope. For a long time, she didn’t say anything.

“I should take this blade and snap it across my knee,” Ned pressed, urging her to confess. “Tell me.”

“It was Jon.” Arya’s lip wobbled dangerously, and Ned bit back a groan. Of course it was Jon, the sibling she was the closest with. Only Jon could have thought of giving his ten year old sister live steel when he and Robb weren’t even old enough for it yet. “Please don’t get him in trouble! I was the one being stupid with it! He told me to be careful.” Her eyes lowered again, and Ned knew she was looking at the new hole in his cloak. 

“Jon isn’t even allowed live steel. If he was here, I’d have his hide.” He paused, wishing more than ever that Jon hadn’t gone south, then continued: “But he isn’t. I’ll write to him, but Jon is Ser Arys’ responsibility now. You, however, are mine, and you’ve nearly struck me with a sword you’re not supposed to have.”

“Needle,” Arya muttered, and Ned raised an eyebrow at her. “I named her Needle.”

And for a moment, he was looking at Lyanna, getting scolded by her father for stealing a training sword from the armory. The memory took him by surprise, and the grief that came with it was as fresh as the day she’d died.

Only for a moment, though.

“Of course you’ve named it,” he sighed, anger fading. He turned the sword and passed it back to Arya, who took it with more than a little trepidation. “Sheathe Needle properly and give it to Mikken. He’ll hold it with the rest of our weaponry.”

“You’re taking it away?” Arya whispered, lower lip wobbling. 

“Of course I am,” Ned replied. “And I’ll have a word with Mikken about it, too. You’re much too young for live steel. Now, you go and turn in that sword, then present yourself to Septa Mordane for your lessons. You’ve given up your free time today.”

Arya looked like she was about to cry, but didn’t press the issue any further. She stalked off with a furious abandon, and Ned shook the cobwebs of the previous generation from his mind, following her just as she stomped past a curious Bran, who watched her go with some confusion.

“What happened?” He asked when Ned sat down next to him with a sigh.

“Your sister is just getting into things she shouldn’t,” he replied, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Bran frowned, but nodded, returning his attention to the pool to trace ripples in the still water with his finger. Ned adjusted himself next to him, and closed his eyes, wishing he had the use of both his hands. Ice was due for a cleaning soon. 

“Arya’s upset Jon is gone,” Bran said after a few minutes. “She misses him.”

“We all miss Robb and Jon,” Ned replied. He remembered how surprised Bran had been to learn that he’d missed their departure. “But they’re learning everything they can in the capital, and we’ll see them again in a few years.”

“But Arya…” Bran trailed off, then frowned. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Ned didn’t press him any further, his own mind whirling. Arya had the wolf’s blood in her, that was for certain. Both Brandon and Lyanna had had it, and it had sent them to early graves. His father had thought they would grow out of it, and so had only tried to smother their impulses. 

Arya had gotten a sword off her older brother and had thought to teach herself how to fight. Ned really shouldn’t have been surprised; how often had he come across her and Bran hitting each other with sticks in the courtyard?

He reached out a hand, letting it rest across Bran’s shoulders, and closed his eyes. He had much to pray about.

Ned was in his solar a few days later, making the best of the few hours Catelyn and Luwin let him work, when Vayon knocked on the door and said that there was a party at the gates, bearing Lannister colors.

Tyrion Lannister. Ned had completely forgotten about him in the chaos of the King’s departure. He’d gone up to see the Wall with Benjen’s party nearly two months ago now, and it looked like he had finally returned. No doubt he was seeking shelter in Winterfell for a few days before he continued his journey. 

He got up and made his way to receive the Lannister without much of a fuss, though he could well feel Vayon’s concerned gaze on the back of his neck. Most of the household still thought that Ned had been the true target of the assassin, and rumors abounded that the Lannisters had been the culprits. Ned himself wasn’t so sure, though he conceded that it was a possibility. It all depended on just who Bran had seen, that day in the first keep.

Hallis Mollen and Theon Greyjoy were already in the Hall when Ned arrived, and he nodded to both of them, drawing his cloak over his bandaged arm to keep it out of sight as he sat in the high chair. Catelyn appeared a few minutes later, glancing at Ned with well-concealed worry, but he just nodded to her, drawing himself up as the main doors creaked open.

Tyrion Lannister was just as stout and squat as he had been when the king had been here, but standing alone with only a few servants at his side, he looked even smaller. Still, if it bothered him, the dwarf didn’t show it, waddling along without much of a care in the world.

“Lord Stark!” He declared as he approached, and Ned inclined his head at him. “I’m glad to see that you are well. Rumor had it you’d gotten yourself stabbed shortly after the king left.”

“You heard correctly,” Ned replied, watching him carefully. “An assassin tried their luck almost two months ago now, shortly after you left. I assure you that I’m recovering well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” If he was disturbed by the thought that Ned seemingly believed himself the target of the assassination, Tyrion didn’t show it. “I do hope I’m not intruding by asking for a room for a few nights. The Wall was far and cold, and I would like to rest on a nice feather bed instead of a mat on the road.”

“Winterfell’s hospitality is yours, Lord Tyrion,” Ned agreed, ignoring how Catelyn glanced at him with alarm. He adjusted himself in his seat, and gestured to Hallis. “Fetch some bread and salt for my guests, and make sure we have some rooms prepared in the Great Keep. Keep them on the south side.”

Hallis bowed and left without a word, though his dissatisfaction was clear. Theon was doing even less to hide his disdain for the man in front of him, and considering how Tyrion glanced at him, then gave Ned a curious look, he’d very much noticed. 

“I’ve also heard that your son, Brandon, is awake,” Tyrion said, brushing the unasked question aside. “With your permission, I would like to speak with him.”

Ned frowned sharply. “What reason do you have to speak with him?”

“Dwarfs, cripples, we have much more in common than a whole man like yourself may think. I simply have a gift for your boy, from one to another. No harm is intended, my lord.”

Catelyn stiffened in her spot, glancing over at Ned. He returned her look for a moment, thought deeply, then nodded, turning to Theon. 

“Bring Bran down,” he said, as Catelyn bit back a protest. He knew she would be ardently against bringing their son to face someone who might have been his attempted killer, but Ned knew that everything had to appear as if he had been the target of the attack. Besides that, his curiosity burned in his chest, wondering whether Tyrion had been involved, and what kind of gift he had brought. “You do know that any gift you have for my son will go through me first, Lord Tyrion?”

“Of course,” Tyrion replied, shrugging. “The boy can’t exactly walk far enough to do it himself.”

This time Catelyn did scowl, and Ned himself bit back a retort. What exactly was the Lannister man getting at? Still, Tyrion did not elaborate, and they fell into a tense silence as they waited for Theon to return.

“Yoren,” Ned called after a few minutes, before the silence could grow awkward. The only black brother he recognized stepped forwards and bowed shallowly. “I assume you’re headed south to recruit again?”

“Yes, milord,” Yoren replied, dipping his head. “I know I have just been in Winterfell, so I ask for no recruits from the North.”

“I recall,” Ned replied. “But I would speak to you on the state of the Watch. My brother Benjen has yet to respond to my own communication, so during your stay here I would speak with you on his behalf before you leave.”

As he spoke, Tyrion glanced back at the members of the Night’s Watch, pointing an almost pained expression in their direction. Ned glanced back over at Yoren, who sighed before answering the unasked question.

“Milord, your brother has not answered your letters because he was sent on a ranging to find Waymar Royce,” he began. “Who, if you recall, went missing some months ago. He has been… late in returning. Most think he’s dead.”

The room stilled. Catelyn looked over at him, and Ned took a deep, steadying breath.

“There’s been no news?” He asked. Yoren shook his head. “Very well. I’ll send for you tomorrow, and we can speak more then.”

Yoren bowed again just as the doors opened. Theon had returned, with Hodor lumbering behind him, Bran swept up in his arms. If he was embarrassed at being carried in, his son didn’t show it, and for that Ned let himself feel a rush of pride. He motioned to Hodor, and the stableboy moved when Theon nudged him, setting Bran down at the foot of the high seat.

“My son, Brandon,” he said to Tyrion, who was studying Bran with curious, mismatched eyes. “Speak to him as you wish.”

“Indeed I will, my lord,” the Lannister replied, turning his attention to Bran. “Is it true? You have no feeling in your legs?”

“Yes,” Bran replied. “I can feel a little in my waist, though.”

“Well, that certainly makes things easier,” Tyrion hummed. “Tell me, boy, do you like to ride?”

“Bran cannot,” Catelyn spoke up, before their son could respond. Her voice was stretched but strong, and Ned made a private note to apologize to her for this stunt. “We’ve just told you he has no feeling in his legs.”

“Nonsense,” Tyrion waved a hand, and one of his servants retrieved a roll of parchment from his bags. “With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride.”

“I’m not a cripple!” Bran exclaimed, losing composure, even as Ned straightened in his seat, intrigued.

“Then I am not a dwarf!” Tyrion shot back, and Theon snorted. Ned gave him a sharp look, and his ward looked away, abashed. “My father will be delighted.”

“How are you suggesting my son learn how to ride?” Ned asked, before this could devolve into an argument.

“A smart horse and a special saddle. The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned. I’ve included some of my own designs and instructions here; at the boy’s age I had to go through a similar process. Best not to struggle as I did at eight.”

It was at that point that the atmosphere in the room truly began to shift. Even Theon looked at the dwarf with a little appraisal, and Catelyn, though still wary, looked cautiously optimistic. Ned nodded to her, and she took the parchment, unrolling it with both her hands and holding it so Ned could see as well.

“You draw well,” she conceded. “I’ll take this design to our maester and look for a horse that matches your suggestion. It is an ingenious idea.”

“It’s not too different from my own saddle,” Tyrion shrugged. “Only minor modifications were needed, really. Like I said, my lady, dwarfs and cripples have more in common than you might think.”

“Will I truly be able to ride?” Bran asked, hopeful now.

“You will. And I swear to you, boy, on horseback you will be as tall as any of them.”

At that moment, there was a flurry of commotion outside, barking from the direwolves and shouting from humans. Ned frowned and turned in his seat to the door, which shuddered but didn’t open. 

“I’ve got it,” Theon grumbled, rolling his shoulders as he moved to see what was going on. “The wolves don’t like the smell of you, Lannister,” he added as he passed Tyrion by. 

“And I’ll be all the better for it,” Tyrion replied. “My meat is much too tough to make a good meal, anyways.”

Greyjoy was out of the room a moment later, and Ned stood as Hallis re-entered the hall, Vayon at his side.

“Winterfell thanks you for this service, Lord Tyrion,” he announced, bowing a little. Tyrion returned the gesture. “And our hospitalities are yours until you continue on your way.”

“What can I say, I have a soft spot for broken things,” Tyrion spread his hands and smiled. “Speaking of, I would beg attendance in your meeting with the Night’s Watch brothers tomorrow. I had the privilege of speaking with the Lord Commander and maester of the watch in great detail about the status of the Wall. Would you begrudge me some interest?”

Ned glanced over at Yoren, who shrugged. “I will send for you in the morning. Perhaps you can finally drum up some interest with the capitol when it comes to the Watch.”

“That I doubt,” Tyrion snorted. “But an attempt can be made.”

The meeting ended there, the group giving their proper farewells as Vayon and Hallis took the Lannisters and Night’s Watchmen to their rooms. Ned stayed with Bran just long enough for Hodor to pick him up, and told the stableboy to see him back to his rooms.

“Do you really think I can ride?” Bran asked as Hodor hefted him out. Alone in the hall as they were, Ned allowed himself a smile and a ruffle of his son’s hair. 

“I think you could,” he replied. “Though it’ll certainly be a lot of work.”

“I can do it!”

“I know. Go back to your rooms, and your mother and I will go over these plans. We’ll talk about them tonight. Do you think you’ll be able to come down and sup in the Great Hall with us?”

Bran nodded fervently, and Ned stepped back, letting Catelyn approach and press a kiss to his forehead before he left. 

Thankfully, his wife refrained from turning on him until they were well and truly alone. Even then, she just sighed, pulling out a seat from one of the lower tables and sitting down with a sigh, a hand going up to caress her forehead. 

“I don’t know what game the Imp is trying to play,” she said as Ned followed suit, taking a stool for himself. The weathered wood was much more comfortable than the smooth metal of the high seat. “He insults us in one breath and favors us the next.”

“The question is, does he know what truly happened, and was he involved in it?” Ned replied, and heavy silence hung before them for a long moment. 

“Before all of this, I was almost certain, but now…” Catelyn sighed, shaking her head. “He didn’t have to give us the saddle designs, nor show such interest in the Watch. Perhaps it’s all some clever ruse, but I find myself doubting it more and more.”

“Perhaps he truly does have nothing to do with it.”

“Even if he doesn’t, that doesn’t absolve his father, nor the Queen or the Kingslayer. If anything, those are the three who we know dislike you.”

Ned grimaced, the long-ago memory of Jaime Lannister sitting the Iron Throne rising unbidden in the forefront of his mind. The little bodies of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon followed, shrouded in bloodied cloaks of crimson and gold. No, there was no love lost between the North and the Westerlands.

A hand found his, and Ned looked over to see Catelyn giving him a knowing look. 

“In a sennight we will be rid of him,” he finally said, shaking his head. “And the Lannisters will have no more reach for us.”

“Perhaps not for us,” Catelyn agreed, frowning, and Ned echoed her expression with a minute shake of the head.

“Gods forgive me for turning Robert down,” he continued. “I have sent our son into the lion's den.”

“And I convinced you to do it. The fault is ours.”

A long silence settled over them, then Ned sat up a little, an idea forming in his head. 

“We cannot inform Robb of the truth by raven,” he said. “We did what we could with the Blackfish, but our message wasn’t clear enough. He won’t understand our fears for him.”

“No.” Catelyn was eyeing him though. “You don’t mean to go down to King’s Landing yourself, do you?”

“My place is here,” Ned replied, shaking his head. “In all likelihood, I will have to march north to the Wall, not south to King's Landing. I plan to send someone down in my stead, someone we can trust. Do you remember Howland Reed?”

“He was at the Tourney of Harrenhal,” Catelyn said. “And at our wedding.”

The only survivor of my ill-fated dash south, went unsaid.

“I would send him to King’s Landing, but Howland received a leg injury some years ago and now walks with a limp. But his daughter, Meera, is around Robb’s age. Howland has told me she is smart and capable. Trustworthy most of all. If I sent her with one or two companions, I might excuse it as simply sending Robb some northern friends around his age. Perhaps it will hint at me considering a betrothal. My friendship with Howland is well known; a betrothal wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.”

Catelyn was silent for a time, thinking, then nodded. 

“Robb’s met with Daryn Hornwood several times, when he’s visited,” she mused. “And he seemed to be a good, loyal lad, but not so important that sending him south would raise too much notice.”

The Hornwoods were a minor family in the Sheephead Hills, one of many who had come to several feasts they’d hosted in Winterfell over the last few years. Ned thought a little, and recalled Daryn, a blond-haired boy who had spent much of his time with Robb during those visits. 

“Your suggestions are as wise as always, my lady,” he replied, and Catelyn snorted. “I’ll write to Howland and Lord Hornwood tonight, then.”

“Best to get it done as soon as possible,” Catelyn agreed, and made to stand up. Ned, however, raised a hand in a silent ask for her to still, and so she settled back down into her seat. 

“I’m afraid there is one more thing I must convince you of,” he said. “I plan for Arya to start swordfighting lessons.”

Catelyn stared at him for a long moment, incredulous, and Ned found himself looking away in spite of himself, bracing for the inevitable argument. 

“What could have possibly put that idea in your head?!” She exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to keep her voice low. Thankfully, she pitched it back down as she continued. “Ned, Arya is a ten year old girl. Heavens above, the Septa and I have a difficult enough time with her as it is! She nearly ran you through the other day!”

“And that’s exactly what made me decide to do it,” Ned sighed, and drew his cloak back enough that his injured arm was in sight. Catelyn bit her lip at the reminder of his injury. “Arya has the wolf’s blood in her. Lyanna had a touch of it, and Brandon had more than a touch of it. It led them both to early graves.” Benjen’s face flashed in his mind, lost in the swirling snows beyond the Wall. “I would not repeat the mistakes of my father with my own daughter.”

“I don’t understand why you think letting her join in on training will be any help,” Catelyn replied. “Arya still has to marry, Ned, and if news gets out—”

“Then the northmen will think that she is simply taking after the Mormonts, and theirs are the only opinions who truly matter,” Ned interjected. “In any case, I hardly plan for her to go marching off to war, as they do. Arya simply needs an outlet for these impulses of hers. Perhaps she will even grow out of it, after she flowers.”

Catelyn let out a long breath. “So you want Ser Rodrik to start teaching her?”

“No, not at all. Have you seen the sword Jon gave her?” His wife shook her head. “It’s not a typical blade. Jon’s… questionable decision making aside, he commissioned a blade well suited for a small, slim girl. It’s Braavosi by design, thin and light to be better wielded by something with the same physicality. I’ve spoken to Maester Luwin, and he’s suggested I employ a Braavosi Water Dancer to teach her.”

“ Braavos,” Catelyn said disbelievingly. For a long moment she was silent, then she continued. “I won’t have this interfering with her lessons. If Arya wants to learn this Water Dancing, she’ll have to spend just as much time learning how to actually dance.”

“I’ll speak to her about it on the morrow,” Ned decided. “Thank you, Cat.”

“You will have to make this up for me, my lord.” Despite the coolness in her voice, Catelyn’s eyes were soft, and she reached over and set a hand on his knee. “But I know you simply want to do what’s best for us. I’m so sorry about Benjen.”

Ned forced himself to swallow against the lump in his throat. “Yoren said he simply hasn’t returned. There is no confirmation, no body.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Catelyn murmured, even as Ned could see the silent doubt in her eyes. Even a Stark wasn’t immune to the cold. At this rate, Lyanna and Mother’s bones will be the only ones in the crypts.

“No,” he conceded roughly, and let himself bask in his wife’s warmth. At least Catelyn was still here, her and his children with their fire-kissed hair and even more fiery wolfsblood. “It does not.”

Chapter Text

The princess had found him again.

Robb very much wanted to sink into his seat when he heard the tittering of Myrcella and her handmaidens as they entered the library. Instead, he resorted to curling up in the back chair he’d chosen and raising the book he’d been reading to cover his face in a vain attempt to hide himself. Of course, this did absolutely nothing as the girls swished inside, giggling and whispering to each other as they took up residence on the other side of the room. 

For a few minutes, he tried to ignore them, instead focusing on his book. Robb usually wasn’t one to read, but the title had caught his attention a few days ago. In his quest to avoid the royal children, he’d resorted to reading it in the personal library of Maegor’s Holdfast. It was certainly interesting, an in-depth analysis of the battle tactics employed during the most recent war between Pentos and Braavos, but his focus was entirely lost when the girls set off into a round of giggling again.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Princess?” He asked dryly, lowering his book just enough to catch Myrcella’s emerald-green gaze. The young princess only blushed prettily and turned away to whisper to one of her companions, an older girl whose dress, white and embroidered with golden stars, gave her away as a Sunglass. 

“We’re simply looking for… a book to read, my lord,” the Sunglass girl replied, and Myrcella and the other two handmaidens giggled again.

“Very well,” Robb replied, raising his own book again. They left him relatively alone for a few minutes before the silence broke once more.

“What are you reading?” Myrcella asked, walking over to him. Robb very narrowly resisted groaning, and instead turned his book to reveal the title.

“A Study on the Sixth Pentoshi-Braavosi War and Free City Naval Tactics, by Ser Donnel Rykker,” he recited, and turned just enough to see Myrcella blink at him several times.

“That sounds lovely, Lord Robb,” the princess replied, clearly not understanding a word of what he just said. “Do you have any suggestions for me? I’ve been thinking of reading more.”

 “Surely nothing that would interest you, princess.” Robb gestured at the nearest shelf, full of different histories and biographies. “Even Prince Joffrey thinks I have a poor taste in reading.” The boy had certainly made that clear when he’d spotted Robb reading the other day in one of the sitting rooms. Another reason why he was hiding in the library.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Myrcella protested, and Robb had to give her credit, at least her ill-suited attempts to court him resulted in her being nice. “I’m sure most knights have to read such things.”

“I’m not a knight, my lady,” Robb reminded her, setting down his book entirely. It seemed like the princess wasn’t about to leave him alone. “But Maester Pycelle did suggest that I be more well-read.”

“Then I’m sure he has the right of it! What do you think I should read?”

Robb shrugged, then pointed at a different shelf. “I believe the fantasies and poems are over there, princess.”

“I can find something!” The Sunglass girl offered, practically skipping to the indicated shelf. Robb wanted to hit her with his book, but restrained himself. 

“I saw you at the training yard yesterday,” Myrcella continued. “You did very well.”

Ah. That had been after the book incident with Joffrey. Robb had put the snot-nosed boy right on his back several times over and had nearly gotten swatted by the Hound for it. Not smart, but definitely worth it. 

“Thank you, princess,” he replied. “Your brother is an excellent opponent.” To beat.

“I hope so. Mother says he will be a great knight one day.”

Robb withheld a snort. That sounded like something Queen Cersei would say. “I’m certain he will.”

As he spoke, the door creaked open again, and Robb looked over to see little Tommen appear in the entranceway with an armful of cat. Ser Jaime Lannister stood over his shoulder, looking incredibly bored in his chaperoning as the younger prince walked into the room. 

“‘Cella!” Tommen chirped, and the princess turned around to greet her brother. The cat, a gray tabby, wiggled in his arms and eventually Tommen let it go, where it promptly trotted over to Robb and laid down in a patch of sunlight at his feet. “You disappeared! Where did you go?”

Myrcella’s eyes flickered unsubtly over to Robb, but she smiled as she replied. “I was looking for a book. Lord Robb was helping me out.”

“Oh, hello Robb!” Tommen chirped, waving over at him. “Grey Wind says hello!”

Robb glanced down at the cat, realizing it was the one Tommen had picked up on their trip back to King’s Landing. It had grown fat and pampered in the month and a half since the prince had claimed it, and it yawned widely when Robb looked at it. He could think of no pet more different from its namesake. 

“Good afternoon, Prince Tommen,” he replied, dipping his head.

“You must greet Grey Wind, too! It’s impolite to not!”

“Good afternoon, Grey Wind.” Robb stood up and closed his book, tucking it under his arm. There was no way he was getting any reading done here. “I apologize Prince, Princess, but I’m afraid I have work to do elsewhere. May I be excused?”

“Okay!” Tommen chirped, before Myrcella could protest. Robb resisted smiling as she and her handmaidens tried very valiantly to not look disappointed. “Have fun!”

“By your leave, prince,” Robb bowed, and Myrcella curtsied, but Tommen only trotted forwards, tugging on the sleeve of his sister’s dress. 

“You promised to stitch me a new hat for Grey Wind!” The little prince was babbling off again as Robb left, letting out a long sigh as he exited the library. So much for peace and quiet.

Of course, he had no obligations for the rest of the day, having lied to the royals about such important work to do, and so when faced with a decision of which way to turn, Robb went right on a whim. Despite how he’d been living in Maegor’s Holdfast for more than a week now, there was a good portion of the inner castle that had gone unexplored. Perhaps he would be able to find a quieter room to finish his reading. 

So he wandered down the halls, letting his feet take him where they wished. Various corridors and rooms passed him by; his and the royal family’s quarters were on the higher floors, so down here, there were more sitting rooms and servant’s quarters. Several maids passed him by at one point, carrying with them a hamper of laundry, so he assumed he was getting close to the washing rooms, and changed direction to avoid them. 

Overall, being a ward of the king had turned out to be very underwhelming. Most of Robb’s time was spent avoiding the royal children, in all actuality. Joffrey was… Joffrey, just a prick all around, while Myrcella seemed to have decided that he was a prime marriage candidate, despite the fact that he was six years her senior, almost twice her age, and that their siblings were already betrothed to each other. Tommen was fine, actually, but he was also six, and not very interesting. 

He moved downstairs, until he was nearing the basement floors. The stone grew older, cooler, and the torches on the walls lit up the corridor in a rippling orange glow. The servants grew sparser here, and Robb found himself going more slowly through the rooms, taking in various storage units, servant’s rooms, and other more basic utilities. 

Eventually, the hallway he was in came to a stop, with a set of double doors at the end. It was larger than the others, and Robb pushed it open, his curiosity piqued. The room was much larger than the previous ones he’d explored. Slowly, Robb let the door shut behind him, taking in the sight. 

Two large, stoney-white models lay in front of him, each on one side of the room. There were no lit torches here, but a few windows were slotted near the ceiling, casting enough light in the room to see well. Robb stepped further inside, between the two models. Each of them were twice as long as he was tall, and he approached the rightmost of them, taking it in.

Walls enclosed the main model of what appeared to be a city. With a stoney river flowing past on one side, the back half rose up on a hill and ended in cliffs. Several massive buildings rose above a hodgepodge of smaller hovels, and Robb found himself tracing a finger over them, in admiration of their detail. It came away covered in a thick layer of dust. 

This is a model of King’s Landing, he realized after a moment, and blinked in awe. Yes… there was the Great Sept of Baelor, the Dragonpit and Red Keep. The river, then, had to be Blackwater Rush, with the Narrow Sea at the foot of the cliffs. 

He turned around, wondering if he could recognize the other model city. In four strides, he crossed the room and approached it. It was larger than the King’s Landing model by a good amount, but the architecture was something he’d never seen before. Many of the buildings were flat-roofed, and there was no main palace but many inner keeps, all with their own set of walls. One main street crossed through the city and ended at a massive stadium. It looked significantly older than the other model as well, covered in dust but also crumbling in some places. As Robb walks around it, he spotted a broken tower near the back, its top missing. 

There were several boxes at the foot of the model, and Robb stopped at them, setting down his book to open the closest one and peer inside. 

He was greeted with a massive pile of figurines, filling the box to the brim. Robb reached down and picked one out. It was a little archer, detailed down to the arrows in his quiver and a determined frown on his face. He picked another, a cavalryman in heavy armor, then set them both on the table and opened another box. 

This one had ships in it, and Robb picked one up as well. It was a carrack fighting vessel, sails emblazoned with the Velaryon seahorse. He set it down with the archer and cavalryman, and moved on to the third box. 

What greeted him there was something he had never seen before. Curiously, Robb bent down and picked one of the odd creatures up. It looked like a cross between a snake, a bird, and a lizard, with scaled skin and two large, leather-looking wings. Its mouth was open to reveal rows of little, sharp teeth.

“A dragon,” Robb said aloud, realizing what he was holding. He had never seen a dragon, since they’d gone extinct almost two hundred years ago, but he’d seen a few drawings in Maester Luwin’s lessons. This one somehow seemed even more magnificent, wings spread wide and roaring. 

He turned it around in his fingers. The model was old, parts crumbling off into his fingers as he moved it. Not wanting to cause too much damage, he made to put it on the table, but as he set it down, one wing broke off entirely. 

“Oops,” he muttered, drawing his hand back. The dragon’s eyes looked almost accusing as he backed away. “Let’s not touch the dragons, then.”

He moved to pick up his book, then paused, flipping back to the page he’d been on before Myrcella had interrupted him. Braavos and Pentos were largely seafaring societies, so most of their battles had been naval ones. The particular page he’d been on was a diagram of a skirmish that had taken place off the coast of Old Andalos. He looked back to the box of model ships he’d found, and an idea formed in his head. 

That’s something to do.

So he folded the book open and tucked it under his arm to keep its place, and picked up the box of model ships, moving it over to the other side of the room. The model of King’s Landing had left a significant amount of space to represent the Narrow Sea, and Robb pulled out a chair with his foot, nudging it close enough to the model that he could set down the box there. The book went on the table, opened to the diagram of the battle, Robb fished through the box until he found a cog that fit the description of the Braavosi fleet well enough. 

Slowly, the battle took shape. The Braavosi ships, represented with model Celtigar cogs, swarmed against the larger Pentoshi carracks, made of the Velaryon models he’d spotted earlier. Of course, the battle hadn’t taken place so close to land in reality, but all ocean was the same, really, so Robb just ignored how close the cliffs of the Red Keep came to some of the Braavosi ships. 

He sat back once he was done, admiring his work. He’d already been impressed with the book’s descriptions of the battle, of course, but something about seeing the models fanned out on the stone sea made it come to life in a way it hadn’t before. Slowly, he took one of the Braavosi ships and moved it forwards, in an echo of the opening moves of a battle near a century past.

The battle had begun when the smaller, faster Braavosi ships had overcome the fleeing Pentoshi. The Pentoshi, rowing against the wind, had already been exhausted, and so when the Braavosi ships had come upon them, they had… Robb moved a few ships forward, next to the Pentoshi, and moved them in an echo of their past counterparts, turning broadside to meet the incoming Braavosi. 

“‘Work to do elsewhere,’ I see. I’m sure Tommen would think that playing with such toys was important.”

Robb jerked up at the new voice, knocking over the ship he’d been handling. Turning around, he blinked in surprise as Jaime Lannister entered the room, watching him with an emerald-studded gaze.

“Ser Jaime,” he said, bowing a little as the Kingsguard swept into the room. He looked over at the model ships with a raised eyebrow, and Robb felt himself flush a little. “What are you doing down here?”

“Cat duty,” he sniffed. “Your dog’s namesake has run off again.”

“A direwolf, ser,” Robb muttered, but Jaime just rolled his eyes. 

“What are you even doing down here?” he asked, walking over to the mock naval battle he’d set up. “I never thought the noble Starks would have much to do with toys.”

“They’re not toys!” Robb protested. “And… I was modeling a naval battle I read about. I just found this stuff down here.”

“You just found the models of the old Targaryen kings?” Jaime asked, a little incredulously, and Robb blinked.

“What?”

“Eh, I suppose you wouldn’t know.” Jaime stepped over to the unfamiliar city model, taking note of the broken dragon model Robb had left on the table. “These things were the pride and joy of our precious old dragonlords. Robert wanted them destroyed with all the rest when he took over, but Jon Arryn convinced him to just put them down here, in the basement. Something about academic value or whatnot.”

“So it’s just been left here to rot?” Robb asked. “But… it’s magnificent.”

“Then you and Prince Rhaegar have something in common. He was the last caretaker of these models.” Jaime motioned over to the other model, and Robb walked up next to him. “This is a model of Old Valyria, or whatever the Targaryens said Old Valyria looked like. Viserys I spent twenty years hand-carving this thing, and then it sat in a back room for a century, until Aegon V found it. Aegon, fool king he was, had stone masons build the model of King’s Landing when he wasn’t putting down one of the dozen rebellions that postmarked his reign.”

There was an odd look in Jaime’s eye, something Robb had never seen in him before. The Kingslayer’s eyes seemed to be looking far past the model of Old Valyria, as if lost in some memory of the other. 

“And Prince Rhaegar was the last,” Robb echoed, and Jaime snorted, picking up the broken dragon figurine. 

“He was obsessed with this thing,” he scoffed, but despite his harsh words, his fingers were careful and delicate as he handled the model. “He would spend hours down here, carving dragons and boats and soldiers. Even when he had better things to do, when his father would… well. He liked to play out his little scenarios.” He nearly spat out the word, then turned on Robb with an almost leering smile.

“Are you comparing me to Prince Rhaegar, ser?” Robb found himself asking, and Jaime laughed shortly. 

“Heavens, no. Just keep it in mind,” he said, setting down the broken dragon. “It seems these toys might be cursed. None of those men met a pleasant end.”

“I’ll remember,” Robb replied dryly, and Jaime patted him on the shoulder.

“Good boy. Now, my lovely sister wants you to dine with her tonight. Best get going so you’re prepared on time.”

“As you wish, Ser Jaime.” Robb bowed once more, and Jaime nodded shortly. He didn’t move as Robb went to grab his book, and when he left, the Kingslayer was still staring at the model of Old Valyria with the oddest expression on his face.

One thing Robb hadn’t considered in coming south was how different everything would be, even the trees.

The Kingswood was much more lively than the Wolfswood, though lively wasn’t exactly the right way to put it. Things were simply more… visible? As Robb trotted forwards into the forest, it was easy to see the different types of trees, with squirrels and birds and other small animals visible here and there. It was very unlike the Wolfswood, which had a certain silence to it that Robb couldn’t describe.

Of course, a forest was a forest, and so when he leaned over his saddle and unleashed Grey Wind from his collar, Robb could practically feel his wolf’s delight as he darted off into the forest in search of prey. Ghost followed his brother into freedom a moment later, his white pelt streaking through the undergrowth as they ran.

“There he goes!” Jon laughed, retaking his reins just in time to stop his mare from rearing. They’d been given new horses since their arrival in the capital, and their mounts had yet to grow used to their pets. Peck, saddled next to him, was less lucky, very narrowly keeping his balance when his horse tried to buck him. 

“Careful, boy!” Harwin rode up next to him, helping to calm the animal. 

“Those wolves are unnatural,” Peck gasped, but Jon only laughed. 

“You’re just not used to them,” he shot back, and got a roll of the eyes in response. 

“...Are you sure they’ll come back?” Ser Arys asked a little uncertainly, eyeing the direction the pair of wolves had run off in. Robb nodded. 

“They’re just excited after being cooped up in the Godswood for so long,” he replied, and next to him, Renly Baratheon chuckled. 

“I would be too, stuck in a place like that!”

“I’m sure the ladies of the Keep will take comfort in no longer being stalked,” Jory added. “I did catch Grey Wind doing that the other day, Lord Robb.”

“He was bored!” Robb protested as Renly outright laughed. “He wasn’t going to do anything.”

“That’s what they all say, until something happens,” Arys said, but Robb just shook his head. That might have been true for wild beasts, but Grey Wind and Ghost were perfectly trained. Robb knew his wolf wouldn’t do anything so drastic unless he wanted him to. 

It was the first time Robb and Jon had left King’s Landing since their arrival two weeks ago, and it was a relief to get out of the stink. Ghost and Grey Wind especially had started to chafe in the Red Keep’s Godswood, which was smaller than Winterfell’s and more of a garden anyways. Getting permission to go out for a day trip had been a relief, and Lord Renly and Ser Arys had even volunteered to come out with them, making them a group of seven with Harwin, Jory, and Jon’s friend Peck. 

“We should still go after them, though,” Jon said, kicking his heels to trot after their wolves. “Unless we want to miss Ghost taking down a boar or something.”

Renly scoffed. “Have you seen a boar, boy? Your wolf couldn’t take on a boar on its own.”

“He’s more clever than you think, my lord,” Jon replied, smiling, and Robb pulled himself next to his brother to elbow him.

“Lofty ambitions, brother dear,” he teased. “Are you sure it won’t be Grey Wind making this kill?”

“With all the noise he makes? No way.”

“I wouldn’t worry, boys,” Ser Arys interjected the blossoming argument. “Boars rarely roam this close to the edge of the woods. While on his hunts, the King usually has to travel for several days until he can find a wild one.”

“Aye, and he will be soon. Robert’s heard talk of some great boar deep in the forest,” Renly mused. “He’s already talking about going on a hunt for it after the Tourney of the Hand.” He smiled again then, looking over at Robb. “He’ll certainly make you come along, little Lord Stark. The way he talks about you, one would think that you’re your father come again.”

Robb winced a little as Jon glanced over at him, intrigued. That was certainly one way to put it. In all honesty, Robb didn’t see his namesake all too often, usually being left with the children. There had been an incident a few days past, however, when at the feast for the Queen and Ser Jaime’s nameday, the king had gotten so drunk that he had started calling Robb “Ned.” Renly had laughed so hard at the time that wine came out of his nose, mostly because it was widely known that Robb didn’t look a lick like his father. 

“The King is already expecting me to compete in the Tourney,” he said instead, fiddling with his reins. “I think that’s enough for me to worry about.”

“You’re entering the lists?” Jon asked, surprised. “I thought only knights could do that.”

“Knights are preferred,” Arys corrected him with a shake of the head. “But not required, especially when it comes to Northmen. The Hound is also in the tilt, and he’s notorious for refusing a knighthood.”

“You’re going up against the Hound?!”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Robb muttered.

“It’ll all be fine,” Jory said, interrupting his conversation with Peck to speak to them. “Harwin and I will be in the tilt as well. It’ll be a grand time.”

Jon’s face twisted a little, and Robb knew he was feeling a little jealous. As a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys would certainly be in the tilts, which meant that Jon would have to attend to him instead of compete. Besides, without a knighthood, Jon’s bastardy was a pretty firm prevention to any desire to enter the lists.

“Have you thought about the melee?” He suggested, and Jon blinked, indicating that he hadn’t. “They let almost anyone into that, and you’re better at the sword than me.”

“There’s no way I could win the melee,” Jon scoffed, and Robb snorted. 

“You really think I’ve got a chance at the tilts? The Hound is there, Jon, you said it yourself. You should enter.”

“It would be a good opportunity,” Arys mused, and Jon sat up a little straighter. “We still have another moon until the tourney, so we can work on your swordplay more. Perhaps we can get most of the squires in on it, and see who lasts the longest.”

“That would be interesting to see!” Renly chuckled. “That Crane boy is your other squire, isn’t that his name? Which one do you think would win?”

“Mychel Crane is my other squire, yes,” Ser Arys clarified. “And considering how the boy is three years older than Jon and has already beaten him several times in the yard, I do believe you know where my money would lie.”

Jon rubbed at some hidden bruise on his arm and made a face at Robb, out of sight of the others, and Robb grinned at him. 

“Once you’ve been squiring for a few years, I bet you’ll put him in the ground,” he said, and got a half-nod in response. 

“Like you said, I’m not going to win, so what does it really matter?”

“Experience, boy,” Arys cut in. “Remember what I’ve told you.”

“ Experience is the teacher of us all,” Jon recited dutifully. “As you say, ser.”

“Out of everyone, I think Loras Tyrell is the one to win,” Renly declared. “He’s already won several tourneys at Storm’s End.”

“But Jaime Lannister, the Hound and the Mountain will all be fierce opponents,” Robb returned. “Any of them might win.”

“Loras defeated Jaime in the tourney for Prince Joffrey’s nameday,” Renly disagreed. “Come the end, I’m sure he’ll have crowned Princess Myrcella his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“The princess? That’s his plan?” Jory chuckled. “No special lady catch his eye?”

“My niece is a very special lady, thank you,” Renly returned, though there was no bite to his words. “And who do you think the Cleganes would crown, should they win?”

“The Mountain would crown Tywin Lannister himself if he could. Since he can’t, I suppose he would pick the Queen.”

Robb tried to imagine the famously stoic Tywin Lannister with a crown of roses on his head, and very narrowly resisted laughing. 

Before anyone could reply to the comment, however, there was the screech of a bird and a yelp of a direwolf, not too far away. Robb’s head shot up and Jon kicked his horse ahead to go after the sound, not waiting for the rest of the group to catch him.

“Well, it looks like the wolves have found something,” Jory muttered as they sped up. Robb hurried after Jon, keeping right on his heels as they crashed through the undergrowth. 

Their wolves came into sight at the base of a large tree, and Robb pulled back in time to see Grey Wind shaking the carcass of a large falcon, growling as it dangled from his mouth. The poor thing was very much dead, though it seemed to have gotten a few scratches in on Ghost, good-sized scrapes the side of the head. It was hard to tell how bad his injuries were, but the blood from the claw marks stained his fur a bright red. 

“What did you guys get into?” Jon asked, drawing up his horse next to Ghost, his mount letting out a nervous whinny at being so near. Ignoring the horse’s protests, he bent over in his saddle as Ghost obediently trotted over to him, running a hand through the wolf’s fur. 

Grey Wind snuffled, then dropped the falcon, letting it crumple, lifeless, to the ground. Then he sat up and started grooming the blood out of his fur, thoroughly pleased with his catch. 

“That’s odd,” Peck remarked, trotting up from the back of the group. “I didn’t think that kind of falcon lived this far south.”

“They don’t,” Renly agreed, intrigued. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a kind like that before. Not sure how useful it is, but it’s impressive, I’ll admit.”

Robb found himself licking his own lips as he pushed his mount over to Grey Wind, giving his wolf a few pets as he stared down at the falcon. Well, at least Ghost wasn’t seriously hurt, though he didn’t know what possessed the wolves to go after a bird of all things. How odd.

He licked his lips again, and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear he could taste copper there.

Chapter Text

Jon gritted his teeth, sweat stinging his brow as he narrowly deflected the flat of his opponent’s blade. He stepped back, out of their reach, and brought his shield up to block the next blow, aimed for his left shoulder. Twisting to the side, he jabbed his own blade, but it was nearly twisted out of his grip when he attempted to go for the wrist.

“Getting tired, Snow?” Mychel jeered, bright brown eyes flashing at him underneath strings of dirty blond hair. The older boy, a man really, was slightly shorter than Jon, but stockier and stronger to Jon’s more lithe frame. Somehow, he managed to be fast, too, and it was that speed that prevented Jon from responding as he slapped away the flat of his wooden training sword.

Jon went for a sweeping motion, stabbing down low and moving upwards in the space between shield and sword. Mychel just grinned at him, dancing backwards to avoid any contact with his body. 

For a few moments, they circled each other, testing each other’s defenses with light, probing blows. Off to the side, Jon could narrowly hear the commands of Ser Arys as he supervised him, but he had no time to listen as Mychel went for him again. 

This time, it was quick. Mychel went for his right, and Jon moved left to avoid it. He made to use the momentum of that turn for an attack of his own, but then the blade of Mychel’s sword was above his shield, twisting down and slapping into the leathers protecting his neck. 

“He yields!” Ser Arys shouted, and Mychel stepped back with a smirk as Jon coughed, dropping his sword to massage at his neck and regain his breath. “The neck, Jon, how many times do I have to tell you? Never leave your neck undefended!”

Jon nodded, still recovering. He shook his head to center himself, then picked up his discarded training sword. Arys was right. He’d let his shield dip unconsciously, and Mychel had taken full advantage of the opening. 

“You did well, Mychel,” Arys was saying, his attention already turned on his elder squire. Mychel, who was three years older than Jon and almost a knight, just shrugged, smirking.

“It was nothing, really,” he responded, and Jon rolled his eyes, following him off of the training ring. Ser Arys patted him on the shoulder as Ser Preston, another one of the Kingsguard, called for his squire Ethan Farman, a boy younger than Jon, to go up against slightly older Gordan Moreland, who was Meryn Trant’s squire. 

The two boys started on their own brawl, and Jon sat down on a nearby bench as Mychel strode off to speak with Arys more in depth. Grabbing a spare waterskin, he drank deeply, then adjusted the tie on his hair to better keep his hair out of his face.

“Good job, by the way,” Peck said, walking up to stand just behind him. Jon just rolled his eyes, taking another swig of water. 

“I got destroyed,” he snipped back. “Ser Arys wants me to fight in the melee, but how am I supposed to do well if I can’t even beat Mychel?”

“I think you did pretty well.” Peck swung a leg over the bench and sat down as the Farman boy put Moreland on the ground. “Better than the last few times, at least.”

“That’s a low bar.”

“But improvement, no?”

Jon conceded with a shrug, and passed the water skin over to his friend, who took it with a grateful hum. Half of the Kingsguard, Sers Arys, Preston, and Meryn, and all of their squires were here for an afternoon training session. Ser Arys seemed to have taken his idea during their Kingswood ride the other day to heart, and had gotten them all together to prepare the older squires for the tourney and test the younger ones on their progress. 

At least Mychel was entering into the lists and not the melee. While he wasn’t cruel, he certainly wasn’t nice, and had made his opinions on squiring with a bastard clear. Jon wouldn’t have looked forward to facing him with live steel. Thoros’ legendary flaming sword was freaky enough. 

There was a little commotion over by Ser Arys, and Jon looked up to see that Ser Barristan had arrived, and was speaking in low tones to his fellow Kingsguard. After a moment, Ser Preston went over to join the conversation, and Ser Meryn called a halt to the bout as Barristan stepped forwards to address them. 

“Training is ending early today,” he declared, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Prince Tommen has gone missing, and by order of the Queen, every able man is to go on the search for him. Pair up and get moving!”

The yard exploded into action after that. Ser Preston was off at once, white cloak billowing out behind him, while Arys called to Mychel and commanded him to organize a search party by the kitchens. 

Jon groaned, bowing his head for a long moment, and Peck elbowed him until he got up to put away his training sword and shield, hanging them up on the racks.

“Jon, Peck,” Ser Arys called, noticing them. “I want you two to search near the Sept.”

“Yes, Ser,” they chorused, and Jon stretched the soreness out of his arms as they left the yard. 

“I wonder what cat he got lost chasing this time,” he grumbled, and Peck elbowed him. 

“The prince has gotten lost, but never missing,” he said, and Jon shrugged. “If the Queen has everyone looking for him, she really can’t find him.”

“Prince Tommen is always chasing his cats about. Like as not, he’s just lost track of time. He’ll turn up eventually.”

“Red Keep’s a big place,” Peck hummed, then went left instead of right, and Jon blinked after him. 

“Where are you going?” He asked, hurrying to catch up. “The Sept’s in the other direction, Peck.”

“We’re going to the godswood to get your wolf,” Peck replied, and Jon gave him a surprised look. “You’re always going on about how well trained he is. Want to prove it?”

“I mean, I can try,” Jon shrugged, and together they went over to the godswood. The whole castle seemed to be in an uproar, the Lannister red cloaks practically swarming the main yard in search of the youngest prince. Peck almost got bowled over by a particularly eager squad, and Jon had to pull them out of the way and in through the godswood gate. 

“Jeez, they really can’t find him,” Peck muttered, rubbing the spot where Jon had yanked on his arm. Jon, meanwhile, whistled, and as if on cue, Ghost bounded out of the brush, nudging his head into his master’s awaiting hand. 

“Do you think you can find the Prince, Ghost?” Jon asked, looking down at his wolf and carding his hands through his fur, inspecting it. The scratches he’d gained while hunting the falcon the other day had healed nicely, scabbed over and barely visible through his fur. “You’ve met him a few times now, do you remember his scent?”

Ghost snuffled, licked his nose, and nudged Jon back towards the gate. 

“Does he need something of Tommen’s to smell?” Peck asked, and Jon shook his head.

“No, I think he’s got an idea of what to look for. Don’t you, boy?”

Ghost started trotting towards the gate in answer, then turned back to Jon and waited. His eyes, red as blood, watched as he walked after him, then took off into the yard. 

This time, Ghost’s presence gave them a good-sized berth, the rampaging red cloaks giving Jon and Peck glances as they went about in their work. For a long moment, Ghost stood in the middle of the yard, mouth open, before he turned towards some of the servants’ buildings and took off again. 

“Yeah, that’s a well-trained wolf,” Peck remarked as they followed him. “Think the Queen will give us some good coin if we’re the ones to get the Prince back?”

Jon didn’t reply, squeezing through a narrow alley and over a barrel as Ghost led them deep into the bowels of the Keep. Whatever he was scenting, Jon could practically feel his wolf’s determination, the faint scent of apple and cat growing ever stronger.

“Jeez, what was the kid doing back here?” Jon muttered as Ghost bunched his legs and jumped over a crate, leaving Jon and Peck to scramble over it. They were alone, now, the sounds of the red cloaks fading behind them. 

Finally, Ghost sniffed the air once, twice, and sat down at the base of one particular house, tail swishing back and forth as he indicated his find.

“There’s nothing here,” Peck said flatly, looking up at the towers rising high around them. “Maybe he got confused?”

“...No, he’s found something,” Jon disagreed, turning about. There wasn’t much to see around here, just a few slitted windows near the ground and some crates stacked up on the wall. “Tommen!” He shouted, no other option coming to mind.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, as Peck was opening his mouth to say something, there was a little, far-off sound. 

Then they were both looking at each other with wide eyes. I didn’t expect that to work, Jon thought incredulously, but he was quick to cup his hands around his mouth and shout for Tommen again. 

“D-down here!” This time, the words were more easily made out, warbling with fresh tears. Jon looked down at the slitted windows, then dropped to his knees, peering in through one of the windows.

“Prince Tommen?” Peck called, getting down next to him. Whatever was down there was impossible to see, swathed in darkness, but there was a scuffling sound before Tommen’s voice floated up.

“I’m here!” Floated up, then a few sniffles followed. Peck grinned, elbowing Jon with an elated look. Good coin, he mouthed, then he poked his head back in.

“Don’t worry, Prince!” He called. “I’m Peck, your Uncle Jaime’s squire. Jon’s with me, and he’s Lord Robb’s brother. You’ve seen us around, right?”

A pause, and then:

“Help me, please!”

“How’d he even get down there?” Jon exclaimed as Peck promptly got down on his belly and shuffled his way through the window. “I’m honestly impressed.”

“You’re asking me that?” Peck shot back, raising an eyebrow, and Jon gave him a hand as he lowered himself further into the darkened room. “Jeez, how far down does this go?” Louder, he said: “Prince Tommen, can you see how far my feet are from the ground?”

“I see you!” The little prince replied, excitement in his voice. “And uh, not far.”

“Alright.” Peck looked over to Jon and nodded. “Drop me.”

Jon did as he was told, and slowly Peck let himself slide the rest of the way through the window, dropping down. He heard his friend hit the ground with a thud, followed by a squeal from Tommen.

“Stay here,” he said to Ghost, who simply licked his nose again, and slowly Jon made the same motions Peck had. Lowering himself to the ground on his stomach, he slid through the window with a grunt, hands pressed flat to the stone to slow himself as much as possible as he descended. 

In a few moments, he was in, and the bright afternoon light vanished as he dropped a foot or two, hitting the ground with a grunt. He stumbled a little, but didn’t fall, and Tommen’s delighted gasp was indication enough of his success. 

“Quite a hiding spot you’ve found, my prince,” he grumbled, blinking rapidly to try and adjust to the dimness of the room. Peck snorted.

“The whole castle is in arms looking for you,” he said, and Jon turned in the direction of his voice. He could just make out the shape of Peck’s shoulders, silhouetted against the light from the window. There was a smaller bump at his waist, and Jon realized that must have been the little Prince Tommen, still sniffling from a crying fit. “How’d you get down here?”

“Gr-Gray Wind ran away,” Tommen hiccupped, his shadow moving something in front of him, which let out a little mrp in protest. A cat. Of course this had all happened because of a cat. “I ran after him and he went in here, and I wanted to make sure he was sa-safe, and then there were the monsters!”  He descended into tears again, and Jon looked up at Peck in alarm. 

“What monsters?” He asked. 

“They’re all over!” Tommen exclaimed through his crying. 

Jon was about to protest, saying that it was too dark to see anything in here, but then Peck reached out and nudged him.

“He’s right,” he said quietly, pointing at a spot behind Jon, and Jon turned around and squinted, willing his eyes to adjust faster. 

Slowly, it came into shape. Large, empty eyes, the jagged shadows of stoney teeth. The slits of a once-massive nose, and a least a dozen horn-like protrusions, fanning about the head.

A skull.

“Seven hells!” Jon swore, lurching backwards and knocking into Peck. He turned around, and with his adjusted vision, they all came into shape. There were at least a dozen heads, but one towered above the rest, a massive skull larger than a draft horse, its bones stained black.

“Dragons,” Peck breathed, astonished. His hand flew up and caught Jon’s upper arm in a tight grip. “Back when the Targaryens were in power, they kept the skulls of their dead dragons up in the throne room.”

“What are they doing down here?” Jon breathed, voice more tinny than he would have liked. Tommen was still crying. 

“King Robert took them down,” Peck replied. “But no one really knew where he put them. Some people said he’d destroyed the skulls, others said he threw them into the sea.”

“Guess we know what happened to them, then.”

For a long few minutes, silence descended between them, punctuated only Tommen’s sobs. The skulls of the dead dragons loomed above them, and Jon watched them with wide eyes, something odd in his chest. He felt almost like he was being watched, and the observer didn’t quite know what to make of him. 

“Hey,” Peck said after a time, reaching down to ruffle Tommen’s hair. “You’re okay. These are just dragon skulls. They might look scary, but they’ve been dead for hundreds of years!”

“I bet that one’s Balerion the Black Dread,” Jon said, pointing at the bigger skull. Peck elbowed him. “Who’s totally dead. Super dead. Harmless, really.”

“Really?” Tommen sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The cat, who Jon realized had to be the one Robb had told him about, named after Grey Wind the direwolf, squirmed in Tommen’s hold, then seemed to resign itself to its fate. 

“Really,” he replied, reaching down to pet Grey Wind the cat. “Your cat’s more dangerous than these guys.”

Tommen nodded, then slowly seemed to collect himself, adjusting his grip on the cat so he was holding it with both arms again. 

“Thank you for finding me,” he said. “I’m sorry for making everybody worried.”

“We’re just glad to find you unharmed, little prince,” Peck replied. He stood up, and settling his hand on Tommen’s shoulder, started peering through the dragon-laced gloom. “There’s got to be a door somewhere. Do you see anything, Jon?”

Jon grunted, following Peck’s lead as they both squinted into the dark. Finally, as Jon stared at the skull of most-likely-Belarion, he spotted a darker shadow on the wall, in the shape of a human-sized rectangle. 

“There’s one,” he announced. Peck turned in that direction, and nodded, steering Tommen in that direction. The boy whimpered as they neared the dragon, but thankfully didn’t cry or try to run as Jon stepped over the rows of teeth first. He turned around, and Peck picked up the prince and passed him over to Jon so he didn’t hurt himself on the jaws of the dragon skull. 

“Alright,” Peck said once they reached the door. He knelt down, putting his hands on Tommen’s shoulders. “Once we go through here, you be very quiet, okay? I don’t know if there are any bad people around, so you don’t say anything unless I tell you to. Especially don’t say that you’re the prince.”

“Okay,” Tommen nodded meekly, even as Jon tilted his head in confusion.

“Better safe than sorry,” Peck shrugged at him. “You never know, down in places like these.”

“That’s fair,” Jon conceded, then felt around until his fingers wrapped around the heavy iron ring that served as a doorknob. He yanked on it, and after a moment’s resistance, it swung open with a low, echoing creak. He pulled just enough for the three of them to slip through into the hallway beyond. 

If the room behind them had been dark, the hallway was black, with no light by which to guide their way. It was compressing, all-encompassing, and for a few seconds Jon’s heart raced before he reminded himself of the crypts back in Winterfell. You’ve been in darker and scarier before, he told himself, patting Tommen’s head to both comfort him and keep track of where he was. With his other hand, he reached out until his fingers found the wall, brushing against cold stone. Just like that time you and Robb went to prank your siblings in the crypts. You waited in the dark for almost an hour, then. 

“This way,” he whispered, and they started down the corridor, all three of them blind as bats. 

The three of them pressed close together in a line, Peck moving behind him so Jon was leading and Tommen was in the middle, where he couldn’t be lost. Linked together, Tommen holding onto the back of Jon’s tunic and Peck keeping a hand on Jon’s shoulder, they crept down the hallway slowly, Jon leading with nothing but his hand brushing the wall a scant foot ahead. 

They walked for a long time, until suddenly the wall stopped, and fresh air met his outstretched fingers. Slowly, Jon retracted his hand, opening his mouth to say something just as there was a sound from below.

He shut his mouth again. You never know, in places like these. He understood what Peck had been talking about, now. 

He listened closer, catching the sounds of scuffed boots and a low, murmuring voice. Torchlight flickered faintly on the wall, and as it grew brighter Jon realized they were at the edge of a great black well, twenty feet across at least and going deep into the earth. Huge stones were set into the walls as steps, curving downwards into the black pit. Behind him, Tommen gasped, and Peck whispered for him to be silent as the voices approached. 

“...too powerful,” said the voice, coming into hearing. “Queen, Kingsguard, and now Hand. Things are starting to get dangerous.”

“It has always been dangerous,” the other replied, in the liquid accent of the Free Cities. “You were confident that Stark would have taken the offer.”

Father? Jon’s heart was thudding in his chest. Peck’s hand had tightened on his shoulder. Or Robb?

“I’m not always right, my friend. Even so, the North is wrapped up in this affair now. Lord Stark must know something, or there wouldn’t have been an attempt on his life. If he discovers, nay, even suspects…” 

Father. Jon remembered the letter that had come with the Blackfish, bringing news of the attempt on his life. It seemed like these people knew more than they. He leaned forwards, straining to listen. 

“Yes. You mentioned a letter?”

“I still haven’t managed to decipher it. The Tullys are up to something, but until the code is broken, I cannot know what. The wolf and the falcon are readying, for what I cannot know, and if their attention is set on the lion, we may not have a choice.”

“For all your methods, you cannot know? It’s too soon. What good would war be now? We are not ready. Delay.”

“As well bid me stop time and grow eyes out of the walls. I know not what goes on in Winterfell or the Eyrie. Even my birds cannot fly that far, that high.”

The shadows were almost on top of them. Jon crept backwards, his and Peck’s hands crossing over Grey Wind at Tommen’s chest to press all three of them to the wall. He held his breath and prayed for the little prince to stay silent as the men came into sight. 

“What would you have me do?” The torchbearer asked. He was a stout man in a leather half-cape, in heavy boots that glided over the stone without a sound. A round scarred face and a stubble of beard showed under a steel helmet, and wore mail over boiled leather. A man dressed for war, though he hardly looked it, with his soft skin and rounded edges. 

“The lions must be our first priority,” replied the man with the accent. He had a forked yellow beard, and was grossly fat, overflowing where the first man was simply robust. Still, he walked as lightly as his companion, and multiple rings glimmered in the torchlight, encrusted with all sorts of gems. Unlike the first, he was dressed in a variety of expensive-looking silks. “You have danced this dance before. Should the Hand grow too powerful…”

“And yet he suspects nothing where it counts,” said the other, shaking his head. They turned and walked into the hallway where Jon’s group had come, past Jon and his companions, and the shadows swallowed them so they weren’t seen. Jon could feel more than hear the long breath Peck let out as they went by, only a foot or two away. “The Great Matter, the Arryns and the Tullys. He’s more preoccupied with befriending the little Stark lordling.”

“Our Hand? Befriending someone?” The accented man chuckled, and the other followed suit. 

“The North is more plentiful than the Starks would have it seem,” he replied. “And as they’re too far to conquer, Lannister has turned to more pleasant means. He’s trying to convince the King to break the prince’s betrothal to the Stark girl and match Myrcella with their heir instead. Such a marriage would do much to placate rising tensions without giving the Starks more power, and for that I will give him credit. Robb Stark is immensely valuable, as he brings with him the Riverlands and Vale through family ties in any marriage proposition. Lannisters on the throne, in the North and in the West, with two more children to marry off? All that remains is Dorne and the Reach, then.”

