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Chapter Text

The cold chill of summer swept through the halls of the old castle of Winterfell. In the comfort of her chambers, Nadya could feel it on her skin even through the thick gray fabric of her dress. It brushed against the nape of her neck as she leaned over in her carved wooden chair, focused on the needlework she had balanced on her knees as she worked.

A Northern girl of ten and seven, she was more than used to the cold by now, which was far milder than that of the winter and held a crispness to it that was almost pleasant. She did not much mind it, although the steady warmth emanating from the fire burning in the large fireplace beside her was still certainly appreciated.

Nadya wielded her needle with practiced hands as she stitched the blood-red leaves onto the weirwood tree standing tall against the canvas held beneath her fingertips. It resembled the ancient one in the godswood at the center of the castle, as had been her intention. She had even managed to capture the gnarled face carved into its pale white trunk, weeping tears of crimson thread.

A knock on the door to Nadya’s chambers caught her attention. She set down her needle and turned her head to look in the direction of the oaken door.

“Who is it?” she asked expectantly. Her fingers twitched impatiently along the frame of her canvas as she waited for an answer.

“It’s only me, my lady. And Barba,” came the high-pitched voice of Nadya’s handmaiden, Jemma Cerwyn.

“Very well,” Nadya hummed, retrieving her needle and pushing it through the canvas once again. “You may enter.”

There was a heavy clunk followed by a low groan as Jemma opened the door and stepped inside the room with Nadya’s other handmaiden, Barba Flint, at her heels. In her hands, Jemma carried a basket of fresh linen sheets, still smelling of hot water and soap, while Barba clutched a bundle of firewood to her chest.

Jemma was a tall girl with freckled skin and deep brown hair which hung down her back in a tight braid, so that it was kept out of her face as she went about her duties. She was thin as a willow but strong as an ox, and she carried the woven basket in her slender hands as if it barely weighed anything at all.

Barba was more comely than her companion, pale as milk with soft features that were still a bit girlish even at the age of nine and ten. Her hair, black as ebony, spilled down in thick waves and framed her round face, making her bright blue eyes all the more striking.

“Are you well, my lady?” Jemma asked as she moved over to Nadya’s bed across from the fireplace and set down the basket beside it. She started to pull the old sheets off of the bed, preparing to remake it with the fresh ones she had brought.

“I am, thank you,” Nadya replied. Her fingers danced across her canvas as she spoke, her needle glinting in the firelight.

“Have you heard any more word from your father?” Barba asked.

“He sent a raven this morning,” Nadya responded with a smile. “He says that he and his retinue are less than half a day’s ride from the castle. I expect they will be here very soon.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Jemma said. “It will be good to have them here, especially after two years away.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nadya hummed, pulling at the crimson thread at the tips of her fingers before plunging the needle back through the cloth again.

“Lord Robb was asking about you, you know,” Barba told Nadya cheerfully, walking past her to the fireplace. She knelt down beside it, her blue skirts spilling out around her feet like water, and rested the firewood she had brought in a neat stack next to her. She took one of the logs of firewood and tossed it into the fire.

“He was?” Nadya echoed. A soft smile spread across her face at the mention of her betrothed, and a blush colored her cheeks. “Why?”

“He wished to know if you might like to join him in the courtyard with his brothers,” Barba answered. She threw another log into the flame, and it crackled hungrily as it devoured the dry wood.

“Hm. For what purpose?” Nadya asked.

“They are teaching the young Lord Bran how to use a bow,” Jemma replied. She was leaning over Nadya’s bed, pulling the pure white sheets she had taken from the basket over the mattress. “Lord Robb thought you could help them, given you and your family’s talents with archery.” She gave a sly grin. “And I think he desires your company.”

“Ah, I see,” Nadya said, inwardly delighted. She put aside her needlework on the armrest of her chair. Then she stood and ran her hands along her dress, smoothing out the creases. “Perhaps I shall take him up on his offer then, if they are in such dire need of me.”

Barba laughed. “That is what I like to hear,” she said. “Go on and show those boys how it’s done.”

“Trust me Barba, I intend to,” Nadya replied with a smile. “After all, I do have a reputation to uphold.”

Gathering her skirts, and with the promise to her ladies that she would return later, it was then that Nadya departed from her chambers and made her way through the torchlit halls of the castle to the courtyard where Robb and his brothers awaited her.

She was greeted with a cool summer gust, brushing through her long dark hair and fluttering through the skirts of her dress. Dirt crunched beneath her boots as she walked through the courtyard, past the usual bustling activity of the castle staff around her, to the small archery range nestled into one of the corners.

