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Chapter Text

Riverrun - 271 AC

Catelyn Tully tried not to cry as her mother went into labor. She was the oldest, and had been told what would occur in the coming hours. The family was to prepare for the worst. 

At seven namedays old, Cat knew what death was. Mother had clarified it for her a few weeks ago because the maester wasn't sure if she'd survive her pregnancy. Lysa was but five name days, and Cat knew that Lysa didn't wasn't old enough to fully understand. She tried, and she knew something bad was happening, but she ignored Cat and fled whenever she tried to talk about their mother. Edmure was only two and had only begun to speak. He didn't know what was about to happen to his mama.

Cat was the oldest of the Tully children, and she knew that she had to be strong for her siblings. Mother had made her promise before Maester Vyman took her that Cat would take care of them, of Lysa and Edmure, and this new baby. If this baby lived.

Vyman had also told Mother that because her body was so weak, it was possible that the baby might be weak too, and die after the birth. Mother had cried from that, which prompted Cat and Lysa. Father hadn't said anything, but he had held Mother's hand tight when they received the news.

Now that Mother was giving birth, their time together could be at an end. Catelyn watched as different servants rushed around, tending to the Lady of Riverrun’s every need. The old maester was constantly at her side, doing maester things to help her survive. Lysa and Cat watched from the side, sitting into two chairs brought in by servants to attend the birth. Cat had seen her father pacing outside, not allowed into the birthing chambers during the process.

Lysa grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. Cat forced herself to smile at her sister. "It'll be alright, Lysa. Mother is strong. You know that." 

"I know," she replied, biting her lip. "But what if she isn’t strong enough ?"

Cat took her younger sister and brought her into a hug, feeling the shuddering breaths rake through Lysa's body. Cat was proud of her sister for keeping calm, as many lesser ladies would have broken down into tears. But they were Tullys. They were strong, and they were there for each other.

Cat shushed her sister. "Just wait, Lysa. Family, Duty, Honor. We're going to be fine."

Another pained moan ripped through the room, but it quickly quieted as their mother emptied of air. She gasped, drawing in heavy breaths. Cat clung tight to her sister, who in turn buried her face into Cat’s shoulder.

Mother would be fine. She had to be.

…

When Cat first heard the baby’s cries, relief flooded her body. Lysa was with her, the two of them eating a tense breakfast in the chamber beside their mother's. Father was with them, continuing the furious pacing he’d done since the start. Little Edmure was at the table too, and was playing with his toy knight. He looked up at the noise, confused.

Cat smiled at her sister, who returned the expression. Mother was alive - the baby too. They’d made it through, and Catelyn wouldn't have to be the lady of the castle. Her mother would come back and take care of them, and they would have a new sibling as well.

The sisters rose together, already outpaced by their father, who had raced out of the room. As a proper lady, Catelyn knew that she should walk slowly, but she wanted to see her mother so much she ran anyway. With Lysa's hand in her own, they burst into the birthing chamber to see Master Vyman and their father speaking together in hushed tones, while a plump wet nurse swaddled a crying baby in the corner. Catelyn took this all in and ignored it. Her eyes were only for her mother.

Minisa Tully was breathing heavily and had laid back in her bed. She was red-faced, had a rag on her forehead, and was covered in sweat. Much of the bedsheet beneath her was a violent crimson, concentrated thickly around her legs. When she saw the girls she gave them a pained smile, but was otherwise still. The air smelled salty.

Cat ran up to her mother, moving to melt into her side. She had been so afraid, and now that her mother was safe she wanted to feel her, to hug her. Lysa ran with her, but they both were driven to a halt when they heard their father's voice.

"Stop!" He roared, the loudest that Cat had ever heard. His voice shook.

Cat whirled to look at her father, Lysa mirroring her a half second later. Hoster Tully's eyes were wide, and he quickly strode towards them and dragged the girls into a tight hug. Cat could feel the thuds her father's heart pounding in his chest.

She was confused. "Father, why-"

"I’m afraid I’m a bit fragile at the moment, dearest.”

Cat's head turned again, fixating on the quiet wheeze that was her mother's voice. Mother's eyes were shiny, and she was smiling down at Cat even as her chest rose and fell with silent tremors. Her father choked and drew his daughters even closer, his breath hot on her hair. The wet nurse lowered her head, and Vyman was stony.

"My ladies,” the maester began, after torturous seconds. “Despite Lady Tully surviving the birth and bringing the child into the world, the blood loss has-"

Cat was running.

She tore herself out of her father's grip and raced into the hall, Lysa’s voice crying out behind her. Tears ran down her face and her throat felt tight, and she was acutely aware that the whole of Riverrun would see her. She didn’t care.

Cat ran to the sept, where she had so often prayed with her mother. She flung herself down in front of the Seven, begging and pleading. It wasn’t fair. She lived. She lived!

They found her hours later and informed her of Mother’s passing.

…

The halls of Riverrun were quiet for many moons. Catelyn and Lysa stayed in their rooms most of the time, and barely ever saw their father, much less their two new younger brothers. Their mother had named the baby 'Horath', after the Horath Tully who’d held the Red Fork against the Lydden Incursion. The babe had spent most of its time with the wet nurses and Maester Vyman, who ensured his health.

Horath had survived the birth, but he was still weakened from it. The boy was smaller than the average baby, and quieter too. He sat silently in the wet nurse's arms, Maester Lyman was constantly attending him.