There was a near silent sound of skin pressing on skin, and Jon looked down to see that Peck had covered Tommen’s mouth at the mention of his sister.

“No, our priority must lie with Renly Baratheon,” the man in leather continued. “Should his plot continue in just the right manner, we may stave off the war for a little longer with petty distractions.”

“If you believe it is best. Nonetheless, we must have time. The princess is with child. The khal will not bestir himself until the babe is born. You know how they are, those savages.”

The man in leather stopped and pushed at something on the wall. Tommen jerked as a deep rumbling filled the cavern, and a huge slab of rock slid out of the ceiling with a resounding crash. Where the entrance to the well had been was now nothing but stone, solid as if no exit had been there in the first place. 

“We have time, but not so much,” said the man in leather. “This is no longer a game for two players, if it ever was. Stannis Baratheon and Lysa Arryn have flown beyond my reach, and whispers say they are gathering swords about them. Ned Stark will not forget the attempt on his life, and thus will not stay out of the conflict as we hoped. The Knight of Flowers and Lord Baratheon spin their little webs, and unless we can use them for our own benefit, their moves with the Tyrell maid may prove disastrous. Littlefinger… who knows what game he is playing. He worries me. Robb Stark remains oblivious, but he won’t be a boy forever, and his presence here has made things more delicate than anyone realizes. The wolves… there are whispers…” He said something else, but it was too low for Jon to make out.

“Stories, I’m sure,” the bearded man scoffed. “Just juggle as best you can, old friend. All I ask is that you work your magic for a while longer.”

“What I can do, I will,” the man in leather sighed. They were passing the room with the dragon skulls now, going down the other side of the corridor. “I must have gold, and another fifty birds.”

“So many?” Their voices were growing fainter now. Before Jon really realized what he was doing, he was moving forward, keeping his feet light as he followed the men. A slight scuffle behind him indicated Peck and Tommen following. “The ones you need are so hard to find… so young, to know their letters… perhaps older… not die so easy…”

“No. The younger are safer… treat them gently…”

“...if they kept their tongues…”

“...the risk…”

The voices faded away into low murmurings, and this time Jon forced himself to stay back, mindful of Tommen’s presence. How much had the prince heard? More importantly, how much did he understand?

“What do we do?” Peck whispered, breath tickling Jon’s ear as he leaned in to speak. 

“Well… they’ve got to know a way out, right?” he breathed back, and Peck squeezed his arm. The three of them took off again, straining to keep the pinprick light of the torch in sight. Once or twice it disappeared, but Jon reached out to feel the wall again, and picked up his pace until the torch came back into sight. Several times, they came on top of a stairwell, and Jon led them down the winding stairs with careful steps. Tommen stumbled once, nearly dropping his cat, and Jon very narrowly caught him and slammed a hand over his mouth before he could scream.

“We’re nearly there, little prince,” he said quietly, and after a long moment, Tommen nodded, and he removed his hand. 

They continued on, for there was nowhere else to go. Eventually the torch disappeared for good, and didn’t reappear. On and on they walked, until they were thigh-deep in muck, stinking and runny. Jon picked up Tommen then, carrying him on his back so he didn’t get dirty, and Peck got himself an armful of cat as they went on, blind and helpless save for the wall. 

“Where are we?” Tommen asked after a time. Jon didn’t scold him for speaking; they were almost certainly alone now.

“We’re… leaving the tunnel,” he replied, unwilling to admit that he had no idea. “We’re almost out, my prince.”

“Mother will be worried by now,” Tommen sniffled, tucking his face into Jon’s neck.

“Nevermind that, Ser Arys is going to start searching for us,” Peck grumbled, making a disgusted sound as he struggled through a particular spot of muck. “I just got these boots.”

Then, fresh air and a dim light. Jon gasped in surprise, and hurried forwards, Peck following him. Within moments, a low orange light burned his eyes, and Jon had to pause and blink several times, adjusting to the brightness. 

They were standing at the mouth of a sewer, which was flowing out into the Blackwater. Jon hurried his way out of the sewer water, and looked around. They were still within the walls of the city, but only barely, and a long ways away from the Red Keep. The sun was well on its way to dip below the horizon, casting the world in shades of yellow and red.

“Seven hells,” Peck exclaimed, stepping back to get a better look. “A secret passage out of the Keep.” He looked over at Jon, brown eyes wide like saucers. “I thought they were only stories.”

Jon’s mind was whirling. He slowly let Tommen down, shoulders aching, as he processed what he had heard. Who were those men? What had they been up to? What were their plans for Robb and Father?

“Jon,” Peck said sharply, passing Grey Wind back over to Tommen. He set his hands on Jon’s shoulders, looking him right in the eye. “We can’t talk about what we heard, okay? No. Talking. It didn’t happen. We weren’t there.”

“But they were talking about my brother!” Jon shot back, shaking his head. He tore himself away, bending down to unlace his boots. They were covered in a brown sludge whose contents he didn’t want to think about. “What was that about? Letters? Marriages? War?”

“They were just mummers, Jon,” Peck shot back. “Remember what I said in the godswood? Just. Mummers.”

He jerked his head over at Tommen, who was looking up at them with Grey Wind squirming in his arms, and Jon realized what he was really referring to. The higher ranking you are, the more danger you’re in.

If Tommen spoke about what he had heard here, and it got back to Tywin Lannister…

“Right,” he conceded, taking off his boots. Peck set down and followed suit, making a disgusted sound as he did so. “Just mummers. They were just pretending.”

“You think so?” Tommen asked. His voice was high and shaking, on the verge of tears, and Jon nodded, dunking his boots into the river to wash them.

“Yeah, it didn’t mean anything,” he repeated. “But it was good you were quiet. You never know what a mummer will do.”

They spent a good amount of time washing their boots, then their trousers. By the time they were clean, night had fallen, and all three of them were shivering. Peck climbed out of the river first as some riders went past, but if they saw three boys washing off in the river, they paid them no attention. 

The Red Keep was easy to find, high up on Aegon’s Hill, so they had no problems getting back into the main city and finding it again. Peck and Jon kept Tommen between them, and Peck filched a cloak from a clothing stand and used it to cover the prince’s distinctive golden hair.

“We don’t talk about the tunnel or the men, okay?” Peck told Tommen as they drew close to the gates. “We don’t want your mother to worry so much, or get you in trouble. The men were only mummers, anyway. You’re going to tell your mother the Queen you just got stuck in the cellar, and Jon and I got you out. You never left the castle, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommen said meekly, and Peck made an affirmative sound. They continued on, and eventually they found the main gate. The portcullis was down and the gates barred, so Peck turned them to the postern door. The guards recognized him, and after some whispered negotiations and a promise to fulfill a favor later, the three of them were let through without anyone the wiser to the prince’s presence. 

The Keep was somehow even more in an upheaval as they crept around the edges of the main yard. Peck led them behind the kitchens, and that was when Ghost appeared, loping around the back to lick at Jon’s hand. Then he drew back and shook his head, and Jon couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, we stink,” he admitted, and even Tommen giggled a little. “Sorry for leaving you for so long, buddy.”

Peck stopped them and took off Tommen’s cloak, ruffling his hair and checking him over to make sure he was clean and dry. Satisfied, he drew back again and looked the prince in the eye.

“You never left the castle,” he said.

“I never left the castle,” Tommen echoed.

“Jon and I got you out of the cellar, nothing more.”

“You and Jon got me out of the cellar.”

“Good prince.” Peck smiled. “You’re unhurt?” Tommen nodded. “Good. That’s all that matters, right?”

“Right.”

They went back to the courtyard then, marching Tommen between them. Peck shouted for the Queen, and soon everything was in commotion. Tommen was swiftly spirited away by some red cloaks, and Peck and Jon both gave their stories several times over to the captain of the guard. They kept their stories straight, and by some miracle so did the prince, and after a while Steffon marched his way through the throng, his own red cloak fastened over his shoulder as he waved off his compatriots from their never ending questions. 

“Count on you to find the prince, Peck,” he grumbled, shaking his head as he steered them away. “No doubt Lord Tywin will want to speak to you in the morning, but at least the prince is unharmed. They were sending search parties into the city.”

Peck and Jon glanced at each other, realizing how lucky they’d been on their walk back into the castle.

“He only got stuck in a cellar,” Jon said quickly, resting his hand on Ghost’s head. “I had Ghost looking, and he scented the prince.”

“Smart dog,” Steffon said, then sighed, running a hand over his face. “Now go and put him back and get to bed. I’ll keep the red cloaks off your back until morning.”

They said their thanks, and then Steffon let them go. 

Nothing was said as Jon let Ghost back into the godswood. Something heavy hung between them, preventing any words from coming as they walked back to their quarters, something neither of them wanted to address. 

Jon had a lot to think about, more information than he could have ever imagined, and no idea what to do with any of it.

Chapter Text

“There you are!” Robb exclaimed, turning the corner to find his missing brother. Jon, meanwhile, peered up at him with stormy gray eyes, just visible over the pages of the book he’d been reading. “I’ve been looking all over to try and find you, what are you doing up here?”

“...Reading?” Jon replied, gesturing at the book in his hands. Robb rolled his eyes, bending over to try and catch a glimpse of the title.

“ The Princess and the Queen, or the Blacks and the Greens,” he read aloud. “Huh. Didn’t take you for a reader, brother. Why the change in heart?”

Jon just shrugged, grunting a little as he shut the book. “Just trying to find something. I’ll let you know if I do. Besides, aren’t you the one who’s recently become a bookworm? I saw you with that book about the Field of Fire the other day, I’m not blind.”

Robb laughed at that, conceding the point with a shrug. “What can I say? I find battle scenarios interesting. Now come on, we’ve got errands to run.”

“Errands?” Jon echoed, and Robb grinned at him, opening the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a bag full of clinking coins, and removed one golden dragon, flashing it at his brother with a smirk.

“King Robert’s allowed me to commission my own set of armor for the tourney,” he announced, then winked at him. “And I might have overestimated the price a tad. I’ll at least be able to get you a new breastplate with the extra coin!” Jon blinked at him, mouth opening and closing, and Robb reached out, tugging at his shoulder. “Come on, you can thank me later. I’m heading over to the Street of Steel, won’t you come with me?”

“ Duh,” Jon said, springing to his feet. He closed the book with a snap, hesitated with what to do with it, then tucked it underneath the chair he’d been sitting in. 

“Not even going to put it away?” Robb japed, and Jon elbowed him as they left the Maester’s library. 

The Red Keep was slowly starting to fill with visitors intent on observing or participating in the Tourney. A new party seemed to have just arrived as he and Jon entered the courtyard. Robb could see the Lannister lion waving on a banner at its head, and he realized it must be Kevan Lannister and his family. Lord Kevan was currently castellan at Casterly Rock, but Robb had heard a few weeks ago that the Hand’s younger brother had planned to come out for the Tourney, since it was on behalf of the Lannisters.

Still, that meant that they had to take the long way around. Lord Lannister, Queen Cersei, and her children were all lined up to meet their relatives, and Robb had no intention of getting bogged down by Myrcella again. 

Thankfully, Jory and Harwin were waiting for them, their horses already saddled. Robb gave them a wave to get their attention and hurried over, dragging Jon behind him.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite squire,” Jory laughed as Robb settled himself in the saddle. “We’ve hardly seen hide or tail of you these last few days. What have you been up to?”

“I’ve just been busy,” Jon shrugged, kicking his horse off into a trot. Robb followed alongside him as they skirted around the rest of the Lannister party. “Ser Arys wants to make sure all the squires are ready for the Tourney. We have to make good impressions and represent the Kingsguard well, you know how it is.”

“That’s for certain!” Harwin laughed. “Jory and I are already getting looks for entering in the lists. It’s uncommon for northmen to compete in such competitions, so we’re going to have to make a good showing.”

“Don’t remind me about that,” Robb grumbled, flushing a little at the reminder. “The King’s already talked about me winning the lists. I have no idea where this idea of me being some prodigy is coming from, but he’s bought into it.”

“He seems to have confused you with the Knight of Flowers,” Jory chuckled as they left the Keep. “Worry not Lord Robb; you’re young enough that the worst you can do is come off as inexperienced.”

The roar of the city overtook them, then, and conversation faded as the group made their way through the crowded streets. It looked like Lord Kevan’s arrival had drawn quite the crowd; as they passed through Fishmonger’s Square, Harwin almost trampled over a beggar child, rearing up on his mount just in time to avoid hurting the lad. 

“Where are we headed?” Jon asked as they neared Visenya’s Hill, having to raise his voice and lean over to be heard. Another party was arriving in through the nearby Mud Gate, their sigil of purple lightning and stars betraying them as House Dondarrion. The knight at the head of the procession was shouting something about the tourney, waving a fist through the air and working up the crowds into a roar.

“Renly recommended me this place on the Street of Steel,” Robb replied, indicating the start of the street with his head. Jory took point as they approached the narrow road, falling into a single-file line. “Just wait; he’s supposed to be one of the best smiths in the city.”

Indeed, as Jory led them further down the street, the buildings grew larger and further apart. Blacksmiths and freeriders and leatherworkers lined the streets, great blasts of heat blowing through whenever they passed an open forge. It was crowded and stinking, yet there was a certain fascination Robb found himself developing as he watched glowing-hot iron be forged. This was nothing like the cool collectedness of Mikken’s smithery, and the novelty of it was something to behold. 

Finally, Jory halted them near the very top of the hill, close enough to the Sept of Baelor that its great white spires loomed over their heads and cast great shadows onto the ground. The building itself was a multi-floored house of timber and plaster, its upper levels looming over the rest of the street. 

It was there that they dismounted, passing their horses to Harwin and a few squirrely-looking squires to care for. A pair of stone knights sat on either side of the great entranceway, and Robb took a breath and led them inside, shouldering the great doors open.

There was a slim, young serving girl around Robb’s age near the entrance, and when she saw them come in, her eyes immediately fell to the direwolf stitched onto his doublet. A moment later, she was scurrying off, and the master emerged from a back room soon after her disappearance, smiling. 

“A Stark, I see,” he said, bowing. Robb returned the motion, following as the smith called for some wine from the serving girl. “This will be my first time servicing a man of your name, my lord; what a novelty! My name is Tobho Mott, please put yourself at ease.” The wine arrived as Mott sat them down at a table. Jon took Robb’s other side while Jory remained standing, keeping an eye on the rest of the store. “If  you are in need of new arms for the Hand’s tourney, you have come to the right shop.”

“You’ve guessed correctly,” Robb replied, taking a sip of the wine. It wasn’t bad at all, though slightly too dry for his taste. Nevertheless, he did his best to not react and keep his mind on the conversation at hand. Father’s lessons echoed in his head, a reminder to never drink much when negotiating a price. “You come highly recommended. Lord Renly Baratheon told me that you are the finest steelworker in the city.”

“The city? Hah!” Mott barked, taking a deep dredge of his own cup. “The realm, more like. Lord Baratheon told you right. Visit every forge in King’s Landing and compare our work, and you’ll see. My work is costly, and for the best of reasons. Any village smith can hammer out a sheet of metal; my work is art. Iron, steel, even Valyrian steel are all materials I work with. I’m sure you’ve seen Lord Baratheon’s armor; it is perhaps one of my greatest works. The antlers and the deep green color are something you’ll not see replicated by any other smith.”

“That sounds perfect,” Robb smiled. “As you’ve said, I’m in need of a new set of armor for the tourney, and some replacement pieces for my brother here. I will be entering in the lists, and my brother the melee. I know I haven’t given you much time to prepare, but I would like to see what you have to offer.”

“A full suit?” Mott echoed, smile faltering a little as his eyes flickered upwards in thought. “So quickly made, and of good quality… you ask for much, my lord, but nothing impossible. It will cost a good bit of coin, but if you are willing to pay, I can certainly provide the right product. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Something simple,” Robb replied, thinking of Renly’s gaudy green suit, with its golden antlers that looked like it might fall over. It was good steel, but the mere thought of having a wolf’s head helm or something of the like was too odd a thought for him to consider. “Elegant, signifiable as a Stark’s, but my first priority is practicality. If it can’t protect me, it isn’t worth much at all, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Mott agreed. He listed the price he required for such a service, and Robb hid a wince at the exorbitant amount. It was within the budget the king had given him, but higher than he’d expected. He haggled with the smith then, and got the price lowered by a hundred dragons, which he counted as a victory. It was certainly left enough over that he could get Jon his new breastplate, though there wasn’t enough for any fancy embellishments.

“We’ll see what we can do for you, my lord,” Mott said after they shook hands and paid the agreed upon amount. “Come with me, and I’ll see you measured.”

Robb nodded and let himself be led into the back of the forge, Jon and Jory trailing behind him. Mott called for one of his apprentices in the smithery, which blazed like a dragon’s mouth, then took them to the side as a boy around their age hurried over. In a leather apron and loose linens, he was tall and muscular, but younger than Robb expected. 

“Gendry, fetch me the breastplate you were working on,” Mott commanded him as he took out a length of rope and indicated for Robb to raise his arms. Robb did so, and as the smith measured the space between his shoulders, the apprentice bowed and ran back towards his bench. He returned quickly with a half-finished plate of steel in his hands, roughly Jon’ size. His half-brother took it and turned it in his hands, inspecting the quality.

“It’s good, Master Mott,” he said after a few moments. He turned to the apprentice, who’d been watching Jon as if he could break the work by simply holding it wrong. “Gendry, isn’t it? You around my age?”

“Thirteen, milord,” the apprentice responded, and Robb couldn’t help but snort.

“Thirteen? You could pass for at least a few years older than that,” he remarked as Mott made note of his leg length, drawing back for a moment.

“I’m not a lord,” Jon replied at nearly the same time, but he looked impressed.

“Gendry is young, but talented,” Mott said. “I won’t have him working on your suit, Lord Stark, but for a breastplate of the quality and price we agreed on, Gendry’s work here will serve you very well. He’s one of the best apprentices I have in my employ.”

“The plate will need some adjustment for size, but not much,” Gendry added, cheeks coloring a little at the praise. “I could have it done by tomorrow if you wish.”

“I’ll pick it up when Robb’s suit is finished,” Jon shrugged, passing the plate back to the apprentice. He took it gratefully. “What sort of stuff do you work on?”

“Whatever my master wishes of me,” Gendry deferred, and Mott snorted. 

“Most of the time,” he sniffed, pulling out Robb’s arm to measure his wrists. “If I’m going to show you off, boy, you might as well be honest about it. Show them your helm.”

Gendry nodded, returning to his bench as Jon sent Robb a curious look. When he returned, it was with a large steel helm in his hands, worked into the shape of a roaring bull with long, curving horns. It was unpolished, but even from a few feet away, Robb could see that it was expertly shaped. 

“May I see it?” Jon asked, and he reluctantly handed it over. Noting the hesitance, Jon was sure to be visibly careful with it, turning it about in his hands. “You have a good eye for steel, Gendry. Our blacksmith in Winterfell likely couldn’t make steel this detailed.”

“Thank you,” Gendry replied with a shallow bow, but he still looked relieved when Jon passed the helmet back. 

“That is the talent and quality I expect from my shop, my lord,” Mott finished, making a few more notes on his pad of paper and stepping back, finished. “Gendry is good, but only a boy. I have more men with more experience, and all of them can make good steel. Make sure you remember that, if ever another smith tries to tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll be sure to do so,” Robb replied, somewhat amused. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t need another set of armor for many more years, especially if it was as good as Mott was making his out to be. “When will you be finished?”

“The tourney is a little less than a month away, yes? Give me eighteen days, and I will have a good set for you, with enough time left for any adjustments.”

“Very well.” They shook on it then, and Robb turned to Gendry and shook his hand as well. “You’ve got some good work, Gendry. Make sure this breastplate serves my brother well, won’t you?”

“Of course, my lord,” the apprentice replied, bowing again. Robb clapped him on the shoulder, then let Mott lead them out of the smithery and back into the main shop. They worked out a few more details there, mostly where Robb would like his few embellishments, then they were free to go.

By the time they were done, the sun had passed its zenith, and Robb’s stomach was starting to rumble. Harwin was waiting for them with the horses, and they were off again, picking their way through the crowded streets of King’s Landing to get back to the Red Keep for lunch.

Kevan Lannister’s party had dispersed by the time they returned through the main gates, thankfully, and Robb passed the reins of his horse over to Jory when he dismounted, letting his two guards return their mounts to the stables. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he announced, stretching. Jon snorted and elbowed him in the ribs, making him squeak in protest. “Hey!”

“You’re always hungry,” Jon chuckled, but let himself be led over to the Great Hall, which would be serving their informal meal at this time of day. “Ordering new armor really that exhausting?”

“In this city? Yes. Besides, what are you teasing me for? I just got you a new breastplate.”

“And I’m grateful for it,” Jon replied, sincerely. His voice turned more teasing, however, as he continued. “But that doesn’t exempt me from my brotherly duties of keeping you humble.”

“Mocking me, more like!” Robb laughed, and got a few chuckles in return. 

Dinner’s fare was simple, mostly venison with some rolls and gravy, but more than enough to be filling. Robb forewent sitting on the high table to stay with Jon on the lower side, where the squires and minor lords sat. It was for the best, as it seemed that the incoming Lannisters had taken up most of the space there. The King wasn’t present, but Lord Lannister was, as were his two children, brother, and all their attached parties. Robb had very little desire to integrate himself with them at the moment, so it was a win-win all around. 

They ate in relative silence for a while, letting the chatter of the hall wash over them. A dwarf waddled in as Robb finished his bread, flanked on either side by guards, and it took Robb a moment before he recognized the man as Tyrion Lannister, who had gone north to visit the Wall after his visit with the King’s party to Winterfell. It seemed that he’d joined with Kevan Lannister’s party on their arrival to King’s Landing. 

As Robb watched, Tyrion approached the high table, sharing some indiscernible words with his father before moving away and sitting next to the Kingslayer. The two brothers spoke some of their own before returning to their food, and Robb found himself watching them with curiosity.

“I wonder if the Imp visited Winterfell on his way back from the Wall,” Jon said, seeming to echo in interest. “If he did…”

“He spoke with Father,” Robb finished, returning to his food. “But Father wouldn’t have told him anything significant, since he’s a Lannister. Not worth it. The Imp’s a glutton and a whoremonger, from what I hear.”

“I dunno, he seemed smart to me when we spoke,” Jon replied, looking thoughtful. Before Robb could ask when exactly Jon had met Tyrion Lannister, someone was shouting his brother’s name. Robb turned around to see Jon’s friend Peck waving over at them from the other side of the hall, making some sort of motion with his other hand. Jon swore, setting down his fork and snatching up his remaining roll.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he apologized, standing, waving back a hand in annoyance. “It seems one of my fellow squires is in need of my assistance.”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you,” Robb responded, resolving to ask him about Tyrion later. Jon just shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way, and swiftly took off, shouting for his friend to wait up for him.

Robb couldn’t help but sigh a little as he watched him go. Knowing Jon, he wouldn’t see him again for a few days. Since they no longer shared the same training yard or lessons, their time together had grown increasingly thin, and he had been hoping to have a little more time before they were pulled apart again. 

He focused on finishing his lunch after Jon disappeared, chatting some with Jory before deciding that he should get to his afternoon lessons sooner or later. He stood up, fully intending to trudge his way over to Maegor’s Holdfast to sit in with Joffrey for the rest of the day, when a girl nearly knocked right into him in her rush to get past.

“Whoa, there,” he said, catching the girl by her arm before he really realized what he was doing. The girl stumbled a little, looked up, saw the direwolf stitching on his chest, and immediately went red through the tips of her ears. Robb let her go, stepping back, and the girl blushed even further, straightening her dress.

“My apologies, my lord,” she demurred, glancing towards the exit. “I have to be on my way, please excuse me.”

“It’s no worry,” Robb found himself replying. The poor girl looked like she might faint from embarrassment. “Where are you headed? I was just on my way out myself.”

“Maegor’s Holdfast, my lord,” the girl responded, and Jory shot Robb a look along the lines of ‘ well, you’ve got to escort her now.’  

“Then we can go together.” Robb held out his arm, and the girl somehow reddened even further as she took it. Together, they threaded the needle through the crowded hall and made their way outside. Jory kept himself several paces behind them, giving them enough room to speak properly. And Robb assumed he had to talk, since it was only polite. “What’s your name?”

“Lady Jeyne Westerling, my lord. From the Crag. I’ve just arrived with Lord Kevan Lannister to help serve the royal family.”

“There’s no need for so much formality, you know,” he found himself responding. “We must be near the same age. I’m Robb Stark, by the way. From Winterfell.”

“A pleasure to meet you—Robb.” Jeyne stumbled over her words a little, and Robb chuckled at her. 

“You’re fine,” he said. “Don’t be so nervous, Jeyne. There aren’t many occasions when you’ll need to rush through the hall after eating. This is King’s Landing, and you’re bound to meet much more important people than me.”

Jeyne was silent for a few minutes as they passed under one of the inner castle walls. When Robb glanced over at her, her eyes, large and brown, were flickering in thought. 

“So my father says,” she said after a moment. “But this is my first time so far from home.”

“That makes two of us, then. What made you come with Lord Kevan?”

“The Queen has requested that I join the Princess Myrcella as one of her handmaids,” Jeyne replied, and Robb resisted a groan. Jeyne seemed very nice, he told himself, and he doubted she knew of the princess’ attempts to court him yet. At the same time, Myrcella gaining another member of her entourage… eugh. 

“Then you will do well,” he said instead. “Princess Myrcella is a… lovely child.” Yes, let’s put it that way. “She’s young, but bright, and a few of her handmaids are closer to your age as well. I’m sure the queen made a good choice.”

“You think so?” Jeyne asked, with such earnestness that Robb found himself nodding without really thinking about it. 

“It’s not too difficult of a job. Simply be yourself, and serve the princess as best you can. Queen Cersei can be… intimidating, but she loves her children. Serve them well, and like I said, you’ll be fine.”

Jeyne smiled then, shaking her head a little. “Thank you, my lord. I apologize for running into you like this, I imagine you have much better things to do than soothe my anxieties.”

Robb shrugged. “I was already on my way for my afternoon lessons. It’s quite alright.”

They drew close to the drawbridge for the Holdfast, and paused to check in with the gate guards. Meryn Trant, the Kingsguard on duty for the day, did little more than grunt when Jory spoke to him, though his eyes drew over Jeyne in a way that made Robb frown over at him. The knight looked away after that, and they continued on unmolested.

Of course, the companionable silence was broken nearly the moment he stepped through the front doors.

“Lord Robb!” came a near-squeal from the side of the room, and Robb turned in time to see none other than Princess Myrcella herself hurrying over as quickly as was polite, followed by her handmaidens. She beamed up at him, and Robb smiled back, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as he felt. Dammit!

“Princess,” he replied, bowing. A moment later, he realized his arm was still intertwined with Jeyne’s, and he drew away, trying not to imply anything. “You aren’t with your uncle?”

“Uncle Kevan?” Myrcella echoed, then shook her head. “No, Grandfather wanted to speak to him alone, and Mother sent me, Joffrey, and Tommen for our lessons. You just missed them!”

Well, at least it hadn’t been Joffrey waiting for him in the antechamber. Robb allowed himself a minute sigh of relief. 

“Then the timing works perfectly; I was on my way for lessons as well,” he said aloud, then turned to Jeyne. “I happened to meet Lady Jeyne Westerling on the way over, Princess. I hear she’s to be one of your new handmaids.”

Jeyne curtsied deeply, and to her credit, she didn’t blush like she had with Robb. Myrcella looked at her closely for a moment, then grinned, clapping her hands together. 

“Wonderful!” She exclaimed. “Mother told me to expect you soon. I’m so excited to have a new friend! Kirstyn, you’ve finished setting up her chambers, right?”

“Just the way you requested, Princess,” the Sunglass girl, whose name was apparently Kirstyn, grinned. She stepped forwards and took Jeyne’s arm, pulling her forwards. “We must show you, Lady Jeyne!”

“O-of course, Princess,” Jeyne stammered, finally looking overwhelmed. She glanced back at Robb, but he just smiled at her, both glad she was being received well and that he wasn’t the subject of Myrcella’s attentions today. “Uhm, thank you for escorting me, Lord Robb.”

“It was my pleasure, Lady Jeyne,” Robb replied, and took the cue to make his escape. He bowed again to Myrcella, who curtsied quickly back, and he turned around and hurriedly made his way out the other side of the hallway.

“Robb,” Jory said, drawing up on his other side once they were out of the room. His eyes were twinkling in amusement. “Your lessons are in the other direction.”

Now it was Robb’s turn to blush. Muttering something about taking the long way around, he swiftly turned down another hallway, swiftly trying to think of a different way to get to the other side of the Holdfast without running into Myrcella again.

Chapter Text

Jon waited until it was long past dark to slip out of the Grand Hall.

It had been another one of the King’s great feasts. This time, his excuse was the nameday of his younger brother Renly, and the whole castle seemed to have upended itself for the celebration. Wine flowed freely, and Renly had danced the night away with more than a dozen girls, eventually getting drunk enough that he dragged the newly-arrived Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, into something resembling a waltz. Queen Cersei and her children had taken their leave early in the night, but King Robert was still up and rearing, a serving girl on one knee as he laughed down at the dance floor. 

Jon had spent the feast as he usually did: down on the lowest tables with the other squires. What had once chafed him back in Winterfell was a great relief as the night wore on; poor Robb looked like he wanted nothing more than to melt into his cushion from his spot two seats down from the King, who seemed like he was about to take the serving girl right there in the hall. On his other side, Lord Lannister was steadily sipping from his cup as he surveyed the room with cold, calculating eyes. It seemed that even a revelry like this wouldn’t draw the Hand out of his shell. Jon had kept an eye on him throughout the feast, but he’d done very little besides speak some with Robb.

It also helped that Peck had gotten drunk. Ser Jaime had left with the Queen as her guard, and technically Steffon was supposed to be keeping an eye on them, but the young knight had wandered off with some girl or another an hour ago and had yet to reappear. Peck had taken full opportunity of his departure to do as any 13-year-old boy did, and drank as much wine as he could. Finally, Mychel had commanded Jon to get him to their rooms so he could sleep.

He’d taken the chore without complaint, seeing it as the opportunity it was. While Mychel turned back to sharing bawdy jokes with his group of friends, Jon slipped out the back of the hall with Peck’s arm slung over his shoulders. Slowly, they stumbled back to the White Sword Tower, and Jon gently laid him to bed in his chambers. Once he was sure Peck was asleep, he returned to his own room.

Mychel, who shared it with him, wasn’t back yet, and likely wouldn’t be at all, instead buying some whore’s love for the night. So Jon grabbed a candle off the bookshelf and lit it without worry, pulling his book out from where he’d hidden it with his breeches. 

Robb had been right when he’d pointed out his new reading habits the week before; Jon had no great love of books. But this book was different. The Princess and the Queen was a detailed history of the legendary Targaryen civil war, the Dance of Dragons, and he flipped to the one passage he needed, pulling the light closer to read it for the umpteenth time. 

‘Cheese knew the Red Keep better than the shape of his own cock,’ Mushroom tells us. The hidden doors and secret tunnels that Maegor the Cruel had built were as familiar to the ratcatcher as to the rats he hunted. Using a forgotten passageway, Cheese led Blood into the heart of the Castle, unseen by any guard. Even Cheese knew no way into Maegor’s Holdfast… but the Tower of the Hand was less secure.

He glanced over the passage once, twice, then three times over, as if it might reveal its secrets to him simply by repetition. Then, once he’d re-burned the words into memory, he closed the book, then changed. His white-and-gray doublet, indicative of his status as a Kingsguard squire (though he also liked to pretend it was for his Stark heritage, too), was replaced with a black tunic and jerkin, then equally dark breeches and boots. Tying his hair back, he fastened a knife to his belt, extinguished his candle, and took off into the night once more. 

Despite Peck’s best efforts to the contrary, Jon had not forgotten what he had overheard the fortnight prior, hidden in the depths of the Red Keep. No, they had indeed found a secret passageway, one that led into the heart of the Keep from the Blackwater, and it was being used. Why should they leave it to potential enemies alone?

If what he had overheard was true, and Jon had every reason to think it was, war was brewing on the horizon. Jon didn’t know what might cause it, only that it was happening, and men more powerful than him weren’t going to be able to stop it. More than once he’d considered going straight to Robb or writing to Father about it, but every time he’d stayed his hand, instead keeping his cards close to his chest. 

Twice, he’d started a letter bound for Winterfell, and both times he’d stopped himself. Surely Father was already aware of the dangers at least vaguely, now that there had been an attempt on his life. According to the men in the passageway, he knew more than most, even. And he and Father weren’t exactly on speaking terms, anyway. Father’s last letter to him had been a scolding for giving Arya Needle, which he had apparently found.  So Jon had stayed his hand, telling himself he would write once he knew more, had more evidence, and the half-written letters met their fates at candle flame instead.

With Robb, excusing it was easier. Peck was overly cautious, but he’d had a point when he’d said that telling Robb would be more trouble than it was worth. Robb was a ward, with no real power of his own, and any change in his behavior put him at risk from their enemies, who were watching him much more closely than some bastard squire.

Enemies like Tywin Lannister, who apparently was trying to get his own blood into every major family in the Seven Kingdoms. Men like Tywin indeed, who had his cold eyes set on owning Jon’s brother. 

Jon kept close to the wall as he approached the Tower of the Hand, but the courtyard was deserted. Most people were still at the feast, and the red cloaks were with the Hand in the Great Hall with it. They wouldn’t be back for several hours at least. 

It was the best chance he was going to get.

Really, this was Jon’s fourth trip to the Tower in twelve days, but this was the easiest time he had getting close to it. He only had to duck out of one servant’s way, and soon he was at the base of the Tower, opposite the main entrance. 

According to The Princess and the Queen, the infamous Blood and Cheese, who had killed Prince Jaehaerys in this very building, had gotten inside through a secret passageway that bypassed the front door entirely. Jon’s previous visits had been spent scouring the base to no avail; this time, he slipped into the deserted kitchens of the Little Gallery to begin his attempt. 

The Little Gallery was a smaller set of kitchens that serviced the Hand’s household, a small building that attached itself to the back of the Tower. It was empty, the staff sent to help with the night’s feast, so when Jon slipped in through an unlocked window, the halls were deserted. 

He started at the back of the building, near the door that led into the Tower. That, of course, was locked, though Jon tried it to be sure. Then he started on the brick wall, tapping and pulling and pushing nearly every brick he could reach. 

That yielded nothing, so he moved on to the rest of the kitchen. He scoured the floor, pushing on the stones and lifting up rugs. Nothing. 

There were no secret codes he could see. The outer walls were too thin for inner passageways. Over an hour passed as Jon went over the rooms, trying this way and that. Nothing yielded to his ministrations, and eventually he started to tire. 

Perhaps he was looking for nothing. The tale of Blood and Cheese was well over a century and a half old, after all, and perhaps the passageway had been found and sealed in the time since. Perhaps Jon was simply looking in the wrong place entirely. He’d been so certain the entrance had to be in the Little Gallery, it’d made sense to the story, but perhaps he’d been wrong…

On the verge of giving up, Jon’s finger’s caught on a groove at the bottom of a cupboard. 

He froze for a moment, then started moving. The cupboard had been a last-ditch effort, the bottom self nearly empty save for a sack of potatoes. But its base was large… large enough for a body to squeeze through, if they tried. 

Jon tugged the sack of potatoes out, heart thudding in his chest. Carefully, he dug his fingers back into the groove, and when he pulled, the entire bottom came up with it. 

“I knew it,” he whispered to himself, then he stopped and looked around the room, confirming that no one was there. The distant laughter from the feast was his only answer, and Jon took a deep breath, pulling out the slab of wood the rest of the way. A dark tunnel met his gaze, pitch black and leading down into nothing. 

Heart hammering in his chest, Jon hurried to grab a candle that had been left on a countertop, lighting it and returning to his prize. He’d found it. A secret passageway leading straight into the home of Tywin Lannister. 

Swiftly, he got down on his knees, dropping the candle as far as he could into the entrance. The flickering yellow flame revealed rusty iron bars set into the wall, a short ladder that went down perhaps a little more than a man’s height into the ground. From there, the tunnel became horizontal, disappearing into the dark. 

He sat there for a moment, looking down, before he turned back and grabbed the false cupboard bottom. Carefully juggling it and his candle, he started down the passageway, replacing the bottom above him as he went down. Rust broke off and coated his fingers as he went, but the iron held strong, and soon enough Jon was looking down a narrow tunnel, barely wide for him to walk straight through. 

Perfect. 

Jon slipped his knife out of his belt as he began down the passageway. It went only a short distance until he came upon a narrow set of stairs. The air was musty and dust hung thick as he walked; Jon had to resist coughing at several points because of it. Instead, he drew his tunic up and breathed through it at the worst parts, and just when his legs started to ache, he came across two branching paths at the top of the stairwell.

Using his knife, he cut a thin notch into the wall closest to the stairs, an indicator to note where he came from, and turned left on a whim. He let his fingers trace the inner wall, searching for any kind of inner door that might have been the one Blood and Cheese had used over a century ago. 

He came across nothing but another break in the passage. Jon notched the way he came and kept left again, the way with another staircase, and went up what had to be several flights, ears pricked and fingers tracing the wall. Once, there was a faint glimmer of light in the darkness, near the ground, and Jon bent over to peek through a hole into what had to be a solar. No one was inside, but a torch was still lit on the far wall, likely forgotten by a servant.

Was it Tywin’s solar? Jon couldn’t be sure, but he made note of it anyway. It was the best lead he had so far, and if he wanted to play spy on nights when the Hand’s Tower was full, this seemed like a good place to start.

He got back to his feet and continued on. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional scuffle of his boots on the pebbled floor. Jon’s candle flickered and spluttered, but held strong as he went, lighting the way as he went up another flight of stairs. 

Eventually, though, the silence broke with a faint sound, too far away to truly make out. Jon perked up at that; he’d thought the whole household had gone to the feast. Was it some servants, cleaning up for the night? He had no way to tell, but found himself making his way over regardless. Making his first right turn of the night, he crept carefully through the passageway, noting when another crack of light appeared in the inner wall. 

It was as if the gods themselves were asking him to look. The sounds had transformed into strange, breathy grunts, and Jon’s curiosity was burning in his chest as he got to his knees and peered inside through the spyhole. 

He was looking at a bedroom, he realized, only a foot or so off the ground. From his position, he couldn’t see much besides a desk and the side of a large bed, but the lights were lit, if dim, and the sounds were the loudest here. Jon set down the candle entirely to get on his hands and knees, trying to figure out where he was. 

He’d never been inside the Tower of the Hand, but from what he’d heard and considering the solar he’d found earlier, it had to be part of Tywin’s personal quarters, perhaps even his own room. But Jon knew that the Hand was likely still in the Grand Hall, so who…

There was a flash of pale white skin on the bed, barely visible from Jon’s position, and suddenly he realized what was going on.

Cheeks flaming, he jerked himself back from the peephole, barely stopping himself from making a sound of embarrassment. Of course. Count on him to somehow stumble across two people having sex when trying to look for political information. Shaking his head and deciding that voyeurism was very much not one of his intended activities for the night, he drew himself away entirely and prepared to leave the two to their… activities. 

He was back on his feet and in the middle of walking away when he heard a distinct voice. 

“This was stupid.”

The voice was breathy, and the grunts had stopped. The bed creaked as people moved, but Jon’s blood had turned to ice in his veins when he heard it, stopping in his tracks.

He knew the voice of Ser Jaime Lannister.

Despite how his cheeks flamed and his heart beat, Jon turned back around.

“You really do try to get away with anywhere possible,” Ser Jaime continued. His voice was slightly muffled through the stone, but other than that it was clear, and Jon very nearly stopped breathing as the creaks from the room increased. 

“You know this place will be deserted for most of the night,” came a female reply, and this time Jon very nearly dropped his candle, narrowly stopping himself from banging into either wall. “Father won’t be back for hours, not until the King is done for the night. Come back to bed.”

“Barristan expects me to show up for the midnight muster,” Jaime replied, and as quickly as he could without making a sound, Jon got back on his hands and knees to look through the peephole. “Just one round tonight, I’m afraid.”

Jon looked through the hole just in time to see Queen Cersei leaving the bed. He just glimpsed her pale white skin, bare to the world, before she reached for a robe and covered herself. Her back was to Jon, so he couldn’t see her face, but he had a nearly perfect view of Jaime Lannister tugging on his breeches. His expression was a mixture of fondness and annoyance as Cersei, his twin sister what the hell, draped herself over him with a giggle. 

“The children are safely asleep in the holdfast,” she murmured coquettishly, tracing a finger over her brother’s jaw. “My husband is likely deep in some whore for the night, and Father will be busy trying to keep up appearances for the next few hours. You can tell Barristan that you took me for a walk in the godswood and lost track of time.”

Jaime snorted, but kissed her. They looked like they were eating each other’s faces, and the sight was such that Jon looked away, lest he never be able to look at the two and keep composure again. 

“You hate the direwolves,” Jaime said, once the sounds stopped, and Jon deemed it safe to look back. “The Godswood wouldn’t be believable enough. I’ll go to the muster, then you may have me for the rest of the night, if you so wish.”

“Damn the mutts,” Cersei scoffed, drawing herself away. Jaime just rolled his eyes as he grabbed his shirt off the ground and pulled it overhead. “I would have their pelts if I could.”

“I’m sure,” Jaime replied, disinterested. Cersei scoffed louder and moved out of sight. From the sounds of it, she was switching from her robe to a dress, and Jon was very glad he couldn’t see that. 

“I cannot believe we are still tolerating Stark’s presence here,” Cersei said, a whining tinge to her voice. “First the betrothal, and now this? Myrcella is already obsessed with the boy, and Tommen has not stopped talking about the bastard squire since he found him in the cellars.”

“Myrcella is aware that Robb Stark is one of the best matches she can make,” Jaime replied, still sounding disinterested. 

“That’s only because Father is set on selling her off like a piece of cattle!”

“And the phase will pass. Besides, who shall care? Myrcella is eight. Stark is fourteen. No betrothal will be made for some time.” Jaime was strapping on his armor now. “At least Father isn’t having you play friendly with the brat.”

“You were just talking about how he’s obsessed with Rhaegar’s old toys.”

“Exactly that. Toys. ” Jaime turned away and walked out of sight as well, adjusting the straps on his white breastplate. 

And then something changed. Jon wasn’t sure if he even heard anything, but it was something. A shift in the air, perhaps, or the smallest intake of breath. 

Whatever it was, it had him looking back into the passageway just in time to see a girl staring at him. 

She was little, perhaps seven or eight, with pitch-black, ratty hair. She wore an old blue dress, tied with rope in the middle, and her feet were bare. She stared down at him from the end of the corridor with wide blue eyes, then disappeared around it again. 

Jon stared after the girl for a long moment, then jumped to his feet and raced after her. 

No doubt he made some sort of noise, but Jon didn’t hear anything from the Queen and her brother as he raced after the strange girl. He barely saw the hem of her dress flashing around a corner, and he bolted after it, struggling to dart around through the tight squeezes.

He caught a few more glimpses of the girl, mostly the hem of her dress and the tips of her hair. Whoever she was, she knew the passageways of the Tower much better than he, and it wasn’t long until Jon lost her entirely to the winding turns, stopping at a junction with no idea which route she had taken.

Shit. Who was that girl? Jon had no idea, but his time was up. If someone else knew this passage, it wasn’t as safe as he thought it would be. Cursing himself for not thinking of such a possibility and not being able to catch the spy, he picked himself up and decided to choose the turn that went down.

He hurried as quietly as he could. Jon had no idea where he was at this point, but there were only so many places a hidden passage could go, and eventually he found one of the notches he’d made at the junctures. Taking that turn, he soon found himself back at the ladder. Extinguishing the candle but leaving his knife in hand, just in case, he slowly made his way up, heart hammering at the thought of someone waiting for him to make his exit. 

But the kitchens were still deserted when he raised the cupboard’s false bottom. With the coast clear, Jon rose the rest of the way, shimmying out of the exit and taking in great gulps of fresh air. After a moment to collect himself, he replaced the bottom and the sack of potatoes, and went back out into the night.

His head was spinning with all he had seen. All Jon had wanted to do was scout a possible way to spy on Tywin Lannister and find out what he was really planning; instead, he had discovered something much more dangerous. 

He felt almost light-headed, actually. Jon stumbled twice, then picked up his pace across the courtyard when he remembered that the Lannister twins had mentioned leaving soon. The last thing he wanted was for Jaime to catch him and wonder why he was dressed all in black and walking away from the Tower.

Seven hells, though. That… what had Jon seen? Ser Jaime was a kingsguard, sworn to celibacy, and Cersei was married to King. And they were siblings. Twins! Jon tried to imagine something like that occurring in his own family, and gagged. Disgusting. 

And treason. Jon hurried across the courtyard before Maegor’s holdfast, keeping to the shadows as best he could as partygoers started to make their way to their beds for the night. The Lannister twins were committing not only incest and adultery, but also high treason by breaking kingsguard vows to have sex with the Queen. How long had this even been going on for? From the way they had spoken, this certainly wasn’t the first time, and King Robert and Cersei had always notoriously hated each other. 

The white door of White Sword Tower loomed in front of him, and Jon blinked, surprised it had shown up so quickly. The girl’s bright blue eyes flashed in his mind as he entered, and the weirwood table in the entranceway seemed to mock him as he passed it by on his way to his rooms. 

Worst of all, he’d been seen, and he had no idea by who. There was no way that girl was working on her own, but Jon hadn’t been able to catch her and make her talk. If she recognized him somehow, and reported to whoever she worked to, things could get dangerous very quickly. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

He undressed and laid down in his bed, mind spinning. Mychel wasn’t back, as he expected, so he laid alone, sleep far off as he closed his eyes and tried to think of what he could even do with this information. Who could he tell about this? Who would believe the words of a bastard squire when it was him against the Queen and a Kingsguard? The mere idea of incest between them was so ludicrous that Jon found himself doubting it, and he had seen it.

Eventually, he started to doze, and of course it was then that a hand touched his shoulder. 

Jon jerked awake in an instant, hand going straight for his knife and swiping. The figure leapt back with a yelp, but Jon was almost on his feet by the time he realized it was only Steffon, holding his hand back and staring at him with an affronted expression.

“Why, thank you,” he snarked, as Jon slowly put down his knife, willing his blood to settle. Surely this didn’t have anything to do with what he’d seen; Steffon wouldn’t approach him like this if that were the case.

“Sorry,” Jon muttered, and Steffon snorted, snatching his knife away and setting it on his bedside table. 

“This is why I don’t drink with weapons on me,” he replied, swaying a little. No doubt he had indeed been drinking, and sure enough, Jon could see no visible blades on his person. “And for doing a favor. Your brother is calling for your presence in the godswood.”

“The godswood?” Jon echoed, lost. He glanced out of the window. Sure enough, it was still late, the moon high in the sky. “At this time of night? Robb?”

“You don’t have to go,” Steffon said, then staggered out of the room, muttering something about getting some good sleep. Jon sat in bed for a few minutes after he left, collecting himself, then redressed himself in his white and gray doublet from the feast and went out to investigate. Contrary to Steffon’s assumption, he hadn’t been drinking, so he took his knife back and went out. 

There were more people out now, the feast undoubtedly finished. Laughter and the clinking of bottles rang out across the courtyard as the last of the guests still celebrated, and Jon gave them a wide berth as he went into the godswood. 

It was much quieter in the wooded acreage, and Jon let himself relax a little as he made his way to the heart tree. Ghost found him halfway there, tail wagging, and Jon paused to pet him before moving on.

There were voices in the distance, and despite himself, Jon kept a hand on his knife until he recognized one of them as his brother’s. Then he let himself finally relax and enter the clearing, where Robb, Jory, Grey Wind, and two strangers were waiting for him. 

“There you are!” Robb said, smiling when he spotted Jon making his way over. Jory dipped his head in Jon’s direction and Grey Wind yipped in greeting, but it was the newcomers that held Jon’s attention as he approached.

One of them, he realized with surprise, wasn’t a stranger at all. It took him a few minutes, but when he spotted the moose stitched onto the man’s doublet, Jon realized the first was Daryn Hornwood, who he’d seen a few times when his family had visited Winterfell. Daryn was an average-sized man, a few years older than him with dark brown hair, and he regarded Jon with the same disinterested look he’d had when he’d been a guest in Winterfell, those years ago.

The other person was completely unfamiliar. She was a woman, but in odd garb, wearing breeches and an odd scaled vest. Her hair was also brown, knotted behind her head so her moss-green eyes were on full display, appraising him. She was the shortest of them all by a good margin, the top of her head barely reaching Robb’s collarbone.

“Robb,” Jon replied, forcing a smile past his racing thoughts. “How was the feast?”

“A misery,” Robb sighed. “But besides the point.” He gestured at their two guests. “I’m sure you remember Daryn Hornwood, Jon. This is Meera Reed, the eldest daughter of Howland Reed, from the Neck. Father’s sent them down for us.”

“Father?” Jon echoed, then remembered his manners and bowed to them in greeting. Daryn just nodded back, but Meera returned the full bow back to him. Jon couldn’t help but wonder what a crannogwoman was doing down in King’s Landing. 

Robb nodded, turning serious. He gestured at Meera specifically. “Apparently, there’s news from Winterfell that had to be delivered to us in person. They just arrived tonight and told me about it. I figured you should know.”

Well, at least it wasn’t about what Jon had seen. He still had no idea how to process that. He turned to Meera instead, who tilted her head at him.

“The attempt on your lord father’s life,” she began, straight to the point. Jon could appreciate that. “Was not actually directed at him, but at your brother, Bran. Lord Stark was injured defending your brother, but the assassin had little actual interest in him.”

Jon blinked. If there had been something he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “What? Why?”

“That’s just the thing,” Robb replied, shaking his head. “No one knows. Father's saying that the assassin was meant for him has two reasons: to make the person who hired the assassin think their true target is still unknown, and to spread more awareness about the attack. It’s a good plan, but it doesn’t answer the real question. What could Bran have done that warranted someone sending an assassin after him?”

Jon had no idea. He stood there, mystified, until Robb gestured at him, indicating there was some sort of connection he was supposed to make. So he thought, at the same time desperately attempting to forget what it had been like to find Bran at the bottom of the First Keep.

Then it hit him. Bran, who had fallen off of the First Keep despite having climbed it for over half his life. Wasn’t that a bit odd?

“He saw something,” he breathed, and Robb nodded, brow furrowed. “At the First Keep.”

“Father thinks the assassin came from the King’s Party, which means it has to have something to do with the Lannisters. We just don’t know what.”

Jaime and Cersei Lannister’s secret flashed in his mind. Could Bran have seen something there? Had Jaime even been on the hunt that day? Jon couldn’t remember, and he was quickly growing tired of it all. 

“We’re here to help keep an eye on you guys,” Daryn spoke up, glancing between him and Robb. “Officially, I’m here for the tourney and Meera is a possible betrothal option for Lord Robb, but we’re to keep our eyes out as best we can.”

Jon nodded, mind whirling. He had much to think about. Too much, really. He glanced over at Robb, who looked equally uneasy, and realized that he would have to tell him about this at some point, when they were alone. Robb was tangled in this affair now, if he’d ever been separate from it, and Jon had a sinking feeling that the Kingslayer and the Queen had committed a few more crimes than what he’d seen up in the Tower.

Chapter Text

“Again, boy. Light on your feet, like a cat.”

The steady, lilting voice of the Braavosi Water Dancer seemed to float through the air when Ned walked into the inner courtyard. A light snow was falling, dusting the world in white, but Arya was still hard at work with her new master, the rapping of heavy wooden swords filled the air. He caught sight of the pair just as his daughter caught a sharp hit to her forearm, making her yelp. She jerked backwards, reeling, and got another hit, causing her to swear.

“Language, Arya,” Ned warned, frowning at her. Arya turned towards him in surprise, and took yet another blow for her distraction. She sprung back to her feet and turned about, narrowly blocking another attack.

“A man never turns his back on the enemy,” Syrio Forel scolded her, raising his blade. Arya frowned, but nodded intently, raising her blade in an echo of his Braavosi salute. After a moment, they lowered their weapons, and Syrio bowed in Ned’s direction, taking Arya’s wooden training sword away. 

“Are you alright, Arya?” Ned asked, eyeing her shoulder, which she was favoring slightly. Arya nodded, eyes alight, and he forced himself to let his worry disperse. Back when Syrio had first begun his training, Arya had been mottled in bruises, and he had very nearly sent the Braavosi right back the way he came. But Arya had quickly fallen in love with her training, despite how it hurt, and her enthusiasm had eventually swayed her parents.

“I’m good!” Arya chirped, rolling said injured shoulder. 

“Then your lessons are over early today,” he replied, and before she could protest, pressed on. “Bran and I are going riding, and I thought you would like to join us.”

Arya’s disappointment swiftly switched to delight, and she nodded frantically. She’d been very involved in Bran’s journey to relearn horse riding. She’d helped Hullen pick out the horse to train, Dancer, and had been nothing but supportive and helped wherever she could. Like her aunt, Arya seemed to be half-horse herself, and loved helping her brother. 

Ned left Syrio to himself as he followed Arya back out to the main courtyard. Hullen was already there and waiting for them when they arrived, helping Hodor fasten Bran into his saddle. The contraption Tyrion Lannister had given them was odd, with a high back and more straps than Ned could count, but it had done its job exceedingly well. Bran had been trotting about the courtyard confidently for over a week now, and with its high back and straps to keep his legs in place, only once had he ever lost his balance. 

“Father! Arya!” Bran called when he saw them, grinning widely as he held his horse’s reins. Hullen stepped away, nodding, and he pulled on them a little, signaling Dancer to trot forwards, within arm’s reach of them both. Arya squealed with excitement, lurching forwards to hug Dancer tightly. Ned left her to it, walking around and patting Bran’s leg.

“Are you feeling good?” He asked, looking up at his boy. “Strong?”

“Yes!” Bran exclaimed, wiggling a little in his seat. This ride had been something he’d been looking forward to since Ned had first alluded to it. It was no wonder he looked so impatient. “Can we go?”

“Wait for me first,” Ned chuckled, walking away. Bran laughed and said something to Arya, who laughed right back at him, and he left them to it. Theon Greyjoy was holding his mount, and Ned took it with a nod of thanks, mounting the gelding and turning to lead the group. Arya scrambled to get to her own horse as they readied to leave. 

Catelyn, holding a squirming Rickon, appeared in the yard just as they were readying to go, their youngest shouting hoarsely about how unfair it was that he couldn’t go with Bran and Arya, for he was almost four! Perhaps wisely, Catelyn didn’t mention that Rickon’s nameday was still half a year away, and instead waved to the party as they took off. Ned raised a hand to the two in farewell, unable to stop a wry smile of amusement as Rickon screamed again and got a clout on the ear for it. The lad was loud and strong; he’d be a good man one day.

Ned returned his attention ahead of him as he dug his heels into his mount, leading the group out under the portcullis and into Wintertown. As they passed through the outer walls, Lady, Summer and Nymeria ran out alongside him, Nymeria edging forwards before Arya called her back, lest she scare the smallfolk. Bran and Arya remained close as well, just behind his left side, while Theon chatted amicably with Jacks, one of their four guards. His ward had brought his longbow and a quiver of arrows, having spoken something about a hunt while they were out. Bringing up the rear of their party was Maester Luwin on a donkey, in case anything happened to Bran, and the rest of their guards. 

The walk through the village went well. A few smallfolk were still startled at the sight of the direwolves, but most had grown used to them by now. Wintertown was slowly filling, with autumn having come in full, but still less than one in five homes were occupied. 

It wouldn’t remain that way for long. Since Ned had returned to his duties full-time, he and Catelyn had been caught up in near constant correspondence with the minor holdfasts in the area, who were currently taking in the year’s harvest. The crops had grown well, and perhaps they could even eke out one more planting before autumn ended, but the summer had been long, and it promised a long winter to match.

Ned was startled out of his crop-related thoughts as Theon called out something crass, laughing at two serving girls standing by the alehouse. The younger of the girls blushed and covered her face, and Theon laughed at her until Ned turned to give him a stern look. 

“Not with the children, Theon,” he settled on saying, a more gentle scolding that was perhaps warranted. Ned was well aware of the Greyjoy’s… activities in Wintertown, but hadn’t done much except to try and ensure there weren’t any Ironborn bastards running around for the next generation. Theon was a growing boy, one far away from home, and usually he was better about keeping his proclivities to himself. 

To his credit, Theon kept quiet after that, and Ned turned his attention instead to Bran, who was slowly settling into the natural sway of his saddle. He and Arya rode nearly knee to knee, chattering excitedly, and his daughter seemed to be settling her younger brother's nerves more and more by the second. 

“You’re doing well, Bran,” Ned called to him, and Bran beamed. 

“Could we race?” Arya asked, perking up in her saddle. “Please? Please?”

Ned looked out at the road, which was clear and flat, then back again, thinking.

“Not a race,” he decided. “But a ride would do you well. Stay in sight.”

Arya whooped, digging her heels into her horse and nearly making the gelding jolt before she remembered herself a moment later, pulling back on the reins so that she kept to a brisk trot instead of a full gallop. Bran followed a second later, Nymeria and Summer loping at his heels, while Lady stayed behind, trotting at Ned’s side. Ned watched them go, affection rising in his chest as they rode. How long had it been since he’d gone out with his children like this? Before Robert’s arrival, that was for certain.

As they left the confines of Wintertown, Arya and Bran drew even further away, their horses keeping in steady line with each other. Ned kept a close eye on them as they approached the forest, but overall let them be. Outings like this were growing more and more rare as the moons progressed, and he was well aware that these last vestiges of childhood might not last for long. 

Their party rode on for the next quarter hour, Ned keeping mostly to himself as Jacks and Theon continued to jape and trade stories of the various women they’d bedded. For a time, things were calm, until Theon suddenly went quiet in the middle of a sentence. Ned glanced back just in time to see his ward look off into the treeline, unholstering his bow, and he gave him silent leave to go and chase down whatever prey he’d spotted in the woods. 

Theon was off a moment later, Jacks following, and Ned watched them go with mild curiosity as Maester Luwin pulled his donkey up alongside him. Ned nodded to the maester, and pulled back on his reins so his advisor could more easily keep up and speak to him.

“My arm is holding up well, Luwin,” he said before the other could start, bringing up his left forearm. Overall, it was healing very well, though Ned had yet to regain full strength in the limb. A nasty scar now sat where the wound had once been, though it was well covered in his riding leathers now. 