As her handmaidens had promised, the Stark boys were already there. Robb and his bastard half-brother, Jon Snow, stood together watching Bran with his bow. Little Rickon, the youngest of the four boys, sat perched on a saddle hung up on a wooden post beside the others, giggling.

At the sound of her approach, Robb and Jon both looked up at Nadya. Robb smiled as he met her gaze.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“What, and miss out on the opportunity to show Bran a thing or two about archery?” Nadya asked. She kissed Robb lightly on the cheek. “Not a chance.”

She turned her attention to Jon, standing a few feet away from the pair.

“Come to show us all how it’s done?” he teased, dark eyes full of mirth he seldom showed to others.

“You know me so well,” Nadya replied with a grin.

Jon’s lips twitched upwards in a small smirk, and his eyes twinkled with hidden meaning. “Indeed I do,” he responded. “My lady.”

Nadya laughed. “Enough with the jests,” she said, waving her hand. “I wish to see what you have taught Bran so far, and what I undoubtedly have left to teach him.”

“I thought you said no more jests,” Jon pointed out.

“I am not jesting,” Nadya said. “I am merely telling the truth.”

She left Jon chuckling alongside Robb as she then approached Bran with a turn on her heels and a swish of her skirts. The younger Stark boy perked up as he saw her, practically bouncing on his feet with an excited grin on his face.

“I knew you’d come,” he said happily.

“Of course,” Nadya cooed. “Once I heard what was going on from your brother, I had to.” She ruffled his long brown hair, then took a step back, gesturing towards the painted target several feet away. “Now, come, show me what you’ve learned so far.”

Bran nodded with enthusiasm, before prancing back to his position in front of the target. He drew his bow, his posture only half correct, and held it there for a moment before he released his arrow.

It went wide, landing in the dirt off to the side of the target. Rickon, still on the saddle, laughed at his brother as he swung his legs back and forth. Bran let out a huff, spinning around to face Nadya.

“It wasn’t supposed to do that,” he complained.

“It’s alright, Bran,” Nadya assured him. “Ignore your little brother. It just takes a bit of practice. No one is a master when they first start. Focus on your target, and try again.”

Bran readied a second arrow, and when he let it fly, it went straight into the wood of one of the barrels stacked beside the target. He made a face, smacking his bow against the dirt as his shoulders sagged in defeat.

Nadya exchanged a look with Jon. He gave her a nod, understanding what it meant. Bran looked up to his older brothers, even his bastard one. If anyone’s words of assurance would matter, it was theirs.

Jon stepped towards Bran, putting his hands on his shoulders and leaning down to speak softly in his ear.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Father’s watching. And your mother.”

Following Jon’s gaze, Nadya turned her head up on the castle balcony overlooking the training yard to see Lord Eddard Stark and his wife, Lady Catelyn, smiling warmly with their eyes trained on their young son.

Bran nodded at them, then looked back at the target. He took a breath, then retrieved a third arrow and readied his bow.

This time, when he released it, the arrow went sailing over the wall behind the target, prompting laughter from his brothers. Nadya rolled her eyes at them, although even she couldn’t help but to crack a small smile.

“And which one of you aside from Nadya was a marksman at ten?” Ned called down to his sons. “Keep practicing, Bran.”

Bran looked up at his father hesitantly, as if unsure of himself.

“Go on,” Ned encouraged.

“Your father is right,” Nadya hummed, patting Bran on the shoulder. “You’ll get it in time, I promise. Now, show me your shooting stance.”

When Bran hesitated again, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and leaned down so that his eyes met Bran’s.

“Don’t think too much, Bran,” he said.

After a moment, Bran raised his bow towards the target again. His posture was tense, too much so to effectively hit the bullseye.

Nadya wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Relax your bow arm,” Robb advised, arms crossed over his chest as he watched.

Bran did as his brother told him, taking a breath and loosening his stance. His dark eyes were trained on the target, and he exhaled a breath through his nose.

Before he could take the shot, however, another arrow went sailing by, right past Nadya’s nose, and struck the target dead in the center.

Nadya spun on her heel to see where it had come from as Bran whipped his head around with a gasp, only to see Arya, the youngest Stark girl, standing with a bow in one hand and a big grin on her round face.

She curtsied as everyone’s eyes fell on her, looking incredibly proud of herself. Nadya grinned, clapping in approval.

“That’s my girl,” she said. “Way to show them how it’s done, Arya.”

“Thank you, Nadya,” Arya beamed. She had always admired Nadya’s own prowess with weaponry. Any compliment from her was taken in the highest regard.

With a huff, Bran tossed his bow aside and charged towards his sister, prompting her to drop the large bow and take off running in a mess of giggles. Bran chased after her, the laughter of everyone else following along behind him.

