ACT ONE — CHAPTER THREE
The Things We Do For Love ✧*:･ﾟ

Winterfell, 298 AC

Lavinia Tyrell

Winterfell's godswood was as magnificent as the stories said. Not in the way the godswood at Highgarden was beautiful with its bright greenery, drooping flowers, and the delicate intricacy of the Three Singers in the midst of it all. The godswood at Winterfell had a more primal beauty to it. The trees were dense and thick around the centre of the clearing, casting a dark shadow over the brush underneath. Instead of the vibrant colours and exotic plants they had in Highgarden, all that grew here were stubborn sentinel trees, mighty oaks, and ironwoods at least as old as the Seven Kingdoms themselves. And the air smelt of moist earth and decay.

Unlike the Seven, the gods that roamed here had no names. And no faces, except the ones which had been carved into the weirwood trees of old, thousands of years before the first Andals had even stepped foot on Westeros soil.

It was Winterfell's weirwood tree that Lavinia stood before now. An ancient tree, located in the centre of the godswood's grove, brooding over a small pool of black water that rested at its base. Its bark was as white as bone and its leaves the dark blood-red that Lavinia had spotted peering over the castle walls from the king's camp a week before. The face that had been carved into the centre of it was long and melancholy, and bled with red sap — a stark contrast to the bleeding smiles cut into the weirwoods at Highgarden and another reminder that the North was a much more solemn place than Lavinia was used too.

"My father calls it the heart tree," a familiar voice called out gently from behind Lavinia and she smiled as she turned around to face her betrothed.

Her reply caught in her throat, however, as a great big ball of grey fur came bounding suddenly towards her. Lavinia knew immediately what it was and so did not scream as the direwolf pinned her down. But it did not stop her body seizing up as the huge creature licked at her face.

She had known that Robb Stark possessed a direwolf — it had caused quite a stir amongst the king's party when they had learnt that Lord Eddard had gifted all the Stark children one, even his bastard — but she had yet to see one of the creatures in her time at the castle. Princess Myrcella had a rather unfortunate encounter with Arya Stark's direwolf, Nymeria, the first morning of their stay and the wolves had been kept under tight lock and key since.

Besides, Lavinia had been so preoccupied with helping Ser Davis and the rest of the Tyrell men that had come north with her settle into the castle, that she had not spent much time with anyone outside her household except at the dinners Lord Stark and his family held each night. Today was the first day she had finally worked up the courage to explore her new home. She had come to the godswood first, determined to acquaint herself with the gods of her future good-family in her effort to learn more about the North and its people.

"Grey Wind, get back!" Robb yelled at his wolf as the sound of the young man running towards Lavinia cut through the quiet of the godswood.

The direwolf turned to tilt his head at its master and seemed to almost shake it in response, before it faced Lavinia again and resumed nuzzling at her.

Lavinia felt a laugh bubble up in her throat as she regained some sense over herself. She fought against the fear that had seized her in her shock at being knocked over by such a creature and reached out a tender hand so the wolf might smell her to familiarise itself with her. She breathed heavily as she did so, suppressing the scream that still bubbled in her chest.

Back home, Lavinia's brother Willas trained a great number of hounds for the other noble lords of the Reach, along with his horses and hawks. And he had always taught his sister that upon meeting a new creature it was best to let an animal get a feel for you first before you tried to do anything else, lest you wish to get bit. And whilst Robb's direwolf — Grey Wind, her betrothed had called him — was already as big as the biggest bitch Willas had ever owned, Lavinia supposed it could not be that different from a dog.

"It's fine," Lavinia managed to croak out to Robb. Grey Wind was letting Lavinia pet him now (Lavinia guessed it was a 'him' by the name Robb had given the wolf) and she could not believe how soft his fur was in between her fingers. She had never in her life felt anything like it before, and she laughed as she resisted the urge to bury her face in Grey Wind's neck.

Robb stood in disbelief as he stared down at his betrothed and his direwolf. His eyes swivelled between the two of them as Lavinia continued to pet Grey Wind, causing the wolf's tail to wag with delight. Outside of his family, Robb had not seen Grey Wind warm up to anyone that quickly.

Lavinia noticed him staring and quickly let go of the wolf with a sheepish smile, holding her hands out to Robb, instead, so that he might help her up. When she was back on her feet, they both turned together to face the wolf. And when Grey Wind came up to tug on Lavinia's skirts, undoubtedly still wanting to be petted, neither she nor Robb could help the laughs that escaped their lips.