“No stiffness?” Luwin prodded still, and Ned nodded, flexing his fingers. This was as much a test of his health as it was Bran’s—while Ned was back to his full duties as the Lord of Winterfell, his few attempts to wield a two-handed sword like Ice had been… pitiful, to say the least. So far, riding seemed to be much more within his limits.

“Might be some on the morrow, but there’s not much I can do to avoid that,” he replied, returning his attention to the road ahead. A small hill was ahead of them, and Arya and Bran had paused for a moment at the top, their forms dark shapes silhouetted against the afternoon sun. “Have you read the letter I received yesterday?”

“Yes, I have,” Luwin said, glancing behind them. Ned raised a hand, and their three remaining guards slowed in response, allowing them their privacy.

“I would have your thoughts on the matter,” Ned said, and Luwin sighed, shaking his head.

“I don’t have much to advise you, my lord. King Robert’s investigations of his party have come up with nothing, but we both know that he did not keep accurate records of every vagrant who joined with his party. But the knife…”

“Robert did not order Bran’s assassination,” Ned said flatly, and Luwin nodded. 

“The mere idea is preposterous, but he did admit that the blade had been in his possession at some point. It narrows down our list of possible perpetrators, at the least.”

“And right back to the Lannisters.”

“You’ve said yourself that Jaime Lannister would not hire an assassin to do what he could himself. Tyrion Lannister spends nearly all of his time apart from the king, and Tywin Lannister wasn’t present at all, which leaves Queen Cersei.”

“And we can’t accuse the Queen of high treason,” Ned finished. “Not unless we want a war.”

“War will be inevitable, my lord. If not in the south, it will come from the north, beyond the Wall.”

“I see you’ve heard about Lord Commander Mormont’s letter.”

“If the rumors of this King-Beyond-the-Wall are true, my lord, Commander Mormont will need more men than reformed criminals and a dozen knights.”

Ned didn’t reply to that, pursing his lips as he thought. Luwin had a good point; war was coming, either from south of the Neck or north of the Wall. He and Jeor Mormont had been in near-constant communication since the news of Benjen’s disappearance had come with Tyrion Lannister’s visit, and nearly none of it was good. There were rumors of a great mass of Wildlings forming underneath the banner of a former Night’s Watchman by the name of Mance Rayder. Whether he called himself a king or not, it was the most serious threat from beyond the Wall in living memory.

Then the south, where Robb and Jon lay mired in a lion’s den. Ned had been in as much correspondence with Robert as he was with Mormont, and the news from King’s Landing was just as bad, if not worse. With Tywin Lannister now Hand of the King, Casterly Rock was once again rising to new heights of power. Robert couldn’t have cared less for politics, and that Ned had always known, but the more letters he received, the more worried he became. Robert could complain about the Lannisters for an entire page, but when it came to prodding him to do something about it, he waffled about his tourneys and feasts instead, all of which were made possible with Lannister gold.

Nearly all of Robb’s letters held the same warning. Discomfort with the King’s actions, continuous worry about Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey, and general unease with the situation he’d found himself in saturated his updates. Ned worried for him and Jon the most, far away from home and potential allies. He wondered if Daryn and Meera had arrived yet, and hoped they would be of help to them. 

“I would rather fight the Wildlings in the north than the Lannisters in the south,” he said aloud. “My ancestors have fought the Kings north of the Wall for thousands of years, and each time we have been victorious.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but never before has the Watch been so weak. I would not take victory in the far north to be a guarantee.”

“Mormont may not have many men, but his leadership is sound, and my support is as constant as ever. The Wildlings will break against the Wall as they have for the last eight thousand years, and we will ensure that break lasts for the next few generations.”

Luwin didn’t respond to that, brow furrowed, and Ned could almost feel his skepticism. Perhaps he was right. Ned was indeed blustering, if only a little. While he had no qualms about keeping the Wildlings as a whole north of the Wall, any sort of kingdom forming there was a serious threat to consider. 

A  wolf howled nearby, either Summer or Nymeria, and it was only then that Ned realized Arya and Bran were gone, vanished from the crest of the hill they were only now approaching. From her spot next to him, Lady growled suddenly, the fur at the base of her neck spiking.

“It seems my children have not a mind to heed my instructions,” Ned said exasperatedly, though worry tinged his voice as well. Arya was brash, yes, but surely Bran would have kept her in line. “I’m going to fetch them.”

Luwin dipped his head in agreement, and Ned dug his heels into his mount, hurrying up the rise as quick as he could. It gave him a decent view of the ongoing Kingsroad, and sure enough, neither of his children were anywhere in sight. 

Ned cursed, glancing about. Lady, trotting up next to him, snorted, then sniffed, nose poking at the air. Ned found himself watching her, and after a moment she loped off towards the Wolfswood. She stopped at the edge, turning to look at him, and Ned muttered another curse, going in after her. What were Bran and Arya up to?

The foliage was thick and dense, but Lady seemed to have caught the scent of her littermates, for she hesitated only enough for Ned to keep up, steering his horse around a fallen tree, then across a shallow stream. The further in he went, the more his heart pounded, and Ned found himself grasping at the one-handed longsword fastened to his waist, more of an afterthought than anything in their supplies for a day’s ride. 

Voices rose in the distance, shouting and speaking over each other, and Ned urged his horse faster, ducking underneath a low-hanging branch.

“—what price they could fetch! Benjen Stark’s own blood!”

Lady growled loudly and pushed through the last bit of underbrush. Ned followed a split second later, drawing his sword as he came across the scene.

The first person he saw was Arya, held tight against the chest of a stout man with a thick beard, dressed in rags. She was struggling, but the man was holding onto her tight, squeezing her arms to her sides in a bear hug. Another man was next to them, in a patchwork of green, gray, and black, and he was holding a rusted old sword and pointing it at Nymeria, who growled as she crept forwards, eyes on her master. 

In the next second, Ned caught sight of Bran, fallen from his horse and sprawled on the ground. Summer stood protectively over him, snapping at a squat woman who was approaching with a weapon of her own. Two more men and a woman stood nearby, close to Ned himself. All were armed, but their attention was on each other, arguing with what to do with their prey.

Did they think I’d let my children wander alone? Ned thought before he was upon them. 

The longsword felt odd and unwieldy in his right hand, used as he was to Ice’s two-handed grip, but it cut through the flesh of the nearest man all the same. Digging deep into the man’s neck, blood spurted onto the snow below as he dropped with nary a gurgle. 

The remaining woman shouted a warning, but Lady was upon her companion a moment later, teeth digging deep into the flesh of his calf. Ned had just enough time to see Summer lunge at the woman threatening Bran before he turned his attention to the other woman, the one who had shouted. She wielded a spear, and Ned cursed the longsword’s length as they traded blows, unable to get close enough to strike her. 

 There was a splash behind them, in the direction of the stream, and Ned knew that had to be Summer, as the next moment Lady reappeared, jaws snapping at the woman. She scrambled back just in time to avoid losing her arm, and went running a moment later with a parting cut from Ned’s blade.

“Call them off!” One of the men shouted, and Ned turned just in time to see the same man who was holding Arya put a blade to her throat. He was a large man, with square shoulders, and Arya had nary a hope of escaping on her own, even as she grunted and kicked. “Call them off, or I’ll open the girl’s windpipe! I’ll do it!”

“Lady! Nymeria!” Ned shouted, heart leaping into his throat. For a moment, ice filled his veins as he wondered whether they would listen, but then Lady pulled herself away from chasing the woman and yipped at Nymeria, who had started pulling out the entrails of one of the men. After a moment, she drew back, blood dripping from her maw. 

“Father,” Bran sobbed, still prone on the ground. Ned didn’t look at him, focused as he was on Arya, who was staring at him with wide, terrrified eyes.

“Kill the wolves, Osha,” said the man, and the woman spat, pressing a hand to the wound in her arm in an attempt to stem the blood flow.

“Kill them yourself,” she snapped. “I’m not touching those monsters.”

“Let her go, and I’ll grant you a quick death,” Ned interrupted them. Even as he spoke, he knew the man would not listen, as wound up as he was. His cloak, tattered and patched, had significant chunks of black. If he was a deserter of the Night’s Watch, there would be no reasoning with him. “I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. There will be no escape for you.”

“I’ve got the girl!” The man spat, tugging at Arya, who swore a word at him that Ned had no idea she knew.

Ned’s eyes flickered behind them, then around. Summer had yet to reappear from his tromp into the river, and no one else was in sight. He swallowed, trying to think of a good plan.

“You get off your horse,” the man commanded. Ned didn’t move, watching him intently.

“What’s your plan?” He asked instead, more coolly than he felt. “Kill the wolves, then me? And bring the entirety of the North down on your head?”

The man spluttered but didn’t reply, and for a long moment, they stood at a standoff.

Then the whistle of an arrow thrummed through the air, and the man lurched as an arrowhead pierced straight through his chest, hardly a few inches away from Arya’s head. He stumbled, grip loosening, and Arya shoved herself away, running for Nymeria.

The attacker was dead before he hit the ground, and Theon Greyjoy appeared from behind a bush a few score feet away, bow still raised and with a triumphant grin on his face. Jacks followed a moment later, mounted with Theon’s horse trailing behind and a sword in hand, and Ned wheeled around on the last woman, Osha, his own sword raised.

To her credit, she didn’t try to continue the fight. Instead, she threw down her spear and called for mercy, wincing away when Summer reappeared, fur dripping with both water and blood. Lady snuffled, then stopped Nymeria from continuing her feed on the corpses with a nip on her shoulder, pushing her away.

Ned regarded Osha for a long moment, thinking. Theon nocked another arrow as Jacks hurried over to Arya, dismounting from his horse to see to her.

“Leave her be,” he finally decided, frowning. Theon gave him an odd look, but nodded, holstering his bow and taking out his knife as he approached her. “She’s a wildling.”

“Ever the more reason to kill her,” Theon protested, but Ned shook his head. 

“She didn’t want to kill us,” Bran said meekly, and Ned finally dismounted, taking a long breath to steady himself before he hurried over to his son. As he approached, he realized that there was a cut on his leg, dribbling blood. Swiftly, he knelt down and pressed down to try and stifle the flow with his left arm, then winced as the limb spasmed in protest, strained from holding the reins during the fight. He sheathed his sword and did the deed with his right instead.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and Bran nodded, lower lip wobbling. “What in the world were you doing off the road? I told you to stay in sight!”

“Nymeria and Summer went after a deer,” Bran replied, on the verge of tears. “Arya wanted to go and bring back whatever they caught.”

Ned resisted the urge to groan. How in the world had Arya expected to be able to throw a deer on her horse? He shook his head instead, looking over to his daughter. Thankfully, she seemed to have avoided any major injuries as well, and was watching him with wide eyes as Jacks gave her a good lookover. 

It was then that the rest of their guards deigned to make their appearance. Hullen led the group with Luwin’s panting donkey bringing up the rear, and all four men went pale at the sight before them. 

“Luwin, Bran is hurt,” he called, and the maester hurried off his donkey and over to them, taking Ned’s place at Bran’s side to see to the cut to his leg. “Hullen, see to the horses. Cayn, Theon, make sure that wildling is properly restrained. She will need to be sharply questioned.” 

The group burst into action, the last two guards separating from the group to make sure there was no one else nearby. Ned left Bran to be seen by the maester and went over to Arya, who was clinging to Jacks’ tunic with round eyes. 

“Arya,” he began, suddenly tired. “I told you to stay in sight.”

“I know,” Arya replied, voice wobbling. 

“You almost got you and your brother killed.”

Arya nodded mutely, lips pressed tight together, and Ned sighed, gesturing for Jacks to leave. He reluctantly did so, peeling himself away from her and joining the rest of the group, and Ned slowly lowered himself to his knees, leveling himself with her.

“You’re very lucky that I found you,” he said, quietly. “Even more lucky that Theon didn’t miss.”

And that would have to be another conversation to be had, for unless something of the sort had happened on Pyke, Theon had taken his first life today, very nearly killing Arya in order to save her. But Ned brushed it aside as he reached out and pulled Arya close, just relieved that she was safe as she cried into his shoulder.

Catelyn’s solar was almost as warm as her bedroom. As Ned let himself in, he let himself bask in the heat for a moment. A Stark he was, with ice and snow in his veins, but there was only so much time he could take in the cold of the Winterfell dungeon before it crept into his bones and sat there, heavy and leaden against his aging joints. Even his arm had started to ache, both from the exertion of the wildling fight the previous day and the cold of the air, and he had to take care not to use it any further than he already had, keeping the multiple papers and letters he was holding in his right hand as he entered.

Catelyn was sitting at her desk, the fire roaring in its hearth as she held a piece of parchment before her, staring at it with a deep, thoughtful expression. That expression shifted to an odd mixture of worry and relief when she looked up to meet him, standing on his arrival.

“It’s alright,” Ned sighed, pulling out the chair next to hers to sit down. The day had been long and hard, including several sweeps through the Wolfswood to make sure there weren’t any other wildling groups skulking about, as well as the questioning of the wildling woman, Osha, and everything else he was already worrying about. Catelyn gave him a sympathetic look as he sat, following suit.

“Did the questioning go well, my lord?” She asked, and Ned nodded, a frown pulling down his lips nonetheless. 

“The woman gave up her information easily enough,” he sighed. “What she is saying, however…”

“It was that bad?”

“Confusing.” Ned set his papers on the desk and leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly rubbing at his sore arm. “ She certainly seems to believe what she is saying, but as to how much is rumor and conjecture, I cannot say. Her stories of Mance Rayder raising himself to King-Beyond-the-Wall seem true enough, but then she will speak of the monsters from Old Nan’s stories, Others and Children of the Forest and the like, with the same conviction. I know not what to make of it.”

“The Wildlings have always been a savage people. Like as not, they are only stories.”

He almost agreed with her. Then for a moment, he was back in Bran’s room, staring at the raven on his windowsill.

Wake up, Eddard Stark, said the raven, and he could almost hear it there in the room.

“I do not know,” he admitted heavily, feeling as if he were telling some great secret. “I do have half a mind to believe her.” Catelyn stared at him in surprise, and Ned ducked his head, running a hand across the coarse hairs on his chin. “If nothing else, her attitudes represent that of the wildlings’, and she was frightened enough to try and get as far south as possible. People do not do that without a good reason, imagined or not.” He paused then, letting out a long breath, and continued. “When have we ever seen Wildings so far south? It has opened my eyes to the danger lying in the north.”

“You think the wildlings are a true threat?”

“The woman claims Mance Rayder is raising an army of a hundred thousand men to force his way past the wall. Perhaps she is lying or exaggerating, but even a force a tenth of the number would be a major worry for the Night’s Watch.”

Catelyn sat back in her seat, staring off into the hearth. “You mean to call the banners?”

“Likely. Whether it be war in the south or war in the north, I will need to call them. Both, perhaps, and then we must fight on two fronts.” Ned leaned back in his seat, lacing his hands together. “The attack yesterday made my decision for me. I sent a letter to Lady Dustin just now, commanding her to send men to fortify Moat Cailin. When war comes, we must deal with the wildlings and the Wall first. If they so wish, we can let the southerners break in the Neck as they have done for thousands of years.”

“And Robb?”

“If the war in the north starts early enough, I can use it as an excuse to recall him to hold Winterfell, or to march with me and hold a command.”

The idea was more flimsy than he would like, but it was the best he could come up with. Catelyn nodded, looking satisfied, and Ned did his best to not resent her for her lack of concern for Jon’s wellbeing. Getting Robb home was easy enough, being a ward of his close friend. Ned had no idea how to think of a good reason for Jon to come back north, not now that Ned had no official authority over him. 

“And I plan to go inspect the Watch myself,” he continued, pushing past the issue of his eldest sons. Catelyn did turn to look at him then, something akin to resignation on her face. “Lord Commander Mormont continues to write to me about his concerns over the state of the Watch; perhaps it is best I go myself, and see it with my own eyes before I come to fight a war.”

“I see. When do you plan to leave?” 

“I just spoke with Rodrik. I plan to take him with me, along with a dozen or so guards. For a trip to the Wall… next week, perhaps. I would have it done with as soon as possible.”

Catelyn nodded, then picked up the parchment she had been holding on his arrival. Ned noted it, and remained silent as she spoke.

“There is a reason I asked you to meet me after your work,” she began, taking a long breath. “I received a letter from my brother, Edmure, today.”

Ned remembered the man. He was rather young, only a decade or so older than Robb, with the typical Tully looks. Ned hadn’t seen him since the Tourney at Lannisport, back in the aftermath of the Greyjoy Rebellion, but from what he’d heard, he was a good man. 

“Not your father?” He asked, and Catelyn shook his head. Usually, both her brother and father combined their letters to save on ravens.

“My Lord Father is dying, Ned,” she said softly, a thumb tracing along the edge of the parchment. “Edmure is asking me to come home and see him before he goes.”

Ned let his eyes close for a moment. He’d not been in contact with the Tullys in the last few years except through his wife, but even he had heard of Lord Hoster Tully’s waning health. This came as no surprise, and Edmure’s request for Catelyn to visit was indeed tempting, if at an inopportune time. 

“How long does he have?” He asked, and Catelyn shrugged helplessly.

“The maesters aren’t sure. Could be weeks, but perhaps he will last through the end of next year, if we’re lucky. But they are certain that there will be no recovery. Edmure’s taken on Father’s duties as Lord.”

Ned reached out, and Catelyn let him take her hand in his. Her lower lip was trembling, and he did his best to soothe her by rubbing circles into the back of her hand. 

“You wish to see him,” he said, and she nodded, swallowing and blinking hard.

“Before the war starts,” she agreed. “I was thinking… to take Sansa with me. Father hasn’t met any of my children, save for Robb as a babe, and we can continue on to King’s Landing afterwards for a brief visit, if you haven’t called the banners yet.” Ned opened his mouth to protest, but Catelyn just shook her head, pressing on. “Ned, we still don’t know if the Lannisters are planning for outright war or not, and we should pursue peace where possible. Sansa’s marriage to Joffrey could do us much good, and a visit from his betrothed would give me a good excuse to see Robb in person and assess the state of court. If it is as bad as we fear, I can take Robb back with us, even.”

“All Robb speaks about in his letters is how poor a match Joffrey is for her,” Ned sighed, shaking his head. “I just worry…”

“That’s what going south shall be for,”  Catelyn pressed. “You said yourself that time is running out for negotiation and preparation. Besides, the King is expecting a visit from Sansa sooner or later. Make it sooner and quicker, see if Sansa and Joffrey get along in King’s Landing, and I will see for myself the state of the kingdom and what the Lannisters are doing. Petyr Baelish has already written to me, wishing to visit if I ever come south with Sansa. He’s a childhood friend, and I trust him.”

Ned didn’t reply for a long time, deep in thought. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the cawing of a raven outside.

“You to go south, and I to go north,” he finally began, shaking his head. “I suppose Bran will have to be Lord in my place.”

“Luwin will advise him well, and it’ll only be for a few weeks until you return.”

Ned sighed, dropping his head a little bit as he acquiesced. “I’m not sure what I think about you visiting King’s Landing. But I will not begrudge you your right to see your father again. Go. It may be your last chance.”

Catelyn nodded, chest stuttering, and pulled his hand close, kissing his knuckles with soft lips. 

“Thank you,” she whispered against his fingers, and Ned resisted the urge to pull her close and kiss her truly. 

“You will leave around the same time as me,” he continued. “Take Sansa with you, and decide whether to go on to King’s Landing on the advice of your family. The Tullys are our allies, and closer to the capital; they will advise you well.”

Catelyn nodded against his hand, then released it, instead running her fingers along the aching flesh of his forearm. Ned could not stop the sigh of relief that escaped his lips when she pressed her hands in a soft semblance of a massage.

“Will your arm hold up well to so much riding?” She asked, and Ned shrugged.

“It must,” he replied, and Catelyn pursed her lips.

“Wildlings in Winterfell,” she murmured. “I’m starting to worry that there is no safe place in the world.”

“We must make it so.”

“Again?” And Catelyn sounded so tired in that moment, sea-blue eyes focused on Ned’s arm as she pushed up his sleeve and started massaging in earnest, fingertips dancing over the raised red flesh that lined up his arm, the beginnings of a serious scar. “I will miss you, my lord.”

“It’s only a few months,” Ned said, a vocalization of hope. 

“You will write to me?” At that, Catelyn raised an eyebrow at him, and he couldn’t resist a brief chuckle at the sight.

“Of course.”

Silence fell again between them, but this time it stretched comfortably, something filled with words and feelings that best went unsaid. Catelyn’s fingers deftly released the knots in his muscles, and Ned let himself lean back and bask in her warmth before it was gone.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to be sick,” Robb said, trying valiantly to not puke into his helmet. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Jon replied, for the umpteenth time. He was watching his half-brother with a faintly amused expression as his friend, Peck, finished fastening Robb’s armor straps, giving them one last tug to make sure the steel sat snug against his undergarments. “You’ve got some of the best steel in the Seven Kingdoms on your side, if our beloved Tobho Mott is to be believed.”

Robb couldn’t help but snort at that, tucking his helm under one arm. He nodded his thanks to Peck, who returned the motion and took off to see to the rest of his duties. Jon, who surely was slacking off on his own to see Robb off, gave him an encouraging smile. 

“I’m sure Sansa would swoon to see you now,” his brother continued, raising an eyebrow, and this time Robb did laugh, a loose chuckle that did little to belay his nerves. 

“I’m sure the King will throw some tourney or another when she comes to visit,” he replied, fiddling with the edges of his helmet. Jon was at least right in that regard; though Robb was far from an expert, he could tell that the steel was expertly made, shaped to fit his head snugly, with thin slits for eyes and pores in the front for breathing. 

“And just imagine what it’ll be like for her to see her favorite brother out there, bringing honor to the Stark name.”

“Do we really need more honor?” Robb muttered, and Jon laughed at him as a horn sounded in the distance. “Oh, gods. Why did I ever agree to do this? I’m going to make a fool out of myself.”

“Let’s get you to your horse, brother.” Jon got off of the fencepost he’d been perched on to slap a hand on Robb’s shoulder, steering him out of the staging area. 

The sight that greeted them was intense. It seemed like the entirety of King’s Landing had come out to witness the Tourney of the Hand, as it was called, and the field that had been commandeered for the competition was brimming with smallfolk, merchants, and nobles alike. The area where Robb was preparing for his joust had been kept mostly clear, thankfully, but it didn’t make him any less aware of the delighted shouts of the audience as the tilt currently taking place reached a crescendo. 

“That would be Mychel Crane,” Jon said. Unlike Robb, who was armored from head to toe in brand new steel, he was still in the drab finery of a squire. His light brown doublet was stitched both with the leaves of House Oakheart, a nod to the knight he was serving, and a blank white patch just above his heart, to honor the Kingsguard. “I believe he’s going to win his round. If you win yours, you’ll duel.”

“Perfect,” Robb replied shakily, approaching his horse. It was being held by a page, who bowed and passed the reins over to Jon as they approached. The horse itself was a magnificent destrier who Robb had ridden a few times before, draped in the running direwolf of House Stark. It was mild-mannered, and only nickered a little when Robb mounted, armor clanking and catching on his undergarments. “That won’t be too bad, will it?”

“Oh no, Mychel’s a prick. I still haven’t beaten him on the training yard, so at least try to unhorse him, won’t you?” 

“You’re talking like I’m going to beat my first opponent. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

The page returned, now with his lance and shield. Both were large, bulky objects, but something a bit more comfortable than the full plated armor he was wearing. Jon took the weapons as Robb put on his helm, leaving the visor up to preserve his vision.

“Thought about who’s favor you want to ask for?” Jon asked as he passed the shield and then the lance up to him. Robb gave him a long look.

“Now why would I ask some poor lady for a favor?” He shot back, adjusting his shield as the crowd erupted into cheers. “No, I haven’t thought about it.”

Jon gave him a cheeky smile. “Come now, I believe I just lost five stags to Mychel winning the first round.”

“You’re betting on me to win in the lists? No wonder you’re so convinced I’ll make it to round two.”

“Not on you, on Mychel. On Mychel losing, specifically. I bet that you would ask for a pretty lady's ornament for your lance. Good luck and all, you know.”

“Who’s betting on me not taking a favor?” Robb asked, incredulously.

“Peck.”

“Of course it was Peck,” Robb muttered, not sure which more offended him: that Peck had bet he wouldn’t take a favor, or that Jon had. “You are aware that whoever I ask is going to assume that I’m trying to court them, right? Myrcella is bad enough. If I asked for her favor, she’d never let it go.”

Something dark crossed Jon’s face at that, but it was gone before Robb could truly decipher it. He opened his mouth to ask what that was about, but the horn sounded from over the field, cutting him off.

“That’s your cue,” Jon chirped, patting him on the leg. “And I don’t care, just choose someone. Doesn’t have to be Myrcella. Actually, it’s probably best if you don’t choose her. Go for someone lower; then you won’t have to worry about betrothal rumors. Is Meera here?”

“No,” Robb grumbled. “She’s in the godswood with the direwolves.”

“I’m beginning to think she likes them more than we do,” Jon snorted, and Robb shook his head, digging his heels into his horse to send it into a trot. “Well, you can’t get away with her. Please don’t make me lose another fifteen stags, brother.”

“Fifteen!?” Robb exclaimed, whirling about in his saddle, but Jon was already gone, running off to the side as the gates to the jousting ring opened. The previous contestant, some lordling from the Reach, was escorted out by two squires and a third leading his horse, and Robb swallowed, his nerves flaring again.

Well, he couldn’t back out now. The signal was given, and Robb rode out to the roaring approval of the crowd. He could just hear the herald shouting his introduction, but it was lost in the shouts from nobility and smallfolk alike.

His opponent appeared on the other side, his shield emblazoned with the vineyard of House Redwyne. Perfect, Robb thought sarcastically as they made their passes to the other side of the field, and he raised his lance to the audience’s delight. Despite himself, he found his eyes scanning the crowd for someone to ask a favor from. Fifteen stags, Jon, honestly! You hardly have any money!

He passed the stands housing the King and his retinue, and Robb dipped his head and lance in respect as he passed King Robert, who cheered rambunctiously in return. Queen Cersei watched him with icy green eyes, Joffrey echoing her silence even as Myrcella and Tommen waved.

Robb dipped his lance a second time to the younger prince and princess in response, then caught a glimpse of sand-yellow at the princess’ side. It seemed that Myrcella had taken her handmaidens with her for company, and as he rode by, the Sunglass girl bent down to whisper in Myrcella’s ear.

The Others take you, Jon, Robb thought, slowing his horse before them. You owe me for this.

“Lady Jeyne Westerling!” He called out, dipping his lance just to Myrcella’s left. “I would ask for your favor for this tourney.”

All heads whipped towards poor Jeyne, who was sitting in the back of the gaggle of girls surrounding Myrcella. Rather surprisingly, the princess in question practically squealed, clapping her hands as Jeyne turned a deep red, just staring back at him. 

For a moment, she just sat there, then the Sunglass girl elbowed her. That seemed to jolt Jeyne out of her shock, and she bent down and retrieved a handkerchief from beneath her seat. She stood up to tie it on the tip of his lance, and Robb smiled at her in an attempt to calm her clear nerves. Nervous as ever, I see. That makes two of us.

“My lady,” he said when she finished, and this time Jeyne smiled a little.

“I wish you the best of luck, my lord,” she replied. 

“A token that will be put to good use. Thank you, my lady,” Robb replied, snapping his reins and hurrying to take his place at the edge of the ring.

The Redwyne knight was already in position, and they faced each other for a harrowing moment. Robb slid down his visor, hoping a little desperately that he wouldn’t puke into it, and the world narrowed down to him, his opponent, and his lance, the sand-yellow handkerchief fluttering on its tip. Just like in Winterfell, he told himself, counting his breaths. Just you and Jon in a practice tilt. And you usually beat him. 

Usually.

The Redwyne started first, setting off at a deadly gallop. Robb followed a moment later, years of practice taking over when his head froze. Digging his heels into his mount, he matched the Redwyne knight pace for pace, lowering his lance and aiming for just the right spot and—

Their lances met with a deafening crack. The Redwyne’s tip smashed against Robb’s shield, and on instinct he tilted it, letting the lance slide off of the wood. His lance, meanwhile, snuck between his opponent’s arm and shield, catching him in the shoulder. The force of it shook up Robb’s arm, but he held strong, and in the next moment he was galloping away to the sound of crashing steel behind him.

The crowd roared, and Robb brought his horse to a stop, breathing hard. The front half of his lance had snapped in two, and when he turned his mount around, the Redwyne knight was sprawled on the ground, getting up while a squire ran out to help him. 

“Huh,” Robb gasped, to no one in particular. “That was easy.”

After a moment, he realized he was still standing there like an idiot, so Robb gathered himself, pulling in on his horse’s reins and dipping his broken lance in the direction of the King and his retinue, who cheered. 

Another squire slipped out through his gate as Robb rode back into the staging area, and he looked down in surprise to see that it was Peck, dashing by to get through as soon as possible. Jon was waiting for them on the other side, holding the extra lance he’d ended up not having to use, grinning.

“Absolutely perfect, brother,” he congratulated Robb. “You’re going to kick Mychel’s ass.”

Robb remembered the older squire Jon had been complaining about, and sighed. He passed his brother his broken lance and shield so he could dismount, taking off his helmet to gulp in some fresh air. 

“Not too bad,” he replied, flashing him a smile. “How’s that for Stark honor?”

“Better than puking your guts out,” Peck cut in, stepping forwards with an object bunched in his hand. He passed it over to Robb, who realized with some surprise that it was the handkerchief Jeyne Westerling had given him. It was made of smooth silk, and embroidered with purple seashells on the edges. “Nice lady friend you chose there.”

“That’s your fault,” Robb grumbled, stuffing the handkerchief in his belt. Now that he had it, it’d be expected for him to wear it for the rest of the tourney. “What the hell was that bet, man?”

“Getting you out there,” Peck replied, utterly unrepentant.

“What do you mean by that?”

Both of the boys grinned at him. Robb stared at them for a moment, then groaned.

“Was this all a ploy to get me to talk to a girl?”

“Yes,” they said, at the same time. Peck continued: “It was Jon’s idea.”

“Snitch,” Jon shot back, keeping his attention on Robb as they started walking back to the stables. “So. Why Westerling? Peck bet that you were going to ask Lady Kristin Sunglass.”

Robb made a face. So that’s the girl’s first name. “So you two conspired to make me ask a favor with a fake bet, then set a real bet on who I would ask? And no, I wasn’t going to ask the Sunglass girl, she’s a tittering twat.”

Jon snorted, putting away their weaponry on a nearby rack as Peck shrugged. Robb sat down on an empty hay bale, grabbing an unattended to flask to get some much-needed water.

“In our defense, we were both wrong,” Jon said, returning to his side. “So neither of us are getting paid.”

“Steffon is!” Peck laughed. Robb narrowed his eyes at him. “He bet we’d both be wrong.”

“Who did you bet on?” Robb asked Jon.

“I bet that you’d go for Ysilla Royce. Closest thing to a northerner we’ve got here.”

“Ysilla Royce is betrothed, Jon. Mychel Redfort would probably challenge me to a duel if I did that, and I don’t think I’d win.”

Jon turned red. “Oh.” Peck laughed at him. 

It would be several hours until Robb had his next round, so they spent the next few minutes relaxing before Jon and Peck returned to their duties for their respective Kingsguard. Robb, meanwhile snagged a free spot by the fenceline for some prime viewing. He arrived just in time for Jory’s tilt, in which he defeated Ser Perwyn Frey in his first run. Sadly, neither Harwin or Alyn made it to the next round, being unhorsed by Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Balon Swann respectively. 

He ate a light lunch of bread, cheese, and ale before returning to the staging area. Jaime Lannister was jousting, meaning Peck was spending his time attending to him, and Jon was nowhere to be seen, but the latter two of his father’s guard were waiting for him by his horse when Robb arrived for the next round. 

“Jory is getting ready for his next match right after yours, my lord,” Harwin said as he approached, giving a small bow. “But he gives you his best wishes. Your form in the first bout was magnificent.”

“I would say the same for him,” Robb replied, fighting the urge to blush. Now that he was getting ready for his next bout, his anxiety was returning, bringing with it the rolling nausea he’d fought earlier that morning. “For all of you.”

“Aye, perhaps, but you are the one advancing out of the three of us,” Alyn said, passing him his lance. Robb took it, pausing to tie Jeyne Westerling’s favor on the tip. “But… that lady you asked a favor from…?”

“Jon and his gang put me up to it,” Robb sighed. “At the last minute. Please tell me I didn’t start some political scandal by choosing her.”

“Well, no,” Harwin waffled. “But the Westerlings are a very minor house. From the Westerlands. You’ll be getting some confused looks. You couldn’t have asked Lady Meera?”

“She’s not here,” Robb stressed, swinging onto his mount. He paused to put on his helmet before taking his shield from Alyn. “She said something about staying in the godswood with the direwolves. She’s fascinated with them.”

“Lord Daryn might have had a problem with that anyway,” Alyn chuckled. “The two have been spending quite a bit of time together.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robb scoffed, just as the horn blew. He swung his horse around. “No more talk of favors and betrothals from either of you. I’m quite tired of it.”

“Good luck, my lord!” Harwin called back as he trotted off, and Robb raised his hand in farewell as he passed through the gates and onto the main field.

The shouting of the crowd intensified as he went from a trot to a gallop, and on the opposite side, Robb saw his opponent enter to equal fanfare, his shield emblazoned with five cranes on a blue field. It took him a moment to realize the man was Mychel Crane, the squire Jon had been complaining about that morning.

Robb dipped his lance to King Robert, who cheered for him, then to Jeyne Westerling, who only blushed. It looked like Myrcella had moved her ladies’ seats; Lady Jeyne was now at the Princess’ left side, holding hands with her as she squealed and whispered into her ear. 

Well, at least the girl was getting some prominence out of this. Robb shook his head to himself as he turned back ahead and stalled at the far end of the field. Mychel Crane was too far away for Robb to make out any specific details, but as Robb lowered his visor, he swore he could see the squire inclining his head at him. 

They watched each other for a long moment, silently sizing each other up before Robb dug in and started the tilt. Mychel followed a second later, and they raced at each other with shields raised.

The first tilt was much rougher than the one Robb had with the Redwyne knight. Mychel’s lance landed squarely on his shield, but it hit in such a way that the force sent him reeling anyways, the reins jerking in his hands as wood sprayed everywhere. His horse reared with the jerk, but Robb narrowly kept his balance, calming his mount and returning to a trot. A glance behind him revealed that Mychel had similar difficulties; he was half out of his saddle when Robb caught sight of him, but was swiftly returning to his seat. 

“Excellent work, my lord!” Harwin called up to him as he passed the gate, holding up his spare lance. Robb didn’t reply, focusing on regaining his bearings as he tossed his broken lance behind and picked up the new one. 

He turned around just in time to meet Mychel completing the same move. They watched each other once more, until Mychel made the first move this time around. 

They galloped at each other, and right at the last moment Mychel’s lance switched direction, aiming for his hip instead of his shoulder, as was tradition. Robb barely caught the maneuver in time, and was forced to abandon his own attack to prevent himself from getting unhorsed. He barely avoided such a fate, fully losing his seating as his shield arm was thrown back from the angle of the blow. He was left to rather inelegantly shuffle his way back into his saddle, but kept his balance as he turned to face Mychel a third time. 

Robb’s lance hadn’t broken, but Mychel’s had, and so he had enough time to collect himself as Harwin passed a replacement up to his opponent. The crowd had grown thunderous as they continued to dance around each other, and were cheering in waves as Mychel turned around and readied for their third bout. 

They took off a moment later, racing towards each other once more. This time, Robb was ready for any switch-ups on Mychel’s part, and as they raced towards each other, he was ready with a trick of his own.

Mychel aimed for Robb’s abdomen, but Robb didn’t aim for Mychel at all. His lance caught on the edge of the squire’s shield, and as they passed, he shoved as hard as he could as they went parallel to each other. The leverage gave him enough power that he felt rather than saw Mychel go flying off his horse and into the dirt, sending their audience into hysterics. 

Still, Robb was gasping for breath as he brought his horse to a stop. Harwin was waiting for him at the end, grinning from ear to ear.

“Excellent showing, my lord!” He congratulated him, but Robb just shook his head, letting his guard take his lance as they retreated back into the staging area to the cheers of the crowd.

“I don’t think I’m going to last another round,” he laughed, pulling off his helmet. His hair was stringy with sweat, and he brushed it back with his shield hand. His legs were shaky as he dismounted, and he had to steady himself as he stood upright, bearing several hearty slaps on the shoulder from both his men. “Enough, enough!” He waved them away, and Alyn chuckled as he took Robb’s shield. 

“Well, you’re up against either Ser Beric Dondarrion or Jory next, depending on who wins,” Alyn said, brushing some splintered wood off of the running direwolf. “And unlike your first two opponents, Ser Beric is a man grown with several feats to his name. If you face Jory…” he paused for a moment, then laughed. “Why, I’m not sure what Jory will do!”

“A good way to go out in either scenario,” Robb replied, rolling his shoulders. “My father would like as not congratulate Jory for preventing me from getting too prideful, should he unhorse me.”

In the end, it was Beric who Robb would have to go against. Their tilt was the next one up, and the three of them watched as Ser Beric and Jory made three passes with each other before Jory was finally unhorsed, to the thrill of the smallfolk. The Winterfell guard was smiling as he made his way back to them, though now walking with a slight limp.

“Not too bad,” he said as Robb met him, and just dipped his head when Robb mentioned his doubts about making it past the third round. “Probably for the best. Whoever wins out of your tilt will have to face the Mountain.”

“Yeah, I think I’d be fine finishing here,” Robb replied, going white at the thought of jousting against that monster of a man.

“You’re still going to have to make a good showing,” Harwin warned him. “Throwing the match isn’t a good choice to make, my lord.”

“I’m not planning on that!” Robb shot back, rolling his eyes. “I just don’t think I’ll win.”

“That’s the spirit,” Alyn japed, and Harwin elbowed him.

The number of jousters had been whittled down by over half, so the next wait was shorter than Robb’s first. The matches, however, were getting more exciting as the weaker men were weeded out. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Arys Oakheart’s joust had Robb at the edge of his seat; the two Kingsguard made four passes with each other before they were both unhorsed in the fifth. What followed was a brief sword fight that quickly put Ser Arys on the ground with a blade to his neck.

“Impressive,” Jory commented, somewhat dryly, as Peck raced out to fetch Jaime’s fallen favor from Queen Cersei and Jon went to help up Arys. “Perhaps Ser Jaime will win the lists.”

“It depends on whether or not he can avoid Loras Tyrell unhorsing him,” Robb replied, knowing that the Knight of Flowers would have to face the Kingslayer in a round or two. “Ser Jaime’s strong, but he’s not too good at strategizing, and Ser Loras is already an excellent jouster. If he wants to win, he can’t be unhorsed.”

“Really?” Jory looked up and over at him as Jon helped Ser Arys limp away. “What makes you think that?”

“Ser Jaime and I have been wargaming with each other a little bit,” Robb replied, reddening a little when all three men turned to look at him. “I usually win.”

“...Wargaming?” Harwin echoed.

“I used to do it all the time with Maester Luwin,” Robb shrugged, suddenly mindful of what he was saying. “And there’s a great model of King’s Landing down in the Red Keep. We’ve simulated some battles down there, once or twice.”

“The Kingslayer is willingly spending time with you?” Jory said, incredulous. Robb shrugged again. “You cannot trust that man, Robb.”

“I never said I did!” Robb snapped back, then sighed. “It’s just a way for me to test myself. Ser Jaime’s not that good anyways.”

Harwin just shook his head, muttering something under his breath, but let the conversation drop as Ser Loras Tyrell, adorned with Princess Myrcella’s favor, faced off against Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. They made only a single pass before the Knight of Flowers was able to unhorse the Kingsguard knight, sending him flying into the dirt.

Jon met them as Robb returned to the staging area after the bout, preferring to ready himself for his instead of watching Ser Gregor Clegane face off against a knight from the Vale. Jon’s doublet had been dirtied from Ser Arys’ bout, but he was grinning as he approached them.

“Thank you for your service, brother,” he said, clapping Robb on the shoulder. “I’ve officially made up for all the bets I’ve lost with your win against Mychel.”

“You have a problem, Snow,” Robb shot back, swinging onto his horse for the third time that day. Alyn passed him his helm, and he slipped it on as the crowd made a shocked gasp from the field. “Peck and Ser Steffon have had a horrible influence on you.”

“I walked away with three silver stags to my name today!”

“Well, you better have bet for me to lose this tilt, lest you see me killed by the Mountain.”

“You’re being dramatic, Stark.”

“I really don’t think he is,” Harwin said. He was approaching from where he’d lingered nearer to the field, clearly disturbed. “I think Ser Gregor has just killed Ser Hugh of the Vale.”

“Wonderful,” Robb groaned, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. Jon’s lips pursed, jovial attitude swiftly fading.

“Just be careful out there,” Jory cut in, shooting Harwin a look. “Ser Gregor might be able to get away with killing a hedge knight, but the heir to Winterfell is an entirely different matter. All shall be well.”

As long as I lose this match, Robb finished mentally, taking his lance and shield. Jon gave him an encouraging nod as the horn blew, and all four men gave him leave as he urged his horse forward.

At some point, Lady Jeyne’s favor had reappeared, though it was fastened nearer to the base of his lance this time around. Probably for the best, Robb mused as he entered the ring. He’d lost it twice already.

Lord Beric Dondarrion was waiting for him on the other side of the ring, and as they made their customary passes, Beric lowered his lance at him in a sign of respect. Caught a little off guard, Robb echoed the move, much to the enjoyment of the crowd, then lowered his visor. 

The tilt was different from his previous two. Alyn was right; Beric was over twenty if Robb remembered correctly, and he certainly felt it when they crashed together for the first time. Once it was over, he’d had the breath knocked out of him and was hanging onto his horse by the grace of the Old Gods alone.

He swapped lances with a waiting Harwin, who gave him a nod. Still out of breath, Robb didn’t have it in himself to acknowledge him, simply swinging his horse around in time to face Beric again.

On their second pass, he wasn’t so lucky. Robb put in his best effort, attempting the same shield trick he had pulled with Mychel. Ser Beric, however, had a tactic of his own, catching Robb above the top of his own drooping shield and shoving downwards. 

The world went head-over-heels before Robb crashed into the ground, tumbling to a stop in a screech of steel. He laid there for a moment, gasping for breath, before he gained enough wits to push up his visor and get some unfiltered air.

And, conveniently enough, just in time to see a steel sword bearing down at him.

Robb caught himself just in time, rolling away to avoid getting hit. He struggled to his knees, but the purple-cloaked Beric was courteous enough to allow him to get onto his own two feet, now that he was fully aware.

Gods above, Robb thought, pulling out his own blade as he staggered. We’ve both unhorsed each other.

He had no idea how he’d managed that, but Robb had no more time to wonder as Beric charged at him. He slammed down his visor again and parried the blow with his shield, buckling under the force of it. Nevertheless, he jabbed his own sword in a return strike, and soon enough they were trading a half-dozen blows between each other.

They separated after the burst, each man gathering their energy for another bout as they circled each other. Distantly, Robb could hear the crowd screaming, but his attention was only on Beric as the man inclined his head at him.

“You’ve fought well, Lord Stark!” he called out, sounding pleased. 

“I say the same for you, Ser Beric!” Robb returned, and they went in again.

Dust sprayed around them as Robb narrowly blocked a strike to the head. He aimed a returning blow to Beric’s knees, but the knight simply danced out of the way, his blade scraping on the plate of Robb’s arm before he was even aware of the danger. 

He was on the defensive now. Robb blocked another attack, but he was faltering, and both of them knew it. When Beric knocked his feet out from under him and sent him sprawling into the dirt, Robb gasped out a “yield” before he could be further humiliated. It was over.

Beric lowered his blade once it was done, then took off his helmet. Underneath was a comely young man, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, and he was smiling down at Robb as he extended a hand to him.

Robb took it gratefully, wobbling up to his feet once more. He and Beric turned to face the King’s stands, then raised their conjoined hands in a declaration of fealty. Robert swung his great fist in the air in delight, and when Beric dropped his hand, Robb pulled off his own helmet to see Jeyne clapping down at him, smiling. She was rather overshadowed by Princess Myrcella, who was practically vibrating in her seat, but Robb bowed in her direction anyway, earning another blush. 

“An excellent bout, Ser,” he said to Beric after, shaking hands with him. “Good luck against the Mountain.”

“A tiding well needed,” Ser Beric replied. “A good fight, Lord Stark. I dread the day I face you once you’re fully grown. How old are you?”

“Five and ten,” Robb replied, since his nameday had passed last week, and the knight laughed. 

“Give it a few years, and you’ll be giving the Kingslayer and the Knight of Flowers a run for their money. If all your kin are such good jousters, it’s a shame we don’t see them more often.”

Harwin and Ser Beric’s squire had reached them by then, saving Robb from replying. He let himself be led away by his father’s guard, wincing when the man clapped him on the shoulder.

“That was about as good as you could have gone out, Lord Robb!” He cheered as they left the ring. 

“I’ve got to earn some honor,” Robb japed weakly, and got a pity chuckle in response. 

Jon, Jory, and Alyn were waiting for him on the other side of the gate, cheering and clapping his shoulders even more. Robb blinked static out of his eyes as he passed his gear to a waiting Alyn, and collapsed onto a hay bale, heaving for breath.

“That was amazing, Robb!” Jon was saying when he paid attention next, shoving a waterskin in his face. Robb took it gratefully, downing half before he came up for air.

“How about you help me get out of this thing,” he chuckled, lifting a weak foot. “I think I’m going to burn up at any moment.”

Regrettably, the joust was not his last obligation of the day.

Robb was able to retire to his chambers after being checked over by a maester, thankfully, but only for a bath and a brief nap before Jory was shaking him awake to prepare for the evening’s ball. He glowered up at the ceiling as his guard started dropping various direwolf-encrusted articles of clothing on a nearby chair, heedless to his complaints of the injustice of the world. 

Eventually, he got up and Jory passed on the news that Sandor Clegane, of all people, had won the joust, apparently after saving Loras Tyrell from the wrath of his brother in the semifinals. The whole Keep was buzzing with the dramatic finale of the day. 

“He crowned no one as his Queen of Love and Beauty,” Jory sighed as Robb dressed, slipping on a soft blue tunic that fell down to just above his knees. A silver surcoat went on over it, with direwolves embroidered on the hems. 

“Likely for the best,” Robb huffed, lacing up his boots. “Now you’ve all lost your bets.” 

Jory made a pinched expression, and Robb laughed, passing him by. 

They made it to the Grand Hall just in time for the beginning of dinner. Robb was given Princess Myrcella to escort to the high table, and the girl giggled as she took his arm, standing on her tiptoes to better whisper to him. 

“That was so nice, what you did for Jeyne,” she said quietly, as Joffrey and his escort, the Sunglass girl (Kirsten? Kristin?) entered the Hall. “She’s been so quiet since she joined my friends, but now we all have reason to talk to her!”

“Do you think so, Princess?” Robb murmured back, and Myrcella giggled. 

“It was so cute!”

The guards ushered them through the main doors, cutting off any further communication. Almost immediately, Robb was overtaken by the scents and sounds of the feast, and a moment later, a rapturous applause began in the lower tables. Myrcella tittered with excitement, but Robb kept his hold on her loose as he spotted Jon at a nearby table. His brother was seated next to his Redcloak friend, Steffon, and gave a little wave when Robb met his gaze. 

Soon enough, they were at the high table. Robb lead Myrcella to her usual seat, just to the left of her mother, the Queen, but when he went to his usual spot, at the end of the high table, he was surprised to see that it was occupied by Joffrey instead, who was staring at his appetizer with a murderous expression.

“Ah, there’s my boy!” King Robert boomed, catching sight of him. Robb looked up, and sure enough, Joffrey’s usual seat, just to the right of his father, had been left empty. “Come here!”

Robb dipped his head deferentially and did as he was bid, but something felt off in his stomach. Queen Cersei didn’t even spare him a look as he sat, which wasn’t unusual, but she felt colder than usual. Angry, almost.

“You made a great showing in the tourney today!” Robert continued once he was sat, ignoring her. Clearly, he was already at least a little drunk, but his eyes were bright as he looked down at Robb. “Your father would have been proud!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Robb replied. From this position, he could see the whole hall spread out before him, and as the band began to play an upbeat waltz, servers began to come out with the next course of the meal.

“Oh, stop with the formalities tonight! Your showing was greater than I ever could have expected. Who would have thought that Ned Stark’s son was so talented with the lance? I could never get that man to joust properly back in the Eyrie! Gods, those were the days.”

“My father does very well with the greatsword,” Robb replied, feeling the need to defend his father. Besides, the thought of his father jousting was weird. He tried to imagine Lord Eddard Stark in full plate and a lance, and could barely stomach the absurdity of the mental image.

“Of course, of course,” Robert shrugged, flapping a hand and pausing to take a great bite of venison. “But nothing truly entertaining, sadly. I never could get him to compete in a good tourney.” He laughed. “Are you sure you aren’t my son?”

“Quite, Your Grace,” Robb replied, before he thought better of it, but Robert just laughed harder.

“Clearly. You’re twice the man than any I could produce, indeed,” he chuckled, taking a great dredge of wine. “Such a shame Ned wouldn’t come down to be Hand. Heaven knows I need a good man like him.” He eyed Robb then, smirking. “And I think you need more meat on your bones before I can ask you.”

Robb stared at the King, barely processing the implication, and before he could formulate a response Robert was shaking his head, still chuckling.

“I can always get a reaction out of you bloody Starks,” he said, teasing. “Don’t worry, boy, I wouldn’t force such a horror like the Handship on you so young.”

Thankfully, a lord stood up to toast the King as he finished, taking away Robert’s attention. Robb slumped a little in his seat once it was done, relieved. Speaking with the King somehow always ended up with exhaustion on his end.

And Robert stood up to acknowledge the toast, however, Robb caught Queen Cersei glancing at him. Her green eyes flickered like chips of jade, sharp and unyielding, and Robb found himself looking away, focusing on his food instead. 

The meal passed slowly, a half dozen courses crossing Robb’s plate over the course of the evening. A few times, he caught sight of Jon milling about at the base of the Hall, but he never caught his brother’s eye. Even then, what could he do? Robb wished he was back at Winterfell, back when he was young enough to sneak off with Jon during feasts and only get a few lashes for it in the morning.

The more he sat, the more he started to realize that Queen Cersei clearly wasn’t happy with him. When Robb glanced to his right, trying to escape her displeasure, he caught sight of Joffrey scowling down at his food, almost stabbing it with his knife, and it was only then that the implication of Robert's comments really hit him.

Perhaps you shouldn’t compare me so negatively to your own children, Your Grace, Robb thought to himself, pretending not to notice the glares Joffrey shot at him when he thought he wasn’t looking. At least not when they and their mother are right next to us.

By the time the jesters cleared the main floor and the band began their first dance, Robb was more than ready to be out of the increasingly tense atmosphere. He glanced around, catching sight of Jeyne Westerling chatting with the Kristin Sunglass, and soon had a plan for his escape.

Robb excused himself from the high table, giving the King a bow, and made his way down the terrace just as the first dancers made their way onto the floor. Lady Jeyne caught sight of him as he approached, and blushed a little as Kristin Sunglass grinned not-so-subtly.

Gods above, Robb thought to himself, suddenly a little ashamed. I hope I haven’t raised this girl’s hopes. She doesn’t think I’m planning anything serious, right?

Still, it was too late to back down now, and Robb really didn’t want to go back to his seat. So he put on a polite smile, and bowed a little once he arrived. 

“Lady Jeyne,” he said. “Would you dance with me?”

“I would love to, my lord,” Jeyne replied, smiling demurely. She stood up, smoothed her dress, and Robb took her arm, leading her onto the dance floor. 

The musicians had started the night with a popular piece meant for couples, and the steps were nearly second nature to Robb, who had danced to the song at least a dozen times during his time at court. Jeyne, on the other hand, was more hesitant, likely due to her inexperience, so Robb guided her gently, brushing off her concerns when she accidentally stepped on his foot.

“What have you thought of court so far, my lady?” Robb asked her once they found their rhythm, swaying close to the middle of the dance floor.

“It’s… a lot,” Jeyne chuckled nervously, glancing down to check her footwork. “I honestly never thought I would be summoned to be a handmaid… there is so much to learn.”

“Truly?” Robb had never thought about the jobs Myrcella’s handmaids must have held. 

“Oh, yes,” Jeyne replied. “Kristin and I are the eldest of the Princess’ handmaids, so there is much we have to do. Scheduling, dressing, and lessons to name a few. We make sure the Princess is where she is supposed to be, dressed appropriately, and speaking properly.”

“I suppose that explains why you and Lady Kristin are so much older,” Robb replied. “There is greater responsibility for you to assume. I suppose you are around my age?”

“I’m five and ten, my lord.” 

“As am I.”

There was a brief pause in their conversation as the music launched into its chorus, and Robb spun Jeyne around, catching her and making her laugh.

“You did excellently in the joust today, my lord,” she said once they were done. “Prince Joffrey was convinced that you would lose to the Crane boy in the second round.”

“He was a very skilled opponent,” Robb replied, filing away the note about Joffrey for later. “I was lucky to beat him; he nearly unhorsed me in the second pass.”

“It was skill,” Jeyne insisted, smiling. “Especially in your tilt against Lord Dondarrion. Oh, you should have seen Princess Myrcella. I have never seen her so excited for a match.”

“Really?” Robb echoed, surprised.

“Lord Dondarrion seems to have caught the eyes of half the girls at court! It was a shame when I had to tell them that he’s betrothed to Lady Allyria Dayne, but I’m sure she appreciates not having to fight off any new suitors seeking out her husband-to-be.”

Robb opened his mouth, almost joking about Jon’s hope that he would ask for Ysilla Royce’s favor, but caught himself just in time, mortified that he’d almost been so insensitive. Don’t lead the girl on, but don’t humiliate her! He berated himself, and shook his head a little to clear it.

“Lady Jeyne…” he trailed off, unsure of how to start. “I know my asking for your favor this morning was likely a surprise.”

“It was an honor,” Jeyne responded, but something knowing was in her eyes. They were a smooth chestnut brown, the same as her hair, but pretty all the same. “But also a surprise, yes.”

“I just wanted to be upfront with you. I hope I haven’t given the intention of wishing to court you. You are a lovely lady, Jeyne, but my Lord Father in charge of all of those affairs.”

Robb held his breath, but Jeyne only nodded, understanding. “I supposed that was the case. Princess Myrcella and I spoke about it after your first tilt. I understand. It was kind of you to choose me nonetheless.”

“You made a good impression in our first meeting,” Robb replied, taking the out. Jeyne blushed faintly.

“You were very kind. I’m afraid I must disagree with that impression, however. I think I made a fool of myself that afternoon. I let the presence of the Red Keep and all the new people overwhelm me.”

“It overwhelms everyone. I’m still hardly used to it!”

“Now that is a statement I can hardly believe.”

Robb grinned down at her, spinning her once more as the chorus went for its final turn. It seemed that Jeyne had finally gained her confidence; she didn’t look down at her feet once as they slipped between two other pairs of dancers. 

“I hope you’re able to do well in King’s Landing,” he said as the dance wound down and their movement slowed. “I really do wish the best for you, Lady Jeyne.”

“Then I extend the same courtesies to you,” Jeyne replied, as the final note extended. They separated then, and she curtsied as Robb bowed. “You’re a wonderful dancer, Lord Robb.”

“As are you,” Robb responded, and Jeyne gave him a little wave as she melted back into the crowd. He watched her for a moment as she was picked up by another man for a dance, and found himself glad for her. 

Then he found himself glancing up at the high table. Joffrey was staring down at him, his eyes identical to his mother’s. One hand was clasped firmly on his dinner knife as he cut his meat, still glaring at him, and Robb swallowed, breaking their eye contact uneasily.

Perhaps it was best that he remained on the dance floor for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

The next day was hotter than the one before. Robb found himself pitying poor Jon, likely sweltering in his mismatched armor as he prepared for the morning’s melee. He thought on it further, and sighed, wishing he could have been there to see him off, instead of following the King’s sudden instruction to meet him in his tent.

The pavilion was a fancy thing, draped in Lannister red and Baratheon gold, and Ser Barristan was waiting for him by the entrance, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Ah, Lord Robb,” he greeted as Robb approached, dipping his head. “I’m glad to see you well this morning.”

“As am I,” Robb chuckled. “It’s a good thing I’m not participating in the melee, as it might be a few days until I can sit a horse again.” That was certainly true. Though the soreness was fading the more he moved, bruises were splattered across his body from the tilts of the previous day, and it was a bit of a minor miracle that he wasn’t limping. If it had been up to him, Robb would have retired for the day and taken a good, long bath, but regrettably, being a ward of the King had its responsibilities.

“The first joust is usually the worst,” Barristan agreed. “The next time will be better.” He grew more serious then, glancing inside the tent. “You’re here to see the King?”

“He sent a squire for me after I broke my fast.”

“May I ask a favor of you?” Robb blinked in surprise, then nodded. “King Robert had an argument with the Queen last night, and is now determined to compete in the melee.”

“That… sounds dangerous,” Robb said slowly, remembering how much Robert had drunk and eaten the night before. Physique aside, it was no way to prepare for a prolonged fight like the melee.

“It is, but the King will not listen to me and content himself to watch. Try and convince him to stand down for his own safety. You have a better chance than I.”

“Me?” Robb echoed, surprised, and Barristan nodded. “I can try, Ser.”

Barriston turned then, pulling open the tent flap to announce his presence. Robb steeled himself, then followed him inside.

What met him was a rather appalling sight. Robert was currently getting dressed in the center of the tent… or rather, attempting to. He was being attended to by two Lannister squires, who were struggling to attach a clearly too small gorget. Robert, meanwhile, was drinking beer, and slammed his flask to the ground as one of the squires, who was nearly in tears, dropped a piece of armor to the ground.

“Seven hells!” Robert swore. “Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you! Pick it up. Don’t just stand there gaping, Lancel, pick it up!” He turned then, seeing Robb standing there, and mistook his shock for disgust. “There you are, young Robb! The oafs can’t even put on armor properly. Come here and show them how it’s done.”

Robb swallowed as the Lannister boy, Lancel, glanced over at him, eyes glittering. He hesitated, but steeled himself when he responded, reminding himself of Ser Barristan’s request.

“I could try, Your Grace,” Robb said, doing his best to remain cool. “But I wouldn’t be able to do any better.”