Face warm from her high spirits and a grin still spread wide on her lips, Nadya went to retrieve Arya’s bow, then Bran’s, before walking back to where the boys had begun to clean up the yard. Robb had gone to pull Arya’s arrow from the target, Rickon trotting after him, while Jon was collecting the remaining arrows and returning them to their bucket.

Nadya tried to catch his gaze as she set the bows on their perch, but his attention was focused on Lady Catelyn, who now stood alone on the balcony. She was staring down at Jon, her green eyes cold, and her thin lips drawn in a hard line.

Nadya had seen that look on her face many times before, and every time it made her blood boil. It was no secret that Catelyn despised Jon for being her husband’s bastard. She was no mother to him, had never wanted to be, and Nadya knew how much it hurt Jon to know that.

She took a step towards Jon, resting her hand on his back. He tore his gaze away from Catelyn to meet her eyes, so much softer than Lady Stark’s.

“Just ignore her,” she whispered. “It shouldn’t matter what she thinks of you.”

“You know I’d like to believe you, Nadya, but she’s the Lady of Winterfell,” Jon responded, looking down at the bucket and shoving another arrow into it. “It does matter.”

“Well, when I’m the Lady of Winterfell, it won’t,” Nadya said. “And you know I’ll keep that promise.”

Jon gave her a small, halfhearted smile. “I do,” he responded. “Just wish I didn’t have to wait that long to belong here.”

He stepped away from her, letting her hand slip from his body, and walked away, leaving Nadya on her own.

Her shoulders sank, and her fingers drifted to the ring on her pointer finger, a silver band with a little raven with diamond studded eyes in the center. She twisted it around absently, a self-soothing habit she had picked up over the years.

Nadya started when she felt someone touch her shoulder, and she twisted her head around to see that it was Robb.

“What is it?” she asked, letting her hands drop to her sides.

“I just spoke with my father,” Robb told her, lowering his hand down from her shoulder to take hers instead. “He said his men found a deserter from the Night’s Watch not far from here. He’s going to be executed, and Father wants his sons there to witness it.”

Nadya’s eyes widened in surprise. “Even Bran?” she asked.

Robb nodded solemnly. “My father said it was time,” he responded.

“But he’s still so young,” Nadya objected, worrying with her lower lip. “He’s not even Erwyn’s age.”

“I know, but it’s a Stark custom, love,” Robb pointed out, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “It is something every man in my house has to do. When we have sons they will do it too. Father thinks that Bran is ready.”

Nadya sighed, knowing it was an argument that she wasn’t going to win. “Then I suppose it is best that he does go along with you,” she admitted. “But I want to come too.”

Robb shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he said. “It is nothing for a lady like you to trouble yourself with.”

“Why not?” Nadya demanded. “If I am to be Lady of Winterfell someday, I should be able to watch an execution and take it as you men do. You know I am capable of it.”

“I do,” Robb relented. “And I suppose if you want it, I can convince Father to allow you to come with us.”

Nadya gave him a swift peck on the lips. “Thank you, my dear,” she hummed, patting him on the cheek. “I’ll go fetch my horse.”

Chapter Text

As he rode through the gates of Winterfell atop his dappled gray courser, a cold wind stirring his dark curls and billowing through his fur cloak, Victyr was filled with excitement.

He had not been to the Northern capital in nearly five years, and he had not seen his sister who resided there in two. In all that time, he had longed to return. This was a moment he had been waiting for a long while. 

He followed his father and brothers to the courtyard, bustling with the days’ activities, although room had been made for their arrival. Standing in the center of the courtyard was Lady Catelyn Stark, looking exactly as Victyr remembered her with her long Tully red hair, warm green eyes, and kind smile that reminded him of his very own mother.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my lords,” she greeted the Dormaires as they came to a halt in front of her. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Victyr’s father, Lord Edwyrd Dormaire, smiled at the lady. “Thank you, Lady Catelyn.”

He dismounted his horse, handing the reins off to a waiting stable boy, and began pulling off his gloves as he approached Catelyn.

”It is so good to see you again,” he continued, taking Catelyn’s offered hand to kiss it.

At the same time, Victyr took his father’s lead and slipped off his courser, giving the steed a pat on the neck before passing over her reins and heading towards his father. Beside him, his brothers Alistair and Erwyn did the same, leaving their mounts to be tended to in favor of the Lady of Winterfell.

”It is good to see you, too, Lord Edwyrd,” Catelyn said. Her gaze flickered to his sons, standing dutifully behind him. “And your boys, as well. My, look at how they’ve grown. How old are you now, Alistair?”

