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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Prologue

True Mates

Jon POV

Jon awoke restless on his thirteenth name day. He would present today. He would officially be an omega. Everyone was born alpha, beta, or omega, but it wasn’t until your thirteenth name day that your second gender instincts started to truly show. When you were truly on your way to becoming a man or woman grown.

Robb had presented just four moons prier, and had already started to take on the duties and expectations as Triath Stark. Assissting Athair and Stiùbhard Poole in the running of the North. Jon was sure he would have to act like a proper omega now. He would no longer be allowed to train in the use of a sword. Jon remembers that Baintighearna Catelyn had thrown a fit when his father had first allowed him to train—she already had to put up with the bastard’s presence in her home and he wouldn’t even act like a proper omega? Not even in the North were ladies trained in swordsmanship. She would bring this up often, trying to get Tighearna Stark to change his mind, stating that it was setting a bad example for the girls. And Jon couldn’t help but think that today would be the day that his father agreed with her. He had always disagreed with her before, but now? Jon wasn’t positive in his answer.

So, with a heavy heart Jon rose, dressed, and made his way down to the Great Hall to break his fast. As he walked towards the high table, where his family sat, Jon couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as his siblings turned to give him a cheerful greeting.

“Happy Name Day, Jon!” They exclaimed.

Jon turned to each of them in turn to thank them silently, until his eyes met Robb’s. Jon froze, his body tingling with feelings of love and purpose, of home. He opened his mouth to say something, Jon didn’t even know. But all that came out was a strangled gasp. Robb was his—

“Mate.” And suddenly Robb stood before him, his blue eyes swimming with lust and possessiveness.  Before Jon could think to do anything, Robb took him by the back of the neck and pulled him into a passionate kiss. Jon instantly kissed back, the action feeling natural as the two explored each other’s mouths.

Finally coming up for air, the two boys became aware of the chaos around them.

“—ill not have that bastard muddy our son’s name, Ned!” Baintghearna Catelyn screeched.

“Calm, Cat,” Tighearna Stark said. “They are True Mates. Robb’s name is fine. I know you don’t believe in such things my lady, but this is the North. We believe True Mates are destined by the Gods, the mating will be accepted.”

Baintghearna Stark huffed and walked briskly out of the hall, her husband following after her. With the lord and lady gone, the younger Stark siblings surrounded their eldest brothers to give their congratulations.

Amidst Sansa’s squeals of excitement, Arya’s declarations of violence against anyone who would try to break them apart, Bran’s questions about True Mates, and Rickon’s giggles, Jon and Robb looked upon each other in pure love.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1:

The Northern Wolves

Robb POV

Robb can barely hold back his chuckle as Bran misses the bullseye again. Causing Jon to give him a pointed look over Bran’s shoulder. They had been helping Bran with his archery for about an hour, and the poor boy hasn’t made a bullseye yet.

“Come on, Bran. You can do it!” Sansa calls from her place next to Rickon, atop the courtyard fence. Arya was around here somewhere too, but she had been slinking in and out of the shadows since they began and Robb had given up trying to keep track of her. Jon, he was sure, knew where she was hiding. He never missed anything, as observant as he was.

“Go on. Athair’s watching,” Jon says, patting Bran on the shoulder. They all turn then, and sure enough Athair and Mother stand on the balcony above them, smiling proudly down at their children. “And your mother.”

Bran nods in determination and fires one more. This time the arrow completely misses the target and lands in one of the trees at the edge of the courtyard. Not even Jon can stop his laughter at their brother’s failure now.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” Athair’s voice cuts through their laughter like ice, and Robb may be Traith of House Stark but it still chills him as if he were a young pup. “Keep practicing, Bran,” Athair says, “Go on.”

“Don’t think too much, Bran,” Jon tells him.

Bran pulls the arrow back. “Relax your bow arm,” Robb instructs him. And suddenly an arrow soars straight into the middle of the bullseye. They all turn in surprise, because it wasn’t Bran’s arrow that had found its target. In front of the armory stands Arya, bow in hand, and she curtsies when she sees they are all looking at her. And just like that, Bran takes off, chasing after a giggling Arya as she runs towards the godswood.

“Quick, Bran!” Jon calls after him.

“Faster!” Robb shouts.

They laugh for a few minutes until, suddenly, Jon sombers. He nudges Robb in the arm and gestures towards the balcony. Robb glances up confused and suddenly understands. Up on the balcony where his parents had been watching them, they are now turned away having a conversation with Winterfell’s master-at-arms, Ridire Rodrik Cassel, and their father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy. And a serious one by the looks of things.

“Alright, that’s enough for today.”

“Yes Traith,” Sansa says dutifully as she helps Rickon down from their perch. And Robb knows she’s disappointed. She had hoped to work on her own archery today.

“Sansa,” Jon says getting her attention, “will you go fetch Bran and Arya and make sure they put away their bows?”

“Of course, Baintraith,” Sansa beams before running off to find her siblings.

“Come on, Cuilean,” Robb says to Rickon. “You can run the arrows back to Jon as I gather them.”

Rickon cheers at being able to help.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

“But who is it? What did they do?” Bran’s voice is filled with a child’s curiosity as he asks Robb and Jon questions about the execution.

They ride in their own formation near the back of the group of mascs that had come with their father for the execution. Bran’s pony trots in between Robb and Jon’s own horses. Theon Greyjoy and Alysane Mormont, who had been fostered at Winterfell since she was thirteen, rode on their respective other sides. Behind them, Heiley Poole—Robb’s valet—and Jarrad Cassel—Jon’s handmaiden—rode with Sansa, Arya and their handmaidens—Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel—between them.

“He is a deserter of the Night’s Watch,” Jon tells Bran, “and it is Athair’s duty as Feargleidhidh of the North to serve the Rìgh’s justice. Just as it is your duty to learn how to do the same for when you are lord of your own castle. Just as it is Sansa and Arya’s duty to do so for when the husbands they will someday be bonded to are away.”

“But why?”

“Our way is the old way,” Robb says in way of an answer.

The deserter is a scruffy, disheveled man who seems to be muttering something as the guards bring him before Tighearna Stark.

“I know I broke my oath,” The man speaks, looking directly at Robb’s father. “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. If you can get word to my family, tell them I’m no coward. Tell them I’m sorry.”

Tighearna Stark nods at the man. Robb grits his teeth as he is positioned over the block, and his father draws Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark from the scabbard Theon holds out to him and bows his head.

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

“Don’t look away,” Robb whispers to Bran where he stands, still between Robb and Jon.

“Rìgh of the Andals and the First Men…”

“Athair will know if you do.”

“Tighearna of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Tighearna of Winterfell and Feargleidhidh of the North, sentence you to die.”

Tighearna Stark swings his sword, and the deserter’ head falls to the ground.

Bran, Robb notes does not look away.

“You did well,” He tells him.

Jon puts his arm around Bran’s shoulder and they head back to the horses together.

“He wasn’t lying” Jon says to him as they check their saddles.

“What?” “About the White Walkers, he wasn’t lying. I could tell,” Jon gives him a pointed look.

“The White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years. I think you’ve listened to one too many of Old Nan’s stories.” Robb smiles at him, but it immediately drops when he sees the hurt in Jon’s eyes. He sighs and pulls his mate against his chest.

“A madman sees what he sees,” Robb tells him, kissing Jon’s forehead before releasing him and climbing atop his horse. Prompting Jon to do the same.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

On their way back to Winterfell, Arya pulls up beside Jon with a wolfish grin on her face.

“Race ya to the bridge!” she says before galloping off into the trees. Robb can’t help but smile as Jon gives chase, the others right behind him. Robb places a hand on Bran’s shoulder as the boy makes to follow.