“Are you calling me fat, boy?” Robert asked, raising a busy eyebrow at him. Robb, who at this point had spent enough time at his side during feasts and dinners to recognize his mood, kept his ground, growing more confident.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he confirmed, and for a long moment, King Robert stared at him.

Then he laughed, a great billowing laugh, and swatted Lancel away. “Only a Stark!” He chortled, suddenly jovial. “You’re too much like your father. Alright you two, fetch me a breastplate stretcher. And make it quick!”

The boys were off like darts, quick to escape the tent. Robb watched them go, pitying.

“Lannisters,” Robert scoffed, sitting down in a nearby chair. “My damn wife insists on them, but they can hardly fasten a buckle right! Maybe I should have you squiring for me. Your father understood a man’s needs. A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feeling of a horse between my legs? Look at your success in the joust! I ought to be able to put my own hand forward.”

My father understood a man’s responsibilities, Robb thought, somewhat offended at the idea of his father visiting whores or being a drunkard like Robert. Out loud, he said: “With all respect, Your Grace, I would like to see my brother have a fair chance in the melee. If you competed, you would surely win.”

“The bastard?” Robert laughed. “Old Jon Arryn’s namesake. Ah, I miss that man. I used to tease him all the time that I got Ned’s heir named after me, and he got the baseborn son.” Robb bristled, but before he could defend his brother’s name, the king continued. “But Ser Arys says he is a true talent, at least with the sword. He will make a good knight one day. Perhaps I should knock him down a peg!”

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan interjected, still standing a step behind Robb. “Surely, if you compete, all the other competitors will be too afraid to hit you.”

“Aye, and the Kingsguard have most of their squires competing,” Robb piped up, catching his line of thought. “They certainly would not feel right trying to face you, and then the competition would no longer feel fair.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the bumbling cravens will let me win?” Robert exclaimed, seemingly taken aback.

“For a certainty,” Robb replied. Barristan Selmy dipped his head in agreement.

For a long moment, Robb worried that he’d been too brazen. Robert looked thunderous, like he really might pick up his old warhammer and go swinging, consequences be damned. He stood up, strode across the room, and threw his breastplate at Ser Barristan. Robb flinched away, frightened, and a much more calm Selmy dodged the bit of armor sent flying his way.

“Get out,” the King said coldly. “Get out before I kill you.”

Shit. Robb turned on his heel to follow Ser Barristan, but Robert called him back. He followed the instruction meekly.

“Barristan put you up to this, didn’t he?” Robert grumbled. Robb nodded. “Craven. Yet he has a point. You both do.” He picked his flask of beer back up and shoved it in Robb’s face. “Drink, damn you.”

Robb drank. The beer was thick and cold, so strong that he barely got a swallow in before he had to cough, eyes watering. Meanwhile, Robert sat down again, unsympathetic as he struggled.

“Damn your father,” he sighed. “Damn him and Jon Arryn both. One of them should have been king, not me.”

“My father would have made a poor King, Your Grace.” Robb tried to imagine Father up on the iron throne, handling the King’s Justice, and felt queasy at the thought. Seven hells, that’d make me the crown prince. No thank you. Being heir to the North was more than enough.

“Poorer than me?” Robert scoffed, cutting Robb off as he opened his mouth to protest. “Stop your baseless platitudes, boy. I liked you better when Selmy had you being honest. Act more like your father.” He stretched out a hand, and Robb thankfully passed the beer back to him. Robert tossed it back in a single gulp, then belched. “Can’t even handle your drink. At least you can joust. A magnificent match against Lord Beric, that was. At least you’re taking after me that way.”

“...Thank you, Your Grace,” Robb said, bowing his head, and Robert sighed.

“Worse than your father,” he muttered, then waved a hand. “Nevermind. If I’m not going to compete in the melee, I have no need for you this morning. Go do whatever young lads like you do during tourneys.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Robb bowed, and Robert sighed, looking disappointed. Still, an order was an order, and in all honesty Robb was relieved when he was able to turn around and leave with his head still attached. However, he found himself mulling their conversation in his head, and the feeling that he was missing something rather important.

Robb ended up not having enough time to see Jon off, so he made do by sending a silent prayer to the gods that the worst would not come to pass and made his way to the royal stands instead. By then, the seats were rapidly filling, but there was a free spot near the edge that Robb bolted over to. On his way, he nearly bumped into Joffrey, who just scowled at him with a look that suggested a hangover from the night before, and shared some pleasantries with Tommen, who was holding a very disgruntled-looking cat, before taking his seat.

He’d sent Jory down to check up on Jon when he’d received the King’s summons, and both Harwin and Alyn were nursing hangovers from the night before, so he was alone when he got himself situated. The melee wouldn’t start until Robert arrived, so he contented himself with mulling about until the excitement started. 

As such, he was surprised when an unfamiliar man made his way over and sat down next to him. Robb looked up in mild interest when he realized the man was a redcloak, an officer by the looks of it, even though he was maybe eighteen at the oldest. He had chestnut-brown hair and the beginnings of a thick mustache, and Robb blinked when he spotted seashells embroidered into the cuffs of his sleeves. Westerling?

“Good morning,” the man said cheerfully, adjusting himself. “Bit hot for a melee today, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Robb agreed, faintly amused at the mental image of Jon having to fight through the sweltering heat. “Pardon me, but do I know you?”

“No, but you seem to know my sister,” the man replied, voice still light. He held out a hand. “Ser Raynald Westerling. I’m Jeyne Westerling’s older brother.”

“Well, at least you aren’t her husband,” Robb sighed, shaking it, and Raynald laughed. “Don’t worry about having to give me any warning talks, my friend. I spoke to Jeyne about it last night. I have no intentions with her.”

“Oh, I know,” Raynald shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “We spoke about it after your dance as well. I actually wanted to congratulate you for your excellent work in the joust yesterday. I was planning to ask for Jeyne’s favor, but you beat me to it. It’s for the best, though; I got knocked out in the first round. They put me up against Jaime Lannister.”

Robb winced at the thought of that. “That must have been interesting.”

“He had me on my arse by the first pass,” Raynald laughed. “All that work just to get a Lannister on my first tilt. Oh, well. Like I said, you represented her much better.”

“I’m glad you didn’t mind,” Robb replied, sincerely. He nodded at Raynald’s cloak. “You’re serving the Hand?”

“Aye, Lord Tywin summoned a small army of guards when he took the King’s offer for the position. When my sister was invited to be a handmaid for the princess, I managed to get a job with the redcloaks.” He grinned wryly. “It’s not much, but it’s good work. Much better than following my father about the Crag like a lost duckling.”

“The Crag,” Robb echoed. “Jeyne mentioned it when I met her. I assume it’s your family’s keep?”

“Indeed. It’s a modest home, but kind, on the shores of the Sunset Sea. I’ll be lord one day, but not for a while yet, gods be good.”

As he finished, Robert made his appearance in the stands, drawing the crowd’s attention. He still looked a little sullen at the fact that he couldn’t compete in the melee, but he held out his hands anyway, calling for the competition to begin. As they watched, the field—which had been swapped for a large circular arena, boxed in with log fencing—began to fill with contestants,each on a horse, starting with the highest-born and working down. There were close to fifty competitors in all, mostly lower-born men who weren’t able to compete in the lists.

Robb leaned forwards as Jon appeared on a gelding, preceded in only a few spots by Peck. Both boys were sticking close to each other, and Robb hoped they had agreed to work together for the opening minutes of the fight, which were always the most dangerous. Jon in particular he worried about; besides the breastplate Robb had commissioned for him from Tobho Mott, he’d had to make do with an assortment of boiled leathers and ill-fitting hand-me-downs.

“That’s your bastard brother, isn’t it?” Raynald asked, pointing at Jon. Robb nodded. 

“Do you know him?” He asked, and Raynald shook his head. 

“Just of him. The Bastard of Winterfell, they call him, but he got picked up by Ser Arys to squire when he visited Winterfell, so I suppose he must be good. One of the other officers in the Lannister guard knows him pretty well.”

“Jon is very good with the sword,” Robb said, swallowing against the title Raynald had used. Is Jon really that infamous? “I know he’s going to do well in the melee.”

“You seem close to him.” Raynald’s tone was slightly curious now, a silent question, and Robb shrugged.

“We were raised together,” he said simply. “Jon is a good man. I would trust him with my life.” Raynald seemed slightly surprised by that, but just shrugged, accepting it as the melee fighters got into position, making a ring around the perimeter of the field. “Is there anyone you’re rooting for?” He asked, more than ready to change the subject.

“I just want to see Thoros of Myr, to be honest,” Raynald chuckled. “I’m still not sure whether or not his flaming sword is a myth.”

“Oh, it’s real enough,” Robb replied, remembering an occasion where Thoros had shown off the trick in a training match against some knights. Just as he finished speaking, the horn sounded, and the melee began, effectively cutting off their communication.

It was immediate chaos. Robb lost sight of Jon and Peck almost immediately, situated as they were in the back. Two men went down almost immediately, while Thoros’ sword went awash in the middle of the pile, glowing a great green and startling a dozen horses. A great gasp went up among the smallfolk at the sight, and even Raynald sucked in a breath.

“Magnificent,” he murmured, and Robb snorted, then winced as a knight took a particularly rough blow to the neck and fell off his horse. He laid there unmoving for perhaps half a minute before staggering to his feet and limping away. 

“I can’t believe that man didn’t get trampled,” Robb said, pointing at the poor knight as he reached the gate.

“Yes, we don’t want a repetition of what happened yesterday,” Raynald added, wincing a little. “Poor Ser Hugh. He was my age, you know.”

“I heard about what happened with him and the Mountain,” Robb agreed, once again feeling a rush of gratitude that he hadn’t had to joust that monster of a knight. “A real shame.”

“An avoidable one, though. I’d rather avoid any more accidents like that.”

Robb hummed his agreement, and they fell into silence as the melee progressed, still little more than a dense ball of clashing knights.

Over the next hour, over half of the competitors dropped out. Robb recognized only a few of them, to include Meryn Trant’s squire, whose name he forgot. Jon and Peck reappeared a few times, and Robb was relieved to see that they had stuck together, covering each other’s backs in the chaos of the match.

“I’m really glad I decided to sign up only for the joust,” Robb remarked as a knight from the Reach was unhorsed by Ser Preston Greenfield. “I don’t think my body could have taken this.”

“I don’t think I could have survived this even if I was fresh,” Raynald chuckled, making an approving noise when Jon and Peck ganged up on another Kingsguard squire, taking him down. “Your brother is putting us both to shame.”

“He’s always been great with the sword,” Robb echoed his previous assertion, approving. “I’m not surprised at all.”

Still, it wasn’t to last. Robb spotted Steffon Swyft, the redcloak who Jon often hung out with, making his way along the outer edge of the ring, where he was less noticeable. Robb figured out what the knight’s plan was after a minute, but he was much too far away and the crowd much too loud to warn Jon. Before he knew it, Steffon had ambushed the pair, going for Peck first and sending him crashing to the ground. 

Jon held his own for a few minutes, trading blows and steering his horse to get space for reprives. But Steffon was relentless. Soon enough, Jon had joined his friend on the ground, and the two of them limped off the field together, thankfully not too seriously injured.

“He did well,” Raynald said, once he was out of sight. Robb nodded, nevertheless still worried that he’d been hurt somehow.

By that point, they were down to the last dozen competitors. The fighting really started to draw out by then, with each man drawing into short combative bursts before separating and taking a few minutes to rest and seek out the next target. Thoros of Myr’s flaming sword had simmered by that point into a low green smolder, and he went after Steffon, using the last burst of flame to send him tumbling to the ground.

As the melee dragged on, a burst of grey fur darted across the feet of the audience. A lady shrieked in surprise, and Robb looked down just in time to catch Grey Wind the cat darting between his legs. Raynald, meanwhile, reacted much more quickly, hands lashing out as he snatched up the animal, who hissed at him.

“Who brought a cat up here?” Raynald said, holding the cat at length as it continued to hiss at him.

“That’s Grey Wind,” Robb said, surprised. He reached out and relieved the knight of the wiggling lump of fur, holding it at arm’s reach as well. Grey Wind the cat hissed at him. “Prince Tommen’s cat. He must have escaped the Prince again.”

“Grey Wind!”

“Speaking of,” Robb finished, turning around. Sure enough, Tommen was squeezing his way through the crowd, hair tousled and looking quite distressed. “My prince.” He said louder, bowing as best he could with an angry cat in his arms. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“Thank you!” Tommen exclaimed, extending his arms. Robb passed the cat over to the boy, who took him with a sigh and pressed him close to his chest. Robb could almost see the moment when Grey Wind resigned himself to his fate, looking up at him with dull blue eyes.

“You need to keep a better hold on him, my prince,” Robb continued, holding in a laugh at the sight. “Lest you lose your pet.”

“It’s not my fault!” Tommen protested. His eyes, big and green, were watering a little, Robb noted with mild concern. “Joffrey chased him off. I didn’t do anything! And neither did Grey Wind!”

Ah. So the prince was going after cats now? A little inappropriate for the Tourney. 

“I… see,” Robb finally replied, unsure of what to say. Usually he’d scold anyone who had annoyed their brother so needlessly, but Joffrey was the crown prince, and they were in a public place. “Well, why don’t you sit with us for a little while? The melee is almost done, and after lunch is the archery competition. You’re welcome to stay with me for both, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Tommen sniffled, and Robb helped him up onto his free side. He shared a glance with Raynald, who was looking a little uneasy, but did his best to remain as neutral as he could. Tommen, meanwhile, adjusted Grey Wind in his lap, looking out onto the field as the fighters began their next bout. Thoros clashed briefly with a Fossoway knight, sending the man sprawling to the ground and leaving perhaps a half dozen men in the ring.

Raynald whistled lowly at the sight. “Ouch,” he remarked.

“I saw Jon and Peck in the ring,” Tommen said, turning over to Robb. “Uncle Jaime says they both did well. You should congratulate them for me.”

“I will, my prince,” Robb replied, returning his attention to the boy. “But Ser Jaime said that?” For all the time he’d spent with the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister had yet to even mention Jon to him.

“Well, at first he just said Peck did good,” Tommen conceded. “But then I reminded him Jon was there too, so he also must have done well! And Uncle Jaime agreed with me.” He sighed then, looking sad. “Jon and Peck were the ones who helped me when I got lost, but I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“I’m sure they miss you too,” Robb offered. He’d almost forgotten about that incident; Queen Cersei had practically locked the castle down for the day, before Tommen had shown up again that evening. He hadn’t talked to Jon about it, but he’d heard that his brother and friend had been the ones who had stumbled across the prince in a forgotten storage room.

“I hope so,” Tommen mumbled. “Joffrey’s always saying they’re stupid and mean, but I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Raynald said, sounded interested. Robb winced minutely.

“That’s why Joffrey chased off Grey Wind. Because he said Jon was stupid and I told him he was being mean.” Tommen paused to scratch the top of Grey Wind’s head, the cat flicking an ear in response. “But Joffrey’s always like that.”

“Always?” Raynald muttered, sending Robb a look. Robb sent him one in return that promised to talk about this later. If Raynald was still new to the redcloaks, he supposed that the man hadn’t heard the stories yet. 

“Well, thank you for standing up for my brother,” Robb replied as another contestant was knocked out, a Rykker knight that had been the favorite of many to win. The ensuing groans and cheers made them stop their conversation, and Tommen clapped his hands as best he could with a cat in his lap. 

“Do you think Ser Thoros is going to win?” Tommen asked once it quieted enough to speak again, looking up at him. Robb shrugged. 

The melee went on. Down to five contestants, an end was finally in sight, but despite their clear exhaustion, the last few knights kept on with the promise of the winner’s prize money. A half hour passed by before the fight finally finished. Like Tommen had predicted, Thoros of Myr won. In the aftermath he rode victory laps around the court and waved his now-flameless sword in the air as the smallfolk cheered for him.

“Finally,” Robb grunted in Raynald’s direction, and the knight laughed. 

“Finally time for me to get back to my duties, if the fight is done,” he replied with a sigh. Raynald stood, then turned in Tommen’s direction and bowed a farewell. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Robb, Prince Tommen. I hope to see again sometime soon?”

“I’m sure I’ll be around,” Robb replied, smiling. 

“Goodbye!” Tommen chirped, and Raynald made his way to the back of the stands, where Robb could see several more of the off-duty redcloaks standing. “That man was nice. Is he your friend?”

“I suppose so,” Robb mused, then stood himself. The rest of the royal party was starting to depart for lunch, and he had to peer around a few heads to catch Queen Cersei through the crowd. He patted Tommen’s shoulder, encouraging him to get up as well. “Anyway, I believe your mother is expecting you for mealtime. Best we not be late.”

“I don’t want to,” Tommen grumbled, but did as he was told, hefting Grey Wind in his arms. 

“Joffrey will be waiting for you either now or tonight, when you retire,” Robb reassured him, ignoring his own unease. He tried to imagine any of his own siblings being so recitient to see him, and the mere thought felt wrong. “I’ll walk you over.”

“Fine.” Tommen held out a hand, and Robb took it, guiding him through the throng to where Queen Cersei was standing. Having left her husband behind, Joffrey stood at her side as she spoke to Ser Meryn, but she caught sight of their approach before Robb could announce himself. 

“Ah, there you are Tommen,” she said, waving a hand to dismiss Ser Meryn. “I was about to send for you. Are you finished?”

“...Yes, mother,” Tommen muttered, slipping his hand out of Robb’s meekly. While Robb didn’t know what exactly Cersei was referring to, when he caught sight of Joffrey leering at his younger brother from behind his mother, he figured he had a good idea what. 

“Prince Tommen graced me with his presence for the melee today, Your Grace,” he said aloud, feeling the urge to say something. “He behaved very well.”

“As expected,” Cersei shrugged, and Tommen held his cat closer to his chest as Joffrey made a face at him. This time, however, she did catch him, but she did nothing anyways, her expression remaining passive even as she scolded him. “Come, both of you. I expect you to behave. Your grandfather and great-uncle are both joining us for lunch today. Tommen, get rid of that cat before we arrive.” She turned to Robb, then, regarding him with a plain look. “I thank you for watching my son, Lord Robb.”

“It was a pleasure, Your Grace,” Robb responded, but Cersei was already turning away, Ser Meryn trailing behind her. Tommen followed in his mother’s footsteps, but it was Joffrey who stayed behind for a moment, watching him haughtily. 

“We’re to be goodbrothers one day, Stark,” he said sharply. “But that doesn’t mean Tommen needs you protecting him.”

“He only needs protecting from you, my prince,” Robb shot back, before he thought better of it. Joffrey sneered at him openly, but his mother was rapidly disappearing, and Robb knew that he couldn’t be late to this lunch Cersei had mentioned, so he added in one last barb. “Best run back to Mother, now.”

Joffrey scowled, even stepping forwards, but Robb held his ground, and in the next moment the prince seemed to remember their publicity. He held himself back in the end, and turned around and left without another word. 

“Prick,” Robb muttered to his back, watching him go. 

Once Joffrey was suitably out of sight, he made his own way out of the stands, stomach rumbling. Robb was more than ready to get something good to eat, perhaps meet back up with Jory and the others to discuss the results in the melee. However, as he made his way down the path towards the pavilion set up for the royal retinue, he caught sight of none other than Jon waiting on the side of the path, watching the traffic as they passed by. 

“Jon?” Robb called out, surprised, and his brother’s head perked up, catching sight of him as Robb fought his way through the crowd. Jon had taken off his leathers and armor since being disqualified from the melee, but his hair was still sticky with sweat, and there was a new bandage just above his eye. “What are you doing over here?”

“Waiting for you, of course,” Jon replied, glancing behind Robb for a moment. Something about him seemed… on edge. “You don’t have to be present for the archery tournament, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Robb replied. “I don’t need to be anywhere until the feast this evening. What is it?”

Something in Jon’s face hardened, something inside him seeming to come to a decision when he beckoned Robb forward. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

“You’re certain?” Robb whispered, holding him close. He’d grown increasingly pale in the last half hour, their whispered conversation behind the galley’s pavilion edging on into the afternoon.

“As I can be,” Jon whispered back, hardly even believing it himself. “I saw it with my own two eyes, and I’m not one to hallucinate such things.”

“The Others take us,” Robb swore, stepping back to run a hand through his hair. “The Queen and the Kingslayer?”

“Be quiet,” Jon hissed, tugging him back. He glanced around, but there was no one nearby to hear them, and most of their conversation was covered up by the cooks working on the noonday meal anyway. Still, his heart thudded in his chest at the thought of being caught.

In the end, it had been the news that King Robert had almost entered the melee that had broke him. Two knights had died during the competition, one in battle and the other soon after experiencing a hard fall, and the king was hardly in the best of shape. If he had died, and Joffrey had risen in his father’s stead… 

It had all clicked into place then. Robert Baratheon was currently the only thing preventing the Lannisters from taking total control over the royal court. Cersei Lannister, who was currently having an affair with her own brother, would have near total control over him as well. And finally, the men in the tunnel made it clear that Robb was well in the sights of Lord Lannister and his designs. 

Robb had to know, Jon had decided. This wasn’t something he was going to be able to tackle on his own.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Robb hissed, drawing close again and pulling Jon out of his thoughts.

“I was trying to keep you out of it!” Jon shot back. 

“From what you told me I was never out of it,” Robb replied, turning about. He raised his hands, as if to do something with them, hesitated, then lowered them again. “All this time I was thinking that the Kingslayer wasn’t so bad, when he was just setting me up on his father’s orders? So I can marry Myrcella? She’s eight! I thought she just had a crush on me!”

“Worse marriages have been made,” Jon remarked, then shook himself and got back to the point. “But don’t you see the problem? The Queen and the Kingslayer—”

“Are fucking —”

“Are only part of the problem,” Jon cut him off. “There are movements being made for dominance, Robb, and we’ve been caught entirely off guard. Father might have an idea of what to do, but he’s too far away for us to know, and what about that attempt on Bran’s life? We’re going to be in the thick of it, and we’ve not got anything to show for it.”

“But we know now, don’t we?” Robb replied, almost desperately. “I mean, surely you can tell someone—”

“Father and I aren’t exactly speaking right now,” Jon replied tersely, brushing past Robb’s look of surprise. He’d never gotten around to telling him about the whole Needle situation, and wasn’t in the mood to get into it anyway. “Besides, it’s all hearsay on the account of a bastard, what’s anyone going to do with that?”

“Father would take anything you said seriously,” Robb protested, staring at him. “Seven hells, I’m taking you seriously.”

“And what’s he going to say? Or do? Just because Father would take me seriously doesn’t mean everyone else would. Besides, I’ve decided against sending a raven. I held off for a while because Father… well, he scolded me; it’s a long story best to not get into right now, and then I realized that they’d have to go through Maester Pycelle anyway.”

“What’s Maester Pycelle have to do with any of this?” Robb asked. “He just attaches the letters to a raven and tells it where to go.”

“I went asking, that’s what. Pycelle’s been the Grand Maester for over forty years, and guess who his closest ally was during the reign of King Aerys? Tywin Lannister. The Hand of the King, then and now. Steffon’s been guarding Lord Tywin during some of their interactions, and he says that Pycelle practically worships the ground Tywin walks on. I wouldn’t trust anything that passes through his hands with any information of significance.”

For a long moment, Robb just stared at him. Then he groaned, long and sad, and put his head in his hands.

“Robb?” Jon asked.

“ Half of my letters to Mother and Father have been about how much I don’t like Joffrey's betrothal to Sansa!” Robb said into his palms. 

“Oh,” Jon echoed, a little dumbly. “Well, you’re not making things easy, Robb.”

“You think?!”

“But from what I’ve heard, Tywin doesn’t even want this Joffrey-Sansa marriage…”

“Yeah, he wants his granddaughter to marry me.”

“Better you marry Myrcella than Sansa marry Joffrey!” Jon snapped back, and Robb looked up at him like he hadn’t even considered the thought. “Myrcella at least seems nice. But in any case, we’re trying to avoid any Lannister marriages here.”

They stood there in silence for perhaps a minute, letting their conversation settle. Then Robb sighed, brushing back his hair with his hands. He paced for a few steps, eyes flickering as he thought.

“We could send a messenger, perhaps,” he offered, then almost immediately shook his head. “No, any of my guards leaving would be noticed almost immediately, and Meera’s supposed to be pretending to court me. Even if she doesn’t act like it, if she leaves King’s Landing so soon it’ll only raise questions. Daryn… maybe, but what if something important happens, and we need him then? Something more than…” he trailed off.

“Me hearing two conversations?” Jon finished wryly. “Yes, that’s a good point. Like I said, we don’t have anything concrete yet.”

Robb gave him a look. “You’re thinking of finding this ‘concrete evidence,’ aren’t you?”

“I have to,” Jon shrugged. “I mean, we know the Lannisters are plotting something, and Robert isn’t going to live forever. I know a way into the Tower of the Hand, and I’m pretty sure I came across Tywin’s solar while inside. I’m sure I could find something there.”

“You were seen in those passages, Jon.”

“And nothing’s happened since. If it’s something I have to risk, I will.”

Robb was looking more concerned now. “Jon, if you get caught, there’ll be nothing protecting you. Let me do it; at least they won’t cut off my head if I get spotted.”

“Robb, we’d guarantee a war if you were spotted. Let me. Trust me.”

Jon gave his brother a punctuating look, and Robb wavered, then broke. “Fine. But please be careful, won’t you?”

“Oh, the last thing I’d want is to leave you with only Joffrey for company,” Jon chuckled. “You can try to game the system from the inside. You said that Ser Jaime is spending a lot of time with you, right? Maybe you can get him to tell you stuff.”

“Maybe,” Robb replied, contemplative. “He’s a shit strategist, I could maybe do it if he knows anything. He’s got a tongue that can cut you dry, though.”

“A shit strategist?”

Robb laughed briefly. “Oh, not much of a commander at all. I beat him more times than not when we met, and he’s the one who’s been in a war before.”

“Then it shouldn’t be that hard,” Jon shrugged. “I just wanted to let you know. After the melee today, I just…”

“I know,” Robb replied, his expression softening. “We’re in a bit of a precarious situation here.”

“We’ll just have to figure it out, I suppose.”

At that moment, a horn sounded, and they both looked up in unison. The commotion from the pavilion increased, and Robb sighed. 

“That’s the horn for the archery competition,” he remarked. “I’m going to go and find Jory and the others, then meet with the royal family. It’d be best to not go long without a guard around them now.” He looked at Jon, worry pinched between his eyebrows. “Hells, I shouldn’t leave you without a guard.”

“You can’t place a guard on me,” Jon said, incredulous, but Robb was clearly thinking about it. “ Robb.”

“Not as guards, but if I happen to send Harwin to the same places you happened to be, I’m sure he wouldn’t complain.”

“Alright, you’re going too far,” Jon scoffed, punching Robb in the shoulder. “You should head over to the stands if you’re going to find Jory, I saw him heading over there last. Peck and Steffon wanted to meet me soon to place bets anyway.”

“You and your bets,” Robb sniffed, but he was still serious as he nodded. “Thanks for telling me, Jon.”

The next moment, a group of serving men came by, all carrying varying bags of trash from the noon meal, and Jon sighed. He’d forgotten to eat in the chaos of the morning and his conversation with Robb. 

“I’ll see you around then, Stark?” He asked, and Robb nodded. 

“As always, Snow,” he replied. “We’ll figure this out, I swear it.”

They clasped arms briefly, and then Robb was off, melting into the crowd of noblemen making their way back to the stands. Jon watched him go, gut churning. He hoped he’d made the right decision. Peck had been adamant on just letting this whole thing go, and for a long time he’d worried about whether or not Robb knowing would put him in more danger.

No, he had to know, he thought, steeling himself. I have to believe that he would have been in more danger if he hadn’t known what I had told him.

Finally Jon turned away and made for the pavilion, intent on grabbing some leftovers before he went to go and find Peck and Steffon. After that, he had some planning to do, chores to finish for the feast that night, and wounds to nurse. He touched his bandaged head idly, brushing past two conversing stewards. Steffon really hadn’t pulled any punches in the melee, and the fall he’d taken had been hard.

A little hand tugged at the hem of his tunic, and Jon paused, turning to see a small child looking up at him. A pauper’s child that had somehow made it inside the nobleman's estate, he assumed, and made to shrug them off.

“Sorry, but I don’t have any food, kid,” he said, intent on getting to the meal table himself. The food was in the open anyways, couldn’t the kid just swipe something for themself? 

The child tugged harder, and Jon turned back to them, ready to snap.

And then he really looked at them. And froze.

It was the girl from the Tower of the Hand. The one who had seen him spying on the Queen and the Kingslayer. Her ratty black hair had been pulled back with a scrap of fabric, but the old blue dress was the same, and she looked up at him with piercing sky-blue eyes, ever knowing.

“You,” Jon said, stepping back. The girl continued to stare at him. 

Jon glanced around. The dining pavilion was quickly emptying, but no one seemed to be paying them any real attention. Everyone was focused on their own comings and goings, and only spared him and the girl the barest of glances before they continued on. 

“What do you want?” He asked the child, and she tilted her head at him, then reached forward and yanked at his tunic again. She pointed away, and as Jon followed her finger, he realized she was gesturing towards the city gates. 

“I’m not going with you,” he said, incredulous, and the girl tilted her head in the other direction, eyes knowing. Her hand went to her belt, and Jon stepped back, half-expecting some sort of weapon before she pulled out a slip of paper and held it out.

Jon stared at it for a long moment, before hesitantly taking the proffered item. He unrolled the parchment and read the words scrawled inside, a delicate cursive denoting an author of high learning.

Come, Lord Snow, and live to see the sunset.

Refuse, and die before dusk.

He lowered the paper, heart beating in his chest. The girl continued to stare at him, still silent.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” He asked her, and she remained unmoving. 

Jon thought about his conversation with Robb, about taking risks and trying to find information. Then he thought about the author of this message. Clearly the girl was only here to fetch him. Who would ask to meet with him? Did they only want him out of sight to kill him later? Were they able to follow through with such a threat?

He’d met this girl in the secret passageways of the Tower of the Hand, Jon thought. Almost surely this person would have enough power to kill him, if they were able to have spies in such a place. 

“Fine,” He said shortly, and tucked the message into his pocket to keep for later. 

The girl nodded at him, then took off into the crowd. Jon cursed lowly, and went to follow her. 

Wherever she was taking him, she knew exactly where to go. The girl wove around the legs of servants and smallfolk, heading towards the city, and Jon pushed after her, his greater size giving him more difficulty. The further they went, the closer they drew to the Dragon Gate, the entrance the smallfolk had used to get to the Tourney grounds.

Once they were in sight of the gates and the guards standing in front of it, the girl guiding him slowed down, moving instead to walk at Jon’s side. He jerked when she took his hand but she just smiled sweetly up at him, all innocence.

“Don’t do that,” Jon hissed, tugging away, but the girl just held on tighter, giving him a stern look. Jon watched her for a long moment, but his hands were tied. He gave in, and he and the girl walked through the gates like they were brother and sister, with nary a glance from the gate guards. Once they were through, the girl released her hold on Jon’s hand, and skipped ahead once more. 

She looks a little like Arya, Jon thought suddenly, the strangeness of their interaction bringing his little sister to mind. The girl’s hair was darker, raven-black to bark-brown, but the girl was almost the age Arya had been when Jon had gone south, dirty and underfoot like his sister had been. Jon’s throat tightened at the thought. I wonder if I’ll live long enough to see Arya again.

But he had gotten himself into this game, and so it would be up to him to play it. Jon lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl, slipping through back allies and up narrow, overhanging streets. Jon kept a hand on the singular knife on his belt, meant more for cutting meat than actual battle, and followed with a rapidly rising nervousness. Peck and Steffon had almost certainly noticed his absence by now. 

Their next turn opened them into a larger street, wide enough for small carriages and carts to pass through. The air smelled faintly of perfume, and Jon eyed the girl suspiciously as she led him to their final destination, a large building with a pink lantern swinging above the front door. 

“A brothel?” Jon said, caught entirely off guard. He felt blood rushing to his cheeks, and mixture of embarrassment and anger rushing up his chest. Was this some kind of sick joke? A prod to his bastardy and possible place of birth? “This isn’t funny, kid.”

The girl stopped at the doorway, then turned and gave him an expression that conveyed the utmost seriousness. She pointed at the doorknob.

“No,” Jon said, incensed. The girl pointed again.

For a long minute, they stared at each other. The street they were in was empty, thanks to the Tourney, but they were starting to get stares from the few people on the walkway, and Jon glanced over at them. No man visiting a brothel at this time of day would be particularly savory. 

Swallowing, Jon pushed down his pride, evidence, you told Robb you need evidence, and opened the door.

Immediately, he was hit with the strong aroma of mixed perfume, much stronger than it had been in the street. As Jon cautiously stepped inside, the girl, who remained on the steps, smiled up at him again. Then she closed the door on him, leaving him alone.

“Thanks,” Jon muttered, cheeks fully flaming now as he took in the sight before him.

Jon had avoided the famous brothels of King’s Landing for a good reason, but from what Mychel and Steffon described of their own exploits, he knew he was in a high-end establishment. On the floor, a delicate mosaic of hundreds of gems conjugated to make an image of two women, entwined in the most compromising of positions. Throughout the building, some unseen pipes wound a romantic tune.

Standing in front of a screen carved with flowers, fancies, and maidens was a woman with ebony skin, darker than any Jon had ever seen before. She looked over him with equally black eyes, dark hair pinned behind her head, and Jon knew she had been waiting for him.

“Ah, the Lord Snow,” the woman said, stepping forwards. She had a fluid, liquid accent that reminded Jon a little of the Free Cities, but was somehow rounder, softer. Draped in purple and pink silks, Jon could not help but stare, simply for the exoticness of her. “We have been waiting for you.”

“...I figured,” Jon stammered, much less eloquently than he would have liked. He had been thrown entirely off balance, even from his expectations after the girl had fetched him, and finding his footing was proving to be a much more difficult task than he expected. 

The woman smirked at him, then extended her arm. Jon watched her for a long moment, suspicious, but he’d already come this far, agreed to play this game. So he stepped forwards and threaded his arm through hers, letting the woman guide him through the main foyer. The antechamber was mercifully empty, and they were soon walking up a thin, winding staircase, just wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast. Jon’s heart hammered in his chest, but he kept his head high, swallowing against his fear as the woman stopped in front of the single door at the top of the staircase.

The woman rapped on the door twice, then slid it open. What met Jon’s line of sight was a great canopied bed, framed on either side by stained-glass windows, casting the room in shades of pink and purple. A large wardrobe sat on the one side of the room, and on the other, a small table with two chairs, with a cyvasse board on top.

Sitting at that table was a bald, plump man, draped in silken robes. He looked over at them when the woman pulled Jon in through the door, and smiled, though his eyes, the pale blue of tepid water, made Jon shiver despite himself. Jon looked at him closer, something tickling at the back of his mind. He looked… familiar.

“Thank you, Chataya,” the man said, a hint of the Free Cities also in his accent, and Jon knew that voice, though from where he could not say. The man turned to Jon next, still smiling softly. “Lord Snow, thank you for joining me here today. Take a seat. Do you know how to play cyvasse?”

“Who are you?” Jon asked instead, unmoving. The woman who had escorted him, Chataya, curtsied and left the room, though Jon kept his eyes on the strange man who had summoned him, trying to remember where he had seen him before. 

“Why, I am Lord Varys,” the man replied, his expression the same. He held out a hand to the opposing chair. “Please, sit.”

Varys. That was a name Jon had heard before; everyone in the Red Keep knew of the infamous Master of Whispers, but few had ever seen or spoken to him. He swallowed, then did as he was told, sitting down in the plush recliner. 

“Do you know how to play?” Varys asked again, gesturing at the board. Jon glanced up at him.

“Yes,” he replied curtly. Cyvasse was a new game that was quickly rising in popularity in King’s Landing; Steffon had made sure that he and Peck learned how to play when it had first arrived in the gambling houses. Jon had never been much good at gambling games, though, so he hadn’t played much. Steffon said he was too honest for it. 

Varys hummed in approval, then made his first move. His set of pieces were made of polished jade, glimmering green in the reddened light, and he gently picked up the light horseman, moving it two spots ahead to enter the forest. Jon’s set was made of crude obsidian, and after a moment’s thought, he sent his spearman to loiter by the river, thinking to protect his flank.

“What do you wish of me, my lord?” He asked as Varys moved an elephant forwards, false propriety dripping from his voice. The eunuch only tittered softly.

“So polite,” he said, somehow amused by it all. “When I was told of a grey-eyed boy voyeuring in the Tower of the Hand, I thought I would have my work cut out for me.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Jon asked, stronger and braver than he felt as he placed his second light horse around the mountain.

“Why, only if you give me cause to,” Varys shrugged, answering the move by setting his catapult south of the mountain range. “I must admit, I am impressed. Hardly three months in the Red Keep, and you’ve already unearthed the King’s Great Matter. Time will tell whether you are a fool or a genius, for putting your nose where it does not belong.” 

“The King’s Great Matter?” Jon echoed, pushing his king back to protect it with his trebuchet. 

“You know the one, my boy.” Jon swallowed, remembering the conversation he’d overheard between the Queen and the Kingslayer. 

“If you mean to threaten me, worry not,” he replied, thinking quickly. “It was not what I meant to see. I have told no one.”

Varys raised an eyebrow at him, making another move. “I am aware. Not a single letter sent to your father in the last month, hm? Was your fight truly so terrible? A sister’s sword is such a small matter.” Jon’s head shot up, and Varys tittered again. “I have my ways. If I wanted you dead, Jon Snow, you would have gone to sleep that night after the Tower and never awoken.”

“You do have connections,” Jon conceded, taking one of Varys’ spearmen. In return, the eunuch captured one of his light horse. “I suppose you know everything there is to say about me?”

Varys’ eyes twinkled, dull like puddle water, yet somehow as sharp as a Valyrian blade at the same time. “Just most of it.”

Silence reigned for a minute or two, as Jon let himself get lost in the game. They traded rabblemen, then Jon captured Varys’ trebuchet.

“What do you want?” He finally asked, once he had gathered the courage. Varys looked up from where he’d just moved his dragon, hovering over the mountains. 

“I don’t want you dead, Jon Snow,” he said after a moment. “You show so much potential, and it would be such a shame to snuff out a talent like yours so soon. A bastard of a high lord, dipping his toes into the hidden world for the first time… there is no better man when it comes to listening to whispers.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked, using his own dragon to take out Varys’ heavy horse. The obsidian was rough and sharp under his fingertips, the wings sitting half-folded, half-extended. “You said it yourself. I’m only a bastard.”

“And what a perfect place to be in,” Varys hummed, and Jon looked over at him, confused. “Bastards have so much potential, that you must know, Lord Snow. A foot in two worlds. Half your life to live with the rabblemen, the squires and knights and smallfolk of the world.” He tapped the corresponding piece, one of the few left on the board. “And half to spend with your brother.” He tapped the king piece. “It is quite underestimated how game-changing such a combination can be, if put to the right use.”

Jon watched him, stomach twisting and torn between the assessment. “Robb is no king. He’s just a ward.”

Varys smirked at him. “Now, you have to think harder than that. Robb Stark has the ear of the King, the love of the younger Prince and Princess, and the Vale, Riverlands, and North behind him, if he plays his cards right. On the contrary, I would name him one of the most powerful men in Westeros.”

And suddenly, everything clicked together. Jon paused midway between moving his elephant out of the way of Varys’ heavy horse, heart thudding in his chest. 

That had been what the men in the secret tunnel had said, two months ago. The man in the steel cap, who’d been plump in the same ways and had spoken of Robb’s value as a player. The conversation he’d overheard… did Varys somehow know about that, too? Or was he unaware of Jon’s presence in the passage that afternoon?

He forced himself to stay cool, and placed his elephant out of range of the catapult. 

“And because you think Robb is powerful, you think I am, too?” Jon asked as Varys captured his heavy horse. 

“More,” Varys chuckled. “It’s the men behind the throne that make it strong, Jon Snow.”

Jon pursed his lips, and let the silence fall between them again. More turns passed between them, and Jon moved his dragon to the river, taking out the last of Varys’ rabblemen. 

“What do you want from me?” He finally asked, once the turn was done. 

“Why, that quite depends,” Varys hummed, examining the board. “I don’t think I want you dead just yet, Lord Snow, but you must understand the position I am in. I cannot just give you blind leave to traipse around the Red Keep as you wish. It’s such a dangerous place.”

Varys moved his light horse forwards, dangerously close to Jon’s king, and he frowned, moving his trebuchet to answer them. 

“Let’s come to an agreement then,” he offered, swallowing against the sick feeling in his stomach. “I give you something, and you give me something. An equal trade.”

Varys’ pale blue eyes flickered up to meet his, something approving in his gaze. “Very well. I will give you your life, and that of your brother’s, and even leave to sneak about the Keep as you wish. However, I would not have you do so alone. My birds can keep you safe when you go into these dangerous places.”

“And who are these birds?” Jon asked, curdling. It was clear what Varys wanted from him now: the ability to know all that he knew, and have power over him to use as he wished. 

“You will be watched,” Varys shrugged. “Does it matter by who?”

And in the next moment, he moved his dragon forwards. It soared across the board, and Jon realized too late that in moving his trebuchet, he’d left his king completely undefended from the piece. Varys knocked it over with a sly smile, placing his dragon in Jon’s capital. 

“A game well played,” Jon said thinly, and Varys smiled at him, holding out a hand. Jon hesitated, then extended his own and shook. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Snow,” Varys replied, just as the door opened to reveal Chataya again. “I’m sure we will speak again.”

“I’ll count on it,” Jon replied dryly, and stood. 

Chataya extended her arm to him again, but this time Jon refused it, letting her lead him back into the antechamber of the brothel. Once they arrived, she smiled at him, dark skin shimmering in the tinted light like a star-studded sky. 

“Do come again, Lord Snow,” she said, song-like, and Jon wondered suddenly why she and Varys had been calling him that. Lord Snow. Like the brothel, it felt like a vicious mockery, and for a moment anger swelled hard and hot in his breast.

But then he forced himself to cool. He was playing a dangerous game here, and if he wanted to win, he would have to be supremely careful. Varys didn’t know about his overhearing of the passageway conversation, he was fairly certain, nor his admission to Robb just an hour before. He still had cards to play.

So he forced himself to smile instead, and saw himself out. 

He was halfway down the brothel’s steps when he nearly tripped over the girl who had taken him there. She looked up at him with those dark blue eyes, much more like Robb’s sea-blue than Varys’ tepid water, and held out a guiding hand.

Little birds, Jon thought, remembering the end of Varys’ conversation in the passageway. Young, knowing their letters, but without their tongues. He suddenly felt sick.

“You can’t talk, can you?” He asked as they walked down the street, the girl guiding him back out of the city. She shook her head, black hair fluttering over each shoulder as she glanced up at him, pointing at her mouth. So she can’t tell anyone what she knows. “Do you have a name?”

This time, the girl stared at him, almost sad. Then she shook her head. 

“I’ll call you Bluejay, then,” Jon decided, patting her on the shoulder. “We’ll be working quite closely, you and I. I might as well have a name to call you.”

The girl only nodded, then returned her attention to the path. But something had lightened in her step, a little loosening in the shoulders. Jon thought of what Varys had said about his birds, and found himself wondering just where she had come from, and what she could really see.

Chapter Text

“I’m so sorry, my lady,” Maerie said, ever so gently.

Catelyn did not acknowledge her. Her mouth felt too dry for words, and for a long moment, she stared at the smear of blood staining her sleeping roll. There were many emotions fluttering in her chest, almost too many to count, but the foremost of them was, surprisingly, foolishness.

She should have realized what had happened, what a situation she had inadvertently put herself in, but in the chaos of the time, it had completely escaped her notice that it had been three months since her last moonblood.

“Fetch my girdle, Maerie,” Catelyn said, breathing it all out at once. “I don’t plan on slowing the party this close to Riverrun.”

“My lady?” Her lady-in-waiting questioned, green eyes going wide in confusion. “Surely this is more than enough reason—”

“This isn’t my first miscarriage,” Catelyn interrupted her. “And doubtless it will be far from my last.” She bent down and bundled up the roll herself, hiding the stain of this child-that-might-have-been between the creases of fabric. “This has been an easy loss, all things considered. Some pains in the night should not hinder our whole party during the day.”

Maerie watched her for a long moment, then curtsied in acquiescence. She was a pretty young lady, some niece of Lord Jason Mallister of Seaguard who was still unmarried at twenty and one. She had been a member of the party Lord Mallister had sent to join Catelyn and her Stark guards at the Twins a fortnight past—officially to escort her to Riverrun and seek business with the merchant houses nearby, but in reality sent to try and catch the eye of her younger brother, Edmure. It was an easy ploy to see, but Catelyn didn’t mind in truth. It was high time that her brother thought seriously about taking a wife.

“Oh, and Maerie?” She called before the lady left the tent. Maerie turned back to her, and Catelyn forced herself to smile softly. “Please do keep this quiet.”

“Of course, my lady,” Maerie murmured, curtsying again. Then she was gone, and Catelyn sighed, clutching the bloodied cot closer to her chest. 

What a fool she had been. Catelyn was usually so good about tracking her moonbloods, which came as steadily as the turns of the moon itself, but she’d been so caught up in the safety of her current children that she hadn’t even given a thought to any that might yet come. Another son for Ned who would never see the light of day, all because she had thought it a good idea to ride for Riverrun to see her father and brother again.  

She sniffled once, then rubbed the unshed tears out of her eyes. It would do her no good to mourn what might have been, not when she had to look to what was still ahead of her. Catelyn set aside her cot to be washed once they made their next camp, and dressed for the day. Maerie soon returned with her girdle, and she donned it, making sure any remaining bleeds would be caught with cotton before she exited the tent.

She was hardly ten steps outside when Sansa found her.

“Mother!” she called, and Catelyn couldn’t help the rush of warmth in her chest when she turned to see her eldest daughter hurrying towards her as quickly as was proper. It had rained recently, leaving the ground muddy, and Sansa had to hike up her skirts as she approached. This child she had. This child she could love. 

“Sweetling,” she chuckled, and once Sansa was close enough, drew her in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “What is it? I thought you would be breaking your fast by this time.”

“I finished early.” Sansa stepped back, hands pressed against her skirt in an effort to smooth it. “Are you alright? You didn’t join us.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Catelyn nodded. She took her daughter’s arm in hers and started walking. All around them, their party, which had swelled to a force a little over two dozen strong, was gathering up tents and supplies, saddling their horses and donkeys for the ride ahead. “There was just a matter I had to attend to.”

“Oh, alright,” Sansa smiled, hopping on her feet with clear excitement. “Mother, I went for a ride before breakfast and found something wonderful! Won’t you come and see?”

“We’re about to leave, Sansa,” Catelyn reminded her, but her daughter only shook her head, eyes flashing.

“ Mother,” she stressed. “It’ll only be a moment. Please?”

Catelyn hesitated for a moment, then broke. “Very well,” she sighed, and Sansa cheered, hurrying off to meet the servants who were holding her still-saddled horse. 

That girl. Catelyn couldn’t help but smile as she flagged down one of her guards and sent him to fetch her own mount. For all her differences from her sister, Sansa and Arya both shared a love for nature, even if they expressed it in different ways. Several times over the course of their journey, Sansa had taken her to several picturesque locations she found while on the roads. She loved looking at flowers and pretty glades, and no doubt this was something along those lines. 

The guard returned with her horse, and Catelyn mounted, glad that despite the trials of the night before, there was only a slight discomfort in her belly that faded as she moved. Sansa met her near the edge of camp, and Catelyn notified the party to wait a few moments for her to come back. 

Then they were off. They had passed Pennytree just the other day, and were now in the disputed lands between the Brackens and the Blackwoods. Despite that, Catelyn knew that the woods were safe; there had been little outright fighting between the two families since she was a girl, and raiding and robbery only became a worry south of Riverrun, which was still a three days’ ride away.

“You must see it, Mother,” Sansa was saying, practically bouncing in her saddle. She led them across a trickle of a stream, sending droplets of water flying through the air. “It’s only a little ways away.”

“It must be beautiful,” Catelyn chuckled, more enraptured by Sansa’s excitement than any natural beauty. “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Catelyn laughed, pulling back her horse to let Sansa draw ahead of her. Most people said Sansa looked like her, and they weren’t wrong, but to Catelyn, all she could see was Ned at times like this. Her auburn hair sat straight on her head compared to Catelyn’s curls, and her posture was a mirror image of her father, her back kept straight and head held high.  

Sansa was right; after only a few minutes of riding, they slowed, Catelyn following her daughter’s lead as she pushed their horses past a particularly dense thicket. Catelyn had to duck to avoid snagging a branch in her delicately braided hair, and when she looked up, Sansa had turned back to grin at her. Before them, in the middle of a small tree, a weirwood had sprouted. It was a small thing, just shorter than the surrounding oaks, and thinner than them too, but looked strong, with bright red leaves that stood out in stark contrast to the greens of the forest.

“It’s young!” Sansa exclaimed, hopping off her horse. “And in the middle of the woods like this! I thought weirwoods only grew in godswoods, and in the North.”

“How strange…” Catelyn murmured, also dismounting. Something about the tree was enrapturing, almost familiar, but conflicting with it was a sense of growing confusion. “Weirwoods grow south of the neck, but only in godswoods. Riverrun has one, and so does Raventree Hall, but I’ve never heard of a wild tree growing over here. And it looks so young…”

“I knew I had to show you,” Sansa said, walking over to the base of the tree. Catelyn followed her, looking up at the crimson leaves as they swayed overhead. Her daughter smiled softly, putting a hand to the white bark. “It reminds me of home.”

Catelyn swallowed, resisting the impulse to lay a hand over her belly, and returned Sansa’s smile instead. 

Perhaps that was it. A sign from the gods—Ned’s gods. Catelyn didn’t even follow the Old Gods, but in that moment she felt almost like there was a presence with them in that tree. A presence, familiar and loving, telling her everything would be alright. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.

“Oh,” Sansa said quietly, jerking Catelyn out of her thoughts. She turned to her, but her daughter hadn’t seemed to notice her inner thoughts, instead keeping her gaze on the tree. “Father says we should always show respect to the weirwood trees. I’m not being rude by coming here, am I?”

“No, I doubt it,” Catelyn replied, shaking her head. The Seven knew how many times Robb and the boys had gotten into fights and arguments in the godswood. But that odd presence still sat over her shoulders, and she continued, almost without thinking. “But perhaps it would be polite to pray and say thank you to the Old Gods for showing us this place.”

Sansa turned to her, confused. “But you follow the Seven.”

“I do,” Catelyn nodded, getting to her knees anyway. Sansa followed her lead, still watching her curiously. “But, Sansa, you will discover that you can appreciate and be grateful for gods other than your own. I follow the Seven, and I love them, but the Old Gods are your father’s gods, and your brothers’ too. And because I love your father and your brothers, I can appreciate the Old Gods as well.”

“I see,” Sansa nodded. She bowed her head then, lips moving in a silent prayer. Catelyn kept her head up, but her heart was lifted. These were Ned’s gods, not hers, but in that moment, they had come in her hour of need. A reminder of her husband and his love when they were so far apart. 

After such a long journey and emotional morning, it was exactly what she needed. 

The rest of the trip went smoothly, and three days later, Riverrun was within reach. 

The sight of home—and it was home, would be no matter how many years she lived in Winterfell—gave a joyous lift to Catelyn’s soul. It had been almost exactly fifteen years since she had last seen the castle, leaving for the North with Robb a babe at her breast. Now, she was a mother of five, not one, and she got to see her eldest daughter’s reaction to seeing her childhood castle for the first time. 

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Sansa whispered, eyes blown wide as they crossed the final bluff before reaching the Tumblestone river and Riverrun just beyond. In the midmorning light, the sandstone walls looked almost like they were glowing, the blue waters and green fields giving it an almost ethereal look in the picturesque landscape. “ This is Riverrun?”

“You sound surprised,” Catelyn chuckled, urging her horse to go faster despite herself. “I thought I taught you about my family and our keep.”

“It’s another thing to see it, Mother. It’s beautiful!”

“It is,” Catelyn agreed. Fifteen years had passed, yes, but Riverrun was still the same as it had been the day she had left. She felt like she was twenty again, the years lifting from her shoulders the further she went. 

As they approached, she realized with a little relief that the drawbridge had been lowered in anticipation of their arrival. A dozen guards draped in bright red and blue were waiting for them by the gate, and escorted them inside. As she passed beneath the portcullis, Catelyn thought she might cry. After what had happened three days before, home and family were exactly what she needed. 

Edmure was waiting for them inside, standing in the courtyard to receive her with the rest of his household. Catelyn nearly gasped at the sight of him. Last she had seen her brother, he had been a bright-eyed, young squire looking for attention nearly anywhere he turned. Now, he was a man grown, with a thick red beard and broad, square shaped shoulders like their father. 

“Cat,” Edmure called, smiling, and in that moment he looked like Mother, too. Catelyn nearly leapt off her horse, and despite aching muscles from weeks of travel, forgot her manners entirely in favor of hurrying forwards to embrace him. Edmure laughed, a deep rumble that came from the belly, and hugged her back. 

“...You’ve grown,” she breathed, laughing as well as she drew away.

“And you look just the same as the day you left, dear sister,” Edmure shot back, giving her a pointed look up and down.

“Now you’re flattering me!” Catelyn took her hands in his. “It’s so good to see you, Ed.”

“And you. I’ll admit, in past days your presence has been sorely missed.” Edmure’s expression flickered, worry crossing his features, and Catelyn was reminded of the circumstances that had prompted her visit. “Father has been asking after you.”

“How is he?” Catelyn asked, but Edmure shook his head, lips thinning. 

“A question best asked inside.” He turned then, looking over his shoulder, and Catelyn turned to see that Sansa had also dismounted and was watching them. Catelyn felt herself flush a little, having forgotten her for a moment. “Cat, have you brought along a doppelganger to try and confuse me?”

Sansa blushed, then curtsied deeply. “My lord,” she began, but Edmured just laughed, stepping towards her and holding out a hand to help her up. 

“No need for all these formalities, little niece. Just because you have the Stark name doesn’t mean you aren’t family.”

“This is your Uncle Edmure, Sansa,” Catelyn put in, taking his side, then addressed her brother next. “We were hoping to stay here for some time before continuing down to King’s Landing later in the month to see her betrothed, Prince Joffrey.”

“As I’ve heard,” Edmure replied, but his lips were pinched. Before Catelyn could inquire about it, her father’s steward, Utherydes Wayn, interjected softly.

“My lord, my lady,” he said. “Lord Tully had requested your presence in his solar as soon as you arrived.”

“Of course,” Catelyn swallowed. She glanced between Utherydes and Edmure in silent question, and the older steward caught on first, laying a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“Lady Sansa,” he continued. “Perhaps it would be best to allow your mother and grandfather some privacy. May I have the honor of showing you to your rooms?”

Sansa frowned, then turned to Catelyn with pleading eyes. “Can’t I meet Grandfather?” She asked, and Catelyn nodded. 

“Of course, dearest, but tonight would likely be a better time. Utherydes has been my father’s steward for many years; I’m sure he has a story or two to tide you over until then.”

Though she still looked disappointed, Sansa nodded, allowing herself to be escorted away by the steward. As the servants took their traveling supplies, Catelyn threaded her arm through Edmure’s and let him guide her into the castle through a different door.

“How bad is he?” She asked quietly, once they were alone in the corridor. Edmure just sighed, shaking his head. 

“Some days are better than others, but the pain is constant and grievous. His mind has taken ill as well; some days he asks for Mother, or Uncle Brynden. In short… the maesters say he doesn’t have long, sweet sister.” 

Catelyn swallowed against the lump in her throat at the news. In reality, it was exactly as she had suspected, but something about hearing the truth of it made everything much worse. 

“I’m glad I could come, then,” she declared as they climbed the spiral staircase to Father’s solar. “Has there been any news from Lysa? When is she arriving?”

Edmure stiffened at the mention of their sister. “Lysa hasn’t responded to any of my letters,” he said shortly. “Even Uncle Brynden wrote back saying he’d come to see Father—you know how they’ve fought—but then his next letter said that Lysa would not allow him to leave his post. From all accounts, she seems to have locked herself and her son up in the Eyrie, with no intentions of coming down.”

“What?” Catelyn exclaimed, alarmed. That didn’t sound like her younger sister at all. Yes, Lysa had always been more… fragile than most, and they hadn’t spoken much in past years, but she knew that her sister had never been close to her late husband, Jon Arryn. Surely his death hadn’t affected her so much. “But Brynden rode to meet Robb and the King’s progress just three moons ago. Has anything changed?”

“According to Brynden, he didn’t ask for permission when you asked that favor of him. Lysa scolded him fiercely for it once he returned, and has been much more strict with his orders since. He is trying to convince her to see reason and visit Father before he goes.” Edmure shook his head as they reached the top of the stairs. “I don’t know what’s happened to her, Cat, but I don’t think we shall expect visitors from the Vale anytime soon. Best not to mention it to Father. Some days he remembers this, and others not.” 

They fell into silence as they entered Father's solar. Like Riverrun, the room was triangular, with a balcony that overlooked the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. Father’s bed had been moved there, it seemed, and Catelyn swallowed again at the sight of him—frail, gray, and old.

“He likes to sit in the sun and watch the rivers,” Edmure said quietly, raising his voice after. “Father, look who I’ve brought. Cat has come home.”

Father’s eyes fluttered open as she approached, taking a seat at his bedside. “Little Cat,” he whispered, as Edmure kissed his brow and left them to their reunion. Catelyn took his boney hand in hers, cupping it to bring warmth to the wrinkled flesh. “My little cat. I watched you come in…”

“I’m just happy to be here, Father,” Catelyn whispered back. 

“I almost didn’t write, for fear…” Father paused, coughing harshly. “I am old, and frail… I worry for little Ed, Cat. With the Lannisters and their rumors… watch him for me, won’t you? Riverrun must still be strong.”

“Of course, Father.” Catelyn pushed aside the mention to politics for now. Questions about the Lannisters would be best asked of her brother now. “I’ve brought your granddaughter Sansa with me, Father. Would you like to meet her tonight?”

“Sansa…” Father murmured. “Yes… what about your boy? Robb, he had my eyes, I remember.”

“He’s in King’s Landing as a ward of the king, Father,” Catelyn reminded him gently. “But Brynden saw him just a few months ago. He is strong and healthy.” And perhaps in danger, though there is little I can do for it, Seven forgive me. “And he still has our eyes.”