Catelyn was able to eventually force herself from her room and into the baby's. Mother had made her promise to take care of her siblings, and that meant that she would need to care for this new one as well. Edmure and Lysa were mostly fine (well, as fine as they could be considering the circumstances), but she didn’t know enough about Horath to say the same.

Upon entering the nursery, she was greeted by the sight of Horath murmuring peacefully while the wet nurse held him. Maester Lyman wasn't there, likely off in one of Riverrun’s many wings. Her father had been visiting every day, but not too frequently and never for too long.

The wet nurse inclined her head to Catelyn as she entered, remaining in her chair to not disturb Horath. Catelyn approached her and made eye contact with the woman. "May I hold him?"

"Aye, m'lady," she replied, "Just be careful. Your brother is very small, y’see."

Catelyn smiled and nodded. After listening quietly to the maid's instructions, she gently lifted Horath into her arms, pulling him close. The first thought in her head was of how small he was, and how she could barely notice his weight in her arms. Catelyn didn't know if that was what all babies were like, but it worried her.

Horath looked up at her and smiled, gurgling softly. He had a slight tuft of auburn hair on his head, and she ran her fingers through it as she held him. Catelyn smiled back at him and tickled his stomach.

Maybe things would be all right after all.

…

Over the next few moons, Catelyn continued to visit and play with her younger brother. Horath was a friendly child, welcoming her with gurgles and laughter whenever she arrived. Catelyn couldn't help but grin down at him as she picked him up into her arms. She was getting better at holding him, and she liked to walk around Riverrun with him in her arms. “Lady Tully!” the servants called her as she passed.

It wasn’t her who they were supposed to call that.

Edmure was one of the first people she brought him to, taking care to introduce her brothers to each other. Edmure was only two himself, and Catelyn liked to think that she was taking care of her family, just as Mother wanted. When she looked at them together, the dark Tully curls spilling off of their heads, she felt just a bit better about everything that's happened.

Lysa still didn't want anything to do with Horath. She thought that Horath killed Mother as he was born, and hated him for it. She was so much more quiet, now.

Catelyn knew better.

She had spoken to the maester after Lysa had told her that, and the maester had told her that Mother had lost two children before Catelyn was born, and had been weak ever since the birth of Edmure, and it was a blessing of the Seven that she had even been able to carry a child after him. If she had been hurt ever since Edmure, then it wouldn't have been possible for Horath to have hurt her.

Now even Father was coming around to Horath. He had been sad after Mother had died, but he had started to be nicer again. He was smiling more, and he had been in the nursery when she had come to get Horath that day. He had mussed her hair, and bid her take Horath for another walk around the castle.

Catelyn smiled, looking down at the sleeping baby in her arms. He had no understanding of what had happened when he was born, nor would he - if she had any say about it, at least. Catelyn didn't want her little brother to be sad about what had happened to the family after Mother had died. He would never have to be sad.

Not like her.

Riverrun - 277 AC

Horath raced through the halls of Riverrun, dodging past servants and knights as he searched for his older sister. Many of them smiled as the boisterous youth dashed by, quickly for a boy of six namedays. There had been some concern at first, but Horath was agile and quick on his feet, far from the clumsiness seen in many boys his age. Some had even tried to catch and stop him, only to be dodged and ignored. When brought up to his father, the Lord of Riverrun only laughed, and said that his son was "as much a fish as a man".

Personally, Horath wasn't sure what they were all worried about. It was only running, and he made sure that he didn't get in anyone's way. It was like they expected him to fall and hurt himself, or perhaps run into walls.

Cat was probably in the sept or with the septa, or both. He didn't know why his sister spent so much time praying and reading, but she was really smart, so there was probably a reason. Odds were that Cat would tell him off for running like that. She'd turn and look at him, get stern in the eyes, and just say his name. That'd do it, and Horath would always stop whatever he was doing.

He rounded a corner to see his sister and her friend. Not Cat. His other sister. Lysa.

Lysa was mean. She would always look at Horath and frown and would say cruel things. Once, she had called him a murderer. She had gone on about how he had killed their mother, a mother he would never get to meet. At that, Horath had fled, and Cat had taken him and he'd sobbed. He didn't know why Lysa was mean, but she was, and it made him sad. No matter how much Cat yelled at her or told her to stop, she didn’t.

"Why, Horath!"

No. Not him.

Petyr wasn't mean, like Lysa, but he was weird. Horath didn't know what it was, exactly, but there was something about Petyr that seemed off. It wasn't anything big, or something that could be explained or even pointed out, but it was there. It was the look in his eyes when he examined you. It reminded Horath of a cat. There was no emotion in his eyes, apart from a slight amount of amusement. He was smart like Cat, but a kind of smart that Horath didn’t understand. He didn't want anything to do with him. But he also couldn't just ignore him.

Horath slowed down, approaching his sister and Petyr. Lysa had an annoyed expression on her face, her nose scrunching up like a mouse and her mouth curving into a frown. Petyr, on the other hand, had that same amused look that he had all the time, no matter the circumstance.

Horath halfheartedly waved his hand. "Hello, Petyr. Sister." 

Lysa said nothing.

Petyr smiled down at him. "How are you today, Horath? Where are you off to in such a rush?"

"I'm trying to find Cat," he replied, reluctantly, and watched as Petyr’s eyes lit up, "She promised to take me riding today."

Lysa scoffed. "At your age? You'd fall right off."