Shaking his head and evidently still shocked by what he had just seen, Robb held out his arm to Lavinia as she brushed some dried leaves off her skirt, so he might protect her if his wolf tried to knock her down once more.

Lavinia beamed at him and gladly accepted.

"I have never met a creature with such soft fur before," Lavinia said conversationally as she and Robb walked closer to the weirwood tree and sat down on one of the huge stones that lined the pool beneath it so that she could fix her hair, which had been messed up in Grey Wind's attack.

Robb smiled, looking proudly at his wolf. "Well, Grey Wind is no regular creature."

A comfortableness had arisen between Lavinia and her betrothed since they had danced at the welcome feast the first night of her stay. And whilst Lavinia was still anxious about the marriage that awaited them, at least she felt she could call Robb Stark somewhat of a friend now.

"That we can agree on," Lavinia chuckled. "Now we must visit Highgarden together one day, if only to introduce Grey Wind to my brother Willas. I imagine Willas will be over the moon should your Jon take his direwolf with him when he heads south."

Robb's own face went pink as it always did when she brought up their future. Lavinia would be lying if she said she did not find it endearing.

"Your brother knows a lot about direwolves, does he?" Robb asked, once again seeming surprised. He did not know that anyone knew much, nor cared to know anything, about direwolves down south. Lavinia supposed it was more of a northern legend. But when you loved animals as much as Willas did, you made sure to know everything you could about as many different creatures as possible.

Lavinia nodded, wishing Willas were here with her now. He would like Robb, Lavinia thought, and he would certainly appreciate Winterfell's dark godswood more than I do.

"My brother trains hounds," Lavinia explained to Robb, who was looking at her in a way that made her stomach flip. No one had ever paid her as much attention when she talked as he did. "He knows about all sorts of different breeds of dogs and how best to take care of them. Wolves are not exactly the same — especially direwolves — but I do not doubt he would be interested to learn about them if given the chance to meet one. Willas has always loved to learn; my mother says he and I are more Hightower than any of our other siblings in that regard."

"So you like to learn as well, then?" Robb said, nudging her in the shoulder as he did. "If so, you are more than welcome to borrow as many books from our library here as you wish. Once we are married, it will all belong to you anyway as the future Lady of Winterfell."

Now it was Lavinia's turn to blush at the thought of their impending marriage.

"I will keep that in mind," she replied coyly, willing her face to cool down.

Robb studied her for a moment, biting his lip in the way she had come to know meant he was either puzzling something over, or he was worried. Or both.

"May I be frank with you, Lavinia?" He eventually said, leaning closer to her and looking around as if someone else might spring upon them at any moment.

Lavinia nodded wordlessly, finding herself enthralled to know what Robb was going to say as his face seemed to search for the right words. The look in his eye told her that he had been wanting to get whatever it was off his chest for a while.

It was a rare sight to see the young man in such a state. Over the duration of her stay in Winterfell, Lavinia had learned that the people of the North were rather inept when it came to not speaking their minds. A fact that had both impressed and horrified Lavinia, who was used to the subtle politics and double-meanings from everyone in the South, except Olenna Tyrell, who claimed she was too old now to be expected to hold her tongue.

"I know that the thought of our upcoming wedding is something that we both bear heavily," Robb spoke slowly, so as not to say the wrong thing. "But I do not wish for it to be something that continues to hang uncomfortably between us. We both agreed to this match, even if we were not the ones to propose it, and it is my wish that we might make the best of it. Both my mother and father were forced into a betrothal after all, but there is no denying that they have grown to love each other. And from what you have told me of your parents, it seems it is much the same between them."

Lavinia smiled at that. It was true, and whilst Lavinia held resentment when it came to her father and their own relationship, there was no denying that Lord Mace Tyrell loved his wife.

Although, she was still confused as to what, exactly, Robb was proposing as she thought what he had said over in her mind. "What are you saying?"

Robb sighed, not with frustration at her question but at himself for not being able to get his words out right.