“Brynden…” Father made a grunting sound, looking out over the rivers. “Has he wed yet? Taken… some girl to wife?”

Even on his deathbed, Catelyn thought sadly. “No, Father. You know that he will never marry. Let us talk of other things. I have come all this way…”

“Very well,” Father gave in easily, all things considered, and they turned their conversation to more easy things. Edmure and his training, her children back in Winterfell, Ned and his journey to the Wall. 

Catelyn did her best to forget her worries as she spoke with him. She had many worries, but for now, her Father deserved all of her attention. Who knew how much time he had left. 

Perhaps a week later, Catelyn found herself walking into the godswood early one morning, just as the predawn light began to creep over Riverrun’s walls. 

Her mind and body had felt restless as of late. Ever since her arrival in her childhood home, it felt like something was off, right at the precipice of a great change. The week had been quiet by all accounts—Father continued to waver, but showed little sign of passing in the immediate future. Most of Catelyn’s days had been spent either in his solar, spending time with him, or in her mother’s old solar, sewing with Sansa and her ladies in waiting or helping Edmure and Utherydes manage the castle’s affairs.

And yet something felt off which she could not describe. Privately, Catelyn blamed her sleep, which had been disruptive as of late. 

Soon enough, Riverrun’s heart tree came into view, a slender weirwood with a face more sad than fierce. Surrounded by tall redwoods and silent elms, it brought together an entirely different sight than Winterfell’s godswood, populated by maple and pine, with a great weirwood whose face seemed to judge and strip her bare whenever she got too close. 

Yet Catelyn almost missed it as she approached Riverrun’s weirwood. She did not pretend to know the old gods, but they were Ned’s, and the longer they were apart the more she missed her husband. She thought of the weirwood tree she and Sansa had visited, the morning after her miscarriage, and one hand came to rest on her belly at the reminder. Oh, Ned. You don’t even know that I have lost another.

Perhaps there was a weirwood at Castle Black—Catelyn had never thought to ask, but the thought was comforting. Perhaps Ned was praying for their family in front of a weirwood like this one. 

She let herself sit in the roots of the tree, as if she was a little girl again, and took in the sounds of nature, the birds singing their songs as the dawn came. It was a welcome respite. The longer Catelyn stayed in Riverrun, the more she heard about the news coming from the capitol, which was just as confusing as she had expected. 

Robb had written, having gotten the news of her trip to Riverrun from Edmure. It had been a relief to know that he was healthy and that the Tourney had gone well, but something seemed to have changed in his tone from one letter to the next, and she was unsure of what to make of it. Edmure had shared news of the Lannisters’ rise to power in the capitol—which did little to avail her suspicions of their culpability Bran’s accident and Ned’s assassination attempt. But at the same time, they had little news of anything concrete, and nothing that could be built upon. 

Perhaps she should write to Ned. She had sent a note regarding her safe journey the day after she had arrived, but it would be a week or two more until she could expect a reply, even as she found herself in more need of his advice than ever. 

She thought of the lost babe again, and ran a hand over her belly once more. Her next letter would have to bear the news of her miscarriage as well. She could almost feel his silent grief at the thought of a lost babe, the same as it had been for her previous losses. 

The thought struck her that she hadn’t seen a maester in the aftermath like she usually did. With the ease of the loss and its early timing, the pains hadn’t been great, but she knew it would ease Ned to know that she was well, both in her own opinion and in that of an expert’s. 

Yes, that was what she would do: see the maester, then write to Ned and seek his advice on whether to go on to King’s Landing. Catelyn stood up, silently giving thanks to the weirwood for providing her with clarity of thought, and made her way into the castle. 

Catelyn didn’t know Riverrun’s maester, Maester Vyman, too well. Despite his old age, he was a newer addition to the household, having taken over from the even older Maester Kym a decade past. Still, when Catelyn knocked on the door to his solar, he greeted her with a smile and a wave to come inside; clearly, he was just as early of a riser as all the other maesters she knew. 

“Lady Catelyn,” Vyman bowed as she took a seat next to the window, which overlooked the Red Fork and the rolling hills to the south. The sun had just cleared the horizon, sending golden rays of light cascading over Riverrun’s walls. “What brings you here so early in the morning? Is everything alright?”

“As it can be,” Catelyn forced a smile, then let it drop as she explained what had happened the week past. Vyman looked mildly alarmed that she hadn’t said anything, but refrained from scolding her as he let her tell her story and the state of her condition. He examined her then, letting her strip down to her shift and take his measurements of her heart and temperature, then look for damage on the inside. 

“My lady,” Vyman said, once he was done. Catelyn looked up as she sat herself back down; he had the oddest expression on his face, one whose emotion she couldn’t decipher. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but I have a few more questions to ask. Have you miscarried before?”

Catelyn nodded. “Mostly in the early moons,” she replied quietly. “Once before Sansa, my second, and twice after Rickon, my last. Then… there was one in my fifth moon, the year before Rickon was born, when I grew sick with a fever. It was a hard miscarriage; I was bedridden for a few days before and after.”

“But this one was easy, you said?” Vyman continued.

“Yes, it was all over by dawn. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes, you’re perfectly healthy, all considered. It’s just…” Vyman made a pinched expression, examining her closely. “My lady, if I were examining you without any prior knowledge, I would have suspected that you were still in your early moons of pregnancy.”

Catelyn stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“By a week after miscarriage, the signs of pregnancy have usually subsided. Yet there is still a swell in your abdomen, if slight, and the inward signs are still present as well.”

“But that’s not possible. I couldn’t have mistook the miscarriage, could I?”

“No, I believe you did miscarry on the road to Riverrun.” Vyman replied, turning to his cabinet and taking out some salves and teas—treatments she had taken for her last pregnancies, Catelyn realized with a shudder. “But there have been cases like this studied before. It is rare, hypothesized mostly in the Citadel, but it does happen.” He took a breath, turning back to her. “The histories tell me that your great-grandfather had a twin, Lady Catelyn. Since such cases of twins run in your family, then it is a possibility that you yourself were carrying twins prior to your trip to Riverrun. If that were the case, you may have miscarried one on the road, but not the other.”

“You think I’m still pregnant?” Catelyn whispered, feeling faint. Vyman nodded. “But I haven’t… I mean, my symptoms…”

“Every pregnancy differs, my lady, even in the same woman,” the maester replied kindly. “It’s quite possible that you can have none of the typical symptoms of pregnancy and still carry to term. Of course, it’s too early to truly tell… perhaps my suspicion is wrong.”

“But it might not be?” Catelyn pressed, and Vyman nodded. 

“I can’t be certain, my lady, but there is a suspicion. Certainly, I wouldn’t recommend any more extended trips, especially on horseback.”

Catelyn laughed breathlessly, leaning back in her seat and clenching her hands in the folds of her shift. “By the Seven,” she chuckled at the ceiling. “I suppose the decision has been made for me, then. I won’t be going to King’s Landing.”

“I would advise that you wait a month, my lady,” Vyman agreed. “I suspect you are in your third moon; by the fourth, I will be able to tell for certain.”

Catelyn sat there for a long moment, digesting the information. Then she lowered her hands to her belly, cupping the life that might be growing there. Another one. This time I’ll care for you properly, little one. I promise.

“Thank you, Maester Vyman,” she finally said, standing up to get back into her dress. Vyman helped her as best he could, tightening the strings when she shrugged the cloth back over her shoulders. “Oh dear, I’ve brought none of my maternity wear. I’ll need new dresses soon enough… and clothes and diapers, I really doubt Father has kept any, and—oh, I need to write to Ned right away.”

“Take it slowly, my lady,” Vyman soothed, raising his hands. “We have more than enough time to put things together if your pregnancy is true.”

“Right,” Catelyn breathed, then steadied herself. “But I do have a letter to write. My lord husband should be made aware of this as soon as possible.”

“Of course, my lady. I will have the raven ready on your return,” Vyman bowed. Catelyn gave a shallow curtsy in reply and took off, hiking up her skirts to take the steps two at time. 

Another baby, she thought, and it ran through her head over and over. Another son.

Chapter Text

Castle Black was about the same as it had been the last time Ned had visited.

The seat of the Night’s Watch sat like a few discarded black pebbles at its base, unevenly distributed and coated in snow. As he approached, Ned could just start to make out black shapes against the white ground, the men of the Watch preparing for their arrival. 

It wasn’t much, but that was the way of the Watch. The last time Ned had been here—the first time he’d visited and seen the Wall—it had been to see Benjen off when he’d made clear his intentions to join. Things hadn’t been good then; he still remembered the way Benjen had cursed when they’d ridden into the courtyard for the first time, meeting then-Lord Commander Qorgyle in the courtyard. The man had only been able to muster a dozen good men to receive him. 

Ned had done his best to support the Watch ever after, but circumstances had always seemed to be against him. First it had been the aftermath of the war, which had drained the North of its resources and fighting men, then the Greyjoy Rebellion, and after that loans made to the crown to support the other six kingdoms. Yet regret at not doing more panged at his heart when he beheld the ruined state of the Castle. Now that the Wildlings were passing over the Wall, the Watch was more necessary than ever, and in little position to rise to the call.

“It never does get any better, does it, Ned,” the Greatjon huffed, shaking his head. Frost fell from his long beard as he spoke, but his eyes blazed with determination. Ever since Ned had invited him to come along to his visit to Castle Black during his stay at Last Hearth a fortnight ago, he’d taken to their mission with gusto. 

“You would have been here more often than I,” Ned confessed, shaking his head. The crunch of pawsteps in the snow stopped the rest of their conversation, and he turned just in time to see Lady lope up on his free side, tail wagging and mouth bloodstained. Ned hadn’t seen the direwolf since they had broken camp that morning—no doubt she had made a kill and eaten her fill during her absence. She looked up at him, twitching, and Ned resisted the urge to reach down and give her a scratch between the ears, as she had grown so fond of during their journey. She was almost tall enough for it; even though Ned was mounted, the direwolf’s shoulders just passed his feet at his mare’s flank. 

“And the fearsome hunter returns!” the Greatjon laughed, delighted. He’d taken to the wolf even since he’d seen her fell a buck single-handedly, even more so when he’d learned that the wolf wasn’t Ned’s, but Sansa’s. His eldest daughter had insisted that Lady come along with him when she’d learned of his plans to go to Wall, even as she was preparing to head south with Catelyn.

You’ll need her more than me, Father, she’d said, her blue eyes wide with worry. Against his better judgment, Ned had allowed it; Lady had both saved his life and fought alongside him in battle now, and he had to admit that out of the five direwolves, she was the one he was the most comfortable with. 

He fell into a silent contemplation as the Wall rose ever higher. Behind them, the sun hung low on the southern horizon; this far north, it never crossed the sky’s zenith, even at the height of summer. The glare off of the ice of the Wall caused him to squint and shade his eyes at several points, but their group continued onward, pressing ever closer to the edge of the world. 

A shout came from the closest tower as they came into audible distance, and the commotion in the courtyard seemed to intensify. As Ned took the head of his party, around two dozen men strong, he watched as the men of the Night’s Watch stopped and turned to look at him. Doubtless, most of them had never seen a high lord in their lives. 

Lord Commander Mormont was waiting for him as he arrived, a cloak of thick black fur draped over his shoulders. His hair was white as snow, and his face wrinkled, but he stood tall and strong, dropping to his knees with grace as Ned stopped his horse and dismounted. This time, at least, the Watch’s welcoming party was larger than it had been a decade past; most of the men Ned did not recognize, save for Othell Yarwick, the lead builder of the Watch if he remembered correctly, and Alliser Thorne, a man he only remembered for being a Targaryen loyalist to the last. Sure enough, the man’s eyes were beady with contempt as Ned glanced at him. 

Ned paid him little mind as he passed the reins of his horse to a patch-faced boy who couldn’t have been older than six and ten. He looked at Ned with wide, dark eyes before turning away. Ned kept his attention on the main party as Mormont rose with a grunt. 

“It’s good to have you here, Lord Stark,” he rumbled, getting straight to the point as always. Still even his eyes wandered towards Lady as she licked her still-bloodied lips. “There’s much we need to discuss.”

“Indeed,” Ned agreed, just as the Greatjon got off of his horse and patted himself down, muttering of sore joints after a long ride. “Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Lord Commander. I’m glad to be here and see what I can do to help.”

“I’ve had a room prepared for you, if you wish to recover after your journey,” Mormont continued. “I’ll have your belongings sent up right away, but the wolf…?” He trailed off.

“She can stay in the stables. Lady is my daughter’s wolf, and has her deposition. As long as she’s allowed to leave for her hunts, I see no problem keeping her there. As for now, my rooms can wait. I would like to speak to you, and see the Wall. Mayhaps we could take a walk there?”

Mormont blinked in mild surprise, but nodded. Ned bent down and placed a hand on the scruff of Lady’s neck, petting her for a moment before nudging her in the direction of the stables. The wolf seemed to understand, and loped off once more as he let the Lord Commander lead him away. 

“I’ll come with ya, Ned,” the Greatjon chuckled, following suit. Ser Rodrik, meanwhile, looked a little green at the thought, and so Ned gave him a signal allowing him to stay behind. The old knight bowed his head gracefully, and stepped back. “Never been up on the Wall before.”

Mormont gestured to one of the men in the congregation, a knight in black riding leathers and boasting a castle-forged sword on his hip. The knight moved to join them, while Othell Yarwick took charge of the rest of their party, directing them on where to go.

“Lord Stark, this is Ser Jaremy Rykker, a ranger of the Watch,” Mormont introduced them as they walked. “He led the first search parties for Lord Benjen when he went missing two months past.”

Ned nodded at the man, who returned the gesture, but more deeply. They continued on in relative silence until Mormont led them to a great metal cage at the base of the Wall. Ned hid a wince—even ten years later, the sight of the rickety old thing did little to put him at ease. Still, he went on without a fuss, though the Greatjon grumbled at having to stoop to fit in. 

“Nothing is made for men like me,” he huffed as the cage started up with a lurch.

“There are not many men like you, Lord Umber,” Ned shot back, a little wryly, and got a laugh in response. He kept himself still, however, and turned to the Lord Commander after a few moments, the chains above them creaking as they began their way up the Wall. “Lord Commander, I’ve read your letters, but I would hear it from your mouth myself. What happened to my brother?”

Mormont sighed, a hand going to comb through his beard as he thought, then looked at Ser Jaremy. 

“That is the question everyone is asking, my lord. Benjen Stark was one of the best men we had seen in a century; the ranging he went missing on was one he had done dozens of times before.”

“And even then, there was little sign of him,” Ser Jaremy picked up when his commander trailed off. “There were some blazes cut into the trees, as is protocol, but they stopped perhaps a half-day’s ride from the Wall.”

“Do you think it was Wildlings, Ser Jaremy?” Ned asked, and the knight made an uncertain expression, lips pinched and curling at the edges.

“It is difficult to say, my lord, but the absence of evidence suggests to me that it was not. Benjen was a strong man; many a time I have fought alongside him, and if it was a Wildling party that had slain him, there would have been signs. I believe we have only lost his trail; Benjen’s last tracks were near the highlands where the treeline stops. Perhaps something happened to him out there.”

“We are still looking for him,” Mormont sighed. “But as loath as I am to admit it, his chances wane with each passing day.”

Ned nodded, letting them lapse into silence as the case made its creaky descent upwards. After a few more minutes, it finally slowed to a stop, a freezing cold breeze hissing over them as they crested the top of the Wall. 

Ser Jaremy was the first man out, opening the door and holding it for the other three men. Ned followed after Mormont, and despite everything, for a moment found himself awestruck by the sight of it. 

Below them, the Wall cast a great black shadow across the land, bathing the ground below in darkness. The trees were little more than a dark, snow-covered rug this far up, the Frostfangs small peaks on the horizon. Below his feet, scattered bits of gravel and stone coated the top of the Wall, providing a steady place to stand upon. 

“The edge of the world,” the Greatjon said, reverently. “You never do get used to it.”

“We might have to,” Ned replied, shaking his head as he turned to the Lord Commander. “You tell me the Wildlings are coming south in their droves. Where are they coming from?”

“Scattered villages and clans, mostly,” Mormont answered, taking his side. He pointed towards the northwest, where the trees grew denser. “There are four villages rather friendly to us that way—Greentree, Bluetree, Redtree, and Whitetree. They call themselves the Frozen Men collectively, but are little more than a loose confederation at the best of times.” 

“The Frozen Men and their villages are close to the Wall, and speak to us from time to time.” Jaremy added, but frowned as he paused, tilting his head in thought. “But they’ve been quiet lately. I’ve sent some rangers to retrieve information from them in advance of your arrival, Lord Stark, but they have yet to return.”

“Do you worry for them?” Ned asked, concerned himself, but Jaremy shook his head, pointing to the northwest again. This time, Ned looked closer, and was rewarded with sighting a thin trail of smoke rising above the treeline.

“My men make smoke by day to tell us where they are. From the Wall, we can see all four villages. The rangers are going further than expected, up towards Whitetree, but all seems well.”

“They will have much to say on their return, no doubt,” Mormont added. “You are welcome to join us if you wish.”

“I do,” Ned nodded. “What other Wildlings are there? Tell me.”

“The Nightrunners and the Hornfoots are the raiders we fight with the most,” Mormont responded. “They live to the Northwest, close to the Antler River. The Wolfjumpers are cavedwellers who neighbor the Frozen Men, up in the Frostfangs. The Thenns are the northernmost tribe; it is rare to see one this far south, but they are dangerous when they venture within range of the Wall. Those are the most important tribes, but there are a dozen others to count, as well as men who make no allegiance at all.”

Ned nodded, surveying the land again. The expanse was wide and white, large enough to host the thousands of people the wildling woman he’d spoken to had claimed.

“How many are there?” He asked, and Mormont shrugged. 

“It’s impossible to say, my lord. Thousands at the least.”

“A hundred thousand?”

The lord commander gave him an odd look. “Mayhaps, if we count the women and children. What troubles you?”

“Wildlings were caught raiding close to Winterfell, shortly before I arrived. I mentioned it in my letter to you, but I didn’t include that one of them had been taken alive. When I spoke to her, she claimed that Mance Rayder had raised an army of a hundred thousand men to take the Wall.”

“Heh. An exaggeration to try and save her skin, no doubt,” the Greatjon chuckled, but Ned shook his head. 

“She seemed convinced of it. Whatever the case, the accuracy doesn’t concern me as much as the belief does. Lord Commander, how many attackers could the Night’s Watch fend off the Wall at once?”

“As many as we need to, my lord,” Mormont declared bravely, but Ned just shook his head again. Didn’t they understand? 

“And yet a band of Wildlings made it far enough south to put daggers to my children’s throats, convinced that their people were following them,” he snapped, cold. “The Night’s Watch and their service are irreplaceable, Lord Commander, but it has become clear to me that your strength is waning at the time it is needed most. That is why I am here.”

For a long moment, he and Jeor Mormont watched each other. Then the older man sighed, breaking the contact to look out at the lands beyond the Wall once again. 

“I will not say the assistance is not needed,” he grunted. “It is. But the Wall had held through worse. We will not fail in our duty.”

“I would hope not,” Ned replied. “For the sake of us all.”

A few days later, Ned went to watch the recruits at their training.

It seemed that winter was a season that had settled and never truly left the land, even in late summer. While the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, it seemed that the sun’s rays lost their heat long before reaching the ground. Ned’s breath puffed in little bursts of frost as he made his way out of the King’s Tower, where his chambers had been made. Men bowed and murmured greetings as he passed, but Ned’s attention was set on the Greatjon, who seemed to have made himself a home in the center of the sparring ring, near the armory. 

Lady joined him as he approached, nuzzling at his coat. Ned snorted softly and tossed her the bit of jerky he’d saved from breakfast, and she snapped it up with a chuff, pausing to swallow before trotting to a small overhang and sitting down, settling her large head between two rapidly growing paws. Men gave her a wide berth as she made her seat. 

The Greatjon, meanwhile, had found his newest opponent. Ned stopped next to an observing Ser Rodrik as Ser Alliser Thorne stepped onto the ring as a ranger he didn’t know limped off. The master-at-arms unsheathed a steel longsword, regarding the Greatjon with a face made of stone as the lord raised his greatsword in return.

“My lord,” Rodrik said as Ned settled in place to watch the show, bowling briefly. Ned nodded in return, keeping his eyes on the fight as Alliser and the Greatjon sized each other up. 

“Ser Alliser was said to be a great knight during the Rebellion,” Ned mused, watching. “When the Lannisters arrived to take King’s Landing, he was one of the last to surrender, and killed many men before he did so. I wonder if he has kept such skill here on the Wall.”

“Alliser Thorne fought for the Targaryens,” Rodrik scoffed, unimpressed.

“Old alliances mean nothing in the Watch,” Ned countered. “I do not care what Ser Alliser thinks of us, only what he has to offer to his brothers now.”

As he finished speaking, the Greatjon made his first move, swinging his sword in a great arc around him. Alliser danced along the side, moving out of the way and closer at the same time, but his advance was cut off when the Greatjon moved with the momentum of his sword, swinging it around and blocking the incoming attack. The men separated once again, making testing movements as they awaited another moment to strike. 

“He is fast,” Rodrik conceded, and Ned nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several of the younger recruits watching the fight near the weapons rack. One of them was a large boy taller than him; the other was the patch-faced boy who had taken his horse. There were a few others, but those seemed to be the ringleaders of their little group. As the Greatjon took another swing at Alliser, forcing him back, the patch-faced boy made some sort of jape to his friends, who laughed.

“Ser Alliser doesn’t seem to be well loved by his men,” Ned noted, nodding in their direction.

“Certainly not,” the old knight replied. “I spoke to some of the younger Rangers as I broke my fast this morning. He seems to have a… reputation.”

“It is a poor leader who makes enemies of those who follow him.” At the same moment, Alliser snuck his way around the Greatjon’s sword and into reach, prompting a close set of blows that forced the lord to make room between them to properly use his weapon again. “But at least he still has skill.”

“And the men will follow their Lord Commander, if not him,” Rodrik agreed. The Greatjon, meanwhile, had gotten his desired reach, and forced Alliser back again. They fell into silence as they traded another few bouts of blows, before the Greatjon’s sheer mass and strength finally forced Alliser into a yield. 

“He lasted longer than most,” Ned said once it was over, watching the recruits cheer and laugh between themselves as Alliser picked himself up and off the field. The Greatjon, meanwhile, sauntered over to them, a great smile peeking through his beard. 

“Nothing like throwing a man on his ass to get your blood flowing in the morning!” He laughed. “Would you like to show these men what a true man of the North can do, Ned?”

Ned raised an eyebrow at his vassal. “It’s not often that two greatswords battle alone.”

“Would you like to fight me with the dagger of yours, then?” The Greatjon shot back. Almost instinctively, Ned’s hand went to the hilt of the catspaw’s blade fastened to his waist. He’d brought it with him on his journey as almost an afterthought—Valyrian steel was Valyrian steel, after all, and would be useful in close-quarters combat if needed. 

“I would like to give you a chance,” he replied lightly, then glanced around. None of his men save for Ser Rodrik were in the yard this early in the morning, but there was a fat boy of the Watch nearby, watching Lady lounge with great curiosity. “You, boy!” The boy jerked up at Ned’s call, and he gestured towards the tower where his chambers were. “Fetch me my sword. The stewards will know where it is.”

For a moment, the boy stared at him, then took off when the other recruits jeered at him. Ned was almost amused watching him huff and puff; clearly, the boy had been a southron noble before joining the Watch.

The Greatjon, meanwhile, cheered, returning to the center of the ring. The other Watch recruits had turned to whispering as Ned took off his outer cloak and passed it to Ser Rodrik, taking the moment to stretch his bad arm. The limb was stiff and still panged some in the early morning cold, but there was no pain, and when Ned clenched his fist, his grip was still strong. Today was a good day; a bout with the Greatjon would be a challenge, but not dangerous. 

A few minutes later, the southern boy returned, a sheathed Ice in his grip. He held it well; Ned couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as the boy stopped short of the rink. Though he kept his eyes on the ground, he held the six-foot blade like he knew what he was doing. 

“Thank you,” Ned said, taking the sword and working on unsheathing it. “What was your name?”

“M-me?” The boy stammered, looking up just long enough to catch Ned’s eye, turn beet red, and look down again. “My lord, I mean. I’m, uh, I’m Samwell. Tarly.”

“A Tarly? On the Wall?” The Greatjon laughed, paused, looked Samwell over, then laughed harder. The boy’s blush seemed to have passed his ears and gone down his neck; it was hard to tell under all his chins. “You’re the get of old Randyll? Hah!”

“That explains how you knew how to handle Ice,” Ned said more calmly, half out of pity for the boy. Still, curiosity burned in his chest—how had a son of the famously proud Randyll Tarly made it out to the Wall? Ned had met him only once, but he seemed of the typical Reach stock. Even if he had committed some grievous sin, a Tarly on the Wall would only bring shame to his family in the eyes of his kinsmen. How had Randyll allowed a son of his to end up here? “Heartsbane is the only other Valyrian greatsword in Westeros.”

“I held it, no more,” the boy mumbled, then dipped his head. Ned let him go with a wave of his hand, and the boy scampered off to the jeers of the other recruits. 

“What’s that pig doing up here?” The Greatjon snorted, and Ser Rodrik just shrugged, disapproving. 

“I certainly do not see him joining the Rangers,” Ned commented, stepping into the center of the ring. The Greatjon slung his sword over his shoulder as he took his own position, graciously allowing Ned a few moments to center himself and raise his sword before he did the same.

The interaction with the Tarly boy fled form his mind as the bout began; as they began to circle each other, Ned subtly transferred Ice’s weight to his left hand for a moment, testing his arm’s strength. There was still no pain, but his hand trembled a little bit with the weight. That wasn’t ideal; Ned returned to a balanced grip in the next step, eyeing the Greatjon. The man was a beast in sword and size, and with his left arm weakened, giving him a good fight would have to depend on Ned’s ability to keep himself balanced.

The moment after the thought crossed his mind, the Greatjon grew impatient. He gave him and made his first move, swinging his sword up and over his head to gather momentum into an overhead strike. The move was a probing blow; clearly telegraphed, Ned was able to step back, raise Ice, and block the strike long before it reached him. 

Their swords clanged apart, and each man moved with the imparted momentum. Ned went for a probing attack of his own, stepping forwards and aiming for the hip, but the Greatjon parried, nearly throwing him off his feet with the returning block. He pressed his subsequent advantage, forcing Ned back until he caught his balance and braced the weight of Ice on his good arm, blocking the next attack and twisting the blade down into a thrust. He ducked below the Greatjon’s reach, using his shorter height to his advantage to strike the man’s legs with the flat of his blade. 

One of the recruits from the Night’s Watch cheered, and the Greatjon grinned, allowing them to separate again. He lowered his blade in submission, resting the point on the ground, and Ned followed suit, breathing heavily. The exchange had hardly lasted a minute, but it had gotten his blood roaring by the end of it.

“A stunning move, my lord,” the Greatjon chuckled, loosening his posture. “If this wasn’t a practice bout, you might have crippled me for life! I fear the day you see battle again.”

“I believe our enemies shall fear you more, Lord Umber,” Ned replied back lightly, ignoring the twist in his chest at the reminder. The belief that a war of some kind was looming certainly seemed to be growing stronger among his vassals in recent weeks.

Before the Greatjon could undoubtedly challenge him to another round, another man entered the arena. Ned turned to see that it was Ser Jaremy, dressed in the black leathers of the Watch, and the knight bowed to him before continuing his approach. 

“Lord Stark,” he began. “Lord Commander Mormont has requested your presence in the Lord Commander’s Tower for business.”

His face was hard-set, however, and Ned knew almost instantly that the situation was serious. Still, he took his time to return to Ser Rodrik, who was holding his scabbard, and took it in hand. He looked around, and sure enough, the Tarly boy was still there watching them, though he seemed to be trying to be swallowed by the shadows of the armory. 

“Have the Tarly boy resheath my sword and return it to my quarters,” he instructed the old knight, who nodded. “He knows how to care for a blade such as this one. Come and join me as soon as you can.”

“As you say, my lord,” Ser Rodrik replied, dipping his head, and Ned moved over to meet Ser Jaremy, who waited for him at the edge of the ring. The man’s face was hard-set, and Ned frowned as he led them away.

“What is the matter?” He asked once they were out of earshot, and Jaremy’s frown deepened. 

“Best you see for yourself, my lord,” he answered, and Ned fell silent, uneasy. 

There was a commotion near the base of the Lord Commander’s Tower. As they approached, Ned spotted the old maester of the Watch being led over by his steward, draped in enough black cloaks to swallow him. Lord Commander Mormont was already at the scene, standing at the center of the group. At his feet laid the swaddled forms of two bodies.

Ned increased his pace. Mormont looked up at him as he pressed his way through the crowd, and he hoped the relief didn’t show clear on his face when he recognized neither of the men. 

“Lord Stark,” Mormont greeted as he came to a stop. “I thought it best to have you here. It seems that the rangers from Whitetree returned early this morning… with this.” He nodded at the man standing next to him, dressed in worn leathers and dusted in snow. If he had returned from ranging beyond the Wall, he hadn’t even changed yet.

“Ser Jarman Buckwell, my lord,” the ranger introduced himself, lips pursed. He knelt down next to the bodies, resting his fingers on the forehead of one of the corpses. “This was Othor.” He gestured at the other body. “And Jafer Flowers. Both capable rangers… and Benjen Stark’s men. We found them near the weirwood, hardly a half day’s ride north of the Wall, being pecked at by ravens.”

The cold pit in Ned’s stomach returned. Ben’s men, found dead so close to the Wall? It was not a good sign. 

Mormont seemed to share the same sentiment, glancing at Ned before gruffly addressing Jarman. “Benjen Stark had six men with him when he left. Where are the others?”

“Nowhere that I know,” the ranger replied. “We searched for an hour and could not find any others. The dog we had with us refused to scent the bodies, either.”

“Do we not keep a close eye on the lands near the Wall?” Mormont pressed, displeased. “Two men killed within a day’s ride of the Wall, yet it takes us months to find a sign of them? Othor was wearing a horn; do we presume that no one heard him sound it?”

“Perhaps he had no time to sound it,” said the voice of Ser Rodrik, gruff and cold. Ned glanced behind him to see the old knight come to his side. “A sneak attack would prevent him from sounding the alarm in time. Were there any wounds to the back of his head?”

Mormont looked to Jarman, who paused, then spoke. 

“He was killed by an axe to the side of his neck, it looks like. Impossible to say in which direction it came from.”

“Even if he sounded the horn, would it still be on his body?” Ned mused aloud. Then he paused, realizing, and looked up sharply. “Ser Jaremy, didn’t you tell me that the First Ranger’s blazes stopped near the highlands?”

“...Yes, my lord,” Jaremy said slowly, alarm creeping into his voice as he turned to the Lord Commander. “That’s nearly the opposite direction from the Weirwood grove, perhaps a day’s ride away. Benjen’s range was meant to head east towards the Milkwater, not northwest.”

If it were possible, the Lord Commander’s brow furrowed even further. “Then how in the gods’ good name did these bodies end up by the Weirwood?” He asked. 

No one answered him. The bodies of the two men laid as still as ever, sapphire-blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.

“It must have been the work of the wildlings,” Jaremy said after a moment, but Jarman shook his head.

“I would agree with you, if not for the fact that my men struggled to find any wildlings,” he replied. “Greentree, Bluetree, and Redtree are all deserted, and we found perhaps a half-dozen in Whitetree, all too old or sick to move.”

“The Wildlings are moving north? This close to autumn?”

“Or they are consolidating with a larger force, in a place not so easily seen,” Ned cut in, sending Mormont a look. The older man sighed, beard twitching as he ran a hand over his chin. A silence fell upon them, save for the murmurings of the maester’s steward, who was describing the scene to his blind master. 

“Tell me, Chett, where is the blood?” The maester, Aemon, asked. The steward blinked, then whispered a negative to him. “Then the corpses must be old. There would be blood if they were new.”

“But there is no rot,” Jarman protested. “No maggots or worms or signs of decomposition. They must be new, within the week at least.”

“Check the wounds,” the maester continued, his white eyes staring at nothing, yet seeming to bore into the side of Ned’s head. “Look for blood.”

Mormont nodded his assent, and Jarman did as he was told, gloved hand pulling down on the shawl covering Othor’s body. Doing so revealed a grievous wound to his neck as had been described, but the closer Ned looked, the more he realized that the maester was right. There was no seeping blood, only hard, congealed blood and firm, frozen flesh.

“Maester Aemon, I’ll leave the corpses to your care,” Mormont said after a long moment. “These are odd circumstances, and I would have them thoroughly investigated before we bury the bodies. Ser Jaremy, I want you to scour every rock, tree and path within ten leagues of the Weirwood tree. Take all the men you need. If any more of Benjen’s men are in this forest, we will find them.”

“You may take from my guards as well,” Ned cut in, and Mormont nodded in silent thanks for his offer. Even a dozen Winterfell guards would be of great help to the Watch, and for Benjen, such a sacrifice was more than worth it. 

The men began to disperse, some helping move the bodies to the ice caves, others returning to their duties. Ned frowned, something prickling at the back of his head as he thought.

Ravens. The Watch found the body thanks to ravens. Why does that bother me so?

Wake up, Eddard Stark, said the voice, an echo of months past. The raven on the windowsill cawed in his ears. 

“Something is odd here,” he finally said to Rodrik, moving away from the scene. “The maester was right to point out the peculiarities of the bodies. Men do not decompose in such a way.”

“Like as not, it was some Wildling encounter north of the Wall,” Ser Rodrik shrugged, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced of it. But Ned didn’t press any further, caught up in his own thoughts on such an odd mystery.

That night, Ned woke up to howling. 

It was loud enough that he sat up in bed, reaching for Catelyn and Bran’s name on his lips. He hadn’t heard howling like that… since the fall, when Bran had been crippled and the wolves had howled for days in response. 

The howl tapered off after a moment, then was replaced with a flurry of vicious barks. What was Lady up to, that Ned to could hear her all the way from his chambers in the King’s Tower? That was entirely unlike her.

He thought of Bran again, and the raven on the windowsill. Lady howled again. Men shouted in the yard.

Ned threw off his covers, decision made. Throwing on a surcoat and hurriedly lacing his boots, he grabbed the catspaw dagger with one hand and his overcoat with the other, donning it as he hurried down the stairs. It was cold, much colder than the previous nights; even inside the tower, where the hearths roared for warmth, his breath frosted in the air. 

He threw open the door to the castle and was blasted with an even colder wind that tore his breath away. Ned pushed through it, clenching his fist when his injured arm cramped in the fresh air, and looked about.

Men were stumbling into the yard, but Lady’s howls had stopped. Ned glanced around the yard; first he looked to the stables, but the door was wide open and swinging—had she broken through it? 

Ned gritted his teeth against the cold, boots crunching against the freshly-fallen snow as another man left the barracks. He recognized the man as Ser Jaremy after a moment, armed with an unsheathed short sword as he stalked across the clearing.

“Lord Stark,” Jaremy called, noticing him. Ned met him in the middle of the clearing. “Your wolf…”

“Doesn’t howl like this for no reason,” Ned cut him off, still looking for a sign of her. “The last time she howled… my son was thrown off a tower and crippled.”

Jaremy frowned, but was cut off from replying when Lady appeared near the ranger’s barracks. Ned moved towards her almost immediately, his walk increasing to a run when he spotted something wriggling in her jaws. A moment later, he realized it was a person, covered in black rags and with strips of white cloth hanging off of him, giving him an ethereal look in the silvery light of the moon.

“Get back!” Jaremy shouted suddenly, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him to a stop. Ned did as was bid, about to question the knight when he saw that he had gone completely white, like a ghost. 

Ned looked back at the person… whose skin was white as snow, eyes blue as the moon as he writhed. An arm ripped out of its socket when Lady yanked at him; without missing a beat, the corpse lunged at them. Jaremy threw Ned behind him, brandishing his sword, but Lady was back upon him a moment later, tackling him— it— back to the ground.

“Seven hells,” Jaremy breathed, terror clear on his face, as two rangers stumbled out of the barracks, half dressed but undoubtedly alarmed at Jaremy’s shout. Ned stared at the corpse, and was suddenly a child again, sitting at Old Nan’s knee as she wove fables of monsters that lurked in the night.

“An Other,” he said, quietly, and then the alarm grew further. “There were two,” he added, speaking loudly this time as panic set in. “The other dead ranger; where’s the other?!”

The Night’s Watch men looked between themselves, lost, and Ned realized that the door to the Lord Commander’s Tower was open, swinging soundlessly in the air. 

It all clicked together.

“Hold the corpse!” He shouted at the two rangers, then sprinted towards the open tower. Jaremy cursed behind him and followed suit by the sound of it, but Ned didn’t spare any time to look, taking the steps two at a time as he raced up the stairs. “MORMONT!” He bellowed a warning, but received no reply. 

The air grew colder as they moved, if it were even possible. Ned unsheathed his dagger and clutched it tight in his good hand as he jumped over the sprawled body of a guard, his head twisted around almost entirely. 

The door to the Lord Commander’s solar was wide open. Ned slowed to a crawl as he reached the entrance, Ser Jaremy a breath behind him as he crept into the room. The drapes had been pulled, leaving the room a pure, pitch black, but he could see movement in Mormont’s sleeping cell, in the shape of a person in the leathers of the Watch, but torn and bloodied. Ice-blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark of the room as he hovered over the bed, where the Lord Commander slept.

“Over here, you bastard!” Jaremy shouted, running forwards to meet it. Ned dashed ahead, his eyes on the heavy drapes as the knight went for the attack, shouting for assistance from anyone who might hear. 

He reached them a moment later, and yanked on them so hard that the supporting rod broke with them, its fall sending a vicious ringing against the stone as moonlight cascaded through the room. Mormont’s form shifted, sitting up and saying something with alarm, but Ned paid him no mind, vaulting over his bed with the dagger in hand when he saw Jaremy topple over, his sword sticking through the corpse’s gut. 

But dead men felt no pain. The Other straddled its opponent, digging its fingers into Jaremy’s eyes and mouth, wherever it would reach, and its distraction was enough that Ned was able to take the dagger and plunge it through the thing’s neck. It hollered and screamed, bucking up with inhuman strength, but Ned gritted his teeth and pinned the thing between him and Ser Jaremy, continuing to saw at the neck. 

To his surprise, after he was perhaps halfway through the firm, icy flesh, the Other’s movements slowed, allowing Jaremy to roll out from underneath them. Ned kept at it, batting away weakened blows and scratches to the chest before he succeeded in separating the head from the body. Both limbs continued to move, but slower and weaker, and as Ned watched, gasping for breath, eventually stilled entirely.

A putrid smell filled the air.

“What in the god’s name is going on?” Lord Commander Mormont asked, still on the other side of the room. Ned looked up to see him in his night robe, watching them in confusion. 

“Seven hells,” was all Ser Jaremy gasped in reply, sounding as if he might be sick. Ned glanced over to see that the Other’s fingers had gouged his face, leaving rivulets of blood seeping down his face like tears.

“Lord Commander,” Ned grunted, getting to his feet. He stumbled some, the world spinning around him for a moment as the shock of the night eased, but managed to catch his balance before he fell. “Best we burn any other bodies that make their way past the Wall.” He turned to Jaremy next, fingering the catspaw blade in his hand. “Valyrian steel killed the beast when regular steel did not.”

“The Lord Commander has a bastard sword of Valyrian steel, Longclaw,” Jaremy replied, nodding. “We must search the rest of the castle for attackers. There might be more.”

Ned doubted it, but nodded nonetheless. Best to be sure. 

“Explain what happened to the Lord Commander, then find the maester,” he commanded, nodding at Jaremy’s wounds. “I must go see the men, but get the other sword in case it is needed.”

He didn’t wait for Mormont to voice the questions he undoubtedly had, turning to get back down the stairs. As he hurried down, it became apparent that there were more people outside shouting, and when he emerged back outside, a gaggle of men had surrounded the place where the first corpse had been caught by Lady. Sansa’s wolf was still growling, and Ned hurried to check on her and the Other she had caught. 

“You! Tarly!” He shouted, spotting the boy from the morning prior peeking out of the barracks, his face as pale as milk. “Fetch my greatsword and wake Ser Rodrik and the Greatjon immediately!”

The boy’s mouth flapped, but he nodded and ran as best he could over to the King’s Tower. Ned pushed his way through the growing crowd to see that Lady still had the first corpse pinned to the ground, though she was now being helped by two men of the Night’s Watch and a spare sword. It fought as strongly as ever, though, and even with two men and a direwolf, it was clear they were struggling. 

“M’lord,” one of the men grunted, and Ned saw that he was one of the recruits that had been watching at the yard yesterday, the large one. He was holding a wriggling severed arm as far away from his body as he could, looking sick. 

“Set it down,” he told the boy, and he did as he was told. Ned took the catspaw dagger and plunged it into the hand of the severed arm, pinning it to the ground. He withdrew his hand and observed; sure enough, after a few moments the limb’s movement weakened, and after a further few minutes ceased. The rest of the body, however, continued to thrash and scream behind him. Lady growled louder.

“Valyrian steel kills it,” he announced to the crowd. “Fire, too, if the legends are to be believed.”

A moment later, Samwell reappeared, an unsheathed Ice in shaking hands. Ned silently commended the boy for not cutting himself with such a tremble, and took the blade. 

“Step back,” he commanded the two men holding the corpse, and they did so, scrabbling backwards until Lady, pinning it to the ground by the shoulders and holding the head under her belly, was the only one left. 

As soon as they were clear, Ned raised Ice high above him, as if to commit a beheading, but cut at the torso instead. He didn’t get all the way through, and it required another cut to completely separate both halves, the legs kicking into nothing and the remaining arm squirming. As with the arm and the other corpse, each slowly ceased in their movements.

“We need to burn it,” someone said from the crowd, and Ned nodded. 

“Do so,” he replied, and someone scurried off to find a torch as he continued. “The other one was killed in the Lord Commander’s chambers. It will need to be burned as well.”

More men peeled off, and Ned hung back as the rest burst into frenzied, fearful whispers. He leaned on Ice for a moment, suddenly exhausted, before composing himself and drawing up again. Samwell silently picked up the catspaw blade and returned it to him, and Ned slipped it into his belt, the sheath having been lost somewhere in the chaos of the night. 

“NED!” Came a bellow from across the yard, and he looked up to see the Greatjon burst out from the tower, finally roused from his slumber. He appeared to have hastily grabbed one of his men’s swords; on him, it looked puny, but he waved it in the air anyways. “What’s going on?”

Ned didn’t answer for a long moment, entirely unsure himself. It had been decades since he had given the stories of his childhood any sort of credence, yet here in front of him stood the very evidence of it, a mystery brought south of the Wall. 

If there are more of these up north, with the Wildlings… he thought, but stopped himself. Now was not the time for such musings. 

“Winter,” he finally replied, looking back down at the corpse. 

Its eyes were a dull, earthen brown. 

Chapter Text

“This must be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” muttered Lord Renly Baratheon, one hand going to cover his mouth so he could stifle a laugh. His words were just audible enough that Robb, sitting at his side, could hear him.

Robb was also having difficulty holding back his amusement. He sat back in his chair, doing his best to keep his composure as he took in the sight of Joffrey Baratheon getting his ass handed to him on the model battlefield. It was less fancy than the models of King’s Landing that Robb often used, but the map and figurines Ser Barristan had laid out for them represented the much larger area of the marshes near Rosby. 

“You must think further ahead than the immediate reward, my Prince,” Ser Barristan said, somehow keeping his cool as he pushed Joffrey’s model infantry back to their starting position for the third time. “And of your surroundings. Your foot soldiers will not be able to cross the marsh in any reasonable amount of time—House Darklyn’s archers will rout them long before then.”

“This is stupid,” Joffrey huffed, raising a hand as if to swipe all the pieces off the board. At Barristan’s warning look, however, the boy resorted to sulking in his chair, crossing his arms with a fierce scowl. “My men would cross the marsh in time if they knew what was good for them.”

“And would royal disfavour grant them wings?” Barristan raised an eyebrow. “It is a matter of fact. Your infantry cannot cross the marsh in a timely manner. Try again, Prince Joffrey.”

Joffrey hunched down, still muttering under his breath. Renly’s amusement was almost palpable now, though somehow the prince hadn’t noticed his uncle’s mockery. Robb shook his head, sitting up to get a better view of the model battlefield.

It was a mockup of a battle from some centuries past that neither he nor Joffrey had been taught about yet, which was precisely why Ser Barristan had chosen it. In the past few weeks, their joint lessons had shifted from the logistics of supplying an army to actual battle tactics. Oftentimes, that left him or Joffrey trying to logic their way through a scenario the Kingsguard knight thought of for them, like today.

Joffrey didn’t do very well.

“Then I’ll send my horses through the marsh!” The prince declared, and Robb looked up in time to see Ser Barristan sigh. Renly snorted.

It was the first time Renly had sat in on one of their lessons, and Robb had a feeling that at least part of Joffrey’s rising frustration was being made to look like a fool in front of his uncle. Renly himself had said something about brushing up on his own lessons when he had come to visit, but clearly he was just here to see Joffrey try the same tactic over and over again, expecting a different result each time.

“Very well.” Barristan turned in his seat, indicating for Robb to stand up and make his way over. He did so, peering down the arranged pieces as he moved. On one side were the Darklyns, an extinct house who had once ruled Duskendale, and on the other were the Mootons of Maidenpool. “Robb, tell me how the Mootons should press their attack.”

Robb pressed his lips together, studying the field. Joffrey had been playing the Mootons, whose forces consisted of two battalions of mounted knights, and one of spearmen and archers. They outnumbered the enemy Darklyns, who had mostly pikemen, with a contingent of archers and cavalry. However, between them sat a deep marsh, which had prevented all of Joffrey’s attempts to reach his opponent.

“Simple. I’d go around the marsh with my knights,” he finally said, taking the knight piece off the board. He rearranged the Mooton forces, ignoring Joffrey snorting in derision behind him. He placed the knights in front, followed by the archers and then the spearmen. “Half to go left and half to go right, in a pincer maneuver. My first goal would be to catch the Darklyn cavalry and destroy them before they have a chance to regroup.”

”Excellent,” Barristan nodded at him in approval, removing the Darklyn piece from the board. “That would be a successful strategy, at least at first. The Darklyns have lost their horse, but now their pikemen have moved into defensive positions. How do you break them?”

“...I can’t use my cavalry,” Robb replied after a moment, pushing the Mooton piece back. “The spears would kill my horses before any of my knights got in range.”

“You are correct. So what else can you try?”

Robb looked over the board again. Out of the corner of his eye, Joffrey had dropped all pretenses and was openly glaring at him. Robb met his eye for a moment, then smirked at him before returning his attention to the board. Prick.  

“Well, I still have my infantry. While I wait for them to arrive, I’ll run down the Darklyn archers. The spearmen won’t be able to attack without breaking their defensive position, so they aren’t a threat. Once the rest of my force arrives, I’ll just have my own archers fire on them until they break, then run down the rest with my pikemen.”

Ser Barristan nodded, and when Robb looked over at him, there was approval in his eyes. Robb drew himself up and dipped his head as behind him, Renly clapped slowly. Joffrey scowled.

“Correct, Robb. That is almost exactly what the Mootons did. The battle was a rout and the Darklyns eventually lost the war. Prince Joffrey, do you know why that strategy was successful?”

Joffrey muttered something mutinous-sounding under his breath, and Ser Barristan shot him another sharp look. 

“I must think ahead,” the prince finally conceded, reciting what the knight had told him earlier—and every other time they practiced battle tactics. Ser Barristan nodded.

“You will understand soon enough. Lord Robb is two and a half years your elder, don’t be discouraged when he has more experience than you.”

“He’s good, though,” Renly said, standing up. Joffrey crossed his arms, almost pouting when his uncle laid a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you could learn a thing or two from him.” Joffrey scowled even deeper, and Renly laughed. “Or maybe not.”

“That will conclude our exercises for the day,” Barristan cut in, standing up as he shook his head. Renly removed his hand with a shrug as Joffrey shot to his feet.

“Good day,” he huffed, and was out of the room a moment later. 

“You have your hands full with that one,” Renly remarked as the door swung shut. Barristan sighed, shoulders slumping a little as he started gathering up the pieces. “My nephew isn’t exactly bright.”

“He is just… impatient,” Barristan hedged, and Robb bent down to roll up the map. “As most children are wont to be. He will mature with age.”

Renly made a disbelieving sound, and Robb couldn’t help but agree. The maturity of the prince had been something he had been excusing his behavior with for months, and it only grew less believable with time. 

“Mayhaps the Queen will finally agree to let him squire,” Renly suggested. “Some good hard work would stop this sniveling. He’s coming to the age where he should go and see the world; I’ve been trying to convince her to let me take him to Storm’s End for weeks now. Loras could teach him much about being a knight.”

And you could bully him in the open, Robb thought, putting the map away. He disliked Joffrey as much as the next man, but he knew that Renly’s disdain for the prince would not express itself in any constructive way. The King’s youngest brother was vindictive like that, and slow to forget any personal victory; he was still mocking Ser Jaime for losing to Ser Loras in the joust two months after it had happened.

“As you say.” Barristan turned to Robb then, clapping him on the shoulder with a slight smile. “Ignore him, my lord. Lord Renly likes to complain.”

“I know, Ser Barristan,” Robb replied, bowing shallowly. Renly barked a laugh, unoffended. “May I take my leave?”

“Aye, you may. Lord Renly and I have a meeting with the Small Council we must attend, so we must be on our way as well.”

“I had forgotten about that,” Renly sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And here I thought Lord Varys would have taken some mercy on us who went on the hunt. I don’t have a mind for politics right now.”

Robb wasn’t surprised. He’d gone on the boar hunt with the men of the King’s court a half moon past, riding halfway to Storm’s End before they’d tracked it down. Contrary to his prior experiences boar hunting with Father in Winterfell, it had consisted more of constant drinking and nightly parties than any real hunting.

It had bothered him. When the King had asked Robb to squire for him during the hunt, Robb had thought that he would be at the head of the attack, learning more about statecraft and how to communicate with one’s bannermen. Instead, all he’d done was try to prevent King Robert from drinking himself to death. Jon had gotten the better end of the deal, taking the wolves on his own and felling half a dozen deer by the time it was all over.

Renly hadn’t been innocent of the activities either, which was probably another reason why he had spent the morning observing his and Joffrey’s lessons instead of taking to the yard like he normally did.

Many of the men seemed to be nursing eternal hangovers, and Robb was very thankful that Father had taught him to drink in moderation. A Lord must always be of a sound mind before his men, he’d said, and the lesson had only been reinforced during his time at the King’s court.

“The affairs of the Seven Kingdoms do not stop just for one man’s headache,” Barristan replied, a little sharply. Renly shrugged, unrepentant, then clapped Robb’s shoulder as he walked over to the door.

“Are you coming with us again?” He asked. “You were a great cupbearer at our last meeting, and you’re always talking about learning more about the kingdom.”

“You just want good wine, Renly,” Barristan scoffed, passing them by, but gave Robb an appraising look. “But I see no reason why he cannot.”

“I cannot be expected to be fully sober if I’m going to be in the same room as Tywin Lannister, Littlefinger and Lord Varys,” Renly sniffed, and Robb hurried after the two as they left the room.

“I’ve received no indication otherwise,” he said, coming up on Renly’s free side. “I would be honored to join you again. I learn a lot at the Small Council meetings.”

“Seven knows why you want to spend so much time hearing about tax policies.” Renly shook his head. “Seven knows why I agreed to be Master of Laws. I suppose I must keep the job now, though, if only to be the bane of our Lord Hand a little longer. Robert won’t let him dismiss me as long as I keep on showing up!”

“It is an honor to serve the kingdom,” Barristan cut in, stern now. “And a necessity. I find it quite reassuring that the next Lord of Winterfell wants to learn all he can about governance. These are the lessons you are supposed to be learning while in King’s Landing, Lord Robb. Ignore Lord Renly.”

“As you say, Ser,” Robb bowed his head, and smiled a little as Renly snorted in offense.

Conversation died there, and the rest of their walk to the Small Council Chambers was spent with little more than small talk. It was a beautiful day, at least, and as they crossed the inner bailey, Robb caught sight of Jon and his friend, Peck, hurrying across the yard. Both of them were carrying large pails of water, making for an amusing sight as they struggled not to spill any. Jon didn’t notice him, and so Robb let him pass and continue on with his work.

The chambers of the Small Council was a small hall near the throne room, guarded by two captains of the Redcloaks that he didn’t recognize. They dipped their heads in unison and stepped aside as Renly and Barristan approached, and Robb slipped in behind them without a word.

Lord Tywin Lannister was already present, as Robb had expected, sitting at the head of the great table in the middle of the room. Varys and Littlefinger were also present, the former speaking with the Hand, and Littlefinger nodded at Robb as he passed them by and moved into the adjoining room, where the drinks were kept.

Robb heard more than saw Grand Maester Pycelle enter a few minutes later, more signified by his tittering than his presence. The elderly man was giving his greetings to Tywin as Robb re-entered the main room with the wine, and looked up as he approached to fill their cups before the main meeting began. 

Tywin Lannister spared Robb a glance as he filled his cup, but otherwise didn’t break his conversation with Lord Varys to address him. That was fairly normal. Tywin had spoken to him briefly the first time he had served as cupbearer for the Small Council, but not much since. He seemed to resolve most of his time to addressing the affairs of the kingdom, which were many.

Usually, the seat at the head of the table was reserved for the King, but Robb had swiftly learned that he hadn’t been a regular attendant of these meetings for a long time. In all reality, it was Lord Tywin who ran the kingdom—and House Lannister who reaped the benefits.

That wasn’t a good thing. Even if he hadn’t known about what Jon had overheard in the secret passage below the Red Keep, it was becoming increasingly obvious to anyone who paid attention that Tywin was the most powerful man in the kingdom. And he was maneuvering to make it so House Lannister was to become the ruling family of the kingdom in all but name, long before Joffrey would come to the throne.

According to Jon, who had his contacts in the Redcloaks, Tywin was still pushing to break Sansa’s betrothal with Joffrey when she came to visit King’s Landing and replace it with a match between him and Myrcella. It had been a minor miracle when Mother had written about her most recent pregnancy and decision to remain in Riverrun. His excitement at having a new sibling aside, the extended delay had given him and Jon more time to try and figure a way out of this mess.

So Robb had started pushing to be included in the Small Council meetings as a cupbearer. It had only taken a few comments with the King and Ser Barristan to get him in, and it seemed that Tywin hadn’t truly minded either.

His education aside, being a cupbearer had given Robb something to do other than sit back on his hands and wait to hear about whatever Jon was getting up to in his escapades in the Keep’s secret passageways. He felt like he had to be doing something, else all of his nervous energy would pile up inside of him until it burst.

“It is time we get started, gentlemen,” Tywin announced, just as Robb finished filling Renly’s goblet. He stepped around the edge of the table and moved to the back of the room, contenting himself to listen until he was needed again. “Lord Stannis will not be joining us.”

“I thought that was obvious,” Renly snorted, raising his eyes towards the ceiling. “I told you that he would find some way to refuse your summons. He’s sequestered himself away on Dragonstone since…” he hummed, thinking. “Lord Arryn passed, I believe. Such a shame. I didn’t know they were so close.”

“If he will not fulfill his role in King’s Landing, we will have to find someone who will,” Tywin said, glancing at the Lord of Storm’s End. Renly only raised an eyebrow. “I have already sent for a summons. Sebastian Farman, the Lord of Fair Isle, has commanded the Lannister fleet for nearly five years. He will do well here.”

“A wise choice, I am sure,” Petyr Baelish, or Littlefinger, spoke up, taking a sip of his drink. “And the king has approved him?”

“He will,” Tywin replied, and Littlefinger inclined his head in response. “But we have more important matters to speak on. Lord Varys, the King has been asking for a report on the assassin sent after Daenerys Targaryen.”

“There is little I can say,” the Master of Whispers said, spreading his hands wide. “The Dothraki savages she has been traveling with have made their way to their home city of Vaes Dothrak, on the far side of the world. Any news will take weeks to reach us, even by raven.”

Robb resisted the urge to start in surprise. This was not something he was aware of—this must have been a plot in the works before he had become cupbearer. He knew little of Daenerys Targaryen, save that she was the daughter of the mad Aerys Targaryen, the king who had started Robert’s Rebellion, and that she had been in exile across the Narrow Sea in Essos ever since. He had no idea what she was doing with the famously savage Dothraki, or why the king thought a disgraced former princess from halfway across the world was a threat.

“Find something of worth to say to him, because the king is demanding results of some kind. This doesn’t seem to be one of his passing whimsies, and we all know that King Robert is not a patient man.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Varys demurred, and Tywin nodded, satisfied. 

The discussion continued, and Robb spent it in silence, soaking in everything he could. Most of the affairs of the kingdom centered around money—specifically, the lack of it. Apparently, the profits from the Tourney and the King’s hunt of the previous months had barely cut even with the cost of their extravagance. At one point, Littlefinger and Tywin haggled over the pay of the City Watch for fifteen minutes before the Hand finally gave in and agreed to supplement their ranks with some of his own officers from the Redcloaks.

The realm was bleeding money, truly. Robb was astonished at the wastefulness of it all. In Winterfell, any extra money or supplies went towards trade and investment for the future, all with the goal of surviving the oncoming winter. Now that autumn was clearly approaching, he would have expected King’s Landing to do the same, except they were too busy trying to keep the city running for the next month to bother. The thought sat uneasy in his stomach as he listened to their deliberations. 

“News has come from Winterfell,” Tywin said an hour later, drawing Robb out of his inner musings with a jerk. “It seems Lord Stark has called his northernmost bannermen to the castle for a summit of sorts.”

“For what?” Renly snorted into his goblet. Robb had refilled it twice already, and he was clearly a little drunk by now. “Panicking over winter already?”

“Oldtown believes winter is several years away yet,” Maester Pycelle put in, shaking his head. “This summer was long; autumn will be as well. We have plenty of time.”

“It’s to address the Wildlings, or so he claims,” Tywin said, raising a yellowed strip of parchment that Robb recognized as a raven’s letter. “Lord Stark is not yet calling his banners, but he is meeting with his lords. He wishes to inform us of a possible conflict that might be starting there soon, and request further economic support for a campaign so close to winter.”

“Aren’t the Wildlings held back by the Wall?” Littlefinger said, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t see how any sizable force could bypass it if the stories are true.”