”Twenty,” Alistair responded with a grin. He stood a whole head taller than Victyr, a thick fur coat bundled over his broad shoulders and his dark hair, kept longer than most men, tied back behind his head by a silver band carved with small images of ravens.

”Twenty?” Catelyn echoed. “Last I saw you, you were still only a boy.”

”Aye, but manhood suits me well, doesn’t it?” Alistair teased.

Catelyn chuckled. “It does,” she said. “You certainly take after your father.” She looked to Victyr and Erwyn. “You all do.”

”Where is Ned?” Edwyrd asked Catelyn curiously, glancing around for his friend.

”He left half an hour ago. There was an urgent matter he had to attend to,” she responded, wringing her hands together as she spoke. Her smile faded into a thin-lipped frown. “A deserter from the Night’s Watch was found south of the Wall. The older boys went with him, and he decided it was time for Bran to come along too.”

Edwyrd nodded. “He is of age,” he remarked. He reached out a hand to rest on Catelyn’s shoulder. “Although I know it is not an easy thing to subject a child to.”

Catelyn sighed. “No, but it is your way,” she said.

“It will be good for him,” Edwyrd assured her.

Victyr had only been nine when he had first seen a man executed. It did not happen often in Raven’s Keep, but there had been a deserter then, too. His father had taken him and his brothers out to the coast where the deserter had been found. He could still remember the salt in the air and the crushing waves, breaking on rocks and roaring up the shore. He remembered the way the metal of his father’s sword sang as he drew it, and how it cut through the deserter’s neck like a knife through warm butter. The stones had been splattered with his blood, and the foamy surf was tinted pink as it had seeped down into the water. Victyr had forced himself to look until it made him sick, and Alistair had to stand with him, rubbing his back as he emptied his stomach into the sea.

It had been a hard lesson, but it was an important one. His father shared the same belief with Ned Stark that the man who passed the sentence had to swing the sword. Justice had to be served, no matter how difficult.

“Where is Nadya?” Edwyrd asked Catelyn, looking around the courtyard for any sign of his only daughter. “I would have thought she’d be here.”

“And I’m sure she would have, if she had not gone to witness the execution herself,” Catelyn responded wryly.

“Of course she did,” Victyr mused, unsurprised. Beside him, Alistair chuckled.

“Ah, yes, that’s my daughter,” Edwyrd hummed in amusement. “I wouldn’t have expected any less. I remember she used to beg to see them when she was younger. Marah always hated it when I allowed it.”

“I am sure any mother would feel the same,” Catelyn pointed out. “An execution is no place for a young lady.”

“I’m sure Nadya would say otherwise,” Edwyrd remarked with a chuckle.

“I’m sure she would,” Catelyn replied. “But I would not have my daughters raised that way.”

“As is your right,” Edwyrd said, nodding. “Speaking of your daughters, where are they? And little Rickon? I remember he was just a babe when I last saw him.”

“Ah, he's much more grown now. All of them are,” Catelyn responded with a smile. “I sent for them when you reached the gates. They were very excited to learn of your arrival.” She looked to Victyr and his brothers. “And I am sure that they will be very glad to see you all again.”

“There they are!” Erwyn exclaimed excitedly, pointing behind Catelyn at the castle entrance.

Arya Stark led the way, bounding across the courtyard with a big grin on her pudgy face, her braids swinging back and forth as she ran. Rickon chased after her, giggling wildly. His fair brown curls bounced with every step.

Following behind them, much more calmly, was their older sister, Sansa. Although she was just thirteen, only two years younger than Victyr, she was already almost at his height. Her long, fiery red hair hung gracefully down her shoulders, and she wore a pleasant, plump-lipped smile that lit up her soft blue eyes and pretty face.

Arya was the first to spot him, and her big dark eyes lit up with excitement.

“Victyr!” she squealed, before breaking into a sprint towards him.

“Arya!” Victyr exclaimed.

He stepped forward to meet her, catching her in his arms and lifting her off of her feet. He spun her around, the two of them laughing together, then set her back down on her feet.

Once her feet were touching the ground again, Arya embraced him fiercely, squeezing his ribs with all the strength she could muster at ten years old as she buried her face into his weather-worn tunic, inhaling the scent of horse, pine, and snowmelt that clung to him after days of travel.

“I missed you,” she said.

Victyr reached down to ruffle her hair affectionately. 

“I missed you too, Arya,” he said. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes, it has,” the familiar lilting voice of Sansa Stark chimed in, and Victyr turned to see the red-haired girl standing just a few steps away, Rickon clambering at her heels.

“Sansa,” Victyr breathed, letting go of Arya as he swiveled around on his feet to face her older sister.

