AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chapter 7 is here boys. We've landed in Winterfell and all that entails. I'm curious what you guys think about the developments, the characters and the way the story is going! I tried to weave the chapters between the action at Winterfell according to the books. The Feast scene was really fun to write, as a different POV to Jon's in the book. Also, laying down some breadcrumbs for way down the road.
As always, I appreciate any comments and criticism regarding writing. This is my second fanfic and I aim to improve!
"Some men flee dark tidings. Others ride out to meet them."
On the Kingsroad, The North, 298 AC
I could feel my gauntlets creaking softly on the reins every time Invincible tossed his head.
It was the cold, I thought.
The boiled leather had gone hard from it. Every time I shifted my grip a dry sound came from them. Invincible was tossing his head under me, steam blowing out from his nostrils and misting the morning air. I put my hand on his neck and felt the heat and strength, the thick white mane damp in places at the roots where the frost had melted then refrosted again.
I thought then of how much the road had changed after we had left the Crossroads Inn and the Trident.
The land had begun changing at the Neck. There had been stories in the camp about lizard-lions in marshes, great long beasts with jaws full of broken stakes for teeth. Monsters that could snatch a man from the edge of the water and drag him under so fast there was scarcely any time to shout. The tales had sounded too outlandish to be true.
Looking over the land, I had started believing them to at least be partially true.
At first came the bogs. The water was black and murky and still between the reeds. Trees rose thin and crooked from the ground. Here and there I had seen shapes in the mist that looked like stumps, or men, or something in between. The air smelled of wet earth, rot and standing water.
The horses hated it. They rolled their eyes more and snorted at things no one could see.
I remember at some point the procession had been halted in that accursed land.
Word had come down the line that riders were approaching. Some men had reached for swords at once, while others had turned in their saddles to stare. I had seen them a moment later coming through the reeds in a small pocket, quiet as the bog itself.
Crannogmen, Tyrion had whispered.
They looked the part. Smaller men than most, lean and reed-slim beneath damp cloaks of mottled green and brown. They wore no bright colors, no fine steel.
Their leader came at the front.
He was a small, spare man, wearing a mud-colored cloak. His face was lined by weather and age, though I could not exactly tell it. His eyes were grey, I remember thinking.
He had asked for the king and been brought forward through the line after some delay.
"Your name?" King Robert had barked when he was near enough.
The man had bowed his head, before taking us all in. "Howland Reed, Your Grace," he had replied. "Lord of Greywater Watch. I come to welcome you through the Neck."
The King had recognised the name. "Reed," he had answered. "Aye. Well then. A wet welcome, my good man, but welcome enough. You've a grim little kingdom here."
That had won some grim laughs. Howland Reed simply remained motionless.
"It serves," he said.
He had spoken a little more with the King after that, trading pleasantries in a way I knew Robert had no patience for. What remained with me was not the talk, but the watching. The whole while, the lord of the crannogmen kept his eyes on me. At the end, when another man took up the speaking for him, Reed said nothing at all. He only watched me from a distance. Longer, I thought, than he had watched the King.
Once they were gone, Tyrion had come to me and joked. "You seem to have admirers as far north as the Neck, cousin. A most romantic development. Be careful, or some bog-lord's daughter may drag you into the marsh."
I had only laughed at the joke. But the gaze had lingered in my mind.
North of the Neck was no better, but in a different way.
The land opened up in a way that made it seem endless. The sheer size of it was astounding, as was its emptiness. The further we rode, the less villages we encountered, fields thinning out. There had been stretches of road that ran for miles with nothing on them.
It had started getting colder and colder, until the ground had gone white in the morning.
Snow. Light forsaken snow. The entire scene had brought back memories that I had long forgotten.
Northrend.
We had made harbor at Daggercap Bay. The water was cold and blue-grey under a hard wind. Cliffs rose above the shore with pine tree clinging to them, and a waterfall came down from some great height.
I leapt from the boat and slogged onto the shore.
A captain came up beside me, shivering and clapping his hands together.
"This is a Light-forsaken land, isn't it?" he had said. "You can barely even see the sun. This howling wind cuts to the bone and you're not even shaking."
I remember looking at him then and realizing he was right. I felt the cold. Felt it knifing into me. But I did not tremble.
"Milord, are you all right?" he had asked.
No. I had not been alright.
But there are things best left buried.
So I had turned my mind back to practical matters. The long stretches of this northern land and the threat we faced from the true north of this world.
If it would manifest anything like the Scourge I had been familiar with, then this kingdom would be both blessing and burden. There were fewer people here. Fewer villages. Less flesh for the plague and death to swell into an army. That was helpful. But there were also fewer hands to hold walls, man keeps and patrol roads.
How do you prepare a place like this? I wondered.
The answer that came to me was not one I particularly liked. It would be necessary to improve the entire north with roads, stores, timber, garrisons, watches, signal fires and more. Shifting commerce and tariffs to the land, to improve its taxation and its incomes. Make it prosperous, so more people would be brought North. More people who could be levied when the time came. The work itself would be staggering and long. It would take years. Decades, perhaps. The sort of work nobody ever attempted until the enemy was already at the gates.
But that was for later, I mused. The visions I had received always presented a man in his middle ages. That meant I still had time.
"Fucking hells," Tyrek groaned from nearby. "I cannot feel my hands. Or my face."
I snorted, turning around and looking at him. He was standing in his saddle, wearing thick fur and sporting the reddest nose and ears I had ever seen on him.
"Beware, cousin," I drawled. "If you're not careful, you might lose that pretty nose and ears by the time we get to Winterfell."
He looked at me with a shocked expression. "I can save the ears, I think. The nose…" He touched it through his glove and hissed. "Seven hells, I might lose it."
"You'll survive," I laughed.
"That's easy for you to say, cousin," he replied, drawing his furs tighter. "You look harf-northern already, with that build of yours. Now, you just need a beard."
"A beard would improve him," came Tyrion's voice from behind us. "At present, he looks like some old god carved a very large maiden and then forgot the tits."
Tyrek barked a laugh through chattering teeth. My cousin pulled up beside us, buried in his furs, that the only thing you could see was his crooked smile and little eyes.
"You're in a good mood," I said.
"I am cold," Tyrion corrected me with a grin. "Cold men are seldom in a good mood. They are merely sharper in their wit."
"That explains much," Tyrek muttered.
A song came from behind us then, deeper in the line. It drifted over the road, over the groan of wheels, the jangle of harnesses, and the curses of men. Whoever was singing had no need to strain for it. The sound just carried.
Tyrion laughed. "There's our songbird. The gods are kind. I had feared the cold might kill him before he had invented three more lies about the Wall."
I turned and looked back over my shoulder.
He was riding a little way behind us, among the wagons and freeriders on that plain little horse of his, patched brown cloak stirring in the wind. He wore the cold too well for a man who only claimed himself a bard. He had come in with the road-folk after we had passed the Neck with a lute, a quick smile, and the sort of face men easily forgot.
But he earned his keep. The man had a talent at spinning tales and singing songs. Most nights he gave the audience what it wanted: kings, battles, maidens and old songs. Then, when he had their attention, he would turn north. Tales about villages beyond the Gift. Lakes that took horses when the ice went under them. Woods where fires died all at once and men swore something dark was waiting in the woods.