He wilted at her tone, hurt turning to fear turning to anger. Horath drew himself up to field a retort but Petyr beat him to it. "Now, now, Lysa. I'm sure that Horath will be fine. He's a Tully after all. A high lord." At that, he smiled at him, showing nearly all of his teeth. Horath didn't like it, but he didn’t know why.

“Thank you, I suppose,” he replied. Petyr’s eye twitched.

Lysa tugged on her friend’s sleeve, frown still gloomily hanging to her face. “Petyr, let’s go. You said we’d go to the godswood.”

Horath didn’t think Petyr heard her, because he kept talking. “I do believe sweet Catelyn is in your father’s solar. Perhaps we could walk together?”

“No,” Horath wanted to say. He didn’t want to walk with Lysa, and he definitely didn’t want to walk with Petyr. They were older, and bigger, and knew more words.

But Petyr was right. He was a Tully, and he had his honor.

He walked with them.

Chapter Text

Harrenhal - 278 AC

Seeing all of the banners was simply magnificent. There were hundreds of them, hues of blue, red, black, and green, fluttering like a flock of birds in the midday sun. Horath had seen dozens of different sigils in his life, when his father’s vassals had visited Riverrun or when the Tullys had visited them in kind. But never had he seen so many in the same place.

Mallister, Blackwood, Bracken, Vypren - Horath knew some, a drop in the ocean compared to the total that had come to Harrenhal. The dark ruins stretched up far into the sky, and long shadows hung over the tourney grounds. Horath had gotten to explore the seat of House Whent thanks to his Uncle Walder, who had personally given the children of his late sister a tour.

Catelyn had made a big stink of learning all she could about Harrenhal’s history. “Our mother was a Whent,” she told him. “This is not any old castle. It’s the seat of our family’s past, decades and decades. It’s important.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Horath, waving a hand. He was far more interested in the tourney to come, and all the knights that brought with it. Already there were thousands of squires, stablehands, and aids rushing about, preparing the grounds for King Aerys’ abrupt arrival. They crossed back and forth across the siblings’ path, carrying all sorts of equipment.

The two of them were searching the dozens of lanes for the Stark tent. Or tents, he supposed. House Stark was a Great House, after all. They would likely have more than one, just as the Tullys did.

Cat had been betrothed to the heir of Winterfell, Lord Brandon Stark, who was known by many as ‘The Wild Wolf’. He hoped to meet him properly, as he was to be Horath's goodbrother. Catelyn would become Lady of Winterfell and would rule the entire North at Brandon’s side. Perhaps Horath could come North with them, seeing as Edmure would inherit Riverrun. 

His sister was just as excited as her younger brother to find Brandon, if not more so. Cat had talked Horath's ear off about him on their trip east to Harrenhal, going on about how gallant and chivalrous Brandon was. The two had spent time together in Riverrun after the betrothal was announced, and judging by Cat’s enthusiasm, Brandon had made a good impression. The visit had been made even better when Petyr had challenged Brandon to a duel.

Horath felt a little thrill run through him just remembering it. As much as the violence had been scary, seeing Petyr finally get what was coming to him had made it all worth it. The lowborn Valeman was too close to Horath's family for comfort, always knowing exactly what to say to both come off smelling of roses and to make Horath sound or look like an idiot. Petyr would get this cruel look in his eyes that would never reach his perfect smile, and completely innocently correct or deflate what Horath had to say. He hated it.

The duel won Brandon a lot of respect from Horath, to say the least. It seemed that the heir of Winterfell didn't like Petyr any more than Horath did, and unlike Horath, Brandon had the power to act on it. The only reason Petyr lived was because Cat’s womanly weakness made her beg for Petyr’s life. Otherwise, the Stark would have gutted him like a fish.

As if summoned by his inner thoughts, Catelyn's betrothed called out from across the field. "Lady Catelyn!"

Cat whipped around, frantically searching for the source of the sound. As soon as she spotted Brandon, she hurried to his side. Horath followed behind, politely giving her some space with her future husband.

Brandon Stark was a tall man, easily standing a head taller than his betrothed, and even more over Horath's seven-year-old stature. He wore the colors of the Starks, grays, whites, and blacks, with a fur coat covering his shoulders. Petyrsbane, or as it was commonly called, Ice, rested in his sheath. Odd that Brandon would carry it, seeing as his father Rickard was lord, but then again, he was of an age with Horath’s own father. Perhaps the Warden of the North was too old to properly wield it.

Cat arrived in front of her betrothed, excitement clear on her face but still remembering her courtesies. "Lord Brandon."

Brandon knelt and kissed Catelyn's hand, his flinty eyes twinkling with amusement. Cat blushed, smiling down at him, before prompting him to rise. He offered her an arm, which she gladly took. Their eyes were only on each other.

"My lady, I thought we could go for a walk through the tourney fields, perhaps greet my bannermen. Would you be interested?"

"Of course, my lord. I look forward to meeting them, and there are many beautiful sights here at Harrenhal."

"But none as beautiful as you, my lady."

Horath cleared his throat, drawing their attention. He felt quite awkward about his presence. "My lord Brandon."

The tall man's gaze turned to regard him. "Ah. Lord… Horath. Apologies."

"It's nothing. I would be remiss to find an issue with your care for my sister." Horath smiled up at him, proud of his words.

Brandon and Cat exchanged a look, and both smiled. "Thank you, my lord. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Can I see your sword?"