“Stay here, Bràthair Beag,” he says. “One day when you have more riding experience, but not yet.” And then the Triath of House Stark takes off after his sisters, friends, and mate.

When he reaches the bridge, there is no bickering over who had actually won, as he had expected. No cries of triumph. Only silence.

“Robb,” Jon calls softly, beckoning to him from his place where the group has dismounted and stood before something in the road. Robb steps forward until he is just behind his ebony haired mate. And now he can see what has them all in such a stock. There in the middle of the road is a dead stag, ravaged and torn almost to pieces.

“Arya,” he says for she is the fastest rider among them, “go fetch Athair and the men.”

Arya gives a curt nod before mounting her horse and racing back down the road.

They stand in silence for some time, staring at the dead animal before them.

“What did this?” Jon asks as he presses himself against Robb’s chest, pulling Sansa with him.

“Mountain lion?” Heiley suggests.

“There are no mountain lions in these woods,” a voice says from behind them.

They all turn then to see Tighearna Stark, Arya, Bran, and Jory Cassel riding up to them, the other men not far behind. Their father dismounts and comes to where they stand. He looks at the deer carcass for a moment before drawing his sword and turning off the road into the woods. Taking their que from him, Robb and the other mascs draw their own blades and follow after him, while Jon, Aly and Jarrad gather the children close to them, bringing up the rear. For even though the older fems have weapons of their own, the children do not, and whatever killed the stag could still be lurking about.

They walk a few metres into the trees before they see it. A gigantic wolf lies dead with an antler through its throat. Robb hears whimpering suddenly and he thinks maybe it isn’t dead, until he notices the pups tumbling around at the beast’s belly.

The children come forward for a better look, Jon, Jarrad, and Aly not far behind.

“It’s a freak,” he hears Theon say from somewhere behind him.

“It’s a direwolf,” Athair replies as he shares a look with Caiptein Cassel. “Tough old beast,” he says turning back to the wolf and pulling out the antler.

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall.” Robb says in awe.

“Now there are five,” Jon smiles at him. He turns to the children then, “Do you want to hold one?” At their excited nods he hands Sansa, Arya, and Bran a pup for each of them.

“Where will they go?” Sansa asks, her light grey wolf pup nestled in her arms. “Their mother’s dead.”

“They don’t belong down here.” Uachdaran Jory says.

“Better a quick death,” Athair tells Sansa gently. “They won’t last without their mother.”

Right. Give them here.” Theon says as he pulls a dagger from his belt.

“NO!” Arya shouts as she, Sansa, and Bran clutch at the pups in their arms tighter.

“Put away your blade.” Robb tells Theon in his Triath voice. Disgusted that his friend seems all too eager to end the lives of a couple of pups.

“I take orders from your father,” Theon says to him curtly, “not you.”

“Please, Athair!” Bran begs Tighearna Stark.

“I’m sorry, Bran.”

“Tighearna Stark?” Jon calls their attention. “There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. They were meant to have them.” They all turn to Tighearna Stark then, and Robb can see the hopefulness in his siblings’ eyes.

Their father sighs. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

“Yes Athair.” They all answer.

“What about you?” Bran asks turning to Jon.

“I’m not a true Stark,” Jon tells him. “Go on.”

Arya lets out a whoop of joy as she runs back toward the road, Beth hot on her heals. The others follow at a slower pace as Jon reaches down to pick up the other two pups, and hands one to Robb.

They begin to walk away, side by side, but Jon stops suddenly.

“What is it?” Robb asks him in concern.

“Jon walks a few steps to the side and picks up a wolf pup as white as the snow it was laying on.

“The runt of the litter. That one’s yours, Snow,” Theon says nastily, smiling at his own joke until Aly hits him upside the head.

“That’s Baintriath Stark to you, Ward.”

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

They are sitting around the small table in the kitchens, talking about their pups when it happens.

“Thank you, Lyna,” Jon says to the servant girl as she places a small platter of cheese and sausages in front of them.

The girl curtsies, “You’re welcome m’baintighearna.”

“So, what are their names?” Robb asks the table, looking down as the smoke grey pup in his lap.

“Nymeria!” Arya declares as she struggles to keep her iron grey pup from jumping onto the table.

“Summer?” Bran says seemingly uncertain as he scratches behind his charcoal grey pup’s ear.

“Lady,” Sansa decides with a smile to her silver coloured wolf pup.

“You can’t name it that!” Arya says to her.

“I can name her whatever I want!”

Sensing a fight, Robb turns to Rickon. “What about you Cuilean?”

“Shaggydog!” he exclaimes from his place beside Jon.

“And you, Gràidheag,” he says to his mate. “What will you name yours?”

“Ghost,” Jon smiles, mauve eyes bright. “And what about you Triath Stark? What is your pup’s name?”

“Grey Wind.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2:

A Royal Arrival

Jon POV

Jon walked into the great hall with all the grace and confidence of the Baintriath of House Stark. Baintighearna Stark had called for him while he was looking over the provisions in Winterfell’s stores.

His and Baintighearna Catelyn’s relationship had improved greatly since his thirteenth name day. She had come to accept his presence, and even taught Jon personally in the duties as the future Baintighearna of Winterfell.

“In any case, candles,” Jon could hear her say to Maester Luwin as the two discussed the preparations for the king’s arrival.

“You wanted to see me, mo baintighearna,” Jon says as he walks towards them.

“Yes,” Baintighearna Stark says as she turns to him. “I have to ask of you, Jon.” Baintighearna Catelyn pauses and Jon waits for her to continue. “While the king is here, I would ask that you and the other fems not train in the courtyard.”

“Mo baintighearna?” Jon says confused as to why such a thing is being asked of him.

“As you know, the ladies of the South do not train in battle as the fems in the North do,” she tells him, and Jon nods in acknowledgement. “It is quite as shock to see such things coming from the South, and I do not wish to startle the queen. I hope you understand.”

“Of course, mo baintighearna. I shall inform the other fems now,” Jon says before he dips his head in respect and takes his leave, heading towards the keep and the lady’s solar where he knows Sansa and Arya are in their lessons with Septa Mordane.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Jon stands anxiously between Robb and Sansa in the receiving line. He knew the southerners were less likely to accept him as Baintriath of House Stark than the northmen had been. The South didn’t believe in True Mates, they thought such things were a myth. And it wouldn’t help that he and Robb weren’t bonded yet.

“Where’s Arya?” Baintighearna Catelyn asks glancing around the yard. Jon looks to Sansa’s other side and sure enough the space between Sansa and Bran was empty. “Sansa, where’s your sister?” the younger fem shrugs her shoulders. “Jon?” Baintighearna Stark turns to him, and he shacks his head. He hasn’t seen her since he told her to get ready for the king. At that moment Arya comes running across the courtyard.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” Athair says as he grabs hold of Arya’s arm so that she can’t move past him. “What are you doing with that on?” he asks her as he reaches up to take off the helm Arya has on her head.

Arya scurries past them to her place beside Bran, “Move!” she says as she shoves him out of her way.

Jon makes to scold her, but he doesn’t get the chance as Baratheon and Lannister banners ride into the courtyard. He can pick out a couple people amongst the riders: Flath Joffrey with his golden hair and emerald eyes; the Hound in his armour and dog-shaped helm. The queen’s wheelhouse—decked out in Lannister red—comes next, followed by Rìgh Robert himself.

All of Winterfell kneels before the king, and Jon can’t help but be disappointed. This isn’t the great warrior from his father’s stories; this man is fat and red-faced and needed help off his horse.