"You know, I might commission a piece about the Dawnhammer from him," said Tyrion, interrupting my thoughts.
I grimaced. "Come now, cousin. Must you always seek to embarrass me so?"
He laughed and tried waving his little hand, but the furs were encasing him so he nearly fell off the horse. "Gods damn these furs," he said. "They're too tight."
A bellow from further up ahead interrupted our exchange.
"There!," King Robert boomed. "At bloody last."
Tyrek nearly fell out of the saddle turning around. "Gods, let that be the castle."
Tyrion sighed. "Open your eyes, cousin."
Winterfell stood ahead of us in the distance with smoke rising from within its walls. Its towers were squat and thick, with walls older than some kingdoms. There was no flourish to it, no unnecessary aplomb. It looked like it was built to endure weather, war and anything the world might throw at it.
Robert laughed again.
"If Ned has any love left in him," he roared. "He'll have hot meat, hotter wine and a fire big enough to roast an aurochs."
The Castle Yard, Winterfell, The North, 298 AC
"Your Grace." said Lord Eddard Stark. "Winterfell is yours."
I watched the yard explode into motion at those words. People started dismounting, handing reins over to grooms. Guardsmen and escorts began shouting orders to the wagons, packhorses and trunks.
The wheelhouse was too large to enter freely and had to be placed besides the entrance as if it were a mere fair contraption and not an abomination of excess, all oiled oak and gilded metal and heavy wheels.
That meant the Queen had to sully her feet with the mud of Winterfell, I thought.
I watched as she entered with her children in tow, looking regal and beautiful in her furs, but having her usual expression of barely visible contempt. She walked up to where Lord Stark and Robert were speaking and I saw Lord Stark kneel in the snow to kiss the queen's ring. King Robert had embraced Lady Catelyn as a man greets his kin. Then the children of both families were brought forward and introduced. I saw one of the Stark girls, the eldest by appearance, as she curtsied with practiced grace. Another son, the eldest, I figured, sporting a broad build and curly brown hair, stood straight-backed alongside the others, and nodded towards Joffrey. In a surprising display of restraint, I saw Joffrey smile at him and nod back. Tommen, standing near Joffrey, was fidgeting as a boy placed in front of many people does. Myrcella smiled sweetly. A smaller Stark boy was staring at the entire scene as if he didn't wish to ever forget it.
I saw the Queen's eyes move over the yard while all of this was happening, bright and sharp as knives. When they passed over me, Tyrek and Tyrion, her mouth tightened in a familiar way. I merely looked on, but Tyrek stiffened and dipped his head to her.
I turned towards him and raised an eyebrow, but he ignored me and continued looking at the Queen.
As soon as the formalities were ended I saw Robert turn towards Lord Stark and take him by the shoulder.
"Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects." the King said.
I saw the Queen's gaze sharpen at once. "We have ridden for days in cold enough to shame the Wall," she said. "The children are tired, Robert. Surely your respects can wait until after we are warmed."
The Kind's face twisted and darkened. He only looked at her, but I could see a vein bulging on his forehead. Even the King knew how improper it would be to have a repeat of the Crossroads Inn in front of Lord Stark and his entire castle.
Jaime, ever the observing brother, stepped closer to Cersei, took her by the arm and whispered something to her. She said nothing else and let Jaime turn her away with Tommen and Myrcella in tow.
I saw the King's face return to its normal shade of red, before he turned to Lord Stark and bid him forward. The contrast between the two men could not be any more obvious, I thought. While the King was large, loud and rich in colour, Lord Stark was colder, harder, almost worn thin by comparison, but the man had a sort of grave certainty the king no longer possessed. One man belonged to halls and feasts and victories already won. The other belonged to stone and duty and old weather.
The Light had blessed me another time. The Warden of the North looked like a man carved from ice, with a backbone stiff enough to shatter into a thousand pieces before it bent.
"Well, boys," Tyrion said, interrupting my thoughts. "since you are both still squires and therefore only one rung above useful, be good lads and see the horses stabled. Mine as well, if your love for me is equal to your duty. I have a powerful need for wine and a warm chair, and I mean to court both.
Tyrek gave him a stricken look. "You cannot mean to leave us here alone."
"My sweet cousin," said Tyrion "I can do almost anything when sufficiently motivated."
"By wine," I said, laughing.
"And heat," he agreed. "Do not neglect the heat. The north is an abomination."
Tyrek watched him go and muttered something under his breath. I turned towards him and looked until he did the same.
"Your interaction with the Queen in the yard earlier was odd to say the least," I said, looking him over. "I've never seen you be so deferential in such a situation before. Do you want to share anything?"
He shrugged. "The Queen has been giving me errands to run since we've left the Crossroads."
"Errands? On the road?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, cousin," he said, rolling his eyes. "You're not the only one to gain the eye of a royal."
I merely looked at him but said nothing else. There was no point insisting now.
"Fine," I sighed. "Keep your secrets. Let's go stable the horses."
As we began to break out of the press I looked back once more and saw the Stark children standing in a small circle near the side of the yard with some wolves nearby. We had heard stories and songs on the road about direwolves, but I had never expected to find some stabled in the castle.
Tyrek followed my gaze and shook his head. "I thought the bard was raving when he told us about that. They're larger than I expected. He said they were only a couple of weeks old."
I smiled. "Everything in the north is larger, cousin."
"Seven hells, the pale one has red eyes," he said, with a small gasp.
I saw what he meant. The white wolf stood by a dark-haired boy, gloomy and still among the confusion of the yard, standing separate from the other children. The boy had one hand sunk into the fur at its neck as if it were a dog.
He must have been Lord Stark's bastard, Jon Snow. That meant the larger boy was Robb and the smaller one was Bran.
"I see it," I said. "Beautiful beasts. I wonder how large they will grow."
"Big enough to take a man's hand at the shoulder, I wager," said Tyrek.
I looked a moment longer and then turned around, leading the horses out of the thickest of the yard and moved towards the stables. A couple of stableboys hurried past us with blankets over their arms. I pulled Tyrek towards me when a man carrying tack nearly collided with him and cursed as though I was sitting at the tavern entrance with a wench in hand.
I apologised for Tyrek and moved on, but not before I noticed three men in black standing near the far side of the yard, apart from the rest. They had hard faces, like worn leather, with black cloaks and a grim demeanour. One of them was speaking low with a Winterfell guardsman.
"Crows," Tyrek said.
"Aye," I replied. "I wonder what they're doing here."
"I've seen them in King's Landing before, you know?" he replied. "I once saw them take the dregs and rapists from the Cells down towards the Gate of the Gods."
"I saw them as well. But that was one man with recruits," I replied. "I've never seen so many at once."
Tyrek shrugged.
"Must be because we're closer to the Wall," he said. "You think we'll get to see it?"
I laughed and started moving again. "Now, that would be a sight, cousin," I replied. "Only if there's ale or women, or both, waiting for the King."
Tyrek laughed as well, but he understood the odds were slim at best if that were the case.
The stables were filled to the brim with horses and people running around. The inside smelled of dung, leather, sweat and grain. I looked around while people were moving around us, until a small stable hand noticed us from across the stables and motioned me with his hand.
I motioned back, but before I could start moving properly a voice interrupted us. "You're not built like most Lannister boys I've seen," it said.