Catelyn stared at him, in shock, mortified. Brandon, after a long moment, let out a bark of laughter. "Sure. Of course."

He drew Ice, the massive valyrian steel blade humming as it slid from its sheath. Morning light, bright and searing, reflected off of it. It was far cleaner than it had been after Petyr’s duel.

Considering how it looked large in the hands of Brandon, Horath was positively dwarfed by it. Brandon wielded it easily, of course, valyrian steel being lighter than the average metal, but seeing the blade in all its glory was intimidating, to say the least. He was transfixed.

Brandon laughed again at Horath's reaction, drawing a reluctant smile from his betrothed. “Have you seen valyrian steel before? Besides Ice?”

“No, ser.”

“There are no knights in the North, save for those of the barrows or White Harbor. Say ‘my lord’.”

Horath amended his statement. “No, my lord.”

Cat tutted, a little clicking sound produced without any mouth movement. “Is that so, brother? Are you perhaps forgetting a certain prized goblet in our father’s solar?”

He reddened and glanced away. He had forgotten.

“Well Cat, we’d best be off,” said Brandon, sliding ice back into its sheath. Horath was disappointed to see it go, but relieved to escape the humiliation. “Many of my vassals are in attendance. The Mormonts, the Hornwoods, oh, even Howland Reed. Well, he sent a raven. He’ll be here soon.”

“How about the Ryswells?” Cat asked.

Brandon coughed. “N-no. Lord Rodrik elected to remain in the Rills.”

Horath’s sister brushed imaginary dirt from her skirt, and smiled at her betrothed. “That sounds lovely, then.” She turned and crouched. “Horath, will you be able to return to Harrenhal alone?”

“Yes,” Horath lied. He would not return there anytime soon.

Brandon, perhaps sensing an opportunity, slipped his hand into Cat’s, prompting a blush. Together, the two began to make their way across the lawn. 

Watching them leave, the seven-year-old smiled. He decided his sister being Brandon’s wife might not be the worst thing. Of course, she’d have to visit. And he’d have to make his way North, at some point.

Seven hells. He forgot to ask.

…

Taking a deep breath in, Horath laid an arrow against the drawstring. With all his strength, he drew back the string and loosed the arrow at the target. It flung itself towards the straw dummy at the other end of the field, thudding into the torso with an explosion of yellow particles. Grinning, he laid a second shaft into place.

"Woah!"

Horath flinched, concentration broken. The arrow rocketed off into long grasses, and the string slapped against his bracer. "Hey!” he said, turning. “It's rude to interrupt someone while they're practicing!"

The tall black-haired girl laughed at him, leaning over a nearby fence where she watched. "Really? You're so easily distracted and you have the gall to blame me for your mistakes?"

Horath felt his face grow red. "You distracted me!" he accused. "I was doing fine beforehand!"

"You were." She waved her hand, conceding his point before her face resumed an eager expression. "Do it again!"

"Huh."

"You seem like a good archer. My mother is better, but I haven't seen someone your age shoot like that before."

"Your mother? Who is she?"

The black-haired girl drew herself up with a smug smile. "Why, only the Lady Maege Mormont, greatest warrior in all the North."

"My sister says that women shouldn't be warriors. It’s improper."

The Mormont daughter glared at him. "Yeah? Who's your sister?"

"The future lady of Winterfell. Catelyn Tully."

She harrumphed, hopping over the fence. As her feet hit the ground, Horath was suddenly aware that she stood nearly a head taller than him. The greens and blacks of her coat fluttered in the wind, but he could see some serious muscle on her arms and shoulders.

"Let's fight," she suggested, smiling excitedly, "and I can show you how much of a warrior I am."

Horath was taken aback. "Huh? I don't have my training sword. It's back at Riverrun."

She shrugged. "It's fine, I've got plenty."

"Um.” this wasn’t supposed to happen. “All right then. Let's spar." It wasn't like she would win. Horath had been training with his uncle Brynden and his older brother for years. Even if he wasn't very good with a sword, he would still be better than her. "What's your name, again?"

The girl's smile returned, bigger than before. Horath's confidence wavered. "Dacey Mormont."

"H-Horath Tully. Let's do this."

…

His chin crashed into the ground, face and hands sinking into the earth. Horath’s cheek burned from where Dacey's mace had struck, and a groan escaped into the soft grass. Her harsh laughter could be heard from above.

"So what was it that your sister said? Women shouldn't be warriors or something like that?"

Horath rolled onto his back, his hand grasping the training sword. Muscles burning, he staggered to his feet. "Women shouldn't be warriors. Then they would turn out like you."

Dacey laughed again. "What am I doing wrong? You're the one who's losing handily. Better admit that women are better warriors than men. Only way I'll stop."

"Never!" he cried, charging her with his sword held high. With a kick to the chest and a swing of the mace, Horath fell back to the earth. As he made to get up, he felt a foot on his back.

"Admit it!" she laughed gleefully, "Admit it and I'll teach you how to fight better than that!"

Horath struggled in defiance, pushing up against her boot. He felt little purchase in the soil and grass, his hands more sinking than pushing him up. "I won't lose!"

"No, you will. It's only a matter of when, and how embarrassing it's going to be." With that, she increased the pressure, putting her remaining weight onto her leg. With a grunt, Horath collapsed to the ground.

"Fine. You win. Just let me up."

"Victory!"