They all rise to their feet when the king stops in front of Tighearna Stark.

“Your Grace,” Tighearna Eddard says bowing his head to the man before him.

“You’ve gotten fat.” Rìgh Robert says after a moment. Athair gives him an amused look before they both start laughing.

“Cat!” the king shouts as he pulls her into an embrace.

“Your Grace,” Baintighearna Stark says seeming uncomfortable.

Rìgh Robert muses Rickon’s hair before turning back to Tighearna Stark. “Nine years. Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hells have you been?” he bellows.

“Guarding the North for you, Your Grace,” Tighearna Stark tells him. “Winterfell is yours.”

Bainrìgh Cersei descends from the wheelhouse, followed by Bainflath Myrcella and Flath Tommen. And Jon notes that none of the royal children have the dark hair and blue eyes of House Baratheon, they are all Lannister.

“Where’s the Imp?” he hears Arya ask.

“Will you shut up?” Sansa tells her.

Jon gives them both a scolding look before turning back to the king.

“You must be Robert,” he says as he shakes Robb’s hand.

“Just Robb, Your Grace,” Robb tells him dipping his head in respect. The king laughs and claps him roughly on the shoulder.

“Who have we here?” Rìgh Robert is looking at him now.

“Jon Snow, Your Grace,” he says dipping into a curtsy.

At the king’s confused look, Tighearna Stark is quick to interfere, “He is Robb’s claimed, Your Grace.”

Rìgh Robert seems to accept the explanation, and moves down the line. Though Jon can see the displeasure on the queen’s face where she stood by the wheelhouse.

“My, you’re a pretty one,” the king says to Sansa. The poor girl blushes as bright as her hair as she dips into a graceful curtsy. He turns to Arya then, “Your name is?”

“Arya,” she tells him in true Arya fashion: she doesn’t curtsy, she doesn’t bow her head, instead, she looks him in the eye, with her chin held high in defiance.

Rìgh Robert simply smiles at her display and moves on to Bran. “Show us your muscles,” Bran beams and flexes his arm. “You’ll be a soldier.”

Bainrìgh Cersei approaches the line then, offering her hand for Tighearna Eddard to kiss.

“My queen,” Tighearna Stark says dipping into a deep bow before the queen turns to Baintighearna Stark.

“My queen,” Baintighearna Catelyn curtsies.

“Take me to your crypt,” the king says suddenly, “I want to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” the queen tells him. “Surely the dead can wait.”

“Ned.” Rìgh Robert demands.

Tighearna Stark dips his head to Bainrìgh Cersei before leading the king towards Winterfell’s crypts and their Piutharathar Lyanna’s tomb.

Suddenly, the queen is in front of him, studying him with such open displeasure, a chill runs down his spine.

“My queen,” he says as he dips into the most graceful curtsy he can muster.

She turns to Baintighearna Stark then, “You would allow your son to bond your husband’s bastard?” she asks with so much disgust, Jon can almost taste it.

“They are True Mates, Your Grace,” Baintighearna Catelyn tells her politely, “We in the South do not believe in such things, but in the North it would have been seen as a disgrace towards the Old Gods if they were to be kept apart.”

Bainrìgh Cersei sniffs at him before heading to her brother, Ridire Jaime.

Jon almost sighs with relief as he walks back to the keep with his family, his hand firmly in Robb’s.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asks a final time, and Jon can’t help but smile.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

When they enter the feast, it is in the carefully thought out precession that Baintighearna Catelyn had insisted on, so that everyone in the family was included: Rìgh Robert escorted Baintighearna Stark, Tighearna Stark escorted Bainrìgh Cersei, Flath Joffrey escorted Sansa, Robb escorted Bainflath Myrcella, Flath Tommen escorted Arya, and Bran and Rickon escorted Jon.

The feast is a loud affair, filled with laughter and music. As any northern gathering is. Tonight it is made all the more louder by Rìgh Robert’s bawdiness, and Jon can see Bainrìgh Cersei’s disgust and Baintighearna Catelyn’s embarrassment. Tighearna Stark is off by himself, as he is want to do during such events.

It is in the middle of the feast when Jon sees him, dressed in the all black attire of a Brother of the Night’s Watch. Jon points him out to Robb and the two go to greet him.

“Brathairathar Benjen,” Robb smiles as they approach where the man is talking to their father.

“Robb, my boy,” Brathairathar Benjen exclaims as he pulls the Triath of House Stark into a tight hug. “How are ya?”

“I’m good,” Robb tells him as they pull away.

“Jon! You got bigger,” Jon smiles sweetly at him and kisses his cheek.

“It’s good to see you Brathairathar Benjen.”

“I rode all day. Didn’t want to leave you alone with the Lannisters,” Benjen smiles.

It’s when the feast is just starting to wind down when it happens. Arya picks up a spoonful of minced meat pie and flings it across the table. The food lands squarely on Sansa’s cheek, as she turns to answer a question from Flath Joffrey.

“ARYA!”

Arya pauses for a moment, as if startled, and then laughs at her sister’s embarrassment. Jon moves towards Sansa then, nudging a chucking Robb as he goes.

Sitting in the seat Jeyne has vacated for him, Jon takes a cloth from the table and gently begins to wipe the meat and pie crust from Sansa’s face.

“Why did she throw it at me?” his sister asks. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I don’t think she was aiming for you actually,” Jon tells her, giving a pointed look over Sansa’s shoulder where Joffrey is laughing at her expense.

“I wish she hadn’t missed,” Sansa says so quietly Jon almost misses it.

Jon thinks for a moment, “Would you like to accompany me to the kennels, Piuthar Milis?”

“Yes,” Sansa smiles. They stand and walk arm in arm out of the great hall.

“So,” Jon says to Sansa as they sit in the wolf pups’ kennel, Ghost and Lady in their laps. “What do you think about bonding the prince?” Sansa glances away, biting her lip. “Hey,” Jon cups her chin. “You can be truthful with me Sansa, you know that don’t you?” Sansa nods.

“He might not be my True Mate,” she says finally.

“Oh Leannan. What Robb and I have is rare, even in the North,” Jon sighs as she looks away again. “But maybe Athair will ask the king to disregard the proposal if you happen to find your True Mate before you are mated.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Jon kisses her forehead. “Now, I think it’s time for these two to go to bed,” gesturing to the pups in their laps.

Chapter Text

Jon POV

Jon fought to stifle a moan as Robb rutted against his arse hard and fast.

“You’re mine, Jon. Mine.,” Robb growled before pressing their lips together in a searing kiss. “I would bond you right here, right now, if I could.” He says when he breaks the kiss and starts nipping at Jon’s neck.

“We promised your mother we would wait until we were men grown.” Jon manages to gasp out through his moans.

“I know,” Robb smiles. “Besides, I think Sansa might murder us if she doesn’t get to help you plan the mating ceremony.”

Robb gave one final, deep thrust before he comes all over Jon’s backside. He takes Jon in hand, then. “Come for me, Gràidheag.”

Jon came with his alpha’s name on his lips.

A short while later, after they had cleaned themselves of their come, Jon’s head rested on Robb’s chest as the alpha ran his fingers through Jon’s curls, as they laid in their bed in comfortable silence.

“I want to visit the Wall,” Jon says into the darkness of their chamber.

Robb sits up abruptly, “What?”

“I want to visit the Wall,” Jon repeats, turning to look into the Tully blue eyes of his mate. “Ever since we discovered that deserter, something just hasn’t felt right.”

“Jon, tha—“

“I know you don’t believe what he said, but I do,” Jon sighs. “Look, if anything I’ll be checking on the state of the Night’s Watch.”