I turned around and saw a broad-shouldered, bearded man, with a weathered face that looked carved from stone. He was wearing Stark colours under a thick cloak and had a sword at the hip. He looked at the horses first, then at Tyrek and finally at me.
"I'm Jory Cassel," he said. "Captain here. Lord Stark's man. You the young lion from the prince's nameday tourney?"
I groaned internally, while Tyrek sniggered nearby. "Yes, that would be me. Arthas Lannister." I replied, before smiling. "The King's man."
Jory gave me a low grunt that sounded like approval. "Aye. I heard of that. Heard you were quick. Hadn't heard you were this big." His eyes went once more over my shoulders and arms. "Give you some years and meat enough and you might be as large as the Greatjon. God help whatever poor bastard stands opposite you if you keep the same sword-arm."
I merely inclined my head and smiled, but Jory continued. "King's man, eh? That's where the beast came from?"
He came closer and took Invincible's reins while one the stableboys came with a brush and blanket. "Proper beast, this one. White and strong." he laughed. "Like the winter. I suppose landing the Bronze Yohn on his back will afford that to a man."
He patted the horse once more, before the stable boys came and took them away. I glanced back towards the yard and then to Jory. "Those men in black," I said. "The Watch?"
Jory' expression shifted a little, before he shrugged.
"Aye. A few black brothers who came down with Lord Benjen," he said. "Been here some days now. They didn't come for the feast."
Tyrek looked towards him and asked. "What then?"
Jory shrugged again, though I knew he was about to share only a small part of it. "Dark tidings, I've heard. Stirrings beyond the Wall. The sort of thing that sends men farther south than they'd like."
I grimaced but said nothing. A thought came to me, then.
"Do you have a sept here?" I asked, taking Jory by surprise. I could see it on his expression.
"A sept?" he repeated.
"Yes. For prayer." I answered.
He scrubbed his beard with his glove and nodded. "Aye. A small one, though. Lord Stark had it built for his lady. Septon Chayle keeps it. Across the keep yard, near the bridgeway."
I thanked him and turned to Tyrek. "Let's go back to the yard, then."
"If you go wandering alone, you may find yourself in the wrong hall and freeze there before someone points you the right way. I'll walk you back." Jory said.
"That is much appreciated," I said, tilting my head.
When we came back into the keep yard, the Stark children were there again, easier to see now that the crush had broken. The wolves moved among them with a loose, uncanny ease. One grey beast nosed at one of Bran's hands. The white one stood by Jon Snow, as before. Another brushed past the hem of Sansa's gown and won no fear from her, only a hand dropped careful and gentle to its fur.
Tyrek stared. "They really do keep them loose."
Jory followed his gaze. "Wouldn't you, if you'd found them the way they did?"
"How was that?" I asked.
He gave us the tale in the way of a man who had already done it a thousand times already. The Stark's had come across a dead direwolf in the snow, with antlers through its throat. They had found the pups beside it. Lord Stark's intentions were to put them all to the sword, but the boys had argued in favour of keeping them alive. Six wolves for six children, one pup for each child. Including the bastard.
"A sign, some said," Jory finished.
"And do you say so as well?" I asked, turning towards him.
He looked at the children a moment, before turning towards me and answering. "I say the old gods and the new waste little time consulting me."
I snorted and turned around.
One of the young men near the Stark children turned his head then and caught us watching. He was lean, handsome and dark-haired, with a narrow smile that screamed of mockery. Theon Greyjoy, I guessed. The Ward. He looked us over while a sneer began to form on his face.
He would get on very well with Joffrey, I thought at once.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the Prince appeared a moment later from the far side of the yard, Sandor Clegane in tow. Joffrey went straight toward the Stark children with his usual bravado and pomp, swaggering like some tourney knight fresh after victory.
We were standing too far away to hear the exchange, but I was certain the Prince would display his usual affinity for diplomacy. When a few mouths turned upward and Robb smiled politely, I was amazed by Joffre's restraint. I had come to expect something much different from him, and found that I was disappointed now that I was robbed of it.
"Looks like the Prince is making new friends," I said.
Tyrek laughed beside me.
Jory watched them a moment longer before responding. "It's no bad thing," Jory said. "The king and Lord Stark were thick as boys. Best the children find the same road, if they can."
I looked at Joffrey and the Stark children a moment longer.
"Indeed." I nodded, pensively.
The Feast Hall, Winterfell, The North, 298 AC
The warmth of the Hall is infuriating, I thought, stretching my collar a bit.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with hazy smoke, clinging to the rafters in a blue-grey haze. The great hearths were roaring heat in front of long tables that ran the length of the room, already crowded with men, cups, trenchers, serving girls and hounds nosing under the benches for scraps. Stark banners hung between the torches. The King's crowned stag was flying beside them, as well as the lion of my own house. I could hear a singer playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but the press of noises, from the plates and cups and the murmurs of everyone in the room, made it impossible to hear.
I was seated on the royal side of the hall, not far enough to be forgotten, but not high enough to ever mistake my place. Robert had given me that much. Favour, and the burden that had come with it.
Tyrek was seated farther back with some of the younger household men and guards, already looking warmer and drunker than they'd ever been since we crossed the Neck.
Looking across the room, I saw the Stark bastard being seated much lower than the rest of the Stark brood would sit. He was set down among the younger squires and freer company, where the dogs freely moved and men drank earlier than they should. His pale wolf lay under the bench with its red eyes open. When it noticed me looking, it perked its ears up. The boy had been drinking ever since I had entered the Hall, draining cup after cup of summer wine. It was a wonder the boy had not vomited yet, I thought.
The noise in the hall shifted then. I saw men rising, pushing their benches back with a scraping sound, all heads turning towards the door.
The royal procession came in.
Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a child of three could muster. Behind him came Robb Stark with Princess Myrcella on his arm, the girl all golden curls and shy looks. Arya Stark escorted Tommen, who looked plump and well-meaning. Then came Sansa with Joffrey. She was looking radiant as a young lady, while Joffrey was pouting and sneering in his own bored, disdainful way. I knew the rest of the Hall would not miss that. I also knew he did not care.
Jaime came after, weaning crimson silk, high black boots and a black satin cloak. He moved through the room with his own personal brand of swagger, drawing looks and whispers of Kingslayer. Tyrion waddled beside him, short and squat where Jaime was perfect, but still somehow more interesting for it. Benjen Stark entered later dressed in black, along with Theon Greyjoy. Theon ignored the bastard completely. Benjen did not. He gave the boy a warm smile as he passed.
Once everyone had been seated, came a round of toasts and thanks, after which the feasting began in earnest.
I watched King Robert wage war on the dishes being brought on, guzzling drink like a parched man in the desert. He was ravenous and boisterous and loud. His meaty hands were waving around, while he bellowed a laugh every time he said something that even resembled amusement. Lord Stark on the other hand was more subdued, listening to the King and nodding along, but never laughing as openly as him.
By the time they brought out the second course, I heard Robert bellow.
"You there," he called, pointing his cup at me while sloshing wine across the table. "Arthas."
I could feel half the room turn and look at me.
I rose to my feet and inclined my head. "Your Grace."
He grinned. "Stark," he said, turning towards Ned Stark with his cup still pointing at me, "you've not had a proper look at this one yet. Boy's got iron in his back and a sword-arm worth the keeping. Won me a fine bit of entertainment at the prince's nameday, didn't you, lad?"