The second son of Hoster Tully felt the pressure lessen, and he rolled onto his back, gasping for air. His hands and face were covered in dirt, and his body ached all over. The blue and red colors of House Tully were dusty, and his training sword lay far out of reach. He had never felt more tired in his life.

Dacey plopped down next to him, crossing her legs as she leaned back onto her hands. Her mace, that gods forsaken mace, sat loosely next to her in the grass.

"You have potential, you know," said Dacey conversationally, looking up at the sky. "The muscles you've built from firing that bow don't help all that much, but your stance is good enough and you've got some upper body strength."

"Really?" asked Horath, sitting back up beside her. "You think so?"

"Oh yes. You'll never be better than me, though."

"Seven perish at the thought."

The two sat back and enjoyed the moment, their competitive bickering and discussion halted as they simply sat in silence. Horath, for one, was happy to finally have someone his age to spend time with. At Riverrun, he was constantly in the presence of all his older siblings, as well as the various knights, servants, and the occasional noble. All the other children his age were the children of said servants and knights, and all acted weird around him. Dacey was his age, or at least close to it, which was nice. And she didn’t treat him like he was special.

"Horath," called a voice from behind them, "where did you run off to?"

The children turned to see Cat and Lord Brandon observing them, as well as a retinue of Tully and Stark soldiers. The two were arm-in-arm and had bemused looks on their faces. Horath and Dacey both quickly got to their feet.

"Sister. Lord Brandon. My apologies, I did not see you there."

"Lord Brandon. Lady Catelyn."

The older pair exchanged amused glances before Cat returned the formality. "Lady Dacey, I believe your mother was looking for you. Would you give me a moment with my brother?"

"Yes, my lady. Bye, Horath." Dacey raced off.

"Bye!" called Horath to the retreating girl.

Brandon watched as the child of Bear Island was swallowed by the mass of tents and people, before smiling back at Horath. "And what exactly were you doing with Lady Dacey, Lord Horath?"

Horath blushed. He didn't want Lord Brandon to know how Dacey had demolished him. "Sparring. I won, though."

Once again, Cat and Brandon exchanged amused glances. Horath looked at the both of them, his head flicking back and forth. "What?"

Absent-mindedly, Cat's hand came to rest atop Horath's head. "Come, brother. Let's return to Father. A feast is being held tonight in King Aerys’ honor, and we will be expected to sit as a family."

Horath nodded. His sister was right. "Will you be joining us at the feast, Lord Brandon? Will you bring Ice?"

Brandon laughed. "I'm afraid not. The King might take issue with such a deadly weapon, so I’ll leave it behind. Besides, it would be unwieldy to dance with."

"Oh," Horath wilted, unsure of how to respond. "That's fine, then."

Catelyn pulled a sealed letter from her pocket, presenting it to her betrothed. "Please, my lord this. Wear this tonight, so that all might know that you are my dance partner."

She received a solemn nod in return, and Brandon tucked it into his coat. "I will, my lady. And I look forward to it"

He was rewarded by a deep smile, one which he returned. Horath was once again struck by the feeling of awkwardness he’d experienced with Lysa and Petyr, back when the latter had been at Riverrun. He didn't like it at all and coughed. "To our lord father, then?"

Cat reluctantly broke her gaze away from Brandon's and nodded. "Yes. Good day, my lord."

"May the Father bless you, Lord Brandon."

Brandon snorted. "I'll be receiving no blessings from the Seven, little trout. But you have my thanks all the same."

At that, they were off.

Chapter Text

Harrenhal - 278 AC

Dacey’s family ate dinner in their tent, and she ignored them. Mother hadn't cared all that much that she had run off, but her cousin Jorah had chided her reckless behavior. Before walls of green and black cloth, he wore on about how she could have been hurt by herself, or how she might have gotten lost in the crowds. Dacey could feel her respect for him plummeting throughout the entire exchange, but she kept a neutral look on her face.

Life with Jorah as the lord of the household was the worst. It had been all right with Uncle Jeor since he always let her get away with running off or getting into fights, but as soon as he had run off to the Night's Watch everything had gotten worse. Jorah had it in his head to turn the Mormonts into a proper southern family, with rules and dresses and betrothals. It was terrible.

Honestly, the most fun she had ever since traveling south of the Neck had been with Horath today. He hadn't been very good at sword fighting, but he was an amazing shot with a bow and it had been funny to tease him, to watch him blush. Dacey was probably going to find him tomorrow, just to mess with him some more. She could ditch the guard Jorah would inevitably assign for her, that was sure.

"Dacey!"

"Hmmm?" She dragged her attention from her meal of rich, honeyed lamb to see Jorah looking expectantly down at her. His bald head shone. "Pardon?"

He sighed, planting his forehead into his palm. "I asked you who it was that you got in a fight with. I can see you're covered in dirt and bruises, and you came back with two training swords. I need to apologize to whoever it was that you brutalized."

Dacey could help but smile at that. Even chastising her, Jorah still knew she was an amazing fighter. No matter what else he tried to take away, he couldn’t take that. "I don't think there need to be any apologies. He agreed to fight."

"Yes, but he didn't agree to lose. There may be a damaged ego out there, someone who will hold a grudge against House Mormont because of your actions," replied Jorah, her mother letting out a snort from his right. “It could hurt the family,” he argued.

The hoity-toity lord turned his head towards Mother, and she shrugged. "Might as well admit who it was, curb. Your cousin won't give up about it."