Robb pursed his lips, “I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t,” Jon tells him. “With Athair going south, you will be the sole head of the household. You will be needed here, me not so much.”

“Fine,” Robb growled. “But you go with an escort. And Aly and Jarrad.”

“Of course.”

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Jon sits in the Lady’s Solar working on his needlework with his sisters and the other fems of Winterfell. Bainflath Myrcella and her handmaidens sat with them, and Septa Mordane coos at her stiches even though Jon can see from across the table that they are crooked.

Jon glances at Arya, who he can tell is getting frustrated with having to sit still for so long, if the way she seemed to be stabbing her fabric with her needle. Not that Jon could blame her, six days with the king in Winterfell and even Baintighearna Catelyn, Southron born though she is, was getting antsy.

He gets an idea then. They might not be able to train themselves, but they can watch. He sets down his piece, before turning to Arya.

“Would you like to join me for a stroll through the godswood, Piuthar Beag?”

Arya nods, beaming.

“I’m coming too!” Sansa declares.

They all begin to put away their things, Arya more hastily than the rest of them.

“Where are you going?” Septa Mordane demands, even though she knows that, as Baintriath of House Stark, Jon has more authority than she does.

“Just for a walk, Septa.” Jon smiles at her.

“May I come?” Bainflath Myrcella asks, and Jon notes that her eyes are bright with hope.

“Of course, Princess.”

And so, Myrcella puts away her own needlework. She takes Jon’s arm, asking enthusiastic questions about the life and culture of the North all the way down to the courtyard.

When they reach the courtyard, Bran and Flath Tommen, both heavily-padded, fight each other with wooden practice swords under the watchful eye of Ridire Rodrik, and Jon fights back a smile when Bran knocks the Baratheon boy down.

“Good, very good,” Uachdeann Cassel praises as Bran helps the little prince to his feet. “Robb, why don’t you and Prince Joffrey have a go?” he says gesturing towards the rack of practice swords set off to the side of them.

“I am the crown prince, I don’t need a dulled blade. I will practice with a real sword like a true masc.” Flath Joffrey sneers.

“You want to fight with live steel?” Robb nearly snarls, his hand reaching for the sword at his hip. “Fine, let’s fight.”

“Enough! You will practice with blunted tourney swords or not at all!” Ridire Rodrik scolds.

“Come on, Lordling, fight me!” Joffrey taunts. “Unless of course, you’re too scared.”

Robb made to say something, but Jon was quicker.

“Robb!” He calls his attention, raising an eyebrow when he locks eyes with the alpha, and watches as his mate relaxes.

Flath Joffrey feigns a yawn then, “I grow tired of these games Lordling, come find me when you are ready to be a masc. Come, Tommen, Myrcella.”

“No,” Myrcella says, her head held high. “Lady Jon is showing me the godswood.”

“Fine, whatever,” Flath Joffrey waves dismissively at his sister before he heads towards the Guest House, Sandor Clegane and Flath Tommen at his heels.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

“Rickon! Don’t run!” Jon calls after his youngest brother as he races across the courtyard.

Baintighearna Stark had asked if Jon could watch Rickon for the day. With Athair leaving on a hunt with Rìgh Robert early this morning, taking Robb and Stiùbhard Poole with them, she was in charge of the castle. And it would be easier if her son wasn’t at her skirts all day. And so, Jon had gone to collect the youngest Stark after his lessons with Maester Luwin, offering to take him to the godswood to swim in the hot pools.

Jon starts to laugh as Rickon careens around a startled Gage, Winterfell’s cook, but it dies on his throat as a desperate, sorrowful howl resounds around the castle.

Ghost and Shaggydog bolt towards the North Gate. And Jon realizes with a jolt that the howling is one of his siblings’ wolves though for the life of him, he cannot place which one. Jon takes off after the wolves, picking Rickon up from where he had frozen in place as he went.

When he passes the crypts he can see a crowd gathered around the Broken Tower. He pushes his way through only to see his little brother, Bran, crumpled and broken at the base of the tower. Jon feels as if all the air is knocked out of his body at the sight. He barely notices the girls clinging to his dress in tears, the world a spinning and dazed blur.

“BRAN!” Baintihearna Stark’s shout shakes him out of shock. She falls to her knees by her son sobbing, hands hovering over him, too afraid to touch.

“Someone send for Maester Luwin!” Jon just barely manages to get the words out of his mouth before the man appears, rushing to Bran’s side checking him over.

“He is still alive,” he tells Baintihearna Catelyn before turning to Jon. “Take the children to your chambers, they do not need to see their brother this way.”

Jon nods, and leads Sansa and Arya away, Rickon clutched tightly in his arms.

When they reach his and Robb’s chambers, he guides them to the bed and under the fur. They lie in silence for a while before Sansa looks up at him from her place by his shoulder.

“Can you sing for us, Jon? Please?” She asks him, red-rimmed eyes wide with a nervous hope. And Jon can see the same look in Arya and Rickon’s eyes. Because Jon only ever sings for his siblings. And only when asked.

Jon smiles at them. He takes a moment to think through the songs he knows, before settling on Màthair’s Fada Oidhche, a Northern lullaby from the Age of Heroes.

“Mi cuimhnich a’ sileadh nan deur sìos do aodann

C’uin mi thubhairt, bidh mi gu dìlinn leig tu rach

C’uin uile siud faileas cha mhór mharbh do solas

Mi cuimhnich tu thubhairt, cha dean leig le gam

Ach uile sin tha bàs agus air triall agus pasaig anochd.

Air èiginn dùin do sùil

Grian tha tearnaich

Bidh tu bi math easaonta fear faod ciùrr do a nis

Thig madainn solas

Bidh tu agus mi bi sàbhailte agus glic.

Cha dean tu dùbhlan amhairc a mach do uinneag

Leannan a huile ni tha reòta

A’ cogadh amuigh ar dorus lean air corraich

Cum seo òran tàlaidh

Eadhan c’uin a’ ceòl tha fàg.

Air èiginn dùin do sùil

Grian tha tearnaich

Bidh tu bi math easaonta fear faod ciùrr do a nis

Thig madainn solas

Bidh tu agus mi bi sàbhailte agus glic.

When Jon finished his song, all three of his siblings were asleep. Jon himself settled down into the furs, but he didn’t dare sleep, his mind still reeling from what he had seen.

Hours later, when Robb creaked the chamber door open, he was still awake.

“Bran?” Jon asked even though he feared the answer.

“He’ll live,” Robb says. “If he wakes.”

Jon nods and Robb makes his way to the bed, kicking off his boots along the way. He scoops up a still sleeping Arya from Jon’s other side and lays her on his chest, much like Rickon is lain on Jon’s, and looks at Jon over Sansa’s head where is lies between them.

Chapter Text

Jon POV

When Jon walks into Arya’s bedchamber on the morning they are to leave Winterfell with Sansa right behind him, he finds his youngest sister grumpily repacking her trunk.

“Septa Mordane says I have to do it again. My things weren’t properly folded, she says,” Araya grumbles, turning towards her siblings. “Who cares how they’re folded?! They’re going to get all messed up anyway.”

“It’s good you’ve got help,” he tells her, gesturing towards where Nymeria sits at the end of the bed.

“Watch,” she smiles, turning towards her direwolf, “Nymeria, gloves.”

The direwolf simply tilts her head at her mistress.

“Impressive.”

“Shut up. Nymeria, gloves!” Arya says more forcefully.

The pup still makes no move to retrieve the gloves from Arya’s vanity chair.