I could hear a murmur moving along the tables nearest to us. Robb Stark's gaze came my way. So did Benjen's. Jaime merely smiled and lifted his cup towards me in a mocking way.
"His Grace is generous," I said.
Robert barked a laugh, before slamming the table with his cup. "Generous? I'm being truthful, boy. It's a rarer thing," He looked back to Lord Stark and continued, "Quick too. Quick and hard in the yard."
Joffrey stiffened where he sat.
On the other side, I could see Cersei's mouth turn into a line. Her nostrils flared for one moment, before her gaze turned bored. Across the table, I could see Lord Stark had seen that. He merely looked on.
But the King was not done. By the Light, if I didn't know better, I would have thought he was trying to bury me on purpose.
"I've half a mind to keep him by me till he's fully grown," he went on. "Good to have one young man near who doesn't wilt at cold or training. Gods knows I've little enough of that elsewhere."
Joffrey's face reddened at once.
The King had not named him, but for any man with his wits about him, it was clear as day who he was referring to. Half the men at the nearby tables started smiling and a few even laughed. Cersei went still with rage. Jaime lowered his eyes to the wine. I could see Tyrion, from farther down, grinning into his cup and lifting it in a mocking way.
A cough returned my wandering gaze to the high table and I could see Lord Stark watching me, measuring me.
"Bah! You'll see him in the yard soon enough." he said, waving a meaty hand in my direction. "I expect you to show these northern bastards the measure of your Lannister spine tomorrow, boy! Don't disappoint me. Now fuck off. I see the Imp bidding you like a southron devil with a bargain."
With that, I had been dismissed.
I left my seat and headed down the hall where Tyrion was sat. He saw me coming and shifted enough to make space on the bench beside him.
"There you are," he said, grinning. "I was beginning to fear the king meant to adopt you before the fish course."
"Shut up," I replied. "He's painting a target on my back. The Queen will soon have my head if he doesn't stop."
He clapped me on the arm with his small hand. "A valuable education, then," he said. "Most boys need years at court to learn who hates them. You may have the whole list by dessert."
I sighed and pulled my gaze from him.
Looking over the hall again, my eyes landed back on the bastard. His wolf was squaring off with another dog over a scrap of chicken that Jon had given it. The bitch growled and approached the small wolf, but the beast held its ground. I watched the dog give another growl, before thinking better and slinking away.
I snorted, which made Tyrion follow my gaze.
"Ah," he said, forking a piece of meat and stuffing his tiny mouth. "The bastard. Is that really a direwolf? I've heard some stories before coming to the Hall."
"Aye," I replied. "You would've heard it from the captain of the castle himself if you wouldn't have slunk away in the yard."
"Cousin," he replied. "I did not slink away. I withdrew with intelligence and purpose, which is what smaller men call it when they prefer wine to labor."
I laughed and clapped his back, before turning my gaze towards the room.
"The Captain said they found the mother gored by a stag, along with six little pups." I continued. "Six, Tyrion. Same number as the Stark children."
"Including the bastard?" he asked.
"Including the bastard," I answered. "They called it a sign of the old gods. The wolf of the starks coming alive from their banners."
"And yet there he sits at the far end," said Tyrion. "A direwolf may be taken for a sign, but a bastard remains a bastard. The gods are given more courtesy than the living."
"I noticed other things while you were gone as well," I said.
"Oh?" he said. "Then don't keep a secret now that you've dangled it before me. I dislike being made to beg, especially by kin."
"There's men from the Watch down here. I've seen three of them lounging in the yard, earlier." I continued. "And before you say it, no, it's not only an escort for Benjen Stark. They say there's dire tidings from beyond the Wall."
"Dire tidings?," he said, raising an eyebrow that twisted his face. "There's always dire tidings from the Wall, Arthas. The whole organization is rotten from the core now. Once, they might have been the vanguard against the mythical Others, but now they're nothing more than the dregs of the entire Kingdoms. We send all the rapists, scum and thieves over there."
"I know that," I said, grinding my teeth.
"Come now," he said, "You want me to believe some fairy-tale about the Others coming down to assault the Wall? You haven't even told me what those dire tidings are, but I can already picture it. Grumpkins and snarks, Arthas. There's no magic in this world save the one between a woman's legs."
"Insightful as always, cousin," I snorted, before shifting my gaze around the room
Across, I could see Jon Stark at his table being approached by Benjen Stark. His smile seemed earnest and the two started a conversation, before Benjen pointed at Jon's cup of wine. It looked like Benjen had noticed the boy draining wine like a punctured barrel.
"You think that mummer is singing in this hall?" Tyrion's voice interrupted me.
"Abel?" I asked.
"That's his name?" he asked, laughing. "I never did quite catch what it was."
"He didn't say it," I replied. "I approached him a night before we got to Winterfell. I was curious about his tales about the North."
"Cousin," he said, clapping my back with his small hand. "I didn't take you for a boy interested in mummery."
I shrugged. "The man has a way about him. I don't think he's a charlatan."
"Alright, and assuming I trust your judgement of character, what did this Abel figure tell you about the North."
"Dire tidings," I answered, grimly.
Tyrion burst out laughing. "Cousin, you do have comedic timing, I must say," he said,.
Across the room, I could see Jon stiffen after a heated exchange with Benjen. The discussion seemed to have turned sour.
"Oh," said Tyrion, following my gaze. "That looks interesting."
"Interesting, indeed." I said, starting to rise. "I think he'll be running outside after that. Look at him tensing."
Jon stood up , said something then turned around. Benjen's hand went towards his shoulder, but I saw him twist and walk away. He fled towards the outer entrance looking like a boy who had been stung in front of too many eyes.
We came out of the Hall and the first thing I noticed was the cold. Behind us the noise of the banquet went on, muffled. Ahead, in the dark yard, Jon Snow stood with his white wolf. His back was turned towards us.
Tyrion saw him and looked towards me, bringing a finger to his lips.
I raised an eyebrow at him, but he merely grinned, climbing up the wall until he got on the ledge above the door, looking like a small gargoyle.
"Boy," he said, and I wondered how he managed to keep a straight face."Is that animal a wolf?"
Jon Snow turned around to face us and I could see both of his eyebrows had shot up. "A direwolf." he said. "His name is Ghost."
I saw him take in Tyrion, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. "What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast?"
Then his eyes turned to me and his gaze turned sharper. I saw the thought go through him plain as daylight. Lannister. Another Lannister.
Tyrion responded before anything else could be said. "Too hot, too noisy, and I've drunk too much wine." he said, before gesturing towards me. "I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your cousin. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?"
I saw him hesitate for a second, before drawing himself up and nodding slowly. "Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?"
I laughed, unable to contain myself. Jon looked at me with wide eyes, before narrowing them.
"Oh, bleed that," said Tyrion, before jumping off the ledge, in a display of acrobatics that bellied his small body and short limbs, and landing on his small hands, before steadying himself back on his legs.
I continued laughing until I could feel tears forming my eyes.
"Come now, cousin," said Tyrion, gesturing at me. "You're embarrassing me in front of the young wolf,"
"Excuse me, cousin," I said, getting my measure back. "I have never seen such a spry display from you. It has taken me entirely by surprise."
Ghost backed away from us, looking uncertain from all the noise, eyes darting from me to Tyrion.