Jorah glared at her mother but nodded. "Yes. Just out with it."

"Horath Tully."

Jorah choked. "You fought a Tully? Brutalized a child of a Lord Paramount?"

"Brutalized? I just whacked him around a bit. He kept going on about how men are better warriors than women, and I wanted to prove him wrong. Besides, he was fine with it. Took some tips from me after."

At that, Maege chuckled, smiling proudly at her daughter. "Little cub."

Dacey smiled back, ignoring Jorah's spluttering in the background. Her mother was proud of her fighting, and that was all the support she needed. Perhaps she could try and train Horath with a mace on the morrow…

…

"Block!" cried Dacey, swinging her mace at the staggered Tully boy. "Deflect!"

Attempting to follow her commands, Horath cringed as her mace crashed into his shoulder, numbing his left arm. He attempted to return his strike, but she deftly bashed the head of her mace to his, averting its trajectory.

"Not bad. You need more force behind your blows, though."

Panting, Horath rubbed his arm and grinned. "You certainly don't."

"Yes. Uh, sorry about that." Maybe she had been hitting him pretty hard. "I'll try to be more careful next time."

“It's fine. My uncle never holds back when he's training me, and he's an old soldier. He says that that'd be coddling, and I wouldn't actually learn how to hold my own. I'd go up against a real opponent and get killed in my first encounter."

Dacey nodded. "My ma pretty much says the same thing."

"Right." Horath lowered himself into a fighting stance, shaking feeling back into his arm. "Let's keep going."

"Dacey!" bellowed a voice.

The two turned to look in the direction of the voice, shocked by the harsh tone. As soon as Dacey’s eyes landed on the newcomer, she sighed. 

"Lord Mormont." Horath's diplomatic training took over, and he inclined his head towards the large man despite his fear. Southerners. Always so diplomatic .

"Cousin Jorah." Dacey's voice bore none of the respect that Horath's did. She took a step back.

Jorah Mormont hesitated, unwilling to display anger in front of the Tully scion. He inclined his head in return and turned towards Horath, visibly suppressing his rage. "Lord Tully. A pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine, my lord." Horath smiled, visibly aware of the tension but resorting to his teachings to avoid it. "How may we help you?"

His attention redirected, Jorah smiled down at the boy. He had a nice smile, for all his other flaws. "Jorah Mormont. Happy to make your acquaintance. I'm honestly here for my cousin, though. Dacey-"

She was gone. Her mace lay on the ground of the yard, resting in the dust. The forest nearby rustled in the wind, and Dacey lay beneath the bushes.

Jorah's anger returned in full force, regardless of Horath's presence. "She was right here. Where did she go?"

Horath's face was solemn. "I don't know, my lord. Perhaps she's returned to her tents." He pointed in the direction of the field bearing the menagerie of colors and peoples.

Collecting himself again, Jorah forced a brittle smile. "Thank you, Lord Horath. I apologize for the behavior of my cousin."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?" Horath nearly laughed at the confused face of the much older man.

"Why would you need to apologize? Dacey is great."

Jorah was uncomfortable. "She has bruised you repeatedly, my lord. There is no need to cover for her. I am aware of how violent and unladylike my cousin can be."

Dacey rolled her eyes. Jorah had always been this way, but it annoyed her to no end. He couldn’t accept the way things were, instead making them how they had to be. Why was he so stupid? "Dacey's nice. And strong.” Thank you, Horath . “And sorta scary, but in a good way. I'm not mad at her for training me."

"Ah." Jorah swallowed. "Well, in that case, I apologize for disturbing you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must find my cousin."

"Of course, my lord. Good luck with your search."

"Thank you." Jorah forced another smile, before turning and striding away. Horath watched the man leave. And he thought Dacey was scary.

After the man left his view, Horath knelt and retrieved Dacey's mace, lightly dusting the worst of the grass and dirt from it. He then hefted his own, before jogging into the woods. "Dacey? Are you there?"

The training yard disappeared from view, obscured by the trees surrounding him. Horath could hear the calls of different birds and rodents all around him, going about their lives. Something about the forest felt right with Horath. Everything around him was alive, completely wild, and completely peaceful all the same. He smiled, letting out a sigh and relaxing the shoulders he hadn't known were tense.

"Dacey?" he called again. Horath had seen her run into the woods, but he didn't know where she was now. Could be anywhere, he supposed.

"RAAAAGH!"

Horath yelped as he was tackled to the ground, hit from the side in a surprise attack. Muscular limbs pinned him to the earth, while a heavier weight than his own settled on his hip. Horath looked up at his attacker, straight into eyes that glinted with ferocity.

Dacey laughed, grinning at the friend she had pinned below her. Horath squirmed under the larger girl's weight, attempting to shove her off. "Got you."

"Yeah, yeah," Horath glared up at her. "Can you let me up?"

Still smiling, Dacey stood up, hefting the mace that Horath had been carrying with her. Hands on her hips, she observed as Horath staggered to his feet. "Thanks for distracting my cousin. I couldn't deal with him  again."

"Why's he so bothered, anyway?"

"Jorah believes I don't comport myself like a proper lady." Dacey made a face.

Horath laughed. "You don't."

"Yeah, but I don't want to, either. He needs to shove off."

"I suppose so. You're pretty scary."

"I'm scary?" Dacey paused, cocking her head at him. Horath felt he might have said something he shouldn't have, at least from the look Dacey saw on his face. He backtracked.