Jon can tell that his sister is getting frustrated. “I have something for you,” he says to her. “For both of you. And they have to be packed very carefully,” Jon glances at Sansa before turning back to Arya.

“A present?”

“Close the door.”

Both girls rush towards the chamber door, bursting with excitement.

Jon sets the gifts on the bed and carefully unwraps the cloth around them. He picks up Arya’s present first and turns to face his sisters. The Baintriath of House Stark places a small, slender sword in Arya’s hands.

“It’s so skinny,” Arya says as she pulls the sword from its scabbard.

“So are you,” Jon smiles. “I had Mikken make it for you special. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re quick enough.

“I can be quick.”

Jon turns back to the bed and picks up the other present—two small daggers with ivory hilts carved with an intricate rose design, in a leather scabbard with two long ties at either end—and presents them to Sansa.

“They’re beautiful, Jon.”

“They are much easier to hide in a Southron court than a bow and arrows,” Jon says as he inserts the scabbard behind Sansa’s braid and ties it tightly into her hair.

Sansa reaches up to gently touch one of the hilts that now sticks out of her hair. “Thank you,” she smiles.

“These are no toys. Be careful you don’t cut yourselves,” Jon tells them. “You’ll have to work at it every day. How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” Arya says, while Sansa simply nods, a blade held tightly in her hand.

“Good,” Jon nods. “First lesson: stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

“I know which end to use,” Arya scowls.

“I’m going to miss you both,” Jon tells them. They both make to jump at him, blades still in hand. “Careful,” he warns taking a step back and gesturing towards their weapons. Arya puts her sword aside as Sansa places her dagger back in her hair. They all lurch forward each other then, holding onto each other tightly.

“All the best blades have names, you know,” Jon says a few minutes later as they release each other.

“Sansa can keep her sewing needles,” Arya smirks at her sister. “I’ve got a Needle of my own.”

Sansa huffs, annoyed before turning back to Jon. “Winter’s Roses,” she decides.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

“I’ve come to say goodbye to Bran,” Jon says as he walks into his brother’s sickroom. Baintighearna Catelyn sits beside her son, haggard and worn. And it seems to Jon like she hasn’t moves since the day Bran fell.

“You’ve said it,” she tells him with more hatred than she’s shown him in years.

Jon is momentarily startled by her words, but he doesn’t let them deter him. He moves to the other side of the bed and kneels down by his brother’s head.

“I’m leaving Bràthair Beag,” Jon says to him, though the boy remains resolutely still, the only sign of life, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “Maybe when I get back you’ll be awake again. I know we always talked about seeing the Wall together, but we’ll be able to go again when you’re better.

“How can you leave when your family needs you most?!” Baintighearna Stark seeths. “How can you take a pleasure trip to the Wall when Robb needs you here? When Rickon needs you?”

‘No mo baintighearna,’ Jon thinks. ‘They need you.’ But he says nothing.

“Fine! Go! Leave! Abandon your family!” Baintighearna Catelyn shouts. “Leave!”

Jon stands and kisses Bran gently on the forehead. “Mo Baintighearna,” Jon dips into a curtsy before walking briskly out of the room, brushing past his father on the way out.

The tears don’t come until he is a ways down the corridor.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Jon finds Rickon with Old Nan in the study close to the lady’s solar.

“Jon!” Rickon exclaims, as he runs to his elder brother.

“Hello, Cuilean.”

“Have you come to play?”

Jon sighs and kneels down to Rickon’s level. “Not today, Cuilean. I came to say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving too?” Rickon pouts.

“I’ll only be gone a couple of moons, I promise.”

“Is that how long Athair, Sansa, and Arya are going to be gone for?”

“No Rickon.”

“And Mother?”

“Your Mother is with Bran, Cuilean. She’s not leaving.”

“Oh.” Rickon frowns looking to the floor.

“I’ll tell you what, when I come back we’ll go swimming in the hot pools.”

“Promise?” Rickon smiles.

“Promise,” And Rickon jumps on him, clutching at his cloak.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

When Robb finds him he is in the stables, saddling his horse.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, and Jon looks at the ground.

He has been avoiding Robb. Not because he doesn’t want to say goodbye to his alpha, but because he might not want to leave when he does.

“Did you say goodbye to Rickon?” Robb continues. “The girls? Bran?” Jon nods, he’s said goodbye to everyone. Except Robb. “He’s not going to die. I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon smiles.

Robb chuckles. “Next time I see you, you had better not be all in black.”

“It was always my color,” Jon jokes.

Robb pauses for a moment. “I have something for you.” He moves his arms from where they have been behind his back and produces two short swords with howling wolves on the end of the hilts in scabbards with ties all the way down the blade. “I know you’ve been working on handling two blades at once, so I had these made for you. But I figured it would raise some eyebrows if the Baintriath of House Stark was armed in times of peace, so the scabbard is made to hide inside your boots.”

“Thank you, Triath,” Jon says as he takes the blades from his mate.

“What will you name them?” Robb asks as he cups Jon’s face in his hands.

“Wolf’s Fangs.”

His alpha strokes his thumb across Jon’s cheek. “Farewell, Gràidheag.”

“And you, Gràidhean.”

They surge forward then, pressing their lips together in a searing kiss. When they break apart, Robb takes one last look at him before he steps back from Jon and walks out of the stables.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

It seems as if all of Winterfell and their guests have squeezed themselves into the courtyard closest to the East Gate.

Jon stands off to the side, watching as the king’s party makes last minute preparations, and the Northmen say their final goodbyes.

“Athair,” Jon dips his head as Tighearna Stark walks over to him.

The Tighearna of Winterfell looks at him for a moment before he speaks. “Many Starks have gone to see the Wall. Tighearna and baintighearna alike. And you are a Stark. You might not have my name, but you have my blood.”

“Is my mother alive?” Jon can’t help but ask. “Do they know about me? Where I am, where I’m going? Do they care?”

“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother,” Jon’s father cups his cheek. “I promise,” he bends over and kisses Jon’s head before he walks over to his horse and rides through the gate with the rest of the party heading south.

Jon climbs atop his own horse and moves towards the North Gate. Aly and Jarrad ride up next to him.

“Are you ready to see the Wall, mo baintighearna?” Jarrad asks him.

“Aye.”

Chapter Text

Jon POV

On their eighteenth night on the Kingsroad, Jon and the rest of the party heading to the Wall set up camp in a clearing just off the road. The density of the population this far north made it unlikely to find an inn.

The Lannister mascs who accompanied Tighearna Tyrion complained about sleeping in the cold until Brathairathar Benjen put his foot down. Jon, Aly, and Jarrad silently laugh at the Southron knights as they moved around the camp.

Yoren, a Black Brother who had joined them several days prior, walked by them with the three mascs he had recruited in the South. “Sit,” he tells them gesturing to another fire nearby. “You’ll be fed.” Each of the mascs leer at the three fems as they trudge past. Jon instinctively reaches down into his boots and clutches the hilts of Wolf’s Fangs.

“Rapers,” Tyrion Lannister said from his place across their fire. “They were given a choice no doubt: castration or the Wall. Most choose the knife.”

“Why do you read so much?” Jarrad asks suddenly. And Jon couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. He himself didn’t mind reading, but it seemed every time they stopped, the dwarf had his nose buried in a new book.

Tighearna Tyrion sighed. “Look at me and tell me what you see.”

“Is this a trick?” Aly growled.

“What you see is a dwarf,” Tighearna Tyrion said looking at them over his book. “If I’d been born a peasant they might’ve left me out in the woods to die. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Things are expected of me. My father was Hand of the King for twenty years.”

“Until your brother killed that king,” Jon says.