"And I believe it might have scared the wolf, as well." I continued.
"He's not scared," said Jon, looking towards Ghost. He went to a knee and held out his hand. "Ghost, come here. Come on. That's it."
The wolf came to him at once, it's fur pale white in the torchlight spilling from the hall behind us. Jon laid a hand on the beast's neck and looked up at us from where he crouched.
Moving closer, with the anger of the feast not so hot in him, I could see he looked younger than he had in the hall. Younger, and more alone.
I could see Tyrion marvelling at the wolf.
"He's finer up close," I said.
Jon's hand stayed on its neck. "Aye," he said, and he sounded proud to me. "He is."
"In any case," Tyrion said. "My name is Tyrion Lannister. And this big blonde giant is Arthas Lannister, my cousin."
"I know who you are," he said, gesturing at Tyrion. "But I didn't know him." he continued, gesturing at me.
"You're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?" said Tyrion, grinning.
I could see Jon's face darken at that. The term looked as though it flayed the boy alive.
Before he could say anything, I heard Tyrion continue. "I hope I did not offend you. Dwarfs or rather gnomes as my dear cousin would like to say, don't have to be tactful."
"Lord Eddarst Stark is my father," Jon admitted stiffly.
"That is plain to see," Tyrion said, studying Jon's face. "You have more of the north in you than your brothers, wouldn't you agree, cousin?"
"That he does, cousin," I replied, looking Jon over. The boy had a steadiness to him, a gravity of personality that reminded me of someone else. A memory stirred in my mind.
Varian.
I had first seen him in Lordaeron after Stormwind fell.
Father brought him to the guest chambers and named him to me as Prince Varian Wrynn, future king of Stormwind. I bowed and welcomed him. He returned the courtesy properly enough.
He was pale and exhausted.
His clothes had once been fine. I could still see that. Runecloth. Mageweave. Good work, made for a prince. But the road had beaten them down into something else. They were filthy, wrinkled, half-ruined by travel. There was dirt still at his temples, and beneath his nails.
"I'm sorry about your father," I had said.
"Thank you," he had replied, in a stiff voice, gaze looking out toward the snow falling outside.
"I'm sure your father died fighting nobly," I continued. "He was…"
"No," he said. "He was betrayed. A dagger to the heart, from a trusted friend."
His face scarcely changed when he said it.
Only his eyes gave him away.
"...and now you have a direwolf, as well." said Tyrion, filling in the silence brought on by the memory.
"I saw the others in the yard," I said, shaking my head slightly and nodding towards the wolf. "But not like this."
At that, Jon looked at me again, as if he was looking for an insult and was surprised to find none.
"They were found with the mother," he said. "All six."
"So we've heard," said Tyrion, still petting the wolf. "One for each of Lord Stark's children."
Jon's mouth shifted a little at hearing that.
"And one for the bastard," he said.
Tyrion snorted softly. "And still they sat you down at the far end of the hall. Such is the courtesy of great houses. They'll take a direwolf for a sign and still make certain the boy holding its leash knows where he belongs."
Jon's face hardened, though it was not as sharp as before. "Lady Stark does not care for my presence."
"No," Tyrion laughed. "That much even I managed to gather, and I am very much drunk."
I thought about my own situation then and the way it echoed young Jon's here.
"At court, they don't always cut you outright," I said. "Sometimes they only show you your place and wait to see if you're fool enough to keep it."
Jon looked at me, suspicion and curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"You speak as if you know it," he said.
"I know noble houses," I answered, smiling. "And the Game. That is educated enough to form an opinion."
Tyrion glanced sideways at me with a raised eyebrow, before he folded his hands into his sleeves and looked at Jon.
"Never forget what you are, Snow." he said. "The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
Jon looked down at Ghost, then back to Tyrion, his face drawn tight in anger. "And what the hells do you know about being a bastard?"
Tyrion smiled without any joy, and shot me a small look.
"All gnomes are bastards in their father's eyes," he replied.
The Yard, Winterfell, The North, 298 AC
"...think I can beat him," said Tyrek, interrupting my thoughts. "I can surely beat him."
I turned to him and clapped him on the back. "If you're so certain, call him out, cousin. Don't just dream about it."
He was referring, of course, to Theon Greyjoy. The boy had been a nuisance since we arrived, showing a particular taste for needling Tyrek with sneers, jests, and petty cruelties.
The Salt Joffrey, was the name me and Tyrion had given him.
"He's seven years older than me," he said pausing for a second. "You do it."
I snorted and continued derisively. "Shut up, cousin, and let us finish watching this royal bout."
With that I turned around.
Winterfell's yard was wider and rougher than most I had known down south. There were no painted rails, no bright tilt barriers, no neat little islands of practice laid out for noble boys to impress watching fathers. Winterfell had timber posts, battered weapon racks, old quintains, and practice circles marked by churned earth. Men-at-arms crossed through it on errands while others drilled. Horses were led past within sight of the ring. The whole place smelled of leather, dung, wet wool, and worked steel.
In the middle of the yard, I could see the Hound snarling at Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-arms, while Robb and Joffrey were posturing nearby.
"...killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword." growled the Hound.
I could see Robb bristling at the remark, before he turned to Ser Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."
"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," replied Ser Rodrik.
On the other side of him, Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not too old." I heard laughter from our bannerman beside me.
My eyebrows shot up when I heard Robb cursing. The entire yard on the Stark side looked mortified by it, as if that was never a common occurrence in the yard.
I could see the cunt feigning a yawn and turning towards his younger brother. "Come, Tommen," he drawled. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics."
That brought even more laughter from around me and more curses from Robb. I could see Ser Rodrik's face go red beneath his whiskers. The image would have amused Tyrion.
In the end, the Prince slunk away like he always did, thinking he had scraped some measure of glory, but instead managing to stain himself more.
On the other end of the yard, Theon Greyjoy was looking Tyrek over like a butcher measuring where to stick the knife. Our eyes met, and I grinned savagely at him. I saw his eyes open for a moment, before he narrowed them.
"Come, cousin," I said, rising to my full height. "I think it's time you owe me a favor."
Tyrek followed my gaze and grinned. "You're finally going to show him the measure of a Lion?"
"Aye," I said, walking towards the weapons rack. "I intend for him to learn the lesson the hard way. The Light knows we've tried talking to him."
I picked up a blunted greatsword, similar in size to the one I wielded back in King's Landing, and gave it a few testing slashes. I could feel its balance was solid, the blade whistling through the air when I cut.
On the other side, I could see Theon had noticed what I was doing and had walked towards a rack himself. He wore dark riding leathers over mail, with a plain grey cloak thrown back from one shoulder. He looked lean and quick and very pleased with himself.
I walked up to Ser Rodrik Cassel and waited until he turned around to me.
"Good day, Ser," I said, before bowing slightly. "My name is Arthas Lannister, son of Kevan Lannister and cousin to the Queen. I hope the earlier display did not lessen the graces of the Starks towards the Lannisters. I wish to use the yard for training and a challenge, if it would be allowed."
Ser Rodrik studied me for a second before replying. "Of course, the yard is always open for young warriors in training." He thought for a moment, while stroking his whiskers. "And who might you challenge?"
I grinned, turning around to see Theon Greyjoy approaching. "I mean to challenge the Greyjoy lad, good Ser."