He reached out and took Lavinia's hands in his, looping his fingers through hers as his cheeks flushed with nerves. Lavinia felt her heart skip a bit at the gesture. "I'm saying... I think we should put the thought of our marriage aside for now. I'm saying I wish us to focus on getting to know one another naturally. I am not, however, suggesting we don't speak of our betrothal, or forget about it entirely — we will marry eventually, even if my mother has to drag us to the sept herself — but I would rather us form a relationship with one another without letting it hang over us. So that, if it is not too presumptuous for me to suggest, once the time comes for us to say our vows, we may have come to mean them. That we may have come to love one another of our own accord, not that of our parents."

He finally met her eyes again then and Lavinia could not help it as she leant forward to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

Meeting Robb had eased Lavinia's anxiety of being married to some horrible beast of a man that she would end up despising, like King Robert was to Queen Cersei, and she had known almost immediately after greeting him that her marriage would be a pleasant one, if not the one of love she might have chosen for herself. But it was Robb's words to her now that gave the young rose her first true glimmer of hope that the betrothal between them could result in one of genuine love some day.

Lavinia had always been willing to try to make her match with Robb work, but it was the confirmation that he wished for the same that now made her believe it was possible.

Robb chuckled gently as she pulled her lips away from his cheek, his eyebrows raised in hopeful amusement. "I take it that was your way of saying yes to my proposal?"

Nodding, Lavinia felt a grin appear on her own face. "It was," she said before a mischievous glint found its way into her eyes. "If we are truly to make a go of things you should know I do not go around kissing men outside of my family lightly."

Robb shook his head, amusement still splayed across his face. "My apologies, my lady," he said, mocking severity. "I will remember that in the future. If I am lucky enough to receive such a kiss again, of course."

Lavinia rolled her eyes at his blatant flirting. At their feet, Grey Wind let out a low howl of complaint and set his head on their clasped hands, evidently bored of the conversation that did not involve either one of them playing with him. They both blushed, having forgotten they were still holding each other's hands, and quickly let go — that giddy awkwardness back again.

Lavinia supposed it would be a while before they fully overcame it. Such things could not be mastered in a single week.

Catching Robb's eye, Lavinia could not help the giggle that passed her lips at the ridiculousness of it all. Just a moment before they had been jesting about kissing one another and here they were back to blushing over a meagre hand hold. Robb soon joined in with her laughter, using the hand that had been on her own to now rubb behind Grey Wind's ears.

They stayed like that for a while, just soaking in each other's company, before Robb eventually got up with a sigh and told her how he had promised to take the princes and their guards on a tour of the Glass Gardens. He invited her to come and watch him spar later, insisting she bring her handmaid, Ellyn, along as well, to which Lavinia readily agreed.

She then linked her arm through his and the two of them made their way out of the godswood. As they reached the courtyard, Robb stopped them by the Guest House and gave Lavinia a bashful kiss on her hand before running off to the Great Hall where the princes were already waiting for him.

And as she watched her betrothed go on his way, Lavinia was surprised to find that she felt lighter than she had in weeks.

__________

Desmera Redwyne

Lady Desmera Redwyne's fingers ached as she threaded yet another fine piece of embroidery through the silken material of the handkerchief she was working on. All around her, the familiar chatter of the other noble ladies filled her ears, relentless in its volume. She struggled not to sigh as she rubbed the back of her hand to ease the soreness of it and forced herself to tune back into the conversation next to her.

The young girl was sitting in one of the many rooms of Winterfell's Great Keep with the other highborn ladies of the king's court that had taken the long journey north to accompany Princess Myrcella. Along with them sat Lord Eddard Stark's daughters and their close companions— Sansa and Arya Stark, Jeyne Poole, and Beth Cassel.

The Stark girls' belligerent Septa, a woman called Mordane, hovered over the group, praising Myrcella like a tittering bird. Her grating tone was enough to force Desmera to fight not to roll her eyes with annoyance as the woman's incessant coos and compliments continued to ring hollowly at her friend.

Desmera herself was sat in her usual place of honour next to Princess Myrcella. There was no one in the Seven Kingdoms, except her family, that Desmera liked more than the young princess. Despite being her lady-in-waiting, Myrcella had never treated Desmera with anything but respect and kindness — a feat Desmera knew the girl's mother could not claim of her own handmaidens — and over the past year that she had been at court, Desmera and the princess had formed a genuine friendship between them that they both were immensely fond of.

Her friendship with Myrcella was certainly the only reason Desmera would have ever travelled to such a dreary place as the North, after all. The coldness of the northern kingdom was a far cry from the tepidness of King's Landing, and much different to the warmth of her own home back in the Arbor.