“Until my brother killed him.” Tyrion agreed setting down his book. “Life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king, and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my house, wouldn’t you agree? But how? Well, my brother has his sword, and I have my mind. And a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone. That’s why I read so much.” He nods at Jarrad before turning to Jon. “And you? What’s your story, bastard.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll tell you, dwarf.”

Tighearna Tyrion smiles. “A bastard fem with no future, until his alpha half-brother claims him. And yet he rides for the Wall with his handmaidens.”

“I am the Luna of House Stark,” Jon bristles. “Robb and I are True Mates. That’s as good as being bonded in the eyes of the North. The only reason we haven’t done so yet is because Lady Catelyn asked us to wait.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“She knew that as Alpha and Luna of House Stark we would have very little time left to be children. She wanted us to hold off on adding the responsibilities of a bonded pair until we were older.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that was Lady Stark’s only reason,” Tighearna Tyrion smiles knowingly.

Jon knows he’s wrong, Baintighearna Catelyn has come to accept him, respect him even. But Jon can’t help the small bit of doubt blossoming in his chest.

“Everything’s better with some wine in the belly,” Tighearna Tyrion says tossing his wineskin at Jon.

The fem takes a long drink.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

The majestic image of the Wall as the sun reflects off the icy surface is in such contrast with the run down state of Castle Black that Jon nearly startles at the sight.

A man approaches them as they dismount their horses in the courtyard, and his resemblance to Aly leaves Jon with little doubt as to who he is.

“Baintriath Stark,” the man bows to Jon.

“Ceannard Tighearna Mormont.”

“Baintighearna Aly, it’s good to see you,” the Ceannard Tighearna smiles.

“It’s good to see you too, Brathairathar Jeor,” Aly smiles back.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jeor Mormont acknowledges the half-man before turning back to Jon. “We have set up rooms for you in the King’s Tower, mo baintighearna.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, Ceannard Tighearna.”

An hour later Jon sits across from Ceannard Tighearna Mormont in his solar.

“I must admit I was surprised when I got the raven that the Baintriath of House Stark was coming to see the Wall,” Jeor says taking a drink of his ale. “It has been many years since a Stark has come to visit the Night’s Watch. I am curious as to what prompted this one.”

Jon took a moment before he spoke. “Some moons ago, my father executed a deserter. A deserter who claimed to be running from White Walkers,” Jon paused to gauge the Ceannard Tighearna’s reaction to his words. “He wasn’t lying.”

“Something is stirring beyond the Wall, mo baintighearna. I have had increasing reports of Wildlings gathering in great numbers, of the dead, come back to life. I do not know the truth of it yet, but I feel there is a war upon us, and the Night’s Watch is not as prepared as one could hope for a war against the Wildlings or the White Walkers.”

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

The morning after arriving at the Wall, Jon stands with Aly and Jarrad at the edge of the courtyard, watching the training of the new recruits.

“Grenn, show him what you farm boys are made of,” Ridire Allister Thorne says as one of the mascs moves to the center of the courtyard.

Grenn holds his blade with visible uncertainty. The other masc, Rast, swings his sword at him wildly, and Grenn tries to deflect him but his movement is shaky, and the offending blade comes down with a loud crack onto his face. Grenn takes a step back clutching his nose.

“If that were a real sword, you’d be dead,” Ridire Allister scowls. “Pyp! You're next.”

Aly snorts. “They’ll never learn like that.”

“What was that?” Ridire Allister growls, turning toward them.

“She said, they’ll never learn to fight properly if you just tell them they are doing it wrong, but don’t show them how to swing a blade correctly,” Jon says.

“And what would a fem know of sword fighting, Lady Snow?”

Jon walks to the center of the courtyard and holds out his hand for Grenn’s sword, “May I?”

Grenn gives him the blunted blade, and Jon turns towards Rast, falling into a fighting stance. Rast looks at him with a look of glee before he swings his sword at Jon.

Jon twists and turns, avoiding Rast’s swings, the masc not being able to strike the fem. But Jon lands hit after hit until finally, his sword lands at the base of Rast’s neck.

The entire courtyard is quiet as Jon hands the sword back to a gaping Grenn. Jon turns to Ridire Allister, “Never underestimate a Northern lady, Ser Allister. For we are as deadly as we are proper,” he says in his Baintriath voice, back ramrod straight and head held high, before walking out of the courtyard with Aly and Jarrad at his heel.

That evening, Jon, Aly, and Jarrad are sitting by the hearth in Jon’s chamber, a fire blazing bright and warm in its depths. All three are working on what will become their battle armour, as well as Robb, Heiley, and Theon’s.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and Antorn, one of the five Stark guards that had accompanied them to the Wall, steps into the room.

“There are two mascs here to see you, mo baintighearna.”

“Let them in,” Jon says, and Antorn ushers in Grenn and Pyp before bowing to Jon and exiting the room once more.

Jon is surprised the two Night’s Watch recruits have sought him out.

“Mi’lady,” Pyp bows with a practiced ease, and Grenn awkwardly follows his lead.

“Hello, Pyp. Grenn,” Jon acknowledges them, setting down his sewing, “What can I do for you?”

Pyp and Grenn glance at each other. “You were right, mi’lady. We will never learn how to use a sword with Ser Allister teaching us. And so, we were wondering, mi’lady, if… if…” Pyp says stumbling over his words.

“Would you teach us!” Grenn all but shouts. “Mi’lady,” he gives another awkward bow.

“As long as you don’t have a problem being trained by a fem, I don’t see why not.”

“Of course not, mi’lady,” Pyp assures quickly. “Thank you, mi’lady.”

The two mascs give one more bow before scrambling out of the door.

“Well, it’s a good thing we packed our practice armour,” Jarrad laughs.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Jon takes the winch elevator up the Wall. Brathairathar Benjen had asked to meet him at the top. When the slow, creaking iron cage finally reaches its destination, Jon only has to walk a few metres to find his father’s brother.

Jon comes to stand next to his uncle at the edge of the Wall. The sight of the frozen wilderness leaves him breathless.

“I wanted to be here when you saw it for the first time,” Benjen smiles before his face returns to that of a stoic Northman. “I’m leaving this morning.”

“You’re leaving?” Jon can’t help but wonder why his uncle would leave the Wall so soon; they had just arrived only a few days prior.

“I’m the Maorcoille Ceud. My job is out there,” he says gesturing beyond the Wall. “There have been disturbing reports. The kind I don’t want to believe.”

And Jon remembers his conversation with Ceannard Tighearna Mormont shortly after his arrival. A war was coming, one they were not prepared for.

“I hope to see you before I return to Winterfell.”

“Aye, let’s hope that I can,” Benjen smiles. “Come, we should eat.”

Jon and Benjen make their way down from the Wall to find Aly and Jarrad waiting at its base. They walk together to the Common Hall to break their fast.

When they enter the hall, they find it mostly empty, except for Yoren and Tighearna Tyrion jovially conversing at one of the tables.

“They have a better chance at food than glory,” Tighearna Tyrion is saying as they take their seats at the table.

“The Night’s Watch is a joke to you is it?” Brathairathar Benjen scowls as bowls of a thin stew are set before them. “Is that what we are, Lannister? An army of jesters in black?”

“You don’t have enough mascs to be an army, and aside from Yoren here, none of you are particularly funny.”

“I hope we’ve provided you with some good stories to tell when you’re back in King’s Landing. But something to think about while you’re drinking your wine down there, enjoying your brothels: half the mascs you’ve seen training will die north of the Wall. Might be a Wildling’s ax that gets them, might be sickness, might just be the cold. They die in pain. And they do it so plump little lords like you can enjoy their summer afternoons in peace and comfort.”