Arya gave him a sly smile, before taking Rickon by the hand and tugging him after her towards Victyr’s brothers. Victyr felt his cheeks heat as he stared back at Sansa, and she offered her hand to him.

“My lady,” he said politely, accepting her hand and pressing a kiss to her soft skin, perfumed with a sweet rosy scent.

When he tilted his head to look back up at her, he found her already smiling down at him with pink-flushed cheeks. His lips spread wide in a smile of his own and he straightened to stand at eye level with her, which was easy since she was almost his height.

“It’s good to see you again, Victyr,” Sansa said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Victyr responded. He felt a flustered heat pulse beneath his skin.

He realized that he was still holding her hand, and he awkwardly let go.

“Oh, uh, apologies, my lady,” he said quickly.

“It’s alright,” Sansa assured him, her face growing rosier. “I don’t mind.”

They held each other’s gazes for a moment, though to Victyr it felt like more time than that had passed. It was easy to get lost in Sansa’s eyes. They were as clear and bright as the summer sky, and as stunning as the aquamarine gemstones his grandmother Maryana used to wear around her neck on a gaudy golden chain. He forgot himself completely when he looked into them.

“Victyr.”

The sound of Alistair’s voice, followed by his hand wrapping around his shoulder, quickly brought Victyr back to his senses. He tore his gaze away from Sansa, an embarrassed blush coloring his cheeks as he turned to his brother.

“What is it?” he asked.

A knowing smirk twitched across Alistair’s lips when he saw Victyr’s face, but all he said was, “Father wants our help unloading the cart.”

“The servants can do that for you,” Sansa offered.

“Aye, but that’d ruin the surprise,” Alistair said. He winked at her. “We come bearing gifts.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Gifts?” she echoed, looking between the two boys. “What kinds of gifts?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, my lady,” Alistair replied. He patted Victyr on the shoulder. “Come, brother.”

Dragging his boots through the crushed gravel beneath his feet, Victyr followed after his older brother to the oak wood cart that had been brought along with the Dormaire retinue. 

Inside were trunks filled with their clothes and personal items - sheep milk soaps, shaving razors, wooden combs, and alum. Also inside the cart were polished ironwood chests containing the gifts they had brought for the Starks. There were sealskins, various cheeses made from both sheep’s and cow’s milk, jars of pickled herring, three large bags of sea salt, and two precious bottles of icewine from their personal stores.

It took the better part of an hour to unload it all, and by the time they had finished, and Victyr’s body ached for rest, he could hear the sound of horse hooves thundering outside the gates. Ned Stark and his party had finally returned - and so had his sister.

Chapter Text

The executioner’s block was an aged piece of oak wood, set in a large stone cut to fit it. It had laid there so long that moss had grown between the rock and the wood, binding them together as one. Like flesh and sinew connecting the head to the body. How cruel of an irony.

In the center of the oak, a groove in the shape of a semi-circle had been carved, large enough for a man to comfortably rest his head and shoulders on. The groove’s bark was smooth, worn down from its many years of use, cradling the bodies of the criminals and deserters who were put to the sword in their last moments.

Ned Stark stood solemnly before the executioner’s block, his head bowed and his back to Nadya and his sons. 

With them was Theon Greyjoy, the Stark’s young ward taken after the failed Greyjoy Rebellion years before. He was the same age as Nadya and the eldest of the two Stark boys, though he thought himself far more mature than all of them put together. His sandy brown curls sat like a helmet on his long head, and his eyes were large and pale blue like an overcast sky. Nadya had thought him handsome once, but the feeling had soured like milk left out in the hot summer sun when his seed rotted in her belly and left her with nothing but a broken heart and a small grave in the godswood.

“Nadya?” Theon questioned when he caught sight of her standing between Jon and Robb. “What are you doing here? An execution is no place for a lady such as yourself.”

“Maybe not any other lady,” Robb remarked.

Nadya stuck up her chin, fixing Theon with a steely glare. “I assure you, I can handle it just as well as any man,” she said. “After all, I saw my first when I was only seven, and I could still stomach witnessing a man lose his head even then.”

“She’s got a point, you know,” Jon murmured.

“If I were you, Theon, I would be more worried about myself,” Nadya added.

Robb chuckled under his breath, while Jon cracked a small smile. Bran smothered a giggle with his glove. 

Theon bristled with indignance.

“Who let you come along anyway?” he huffed. He glanced at Robb. “Was it you?”

“I did,” Ned spoke up, quieting him. “Nadya is welcome to watch as much as any of you. Now that’s enough, all of you.”

“Apologies, my lord,” Theon said.

Nadya smirked at him triumphantly, but her grin quickly faded when the Night’s Watch deserter was brought forward by the Stark guards.