“The Wall isn’t impenetrable,” Robb cut in, frowning. All heads in the room turned to him, none appraisingly save for Ser Barristan, who had also remained quiet throughout the meeting, but he held himself strong. “My lords. There have been many occasions where a Wildling army has threatened the North. Such a thing may be happening again.”

“Is that so?” Renly tilted his head, his blue eyes swaying a little. Robb resolved not to fill his drink again, lest he embarrass himself. “Those savages?”

“Young Robb is right,” Tywin said, setting aside the letter. He glanced over at him, and unlike Renly, his green eyes were sharp and piecing. Robb straightened his posture under them. “We need only look back to the reign of King Maekar I. The Wildings penetrated as far as the Long Lake then, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, my lord,” Robb replied, impressed. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall, Raymun Redbeard, defeated the Umbers and the Flints in separate battles before killing my great-great grandfather, Willam Stark, at Long Lake. It was only after Willam’s brother, Artos, slew him in revenge that the war was won.” He paused then, glancing around the table, then added: “King Maekar offered us no help.”

“Well, the Starks defeated them in the end, didn’t they?” Renly shrugged, taking another swig of his drink, and Ser Barristan shook his head in embarrassment as Robb bit back a retort at his rudeness. 

“It seems to me that your father has caught this matter early,” Tywin said, looking even more dissatisfied with Renly’s cavalier attitude. Robb was certain that if Renly wasn’t the King’s brother, Tywin would have replaced him a long time ago. “So for now I will only keep an eye on the situation.”

Robb nodded, and the conversation continued. 

“And what of the Greyjoys on Pyke?” Ser Barristan said after a moment, folding his hands in front of him. “There are rumors that they are rebuilding their great fleet, in violation of our treaty, and unlike Ned Stark, their loyalty is very much in question.”

“Balon wouldn’t dare try to rebel again,” Renly sniffed. “Not after the trouncing we gave him last time. All that besides, we’ve got his heir. If anything happens…” he mimed cutting at his neck. “Bye-bye, Greyjoy line.”

Robb winced, and was glad the attention in the room had shifted away from him before his unease could be noticed. He’d heard the rumors about the increased activity on the islands of Pyke and Great Wyk—or Jon had, and Robb had heard of it from him. He hoped desperately this was all a misunderstanding. He’d always known that Theon was a hostage, but the thought of Father actually having to carry out his duties made Robb sick to his stomach. Surely Balon wouldn’t risk his only son?

“Balon Greyjoy has three brothers,” Tywin reminded the group, which only made Robb’s insides sink further. “And their rules of succession are not always… as honorable as ours. The more time the Greyjoy heir spends away from his homeland, the less leverage he has as a hostage. We must not forget that the Ironborn can be just as savage as the Wildlings, and they don’t have a wall to climb over. Varys,” he turned to the Master of Whispers. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing from my contacts,” Varys replied lightly. “But I know a few who are able to look into this matter. A few days, my lord, and I should have an answer for you.”

“Very well.” Tywin leaned back in his seat, nodding at some unspoken thought. “We will discuss it further at next week’s meeting. That is all I have for you today.”

The men nodded and began to shuffle out. Tywin remained in his seat, clearly contemplating something, as Robb took the goblets and set them aside to be cleaned by the maids later. He hurried with his work, heart beating in his chest as he mulled over the last topic. Theon wouldn’t be put in danger by his own father. Balon Greyjoy surely wasn’t stupid enough to sacrifice his heir over a rebellion that he couldn’t win. 

He remembered, quite suddenly, Theon’s comment from when he’d found out about Robb’s fostering. Maybe your father will actually write back.

Balon had never replied to any of Theon’s letters.

“Lord Robb,” Tywin said suddenly, right as he was about to leave. Robb froze, surprised, but turned to face the Hand of the King. Everyone else had left by now, and Robb realized, quite suddenly, that he had never been alone with Tywin Lannister before.

“Lord Tywin,” he replied after a moment, bowing shallowly. 

“I hear you’re a smart boy,” Tywin continued, looking down at the letter from Father. His eyes flicked up at him after a moment. “Well-educated. Tell me of the military might of the North. Would your father need military assistance, if the Wildlings or the Greyjoys invaded today?”

Robb swallowed against the patronizing nature of the comment and focused on the actual question, thinking back to Maester Luwin’s lessons from a year past. It took him a moment, but eventually the numbers came back to mind. He ran them in his head for a moment before he responded.

“Alone? No, not at all. My Father is forward-thinking and the summer has been long; we are perhaps at the strongest we’ve been in many years. Like you said, Father has caught the Wildling threat early, and…” he trailed off for a moment, catching himself before he could say something that could be construed as very rude to the Warden of the West. “The Greyjoys don’t have much of a history of invading the North.”

Tywin regarded him for a moment, then glanced down at his papers again. Though he was very clearly thinking about something, his expression remained impassive, and Robb could not decipher what the Hand was trying to get at. 

“And if both attacked at the same time?” He prodded further, and Robb raised an eyebrow.

“My lord, I find that very unlikely—”

“Humor me.”

What was his goal here? To try and figure out how strong the North was? If they were still an advantageous pawn to seek control over? Robb resisted the urge to bite his lip, and chose his next words carefully. “A two-front war would be much more difficult, but far from impossible. The lands near the Wall have run fallow and are unpopulated, and the Stony Shore is the same. Both the Ironborn and the Wildlings would have to travel far to raid or reave successfully. Neutralizing them with the help of the Mormonts and the Mallisters would be a simple affair.”

“And the Wildlings?”

“The Umbers and the Karstarks are strong, capable houses. My Father summoned them to Winterfell for more than their geographic advantage—I’m confident in their ability to withhold any Wildling invasion alongside the Night’s Watch.”

Tywin nodded, looking satisfied. Had Robb answered him correctly? Was this conversation of any importance, even? It was impossible to tell, and he felt hopelessly out of his depth as he maneuvered the interaction. How did Jon do this regularly with Varys?

“I’ll be sure to pass on your confidence to the King, when I report these goings on to him,” Tywin said, drawing Robb out of his thoughts. “You are dismissed.”

“Good day, my lord.” Robb bowed, and Tywin returned to his paperwork, frowning, as he left. 

Outside, the sun had begun its descent towards the castle walls. Robb watched it for a moment, eyes adjusting to the light, before he continued on. 

He’d have to ask Jon about these developments. Perhaps he would have some idea of what to do.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon by the time Jon was finally finished with his work for the day. The sun cast long shadows across the Red Keep, casting the reddening leaves of the godswood trees in a crimson glow. Most people had gathered to take their supper by this point, and so the grove of trees—more a garden, really, with little resemblance to the godswood at Winterfell—was deserted. 

Ghost trotted out to meet him only a few strides in; somehow he always seemed to know when Jon was coming to visit. The fur around his muzzle was slightly bloodied, and Jon supposed that he had just finished eating. His direwolf, now passing his waist in size and still growing, snuffled as Jon reached out and ruffled his fur. 

“No, don’t lick me!” He exclaimed when Ghost lurched forward, tongue swiping out. Jon barely avoided getting his doublet ruined with the freshly-bloodied remnants of his wolf’s meal, though he got a faceful of rotten breath for his efforts. “Ugh! Gross! Is this what I get for coming with treats?”

Ghost snuffled again, shook his head, and trotted away. Jon had a feeling his wolf was quite satisfied with himself, and sighed as he moved to follow him. Jon hadn’t been able to visit Ghost for the past week; Mychel Crane was about to be knighted, and Ser Arys had him running all over to get ready for the ceremony. Robb had gone out hunting with the wolves while he’d been busy, he knew, but the trips didn’t feel like they counted if Jon wasn’t out there with them. The last time he and Ghost had been together for any length of time had been during the king’s boar hunt, but that was almost three months ago now.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he resolved, more to himself than anything as he scratched Ghost’s neck. He knew Ghost didn’t like being cooped up in the godswood like this, and Jon really did try to take him out in the Kingswood as often as he could. He knew Grey Wind felt the same. “One day we’ll go back north, and you’ll get your pick of the wolfswood.”

That time was far off yet, though. Robb would return home for his sixteenth nameday, which was nine months off now, but Jon would remain with the Kingsguard until Ser Arys saw it fit to knight him. Mychel Crane still beat him regularly in the training yard, and he was considered rather young to be knighted, being eight and ten. 

“Three years isn’t too bad, Ghost,” Jon said aloud, keeping his hand on his wolf’s neck as they walked in the direction of the heart tree. It felt more like a consolation to himself than to his companion. “Where is Grey Wind, anyways?”

Ghost sniffed the air, then pressed forwards. Jon followed after him, and after a few minutes the heart tree came into view. Off to one side, by the benches that lined the small clearing surrounding the great oak, Jon caught sight of his brother’s wolf. Meera Reed was there as well, running a hand over his fur, though that didn’t surprise him. Meera Reed spent most of her time in the godswood, claiming that she disliked the chaos of the Red Keep. Jon believed her when she gave the excuse, but he also had a feeling that wasn’t the whole story. The crannogmen were an odd bunch, he was quickly finding, and the eldest child of Lord Howland Reed was no exception.

“How am I not surprised to see you here?” He said by way of greeting. Meera turned to face him, then smiled wryly, making room for him on the bench. Jon took the silent invitation and sat down next to her. “I’m starting to think that you like the wolves more than my brother and I.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Meera remarked, her voice light with amusement. “I simply don’t have a role here in the palace, so I have time to spare. Spending it here, near the heart tree, is better than trying to sit with the Princess’ ladies.”

“So I hear,” Jon chuckled. “Robb complains about them enough!”

“Princess Myrcella sees me as competition.” Meera’s eyes were twinkling now, belaying her amusement at the situation. Jon passed her some of the treats he brought for the wolves, a small handful of blueberries, which Grey Wind snapped up with a chuff. Ghost nudged Jon’s arm, and he passed him some as well to keep things even. “So I try to stay out of her way.”

The reminder of the plots ensnaring the Red Keep made Jon frown, and he leaned back in his seat. “She’s determined as ever to marry Robb, I see.”

“She’s nine, and Robb is a nice young man. I hardly blame her.”

“Neither do I,” Jon shook his head. “But it’s what Tywin Lannister wants.”

Meera glanced at him. “A good point,” she conceded, holding out her hand. Jon passed her the bag of blueberries so she could continue feeding the wolves. “Have you figured out what his plan is yet?”

“The goal is obvious enough,” Jon replied, glancing about and lowering his voice to ensure that they weren’t overheard. “Tywin Lannister wants his hands in every major family in the Seven Kingdoms, in one way or another. It’s all about power for him, and that’s easy enough to understand. It’s the methods that confuse me.”

“Bran.”

“Bran.” Jon swallowed against the memory of his little brother’s broken body at the base of the First Keep. It still haunted him, from time to time. The thought of anything happening to the North was nerve wracking, but his little siblings being involved… the mere idea horrified him. “Why would anyone attack Bran?”

Meera pursed her lips, clearly thinking very deeply. Jon watched her for a moment as she passed some berries over to Ghost. Grey Wind, very upset that he was being left out, shoved himself between them, and Jon couldn’t help but chuckle as she gave in and fed Robb’s wolf some as well.

“I think Bran is very important,” she said softly. “Though I don’t know exactly why. My younger brother, Jojen, is convinced that he is at the center of things.”

Jon’s frown deepened. He hadn’t heard her talk of this before. “What makes him think that? Bran’s eight, and a cripple now besides.”

Meera hesitated, and when she spoke again, she had lowered her voice so much that Jon had to lean in to hear her.

“My brother sees things, sometimes. Things that come to pass days or weeks later. It is called the greensight by my people. Dreams and omens that signify what is to come to pass. For weeks before I left home, Jojen dreamt near nightly of ravens and wolves. He thought they were there to tell him something about Bran.”

“Greensight,” Jon repeated, not quite sure whether he believed it. “That sounds like the old stories I was taught when I was still in the nursery.”

Meera snorted, but she looked only amused as she ruffled Grey Wind’s ears. “Like the Night King and the Others? The Last Hero? The stories all come from somewhere.”

“Embellished by hundreds of years of oral tradition. Maester Luwin taught my siblings and I how easily fact can turn into fiction when it is spread by word of mouth.”

Meera’s hand tightened around Grey Wind’s scruff, and she steered his head towards Jon until he was meeting the wolf’s golden gaze directly. “What about the stories of the warg kings, who raised their direwolves from birth to obey their every whim? Surely you were taught about the War of the Wolves.”

Suddenly uneasy, Jon looked away and rolled his eyes. “I’m not a warg, Meera; they don’t exist. Ghost and Grey Wind have been raised by hand and trained to be loyal.” They’re only animals, he almost said, but the words stuck in his throat, so wrong that they died before he could give them life.

“Believe what you wish,” Meera shrugged, loosening her grip and tossing a few more berries Grey Wind’s way. “I won’t even fault you for it; Jojen isn’t right all of the time. But perhaps it is something to consider. Maybe your brother has been chosen by the gods for something, and that is what placed him in the crosshairs of this plot.”

“It still doesn’t explain what necessitated his death,” Jon said, gladly taking the change in subject. “What he might have seen that day.”

“Varys hasn’t told you?” Meera asked, and Jon shook his head.

“The eunuch tells me nothing, but what else is new? He plays his riddles and sends his birds around the city, and trails me everywhere he can.” Jon sighed, looking about once more. They were still alone. “I feel like the godswood is the only place he cannot follow me.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game with that man.” Ghost’s ears flattened, as if sensing Jon’s rising apprehension, and Jon placed a hand between his ears to placate him. “I’m not sure about this arrangement you have with Lord Varys. He’s manipulating you.”

“I know. But have a little faith; Varys has his plots, and I have mine. I know things he doesn’t, and I can use them to my advantage.”

“If you say so.” Meera didn’t look convinced, and Jon couldn’t find it in himself to dissuade her. He was toeing a very delicate knife’s edge at the moment, but what other choice did he have? Jon had resolved to put himself in the middle of this mess when he had snuck into the Tower of the Hand. He couldn’t back out now that he knew how dangerous and complicated such a position could be.

Ghost prodded his hand, and Jon sighed, running his fingers through the soft fur of his wolf. He really did have to take him out of King’s Landing sometime, hopefully soon. He’d been dreaming of stalking prey through the godswood lately, which was usually a sign that they both had been cooped up in the city for too long.

“I can manage,” he said again, trying to convince himself of it. 

Meera didn’t reply. When Jon glanced over at her, the crannogwoman only looked quietly contemplative.

The next night, Jon ran into Bluejay. 

It was the first step of a routine that they had fallen into after the Tourney of the Hand. By the time Jon was walking back to his quarters, having just finished setting Ser Arys’ horse up for the night, the sun had long since set. This night, the little girl appeared in the shadows near the barracks where the city guard slept, just visible enough for him to spot her. Always in the same blue dress, Jon had gotten good at catching her out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s good to see you again, Bluejay,” He said when he approached her. Bluejay smiled at him, then held out a hand. Jon chuckled and reached into his pocket, tossing her a little piece of hard candy. The little girl giggled in delight and tucked it carefully into a pouch on her waist, as if it was the finest treasure. To an orphan peasant girl like her, it probably was; even without her tongue, she clearly seemed to enjoy such treats. Jon had taken to swiping candies from the kitchens whenever possible and giving her one whenever he saw her.

Bluejay trotted off, indicating for him to follow, and Jon did so, doing his best to look casual as he and the little girl crept through the darkest shadows of the Keep. Many people were asleep at this time of night, but the yard was far from empty, and Jon took care to stay out of sight of anyone who would ask what he was doing.

He blinked in surprise when he realized that Bluejay was leading him to the sept. Varys’ had only called for him a few times since the Tourney of the Hand, always in a different spot, but he hadn’t expected the Sept to be a possible meeting place. As he thought, Bluejay plopped down on the steps of the building, tucking herself in the corner so the shadows swarmed her. From that position, she was nearly invisible; when Jon made his way up the steps and past her, he caught her taking the candy he had given her out and sucking on it.

At least one of them was going to have a good night. Jon sucked in a long breath, then let himself into the royal sept, opening the grand door just enough for him to slip inside. 

Jon didn’t follow the Seven, and so he’d only been in the sept once before, and that had been for a knighting. It was even more foreboding than he remembered now that night had fallen. The candles the worshippers had laid throughout the day were the only source of light, casting the grand interior in dim, flickering oranges and yellows. Above them stood the great statues of the Seven, looking down upon him in judgment. Jon averted his eyes from the stone gaze of the Father, who faced the door, and instead glanced around until he saw a dark shape standing below the stone hammer of the Smith.

“Lord Varys,” he greeted, dipping his head, and the figure turned to face him. 

“Lord Snow,” the eunuch replied, his voice light but otherwise emotionless. “How kind of you to join me in worship on a night like this.”

“I wasn’t aware you were religious,” Jon responded, drawing up beside him. From this position, he had to crane his neck to get a good look at the Smith. It seemed like the statue was about to bring down his great hammer on Jon’s head, and he frowned against the mental image. Was Varys trying to intimidate him? This was an odd way of doing so. “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

“My boy, you never do,” Varys chuckled, turning towards him. 

Jon resisted the urge to react to his attention. “What do you want, my lord?”

“Always so direct.” Still, Varys tucked his hands into his sleeves, watching him with those pale blue eyes of his. “Which gods do you follow, Lord Snow?”

Jon blinked, then shrugged. “I was raised to follow the Old Gods, the same as my father and my trueborn siblings.”

“I thought so. You’ve been quite pious these last few months.” Jon resisted making a face at the jibe—they both knew why he tended to spend so much time in the one place in the Keep where there were no secret passages. 

“Winter is coming,” he said instead, and Varys nodded sagely. “Autumn is a time when many northmen grow close to their gods.”

“So I hear.”

Silence fell for a few moments, and then Jon sighed, silently giving in.

 “I’m sure there’s something you wish to tell me, Lord Varys. What is it?”

Still, Varys waited a few moments to answer. Instead, he turned to the image of the Smith, looking almost troubled. It was odd to see such an expression on him; Jon had grown accustomed to the pleasant emotionless he usually wielded like a weapon.

“Your father recently held a summit at Winterfell with several of his lords,” the eunuch finally said. 

“I’m aware,” Jon replied. The whole keep was aware; Father hadn’t kept such a gathering a secret. “That was almost a month and a half ago. Father wrote to Robb and I about it; he said it was enlightening.”

“Would you say that Lord Stark is a pious man?” Varys pressed further, and Jon frowned at him, confused. What an odd line of thought. What was his play this time?

“He is devout, in the North’s way,” he answered, choosing his words carefully. “We do not sit in septs and sing hymns like the followers of the Seven, but we are religious in our own fashion.”

“There is a mythos of the Old Gods, is there not?”

“Some, but little of the gods themselves, if that is what you are looking for. There are the folk tales, of course, old stories of the Long Night and the Last Hero, from the Age of Heroes. But little of the gods themselves. That is their nature, though.” Jon squinted up at the stout expression of the Smith, who stared across the room towards the Crone. When he was a child and had visited Winterfell’s sept for the first time, he’d found the idea of a god with a face frightening. Even now, the visage of the Smith made him uncomfortable. “Ancient and unknowable. Their nature is… very different from that of the Seven.”

“So I’ve heard,” Varys agreed, equally contemplative. “Many mysteries lay in the far north. Your father writes to the King of odd things. His Grace thinks Lord Stark has gone mad.”

“I’ve heard nothing about this,” Jon said, mildly alarmed, and Varys shook his head. 

“You would not have. Your father wrote to Lord Robb about it, but Lord Tywin confiscated the letter before it could be delivered to him, for his own purposes.”

“What purposes?” Alarm was rapidly rising in Jon’s chest now. Why would Tywin Lannister directly intercept Father’s letters? Varys read them all, he knew, and no doubt the Hand of the King did the same, but taking the letter was more direct than any of them had been so far. 

“And I thought Lord Stark was a sensible man,” Varys sighed, avoiding the question. “Now he writes of the dead rising at Castle Black.”

“...the dead?” Jon echoed.

“Indeed. It was the oddest letter, meant only for King Robert, but Lord Tywin is quite interested in the affairs of the North. It was a simple matter for him to learn its contents.” Varys tutted. “I don’t mean to insult your father, Lord Snow, but you must understand how such a claim may be perceived.”

“So Tywin thinks my father has gone mad?” Jon scoffed, folding his arms as his mind whirled. The dead rising at Castle Black. Father would never lie about such a thing, but the mere idea was so preposterous that he had to balk. 

His conversation with Meera suddenly popped into his head. Where do you think the stories come from?  

“If only it were so,” Varys sighed, cutting through his train of thought. The eunuch turned away from the statue of the Smith and walked towards the center of the sept. The flickering lights illuminated him from either side, yet by their nature left him simultaneously in shadow. “I am only a servant of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Snow, and King’s Landing is such a dangerous, complicated place. There are many things occurring here, just under the surface, that your father doesn’t have the faintest idea of.”

Even I hardly understand it, Jon thought. “What do you want from me?”

“You are asking the right question,” Varys tittered, and Jon moved to follow him. From the center of the room, the statue of the Father seemed to glare down at them both. “Perhaps I will answer it, when the time is right. I fear the realm may be heading to war if we do not do something soon.”

“War?” Jon swallowed at the idea. “Why?”

Varys studied him for a moment, then chuckled, lowering his head. “Oh, of course you wouldn’t know, the matter has been kept secret. My boy, Lord Tywin and Queen Cersei have been quite suspicious of your family for quite some time.”

“What reason could there be?” Jon pressed. 

“I’m sure you’re aware who Lady Lysa Arryn is?” Varys asked, and Jon paused, then nodded.

“She is Lady Stark’s sister,” he answered. “The Lady of the Vale. She hasn’t been in King’s Landing in almost a year, I think. What does she have to do with any of this?”

“Yes, she left quite suddenly after the death of her husband, the previous Hand of the King. In the middle of the night, she slipped past the castle guards and fled to the Eyrie without even a goodbye. She took her young son with her as well. Queen Cersei was quite wroth when she found out; did you know Lord Tywin was planning on fostering the boy?”

“What relevance does this have?” Jon nearly rolled his eyes, but Varys only held up a hand. 

“Patience, my boy. Now, the night before the King left for Winterfell, intending to fetch your father, an item of interest was found by a Lannister squire. It was a wooden box that had been dropped and broken during the preparations to leave the city. Inside it was a letter, emblazoned with the Arryn seal.”

“A message from Lysa Arryn?” Jon surmised, still not sure where this was going. Varys nodded.

“Indeed. A message in a coded language no one could read. Eventually, this box and its contents made its way to Tywin Lannister, who in turn sent it to me. I’ll admit, it took me several weeks to decode it. But when I did, it was quite revealing.”

“What did it say?”

Varys turned to him then, quite serious. “Only the wildest of accusations. It seems Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa may have been writing to each other in code for some time. Lady Lysa’s message… well, it claimed that her husband had been murdered by the Queen.”

Jon sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t even spared a thought to the fate of the previous Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. The man was his namesake, he knew, but they had never met or spoken. Jon Arryn had been a powerful man, though, and claiming his death to be murder was a grievous accusation.

“It matters not whether the claim is true, of course,” Varys continued on. “Only that it was made, and that Lady Lysa chose to make it to the Warden of the North. It is well known that there is no love lost between House Stark and House Lannister. So now Tywin Lannister knows that there have been messages of a sensitive nature between Lady Lysa and Lady Catelyn, and now he sees Lord Stark summoning his bannermen to Winterfell. I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions from there.”

“But there’s no reason for Father to prepare for war!” Jon exclaimed.

“But there is, is there not? Your father claims the dead are rising and the Wildlings are gathering north of the Wall—either he is mustering his men to face them, or he has attempted to construct a clever ruse to disguise his true intentions with the South.”

“Invading the South doesn’t make any sense.”

“Most things don’t, unless you know the reason. We do not. We cannot. In any case Tywin Lannister is not a man who relies on his opponents making sense. Tensions in the Seven Kingdoms are rising, Lord Snow, whether you see it or not.”

Jon gritted his teeth. Jon Arryn assassinated? He thought suddenly of Bran, and shivered. The Lannisters were certainly capable of such a crime, and they had secrets they were willing to risk war to uphold. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that his younger brother remembered what had happened before his fall off the tower wall.

“Then something must be done,” he said after a long moment, something inside him steadying. “Father won’t even have the Lannisters on his mind. There is still time for cooler heads to prevail.”

“I hope you are correct,” Varys replied. “But the letter is in the hands of the Lannisters now, and while they have it I cannot help but doubt. Even I don’t have the ear of the Hand.” 

What could he do? Jon let out a long breath, trying to relax enough to think about things properly. Varys had just given him more information than he knew what to do with; there had to be a reason for it. Varys always had an ulterior motive; the trick was figuring out what that motivation was. Jon thought back on the conversation he’d overheard in the secret passage. What good would war be now? The man from the Free Cities had said. Delay.

But that conversation had been four months ago. Did Varys still seek to delay conflict in the Seven Kingdoms, or had the time finally come for him to start prodding Tywin Lannister’s fears? What about Jon’s own? 

Jon did not know. He never did, when it came to Lord Varys. 

“War cannot occur,” he said aloud. “Not this close to winter.”

“Indeed,” Varys murmured. He stepped away then, moving to leave Jon before the judgmental gaze of the Father. “Find me again, Lord Snow, if you find a way. I’ll be waiting.”

Jon didn’t reply as the eunuch left, caught in the crosshairs of the Seven. He let out a long breath, then ran a hand over his face as the doors of the sept clicked shut behind him. 

“Why did you tell me this?” He whispered between his fingers. What are you trying to get me to do? And how can I counteract it?

Nothing came to mind. The Seven had never been his gods, after all, and so all they did was watch him in silence.

Chapter Text

Robb snapped awake to someone roughly shaking his shoulder.

“Robb, get up,” Jon’s voice floated down, and he groaned, batting his hand away to try and escape his half-brother’s grip.

“Mmmmgetoff,” he grumbled into his pillow, only to get shoved harder.

“Up! Or I’ll let Steffon and Peck in. They wanted to douse you with a bucket of water. Aren’t I a good brother for ensuring your comfort?”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, but once they did, Robb sat up with a grunt, wiping the crust out of his eyes. It was still dark outside, the room near entirely in shadow, save for a single candle held by his brother. Jon was standing above his bed, already dressed in a white tunic embroidered with the three oak leaves of House Oakheart. His hair was pulled out of his face, and with the beginnings of a beard trimming his jawline, he looked almost like Father.

Then Robb remembered that he lived in Maegor’s Holdfast now. Jon didn’t have free access to his rooms anymore, not like he had in Winterfell. This was the first time Robb had seen him here, actually.

“Has something happened?” He questioned, suddenly worried. Jon had told him about his conversation with Varys a few weeks ago, but little progress had been made since. Had he spoken with the Master of Whispers again?

But Jon shook his head, and as his vision cleared Robb realized that his eyes were twinkling in amusement.

“Nothing too bad,” he said aloud. “Now come on, Steffon’s impatient. He did bring up a bucket of water, just so you know.”

“He didn’t,” Robb scoffed, but got out of bed anyway. Jon moved away as he stumbled towards his wardrobe, lighting one of the room’s lanterns to give him a better view of its contents. “What’s so important that you have me up before dawn? How did you even get in here?”

“It’s a surprise,” Jon laughed, in a way that indicated that this wasn’t something he had come up with. Robb hoped this didn’t have to do with another bet. Ser Steffon and Peck were horrible influences on him in that regard.

But he decided to play along in the end, his curiosity winning out. He yanked on his pants and threw on a plain silver doublet as Jon tossed his shoes his way. Robb resisted rolling his eyes as he donned them; clearly this was something that had to happen now.

There was a small crowd waiting for them just outside his doors. Steffon and Peck were there, Steffon very noticeably without a bucket of water. Raynald Westerling was also present, and the man grinned almost triumphantly when he saw him, a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“I knew you’d come,” the Westerlander announced, shooting Steffon a look. The other Redcloak only rolled his eyes and gestured for them to follow.

“If you’d follow me, my lords,” he said, making his way down the hallway. Robb realized with a jerk of surprise that he was the only one fully dressed out of the group, in the golden leathers and red cape of House Lannister’s guard. Everyone else seemed to have been roused in a manner similar to him, and were only in casual outfits. “We have a marvel to see.”

“A marvel?” Robb echoed, but Jon only shushed him. “The castle isn’t even awake yet!”

Steffon did not deign to answer him, but Raynald gave him a wink, looking quite pleased with himself. 

“Steffon was on guard duty overnight,” he said, dropping back to Robb’s free side. “He’s the one who got us into Maegor’s Holdfast; it’s the best view in the keep.”

“Don’t spoil it!” Jon hissed, and Raynald held up his hands in acquiescence, returning his attention to the path ahead of them. Robb glanced between the two, eyebrows raised, but let the matter slide. 

His initial assessment was correct; the castle was asleep, with only a few maids and guards patrolling the corridors. Interestingly, Steffon was leading them upwards, following a path that Robb realized with some latent familiarity would give them access to the rooftop balcony. 

They passed the rest of the trip in relative silence. Most of the windows were shuttered, preventing Robb from getting anything other than a glimpse of the early morning Keep sprawling below them. The white raven signaling the onset of autumn had arrived three days ago, in the middle of a chilly rainstorm that had beset King’s Landing for the better part of the week, and the castle staff had started the transition between seasons. 

As such, Robb was glad he’d put on a doublet when Steffon unlocked the door leading them out onto the balcony. It was cold outside, not enough to frost but enough to be uncomfortable, if the way Peck started shivering in his singular shirt was any indication. There was no break from the sea breeze up here; the four sprawling towers of the Red Keep were too far away, leaving them with an unbroken view of the castle below on all sides. Above them, the sky was speckled with stars, clear for the first time in days, with a smudge of light on the eastern horizon to indicate the time. 

“Look!” Jon said, before Robb could ask why they were up here. He pointed up, above the rising sun, and Robb followed his finger and gasped.

A great streak of red had gouged its way across the sky, the tip flaring white. Hesitantly, Robb raised a hand, and the trail followed the length of his index finger, impossibly large.

“It’s a comet,” Steffon announced breathlessly. When Robb was able to tear his eyes away from the celestial object and look at him, he saw that the young knight was grinning from ear to ear. “A falling star. The maesters haven’t seen one in a generation… and this bright? I don’t think a red comet has been recorded in the histories.”

“Incredible,” Robb breathed, awestruck. 

“It might even be bright enough to see during the day,” Steffon continued. “But predawn is probably the best time to get a look.” 

“You were right, Maegor’s holdfast is the best place to see it,” Peck remarked, taking one of the balcony’s chairs and sitting on it backwards, so his chin could rest on the backrest. “We could only see half from the yard, the castle walls blocked the rest.”

“Do you think it means anything?” Raynald asked, taking a seat and setting the satchel on his lap. When Steffon turned to him, inquisitive, he shrugged. “Could be an omen.”

“Of what?” Steffon scoffed, shaking his head. “Could just be a pretty sight.”

“I suppose we won’t know until something happens,” Robb put in, his previous awe now sliced with unease. Steffon and Raynald might not know it, but there were tensions being exploited in the King’s court, if Jon’s conversation with Varys was to be believed. He thought of the note about the dead rising at Castle Black. He didn’t know what to make of the information, and hadn’t dared to ask Father, lest the letter be intercepted and read. 

He hadn’t made any decision on whether to believe that the dead were rising, but with this odd comet… maybe…?

“Here, I brought up food,” Raynald announced, snapping Robb out of his thoughts. He was pulling rolls out of his satchel, and he tossed one at Robb. It was still warm and doughy in his hands. “Fresh from the kitchens.”

“No better company to break my fast with,” Jon remarked, sitting down as well. Robb followed his lead after a moment, pushing the thoughts about the castle’s intrigues aside. He’d talk about it with Jon in the godswood later. Perhaps they were more pressed for time than they thought. 

The roll was fresh, and almost certainly snatched from one of the nobility’s kitchens, which explained why Raynald had been the one to get it. Robb ate it in a few bites, then took another when it was offered. Talk devolved into pleasantries and discussions about daily life after the comet had lost its initial splendor. As it hung above them in its majesty, Peck and Jon spoke about Mychel Crane having become a knight the previous week, while Raynald and Steffon’s conversation shifted to their recent work with the Redcloaks. 

Robb just sat back and took it in. The sky slowly grew brighter as the sun rose, and sure enough, the comet stayed visible between a thin smattering of clouds as the light drowned out the stars. It reminded him a bit of a weirwood tree, almost, with the red of the comet the same shade as its leaves, and the head white like the bark. 

Perhaps it was an omen. But it wasn’t one he could draw any meaning out of.

As the sun crested over the horizon, Robb turned his attention over to Raynald and Steffon.

“...Ser Addam left with two dozen knights last night, all in full kit,” Raynald was saying, and Robb moved his chair closer to join their conversation. “He’s riding up to Harrenhal. That’s what his squire told me, anyway.”

“Harrenhal?” Robb echoed, mystified. Addam Marbrand was a friend of Jaime Lannister’s, and one of the Westerlands’ principle knights. Why would he be riding to a half-abandoned castle in the Riverlands?

“Odd, isn’t it?” Raynald remarked, nodding in agreement. 

Steffon just shrugged. “Lord Lannister has been getting rather paranoid over the last few weeks. He’s stopped rotating his personal guard too. I don’t know what’s going through his head. Perhaps he’s been away from Casterly Rock for too long, and he’s getting anxious.”

“But Kevan Lannister is castellan right now,” Peck put in. He and Jon seemed to have caught their attention in the conversation as well, and Robb remembered that Peck, who was the youngest out of them at four and ten, was Jaime Lannister’s squire. “I mean, Ser Jaime trusts him fully, and he only would if his father did, too.”

“It’s unusual,” Raynald continued. “They were in full kit, almost like they expected to fight someone.”

“But the Riverlands don’t have raiders,” Robb put in, shaking his head despite the crawling suspicion in his belly. He glanced over at Jon, who seemed to be on the same train of thought as him. Lysa Tully’s letter. Had Tywin Lannister finally decided to act? But even then, he was only moving two dozen knights. “And there's no question of House Tully’s loyalty.”

“You would know,” Steffon chuckled, eyes flickering up to Robb’s auburn hair. Robb returned his gaze steadily, and the older knight held up a hand to indicate that he meant no offense. “I believe you! What I’m trying to say is that Tywin Lannister is Hand of the King. If we can’t figure out what his purpose was, I don’t think anyone will until the time comes.”

And will that time be too late? Jon was frowning fully now, but Robb kept his expression light, since everyone's attention was on him. 

“You’re right,” he replied. “Tywin Lannister only wants the best for the realm. I’m sure the knights left for good reason.”

“But so close to dusk?” Raynald mused, unconvinced. “He wanted the knights to keep a low profile.” But then he sighed, shrugging. “But I’m being overly curious. You’re probably right, Robb.”

“The comet must have made you jumpy,” Steffon put in, leaning over to grab the last roll from Raynald’s satchel. He paused to take a bite. “Just enjoy the view! If I’d known you were superstitious I wouldn’t have invited you.”

Raynald just rolled his eyes, getting out of his seat. “I don’t know about you, but I have guard duty an hour after dawn. It’s time for me to get going anyways.” He turned to Robb and dipped his head at him. “Thank you all for letting me join you.”

“Say hello to Jeyne for us!” Peck chortled, getting out of his own seat as the Westerling knight left. On the squire way passed, he elbowed Robb, who only batted his arm away in exasperation. “Us squires have an early start to the day, too. Are you coming, Jon?”

“I’ll follow you in a minute,” his half-brother responded, remaining seated. Peck nodded, and Steffon joined him as they left the rooftop balcony, leaving him and Robb alone.

“Two dozen knights sent to Harrenhal,” Robb said once they were gone. “Why Harrenhal?”

“It’s an important fortress in the Riverlands,” Jon replied. “Perhaps it’s to scout out possible battlefields in case it does come to war.” He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. “I was in the Tower of the Hand last night. Tywin’s sending a letter to Casterly Rock to tell Kevan Lannister to prepare to call his banners.”

“That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Robb murmured, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. Jon just shrugged.

“I can’t eavesdrop at all times, and there’s only so much information I can glean from the Redcloaks and the other squires. I think there’s information at play that we don’t know. Something is influencing the Lannisters to make these drastic moves.”

Robb glanced up at the comet. It had turned almost pink in the morning light, a dull streak facing the eastern horizon. It didn’t look as impressive when placed next to the glaring light of the sun.

“Perhaps we should send Daryn to Riverrun,” he mused. “We don’t have the solid evidence we wanted, but I think we’re running out of time. Mother is due to have her babe any day now, which means that Father will be with her. If he has a swift horse, Daryn could make the trip in a month.” Jon made a face. “It’s better than Winterfell.”

“Indeed,” Jon admitted, then he sighed. “I’ll speak to him about it. Perhaps we should send Meera with him. It’s getting dangerous in King’s Landing, and she has no further purpose here.”

Robb swallowed. “Mayhaps we should start thinking of ways out of the city, too. Just in case.”

Silence fell between them. Jon’s expression twisted in conflict, but besides that Robb could not decipher him. After a minute, he stood up.

“Talk to Jory, he’ll know something,” he said, clearly still thinking. “Or have somewhere for us to start. I need to get to the yard before Ser Arys misses me.” 

“I will.” 

Robb remained sitting for a while after Jon left, thoughts whirling around his head. He hated this, he was rapidly realizing, playing politics without any of the finesse of the experienced players surrounding him. Jon seemed to know what he was doing, or at least he’d found some fulfillment in it, but there was an itch in the back of Robb’s mind that he couldn’t seem to scratch. 

“I wasn’t raised to skulk in the shadows,” he said to the comet, which glinted wordlessly back at him. The sun had risen well above the horizon now. 

Eventually he got to his feet. Unlike the other boys, Robb’s day started well after dawn, but even he would be missed if he stayed up on the roof any longer. He stretched, then made his way downstairs, heading towards the dining hall, where the royal family and their associates took their meals on more private days.

No one was there when he arrived, even though it was well past dawn at this point. Robb spoke briefly to one of the maids and discovered that the Queen had broken her fast in her quarters, so there would be no formal meal until noon. 

All the better—Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, and Robb preferred to keep things that way. He grew a little more uneasy when Joffrey wasn’t present at their morning lessons. It wasn’t entirely unusual, but a noticeable deviation from his typical schedule. Maester Pycelle only tutted, then ran him through a review of his sums and arithmetic alone. It was dull work, but easy enough. He finished early, and Pycelle let him go without much of a fuss.

Then, on his way to his rooms, he ran into Tommen. 

Literally. The little prince, who had just recently celebrated his eighth nameday, was in tears, sniffing and hiccuping as he raced down the corridor without a thought as to who he might share it with. Robb very nearly crashed right into him, and he hurriedly put his hands on the prince’s shoulders to keep him in place. 

“Tommen?” He asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Tommen looked up at him, opened his mouth, and then cried harder. Robb let out a breath, drew himself up to look kind yet confident, and knelt down, changing his tone to match what he’d used for Bran and Arya back when he’d lived in Winterfell. 

“Take a few breaths, my prince,” he said, miming the motion. Tommen finally looked up, tears still streaming down his face, but he nodded fiercely and did his best to copy Robb. After a moment, he furiously wiped at his eyes. “What’s wrong?” He looked up and down the corridor—they were alone. “Where are your guards?”

“I was trying to find Grey Wind,” Tommen mumbled through his tears. “But— but—” he sobbed again, and Robb made a soothing sound, patting his shoulders.

“Tell me what happened,” he pressed gently. 

It was a minute until Tommen had gathered himself enough to speak again. Something had clearly managed to scare the poor boy badly, and his eventual confession was enough to make Robb’s stomach sink.

“Joff—he stole Grey Wind,” Tommen said, his hands shaking. “Joffrey and I fought, and he was mad, and he had a knife, and—”

Robb shot to his feet.

“Where was he?” He asked.

“The courtyard,” Tommen replied, pausing to sniffle loudly. “The back one, near Father’s quarters.”

“I will go and investigate this, Tommen.” Robb removed his hands from the prince’s shoulders, then after a moment reached down to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Go find my guards and send them after me. I’ll deal with Joffrey.”

“And save Grey Wind?” 

Oh, I think it’s too late for that, you poor boy, Robb thought, but he knew better than to voice it. “I’ll do all I can,” he said instead. “My guards will be in the servant’s quarters. Go and find them.”

Tommen nodded, then hurried off. Robb watched to make sure he was going the right way, then sprinted down towards the courtyard he had spoken of. He wasn’t too far away in truth, and the king’s courtyard was rarely used, since King Robert was not one to enjoy a quiet garden. 

The rooms just outside the yard were deserted, and so Robb slowed to a walk, smoothing his breath. Once he was composed, he opened the door and entered.

The courtyard was pretty, if ill-maintained. There was one great weeping willow in the center of the yard, with large planting beds on either side. Perhaps at some point in the past they had held flowers and bushes, but now they were an overgrown mass of branches and leaves, half-dead. Silver stones cut a clear path throughout, but it still took Robb a moment before he spotted the crown prince.

Joffrey hadn’t seen him enter, and for that Robb was grateful, since he couldn’t disguise the disgust and shock he felt at the sight that greeted him. The boy was sitting on the ground, his legs crossed and his face tightened into an expression of utmost concentration. Robb could have mistaken him for simply being deep in thought, if he weren’t dissecting Grey Wind the cat’s innards like one would gut a deer. The cat’s blood had coated his hands and the stones below its corpse a coppery red, and as Robb watched, Joffrey idly drew out one of the cat’s intestines with a large knife, twisting it around the point.

“Lord Robb,” Joffrey drawled, finally noticing him as he approached. Robb schooled his expression as the boy looked up at him. The prince looked to be evaluating him, and for a moment Robb was reminded of their first meeting at Winterfell’s gates. Are you worth my time? The prince’s eyes had said then. 

He seemed to be asking the same thing now. Alone, in a hidden courtyard.

Perhaps coming alone had been a bad idea, but it was too late to turn back now.

“Prince Joffrey,” Robb replied, curt. He came to a stop a few feet away, and struggled to keep his eyes off of Joffrey’s knife, still half-buried in the cat’s innards. He had watched, and participated, in many animal guttings, but something about this felt different. Dangerous. “Prince Tommen was looking for his cat.”

Joffrey snorted, looking back down at Grey Wind’s corpse. “And I suppose he went squealing right to you.”

“We ran into each other.”

“Ha.” Joffrey released his knife from its torture of the poor cat’s corpse and stood up. Blood speckled the hem of his sleeves and coated his hands in red. “And I suppose you’re here to avenge him.”

Robb watched the knife.

“Grey Wind was not yours to kill, my prince,” he replied. “What you’ve done is very cruel.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. All Tommen does is whimper and cry, then run to you to fix all his problems. He needs to learn to have thicker skin.” He looked Robb up and down, clearly unimpressed, but something was simmering under the surface. “It’s a shame I can’t skin the real Grey Wind. Perhaps then I could see who you would run to. They’d be far away from here, I’d hope.”

“My wolf would kill you long before you had the chance,” Robb snapped, his patience rapidly expiring. He hoped that Tommen returned with Jory and his guards soon. “I suggest you don’t make such threats, Joffrey. Someone might take them for truth.”

“I can threaten whoever I damn well please,” Joffrey shot back. The previous calm he’d had, with his hands in the guts of his brother’s beloved pet, was swiftly evaporating. “Father might forget this, but I don’t. I’m the crown prince, and one day you’re going to kneel before me, the same as everyone else!”

Robb took a half step back, but kept himself tall. Despite himself, anger was bubbling underneath his skin now, borne of months of frustration and forced proximity to this horror of a boy. “Honor is earned, my prince, or have you forgotten that?”

Joffrey leered at him, the grip on his knife tightening. “So righteous you are, Robb Stark. Perfect at everything, or so you like to make everyone think. I’m the prince! I am the King’s son! Not you!”

“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, putting all of his force into the words. “Before you do something you regret.”

“Tommen ran to you,” Joffrey spat, and there was hatred there. True hatred. “Father speaks nothing but praises for you. But you’re just a fraud, a manipulator. I see through you, Robb Stark.”

Robb saw the attack coming from a mile away. The prince was fast, but he was inexperienced and weak. The knife swung up, then forwards, and Robb mirrored the move, stepping back and then to left. The blade missed him by a wide margin, and Joffrey stumbled, then cursed. 

“Don’t do it, Joffrey,” Robb warned him again, as the prince swung around to face him. He held up a hand in an attempt to placate him. “I’ll forget this if you stop. We don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“You manipulative, perfect ass!” Joffrey screeched, eyes going wild, and Robb realized that he had said the worst thing he could when the prince lunged again.

This time he didn’t hold back. Others take this wretched boy, I’m done pretending. Robb stepped to the side, grabbed Joffrey’s blood-slick wrist, then kicked his legs out from under him to send him slamming to the floor. Joffrey gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and Robb hurried to grab the discarded knife before he could attack again, stepping back—

There was a bright light. It flashed across his vision, bursting like a star. There was ringing, somewhere. 

And then he was on the ground.

He was on his side, but besides that, it took Robb much longer to register the world around him. There was noise coming from no direction in particular. His vision swirled.

His lungs burned. He fought to take a breath. It hissed past his throat and sizzled through his ears. He forced the air out again, and then repeated the motion.

Perhaps he was saying something. The ringing in his ears was too loud to know for sure. At some point there was a man in his line of sight. Robb couldn’t recognize him. He said something, and then he was pulling him up to his feet. Robb resisted. He wanted to remain on the ground, where the stone was cool and soothing.

More noise. The man laid him back down, and he was speaking to him. Robb knew he was speaking, could see his lips moving between the rippling waves in his vision, but the words seemed to slip through one ear and out the other, audible but unhearable. 

The man rolled him over. The sun was shining from above. The light hurt.

So Robb closed his eyes and thought of little at all.

Chapter Text

The funeral was a quiet affair. 

Jory had done his best to organize it according to Northern tradition, but it was impossible to get rid of the stench that King’s Landing carried, embedded in every pore. Jon had attended several funerals when he had lived in Winterfell, and this one felt the flimsiest of them all. The world outside was brimming with tension and intrigue, seeping under the door and threatening the little semblance of peace the Stark guard had tried to give them.

Alyn’s body had been cleaned and dressed in his finest leathers, his steel sword laid bare on his chest, the hilt clasped between his fingers. Since Jory hadn’t been comfortable holding the funeral outdoors, as was tradition, his body had been laid on a table in one of the empty chambers in the Maidenvault. The single torch lit at the head of the table, meant to lead him to the afterlife, cast dim shadows against the walls and made the whole room smell of smoke. 

Jon, Jory, Harwin, and Daryn Hornwood spent the night holding a final vigil over the body. When the sun finally rose, sending thin wisps of pale blue light through the shuttered windows, Jon’s legs were stiff and sore.

“I will send for the silent sisters,” Daryn said, once it was apparent that sunrise had come and the vigil was over. Jory nodded once, and the other man left the room with a sigh. 

“The Others take the Lannisters,” Harwin swore, his face twisted into an expression of grief and anger. “The Kingslayer kills one of our guards and nearly kills our lord, and all the King does is send him home to Casterly Rock? Where is the justice?”

“There will be none until we hear from Lord Eddard,” Jory replied, calm and collected. His expression was clouded, though, and when he laid a hand on Alyn’s shoulder, he closed his eyes for a moment, then drew away, as if touching the body stung. “Or until Lord Robb is well enough to plead his case to the King. All we have now is your word against Joffrey and the Kingslayer. Alyn, as much as it pains me to admit it, has not helped your case.”

Jon hid a wince, but he knew that Jory was speaking the truth. None of them really knew what had happened in that courtyard before Harwin and Alyn had arrived, called by Prince Tommen to help their lord. Joffrey and the Kingslayer had both claimed that Robb had attacked the prince during an argument, but Jon didn’t believe them. 

“Alyn walked in on Jaime Lannister standing over Lord Robb with his sword drawn,” Harwin shook his head, running a hand over his face. “He thought Lord Robb was dead. Of course he attacked the Kingslayer.”

“And now he’s dead for it and the Kingslayer is long out of our grasp,” Jory shot back, his patience clearly thinning. “King Robert can rant and rage all he wants, but Tywin Lannister has too strong a grip on him to allow any real consequences.”

Harwin frowned, then scowled with a muttered curse, but didn’t protest any more. Silence fell for a moment longer, and then Jory finally stepped away. 

“We should go before the Silent Sisters come,” he said, and Harwin nodded. 

Jon, though, felt rooted in place. Alyn’s face was still, but he couldn’t be mistaken for sleeping, like the singers were wont to say about corpses. The left side of his head had been bandaged to hide the injuries Ser Jaime had given him in their fight, and Jon knew that the thick jerkin he had been dressed in hid the great wound that carved through his chest. That had been what had killed him in the end, or so he heard. 

There were footsteps behind him, and Jon turned around to see Jory approaching him. The man laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing more we can do for him, Jon,” he said. “Alyn knew his duty. It’s time we continue it.”

“We can’t even see Robb,” Jon replied, but did as he was bid. The first step was difficult, his muscles protesting from standing all night, but the next few came easier. “What is there for us to do?”

He knew at that moment that he was being petulant, but he could not bring himself to care, in all truth. Maester Pycelle had forbidden anyone but himself and his aides from entering Robb’s rooms, citing the severity of his head injury, but Jon had a feeling that was more on the orders of Tywin Lannister than any medical knowledge. 

“Everything will be sorted once word reaches Lord Stark,” Jory said stiffly. Jon’s words had clearly bothered him—as Robb’s head guard, Jon could only guess at how the current situation was grating at him. 

If Maester Pycelle sends the letter, Jon added in his head. Surely Tywin Lannister wouldn’t be so foolish as to try and stop word of this from getting out—but then again, Jon wouldn’t have thought that he was intercepting Father’s letters from reaching them. What more was the other way around? He wouldn’t be surprised if Father didn’t hear anything from the Red Keep at all, if it was in favor of the Hand getting a few more days of preparation.

“I’m going to the godswood,” he said aloud, and Jory nodded. 

“Send word if you have need of us,” the guard said, quieter in an effort to not be overheard. “The Lannisters are moving. We don’t have much time.”

Jon nodded, then separated from the two guards at the next juncture.

It was quiet outside, the sun sending pale blue rays of sunlight over the castle walls. The entirety of the Red Keep seemed to have gone still since Robb and Joffrey’s attack, like every inhabitant was holding their breath. Most of the squires had started shooting him looks in the training yard. Jon wondered what rumors they had heard—rumors started by the Lannisters, no doubt, to make Joffrey look as good as possible.

Ghost was waiting for him, perched right next to the godswood’s main gate. Any of the playfulness and mirth he’d had several days ago was gone, and now he seemed to echo Jon’s worry for Robb. The wolf walked up to him, and Jon buried his hand in the scruff of his neck, seeking comfort from his companion.

Meera was there too, and Jon saw her a moment later, sitting at the base of a nearby tree. She was positioned in a manner that was quite unlike a southron lady, with her feet crossed underneath her knees. Several items were spread on the ground before her, including a thick bundle of string and several small wooden panels. 

“Good morn, Jon,” Meera greeted, glancing up at him. She had a wooden net needle in one hand and a metal ring in the other, and as Jon watched, her hands flew around the ring and tied another loop of string around it. “Any news?”

“Nothing from Robb,” Jon sighed. “Pycelle has a tight grip on him, and King Robert believes whatever nonsense he’s spouting about keeping him locked away from his health. We held our vigil for Alyn last night.”

Meera nodded, her lips pulled tight as she looped the string around the needle, then around the plank and through the metal ring, making another link. She was making a net, Jon realized. The crannogmen used them for both hunting and fighting, if he remembered his lessons right. 

“And the prince is still confined to his rooms?” Meera continued. 

“The king is good for that, I suppose, though last I heard Queen Cersei is fighting for his release. But I don’t think Robert will listen to anyone on that point.” Jon sighed. “If only he had the same vigor when it comes to his own namesake.”

“I’m not sure Pycelle is lying about his condition,” Meera countered, her hands still flying around the net. “Head wounds are serious, Jon. We’re lucky Robb isn’t dead.”

Jon shivered. He didn’t want to think about that. “They wouldn’t dare kill him. Even Jaime Lannister isn’t stupid enough to do that.”

“Then I shall be grateful for his restraint.” Meera set aside her half-finished net and stood. “Do you have a plan?”

“For the Lannisters? I have ideas,” Jon muttered, tightening his grip on Ghost’s scruff. The wolf looked up at him, his red eyes almost pink in the morning light. “I know we need to send Daryn to Riverrun to inform Father of the truth of what’s happened here. I dislike only having hearsay to give him, though. Who will believe that the Queen is committing incest on the word of a bastard?” 

Meera nodded mutely. “That's all we have. I will go with Daryn. I’m of no use here.” She paused then, glancing down at Ghost. “Perhaps we should take the wolves, too.”

“The wolves?” Jon echoed. Ghost flicked an ear. He paused then, and glanced around them. “You think it’s too dangerous for them here.”

“Direwolves are wild creatures,” Meera replied. “Here in the Red Keep they are as useful to you as I am. If things don’t go your way, or the Lannisters decide to make their move…”

“Ghost and Grey Wind will be the first thing they go after,” Jon finished, feeling sick. The mere thought of Ghost dying or being injured felt revolting, but at the same time, so did sending him away. Yet Jon couldn’t run away, not while Robb was still trapped. He thought for a moment. “The secret passageway. The one Peck and I found. You mean to use it?”

“It’s the only way we can get the wolves out without anyone noticing. You said it was in one of the storage outhouses?”

Jon nodded. “Will you leave tonight?” 

“If the circumstances are right. I need to speak to Daryn about it.”

“Then it’s settled.” Jon glanced further into the godswood, idly wondering where Grey Wind was. The wolf had been agitated ever since Robb had been injured, and had started spending much of his time in the brush, away from people. “Will Grey Wind listen to you?”

“Yes,” Meera replied, utterly certain. “He’s worried about his master, but he knows that he can do nothing here.”

“I’ll trust them to you, then.” Slowly, Jon removed his hand from Ghost’s scruff, scratching him briefly behind the ears. “I should go before Ser Arys comes looking for me. I just…” he let out a harsh breath that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Robb is injured and the Lannisters are moving. Is running away really the only thing we can do? There must be something.”

“You don’t have the power, Jon,” Meera said, her gaze piercing. “Robb was the only man of ours with the ear of the lords, and now he’s out of the game. We need to regroup. If I thought I could convince you, I’d ask you and your guards to leave with me. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“It’s a good thing you can’t, then.” The sun was going to crest the castle walls soon. Jon stepped away from Ghost. The wolf looked up at him, something knowing in his gaze that Jon couldn’t quite name. “And there is always something we can do. If I can provide concrete evidence of the Lannister’s treachery, I could convince the realm of their crimes and we could stop the Hand in his tracks.”

“Just be careful, Jon,” Meera warned. She bent down and picked up the half-finished net, the knots tangling in her fingers. 

“I know what I’m doing. There’s a risk we all have to take, and this is mine.”

“Robb isn’t here to worry about you, so someone has to.” Jon frowned, but the crannogwoman stood her ground. “You aren’t protected anymore, Jon. Just… be careful.”

“If the gods are good. I’ll try and see you again tonight, before you go.”

Meera watched him for a long moment, then dipped her head. “I’ll see you then.”

The day passed slowly. 

Despite how much he wanted to immediately drop everything and try to figure out what the Lannisters were planning, Jon still had work to do. After all, he wasn’t a lord, able to spend his days as he saw fit, and Ser Arys had put him on stable duty over the last few days—something relatively easy that kept him out of the way. He didn’t know whether his mentor meant it positively or negatively, but Ser Arys had been assigned to guard the Queen after Ser Jaime left, so Jon hadn’t had a chance to ask.

Later in the afternoon, as the sun dipped below the castle walls and cast shadows over the stables, Bluejay appeared. Jon spotted her just as he was returning a Goldcloak’s horse, crouched on top of a hay bale. She grinned upon seeing him, and since no one else was nearby, pattered over as Jon put the horse up.

“If Varys has anything to say to me, he might as well come himself,” he said to her, putting the reins away and locking the gate. Bluejay just tilted her head at him, then held out her hands. For a long moment, Jon just stared at her. The little girl grumbled, then seemed to give up on trying to communicate with him and went for his belt instead. “Hey!”

He pushed her away, but realized what she was going for. With a sigh, he unfastened the pouch that carried his candy and tossed her one.  Bluejay caught it and made a happy squeal, popping it into her mouth.

“Sorry Bluejay, I just have a lot on my mind,” Jon said, suddenly feeling bad. He sat down on the hay bale, running a hand through his hair. Bluejay glanced at him, her eyes bright, and suddenly he felt a fierce ache for home. Arya had used to pester him for sweets like that—though she’d had a voice to irritate him with. Her eleventh nameday would be soon. Jon wondered how different she must look by now. 

Silence passed between them for a few moments, broken only by the sounds of the horses. Jon closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he thought.

There was always the letter. Jon frowned. It was in the hands of the Lannisters, and if Jon had to guess, in Tywin Lannister’s solar. He’d seen the room that first night he’d snuck into the Tower of the Hand—he thought. On a different occasion he had found a way inside, though at the time he hadn’t dared to use it. Perhaps there would be something he could give Meera and Daryn before they left. 

“Bluejay,” he said aloud, opening his eyes. The little girl flicked her gaze over to him, a cheek bulging where the candy sat. “Is Tywin Lannister going to be in the Tower of the Hand tonight?”

Bluejay stared at him, then slowly shook her head. She pointed in the direction of Maegor’s Holdfast instead.

He’s with Joffrey and the Queen. If Jon slipped away now, no one would notice. If he was lucky and the solar was empty, he could try finding written evidence to send to Father. 

If he was unlucky, and he was caught…

Well, he was only a bastard. I wanted to take the Black anyways, Jon thought, clenching his fists. And I won’t just sit here and do nothing while Robb is hurt and the Lannisters are plotting a war.

At some point, he realized he had started thinking of war as an inevitability. Jon stopped himself for a moment, mulling on the fact. A war this close to winter was only inviting disaster, but what could be done to avoid it? Should he even try to avoid it, or would it be better to put his family in the best position possible when it started?

He wished Robb was here. He was always better with the planning.

Jon got up, brushing stray bits of hay off of his breeches, then looked over at Bluejay. She was still watching him. Studying.

“You can tell Varys that I’m only doing what he wants,” he said to her. Let the eunuch interpret that how he liked. 