“Do you think I’m plump? Listen, Benjen,” Tighearna Tyrion pauses, “May I call you Benjen?”

“Call me what you like.”

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend you,” Tighearna Tyrion continues. “I have great admiration for the Night’s Watch. I’ve great admiration for you as First Ranger.”

“You know, my brother once told me that nothing someone says before the word ‘but’ really counts,” Brathairathar Benjen smirks.

Tighearna Tyrion smiles. “But, I don’t believe that giants and ghouls and White Walkers are lurking beyond the Wall. I believe that the only difference between the Wildlings and us is that when the Wall went up, our ancestors happened to live on the right side of it.”

“You’re right,” Benjen smiles. “The Wildlings are no different from us. A little rougher maybe. But they’re made of meat and bone. I know how to track them, and I know how to kill them. It’s not the Wildlings giving me sleepless nights. You’ve never been north of the Wall, so don’t tell me what’s out there.”

“Are you going below?” Yoren asks, and Jon is slightly relieved at the change of subject. Brathairathar Benjen nods his assent as he stands. “Keep well, keep warm.”

“Goodbye Brathairathar Benjen,” Jon kisses his cheek.

“Farewell, Jon,” Benjen says before nodding to Yoren. “Enjoy the capital, brother.”

“I always do.”

Chapter Text

Sansa avoided the royal family as much as possible. She insisted on riding astride her horse, Grace, instead of taking up Bainrìgh Cersei’s offer of joining her and the royal children in the queen’s wheelhouse. Sansa knew that the Southron ladies that traveled with them whispered about how she was unladylike for doing so and that her dresses were “so simple and plain”, but she didn’t care. She was proud of her Northern dresses that Jon and Mother had helped her make, and a lady riding sidesaddle in the North was at higher risk of falling from their horse because of the ice and snow.

When she wasn’t riding, Sansa had to come up with excuses, so she didn’t have to spend time with Flath Joffrey, always claiming that she and Arya were going to explore some place or another. Today it was the Ruby Ford, “to look for rubies”. Only they never truly explored. They trained.

Sansa sat in the shade of a tree near the bank of the river. Jeyne sat beside her as the two girls enjoyed the beautiful day while relaxing after their previous spar. Lady and Nymeria dozed at their feet.

“Yield! I Yield!” Beth pants from where she and Arya are sparring a short distance away.

Arya withdraws from her handmaiden. “Shall we go again?” she grins.

“Let Beth rest, Arya,” Sansa scolds gently. Arya scowls and turns to Mycah, the butcher’s boy she and Beth had befriended, who is standing uncertainly off to the side of them.

“Mycah? Will you spar with me?”

“Y-yes, milady,” Mycah stammers. “Of course, milady.”

Beth hands Mycah one of the sticks they have been using as practice swords and came to sit with Sansa and Jeyne.

He holds the stick uncertainly as he walks toward Arya. Her sister had fallen into a fighting stance and immediately begins whacking Mycah with her stick once he is close enough.

She hits the butcher’s son again and again while the poor boy is just trying to fend her off until he seemingly has enough.

“I’ll get you!” Mycah declares as he starts swinging his stick at Arya.

Sansa can’t help her giggles as she watches the two of them. But she falls silent when she hears someone crashing around in the woods. When Flath Joffrey breaks into their clearing, she wants to scream. He’s probably here to try and woo her and call her “his lady”. She just wants him to leave her alone and get the message that she didn’t want to bond with him.

He smiles at her. “The sun is finally shining,” he slurs. “Come walk with me, we’ll celebrate the good weather,” he holds out the wineskin in his hand and takes a clumsy step toward her. He’s drunk, Sansa realizes.

“I probably shouldn’t. Father only lets us have one cup at feasts,” she tells him.

“My princess can drink as much as she wants.”

“What are you doing here?” Arya demands. “Go away!”

“Arya!” Sansa scolds. As much as she wants Flath Joffrey to leave, she knew they still had to act properly with him. She didn’t want to anger the king.

“Your sister?” Flath Joffrey asks her, and she nods. “And who are you, boy?” he waves his wineskin at Mycah.

“Mycah, milord.”

“He’s the butcher’s son,” Sansa tells Flath Joffrey. Maybe if he realizes they are making company with smallfolk, he’ll leave.

“He’s my friend!”

“A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight, eh?” Joffrey laughs. “Pick up your sword, butcher’s boy. Let’s see how good you are,” he draws his own sword, taking a step toward the now trembling boy.

“She asked me to, milord. She asked me to.”

“I’m your prince, not your lord, and I said pick up your sword,” Flath Joffrey gestures to the stick Mycah had dropped in his fear.

“It’s not a sword, miprince. Only a stick.”

“And you’re not a knight. Only a butcher’s boy. That’s my lady’s sister you were hitting, did you know that?” Joffrey sneers as he presses the tip of his blade to Mycah’s cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“Stop it!” Arya demands.

“I won’t hurt him…much,” Joffrey smiles as he drags his blade down Mycah’s face.

Arya leaps at him, hitting him with her stick. Mycah takes off now that Flath Joffrey in no longer focused on him.

“Filthy little bitch!” Joffrey sneers as he swings his sword wildly at a now retreating Arya.

Arya takes another step back, tripping over a rock and falling flat on her back.

“I’ll gut you, you little cunt!” Joffrey shrieks as he stands over Arya with his sword aimed at her throat.

“Arya!” Sansa jumps to her feet to defend her sister, but Nymeria beats her to it. The direwolf launches herself into the prince, her jaw clamping down on his wrist until Joffrey drops his sword.

“Nymeria!” Arya calls as she gets to her feet, picking up the prince’s sword. Nymeria steps away from her prey as Arya now stands over a cowering Joffrey.

“Please don’t,” Joffrey whimpers. Arya looks at him for a moment before stepping to the riverbank and throwing his blade into the water. She looks back at Joffrey and then to Sansa before taking off running into the trees. Beth and Nymeria follow behind her.

“Lady, find Arya,” Sansa tells her direwolf before turning to Jeyne. “Go back to the inn and get help,” the girl nods and takes off back toward the inn.

With Lady and Jeyne gone, Sansa takes a deep, steadying breath before going to Flath Joffrey where he still cowers on the ground clutching his wrist. She might not be a maester, but one of her lessons as a Northern lady was learning how to wrap wounds. She reaches for the injury only for it to be yanked away from her.

“Don’t touch me!” Flath Joffrey snarls.

Sansa huffs, annoyed before turning toward the trees to look for any sign of someone coming to get them.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

When Arya is finally found, it’s well into the night. Sansa is startled awake by a knocking on her door. She opens it carefully to find a Lannister guard staring down at her.

“The queen requests your presence,” his voice rumbles, and before she can protest, he has a tight grip on her arm and is dragging her out of her room.

When she enters the inn’s common hall, she sees Arya standing before Rìgh Robert. Sansa makes to stand with her sister, but the Lannister guard tightens his grip on her and leads her to the back of the room.

A few minutes later her father barges into the room, pushing past all of the Lannister mascs in between him and Arya.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Arya cries as soon as Athair reaches her.

“Are you hurt?” he asks as he looks her over before pulling her into his arms.

“No,” Arya shakes her head.

“It’s alright,” Athair tells her before turning to the king. “What is the meaning of this? Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?” he demands.

“How dare you speak to your king in such a manner!” Bainrìgh Cersei sneers.

“Quiet, woman,” Rìgh Robert scowls. “Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this business done quickly.”

“Your girl and that butcher’s boy attacked my son. That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off.” Bainrìgh Cersei accuses. What? If anything, it was the other way around. Sansa thinks.