Myrcella's friendship was also the only reason Desmera had for staying in King's Landing as long as she had. The young girl had been just three-and-ten when her two older brothers, Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, had been knighted in the capital, and it was there Desmera had first been offered a place in Princess Myrcella's service. It was supposed to be a great honour to serve a member of the royal family, but her love for the princess was the only reason Desmera had not written home yet, begging to return to the Reach.

Whilst Myrcella and her younger brother, Tommen, were both kind and gentle children, their older brother, Prince Joffrey, was the furthest thing from what anyone could call good.

A boy of only four-and-ten, the crown prince was already an insufferable bully who took pleasure in the pain and humiliation of others. Desmera's brothers had borne the brunt of the young boy's attacks back in King's Landing, and so had Desmera. And if it were not for the knowledge that her departure from the capital would cause Princess Myrcella pain, Desmera would have escaped Joffrey's clutches long ago.

Her hatred for the prince (although, something she would never admit out loud) was another reason why, as Desmera sat in that quiet room in Winterfell working with her needle, she had to bite her tongue and resist the urge to speak her mind.

On the other side of her, Lord Eddard's eldest daughter, Sansa, was practically gushing as she giggled with her friends about Joffrey and the betrothal their parents were fostering between them. And Desmera had to fight the instinct to warn the redheaded girl off.

You do not want to marry him, she wanted to yell as Sansa once again went on about how handsome Joffrey was, he may look like a golden knight, but he is nothing but a monster.

Sansa Stark was already very beautiful for her age, much fairer than Desmera, and if Desmera had been the subject of many of Joffrey's twisted games because of his attraction towards her, she shuddered to think what he would do to Sansa if he got the chance. The Stark girl was pretty enough to earn herself a real knight one day, she did not need to settle for marrying such an insipid twat like Joffrey.

Of course, Desmera could not actually say this aloud — she valued her life far too much. But it did not stop her from thinking about it. And the longer Sansa and her friends went on giggling over the crown prince, the harder it became for Desmera to keep her thoughts to herself.

When an argument started up between Sansa and her little sister, Arya, Desmera was thankful for the distraction it provided from the scream that had been building up in her chest.

"Tell me!" Arya was saying demandingly, glaring angrily at Sansa and her friends.

Desmera bit back a smile at the sight. She'd had the great fortune of speaking to the youngest Stark girl a few times over the past week and there was something about her blunt and abrasive nature, and complete disregard for people's class or standing, that was oddly refreshing compared to the endless politeness and faked niceties of court. Desmera found that out of all the Starks she had spoken to so far, Arya was definitely her favourite.

One of Sansa's friends — Jeyne, Desmera remembered — glanced over to where she was sitting besides Princess Myrcella and Desmera quickly looked down at her embroidery so as not to be caught eavesdropping.

"We were talking about the prince," Sansa said softly.

By the gods, Desmera thought with a scoff as she plunged her needle back into silk fabric rather harsher than she intended to, even her voice is pretty!

"Joffrey likes your sister," the girl called Jeyne whispered in agreement. Her voice, unlike Sansa's, was the furthest thing from what one would describe as melodical. The haughty tone of her voice sounded rather like nails scratching at a wooden board. "He told her she was very beautiful."

"He's going to marry her," the littlest of the Starks' companions added dreamily. This, Desmera knew, was Beth Cassel, the daughter of Winterfell's master-at-arms. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm."

Desmera had never understood the appeal of being queen. When she was little, Desmera remembered her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, always fussing over her cousin Margaery, insisting that she hold herself properly and pay attention in her lessons to prepare to one day catch the eye of a king. For her part, Margaery, whilst fond of the notion of being queen, had hated her grandmother's incessant nagging. Desmera remembered how she and Lavinia would always sneak off into the gardens at Highgarden to hide from the old woman.

Sometimes the older girls would even invite Desmera to come with them. And most of the young girl's fondest childhood memories were of the many games she and her cousins would play amongst Highgarden's golden roses as they hid from the formidable Queen of Thorns.

It had been a pleasant surprise when Desmera had learnt of Lavinia's betrothal to Lord Stark's heir that meant her cousin would be travelling north to Winterfell with the king's party.

At that point, it had been over a year since Desmera had last seen any of the members of her mother's family and it felt good to have someone else from home with her on the lengthy journey from King's Landing. Joffrey certainly bothered Desmera less when Lavinia was around.