He was muttering under his breath, the words Nadya could hardly make out. 

“White walkers,” he muttered. “I saw the white walkers. White walkers. The white walkers, I saw them.”

He was leaner than she’d expected, all skin and bones beneath the layers of black clothing, and barely more than a boy. Youth still clung to the fat in his cheeks, and he was just beginning to sprout stubble on his upper lip and chin. His long and pale face, no doubt once soft and glowing, was dull and covered in blood and dirt. His blonde hair hung limply like dried straw.

However, it was his eyes that unnerved Nadya the most. They were as deep blue as glacial ice and almost seemed to glow against his bruised, grimy face. But there was no light in them. They were fearful and shadowed. Like he’d seen a ghost.

He took a few seconds to catch his breath before speaking to Ned.

“I know I broke my oath,” he said. “And I know I’m a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but… I saw what I saw. I saw the white walkers. People need to know.”

A soft frown creased Nadya’s lips. She had heard of white walkers before. Old Tom used to tell her about them when she misbehaved back at Raven’s Keep, and Old Nan would use them as bedtime stories, though those nights were almost always sleepless. 

They were only a tale meant to scare children, an ancient legend from beyond the Wall.

But the deserter believed they were real. 

Maybe he really had seen a ghost.

“If you can get word to my family… tell them I’m no coward,” the deserter pleaded. “Tell them I’m sorry.”

Poor boy, Nadya thought. Dying for nothing but a fairytale.

Her heart ached for him, but she showed none of her emotions on her face as Ned gave a solemn nod, and the deserter was shoved down to his knees and laid out over the executioner’s block.

The grass crunched behind Nadya as Jon stepped forward, closer to Bran and her. She glanced back at him, acknowledging his presence, before returning her attention to what was happening in front of her.

Theon held out the leather sheath bearing Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, to Ned. The Valyrian steel blade sang as it was drawn from its sheath, gleaming in the cloudy sunlight.

The deserter hung his head, accepting his fate.

“Forgive me, lord,” he said.

Ned stuck the point of his sword in the ground, bowing his head as he spoke his next words.

“In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the first of his name…”

“Don’t look away,” Jon whispered to Bran.

“…King of the Andals and the First Men…”

“Father will know if you do,” Jon added.

Nadya gave Bran’s shoulder a squeeze. “You can do this, Bran,” she said.

“So can you,” Bran whispered back.

“…Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” Ned continued. “I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

Ned took a step back, lifting Ice above his head. As he brought down the sword, Nadya did not flinch, but her hand instinctively reached for Jon’s. It slipped easily into his grasp, and he held it there at his side as the deserter’s head was severed from his body in one clean cut. The moment it was done, he let go.

“You did well,” Jon said to Bran, before moving off towards the horses. The boy had not let his gaze waver from the deserter for a moment, nor had he moved.

“You should be proud of yourself, Bran,” Nadya muttered. “I know your father will be.”

She pinched his cheek with affection, leaving behind a rosy red mark on his freckled face. He smiled at her, but only half-heartedly. She knew he was shaken by what he had seen, though he was trying hard not to show it.

Nadya pulled her cloak tighter over her shoulders, the sable fur soft and cool beneath her fingertips. As she did, her gaze drifted to the deserter’s head, laying in the grass beside his limp body. Coagulated blood clung to the tapered flesh of his gaping neck, as more of it pooled on the ground and stained the greenery red. His icy blue eyes were open, staring sightlessly ahead. His face was frozen in permanent fear.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she looked away.

“Nadya,” Robb spoke up, catching her attention as he approached her. He let his hand rest on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Nadya offered a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “I told you I could handle it.”

Robb smirked. “That you did,” he said. “And I never doubted you.”

“I know,” Nadya replied, her expression softening.

She glanced over at Bran, still staring silently ahead at the deserter’s body.

“Best get going then, shouldn’t we?” she asked, giving Robb a meaningful look. “There’s no reason to stay here any longer now that the deed is done.”

“Aye, you’re right,” Robb remarked.

He grabbed at the fur of Bran’s cloak at his breast. Gently, he turned the young boy around and guided him towards the horses, keeping his hand on his back as they walked.

Nadya followed after them, the dewy grass crunching beneath her boots. The Stark soldier standing ready with her chestnut palfrey stepped forward with the reins as she approached, and she accepted them.

She stroked the mare’s muzzle, and it leaned into her hand, its nose soft and wet.

“Sȳz anne,” she said in High Valyrian. Good horse.

Nadya had been learning the old tongue of the Targaryens who had once ruled Westeros since she was old enough to talk. It had been spoken by the Dormaires since the time of the children of their ancestor Kaleb and the Black Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen. It was as much the language of ravens as it was the dragons.