“That’s not true!” Arya defends. “She just…bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah.”

“Joff told us what happened,” Cersei glares at Arya. “You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set you wolf on him.”

“That’s not what happened!” Sansa wants to agree with her sister, but Joffrey speaks first.

“Yes, it is!” he whines. “They all attacked me, and she threw my sword in the river.”

“Liar!”

“Shut up!”

“Enough!” Rìgh Robert bellows. “He tells me one thing; she tells me another. Seven hells! What am I to make of this?” he pauses. “Where’s your other daughter, Ned?”

“In bed, asleep.”

“She’s not,” Bainrìgh Cersei smiles. “Sansa, come here, sweetling.”

The Lannister guard that woke her pushes her forward, and Sansa takes hesitant steps to where her father and sister stand. She realizes this is why she was brought here; the queen thinks she will defend Joffrey because she is claimed to him.

“Now, child,” Rìgh Robert says to her. “Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It’s a great crime to lie to a king.”

Sansa glances at Bainrìgh Cersei. The queen is smiling at her, but Sansa can see a cruel glint in her eyes. She suddenly understands that if she doesn’t agree with Joffrey’s version of events, the queen will take it out on her family. But Sansa can’t place all the blame on Arya either.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” she rambles. “Everything happened so fast. I didn’t see.” It appears as if her neutral account is enough to satisfy the queen, but not Arya.

“Liar!” her sister jumps onto her back and yanks at her hair. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

“Arya!” Sansa shrieks, trying to get her sister off of her. “Stop it!”

“That’s enough of that,” Athair scolds. When Arya continues, he becomes firmer, gently prying her wild sister from her back. “Stop! Arya!”

“She’s as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished,” Bainrìgh Cersei demands once Arya has calmed down.

“What would you have me do, whip her through the streets?” Rìgh Robert glares at his wife. “Damn it, children fight. It’s over.”

“Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life,” the queen snarls.

“You let that little girl disarm you?” Rìgh Robert sneers at his son, before turning to Tighearna Stark. “See to it that your daughter is disciplined. I’ll do the same with my son.”

“Gladly, your grace.”

“And what of the direwolf?” Bainrìgh Cersei demands. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”

“I’d forgotten the damned wolf,” Rìgh sighs.

“We found no trace of either wolf, your grace,” a Lannister masc says.

“So be it,” the king waves his hand dismissively. “A direwolf’s no pet. Let them run wild,” he says as he stands and walks from the room.

Bainrìgh Cersei glares at them before she and Flath Joffrey storm from the common hall.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

When they arrive in King’s Landing, Sansa can’t help but wrinkle her nose at the smell. The odor of piss, shit, and sweat seems to be magnified by the sweltering heat of the capital, and she immediately misses the cool, crisp, clean air of the North.

As they arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, they are met by a man dressed in a lavish dress of black and gold.

“Renly!” Athair exclaims as he pulls the man into a tight embrace. Sansa realizes that this is the king’s omega brother as her father pulls away to inspect the fem. “You’re looking well.”

“And you look tired from the road,” Baintighearna Renly smiles. “Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. I told them this meeting could wait another day, but…” the Southron omega shrugs.

Athair nods before turning to Septa Mordane. “Get the girls settled in. I’ll be back in time for supper,” he pauses. “And, Jory, you go with them.”

“Yes, mo tighearna,” Caiptein Cassel bows.

Sansa and the others follow a page to the Tower of the Hand as Baintighearna Renly leads Athair in a different direction.

After Sansa is shown to her bedchamber, she and Jeyne take a moment to marvel at how big it is. It’s not just one chamber like her and Arya’s room at Winterfell. There is a small sitting room, as well as a small bedchamber for Jeyne, and her bedchamber, which seems bigger than Robb and Jon’s bedchamber at home.

She and Jeyne take a few minutes to look around the rooms before they begin unpacking their trunks.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Athair isn’t back in time for supper like he promised. Sansa sits quietly with Arya, Beth, Jeyne, and the rest of their household in the small hall in the Tower of the Hand.

Arya is in a mood this evening. She is stabbing the meat on her plate repeatedly with her knife.

“Enough of that, young lady,” Septa Mordane scolds her. “Eat your food.”

“I’m practicing,” Arya says angerly.

“Practicing for what?” Sansa wonders.

“The prince.”

“Arya! Stop!” Septa Mordane orders scandalized.

“He’s a liar and a coward, and he killed my friend,” Arya snarls.

“You’re an idiot,” Sansa huffs. No matter how much she agreed with her sister, they shouldn’t say such things where others can hear them.

“You’re a liar. And if you told the truth, Mycah would be alive,” Arya accuses. Sansa blinks back tears. She knew her sister was still angry with her for what happened at the Crossroads Inn, but her words still stung.

“Enough!” Septa Mordane orders.

“What’s happening here?” Athair asks as he walks into the hall.

“Arya would rather act like a beast than a lady,” Septa Mordane accuses.

“Go to your room. We’ll speak later.”

Arya runs from the hall, and Athair sighs as he takes his seat at the table.

When they have finished their meal, Athair stands and turns to her. “Come with me, Leannan,” she follows him to Arya’s chambers. Tighearna Stark knocks on the door.

“Go away!” Arya shouts through the door.

“Arya, open the door,” Athair commands.

After a moment the door opens to reveal Arya with Needle in her hand.

“Whose sword is that?” Athair questions.

“Mine,” Arya tells him as she lets them into her chambers.

“Give it to me,” Athair holds out his hand for Needle and Arya reluctantly hands over her blade. Sansa reaches into her hair and pulls out Winter’s Roses. Athair looks at her, startled before he takes the daggers as well. “I know this maker’s mark. This is Mikken’s work. Where did you get these? These are no toys.”

“I wasn’t playing,” Arya says defiantly.

“Come here,” Athair says as he sits on Arya’s bed and gestures for them to join him. “Now, what do you want with these?”

“It’s called Needle.”

“Mine are Winter’s Roses.”

“Blades with names. And who were you hoping to fight with Needle and Winter’s Roses? Each other? Do either of you know the first thing about sword fighting?”

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end,” Arya parrots Jon’s words to him.

“That’s the essence of it,” Athair laughs.

“I was trying to learn,” Arya says glumly. “I asked Mycah to practice with me. I asked him.”

“We both were,” Sansa admits looking down at her lap.

“It was your fault!” Arya accuses. “I hate you!” Sansa can’t stop the tears that streak down her face.

“Sansa was dragged before the king and queen and asked to call the prince a liar,” Athair defends her.

“So was I!” Arya argues. “He is a liar.”

“Leannan, listen to me,” Athair tilts Arya’s chin, so she’s looking at him. “Sansa will be bonded to Joffrey someday. She cannot betray him. She must take his side even when he’s wrong.”

“But I don’t want to bond him!” Sansa whines.

“Look at me,” Athair cups her cheek. “You’re a Stark of Winterfell. You know our words.”

“Winter is coming.”

“You were both born in the long summer. You’ve never known anything else. But now winter is truly coming. And in the winter, we must protect ourselves, look after one another. You are sisters.”

“I don’t hate you,” Arya tells her. “Not really.”

“I don’t hate you either,” Sansa smiles.

“I don’t want to frighten you, but I won’t lie to you either,” Athair says. “We’ve come to a dangerous place. We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves. All right?” Both girls nod. “Go on. They’re yours,” Athair hands them back their weapons.

“We can keep them?” Arya asks in wonder.

“Try not to stab each other,” Athair smiles. “If you’re going to own your own blades, you’d need to know how to use them.”