Bluejay didn’t follow him out into the yard, and Jon pushed his thoughts of her and Varys out of his head as he crept along the inner wall behind the Maidenvault. There was still some activity going on in the yard, but it was winding down as the sun set. Jon walked with the air of someone who belonged, and thankfully no one asked him where he was going. 

Getting into the secret passages was trickier. Since Tywin wasn’t present, the kitchens attached to the Tower of the Hand weren’t nearly as active as they usually were, but there were still half a dozen cooks moving throughout the rooms. Jon had to time himself just right, waiting until they had wandered far enough away to silently slip through an open window.

The cupboard that held the entrance to the passageway was in a storage room, and that was easy to get into. Jon pried up the false bottom and tucked himself below before he could be spotted. It was pitch black inside, but Jon had used the passage enough times that by now he knew the beginning route by heart. 

The Tower itself was quiet as Jon crept through the narrow passageways. His eyes slowly adjusted until he could see by the pinpricks of light that squeezed through the occasional crack in the wall, and at the first intersection he felt around until his fingertips caught on the notch in the wall that told him which way led to the chambers of the Hand.

Jon’s heart beat in his chest. He had come this way several times before, but always with the intent to spy, not to steal. Meera’s words from that morning seemed to have made a home in his head, bouncing about in an eerie echo. Robb isn’t here anymore. He’d never realized how much he relied on his brother’s mere presence until it was gone. 

As he was climbing a set of narrowly-hewn stairs, faint whispers caught his attention. Jon paused and crouched down on the steps, peering through a small slat at the junction between wall and floor. He was looking at a corridor, and as he watched two pairs of feet came into view. One set was armored, white. Kingsguard. 

Who?  

The two pairs of feet said nothing he could hear, though, and passed through the hallway uninterrupted. Jon watched them for a moment. Which Kingsguard was here? Was a member of the royal family with them? That wasn’t always the case; it wasn’t uncommon for one or two to command inspections of the castle from time to time. Surely with the fight between Robb and Joffrey, they were simply being alert. 

Jon stayed in place, weighing his options. Once he was sure they were going in the opposite direction, he continued on.

Tywin’s solar was another floor up and on the other side of the building. When Jon reached it, he crouched down at the singular peephole to see if anyone was inside. 

Nothing. There wasn’t even a candle to see by, though at this point Jon’s night vision had developed enough that the twilight pouring from the solar’s window was enough to see by. From his position, it was impossible to see the top of the desk, but he could see that the chair had been pushed back haphazardly, as if Tywin had left in a hurry when he had been here last. 

There was one secret entrance into the room, hidden inside the solar’s fireplace. It was almost alarmingly simple to squeeze himself through, step over the ashes, and enter Tywin Lannister’s solar unopposed. 

Jon didn’t give himself time to bask in the glory. He hurried over to the desk and started looking.

Tywin had left out several papers when he had left, but none of them were damning. He made sure not to disturb them and moved on to the drawers. None were locked, and the third one he opened was filled with letters. Jon knelt down and leafed through them—none stood out, being mostly correspondence with various lords and merchants. 

Nothing stood out. Jon cursed quietly, then started looking through the nearest cabinet. He just needed something—

Footsteps.

Not enough time to get out through the fireplace. Jon dropped to the ground and got behind the desk. There was enough space underneath to fit, and he tucked his legs up and shuffled inside just as the door to the solar opened. 

He didn’t dare breathe as whoever had entered the room stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind them. The footsteps were heavy, metal clinking (armor, was it the Kingsguard he’d seen? What were the chances that he’d come to the solar at the same time as Jon? How had Jon been stupid enough to take that chance?) as he moved to Jon’s right. Books were shifted around, then a drawer closed.

Had he forgotten to close the cabinet drawer?

The seconds ticked by, each one punctuated by two rapid beats of Jon’s heart. He couldn’t see anything from below the desk, and was forced to listen as the Kingsguard walked through the room, opening drawers and moving items around. 

Then the feet drew closer. 

Around the desk.

Jon looked up to meet the amber eyes of Ser Arys. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. 

Arys’ expression twisted. Surprise, anger, disappointment. Something else.

“Get up.” He said. His voice was emotionless now.

Jon didn’t bother trying to protest. There was no way he was getting out of this, even if he had been armed. So he did as he was told, and then he was standing a foot away from his mentor. Ser Arys regarded him, searching, and Jon forced himself to remain tall, strong. 

I’m sorry, Robb. I had to try. 

Arys didn’t say anything else to him. He just grabbed Jon by the upper arm and shoved him out of the room.

The Lannisters didn’t even grace him with a confrontation. No one did. Jon was simply dragged down to the dungeon. He had never been to this part of the castle before, so the trip was unfamiliar—Ser Arys and the Goldcloaks he was with carted him down several flights of stairs. They passed through three sets of heavy wooden doors, each with a guard, and by the time the windows disappeared he realized that he was being taken to the Black Cells. Steffon had told him about them a few times, the lowest section of the dungeons that was reserved for the worst prisoners, traitors and murderers and the like.

I suppose I am a traitor now. And yet Jon could not bring himself to regret his attempt at infiltration. He’d been caught, but that was a risk he’d taken, and as he lost sight of the sun, he accepted that fact. At least he had tried, and had stopped hiding uselessly in the walls. 

Eventually, Ser Arys stopped him in front of an empty cell and gestured for the jailer to open it. He gripped Jon’s arm painfully as the man fiddled with the keys, and eventually he cursed quietly. 

“You stupid, stupid boy,” he hissed as the door swung open with a heavy creak. The cell was bare, save for a rotting wooden bucket and straw that stunk of bodily excrement. Jon sucked in a long breath, preparing to be shoved inside, but the Kingsguard did no such thing. At this rate, there was going to be a bruise on his arm.

“I had to do something,” Jon finally replied, when it became clear Ser Arys was waiting for one. “I couldn’t just stand by while the kingdom fell apart.”

“You don’t understand,” Arys snapped back. “What you have done. Tywin Lannister has been waiting for an occasion like this, and now the King will not be able to curb his anger. Which, I would remind you, would be quite just. The Hand is going to try to have you killed for this.”

“He wouldn’t dare.” Yet the thought curdled cold in Jon’s throat. He was not as confident in that belief as he wanted to be. “I’m a bastard, but even bastards have some standing. I want to take the Black.”

Arys’ eyes flickered. Finally, he loosened his grip on Jon’s arm and angled his head towards the cell. Jon went voluntarily, and watched as the jailer locked the door behind him. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then the Kingsguard sighed.

“I’ll speak for you as best I can,” Arys finally said. “The Black… that is doable.”

“Thank you,” Jon replied. Arys turned away, but before he could go, some fit of emotion seized his chest, and he added: “If I may, please keep an eye on Robb. He’s vulnerable, and there’s nothing more I can do for him.”

Ser Arys paused in his steps to listen, but didn’t respond. He continued up the stairs, the Goldcloak guards followed him, and with them went the light. 

Time passed. Jon entertained himself by reciting his lessons from Winterfell. He missed the North fiercely, and consoled himself with the fact that he would be able to see Arya again if he went to take the Black. Recruits for the Watch often stopped in Wintertown—they would find some way to speak to each other one more time. He would muss Arya’s hair and apologize for getting her in trouble with Needle, and perhaps he would see his other siblings too. He’d like to see Bran again, awake and not the half-dead wisp of a boy he’d visited before leaving with the King’s party. He wondered if Lady Catelyn had delivered her newest child yet, if there was another half-sibling of his he might meet before continuing on to the Wall.

He imagined seeing Father again. He would be angry for certain, and Jon was not foolish enough to think that he had acted with the honor his Lord Father so valued. But it had all been for their House, for Robb, and in that Jon hoped that Father would have some affection left for him. He’d tell Father all he’d learned about the Lannisters too, about the incest and the treachery and their frantic grabs for power. 

Jon was in the middle of drawing a detailed mental picture of Winterfell’s Great Hall when he heard footsteps. He stood up just as the light from a torch guttered into view, followed by the grumblings of a deep voice that was somewhat familiar. 

Then his visitor came into view, and he drew himself up as much as he could. King Robert huffed his way down the last few stairs, then walked down the hallway towards his cell, which was close to the exit. There was a singular Kingsguard with him—Ser Barristan Selmy, who Jon had never spoken to and did not know well, was standing just behind his king, holding the torch with one hand and resting the other on the pommel of his sword. He regarded Jon with a long, solemn face, without any mercy. 

“Seven hells,” Robert grunted as he stopped in front of Jon’s door. Unsure how to greet him now that he was a prisoner, Jon floundered for a moment, then gave up and bowed like he normally would. 

“Your Grace,” Jon replied, raising his head. Robert’s cheeks were flushed, even in the yellow torchlight, and Jon thought that he might be drunk. It had to be far into the evening by now. 

“I had to see it myself,” Robert announced, a slight slur to his words. He was indeed drunk. “Ned’s own boy, a traitor.”

“As I see it, it’s the Lannisters who are traitors,” Jon replied. There wasn’t any use hiding anymore. He might as well be frank with it. “I had no ill intent towards the Kingdom, Your Grace.”

Robert laughed once, a low, billowing bark. “I’m sure! That is what the traitors all say. It’s what Tywin, that old gout, says too. Who am I to believe? The bastard?”

“The bastard of your most loyal lord,” Jon tried, but Robert was hardly paying attention to him. 

“First Robb nearly kills Joffrey, and now you’re committing espionage!” Robert bellowed, waving a hand at him. “Perhaps your Father is not so loyal.” But then he seemed to catch himself, and before Jon could protest continued on. “But Joffrey started that fight, we all know it no matter what that wretch of a boy says. To think such a creature came from my blood…” he sighed, his anger and energy gone as quickly as it came. “But I needed to see this. Ser Arys says you want to take the Black.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed.

“Damn it all to the Seven Hells,” Robert turned to Ser Barristan, waving a hand. “Do you see what I have to deal with?!” He whirled back on Jon. “Of course I know Tywin Lannister is plotting, boy! All he cares about is power, but if it keeps the kingdom running and the affairs of the kingdom out of my hands, then why should I care?”

“He’s going to start a war, Your Grace,” Jon growled. 

“Hah! Tywin would never dare to start a war while I draw breath. And once I’m dead he’ll have a grandson on the throne, so who cares. But now I have to deal with you. Damn Ned, he should have just been my Hand. Now he’s made everything difficult. And no, I won’t let you take the Black.” Jon opened his mouth, but Robert just pressed on. “I’m settling this like a man! No more skulking in the shadows from any of you. I’ve already sent the messenger, boy. Ned is coming down to King’s Landing and we are going to sort this out.”

“You’ve summoned my Father?” Jon echoed, surprised, and Robert threw up his hands. 

“Idiots, the lot of you!” Robert jabbed a finger at him. “You can give your excuses to Ned. You think long and hard, boy, because you’re going to need them.” He flexed his hands, then whirled around. Ser Barristan followed him silently as Robert bellowed his way up the stairs. “Someone get me another drink! I’m too sober to deal with this!”

Before Jon could think of anything else to say, the king was gone, and Jon was left to his whirling thoughts.

Chapter Text

Staying at Riverrun felt like a dream. 

By the time Ned was due to arrive and the birth of her child was looming, the similarities to her first pregnancy had grown too numerous to ignore. Here in Riverrun, surrounded by family and attendants, reminded Catelyn fiercely of being pregnant with Robb, spending her days minding her father’s estate as best she could while her husband was away. 

Thankfully, there was less stress to worry her this time around. There was no war on, for one, and she had little reason for her to worry for Ned’s life or her child’s future at the moment. Riverrun had regained the serenity of her childhood, and often Catelyn thought of her mother, whose rooms she now occupied. Once before Catelyn had given birth in the same chamber as Minisa Tully, and now she was due to do so again. 

 The months passed slowly, yet once the news came that Ned was almost at Riverrun, it felt like it had only been a few days since Catelyn had last seen her husband. Not being able to greet him personally in the courtyard was torture, and she was forced to content herself by cracking a window open and watching her husband reunite with their eldest daughter from above. From her vantage point, she spied Ned greeting Edmure, then Sansa. After a moment, he got down on one knee, and Sansa leapt up to embrace him.

Ned had come with only a dozen guards, intentionally keeping his party light to preserve his speed, so the reunion in the courtyard was swift. A few minutes later, he was gone into the keep, and Catelyn closed the shutters with a sigh.

He didn’t keep her waiting any longer, though. Catelyn felt like she had hardly taken a breath before there were two firm raps on her chamber door.

“Come in,” she called, and the door opened. 

A weight seemed to lift off of her shoulders when her lord husband entered the room. Ned must have come up right away; his speed aside, he was still wearing his traveling cloak, which he seemed to remember when he saw her, absentmindedly taking it off as he stepped inside.

“My lady,” he greeted her, dipping his head, and Catelyn smiled. 

“My lord.” She glanced down at the chair she was sitting in, her socked feet propped up on a footstool, more embarrassed now. “I would stand for you, but my ankles haven’t agreed with me these past few weeks. The maester says that I should be off them as much as possible.”

“Then we shall do as he says.” Ned crossed the room in four great strides. Catelyn looked up as he stopped next to her seat, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way of his when he was expressing joy without smiling. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, then bent down and pressed another to her lips. “You and the babe are well?”

“Yes, besides my poor feet.” Catelyn laughed, adjusting herself as Ned took a seat. “Maester Vyman says I am doing well for a lady of my age. The only exception are my ankles, I suppose, who have decided to age a few decades faster than the rest of me.”

“You still look as beautiful as you did the day I married you,” Ned replied, and the earnestness of the complement made her blush and look away.

“Some days I feel like that girl again,” she confessed, collecting herself. Then she leaned over and kissed him once more. “It’s been too long, Ned. I’ve missed you.”

“I would stay with you as long as you would have me, if I had the choice.” Ned reached out and took a strand of her hair, twirling it about his fingers as he leaned in close. “The babe will come next week?”

“If this pregnancy is the same as my previous ones.” All of Catelyn’s children had come two weeks earlier than the maesters predicted. After Bran, she had forgone listening to them in that regard. “Which I think it is. I’m certainly ready to meet our boy—and to go outside again on my own two feet, I’ll admit.”

“Hopefully our girl will listen to her mother, then, and come soon,” Ned replied, eyes twinkling, and Catelyn laughed. 

“You always think it’s a girl, Ned.”

“And you always think the babe is a boy. I believe that even numbers would do us well, my lady.”

Catelyn couldn’t resist rolling her eyes, and Ned huffed a breath of a laugh, patting the back of her hand.

“How was your trip?” She asked, changing the subject, and he shook his head, his mirth fading.

“Uneventful, though I certainly feel like I have ridden the length of the North twice over. Soon I will have done it thrice, since like as not I will be riding back to the Wall before the end of the year.”

“The summit with your lords went well?”

Ned tilted his head back and forth a little. “As could be expected. Lord Umber and I together were enough to convince Lady Mormont and Lord Karstark of the danger beyond the Wall. Lord Bolton has yet to be convinced, I believe, but he is preparing to call his banners nonetheless. If nothing else, they do not take the Wildlings to be an idle threat.”

“I can hardly believe it.” And yet she remembered the day Ned had written to her about the corpses rising in Castle Black well. The difference in tone between that and his reaction to her pregnancy would have been funny, if not for the severity of such a claim. “It hasn’t happened again?”

“I almost wish it would,” Ned admitted, sitting back. He kept his hand in hers, tightening his grip for just a moment. “For my real difficulty lies with King’s Landing.”

“Robert does not believe you?”

Ned snorted. “Robert would not believe the existence of the wights unless he saw it with his own two eyes, and I burned the only two specimens we had, the fool I was. It was a gamble writing to him without physical evidence, and all I seem to have done is further alienate myself from the crown. Have you received any letters from Robb recently?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “Just last week a raven arrived. He is doing well, from all I can tell, though I feel like something is amiss. Ever since I arrived in Riverrun, his letters have been stilted.”

Ned nodded. “He didn’t reply to my letter telling him about the Wall, and I was worried. Like as not, it arrived in Winterfell after I left; I didn’t stay long. Luwin will keep it safe until I return.”

Catelyn nodded. “And the other children?”

“Arya is still taken with her water dancing teacher,” Ned replied, affection clear in his voice. “But she’s also grown fond of actual dancing! Maester Luwin brought a new tutor for her and she is doing very well. Rickon is growing quickly, and I plan to start him on riding lessons when I return. Bran is stronger than ever, and ruling very well under Luwin’s guidance.”

“I don’t like leaving them alone,” Catelyn admitted, and Ned dipped his head in agreement.

“Another reason why I won’t be able to stay with you for long. Luwin is guiding Bran to the best of his ability, but he is only eight. Leaving him in charge for longer than a few weeks in times like these makes me anxious, I must admit.”

Catelyn adjusted herself in her seat again. With her belly as big as it was, it was difficult to be comfortable for long, and she resisted voicing her annoyance. As much as she loved her children and bringing them into the world, she had to admit that the final weeks of pregnancy never failed to fray her nerves.

“That’s enough talk of politics for now,” she decided, putting a hand under her belly as she started to sit up. “This baby has decided that it’s time for me to lay down.”

“Then we must do as she says,” Ned agreed, standing in a single move that made Catelyn jealous. He held out a hand, and with her free hand she let him help her up. Her ankles protested fiercely at the motion, but Ned was kind and took some of her weight as she crossed the room. Laying down on the bed was a relief, and her husband sat next to her shoulder, just barely on the corner. 

“You should get changed, my lord,” she said, even as Ned’s fingers tangled in her hair and threaded down to the roots. She was glad to have forgone her braids this morning. “And perhaps send for Sansa? I would like to spend an afternoon with just us, and you need to rest.”

Ned’s eyes crinkled around the edges again, but this time she earned a smile alongside it. “You tempt me, my lady.”

Catelyn swatted his side, shooing him off the bed. 

In the end, Catelyn was right. The babe came four days later, right when she expected. It was an easy, quick birth, done and over with in an afternoon. Sansa was even able to attend to her in the beginning hours, helping her with her stretches and fetching food and water. She was sent away once Maester Vyman declared that the babe was ready. Half an hour later it was all over, and a squirming, screaming bundle was being placed on her chest.

“A boy, my lady,” Vyman announced, and Catelyn heaved a great sigh, collapsing back into her pillows as the babe announced his displeasure at the outside world into her breast. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied one of the midwives leaving the room—to pass the news to her waiting husband and daughter, no doubt. “Hearty and hale as can be.”

“That was quick,” Catelyn breathed, then she laughed as another midwife brushed her hair, which was coming loose from its braids and sticking to her forehead, out of her face. Once her vision was clear, she pulled back the blanket to get a good look at the babe. His face was scrunched, and the skin was still turning from a faint blue to pink. What caught her attention, though, were the thin wisps of brown hair atop his tiny head. Ned. He looks like Ned. The thought made her weak, and she didn’t protest as Vyman took the babe again to cut the cord. He did so, then took him to be weighed on the scales Robb had been placed on, fifteen and a half years ago.

“A little over seven pounds,” Vyman told her from across the room, passing the babe from the scale to a waiting midwife to properly swaddle him. “And nothing wrong that I can see. Excellent work.”

“What color are the eyes?” Catelyn asked, her curiosity burning now.

“Blue, my lady,” the midwife swaddling her son replied, pausing to pry one eyelid open. “The same as you.”

“They may darken to your husband’s gray with time,” Vyman added. He returned to Catelyn’s side, hands pressing at her empty belly. “You are almost finished. The afterbirth will come any time now.”

Catelyn nodded, closing her eyes in an effort to rest between contractions. Vyman was right; the afterbirth came very quickly, perhaps a quarter hour after the baby was born. By that point, the babe had been returned to her. He quieted when he touched her, and once everything had calmed, Catelyn took a moment to commit all of his little features to memory. His eyes were indeed blue, but even Arya had blue eyes for the first few months of her life. In all likelihood, they would shift to gray with time.

“Lord Stark is at the door if you are ready, my lady,” the midwife attending to her said some time later. Catelyn nodded, and she left to see him in.

She smiled when Ned entered the room, breezing past the welcoming midwife to see her and the babe. He broke into a smile of his own when he leaned over and saw his newest son’s face for the first time. He brushed a finger over his forehead, then turned and pressed a fierce, happy kiss to Catelyn’s own brow.

“You both are well?” He asked, and she nodded. “Good. I wanted to hear it from you. The gods be good, it was quick.”

“Quick and easy,” Catelyn agreed. “For all the trouble he gave my feet, our boy was more than ready to face the world. He was as easy as Robb. Maybe easier.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with Riverrun,” Ned remarked, and Catelyn giggled. Before this one, Robb had been by far her quickest and easiest birth, enough that they were both ready to travel only two months later. Bran, meanwhile, had been her most difficult, but all of her children born in Winterfell had given her one complication or another. 

“I think it speaks only to Maester Luwin’s skill in delivering our other children,” she deferred in the end. “Maester Vyman was quite relieved that I delivered so easily. As much as it pains me to admit, I am getting older, and children usually do not come as easy for women my age.”

“You have given me many healthy children, four of them sons,” Ned reminded her. “I am well satisfied with what we have. If this is our last child, I will die a happy man.”

“I’m sure I have a few more left in me, my lord,” Catelyn replied, half in jest, and her husband shook his head in exasperation.

“No speaking on that until you are recovered. We can discuss things then.” 

It was at that moment that the baby sneezed quite fiercely, bumped his head on Catelyn’s collarbone, and startled himself into crying again. She turned her attention back to him, bouncing him against her shoulder until he quieted, this time nearly to sleep.

“Would you like to hold him, my lord?” She asked, and Ned nodded, sitting down. With the practiced ease of a father who had done this three times already, he tucked the babe into the crook of his arm, supporting his head with the other, and pulled him close to his chest. “This one takes after you.”

“It’s a little early to tell,” Ned chuckled. He was staring at their son intensely, and Catelyn fell silent to let him commit it all to memory. Her heart ached when she remembered that he would have to leave soon. Ned had been unable to be present for both Robb and Arya’s first months due to war, and she gave a silent prayer to the Mother that his absence this time would be as short as possible. “But he is beautiful, my lady.”

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, simply taking it all in. Slowly, the baby fell into his first true sleep, his breaths deepening as Ned held him closer.

“Perhaps we should send for Sansa?” Catelyn suggested, once it was clear that things had calmed. Ned nodded, sitting up and indicating for a midwife to fetch her. 

The midwife hardly had to step outside of the room before Sansa was bursting in. She squealed a little when she saw her parents, and Catelyn could see the exact moment her daughter saw her youngest brother for the first time. She hurried forwards, crouching down to get a good look.

“He’s so little,” she whispered in awe. The midwife brought another chair over, and she sat down next to her father, almost pressing into his side to get a good look. 

“Rickon was the biggest of you all,” Catelyn said. “And he’s the only baby you would remember. You were my smallest, though.”

“Really?” Sansa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then cautiously brushed a finger over the baby’s cheek. The baby snuffled, but didn’t wake. She turned to Catelyn afterwards. “And you are well?”

“Very,” Catelyn assured her with a smile. She reached out and let Sansa take her hand, squeezing gently. “You did so well helping me, Sansa. One day you will be having children of your own, and hopefully I will be there to help you in return.”

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Sansa said, sitting up straighter. “When Joffrey and I marry, we will have so many babies! And I’ll send for you every time.”

“That sounds lovely,” Catelyn responded, pointedly ignoring how Ned’s expression darkened. They had been skirting the topic of Sansa’s betrothal ever since he’d arrived in Riverrun—there were more prominent issues to focus on. “However many children you have, I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful mother, Sansa.”

“Have you decided on a name yet, Father?” Sansa asked, turning her attention back to Ned. He only raised an eyebrow and turned to Catelyn.

“I think this name belongs to your mother,” he said. “I quite liked her suggestion for a boy.”

“He and I decided on Alarra if the baby was a girl,” Catelyn told her. “That was your lord father’s idea. I thought Cedrik would be a strong name for a boy.”

“Cedrik Stark,” Sansa echoed. “I like it, but I don’t think it’s a Stark name.”

“It’s not common,” Ned agreed. “Cedrik hasn’t been used by our family since before the Conquest, and never notably. But perhaps it is best if he has something more unique to call his own.”

“Someone others can name their own children after,” Catelyn remarked. She leaned back in her bed as a wave of exhaustion overtook her. Quick the birth might have been, but it was tiring all the same.

“Perhaps we should leave you to some peace, my lady,” Ned’s voice said from above, and she chuckled. 

“If it pleases you, my lord.”

She opened her eyes in time to see Ned stand up and pass Cedrik to the midwife. He turned back then, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“You always have,” he whispered in her ear. He laid a hand on Sansa’s arm, and Catelyn waved them both off as the midwife took Cedrik to his awaiting wetnurse. Content to watch them go, she closed her eyes once more and let sleep overtake her.

Ned stayed for two more weeks.

And what a wonderful fortnight it was. Perhaps her husband was right, and something about Riverrun brought health to her more quickly than Winterfell; by the end of his visit, Catelyn was back to walking and working the same as she had before her pregnancy had rendered her nearly bedridden, if more carefully and with significantly more sleep. 

Sansa took to Cedrik immediately, more often than not trailing after him and his wetnurse, watching him be cared for with the same fascination Catelyn had when she was her age and Edmure was a newly-born babe. Cedrik himself grew strong, eating and crying with the same ferocity that had brought him into the world. 

But the outside world did not wait to be heard. Ned slowly spent more and more time answering letters from the North, especially from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, as time passed. Apparently, Commander Mormont was readying for a grand ranging beyond the Wall to scout the situation with the Wildlings before the Northmen arrived, and Ned was keeping careful track of the endeavor. It was yet another reason why he couldn’t stay until her and Cedrik were able to travel, and it cast a dreary sheen over his final days at Riverrun. 

Her husband left on an overcast morning, with the light from the rising sun tinted gray. Catelyn was well enough by this time to see him off personally. It never got easier, watching her husband leave her and their young children, but Catelyn comforted herself in the reminder that he was returning to Winterfell, where Bran, Arya, and Rickon needed him just as much as the realm. 

More time passed, and Catelyn occupied herself with the affairs of the castle. She spent time with her Father, with Cedrik and Sansa, and with Edmure, advising him as best she could with the affairs of the Riverlands when he needed someone to talk to. 

Shortly before Cedrik turned a month old, Catelyn was in her father’s solar, speaking to him about half-remembered stories of her youth, when Riverrun’s steward, Utherydes, entered the room. 

“My lady,” he greeted her, bowing shallowly. “My lord. A small party of riders has arrived from the south. Lady Catelyn, Lord Edmure has requested your presence.”

For me? It was unusual for Edmure to request her personal presence when entertaining visitors. Beside her, Father shifted, sitting up in his bed.

“Visitors from the south?” He rasped. “I should be there.”

“I’m sure Edmure has it handled, Father,” Catelyn cut him off, standing to gently push him back. Today was one of Father’s bad days, where he seemed to think he was living a decade in the past. “You are ill, remember, and Edmure is a man grown. I’m sure he has everything handled.”

“You are certain?” 

Catelyn nodded, shooting a glance over at Utherydes. “Utherydes can keep you company while I meet with our visitors. I’ll extend your welcome to them for you.”

Father eyed her for a moment, then nodded, relaxing. 

“Lord Edmure is in the private audience chamber, my lady,” Utherydes whispered in her ear as she passed him. Catelyn nodded, then sucked in a breath and left the room. Thankfully, the audience chamber was only one floor below Father’s rooms, situated above the Great Hall. It took her only a few minutes to cross the castle and reach the room, where her brother’s guards were standing outside.

They let her in without a word. Inside, Edmure was seated on the high lord’s seat, his expression grave. Maester Vyman stood at his side, equally worried, and below them were a group of a half dozen men who Catelyn did not know. At the forefront of the party was a man with red-gold hair, young and comely, donned in a purple cloak that was hemmed with white stars. It was vaguely familiar, and Catelyn raced to remember the design.

“Lord Beric Dondarrion?” She tried, guessing it was the head of the house. The man nodded, bowing shallowly at her.

“Lady Catelyn.” Besides that, Lord Beric said nothing more, this gaze flickering back over to her brother. 

Edmure shifted in his seat, and Catelyn followed Lord Beric’s example, facing him expectedly.

“Well,” she said when his hesitation became clear. “I understand that whatever news Lord Beric brings with his visit must not be good.”

“No,” Edmure said, his voice low and angry. He swallowed, checking himself, then stood and walked down from his seat, stopping a few steps away from her. He held out a sealed roll of paper. Catelyn took it, turning it over in her hands until she saw yellow wax, emblazoned in the crowned Baratheon stag, sealing it shut. “This message is for you, sister.”

“The message is meant for Lord Stark,” Beric corrected before she could open it. Even he looked apologetic as he continued. “Not Lady Stark. The King was insistent that I deliver this to him in person.”

“My lord husband left for Winterfell a fortnight ago,” Catelyn said, alarm rapidly rising in her chest. “If his travel goes as planned, he should be at the Twins by now. You won’t be able to reach him by raven before he crosses into the Neck, much less on foot. What my husband knows, I know. Why has the king sent a message for him?”

“The king has sent him a formal summons to the capital,” Edmure answered before Beric could speak. “The reasons why are in this missive, apparently.”

“A formal summons?” Catelyn echoed. “Ned is running all over the North, preparing for winter and the threat at the Wall. Robert must know he’s busy.” Then she swallowed, suddenly cold, and clenched the missive tighter in her hands. “Robb hasn’t sent me any letters in the last month.”

“Not even a congratulations for the birth of his younger brother, which is quite unlike him,” Edmure agreed—this they had spoken about before. “Quite suspicious, with this context. If you don’t want this message opened, Lord Beric, I suggest you tell us what you know.”

Lord Beric glanced between them, considering for a moment. Before Edmure could press him further, though, he gave.

“Lord Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow, has been arrested by the crown on account of treason,” he announced, clasping his hands together. “Though I cannot say exactly why—rumors have twisted the truth into an indistinguishable mess, at least from my perspective. Whatever he has done has angered both the King and the Lord Hand quite severely. King Robert holds him in the Black Cells and has summoned Lord Stark to address the matter before he decides a punishment. I was sent to escort him and whoever he desired to accompany him to the capital.”

A long stretch of silence. Catelyn felt like she was nineteen again, watching Brandon race to the capital to try and save his sister. Suddenly the nostalgia of Riverrun felt anything but comforting.

Edmure was not so horrified; anger and indignation seemed to be his predominant emotions. He drew himself up to his full height, blue eyes blazing.

“The King is summoning us to court for the crime of a bastard?” He exclaimed. “Foolishness, all of it! Ned Stark isn’t even here, and if you want him, you’ll have to ride another month and a half to even think of catching him in Winterfell. And I would like to inform you that he won’t even be there for long; his next destination is the Wall, to fight the Wildlings.”

“I will go if I must,” Lord Beric declared, but even he looked uncertain. Catelyn doubted that he had ever gone so far north as Riverrun before, much less the Neck and Winterfell. “I have been given an order on account of the king, and I intend to see it through.”

“Is the crime of the bastard truly so serious that the King would wait months for my husband to see him in person?” Catelyn asked, and Beric nodded.

“He says it is so, my lady. A bastard Jon Snow may be, but he is a bastard of the Warden of the North, raised alongside his trueborn siblings. And with…” Beric trailed off, suddenly even more uncertain. He glanced between Catelyn and Edmure, then shook his head. “Forgive me for being the one to bear this news, but from what you have said this far,  I don’t believe you heard of King Robert’s first letter to Lord Stark.”

“First?” Edmure turned to Maester Vyman, who dipped his head.

“While Lord Stark was here, he received no communication from King’s Landing,” the maester reported. “But I was also under the impression that he was expecting any letters from the south to be sent to Winterfell, to await him upon his return.”

“Perhaps it was sent to Winterfell, then,” Beric mused quietly. “Or it simply missed Lord Stark in his travels. Nevertheless, it is best you know, Lady Stark, that your son, Lord Robb, was grievously injured in a fight with Prince Joffrey shortly before Jon Snow’s arrest. He is recovering well to the best of my knowledge, but the wound was taken to the head, and he had not yet been seen publicly by the time I left. I believe that has also influenced the King’s decision.”

Edmure drew back, shocked, as Catelyn felt the air leave her lungs. She drew a hand up to her mouth. Robb was hurt? Robb had been hurt fighting the prince, and no one had thought to write to her? 

“The prince gave the heir to Winterfell a grievous head wound, and now the King is summoning the Lord to answer for something a bastard has done?” Edmure scoffed. “If I were him, I would come down to King’s Landing with an army to answer for it, not you.”

“Don’t speak of such things, Edmure,” Catelyn snapped on instinct, her mind still whirling. “Forgive my brother, Lord Beric, he is angry.”

“I don’t blame him,” Beric shook his head. “I don’t know what happened between Lord Robb and the prince—both sides have accused the other of instigating the fight—but the king has put forth every effort to get to the truth of the matter. I met your son during the Tourney of the Hand, Lady Stark, and he was a talented and genteel boy who quite impressed me. But with the arrest of his half-brother, perhaps you can understand why the King might be rattled.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that this whole missive is ridiculous,” Edmure said, his blood still hot. “You’re a knight, surely you know how dangerous a head wound can be? What if there is no full recovery? What if my nephew becomes simple-minded?”

“I would much rather not entertain the possibility,” Catelyn forced out, feeling quite sick at the idea. The thought of having two sons crippled, one in body and one in mind, was almost too much for her to bear. She forced herself to take a long breath. “We must let cooler heads prevail. Perhaps we will be lucky, and a raven could catch my husband before he crosses into the Neck.”

“I will prepare a bird, my lady,” Vyman said, bowing his head. “And perhaps a second for White Harbor? Lord Manderly could send the message to Moat Cailin, if luck is not on our side at the Twins. Sailing would be much faster than riding, in any case.”

“Yes, that will do,” Catelyn agreed with a nod. “Edmure, Lord Beric has traveled quite far to reach us. He has brought us ill news, but only as a messenger.”

Edmure hesitated for a moment, but before Catelyn could worry about any rash behavior, he nodded. “Yes, he has. I will arrange for bread and salt for you and your men, Lord Beric, and rooms to sleep in.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Lord Beric said, though he still looked doubtful at their resolution. Catelyn couldn’t blame him. Even with ravens, it would take a month just to catch Ned and bring him back to Riverrun, and another to return to King’s Landing. King Robert was a famously impatient man; would he even wait that long once he heard of the delay?

That was assuming, of course, that Ned would even go quietly. Catelyn was not so sure. Ned was a smart, calm man—when it came to everything but his family. If this situation was a painful reminder to her of the start of Robert’s Rebellion, she could only imagine what it would be like for her husband, who had lost most of his family and many friends to it. Edmure had been rash in his assessment of his brother-by-law, but not inaccurate. What was the King thinking, summoning Ned to the capital? Did he not even spare a thought as to how such a thing might look?

The Others take Jon Snow. Catelyn could not help the wave of vitriol that rose in her heart when she thought of the boy. When he had become a squire and left Winterfell, she had been relieved to put the matter of him and his existence out of her mind. It seemed that the bastard could not even grant her that peace when halfway across the kingdom. 

But it would not do to voice such thoughts aloud. Catelyn forced herself to loosen her grip on the missive Lord Beric had given her as Edmure had his guards lead the man away. The chamber was silent for a long minute after the doors closed behind him and his party, until, finally, it seemed that Edmure could take it no longer. 

“Damn it, Vyman, you said that the Lannisters’ movements were nothing to worry about!” Her brother burst, erupting into a furious pace as he strode towards his advisor.

“Without context, my lord, I truly believed so,” the maester replied, but Edmure just ran a hand through his hair and cursed vulgarly.

“Edmure, compose yourself!” Catelyn snapped before he could go any further. “This behavior is unbecoming of a Lord!”

“Robb is injured, the Snow boy is imprisoned, Ned is being summoned to King’s Landing, and you’re asking me to stay calm? You should be more furious than me!” Edmure whirled around, his mouth open to continue his tirade, but Catelyn strode forwards and caught him by the arm, holding him in place.

“Has Father taught you nothing?” She hissed. “You nearly embarrassed yourself in front of Lord Beric and spoke treason in front of an envoy of the King. Lesser men would have lost their heads for that. The last thing we need is you acting outside of your purview.”

Edmure stared at her for a moment, breathing heavily. Catelyn held his gaze, steadfast until he finally gave in and looked away. She loosened her grip on his arm once she was sure he wasn’t going to pace. 

“Right as always, Cat,” he murmured. “What good would a war do now?”

“Nothing. My son would be raised as a hostage instead of a ward, and thousands of dead men would litter the realm right before winter. Now what is this about the Lannisters?”

“Ser Addam Marbrand has taken a small contingent of Lannister knights to Harrenhal, my lady,” Vyman answered. “And Ser Jaime Lannister has been sighted riding to the Golden Tooth. Without this news from the King, they seemed to be regular movements from the Westermen—such visits are not unusual.”

“But with them, they bring a new context to our situation,” Catelyn finished as Edmure ran a hand over his face. “We must avoid a war if at all possible if we want Robb returned to us. I will write a letter to Ned and copy it twice—they will be sent to the Twins, White Harbor, and Winterfell. One will make it to him.”

“King Robert would never wage a war against Lord Stark, my lady,” Vyman said, and Catelyn nodded. “Ill-sighted his summons to your king may be, but no man save the Mad King would do such a thing against his strongest ally.”

“We must use that to our advantage,” Catelyn agreed. “Tywin Lannister may be powerful, but Robert is King. Ned said it best: he believes what is put in front of him. We must simply be there to present our case, and he will listen. That is how he was in Winterfell, and I see no reason for it to have changed now.”

“Would he listen to you?” Edmure asked, half incredulous, and Catelyn shrugged.

“He would listen to Ned,” she said instead. “And I’m only a moon past having Cedrik. Going to King’s Landing wouldn’t be wise, as much as I would like to step up in my husband’s place and take Robb away from there.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Edmure agreed. He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them and sighed. “Forgive me, sister. It wasn’t my place to intervene as I did with Lord Beric. This is a matter between the crown and House Stark, and I shouldn’t have spoken for you.”

“You are forgiven. The gods be good, Riverrun will not be needed in this dispute.”

I hope. Mother above, show me what to do.

After supper, Catelyn retired to Cedrik’s room to write her letters to Ned. There was something comforting about the presence of her babe in such a confusing time. After his wetnurse fed him, she dismissed his attendants and sat alone with him for a time, idly scratching messages onto parchment. Nothing she wrote felt quite right. Passing the news came easily enough— Jon Snow is in the Black Cells and Robb is injured, and now the King is asking for your presence in King’s Landing —and perhaps that should have been enough, but Catelyn kept trying to add what she and Edmure would do before his arrival, and every draft came up short in that regard. Anything she suggested felt too little or too much. What would Ned want her to do? Would that even be the right thing to do?

Cedrik fell asleep as the sun approached the horizon, and Catelyn took a break from her letter-writing to watch him. Sansa had sewn him a little direwolf blanket before he was born, and now it was draped across his chest, rising and falling softly to the tune of his breaths. Though his eyes had remained blue thus far, the hair atop his head had solidified into a thin brown fuzz. Absentmindedly, she ran a finger over the soft strands, remembering Robb when he had lived in these rooms. Back in those days, she had hardly known what to do with her son. She certainly hadn’t known her husband yet, and had no news from him as he chased his sister through Dorne, desperately seeking someone who, in all likelihood, was already near death, if not dead already. 

Now Robb was almost a man grown, and yet in Catelyn’s heart he was little more than the babe Cedrik presently was, fragile and delicate and in need of her protection. What kind of mother was she, to have sent him away to possibly die? She wanted nothing more than to run to King’s Landing and speak sense to the King herself, yet reason held her back. 

Would Ned chase Robb the same way he had chased down any rumor of Lyanna? Catelyn knew the answer was yes, and yet the thought didn’t reassure her like she wished it would—because she knew he would do the same for Jon Snow, who had gotten them into this mess in the first place. 

A soft knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts. Thankfully, it was quiet enough that Cedrik didn’t even stir, and she slowly drew her hand away from him and moved to answer it.

On the other side was a member of Lord Beric’s party, a man in nondescript clothing who she didn’t know. The man bowed upon seeing her.

“A letter for you, my lady,” he said, holding out a folded slip of paper. It was emblazoned in nameless gray wax, and Catelyn took it cautiously.

“Who is it from?” She asked, and the man said nothing. Instead, he slipped a strand of ribbon into her hand and walked away. Catelyn watched him go, mystified, before turning it in her hand. Both ends of the ribbon were fastened together with a small metal mockingbird. 

Littlefinger. The mockingbird was his coat of arms. Catelyn had not given him much thought since the King had left Winterfell. She had written to him only once, to ask him to look after Robb. He had replied once, agreeing to do so. And now Robb was in a sickbed, so how well had he really done?

And yet the subtlety of the letter intrigued her. Slipping back into Cedrik’s room, she broke the gray seal and started reading.

My Dearest Cat,

By the time you hear of this, you will have the news of Jon Snow’s arrest. Hopefully you have also heard that your son Robb has been injured in a fight with the Prince, though with the Grand Maester’s meddling I cannot know for sure. Any letters that pass through his hands cannot be trusted. Thus I must rely on this personal messenger to pass this to you.

The situation in King’s Landing has grown dire, but not in the ways you think. King Robert is foolish and frustrated by his court, but he has no doubts of your husband’s loyalty. He believes that your husband is one of the only men he can trust, and selfishly has called him close in this troubling time. 

Tywin Lannister wishes to avoid war as well, but is swiftly being pushed to action by parties who have everything to gain in a conflict between House Stark and House Lannister. Robb Stark and Jon Snow, however inadvertently, have given these parties an opportunity they are taking. Tywin relies more on their rumor and hearsay by the day. 

All this I say to tell you that war is far from an inevitability, but tension is growing. I have done what I can to calm things here and keep your son safe, but even I must acknowledge my deficits. Time and power are not on my side. 

I do not presume to tell you what to do. However, should you and Lord Stark decide to heed King Robert’s summons, as I would advise you to do as soon as possible, these rumors will be dispelled and war averted. I can imagine that you hesitate still, and so I will personally guarantee you both a way out of the capital should the worst come to pass and danger arise—you need to only say the word, and you will be gone. 

Our years apart have been long, and as I have failed in looking after your son, I imagine that you do not trust me. But for the good of the realm I must beg for a pearl of it here. If nothing else, know that I would never do anything to put you in danger.

The letter ended without a signature, but Catelyn didn’t need one. She had grown up taking many of her lessons alongside Petyr Baelish. It may have been fifteen years, but his handwriting hadn’t changed. 

She sat down with a sigh, setting Petyr’s letter down alongside her failed drafts to Ned. Of course he had written with the assumption that Ned would be with her in Riverrun. What a mess they were all in. 

It felt like hardly a minute had passed before there was a knock at the door again. Catelyn looked up just in time to see Sansa peeking in. Her eyes were reddened, like she had been crying, and Catelyn hurried to her feet to greet her.

“I’m not bothering you, Mother?” she asked, and Catelyn shook her head, leading her into the room. 

“No, of course not, sweetling. What’s wrong?”

“I heard what happened,” Sansa whispered, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Is it true? Joffrey and Robb fought? Robb’s hurt?”

Catelyn nodded. There was no use keeping her in the dark when the news would spread quickly through the keep. “Yes. It is very serious, but your Father and I will do everything to make sure he’s safe. You don’t need to worry.”

“But Joffrey would never hurt Robb,” Sansa cried. Her voice pitched up at the end of her declaration, and behind Catelyn, Cedrik startled awake with a cry. Sansa covered her mouth with a hand as Catelyn turned around and picked him up, bouncing him in her arms until he quieted. 

“It’s alright, Sansa,” Catelyn said softly, sitting back down and laying Cedrik’s head on her shoulder. She motioned for Sansa to take the chair next to her. “You’re upset, I know.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa sniffed, sitting with a hunch that Catelyn would have corrected if the circumstances were different. “Joffrey’s to be my husband, but Robb’s my brother. I don’t know who to believe.”

“We don’t know anything just yet,” Catelyn reminded her. “That’s why the King wants to speak to your father. Everything will be alright.”

“But Uncle Edmure said that they won’t be able to get Father for months!” Sansa burst, crying for a moment. Catelyn’s heart broke for her and she wiped furiously at her eyes. “And you won’t go. I’m scared.”

“Robb will be alright, Sansa,” Catelyn tried to console her. “Whatever fight he and Prince Joffrey might have had, he’s too important for anyone to risk. He’ll get better, don’t worry, and then your father will fetch him home.”

Sansa was quiet for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. She glanced at Catelyn, guilt clear in her eyes, then looked away again.

“I’m scared for Jon, Mother,” she confessed, and Catelyn’s heart sank. “The punishment for treason is death. What if Robert won’t wait for Father?”

Catelyn swallowed against the rock that had suddenly landed in her throat. “If the King says Jon was arrested for treason, then it must be true.”

“But he’d never do such a thing unless he thought it was the only way!” Sansa exclaimed, fiddling with her hands. “Never. And Jon loves Robb; they do everything together. Why…” she trailed off, glancing at Catelyn again with those blue eyes that were so like her own. “He tried doing something the Hand thought was treason right after Robb got hurt. What if the accusation is a lie? Can’t you—”

“Don’t ask this of me, Sansa,” Catelyn cut her off, holding Cedrik tight to herself. He cooed in her ear.

“I know he’s just a bastard, but I don’t want him to die!”

Sansa curled into herself and cried. Catelyn watched her, sick as she slowly stood up and put Cedrik back in his crib. Littlefinger’s letter was still open on the table next to it, and his curving, cramped handwriting stared up at her in a silent plea. 

What if I do nothing, and by the time Ned gets to King’s Landing, it’s too late for us all? What if Ned sees no other option than to call his banners south?

Catelyn tore herself away and turned to Sansa. She opened her mouth, intending to say—what, exactly? She didn’t know.

“Remember what you said at the weirwood tree?” Sansa mumbled through her tears. “I know you don’t love Jon. That’s okay. But I love Jon. And so do Robb and Father and everyone else. And you love us. Can’t you go for us?”

Catelyn loved Ned. Ned loved her. It was a love that was strong and theirs alone, built stone by stone, something they had chosen over and over again. He would never ask this of her.

I can appreciate the Old Gods because they are Ned’s. Catelyn remembered that day well. Seeing it used against her here—it made her angry. How dare her daughter ask this of her? Let Jon Snow dig his own grave. 

Ned would burn down the kingdom for Robb and Jon alike. She knew that. She hated it. Why couldn’t he have just done the accepted thing and fostered him in a small holdfast far away? She hated that Jon Snow had been kept so close to her family, that he had been arrested, that his life was in danger. She hated that Robb was hurt and helpless, far away from his allies.

And she hated that Sansa was right.

I am Eddard Stark’s wife. What he knows, I know. He trusts me to act for him when he is gone. 

“If I go,” Catelyn said. “You will have to care for Cedrik. He is still too young to travel.”

“You’ll go?!” Sansa exclaimed, shooting to her feet. Catelyn shook her head. 

“If. If I go to King’s Landing and plead for your half-brother’s life, you must keep watch over Cedrik.”

“I will. I will! Please, I don’t want Jon to die.” 

Catelyn held out an arm, and Sansa lurched forwards, burying herself into Catelyn’s chest as she embraced her. Catelyn pressed a kiss into her daughter’s brow as she cried fiercely, feeling anything but certain in her decision. 

Could she trust Littlefinger’s letter? His last declaration was right, she thought; whatever his feelings towards her marriage, he would never put her in danger. 

If she went to King’s Landing in her husband’s name, would she be able to soothe Tywin Lannister’s fears? Likely not, but it would give them less credence, and perhaps that was what he needed. 

Would Robert listen to her? If she came on behalf of her husband, perhaps. She was confident that for as long as the King lived, he would never put her in danger, either. Ned would not be able to make it South anytime soon—she could not replace him, but she could tide things over until his arrival if needed, she thought.

Could she beg for Jon Snow’s life?

For her children’s sake, perhaps.

Chapter Text

The trip to King’s Landing was, mostly, a surprisingly uneventful affair.

Lord Beric had been hesitant to escort her to the capital in her husband’s place, but his doubts over his ability to catch Ned must have been louder than she thought, because he gave in without much of a fight. Edmure had been more difficult to convince, but Catelyn was still his older sister, and in the end he agreed to give her a swift boat and a small contingent of guards to accompany her on her journey.

The journey was swift, as much as it could be considering the circumstances. They sailed the Red Fork until they reached the Ruby Ford, then took horses at Darry and rode down the Kingsroad as fast as was practical. Good weather saw them almost to the city itself, but perhaps a day’s ride from their destination, dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, whipping up a fierce wind that left the horses skittish.

Catelyn tugged the hood of her cloak up as she glanced up at the sky, pausing for a moment to tie it tight around her face before she took the reins again and pressed forwards. It was growing late in the day now, and she hoped that they would reach castle Hayford before the storm reached them. She still grew sore rather quickly when she was on horseback, and withstanding the rain alongside it made her wary. The last thing she needed was to catch a sickness before she even reached King’s Landing.

At the head of the party, Lord Beric Dondarrion turned his head back and forth. Catelyn could only guess what he was thinking about. He had been nothing but kind and courteous to her during their travels, but even she could see the stress that was growing on his shoulders with each passing day. This coming storm was another worry for him to bear, but in this she felt comfortable listening to his intuition. House Dondarrion was from the Stormlands, after all—he would be able to tell the weather much better than she.

After a moment, Lord Beric turned to his companion, Thoros of Myr, and said something to him, his words lost in the bellowing of the wind. The knight raised a hand, calling for the party to stop, then turned his horse about and approached her. 

“Riders from the west, my lady!” He called out, almost shouting to be heard over the wind. Catelyn inclined her head at him, then motioned for her guards to draw close as she looked. The land just north of Hayford was lightly forested in blotches, and lined with hedges to separate farms, but when she sat up straight she could see a party of men riding with the wind, perhaps half the size of their own.

As they drew closer, Catelyn saw that the head rider was armored entirely in white, and she sucked in a breath. What was a Kingsguard doing all the way out here?

Beric seemed to have the same question. Returning to the head of the party, he kicked his horse forwards and raised an arm in greeting. After a moment, the Kingsguard noticed them, steering his horse towards the kingsroad. Catelyn kept her eyes trained on them, trying to figure out who was leading them. Once his rust-red hair became visible, she couldn’t help but frown. She vaguely remembered Ser Meryn Trant from the King’s visit to Winterfell. Even during his short visit, the man’s loyalty to the Lannisters had been clear for all to see. Seeing him was an ill tiding, to be certain.

“Lord Beric!” Ser Meryn called once he came into earshot. Catelyn kept herself in the center of the party as the two men’s horses stopped just a few feet shy of each other. “Back so soon?”

“Lady Stark has answered the summons of the King in the absence of her husband,” Beric replied, less friendly but courteous all the same. “Lord Stark would have been on his way to the Wall by the time I could catch up to him.”

“A slippery fellow,” Meryn scoffed. “We shall see what the King says about it. I am also on my way back to King’s Landing.”

“You are welcome to accompany us, then,” Beric said, and Meryn nodded. “What has taken you this far away from the royal family?”

Meryn’s expression darkened, and Catelyn couldn’t help but shiver when his eyes landed upon her. 

“Something our Lady here will have to explain to the King, no doubt,” he finally replied. “That northern lordling and the crannog wench ran off with the wolves shortly after you left. We’ve been looking for them.”

Daryn Hornwood and Meera Reed, Catelyn realized, barely suppressing a shudder. She had completely forgotten about them since sending them down to King’s Landing, months ago now. If they had tried to run with the direwolves, the situation must have grown dire indeed. 

“Have they?” If Beric was alarmed by the news, he didn’t show it. He visibly looked over the half-dozen men accompanying the Kingsguard—none from major houses that she could see, with two visibly injured—then continued: “Did you catch them?”

“Got one of the wolves last week,” Meryn replied, to Catelyn’s horror. He gestured to one of the younger knights, who had a large pack on the back of his horse. The man opened it enough for her to see a strip of white fur before he closed it again. “The mutt killed two of our men and fought hard enough to give the others time to escape. Shame, really, but I doubt they’ll make it far. You can’t do much in the Crownlands without coin or a horse, and a wolf’s hard to hide this far south.”

Catelyn felt like she was going to be sick. They’ve killed and skinned Jon’s wolf. Ghost, his name had been. He had been the only pup in the litter with white fur, quiet and dutifully protective of his master. When he had lived in Winterfell, she had hardly glanced at him, but now her heart ached fiercely at his loss. One pup for each child of Lord Stark, she remembered hearing when the litter had first been brought to Winterfell. At the time she had been angry there had been one for the bastard. Now that the wolf was dead, she felt only dread.

It’s an omen, she couldn’t help but think. An omen of what’s to come. I have come with too little, and far too late to make a difference. 

Meryn’s gaze returned to her, snapping Catelyn out of her thoughts.

“My apologies for the wolf, my lady,” he grunted, entirely insincere. “But it was a command from the king to bring them back, and it attacked. I’m sure you understand self-defense.”

And yet there was no turning back now. Catelyn drew herself up and met Ser Meryn’s eyes coolly. 

“Of course,” she said. “You have the fur. What of the body?”

Meryn shrugged. “Left to the crows, and whatever scavengers there are here.”

It was a thinly veiled insult to House Stark. Grief gave way to anger, brief but flaring hot, yet Catelyn kept herself still. “When we arrive in Hayford, I will write to my brother to search for the runaways and return them to King’s Landing. Hopefully we can avoid any further instances of… self defense.” 

“The storm will hit us within the hour,” Beric said after a moment, once it became clear that Meryn wasn’t going to reply. “We shouldn’t be outdoors when it does. Will you join us at Hayford, Ser Meryn?”

Meryn’s eyes finally flickered away from her, and Catelyn could not help but let out a sigh of relief. Something about the Kingsguard set her on edge.

“Yes, we shall,” he agreed, turning his horse around. “I’m sure Lady Stark will appreciate the extra protection on the road.”

Catelyn said nothing, and Beric only dipped his head, digging his heels into the flanks of his horse to set them off again.

Far in the distance, thunder rolled.

The storm passed in the night, and throughout the next day the weather was altogether pleasant, save for the mud. By the time they reached King’s Landing, though, a strange hush had fallen over the land.

Catelyn, still reeling from the news of Ghost’s death, felt hyper-aware of every eye upon her as she rode through the streets of the city. The smallfolk stopped to watch her with dark, beady eyes, and she found it difficult to not be bothered by it. It was a relief when they crossed into the gates of the Red Keep, though the danger was only increasing.

Tywin Lannister was waiting for her in the courtyard with a small welcoming party.  For all his family’s name had loomed in the past year, seeing the head of House Lannister felt underwhelming. The silver pin of the Hand was pinned on his scarlet cloak, draped over one shoulder, yet the expensive silk felt like it was compensating for something in Catelyn’s eyes. In a sharp contrast to his clothing, Tywin was aging, having mostly gray hair with a faint gold undertone that hinted at his youth, and balding at the top.

That did not diminish the danger he posed, however. The two of them went through their greetings, thin and hollow in the near-empty yard, and Tywin’s eyes seemed to bore into her as they spoke. They were the same shade as his children’s, green as jade and flecked with gold, and the only feature of his that held any vibrance.

“Forgive me for impressing this on you after such a journey, but you and I both know that our confrontation is long overdue,” the Hand said to her, and Catelyn nodded.

“Of course. The King will be waiting for us, I presume?”

Tywin did not reply, and simply stepped aside in a silent motion for her to follow him into the Tower of the Hand. Catelyn watched him for a long moment, suspicious, but she was in the lion’s den now. If she wanted to ensure Jon Snow and her son’s safety, she would have to play her cards carefully. 

So she did not protest, motioning for the guards her brother had provided to remain with her baggage, and followed him inside. 

She could not help but muse on the opulence of the Keep. If things had only played a little differently, this was where Ned would have been living right now. As Catelyn took in the silk tapestries lining the walls and gold-encrusted furnishings, she knew that he would have hated it here. Still, perhaps if she had convinced him to go south in place of her son, and kept Tywin Lannister far away from the capital, none of them would be in danger right now.

But it was no use thinking of what-ifs. Catelyn brought herself to focus as Tywin shut the door behind her, locking it. The room they had stopped in was little more than an antechamber, and completely unoccupied.

“The situation in King’s Landing has changed since King Robert sent his summons to your husband, Lady Stark,” Tywin said to her, walking over to a cabinet. Catelyn regarded him coolly as he picked up a folded slip of paper and rested it in his hands. “The foremost of which is that the King is dead.”

The breath left Catelyn’s lungs.

“What?” She rasped, and Tywin only frowned, shaking his head as he stepped forwards.

“In this respect I must be blunt. We both know that Robert Baratheon drank, and drank heavily whenever he was allowed. Ever since this whole affair with your son and my grandson started, the habit only grew worse. Two nights ago, he was in a drunken stupor and fell down a flight of stairs, striking his head, in front of many witnesses. He passed yesterday evening. The announcement will be made tonight.”

A flight of stairs. Catelyn did not know whether to believe the Hand’s story was true, but there was something fiercely ironic in the idea of Robert Baratheon passing from something so simple. And you didn’t announce it until after I arrived. How convenient.

“Then your grandson is the new king,” Catelyn found herself saying after a moment, and Tywin nodded.

“The coronation will be within the sennight. Until Joffrey reaches his majority, I will be acting with the authority of the crown.” Tywin looked her up and down. He was clearly unimpressed with her, but Catelyn only kept her back straight and met his gaze with her own sharp glare. This was the most powerful man in Westeros she was facing. She could worry about these new developments later. “The first of which is the controversies surrounding your son and your husband, my lady.”

“And the bastard,” Catelyn corrected him. “It’s regrettable that the king died so shortly before I arrived, but be that as it may, I’m certain that the two of us can come to an agreement. Certainly neither of us want a war now that autumn has begun.”

“You can dispense with the pleasantries, Lady Stark,” Tywin replied, unmoving. “Useless platitudes will do nothing for us now. Your husband raises a host in the North, to fight the wildlings he claims, while his bastard sits in the Black Cells for treason against me. Your son is still under confinement for attempting to attack King Joffrey, but two of his men have fled in the middle of the night, taking the direwolves with them.”