I could see Ser Rodrik nodding thoughtfully at that. After a moment, a smile formed on his face before it disappeared.
"How old are you?" he asked, looking me over.
"I am five and ten, Ser," I replied, drawing myself to my full height.
I could see his eyes widen. "Five and ten, boy? By the old Gods, you'll be as big as the Greatjon when you're older. Fine, boy. Show him your measure. The rules are the same in all the yards, so I trust you know them."
"Aye, Ser," I replied, turning towards Theon again. "No knives, no striking a man when down and no crippling."
"Theon's nine and then," I heard Robb saying from nearby.
"And it still won't be fair," Tyrek answered from behind, sniggering. "Arthas tests his arm against two knights at once. You'll see," he said, leaning towards Robb.
I could see Robb looking at me with narrowed eyes. To my right, Ser Rodrik Cassel grunted, no doubt discounting the tale as a boast, before nodding towards someone on the other side of the yard.
Following his gaze, I saw Jory Cassel standing in the crowd, on the Stark side. When he noticed my gaze, he nodded towards me. I inclined my head back at him.
Farther into the Lannister lines, I could hear people betting on the upcoming fight.
"He's fifteen."
"And? He put the Bronze Yohn on his back."
"That's tavern talk."
"It's not tavern talk, you blind sod. I was there."
"I'll take the kraken boy for three silvers."
"Done. And I thank you for the gift."
"Look at the bastard's size. Gods, he's half horse."
"Five coppers says the kraken comes in quick and gets cracked for it."
"You lot are mad. He's still a boy."
"Not if you've seen him work."
Theon came in earshot then.
"So," he said, sneering. "The Lion finally grows some balls, eh?"
I snorted, but before I could answer Ser Rodrik cut in.
"Enough mummery, Greyjoy. If you mean to challenge him, do so." he said, face serious. "Don't talk him to sleep first."
Theon stiffened at that.
It occurred to me then that Theon might have a reputation similar to Joffrey, only without the station. And the same sort of courage, the kind that showed best in japes and sneers and crumbled when forced to prove itself in the yard.
"Come, Greyjoy," I said, taking my sword in a two-handed grip, playing into his mockery. "Hear. Me. Roar."
I heard Tyrek burst out laughing behind me.
Theon did not catch it, or was too angry to care. He raised sword and shield and came into the ring with his face already tight.
Ser Rodrik stepped back. "Begin."
Greyjoy was quicker than most would have guessed. He came in behind the shield with a fast cut to test my hands, then another higher, trying to force me to move before I had the measure of him. It was not a bad opening. He had been taught well enough.
On the third strike he committed too much and I sidestepped, hooking his leg.
He went sprawling face-first.
The entire yard started laughing.
I could hear his breath sawing, before his head popped up. His gaze looked murderous.
"You cunt," he said, pushing himself up, a foot kicking out and slipping on a stone. "I'll gut you like a fish."
"Come try me, squid," I said. "I trust your second blow will land better."
His face twisted in rage and he charged me again.
He came at me, trusting in momentum and his shield to land a hit. I sidestepped again and brought my sword in a tight arc to the back of his legs. He went down to his knees, before he came back up snarling.
He tried to thrust once, twice and on the third I guided his strike around me, before lashing out my leg onto his exposed back. The kick sent him sprawling again, this time landing even harder. I could hear the sound of broken teeth and cartilage on the floor.
On the far side, I saw Ser Rodrik Cassel tense. The last fall didn't sound good, I admitted.
Theon turned over slowly, blood already running from his nose and mouth. He touched his face, saw the red on his glove, and stared at me in disbelief.
"Y-you fucking," he began, looking at me incredulously. "I'm the heir of Pyke. And you did this to me?"
"The boy did little enough," Jory Cassel said from the side of the yard. "Your temper did most of the work. He only helped it along. By the old gods, Greyjoy, has my father taught you nothing?"
That broke the ring open. The Stark side laughed first, and a good part of the Lannister one with them.
"Fuck you, Lannister," Theon said, getting up to his feet. "The Kraken does not forget."
I laughed in his face. "Run along, Kraken."
I had had my fill of vain, pompous idiots.
"I trust you won't be bothering me and my cousin again." I said, waving him off.
His face was locked in a scowl as he walked away.
I noticed Jory Cassel and Ser Rodrik Cassel, alongside Robb and Bran moving towards me, but I turned my gaze towards Tyrek towards the Lannister line.
He looked happier than I had ever seen him since we started the road to Winterfell. I winked at him and he smiled, pumping his fist up.
When Jory and the rest came into earshot, I turned towards them.
"Aye," he said. "The king did not lie."
"The Greyjoy lad had it coming," said Ser Rodrik, smiling. "I'm glad I was there to see it done."
"Theon talks too much," Robb said. "But he's not all bad."
"Aye, lad. He's not so bad with you," said Jory. "But he's not as polite with the rest of us."
"In any case, congratulations on the bout," said Robb, "I don't think we've met. I'm Robb. Robb Stark."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Robb Stark," I said, inclining my head. "I am called Arthas Lannister."
"Is it true you challenged and defeated the Bronze Yohn in the melee at the nameday Tourney?" asked Robb, looking at me with wide expectant eyes.
"Aye," I said, and began to tell it. By the time I had reached the thick of the melee, half the yard seemed to have drifted closer.
Across the yard I caught sight of Jon coming over with Arya and Sansa, the wolves padding with them.
When I finished the story, Jon looked at me with a wide expression.
"I wouldn't have believed a boy of five and ten could take the Bronze Yohn down" he said, tilting his head. "Had I not seen you in the yard, earlier."
"Kind words," I said, inclining my head. "Though the kraken proved less fearsome than the songs."
That got another round of laughter.
"Why are you so big?" came a sharp voice, from closer to the ground. I followed the sound and my eyes landed on Arya Stark. She was small and skinny, with a serious face. "You're a southerner. You don't grow so big."
I laughed. "I'm a westerman. And there's always big people somewhere." I said. "Just look at our King. He's as big as a bear, and he's from the proper south."
"That doesn't count," she said. "He fostered in the Eyrie."
Everyone laughed at that, while Arya looked around scowling.
"Forgive my sister," said Sansa from beside her, all courtesy and careful grace. "She has no manners. What is your name, Ser?"
Her auburn hair was brushed smooth and was falling bright about her shoulders. She looked completely out of place in the yard, with all the mud and wolves. I glanced down and saw the hem of her dress soaking up the brown sludge, staining the white.
"His name is Arthas, sister," said Robb, grinning. "He's the king's squire, the queen's cousin, and dangerous besides."
I could see Sansa blushing, but before she could say anything, Robb interrupted her.
"Might we spar with you?" asked Robb, glancing towards Jon and Ser Rodrik Cassel, who merely raised an eyebrow. "It would do us good to fight someone closer to our age," he continued quickly.
Ser Rodrik snorted, while Jory laughed.
"Lads," said Jory. "I was going to ask the man for a spar with myself and the household knights."
I shrugged, interrupting. "It would be my honor to spar with you both, Robb and Jon," I said, inclining my head to both and noticing Jon standing a bit taller. "I am a gentle teacher. My cousin will swear to it, if pressed hard enough."
They all followed my gaze towards Tyrek, who had gotten closer to the group.