"Yeah, but like in a good way. You're all cool and intimidating and stuff."

Dacey puffed up her chest. "Yeah, I suppose so. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"We should go find a place to train." Dacey scanned her vision, the training rings getting busier around them. "I don't want to go back to the training yard where my cousin can find me again."

Horath nodded. "All right. Let's find a clearing."

"Actually," Dacey smiled, a twinkle in her eye, "I have a better idea."

...

The two children stole onto the docks of Harrentown, cloaked in the early morning shadows. They both were lightly armed, Dacey with her mace and Horath with his bow. Neither of them knew what they were going to encounter, and wanted to be prepared.

"There don't seem to be any guards around." Dacey whispered to her friend, "Let's just grab a boat and go."

"Do we not need, I don't know, oars?" asked Horath, somewhat more cautiously than the girl at his side. "I hear they're a significant step up from our arms and hands."

Dacey snorted but inclined her head. "Odds are there'll be oars on the boat."

"But what if there aren't?"

"Then we'll get some. Come on, let's go."

The Mormont girl took off, quickly followed by Horath even as he obviously wasn't sure of her plan. They raced across the wooden platforms that made up Harrendowns dock, the early morning mist clinging to their skin as they did so. Dacey stopped abruptly and felt Horath crash into her from behind.

She turned her head, eyes smiling. "Watch it, clumsy."

Horath blushed but nodded. She returned her view to the boat.

It was a small dingy, with a fixed oar on either side. The wood was dark and glossy, and there was barely any water at the bottom of the boat. Looking at the length, width, and depth of the boat, Dacey estimated that it could likely hold at least four fully-grown adults. Two children wouldn't have a problem.

She stepped in, the boat rocking as she did so. It took a second to steady, only her experience with boats keeping her from frantically lunging out to hold onto a side. After the rocking stopped, she looked back up at Horath and grinned. "All right, then. Your turn."

Horath looked at the boat and hesitated. Dacey rolled her eyes. "Come on. You're plenty agile, and besides, I'm heavier than you. Get in."

Carefully, the boy lowered himself onto the dingy, not so much landing in it as he gradually came to rest. Dacey could admit she was a bit jealous about how light on his feet her friend was. Although, she did have other strengths.

"Now just sit back and relax. I'll row first, and when I get tired we'll switch."

"If you get tired," Horath smirked.

She grinned back at him and nodded. Grasping the oars in her hands, she began to paddle. It was only hours later when she realized how far the Isle of Faces truly was.

…

It took them several hours to row all the way to the island. Dacey had rowed the majority of the way, but he had pitched in after she had gotten tired, just as promised. It was a difficult journey, but Dacey was certain it'd be worth it. Horath was a bit more hesitant, but he couldn't deny that he was excited.

In truth, Horath hadn't experienced anything exciting up until this point in his life. He'd grown up in Riverrun, which he loved, but there wasn't much allure to it anymore. Every nook and cranny had been explored, leaving training, reading, and watching his father as the only vaguely interesting activities available.

He'd spent some time visiting the various keeps of his family's vassals, as well. This was his first time at Harrenhal, but he'd already been to Darry, Raventree Hall, Pinkmaiden, and a few others. Those had been interesting as well, but they'd been smaller castles than Riverrun and hadn't had much appeal at all.

Now, Harrenhal was exciting. It was the biggest castle that Horath had seen in his entire life, and because of its size, there was so much to explore and learn about. Sadly, Harrenhal was bustling with people at all times, from the Whents who lived there to the royal court that had claimed the place for their stay at the tourney.

The Whents were his cousins, yes, but they were all a lot older than him and he didn't know them all that well. Despite the Tully words being Family, Duty, Honor, Horath's father hadn't ever made the effort to allow his children to get to know the Whents, and Horath didn't know how to approach them on his own.

Harrenhal being off-limits had been disappointing, but he was far less disappointed as of now. He'd made a new friend, someone smart and witty and his age, for once. Dacey was a breath of fresh air from all the squires and men-at-arms Horath usually spent his time around. They were all so old, and none of them were interested in the same things as him. It was annoying.

So what if he couldn't explore Harrenhal, or that the people at Riverrun were old and didn't like the things he did. Horath was free from any of those worries now.

The Isle of Faces was waiting.

…

They dragged their dinghy ashore, keeping it out of the water's reach. It was their one way back, and it couldn't be lost. Afterward, they unloaded it of all their things, slinging bows and maces and packs over their shoulders and onto their waists.

The Isle of Faces was magnificent.

Weirwood trees dotted the shore, their faces a mixture of different expressions. Rivers of sap leaked from their eyes, and their leaves fluttered in the wind. The smooth gray bark of the trees contrasted the red of the leaves and the green of the ground, creating a unique palette of natural features. Despite the excess of trees, the ground was covered in soft green grass, carpeting the soil all over the island.

The land was coated in an entire forest of weirwoods, engulfing Dacey's vision. Horath had only seen one weirwood tree before, in the godswood of Raventree Hall. It had been a magnificent sight, something he hadn't seen anything like before or after. There was something otherworldly about weirwoods, what with the faces etched into the wood in perfect carvings. Cat had told him that the trees were the centers of worship for the Old Gods, like septs for the First Men. He could certainly see why.

Dacey seemed to be just as amazed as him, if not more so. She was from the North, he supposed, so it made sense that all these weirwoods would be important to her. He nudged her shoulder.