“Ser Meryn killed one of the wolves, or so he claims,” Catelyn bit back, unable to keep the ice out of her voice. After a moment, she resolved to keep it there. Let the lion of Casterly Rock know that the Lady of Winterfell was far from weak. “Your paranoia speaks for you, Lord Lannister, and not your mind. What business do us Starks have here in the south? I would remind you that my husband refused to be Hand when it was offered to him. I would be quite content to take my son and his retinue and return home in peace.”

Tywin just snorted, tapping the parchment in his hands. He was almost smug with it, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. He knows something I do not, Catelyn realized, just a heartbeat before he retorted.

“You are not as innocent in this affair as you pretend to be, Lady Stark. I have your letters.”

Catelyn blinked. “My what?”

Tywin raised a singular eyebrow at her, then unfolded the parchment and held it out to her. Catelyn had just enough time to recognize her sister Lysa’s handwriting and two incomprehensible sentences before he rescinded it and tucked it in a pocket.

“Lady Stark, I have been aware of your correspondence with your sister, the Lady Arryn, for quite some time,” he said. Catelyn resisted biting her lip, frantically trying to work out what it was the man was talking about. “Your code has been cracked, and your secrets with it.”

A code? What code? Catelyn floundered for a moment before it hit her in a cold rush. Lysa’s code. The one she created for us as children. No one save for the two of them had ever known about it—and it had only ever been used to share girlhood secrets. Suddenly the message in the letter was familiar, and yet with understanding came even more confusion. But I haven’t used our code since I was a child.

“I am unfamiliar with this code,” she said after a moment, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them steady. “Whatever you think Lysa has written to me, I’ve had no part in it.”

“A shame such a claim is impossible to prove,” Tywin drawled. “Our Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, is an adept codebreaker, and he claims the letter indicates that you and your sister have been communicating in this fashion for some time.”

“I have no idea where he would have found evidence of such a thing,” Catelyn shot back. “I have come as an envoy of peace, Lord Lannister, and have given myself to the crown in the place of my husband. If we truly sought war, would I have done something so foolish?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, then dipped his head, the ghost of a smirk dancing across his lips. 

“Perhaps there is an agreement we can come to,” he said, taking on a more patronizing tone. “You are right, after all. Who would want a war this close to winter?”

“I want my son, Robb, as well as his retinue relinquished back to my husband,” Catelyn told him, swallowing the hot froth of emotions as she added: “And the life of the bastard guaranteed.”

“The bastard?” Tywin echoed, as if he had forgotten. “Jon Snow. The punishment for treason is death, my lady, and he was caught in the act. My grandson, the King, is quite intent on killing him and being done with it. I had not thought you would mind such a thing.”

It was a difficult thing to keep her expression schooled above the shame and anger that came with the statement. Catelyn kept her breaths steady and her voice even as she replied. 

“My husband certainly would. I don’t say that the bastard deserves no punishment. What of the Night’s Watch? Let him serve the kingdom with what honor he has left, far away from any harm.”

“You Northerner’s do have a preference for such a place. Jon Snow has already requested such a thing, and the King has denied him. Many Starks and their bastards have risen to great heights in such a place. I’m inclined to think that the Night’s Watch would be a reward in these circumstances, unbefitting of the crime.”

“I would beg to differ, my Lord,” Catelyn shot back, frowning. They had refused to let him join the Watch? That was extremely unusual—but then again, it was widely known that Ned kept Jon Snow close. Killing him would be a greater show of power than sending him to the Watch, without the political repercussions from doing the same to her or Robb. She would have to convince him that such a move wouldn’t be worth it. “Our situation is precarious. Killing Snow will only inflame tensions between us.”

Tywin inclined his head at her, his eyes probing. “And what would you have me do, Lady Stark? Be reasonable this time.”

Catelyn met his gaze, yellow-green against river-blue, and took the opportunity. 

“Send Jon Snow to the Watch,” she repeated. “His crime was heinous, and should be punished as such. If Jon swears to go, honor will bind my husband to ensure he spends the rest of his life there.”

“And what should I do with your son?”

“Send him to his father. My husband will have no reason to call his banners once he has been returned.”

Tywin shook his head. “Not good enough, Lady Catelyn. I must have proof that your husband will not march south against the realm.”

Catelyn resisted rolling her eyes at the notion. Even the most minor noblemen in the Reach knew that the Starks of Winterfell had little interest in the affairs of King’s Landing. Tywin Lannister was pushing her for concessions, and little more.

“Then keep me,” she said, the words leaving her mouth before she could second-guess herself. “If you believe that I am the mastermind of my house, then I shall stay as your hostage until my husband concedes. If you send Robb ahead of me, it will be seen as a token of good favor. You will be the reasonable one in this dispute.”

Tywin’s eyes flickered, almost triumphant. Catelyn swallowed against the bile in her throat. Ned, please forgive me. But better it be me than our son.

“The betrothal between my grandson and your daughter will have to be broken.”

That, at least, was something Catelyn was glad to do. “Of course.”

“A deal well struck, my lady. I will have to discuss your proposition with my Small Council, of course, but perhaps we can build something from here. Perhaps your husband will be as agreeable as you.”

With you in my grasp, went unsaid. Catelyn’s gut twisted, but she could not find it in herself to regret anything Tywin was open to sending Robb home and letting Jon Snow keep his head. With King Robert dead, it was the best she could ask for.

Tywin stepped away, tucking Lysa’s letter into the breast pocket of his surcoat. Catelyn could not help but watch the motion. What was in that letter, to have convinced the Hand of the King that she was conspiring against him? Something greater was pulling at the strings around them, and she had little idea how to navigate these new developments. 

One step at a time. Tywin dipped his head at her, and Catelyn curtsied shallowly in return.

“I’m sure my time here will do well to diffuse the tension between our houses, Lord Lannister,” she said, and Tywin’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but an acknowledgement of his victory nonetheless. “Perhaps I could be seen to my rooms while you confer with your council? My journey was long, and I am tired.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Tywin raised a hand, and almost immediately the doors to the antechamber opened. A guard draped in the red of House Lannister stood without, and Catelyn gladly took her leave. 

The guard did not try to speak with her, and for that Catelyn was grateful. Her mind whirled as she was led out of the Tower of the Hand, lingering on the letter from Lysa. Why would her sister write such a thing? And how in the world had Tywin Lannister gotten his hands on it? She hadn’t spoken to her sister in years, much less in their childhood code… and yet it had been there, plain for the world to see. She would have to demand to see the whole thing, once the time was right. At the very least, Catelyn needed to know exactly what she was being accused of, so she could properly defend herself.

She had just entered the Maidenvault when a man emerged from the shadows of the nearest hallway. He nodded at the Redcloak escorting Catelyn, and the man dipped his head in return, silently leaving them alone at the entrance.

“Petyr,” Catelyn greeted him, holding out an arm for him to take up the escort. Even after all these years, her childhood friend was still recognizable, his grey-green eyes sharp and alert, with a silver mockingbird brooch fastened on his surcoat. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

“And I you, my lady,” Petyr replied. He took her up a flight of stairs, looking around them several times as they went, even though they were alone. Once they exited, he spoke again, this time much more quietly. “You shouldn’t have come. The Seven forgive me for writing the letter that brought you here, but the situation has changed drastically in the time since.”

“The King is dead,” Catelyn agreed. “And now the Lannisters sit on the Iron Throne.”

“Yes. Speak softly, there are ears everywhere. No doubt half the keep will know that I spoke with you by the end of the night; best they don’t know about what.”

“Tywin tells me that Joffrey wants Jon Snow dead.” Catelyn whispered back, but Littlefinger shook his head. They fell silent as two maids carrying laundry passed them by, and Littlefinger only continued once they were well out of sight. 

“The bastard’s crimes aside, he is only a symptom of our new King’s wrath. He wants your son dead, Cat. Jon Snow’s head is simply the next best thing.”

Catelyn swallowed fiercely, ignoring the overly familiar nickname for now. The fight. “Tell me what happened between Robb and Joffrey, Petyr. No one seems to know the truth of it. Is Robb still in a sickbed? Did Joffrey do it?”

Littlefinger sighed. “Forgive me for being frank, but it was a fight between boys far too powerful for their own good. Joffrey and Robb came to blows in a secluded courtyard—the guards of each claim the other started it, though all seem to ignore Prince Tommen, who has been insisting that Joffrey was in the process of killing his pet cat, and he had sent Robb to stop him. Either way, Robb threw Joffrey to the ground precisely as the Kingslayer, who had been assigned as the prince’s guard, came upon them. And, we both know that Jaime Lannister is a man quick to violence. He was the one who struck Robb upon the head, using the pommel of his sword.”

The Others take us all. Catelyn closed her eyes for a moment. This has all happened because of a cat?

“That explains why Jaime Lannister is riding for Casterly Rock,” she said, and Littlefinger nodded. 

“King Robert was quite wroth with him when he discovered the truth. He sent him to the Westerlands as an exile and confined Joffrey in his rooms, with the intention of waiting until Robb was well enough to defend himself. Then Jon Snow was caught spying in Tywin Lannister’s solar. That was when I wrote to you. I knew that King Robert would listen to your husband if only he were here.”

“Then he died.” The more she said it, the more real it felt. Catelyn couldn’t help the bitterness at the whole situation—King Robert, dead a day before she arrived, from a drunken fall, of all things.

“Then he died. Whether the Lannisters had a hand in it, I cannot say, but there were witnesses to the fall. No one pushed him. And now that Joffrey is King, he will do anything to punish your son for his offense, real or not. He’d kill him if he could get away with it.”

“Perhaps it is a good thing I am here, then,” Catelyn replied. “I have convinced Tywin Lannister to negotiate with my husband. If all goes as planned, we will avoid any further… incidents.”

“That is good.” Something in Littlefinger’s posture relaxed, and he sent her a half-smile. “Ever the peacemaker, Cat.”

“Tywin Lannister is like most men. He wants power, and if he can avoid war and still get it he will. We Starks have little ambition in the South. Let Tywin Lannister rule the king. Send Robb away and break Joffrey’s betrothal to Sansa. I care not as long as we return to Winterfell safely.”

Littlefinger let out a breathy laugh, eyes flickering as they came to a stop at the beginning of another hallway. Near the end and out of earshot, she could see her guards waiting for her before her rooms. Catelyn raised a hand to stop them when one made to approach.

“I’ll need your help to ensure this, Petyr,” she said. Seven above, let Petyr still love me as he did when we were children. I must have someone on my side here.  

“I can only do so much, Cat. But I can try. What do you need?” 

“I need to speak with Jon Snow. Alone.”

Chapter Text

The days blurred together.

At some point, Jon lost track of day and night, dream and reality. The black cells had their name for a reason; Jon only saw light when the gaoler came with his meals, holding a flickering torch in one hand. The cold was even worse, just enough to worm its way out from the stone and into every pore. At some point, he stopped shivering, and then the ice sat heavy in his bones, until he passed the days staring at the wall and dreaming of better times.

Jon dreamt of many things. Sometimes he was hunting, running through the forest with Robb on all fours, free at last. Other times he wandered the crypts of Winterfell. Those dreams were not so pleasant. Jon would wander the cold halls of the Winter Kings, his ancestors, and at the end he would always see a freshly-carved statue watching him. 

Was it worth it? Father’s statue asked, though its lips never moved.

I don’t know. Jon admitted. I thought so.

At some point, he woke up with a howl on his lips and a bitten tongue, having dreamt of desperation and righteous fury, of a brother to protect. After that, the dreams of running in the forest stopped. With them came a sense of cold that started in his heart and crept outwards, meeting the cold of the cells in the middle until he could hardly move.

No one came to visit him after King Robert, despite his declarations of investigation. For all Jon knew, King’s Landing had been razed to the ground and the Targaryen dynasty restored. The gaoler certainly gave nothing away when he provided his meals, no matter how much he begged.

Memories of his family replaced the dreams. Arya came to him once, the same little girl she’d been when he had left Winterfell, though her eleventh nameday must have passed while he was trapped in the dark. She held out Needle, the little sword glistening in the nonexistent light.

“I met a girl who reminds me of you,” Jon said into the black. “I named her Bluejay, because she’s a bird.”

That’s stupid, Arya replied, wildly swinging her sword around. Birds aren’t scary. Any wolf could eat them.

“Only if they fly low enough,” Jon responded. Then he asked: “Will I ever see you again?”

Will you? Arya echoed. Then she laughed, a wild whooping sound that made his heart ache, and disappeared. 

An indefinite amount of time later, once he had truly lost track of any sense of time, a light flickered at the edge of Jon’s vision. He turned his head, expecting more stale bread and old cheese from the gaoler, and instead saw a woman in a cloak coming down the stairs, a single flickering torch in her hand. To Jon, it was blinding, and he turned his head away to blink the spots out of his eyes.

The woman came to a stop in front of his cell as he fought to adjust to the change. His mind felt sluggish after staring at the wall for so long, as if he had drunk one too many cups at a feast. Usually it was Peck who got drunk, whenever they could get away with it. He’d start finding every little thing funny, even as he stopped understanding anything that was said to him. The memory of his laughter echoed in Jon’s ears. 

“Will you not even speak to me?” The woman snapped. Her voice dripped with disdain, a deep resentment that jerked Jon out of his thoughts with its familiarity. 

He jolted his head up to see that the woman had lowered her hood. Lady Catelyn Stark’s hair shone like fire in the light, curling the same way Robb’s did whenever it grew long. She was scowling at him, and the anger in her eyes was real, shifted from the abstract of his youth to a precision he could hardly fathom.

“Lady Stark,” he forced out, the air catching in his throat and releasing in a rasping burst. He coughed several times, his throat aching, and as he collected himself, something hard hit the straw before him.

“Drink,” Lady Stark snapped, moving the torch so the shadows danced away from what Jon saw to be a leather flask. “And talk to me properly. Get a hold of yourself, Snow.”

Water. Jon picked up the flask, uncorked it, and drank the water greedily. It was still cold and pure, much better than the single cup of warm, almost putrid water that came with the gaoler. 

“Why are you here?” He asked once he caught his breath. This time, his voice came stronger, and though his head still swam from the light, it was lessening steadily. “I thought…” he trailed off. That you had your baby. Oh, I forgot about the baby. 

“You have a half-brother,” Lady Stark replied. Despite the happy news, her face remained still as stone, her eyes chips of blue ice as she judged him and found him wanting. “Cedrik Stark is strong, healthy, and was separated from his mother at a month old so I could come and clean up your mess.”

“I was stupid,” Jon agreed. At some point he had come to the same conclusion, before the dark had stolen his thoughts and the forest dreams had stopped. He took another sip of his water. “I just… couldn’t sit around and do nothing. I took a risk, and it wasn’t worth it.”

“You have given Tywin Lannister all the ammunition he needs to kill you,” Lady Stark snapped. “King Robert is dead, have you heard? And King Joffrey apparently hates Robb so much that he wants to kill you to hurt him. Lord Stark is in the Neck—though no doubt he has reached Moat Cailin by now and heard of these developments himself. Do you know how close House Stark is to war with the crown?”

The king is dead? Jon’s mind whirled at the revelation. That explained why no one had visited him. The cold that sat in his chest seemed to grow sharper, nudging at his heart, and it took him a moment to digest the news. 

“War was always an inevitability,” he said aloud, and looked around. They were still alone. “Now that King Robert is dead, it’ll only come quicker. I must tell you, Tywin Lannister has a letter—”

“ I know about the letter!” Lady Stark hissed, just low enough to avoid an echo. Her eyes blazed blue fire, a sudden snap away from the ice of before, and Jon couldn’t help but raise his hackles in response, pulling his shoulders back in defense against it. “Tywin Lannister has been waving it in my face since I arrived! How he got a hold of it or why it was written, I cannot know, but it has only made my job more difficult.”

“It was written by your sister, Lady Arryn,” Jon replied, growing in strength now. “I had been trying to learn more about it for months before I was arrested. Your sister wrote to you accusing the Lannisters of having murdered her husband—it was meant to go north with the King’s party when Robert meant to make Father Hand, but it was intercepted. Now Tywin Lannister is convinced that the force Father is mustering against the wildlings is actually going to march south to answer this accusation.”

Lady Stark didn’t respond for a long moment, her eyes flickering as she studied him.

“How do you know this?” She asked.

“I had been trying to learn more about the Lannisters since the news about Bran,” Jon admitted. Finally, he forced himself to his feet, leaning on the wall to keep himself steady. He’d grown taller than her since his departure from Winterfell, and now he had to look down to meet her gaze. “That’s why I was arrested. I made a gamble to try and steal the letter before Tywin could use it against you.”

“And look at what you’ve done. Do you know what I had to barter to keep you alive?”

“I didn’t expect King Robert to die!” Jon snapped, and even though Lady Stark didn’t flinch at his abrupt change in tone, something in her expression still flickered.

“None of us did, Snow, and he is still dead. And King Joffrey wants you dead.”

Jon swallowed, but forced himself to stand tall. The longer he spoke, the more alert he felt, and he shook his head to center himself.

“For good reason. The Lannisters have been intercepting our letters since we’ve been in King’s Landing, or I would have written Father about what we had learned.” He pressed himself close to the bars, lowering his voice even further. “There are ears everywhere; Lord Varys, the Spider, employs children to traverse secret passages in the walls and report all they hear back to him. I’ve seen them. I worked with them.”

“Of course,” Lady Stark muttered, one hand going to her chin in thought. And yet her tone was still scornful as she continued. “And I suppose you were trying to learn what he was up to? No wonder you have endangered us all! Why did you think you could outwit such people?”

“It was an accident,” Jon bit back, a heated flush rising to his cheeks despite the cold of the cells. “I discovered a secret passage by mistake and overheard Varys plotting against Robb and Father. I was in too deep to back out by then.” He sighed. “Later I caught the Kingslayer and the Queen… in bed with each other. Who knows how long the affair has gone, but they will do anything to hide the secret. Tywin Lannister has been convinced by your sister’s letter that Father is planning to march on the South. And I know not what Varys’ goals are, but Father and Robb are pawns in them, and he will stop at nothing to see it through.”

Lady Stark blinked at him, her mouth parting a little. Whatever she had expected him to say, it surely wasn’t an accusation of incest between twins. Her pause gave Jon breath to think a little further. 

“Mayhaps Joffrey will kill me,” he forced out, pushing back the creeping fear of the idea as he spoke. He’d heard the stories of the torture that occurred in the Black Cells, and he didn’t want to dwell on them any more than he had to. “It matters not. Robb knows all that I do, though Varys doesn’t have proof of that, and now you do too. Father must know.”

Lady Stark sighed, stepping away from him. Her eyes flickered back and forth, lips pulled downwards as she watched him. 

“Sansa begged me to come and plead for your life,” she said, without any emotion that Jon could discern. “That’s why I’m here.”

That hadn’t been the reply Jon was expecting. Sansa had begged for his life? Sansa, who insisted on calling him “half-brother”, who he saw the least out of his siblings? She had hardly crossed his mind since he had left Winterfell, save in relation to her betrothal to Joffrey. They hardly hated, or even disliked each other, but there had always been a cooler distance between them than their other siblings.

Or so he’d thought.

“Sansa?” He breathed, and Lady Stark nodded.

“Seven knows why you have her love. You don’t deserve it. You’re not a Stark, Jon Snow, and you would do well to remember that. You have endangered me and my son and nearly brought the Seven Kingdoms to war, and if all goes as planned, you will spend the rest of your days in exile at the Wall.” Lady Stark sneered at him then, open and contemptuous. “And you will do it alone.”

It was those words that, finally, broke through to Jon’s core. He couldn’t help but look away, a sudden lump in his throat. Part of him wanted to fight back, to hold the same silent contempt for Lady Stark that she had for him all through his life, but the words died before he could even think of them. She was right, wasn’t she? He had tried to play a game he didn’t know the rules of, and he’d been burned for it. 

“Your wolf is dead,” Lady Stark continued after a moment, and though her voice hadn’t grown any kinder, she did soften the words. “Meryn Trant caught him when Meera Reed and Daryn Hornwood tried to escape the city with him and Grey Wind. They made it out, but Ghost was caught and killed.”

A long silence stretched between them. Jon leaned back on the cell wall, bowed his head, and hoped the flickering shadows hid the silent tears that escaped.

“I know,” he replied. His voice had gone rough again, the progress he had made during their conversation slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“You knew?” Lady Stark echoed, skeptical. “How?”

“A feeling, I guess,” Jon shrugged. He sniffed. “I just didn’t realize what it was until now.”

Silence stretched between them for a long time, punctuated only by the sputtering torch.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Lady Stark finally said. “Lord Tywin might yet change his mind. For my children’s sake, let us hope you survive the fortnight. Give me the waterskin back before we are discovered.”

Jon silently did as he was told, passing the flask through the bars without a word. Lady Stark watched him for a moment. The fire in her eyes had faded to a rippling river. 

Without a farewell, she turned away. Jon watched her torch disappear up the stairwell until she had entrapped him in darkness once more. Once he was alone, Jon collapsed back onto the straw and fought to breathe through the sudden lump in his throat.

At some point, he fell asleep. 

Jon only noticed because he startled awake with a quiet gasp, his head knocking against the rough stone of his cell. Someone was scrabbling out in the hallway. 

It wasn’t the gaoler, he always had his torch to see by, and it was too big to be a rat. For a delirious moment, caught between dream and reality, he thought that Father or Robb or even Lady Stark had come, to see him out of his cell in a daring rescue operation. 

But this wasn’t a song, and the notion passed out of Jon’s mind by his second blink. Slowly, he sat up, almost afraid to speak, and the rustling outside of his cell grew more frantic. Stone scraped on stone, followed by a faint red spot near the floor. The shapeless figure outside blew softly, and slowly the ember grew into the flickering flame of a candlestick, held bare only a foot or so off of the ground.

In the pitch darkness of the cells, the light illuminated just enough for Jon to see who had come for him. A pair of dark blue eyes peered out behind a void of black—it was a child crouched on the ground, wearing a blue dress.

“Bluejay?” Jon breathed, hardly daring to believe it. “What are you doing here? How—” he cut himself off. There was no way a beggar girl could have slipped past the numerous guards blocking the path. He forced his racing heart to slow, swallowed, and tried again. “What does Varys want?”

Bluejay’s eyes went wide, almost comically so. She frantically shook her head left and right, sending the black void that must have been her hair swaying across her face. When Jon opened his mouth to speak again, she shoved a finger against her lips, repeating the motion until Jon held up his hands in acquiescence. It was only then that she calmed, but only a little, digging into the rope tied at her waist. 

She grabbed something Jon couldn’t quite make up in the dim light of the candle, and shoved it through the opening the gaoler used to pass his meals. A strip of parchment fluttered to the ground, and hesitantly Jon picked it up, but it was too dim to read anything that might have been on it.

Bluejay seemed to realize this, because a moment later she jabbed the candlestick through the opening, causing the flame to flicker dangerously before restoring itself. Cautiously, questions burning, Jon took the bare stick, the wax soft under his fingers, and held the parchment close enough to read. 

It was entirely unlike the other missive Bluejay had given him, back when Varys had threatened him. Instead of the flowing calligraphy of the eunuch, written with an expensive quill, this was in large, blocky letters written in what had to be charcoal, or some other cheap instrument that had smeared during its journey to the cells. 

This wasn’t the handwriting of Lord Varys, Jon realized. This was Bluejay’s .

And staring up at him, almost overflowing the page:

HE WILL KILL YOU.

Jon whipped his head up. He could just barely see Bluejay now that he was holding the light, but her eyes had gone wide again, watching him with a terrified intensity that seemed to burn him.

Varys is planning on killing me, no matter what Lady Stark says, he thought, swallowing fiercely when Ghost came to mind. One wolf for each of Lord Stark’s children. But now Ghost is dead.

“I’ve served my purpose,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. And now I can be discarded. Robert is dead and Father is on the verge of marching south. If he kills me, there will be no turning back for the realm.

What good would war be now? Varys had said in the tunnels, a half year ago. Jon sucked in a long breath. 

Why would he want war? What does he stand to gain? It was the same question Jon had been asking himself for months. Now, another was added to the pile: Why now?

Bluejay let out a harsh breath, drawing Jon’s attention from his swirling thoughts. The little girl shot up to her feet and tugged on the lock to his cell, prying a bit of metal from her belt. It was a scrap of rusted iron, smooth with one protruding knob and the end. Before Jon could question her, Bluejay smiled at him, inserting the bit into the lock. 

Jon watched her in no small amount of awe. He knew that Varys ensured his birds had at least some education, enough to read and write, but this was beyond anything he could have expected. After a few minutes, the lock quietly clicked open, and Bluejay set it carefully on the ground, put both hands on the handle, and with a grunt used her entire body weight to pry the cell door open. 

Varys didn’t send her, she sent herself, Jon realized. But how?

Bluejay forced the door as wide as she could, wincing at the terrible creak it made, then set her back against the edge to hold it open. She jabbed a finger out towards the dark, repeating the motion until Jon stood. 

His legs ached terribly when he took his first step into the open; perhaps halfway through his imprisonment, Jon had stopped caring about fitness or exercise. He looked up and down the hallway, but the cells were as deserted as they had been every other day. 

He made to step towards where he knew the stairwell to the upper levels sat, but Bluejay hit him with a fist. Jon stopped and looked at her, and the girl took off in the opposite direction, towards the deeper layers of the dungeons. 

Jon didn’t have any other choice but to do as she bid; Bluejay couldn’t have explained herself even if she wanted to. He slipped her written warning into his boot, adjusted his grip on the candle, and followed her down. 

They crept through the cells in silence, and Jon was grateful that the candle was dim enough that he could barely see two steps in front of him, much less the state of the lower dungeons. No one called out to them, so they were thankfully deserted, but he didn’t want to try his chances.

Down and down they went. Bluejay never hesitated in her guidance, eventually taking Jon’s free hand and scampering down stairs and winding passages. Several times she took him through paths hidden in the dark, some no broader than his shoulders. 

Eventually, a light not the candle appeared before them. At his waist, Bluejay jabbed her finger at her lips multiple times, shivering in fear. Before Jon could attempt to comfort her, she left his side and approached the light—a door, Jon realized, barred with an iron gate. The girl pressed an ear to the wood, and then, seeming satisfied, pulled the door open.

They emerged into a furnished, windowless room. Torches flickered on every wall, casting the room in a yellow light that forced Jon to squint and tear up until his eyes adjusted. When they did, he saw that he was in a cellar of some kind, only marginally warmer than the dungeons. An ornate brazier sat on one side, its fire long only the dimmest of embers, and inset on the floor was a shimmering mosaic of a three-headed dragon in black and red.

The Targaryen coat of arms, Jon realized. If that’s still here, this room has not been used in a long time. Not by King Robert, anyway. I wonder where we are.

But his companion could not answer him. Jon glanced around the room and saw that Bluejay was standing on her tiptoes in front of one of the doors, steadily picking at it with her piece of iron. As he reached her, the lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal another dark passage. This one was roughly hewn out of stone, and Jon took the lead this time, raising his candle high to avoid twisting an ankle on the uneven ground. The wax dripped, burning, across his fingers, but it was a small pain alongside the stinging ache of his muscles. 

Eventually he saw another light at the end of the way, this time clear and a low, pale blue. Fresh air kissed Jon’s face, tasting of salt, and when they emerged into the open air, he saw that they were perhaps a third of the way up a cliffside. Jon looked down and saw the starry-black water of Blackwater Bay, the sound of distant waves crashing upon the stone face. Upwards sat the walls of the Red Keep, so far above them that he didn't dare look all the way for fear of losing his balance.

It was dark still, a partially-filled moon providing their only light. After a moment, Bluejay poked his side and pointed at the candle. Absent-mindedly, Jon pinched the flickering wick until it fizzled out. 

Bluejay pointed again, and Jon followed her finger to the cliffside. Jon could barely see carved steps in the stone, and he sucked in a breath as the gravity of the situation hit him in full force. He thought of Lady Stark and her visit, and hoped in his heart that this would not make things worse. But he couldn’t have stayed just to be assassinated. 

Slowly, as to appease his aching legs, Jon bent down until he was level with Bluejay. She looked at him with those piercing blue eyes of hers, and for a moment Jon was struck so strongly of Arya that his voice left him entirely. 

“Does Varys know what you did?” He asked once he composed himself. Bluejay shook her head, nibbling on her index finger nervously. “...Why did you come for me?”

And suddenly, the girl’s eyes filled with tears. She lunged forwards and threw her little arms around him, shuddering a little in his grasp. Jon held her tightly, careful to keep her far from the edge of the cliffside. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, drying his own tears on her raven locks. “Thank you.”

After a moment, Bluejay drew herself away, wiping at her eyes. She and Jon looked at each other for a moment, then she pointed down the cliffside path again. Once she was done, she stepped back into the tunnel leading towards the Red Keep.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Jon asked, sudden fear creeping up his chest. Bluejay shook her head. “Bluejay, if anyone finds out what you did…”

But the girl only shook her head harder. Even as her lip wobbled, she made a shooing motion with her hands. Go, her eyes said, though perhaps Jon was only guessing at what she meant to tell him. I will only slow you down. Go, run where the Spider cannot find you.

Jon watched her for a long moment, then nodded. 

“Stay safe,” he said hoarsely, and then started the climb down to the waves below.

Chapter Text

It took Catelyn days to finally negotiate a visit with Robb.

She was glad that Littlefinger had enough guards in his pocket to have gotten her that private conversation with Jon Snow—if seeing her own son through the official channels was difficult, visiting the bastard would have been nigh impossible. As it was, it had taken two separate conversations with Grand Maester Pycelle about Robb’s health to let her in, and even then it was because Tywin Lannister had finally gotten around to commanding the old fool to do so. 

That assumed, of course, that Robb would be in any state to receive her. Maester Pycelle had stalled her for so long on the excuse that he was in a fragile condition, whatever that meant, that she was far from certain. Catelyn’s heart was beating out of her chest in fear as a Lannister guard led her through the corridors of Maegor’s holdfast. 

Two more Redcloaks were standing guard outside a door near the end of the hallway, and the guard waved his hand at them as they approached. 

“Lady Stark has leave to visit her son,” he said, and the guard closest to them nodded, stepping aside. 

“Alone,” Catelyn added, even though such a thing hadn’t been agreed upon. But the Lannister guard only inclined his head at her as the other Redcloak unlocked the door.

Too easy, Catelyn thought. But I suppose the Lannisters don’t need guards to hear everything I say to my son. There are ears everywhere here.

But it was worth it to see Robb again. Catelyn sucked in a breath, steadied it, and pushed the door open. 

The sight that met her wasn’t what she was expecting. The rooms King Robert had given Robb were in the wing of Maegor’s Holdfast that housed the royal family, built for a prince or princess, so she was not surprised at the lavish nature or size of it. But the bed in the far back of the room was unmade, blankets and furs strewn about. The fireplace was empty, papers askew across the nearby desk. There were items all over the floor too, everything from discarded clothes to little… figurines. Something bumped against Catelyn’s foot as she stepped inside, and she looked down to see that it was a small ceramic dragon on the ground, one of its spread wings broken at the root. 

“Mother!”

All thoughts fled Catelyn’s mind at the sound of her son’s voice. Robb’s head popped up from the other side of his bed, and the sight of his eyes, clear and alert, nearly made her sob with relief. He stood up, placing one hand on the bed for stability, and if it weren’t for the slight wobble as he got to his feet, Catelyn would have thought him to be uninjured entirely. 

He hurried towards her, and Catelyn met him halfway, disregarding the mess entirely to reach out and embrace him. 

“I had no idea you were here,” Robb breathed, holding her close. He’d grown in the year since Catelyn had seen him last. He was taller than her now, and Catelyn had to look up a little when she drew back to look him in the eye. She reached out and caressed his cheek with a hand, then kissed it. 

“I was so afraid when I heard the news,” she confessed to him, and had to hold herself from saying more. Robb’s sixteenth nameday was still a half-year away, and Catelyn had to remind herself that no matter how he had grown, he was still a boy in need of his mother’s comfort. Someone had to be strong for him in this trying time. “You are well?”

“Yes,” Robb nodded. “Have you heard from my guards?”

The question surprised Catelyn a little, but she answered promptly. “Yes. I saw Harwin this morning; Tywin is keeping him and Jory imprisoned separately, under guard but unharmed. He blames himself for what has happened to you.”

Robb’s expression shuttered, his lips twisting as he glanced away. Catelyn let herself give into her impulses and embraced him again. It spoke countless words to Robb’s internal state when he let her do so without a complaint. 

“I heard about Alyn,” she murmured into his ear. “He was a good man.”

“Jory visited once,” Robb said, a quiet hitch shuddering his shoulders as he pulled away. “A week ago, and I think he lied about having permission to get the guards to let him in. He told me about Alyn’s death… and Jon’s arrest. Gods, that must be why they were imprisoned when you saw Harwin.”

Only a week ago? Catelyn was shocked. Robb’s accident had happened a month and a half past, and he’d only found out what had happened to his household a week ago?

That explains why they didn’t let me see Jory, she added silently. She had been surprised at that, but hadn’t pressed for fear that Tywin would revoke his decision to let her see Robb. The Hand certainly was set on keeping Robb as far away from the rest of the keep as possible, so she wasn’t entirely surprised at the consequences the two men had faced.

“Haven’t they told you anything?” She asked him and Robb shook his head, pulling away from her to pace. His toe bumped against a misplaced book, and he absent-mindedly picked it up, turning it in his hands.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “The maids stopped coming by to clean a few weeks ago, and the guards won’t talk to me. Seeing you here is a shock.”

“Are they feeding you?” Catelyn asked.

“Yes, yes. The food is fine, I’m just not allowed to leave. It made sense for the first few days after I was hurt, I was unwell for a while, but now…” Robb scoffed, tossing his book on his bed. “It’s just an excuse to keep me here and out of the way. King Robert died, didn’t he? I heard the bells.”

The announcement had come the night of Catelyn’s arrival, just as Tywin had said it would. The Great Sept of Baelor had rung their bells for hours, loud enough to echo across the whole city—she wasn’t surprised that Robb had put the pieces together. 

“A drunken fall,” she told him, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. Damn you Robert. Damn you for taking my son and leaving him here alone. “An accident.” Or so the Lannisters claim.

“Then Joffrey is to be crowned?” Robb asked, and Catelyn nodded. “Is that why you came? He and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

“So I’ve heard,” Catelyn couldn’t keep her tone level when she replied, and turned away to compose herself, hiding it by giving his chambers a good lookover. “I came for you. From the little I’ve been told, I thought you were still abed. What in the Seven’s name happened to your quarters?”

When she looked back at Robb, a steady flush had appeared over the bridge of his nose, spreading down towards his cheeks. Now it was his turn to glance away.

“...I was bored,” he finally said, bending down. He picked up some discarded clothes and tossed them towards the side of the room, though the effort made hardly a dent in the clutter. Catelyn watched him, thoroughly unimpressed. The whole kingdom’s falling apart and I’m scolding my son for not cleaning his room. The simplicity of it was almost soothing. “There’s nothing to do here. I’ve asked for books and the old Targaryen models for entertainment, but there’s only so much…” he sighed, spreading his hands as he looked back at Catelyn with her own eyes. “Please tell me that I’ll be out of here soon.”

“If Tywin keeps his word.” Catelyn moved towards the window, opening the shutters to let in a breath of fresh air. “Your father won't come to King’s Landing unless it's with an army, so you’re to join our Lord Hand on his march to Harrenhal to negotiate a peace with him there. The plan is that Tywin will release you to him as a gesture of goodwill.”

“What about Jon? Have you heard anything about him?”

Catelyn resisted the urge to tell Robb about her midnight visit to his bastard brother, though she nearly broke at the earnest worry spread across his face. No. There are ears everywhere.

“I’ve convinced Tywin to allow Jon to join the Watch,” she said instead. “I sent for one of the Night’s Watch recruiters the day after I arrived. You remember Yoren from his visits to Winterfell, don’t you? He’s returning from a trip to Oldtown, and will see him north separately, likely after you leave.”

Robb let out a harsh breath, worrying his hands. “And you’re sure that he will keep his end of the deal? Jory said that Joffrey wanted Jon’s head.” He swallowed. “I’ve been afraid for him. I have no idea why he would try to spy on the Lannisters.”

Suddenly the disarray of the room made much more sense. From her new position, Catelyn could see the portion of the floor where Robb had been sitting when she had arrived. It was crowded with dozens of little figurines, not unlike the models Maester Luwin used when he taught battle tactics to her sons. When she looked closer, she realized that they were mocked in a battle formation, with archers, footsoldiers, and calvary in neat lines. 

He’s practicing for war, here in his room, to try and keep his mind off what he cannot control. 

“Robb,” Catelyn sighed, approaching her son again. She took his hands in hers, and clasped them tightly. “There will not be a war. You will go home, and Jon will go to the Watch. It is the best I could do, but you will see him again.”

“As you say.” Robb’s eyes glistened, and he ducked his head, taking a sharp breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Catelyn replied. “The fault is not yours.” It’s Joffrey Baratheon who bears responsibility, she dared not say . And Tywin Lannister, King Robert, and Jon Snow, and a hundred other men who thought they could reach for power at the cost of us all. “You’ll be at Harrenhal before you know it, as long as you are well enough to make the journey.” She paused, looking him up and down. “You are well enough?”

“I am. I should have been released from my rooms ages ago. Maester Pycelle keeps on postponing it, though, and nothing I say seems to get through to him.”

Catelyn shook her head. “That’s because Tywin Lannister wants you out of the way. Luckily, he and I want the same thing. Sending you home to Winterfell keeps you just as far from court as imprisonment here.”

Robb looked skeptical, but didn’t protest, eyes flickering as he glanced down at her.

“All this talk of my health, and none of yours.” He said. “You were…”

He trailed off, but Catelyn picked up before Robb could worry himself too much.

“A quick, safe delivery,” she reassured him, and Robb’s face collapsed in relief. “You have a brother, Cedrik, brown of hair and blue of eye, though the eye color might change as he grows. Your Lord Father had already left for Winterfell by the time the summons from the King came, and I was well enough to come in his place. You have no need to worry.”

“I’m sorry you had to come,” Robb apologized anyway. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

No, Catelyn thought. I shouldn’t have. How much of Cedrik’s life have I missed, trying to clean up this mess? Will he even remember me by the time I return?

“Of course I did,” she replied, holding herself firm. “You are my son, Robb. I would do anything for you. If your father could have come he would have, too.”

Robb’s expression darkened. “With an army at his back, mayhaps. Seven hells.”

“But now he won’t need to.” It took Catelyn more effort than she’d like to admit to tear her eyes off of the mock battle on the floor. “There will not be a war, Robb. You don’t need to worry about such things.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, and then Robb let the subject pass without further comment. 

“We’ll only know that once we’re at Harrenhal,” he said, and Catelyn didn’t correct his assumption when he said ‘we’. If Robb knew what I had bartered for him and the bastard… “And safely with Father. Do you think he’ll agree to a peace once we are there?”

I’ve been asking that myself. The worst part was that the longer she dwelt on the question, the more unsure Catelyn grew. Could Ned resist marching south with her in Tywin Lannister’s claws? She knew he would do anything for Robb and Jon, but trading them for his wife, however willingly she had turned herself in, was another matter entirely.

“Of course he will.” She answered. “Your father will not risk war so close to winter, especially with the Wildlings up at the Wall.”

“I guess Jon will have his hands full there.” Robb laughed, hollow and sour. His bastard brother’s fate was eating him more than he showed, Catelyn knew. If she were a perfect woman, the Mother incarnate, she would have pressed him to share his thoughts on the matter. As it was, she let the subject of the bastard pass them by.

“The danger will be gone once you leave King’s Landing, but not a moment before,” she reassured him, but grew more serious as she spoke, once more taking Robb’s hand into her own. Half a lifetime ago his fingers didn’t even span her palm. Now they were nearly half again her size. “Robb, listen to me when I say this, for I don't know when I'll be able to visit you again. As long as you are safe, I don’t care what you have to do. Honor means nothing to me if the price is your life.”

Robb blinked at her, surprised by the forcefulness of her declaration. “What? But Father said—”

“I don’t care what your father said,” Catelyn cut him off. “Things were different when you left Winterfell. He’d agree with me now. Ignore whatever the Lannisters say about us, and do not attract their ire until you are out of their grasp. Robb, neither your father nor I would be able to live with ourselves if you were hurt in some heroic or honorable final stand. Let the singers write their songs about someone else. I would much rather have you safely home.”

A multitude of emotions flashed through Robb’s eyes, too fast for Catelyn to decipher. His throat worked, several words failing to pass his lips before he finally spoke.

“Very well, Mother,” he rasped, and Catelyn pulled him in for another embrace. Their time was running short; soon the Redcloaks outside the door would come knocking. 

“If the Seven will it, nothing more is needed from you,” she whispered into his ear. “We will return home without any more incidents. But I have learned not to place all my hopes on such a thing. Get yourself home, Robb. That is all that matters now.”

Two of Catelyn’s Riverrun guards were standing guard outside her chambers when she returned from her visit with Robb. It seemed like Catelyn had scarcely passed them by and sat down to try and digest the day’s events when they were calling her back to her door.

“A summons from the King, my lady,” one said when she answered, and Catelyn couldn’t help the cold that curdled in her chest at the news. All of her dealings had been with Tywin Lannister thus far. She hadn’t even seen the new boy king. Why was he calling for her now?

Still, the summons was not something she could refuse. Catelyn gave her acknowledgement, then hurried to change into something more befitting a royal call. She had kept her luggage light when she had left Riverrun, but she had brought one fine dress for such an occasion, dyed a pale cerulean blue with gray fur lined along the edges. Without any maids or ladies-in-waiting to help, she was forced to keep her hair in a simple braid, but she pinned a direwolf broach to her chest in an effort to draw the observer’s eye from the fact. 

By the time she was ready, Catelyn had conformed herself to look every bit like the family she had married into. Today was not the day to be a Tully. Today, she must remind anyone who looked at her that she was a Stark.

One of the Kingsguard was waiting for her when she left her rooms, a comely young man with brown hair who she recognized as Ser Arys Oakheart, the knight who had taken Jon Snow as a squire. Though he undoubtedly recognized her in turn, he made no motion to show it. Catelyn’s Riverrun guards fell in step behind her as she was led towards the throne room, her mind racing.

Much of the Red Keep seemed to have grown quieter in the days since her arrival. Of the few people she did see, many were dressed in black in mourning of the king, and all avoided her and the Kingsguard at her side. There was some commotion near the stables, likely Tywin Lannister’s men readying for the ride to Harrenhal to negotiate the end to this scandal, but besides that there was little to see. Catelyn kept herself just slightly behind Ser Arys as they walked, ever careful of the eyes watching her. In the oppressive silence, she couldn’t help but wonder what the knight thought of Jon Snow now. Had he been fond of the boy? Did he feel betrayed by his arrest, or was he glad to be rid of him?

Catelyn’s guards were asked to remain outside, so when they entered the throne room, Ser Arys stepped to the side, allowing her to pass him and approach the Iron Throne alone. It was the first time she had seen it since she was a girl, and little had changed. The monstrous pile of swords rose high towards the vaulted ceiling and dominated the room, which had been draped in the crest of the new king, a crowned stag and roaring lion.

The throne room was entirely deserted of observers, but from the lit torches in the gallery, it hadn’t been for long. Catelyn guessed that the king had just dismissed his court, which meant that he wanted to speak to her alone. Another ill omen.

At the foot of the throne stood Tywin Lannister, and even across the hall his gaze felt searing. Flanking him on either side were two more Kingsguard, Meryn Trant on the left and Mandon Moore on the right. They were silent as she approached, and Catelyn’s footsteps echoed through the rafters to fill the quiet.

Joffrey Baratheon was seated upon the Iron Throne, observing the entire room with a sneering grin. He shared most of his grandsire’s features, and in the time since he had visited Winterfell had even started to grow into them. Combined with the gold stag crown upon his head, the visage made Catelyn even more uneasy.

“Catelyn of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell!” Ser Arys introduced her as she stepped forwards, and Catelyn dipped her head towards the throne and curtsied deeply. Joffrey just scoffed at her, but Catelyn’s eyes were on Tywin, who had yet to react at all.

“Your Grace, my Lord Hand,” she greeted them, keeping her curtsy for a moment longer than courtesy dictated. She was quickly sensing that this was not going to be an easy conversation. “The honor is mine.”

“So it would seem,” Tywin replied, his voice low and emotionless. Catelyn watched the older man carefully, trying to catch a tell, but came up with nothing. He is a stone wall.  

“You have much to answer for, Lady Stark,” Prince Joffery added, something between a sneer and a smirk on his lips. His voice had lowered a touch since Winterfell, but it was still pitched with youth, to the point that in lighter circumstances the sound of him might have been amusing. Nevertheless, Catelyn knew better than to underestimate him. This boy wants my son dead.

“I am your loyal servant, Your Grace,” she said, choosing every word carefully. Joffrey was a very different man than his grandfather, and with his youth she had little idea of what to expect from him. “Speak, and it shall be done.”

Joffrey snorted in his head. “Then I suppose you can summon Jon Snow back to the Black Cells?”

Tywin sent a sharp look up at the king, but the boy paid him little heed. From his seat on the throne he loomed above them all, and Catelyn imagined that to a boy so young, it was an intoxicating power. Edmure had used to play games with their father’s seat when he was a small boy, but the lord’s seat at Riverrun was miniscule compared to the pile of swords and dragonfire that was the Iron Throne. Whatever games Joffrey played here would put lives at stake.

“Jon Snow is missing?” She asked after a moment’s pause, her mind whirring from the king to the bastard in a moment. Escape from the cells… Catelyn hadn’t even considered such a thing. It was impossible. No one had ever achieved such a feat.

Perhaps he is dead, and this is their excuse, a traitorous part of her thought. Catelyn tried to push it aside, even as it niggled in the back of her mind. Speculation would do her no good here—nor would getting distracted by the myriad of emotions that the possibility of Jon Snow dying would raise in her.

“I’m certain that you understand the position we have been put in, Lady Stark,” Tywin continued, schooling his features once more. “Only a few days after you arrive, the bastard goes missing?”

Ned. A chill ran down Catelyn’s spine, fierce and sharp. If Jon Snow is dead…

“We had nothing to do with such a thing,” she forced herself to say. “I have been under observation my entire time here, and I only have a few guards. It wouldn’t be possible for me to somehow spirit the bastard out from under your nose.”

“Perhaps so,” Joffrey sniffed, and Catelyn resisted frowning at him. Did he do it? Orchestrate Snow’s ‘disappearance?’ Everything seems to be so convenient for him at the moment… first his father, and now the bastard… “But does it matter? Your husband has already called his banners and marches south to Moat Cailin. Should he move south of the Neck with them, I will be forced to declare him a traitor to the crown.”

War was always an inevitability, Jon Snow had told her. At the time, Catelyn had dismissed the warning as the ramblings of a boy who thought himself above his station, but now she wondered if she had underestimated him. There are forces far more powerful than me who want this war to happen. And if Jon Snow was a threat to someone like Lord Varys, she suddenly doubted that the Black Cells could keep him out. 

When Catelyn had first set out from Riverrun to try and negotiate with the Lannisters, it had seemed like a straightforward, if difficult, diplomatic mission with King Robert. Now, those same options seemed to be slipping like sand out of her fingers. Had she somehow displeased the gods? Had she offended the Mother when she abandoned Cedrik to try and save a bastard with tainted blood? Or perhaps it was the Crone whose wrath she had incurred, determined to punish her for the poor decisions the men around her made. It was impossible to say. Perhaps it was even the Old Gods, angered by something unknowable, or perhaps the gods had nothing to do with this at all, and she was only grasping at straws.

“Then what is to be done?” she asked, because what could she say? She certainly couldn’t reveal that she had spoken to Jon Snow with no intention of freeing him.

But Tywin made no mention of the midnight visit when he spoke, though his words were far from what she wanted to hear.

“The peace negotiations at Harrenhal will take place,” the Hand said, lacing his fingers together. “If your husband agrees to lay down his weapons and swear an oath of fealty to me and the King, all will be forgiven. But your son will no longer be joining me. Instead, I will take his guards as proof of his good treatment in my care. They will testify to the truth of these accusations in Robb Stark’s place.” 

It took Catelyn a great effort to not react to his declaration. Of course he would keep Robb here. Whether Jon Snow is dead or has actually escaped, he’s lost a valuable hostage. He won’t risk losing another. 

“As you wish, my Lord Hand,” she forced out, hating the triumphant look on Joffrey’s face. The boy king was clearly enjoying more of this than she was comfortably with. “I’m certain my husband will be reasonable in this dispute, but I must argue that the presence of Robb with you at Harrenhal would be more incentive for him than keeping him here at King’s Landing.”

“But he will still be of use to us here,” Tywin replied, unflinching. “As I said, both you and your son will be treated as befitting your station, Lady Stark. I would hardly wish for you to meet the same… fate as your husband’s bastard. The King has only one request for you in return.”

Of course. Catelyn tilted her head back up to make eye contact with the boy, who dipped his own at her almost chivalrously. 

“You have been very cooperative with us during your time here, my lady,” Joffrey said when Tywin looked up at him and nodded. “You acknowledge me as your king, do you not?”

“Of course,” Catelyn responded immediately. No matter how she disliked it, Joffrey was still the eldest trueborn son of King Robert, and his claim to the throne was strongest. 

“Then we will encourage your husband to do the same. My Lord Hand will leave with his retainers on the morrow. While he travels to Harrenhal to negotiate, you and your son will publicly declare Jon Snow a traitor to the crown, swear fealty to me, and you will admit your conspiracy with your sister to frame my family for Lord Arryn’s death.”

This time, Catelyn could not help but balk at the demand. The letter again? “Ever since I have come here, I have declared myself innocent of any wrongdoing with my sister’s letter. Whatever Lady Lysa wrote to me, I had nothing to do with it, nor any intention to act on it.”

“It is your word against the crown, Lady Stark,” Joffrey shrugged. Something in his emerald eyes was cold and calculating, and something about it stood out in a manner that caught her anger in particular. 

“You will not be punished any further if you simply admit your wrongdoing, Lady Stark,” Tywin cut in, his voice infuriatingly soothing. “Should your husband agree to lay down his arms, he will not even be named a traitor to the crown. You and your son will be allowed to return to Winterfell and live out the rest of your days in peace.”

And shame. Despite herself, the pride Catelyn had made it difficult to even accept such an idea. Returning home to the scorn of the kingdom? It is a heavy price to pay.

“You are my king, and I will gladly name you as such,” she finally said. At some point during the conversation her mouth had gone dry, and now the words seem to scratch at her throat, clawing at her in their anger of having to be spoken. “I will even acknowledge Jon Snow’s crimes, because they have been proven to be true. But I am innocent of this letter’s plot! It is my sister who must answer for it, not I.”

Next to the Hand, Meryn Trant raised a hand, subtly resting it on the pommel of his sword. Catelyn narrowed her eyes back at him, unintimidated.

“I suppose you don’t have to admit your own part in the plot,” Joffrey sighed, a faux-disappointed air to his voice. He leaned on the armrest of the throne, and the new position made his crown glint blindingly in the light. “But then we would have to take drastic measures. I hear Robb Stark is finally well enough to travel. If that is the case, then he’s well enough to be moved. Perhaps a more… secure accommodation will give our intended impression to Lord Stark.”

You would send him to the same Black Cells where Snow ‘disappeared,’ Catelyn thought, indignant and terrified and angry all at the same time. How she wished she was a man, able to wield a sword and defend her family’s honor with her own blood. But no, she was only the Lady of Winterfell, and her words and politics had failed her due to circumstances outside her control. In truth, that was almost worse than having made a mistake herself. 

They want me to sacrifice my and my husband’s honor in exchange for Robb’s life, she concluded. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and yet her earlier conversation with her son rang in her mind, and her decision was really no debate at all.

“My son Robb has nothing to do with any of this, Your Grace,” she bit out, and Tywin inclined his head.

“Of course,” he agreed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We all wish for him to be returned home unharmed and well.”

“Then it will be as you command.” The words were foul and bitter coming out of her mouth, but she pushed them out anyways. Damn you. Damn you all to the Seven Hells. May the Father judge you and find you wanting.

Chapter Text

Jon pushed aside the urge to vomit and jabbed his fork into the corpse.

The rotten flesh tore asunder as he angled the tool down and ripped it from the bone, the meat sloughing off in rotten chunks. He picked at the corpse a little more, fighting to free the bone from the flesh encasing it, then dug a hand in and ripped it free with a grunt. It went in his pack with the rest of his finds, and he moved on to the dead dog’s next leg, shoving aside the little boy gnawing on the carcass for a better reach.

His heart twisted when the boy, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, whined and shuffled to the other side, but he’d been on the streets long enough to know that trying to help him was a lost cause. Jon barely had enough to eat for himself these days, much less anything to spare for the hundreds of starving children that scavenged the streets of King’s Landing. 

He was lucky to have found the dog relatively intact; it had died in the crevice of an ally and had gone unnoticed until the stink of rot had started to set in. When Jon had dragged it out into the open to strip the bones, the other children had slowly started to trickle in, the really desperate ones who couldn’t afford to turn their nose up at free, maggot-infested meat.

Jon, fortunately, was not at that point, though he wasn’t certain if he was going to get there soon. Hardly a fortnight had passed since Bluejay had freed him, and hunger had already started to settle into a steady ache that sat at the base of his belly. 

The next bone came free with a sickening squelch, and Jon shoved it into his bag and inspected the rest to see if there was anything else that was salvageable. Fur fetched a decent price, but this dog had been far too mangy to grow anything worth more than a cent. Without a knife to skin it with, getting it wasn’t worth the energy. He stood up, wiping the gunk on his hands off on the wall as best he could, and left the rest of the corpse to the starving children.  

Jon had known it since he had arrived, but it was only once he started living as a peasant that King’s Landing truly felt dangerous. Jon adjusted his grip on his pitchfork, pulling it close to his body as he shuffled back onto the street. The sun had just passed its zenith, which meant that it was the busiest time of day—exactly the time when he was most comfortable. It was easiest to move about at dawn, dusk, and noon, when either the light or the crowds balanced against the inherent danger of the city. Jon had nearly been robbed thrice already, and he sported several fresh bruises under his tunic from where another boy around his age had tried to steal his fork.

Jon wasn’t about to let that happen again; the pitchfork and satchel were probably the only reasons he was still alive. He’d happened upon them almost immediately after leaving Bluejay, tucked away near the bottom of the hidden staircase he’d escaped through. They’d likely been left by a fisherman who thought no one would come upon them. Jon had stolen them immediately, and they hadn’t left his side since. He learned to even sleep on the fork after the first night, when he’d woken up to an attempted thief tugging it out of his hands.

At first, his plan had been to try and find work on a galley heading north; Jon had assumed at least one of the ships in Blackwater Bay was destined for White Harbor. But the sailors had only laughed him off when he had tried. As it turns out, a scrawny boy in roughspun wool wasn’t an appealing seaman. 

Jon was forced to admit, later on, that trying to find a ship had been a stupid idea. Even if he had been taken on, he’d never even set foot on a ship before. Any sailor worth his salt would have tossed him out before they left the harbor, and then where would he be?

A good deal wetter than he was now. Jon slipped behind a large family making their way through the street, blending in as best he could when he spotted a familiar splash of gold in the throng. From what he had heard, the gold cloaks had increased their patrols since the king had died, and Jon knew better than to catch their attention. No doubt they all had orders to be on the lookout for him. He’d seen the Lannister’s red cloaks in the streets, too, and that was even worse; Jon had spent enough time with Peck and Steffon that half the guard could recognize him by sight, even through the grime and the peasant’s clothing he now wore.

Jon slipped into another alley once he got the chance, picking his way towards Rhaenys’ Hill. He had fallen into an uneasy rhythm in the past few days, a steady schedule that had seen to his survival so far. He spent his nights catching as much sleep as he could on River Row, finding whatever nook would give him a moment’s rest—he had to move a few times a night, but it was better than Flea Bottom, where the most destitute resided. In the morning, he would pick around whatever waste the fishermen left behind, usually finding small fish bones and scales, and then it was up to the Street of Steel, where he could find a small animal carcass or two if he was lucky.

He’d been especially lucky with the dog; the bones rattling in Jon’s pack would make him a few pennies. Despite that he was glad to leave the ringing Street of Steel behind—he didn’t like staying there for too long, because it made him think of Robb, and the breastplate his brother had gifted him for the Tourney of the Hand. The piece of armor was long lost now.

As was Robb, in all the ways that mattered.

Jon forced the thoughts out of his head. He’d spent a lifetime simmering in his regrets in the Black Cells; they would do him no good out here. I just need to get out of the city. Out of the city, and north to Father.

To my Father, with the capture of his heir and wife on my hands.

Jon shoved his way out of the alley with a shudder, brushing past a legless beggar with more force than was strictly necessary. He’d emerged at the base of Aegon’s Hill, and couldn’t help but catch a glance of the Red Keep as he emerged. This route brought him as close to the castle as he dared, and even from a dozen streets over the pale red walls loomed above them all like a massive specter. Jon had never put much thought into it during his trips into the city, but now that the keep was barred to him, he could suddenly see why the smallfolk held it in such mystique. Jon could hardly imagine growing up in its shadow.

A merchant cut through the street, leading a cart pulled by a donkey. He had several guards posted to protect his wares, and Jon used the disruption to his advantage, slipping across the merchant’s wake. He cut across another alley, then stepped through a crowd of haggling merchants to get onto the Street of Looms.

Well, he didn’t go on the street itself. Jon had learned his lesson after he had wandered here the first time. One of the fancier shopkeepers had seen him eyeing a tapestry of silk and decided he wouldn’t take the risk of getting it stained by the street rat passing by. He’d been lucky that the gold cloak who threw him out hadn’t thought to give him a good lookover.

So Jon kept to the back alleys of the street, where the shadows grew long between the looming buildings. A cat dashed between his legs, chasing a rat, while somewhere more distant a dog barked. There were still other people around, but fewer than in the general city. Two children were washing long rolls of cloth in a pot of boiling water, and Jon had to etch his way around them to get to his destination.

The shop he was looking for came into view a few turns later, a knobbly building that from the back looked little more than a shack, though Jon had never seen the front to know for sure. The back door was ajar, facing a small clearing with a few slabs of rotting wood to serve as stools. 

But what stood out the most was the stench. The shop stunk, a sharp, pungent stink that made Jon’s eyes water. He shook his head to clear the worst of it, and as he approached, a woman stuck her head out the back door. Her hair was pinned up by a kerchief, but her brown eyes were sharp and beady when she spotted him.

“You’re late!” She snapped, then gestured at one of the stumps. Pulling a brush out her apron pocket, she threw it at him and returned to her work indoors.