He shrugged, ears reddening.
Ser Rodrik Cassel's whiskers twitched, before he looked at the sky.
"There'll be no more sparring today, not if we want to do it by torchlight.", he said, looking at everyone. "As for you, Lannister. You've made quite the impression today. I expect you to grace the yard daily, now that we've taken your measure."
I smiled and shrugged. "I've enough fight for anyone that wants to try me,"
Jory Cassel clapped my back and laughed at that.
"That's the sort of talk that fills a practice ring," Jory said. "See you've the breath to match it tomorrow."
Sept of the Seven, Winterfell, The North, 298 AC
Walking towards the Sept of the Seven in Winterfell, my mind drifted to the past few days.
Word had spread fast about my exploits in the yard. By supper the same day I had heard three different versions of the fight with Greyjoy, each one making me larger, faster and crueler than I had truly been. The next morning I had found Jory Cassel waiting for me in the yard. Around him were knights of various ages, looking expectantly at me.
"Well?" he had said. "You did launch the challenge."
I had grinned and in the end had emerged victorious each time. To my quiet satisfaction, I had found that the northerners did indeed have some mettle in them. They were not all broad backs and solemn faces. Some of them moved well. A few thought while they fought. Jory Cassel had proved one of the better of them and certainly the most easy in company. We had crossed blades twice already and spoken often enough.
I liked the man. There was honesty in him and the sort of practical humour that made him easier to trust than most knights I had known.
Robb and Jon had taken to finding me in the mornings and asking for me in the yard. The other children had watched as well. Bran sitting by the sides or in his armor, cheering his brothers. Arya asked more questions than either of her brothers and looked at the blades the way some girls looked at necklaces. Sansa did not come often and kept to the edges when she came, but she was always courteous and shy.
Even Lord Stark had watched once or twice, his face grave and body still beneath his furs, while the King roared from the gallery, red-faced and delighted to see boys fighting in the yard. The King made no secret of his pleasure in me there. Lord Stark never said anything and merely watched me.
My duties lessened. If the King was not spending his time sharing tales with Lord Stark, he was calling for a hunt with him. I had been excused from my duties, along with Tyrek, Lord Stark having assumed the necessary courtesies. It had struck me as odd that the only people going on those hunts had been the stark men alongside brothers of the Watch and Benjen.
At night, I had noticed the three of them retiring to the solar. Every day, the next morning, their faces were grim. Whatever tidings Benjen had brought from the north, they seemed dire indeed.
Tyrion had noticed the attention I had received and made fun of me.
He had taken to spending most of his time in the library, emerging stiff and red-eyed each day. I had joined him a few times perusing some tomes on the Old Night and the Wall. I still wondered if we might have a chance to see it.
Even Joffrey had been subdued. He had spent most of his time apart from the yard, haunting the castle alongside Sandor Clegane, no doubt intimidating some servants. The Queen had taken residence in the keep, making great use of the hot baths. I had seen her wander around with Jaime in tow, laughing, looking younger and less like a viper. One might even appreciate their brotherly bond, if one did not know better.
This morning, after a long bout with one of the household knights and a shorter, sharper one with Jory, I had left the yard with my mind on the North. The Darkness beyond the Wall. The black brothers in the yard. Benjen Stark's sour face. The singer's tales.
So I went in search of the sept. I hoped a smaller place of consecration might prove more pure than the abomination of excess in King's Landing.
The sept itself was a small building. Small enough to have been built for one woman and her gods. The stone inside was plain and well-kept. I could smell incense burning. The walls were lined with small chandeliers that held small candles.
More candles burned before the altar and before the carved faces of the Seven, their flames steady in the air. The room had none of Baelor's grandeur or any of its vanity. It was humbler. Quieter. And more honest.
A man in grey and white robes was already there, tending the candles. He turned around when I entered, looking surprised for a moment. Septon Chayle.
"My lord," he said, and I heard surprise in his voice. "You are welcome."
"Septon," I said, bowing my head.
His eyes moved over me quickly. He took in my clothing, my colouring and my clasp. "You are of the king's party. Lannister."
"I am", I replied, inclining my head. "Have my looks given me away?"
That drew a small smile from him. "Winterfell's sept sees fewer lions than wolves."
"Then I am glad to improve its variety," I replied, shrugging. "I came to pray."
He looked surprised at my words. "The gods receive all who come before them, my lord. If you have need of prayer, the sept is yours."
He withdrew after that. I went forward and knelt before the altar.
The stone was cold against my knee.
For a moment I only breathed and looked at the seven faces in the candlelight.
Seven forms. Seven names. The Seven who were One.
What if it was the Light? One Light. Seven mercies. Seven masks. One fire seen through crystal and taken for many flames.
It would not have been the first time men had diluted truth in order to grasp it.
Had they diminished their creed by doing so? Or preserved it? I could not tell.
Still, if this faith had once held some cleaner understanding at its core, it might yet be drawn back toward it.
Reformed. Clarified. Turned again toward the source instead of the reflections.
The trouble would be achieving that reformation. What I had seen of the Faith's leading men in King's Landing had disgusted me. Soft-handed creatures, jealous of place and ceremony, too fat on their own importance to welcome any cleansing truth. No. The change would have to begin below them and rise like floodwater.
Among the lower masses first. Among soldiers, village septs, pious knights, poor mothers, frightened men, and all the others. Only once enough of them carried the truth in their mouths would the men above be forced to bend, or be swept aside.
I lowered my head, turning my thoughts inward.
It was there. The Light.
I could feel it humming faintly in the background when I focused. But it was muted. Strained. As if a veil was covering it. I had felt it more keenly in the yard. Combat stirred it better than prayer. And even that was a facsimile of the older blessings.
The other disciplines were more than muted. Healing did not come as it once had. Grace did not flood through my hands. Resurrection was impossible.
Why was that?
Men spoke of magic in this world. Of dead magic. Lost magic. The only part of it remained as bones exposed in grand rooms or kept in basements to the South, along with Walls that kept out savages to the North.
If magic was truly gone, there was at least one mercy to it.
Darkness would in turn be diminished.
If the Holy Light came in whispers, perhaps the enemy waited beyond the Wall in whispers as well. Perhaps the long dying of wonder had blunted both edges of the blade.
I folded my hands.
By the Holy Light,
grant me strength to face what comes,
courage to strike when I must,
and the will to endure what lesser men cannot.
Let my hand bring justice,
and let my heart not fail before the end.
A stirring came from behind me, interrupting my prayer.
"I had not expected to find company," a voice said from behind me.
I turned around and found Lady Catelyn Stark standing in the doorway of the sept. Her expression was composed, though surprise was still etched on her features. She wore dark wool and good fur, her auburn hair bound tightly back. There was no softness to her now.
For a moment, I glanced around looking for Septon Chayle. He had made himself scarce. Or he had called on the Lady of the Castle.
Lady Catelyn's eyes had not left me.
"Nor I, my Lady," I replied, rising. "Though I begin to suspect my house has earned itself a singular reputation if a Lannister at prayer comes as such a surprise."
"I had not thought it impossible," she replied, carefully. "Only uncommon."
"Then I am glad to have broadened Winterfell's view of our family in this respect."
She continued looking at me.
"I have heard rather a lot of you these last few days, Ser," she said at last.