“Issa jēda naejot jikagon,” Nadya continued. It is time to go.

She slipped her foot into the stirrup and used her mare’s back for support as hoisted herself onto the saddle. Settling atop her mount, she glanced over at Bran, who stood beside her with his own horse, as his father came up beside him.

“You understand why I did it?” Ned asked him in a low voice.

“Jon said he was a deserter,” Bran answered.

“But do you understand why I had to kill him?” Ned pressed.

Bran turned to face him. “Our way is the old way?” he guessed.

Ned gave a small nod. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” he said.

It was a phrase Nadya had heard him use a hundred times over, and one her father would often quote too. It was a matter of honor, and the North was built on it.

“Is it true he saw the White Walkers?” Bran asked, his dark eyes wide and innocent.

Ned drew back, his posture straightening.

“The White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years,” he responded.

“So, he was lying?” Bran asked.

To Nadya’s surprise, Ned hesitated. He worked his jaw, considering his answer. The White Walkers were only a story, but they had been on a man’s dying breath too.

There was some merit in that, even Nadya could admit it.

“A madman sees what he sees,” Ned said finally.

Bran said nothing, his gaze dropping, and Ned did not look eager to continue the conversation further.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his fur cloak dancing in the cool wind.

The acrid smell of death hung in the forest air. It covered everything, even the earthy scent of frost-dampened moss and sharp, balsamic pine trees which towered overhead, in a sickly sweet cloak of rot.

Nadya felt a weed of nausea growing in her stomach, and it took everything in her to swallow it down. She covered her nose with her perfumed silk handkerchief, soaked in rosewater, but it did little to help.

“Seven Hells, what is that?” she gagged, pressing the rosy fabric to her nostrils.

“Looks like a stag," Robb responded, pointing up the road at the large animal lying in a sticky red pool, its tawny brown fur matted with blood and swarmed by ravenous flies.

“Smells like shit,” Theon commented, his nose scrunched in disgust.

“Poor thing,” Nadya murmured. “Look at all that blood.”

“Something must’ve gotten to it,” Jon observed.

Up ahead, Ned dismounted his horse, his eyes on the corpse. Nadya glanced at her companions.

“S’pose we should have a look for ourselves,” she said, before swinging her leg over and sliding out of the saddle.

Her boots crunched against the dead leaves scattered over the forest floor, and her mare gave a small whinny. She took one last whiff of rosewater before she shoved her handkerchief into the patterned gray pocket tied to her dress and cinched it closed.

With Jon and Theon, she came to stand with Ned, while Robb stayed behind with the horses.

“What is it?” Jon asked as they approached the mutilated stag.

Now that she was closer, Nadya could see that its insides had been viciously torn from its body, exposed flesh hanging loosely from its belly while its organs lay beside it in a foul-smelling, slimy heap crawling with maggots. Its tongue, purple and swollen, lolled out of its mouth. Carved into its skin were claw marks, deep and bloody, and a piece of one of its antlers was missing, the remaining stump caked in dried blood from whatever it had gored.

Nadya fought back the urge to gag, sour bile rising in her throat.

“Mountain lion?” Theon suggested.

“There are no mountain lions in these woods,” Ned answered grimly.

Surveying the soiled ground around the stag, Nadya noticed a trail of guts and torn sinew, pinky flesh and plump white fat, going off in the direction of the woods.

“Lord Stark,” she said, calling his attention to the discovery.

“Good eye,” he complimented. Had she not been so disturbed by what she was seeing, Nadya would’ve preened at his praise.

They followed the gruesome trail down the slope and into the forest, with the rest of the party trudging through the undergrowth after them.

Nadya led the way forward, keeping her grip firmly on the seal bone handle of the knife at her side, in case of any lurking predators.

Up ahead, she could hear the babbling of running water, and the tangy smell of blood grew stronger as she grew closer to the river.

Laying at the water’s edge was a massive she-wolf, her flesh torn and her thick, silvery fur slick with blood. Her throat had been pierced by the stag’s broken antler, still lodged deep into her neck.

Nadya reached out and touched the tip of the antler, sharp as a dagger’s point. She grimaced at the thought of the velvety bone plunged through delicate skin and the pain the direwolf must’ve felt.

She wasn’t sure who she pitied more, the prey or the predator.

But neither the giant wolf nor the antler through her neck was the most surprising part of the discovery.

Gathered at their mother’s belly were a litter of mewling pups, desperately pawing at her tits for milk that wouldn’t come, save for a few precious drops.

Nadya’s heart ached for the small, fuzzy creatures, orphaned and innocent. She knelt down beside them, not caring if the she-wolf’s blood stained her dress, and gently held out her hand for the pups to sniff.