"Dacey. What now?"

She glanced at him in brief surprise, as if she'd forgotten his presence in the first place. Dacey nudged his shoulder back, before replying. "Not quite sure. I thought we might go here and explore, and train a bit. Now? I feel like I've stepped into another world."

"Do you have a weirwood on Bear Island?"

"Yes, of course. Our godswood happens to have a few of them. Only one of them is very big, but there are two or three others that were planted a few decades ago."

Horath hummed. "Are they… Do they make you feel like this?

"Yes." Dacey nodded, her eyes not leaving the trees. "It's just… Not as strong."

"Ah."

The two continued inwards, leaving the dingy tucked into the roots of a particularly large tree. Instinctively, Dacey kept her hand on her mace, while Horath slowly drew his bow, laying an arrow on the string. Neither child knew why they were so on edge, but they both sensed something beyond their perceptions.

The weirwoods grew larger as they got closer and closer to the island's interior. Mushrooms began to grow in between trees, and the leaves above them became densely packed. The wind blowing off the lake still brushed against their backs, but it was weaker. Softer.

Dacey stopped, prompting Horath to do the same. "What is it?"

"Look at this." Dacey knelt, resting her mace on the ground as she did so. The thick grass beneath their feet parted for her hand, spreading apart to reveal a small gap in the uniform growth that covered the ground. Horath stepped up next to her, looking over Dacey's shoulder. He saw what she had seen, and gasped.

"Soot," she remarked, rubbing it in between her fingers. "Ash. Some charcoal."

"Evidence of a fire." Horath finished.

The two made eye contact and spoke at the same time. "Evidence of life."

A sharp wind blew through the trees, whistling as it brushed the bark. The leaves above them, crimson in the low light, rustled. The children drew close to one another, Dacey wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her mace. Horath clutched the string of his bow, drawing the arrow taut against it.

Then they saw it.

No taller than they were, it stepped through the trees with obvious confidence and purpose. Gray, bark-like skin and leafy hair, it was inhuman. Its eyes were larger than the average person, with black pupils and bright yellow irises. It wore clothes made of roots that weren't perfect in their coverage, but then again there was nothing to cover. The only hostile component of its appearance was a long dragonglass dagger, strapped to its waist by some vines. It wasn't drawn nor was the creature's hand on the hilt.

Beside her, Horath drew back his arrow and aimed it pointedly at the creature. Dacey herself fully rose from the ground, shifting her weight and holding her mace loosely. Despite that, her voice shook as she spoke. "Who are you?"

" What are you?" Horath amended, before letting out a small, deranged cackle. He smothered it when the creature looked directly at him.

It regarded the boy’s bow dismissively, before closing the gap between them. Dacey didn't let it.

"Don't get any closer!" she roared, her voice taking on a bestial tone that spoke of ancient blood. Horath glanced at her, but didn’t question anything. Good .

The being listened. It held its hands up in a peaceful gesture, showing palms coated in moss. Its eyes, luminescent in the dim light, focused acutely on her.

It looked between the two of them, before briefly closing its eyes and inclining its head. As it did so, Dacey couldn't help but notice how small it was. It had been hard to tell when it had first appeared, but as it neared them Dacey could see that both she and Horath were easily a head taller than the creature. Knowing that didn't make her any less terrified, though.

Then it spoke, its voice entirely human, and yet eerily unfamiliar. "I am not interested in hurting you, children. Please, cease your violent movements."

Horath’s nose scrunched, before looking at Dacey. “ Children of Bran?” he mouthed, making no sound. Dacey looked back at him, before making the lightest of shrugs.

The being watched the exchange, before continuing. "We have waited for your arrival. There is no need for hostilities. You are welcome."

Puzzled, Horath elected to respond. "You've waited for us?"

Its eyes flicked to him, and it gave him a brief smile. That smile invoked the same feeling that the weirwood trees around them did. Secrets hide behind that smile, Dacey was sure.

"Horath Tully, son of Tristifer. We know you."

Dacey spoke up. She didn’t know what the being was talking about. "His father’s name is Hoster, not ‘Tristifer’!"

"So you say," responded the being. It offered no argument.

“Do you know her too?" Dacey asked.

"Yes. Dacey Mormont. Daughter of Brandon."

"Wrong again!" Dacey hissed. “My mother’s name is Maege, and my father was a bear.”

Beside her, Horath spoke up. "You never told us what you were."

"The First Men called us the Children of the Forest. Inaccurate, but it suits our purposes. I am Dew."

"W-what do you mean, Children of the Forest?" Horasth stuttered, by now a bundle of nerves. “The children aren’t r-real!”

Dacey laughed, a shaky laugh that she desperately hoped didn't reveal her mounting fear. Horath might not believe in them, but she did. Her mother had told her of how dark the forests got beyond the Wall, how weirwoods sprouted up like weeds. Of times roaming the woods when she felt eyes on her back, only to turn and spot a pair of carved, bloody eyes.

Dacey knew the Children were real. And she’d led Horath straight into their domain.

Dew ignored Horath’s outburst, and its eyes briefly filled with the red of the leaves above them. Soft whispers escaped its lips. "Come. Moon will speak to you."

"Then can we leave?"

Looking over its shoulder back at them, it regarded Dacey coldly. "You may leave whenever, Dacey Mormont. But if you do, you will wonder forever what you missed."

They followed the Child into the woods.