"The King has not yet seen fit to name me a Knight, my Lady," I said, inclining my head. "I am merely a squire. Still, I hope not all that you heard has been too absurd."
"A great deal of it sounded absurd," she replied. "That does not mean it was false."
The Lady bites, I thought. Suddenly Jon's sullen expression came to my face.
"I fear the yard might be overzealous in their retellings." I said, shrugging.
"No, I don't think that's it." she continued. "My sons seem taken with you."
"They are good lads," I said. "Quick to learn. Your eldest has a sound arm, and young Bran is going to come around as well. Jon Snow sees more than he says. Arya better questions than some grown men."
Her face twitched at the mention of Jon.
"And Sansa?" she asked.
The question surprised me so much it almost showed.
"She is courteous," I said carefully. "And very much a lady. She will be the prize of any man who weds her."
"That she is", said Catelyn.
A long silence stretched between us. I could hear the wax melting and the wind howling outside. At last, Lady Catelyn focused her gaze on me again.
"I am still surprised to find you here."
I looked back at the altar with the Seven.
"Why?" I asked. "Because every man of a House must be cut from the same cloth?"
Her lips pursed.
"Not every man," she said carefully. "But I have lived long enough to know that great houses teach their children certain habits well. Prayer is not the first thing your house is known for."
"That is fair," I said. "Though a poor thing to inherit, if true."
I looked again at the altar, at the seven faces set in stillness above the candles.
"I was taught to believe in the Light," I said. "Not as men here speak of the Seven, and not as the old gods are kept in the north, but as something higher and cleaner. One sacred fire. One source from which comes all grace, justice, mercy, and judgment. "
Lady Catelyn was silent, a pensive expression colouring her features.
"You speak of the Seven-who-are-One." she replied.
I sighed, turning around. "I suppose I am, my Lady."
Her eyes rested on me a heartbeat longer. "You are young to speak so."
"I have found youth does not spare a man grave thoughts." I said, turning around to her, smiling.
That seemed to please her.
At length she inclined her head. "It is well to find courtesy where one had not much expected it, Ser."
I bowed.
"My lady."
Lord Stark's Solar, Winterfell, The North, 298 AC
"... in the seven hells is the Imp?!" King Robert roared, interrupting my thoughts.
I was sitting a couple feet away from the King, when he smashed his goblet down so hard it spilled wine all over the oak table.
As if summoned, the door opened and Tyrion waddled in, wearing a crimson tunic with belted dagger.
"You're late," ground out Robert, pointing a meaty finger at Tyrion.
"I was indisposed, Your Grace," Tyrion replied smoothly. "Briefly, but importantly."
Robert narrowed his eyes at that. Then he barked a laugh.
"Gods, man, every time you say that I expect either a whore or a chamber pot to be behind it."
Tyrion gave him a little bow. "Your Grace credits me too much."
That won another laugh from Robert. He waved his hand as if tabling the entire matter.
"As I was saying to young Arthas here, we're going on a journey." He leaned back in Ned Stark's chair, girth overflowing. "I know you've both had a taste to see the wall, so here I am, a generous king, granting gifts to my kin and squires like the Father himself come down with a wine cup in hand."
Tyrion seemed unsure and shot me a look. I merely nodded and smiled, which made him grin.
"Your Grace is most generous tonight." he said, bowing. "Though I expect the Queen to protest to another war waged without her consent."
"Bah!," he said, waving a meaty hand around as if ignoring the entire Inn incident. "We ride lean. No damned wheelhouse, no singers, no peacocks, no half the court trailing after me like fleas on a boar."
He tried to drink from his cup and found it empty.
"Arthas, boy," he said, gesturing towards me. "Be a good lad and fetch me some wine."
I grabbed the pitcher and went to refill his goblet.
"What was I saying. Ah," he said, shifting his bulk around the chair. "We ride with steel. Dangerous road, you said. Tell them."
He was pointing a meaty finger towards the hearth.
I followed it and found Lord Eddard alongside Lord Benjen by the hearth. Lord Stark was resting a hand on the mantel. He looked tired in the candle light.
"The road beyond Winterfell is no Kingsroad pleasure," he said. "The weather worsens…"
"The wine, boy!" bellowed Robert. "Gods,man, if I catch you doing this when live steel is drawn, I'll bash your skull in myself. NOW MOVE!"
I hurried to the table and poured the King his wine. "You're lucky you have that sword arm, lad," I heard him grumble, smile tugging at his lips. "You're a piss-poor servant."
I heard Tyrion laugh in his cup. Benjen cracked a small smile, while Lord Stark had a stony face.
"As I was saying, there are long stretches of wood where a man can be lost in winter and be found in spring. We've had more raiders and thieves these past few years than the last decades combined." he ground out. "And not only brigands. The wildlings come around the Wall in greater numbers. Small bands, scouts, raiders. More movement than there ought to be. And more coming south with strange tales in their mouths."
Robert snorted at that. "Strange tales. Aye. I've heard enough of those these past nights to sour a whole cellar. Tell them the shape of it, man," he said, waving his hand around.
Benjen's face remained impassive when talking. "There is strife beyond the Wall. Unrest. Fear…"
Uther's arm was like a band of iron around my midsection. Fear bubbled up inside me but I pushed it down. "I know how to ride," I said, petulance covering up my worry. "Tell me what is going on."
"A rider from Southshore has arrived. He brings ill news. A few days ago, hundreds of refugee boats from Stormwind landed on our shores" Uther said, gripping me tightly.
"What? Stormwind? How?"
"We'll find all that out shortly…"
Benjen's voice brought me back."... than the usual sort. We've been finding empty villages. Strange reports from beyond the Thenn valleys. Wildling fleeing south instead of raiding. Some speak of dead things in the woods in the far north." he paused, mouth turning into a line. "There is enough to begin suspecting, at least."
I saw Tyrion grinning. I knew what he was thinking.
"So," he said, "we ride to the edge of the world because frightened savages have started seeing grumkins and snarks in the snow."
Robert swung the goblet toward him at once, spilling the earlier wine I had poured. "We ride because I'm sick of hearing of it secondhand, that's why. If there's rot in my north, I'll look at it myself."
He turned to me then. "You're coming, boy."
I inclined my head. "Gladly, Your Grace."
"Aye, I thought you might." Robert said pointing his goblet at me. "Tyrek's going to stay here and guard the queen, Seven help him. Him and the Kingslayer."
He slapped his hand on the table and laughed at that, before turning back to me. "And keep your steel close when we ride out, man. If there's fighting to be had I want to see you caving skulls, lad. Show me your mettle when steel's out for true." He said, grabbing my arm and squeezing, my bones creaking under his grip.
Tyrion coughed from his seat. "Is fighting truly so likely?"
Ned answered before the King. "It is possible."
Benjen also nodded. "More than possible. The Gift and the woods are choking with wildlings."
Tyrion sighed. "Well. I should hate to miss the Wall from so near a vantage."
That won a grin from the King.
"Gods, man, I knew there was something I liked about you." the King said.
"There are several such things, Your Grace. They are merely arranged lower than your eye naturally falls." he replied.
Robert laughed hard enough to cough.
The chair legs scraped harsh across the stone. He planted one hand on the table and lifted the goblet in the other, before taking a long drink.
"I've always wanted to see the end of the world," he said at last, bringing the goblet down.