“Careful,” Jon muttered as he crouched next to her. Bran huddled at his side, looking eagerly over his shoulder at the little wolves.

“Oh, come now, they’re just babies,” Nadya responded. “They’re not going to hurt me. Their teeth could hardly break skin.”

One of the pups trundled over to her, shoving its wet little nose into her palm to smell. She couldn’t help but crack a small smile at the adorable creature. She bundled it into her arms, stroking its soft fur as it nestled into her chest.

“It’s a freak,” Theon said.

“It’s a direwolf,” Ned responded solemnly. He exchanged a glance with Ser Rodrik, then grasped into the antler. “Tough old beast.”

He tore the antler from the direwolf’s throat, revealing its bloodied point. Scarlet droplets oozed onto the dirt.

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb pointed out, blue eyes wide.

“Now there are five,” Jon responded.

He picked up one of the pups and stood, prompting Nadya and Bran to do the same. Nadya kept the wolf pressed to her chest, and it rested its small head on her shoulder. Its milky breath was hot against her ear.

Meanwhile, Jon held out his pup to Bran.

“You want to hold it?” he asked.

Without waiting for his brother to answer, he passed the pup over to him, and the boy wrapped the little wolf in the warmth of his wool cloak.

“Where will they go?” Bran asked. “Their mother’s dead…”

“They don’t belong down here,” Rodrik remarked.

“Why not?” Nadya demanded, holding the pup closer to her chest. “They’re just the same as the other wolves that roam these woods, only bigger.”

“Too dangerous,” Rodrik responded, shaking his head.

“Better a quick death,” Ned said, getting back up to his feet. He drew his sword, the steel singing against its sheath. “They won’t last without their mother.”

Theon was all too eager to spring into action, drawing his dagger and sliding down the hill towards Bran. 

“Right, give it here,” he ordered Bran, reaching for the wolf pup in his arms.

“No!” Bran protested. 

The little pup let out an alarmed squeal as Theon took hold of it by its scruff.

“Theon!” Nadya exclaimed with alarm.

“Put away your blade,” Robb commanded sternly.

“I take orders from your father, not you,” Theon shot back.

“Please, father,” Bran begged.

“I’m sorry, Bran,” Ned replied solemnly.

“Lord Stark…” Jon spoke up. “There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children.”

It didn’t escape Nadya’s notice that Jon hadn’t included himself among Ned’s children. A small frown graced her lips.

“The direwolf is the sigil of your House,” Jon continued. “They were meant to have them.”

“Jon’s right,” Nadya piped up. “It must be a blessing from the gods.”

A pregnant pause hung in the air. Nadya exchanged an unsure glance with Robb as Ned considered. The only sound was the rush of river water running over stones.

Finally, Ned exhaled a relenting breath.

“You will train them yourselves,” he said. “You will feed them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

He sheathed his sword and started back to the horses, leaving Nadya and the boys to collect the rest of the young direwolves.

“What about you?” Bran asked Jon, as Robb and Theon went about grabbing the pups.

“I’m not a Stark,” he responded. He motioned for Bran to follow their father. “Get on.”

“That’s a load of horse shit, you know,” Nadya remarked as Bran walked away, looking at Jon. “You may carry the name Snow, but your blood is a direwolf’s too.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Nadya,” Jon muttered, sweeping past her as he made his way up the hill behind Robb and Theon.

“Why not?” she demanded, stroking her direwolf’s fur as she went after him.

He stopped and turned to answer her but was interrupted by a quiet whimpering sound coming from beside one of the trees near the she-wolf’s corpse. Jon knelt down again in search of the source of the noise, pushing aside dirt and fallen leaves.

“What is it?” Robb asked. He was carrying two of the pups, small enough to fit easily in the palms of his hands.

Jon stood again, and in his grasp was another direwolf pup. This one was different from the others, with fur as white as snow and eyes as red as blood.

“Runt of the litter,” Theon mused with a smirk. “That one’s yours, Snow.”

Jon glared at him wordlessly.

“Shut up, Theon,” Nadya chided. “He’s just as much of a Stark as Robb and the rest of them. You’re only jealous that you aren’t.”

She stepped up towards him. Theon stared at her incredulously.

“There’s no wolf for you, Prince of Salt and Rock,” Nadya said quietly. “What a shame.”

Theon gaped at her in disbelief. She felt a twinge of satisfaction. Now it was her turn to smirk.

“Now, we really should get going,” she said. She glanced back at the brooding boy behind her. “Right, Jon?”

“Aye,” he agreed, meeting her gaze with eyes as dark as Bran’s but far warmer.

For the first time all day, he smiled.