Lavinia Tyrell had always possessed the infuriating ability to make people like her wherever she went, and even the insipid crown prince was not immune to it. Nor was Lavinia's betrothed, Robb Stark, if what Desmera had observed over the past week was anything to go by. Her cousin may not have been enthusiastic about the betrothal, but if anyone could turn an arranged marriage into one of genuine love, it was the beautiful red rose of Highgarden.

Desmera would be lying if she said she was not jealous of the ease in which Lavinia interacted with others. After all, if Desmera possessed an ounce of her cousin's natural ability to charm people, maybe Joffrey would have never grown to take so much pleasure in tormenting her. It was a trait the girl had inherited from her father, and Desmera's uncle, Lord Mace — not that Lavinia would ever admit it. Desmera, however, only took after the Tyrells in terms of looks.

Her fumbling awkwardness and shy personality was all Redwyne.

Watching as Sansa blushed good-naturedly at her friend's suggestions, Desmera could not help but wonder how the Stark girl would prove to navigate all the complicated court politics of the south. Would she be as cunning as Desmera's cousin Margaery was? Or as naturally apt at disarming people as Lavinia? Or would she be like Desmera, who much preferred to keep quiet and observe the goings-on around her, rather than open her mouth and risk landing herself in it?

Desmera could not say, but it would be interesting to see how Sansa held up if her betrothal to Prince Joffrey really went though. Desmera pitied anyone who was forced to indulge the smarmy prince at any given time — let alone be his wife.

"Beth, you shouldn't make up stories," Sansa corrected the young Cassel girl as she stroked her hair before turning to face Arya. "What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He's very gallant, don't you think?"

Desmera straightened up a little and craned her neck so she could hear better — this, she wanted to know. Arya's opinion of Joffrey Lannister was bound to provide some amusement.

"Jon says he looks like a girl," Arya replied bluntly and Desmera made a show of lifting her embroidery to cover her face in order to hide the smile she was now sporting.

Sansa sighed dramatically. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."

Desmera flinched. She had not expected such a harsh word to come out of the, up until that point, demure girl's mouth. The way Sansa said it did not sit right with Desmera; it was too scornful, too judgmental— it reminded her of the way the lords and ladies of King's Landing teased her brothers.

She knew the girl, who was only a year younger than Desmera herself, could not have possibly come up with that name for her brother on her own. The way she said it spoke of malice and Desmera surmised it must have been Sansa's mother, Lady Catelyn, who had taught her it. But it was a foul word. Desmera's own mother, Lady Mina, would have scowled to hear such a pretty girl swearing as such.

There had been talk amongst the other handmaidens when Jon Snow had not been permitted by Lady Stark to sit with his siblings at the welcoming feast to celebrate the king's arrival in Winterfell. Desmera remembered thinking how horrible it would be to not be allowed to even sit with the rest of your family for supper because of a mere accident of birth.

It made her think of Horas and Hobber again and Desmera felt a rare pang of homesickness for the capital where she knew her brothers currently were. She missed them terribly and found herself wishing they had been invited to journey to Winterfell alongside her.

"He's our brother," Arya said loudly, her voice cutting through the air, catching the attention of the rest of the room.

Myrcella, who had mostly been entertaining Septa Mordane's flattery up until that point, turned to Desmera and leant close. Her face was a mask of worry, as it always was when the princess heard raised voices. Considering Robert, Cersei, and Joffrey's natures, Desmera was surprised her friend had not grown used to the sound of shouting yet.

"What is going on?" Myrcella asked Desmera as Septa Mordane made her way over to Arya and Sansa.

Desmera shook her head. "It is nothing that concerns you, my princess. Merely a squabble between sisters." She tried to sound reassuring, but her eyes were still glued to the Stark girls.

"What are you talking about, children?" Septa Mordane said sharply, directing most of her harsh gaze at Arya. The woman had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. Clearly, she didn't approve of the younger girl's lack of conformity.

"Our half brother," Sansa said, soft and precise. She gave the septa a delicate smile. "Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today," she added, which made Desmera raise her eyebrows, impressed at the girl's quick tact.

Septa Mordane nodded, eyes flickering back over to Desmera and the princess. "Indeed. A great honour for us all."

Myrcella smiled uncomfortably at the compliment, whilst Desmera rolled her eyes openly at the older woman's words this time. That had to be the hundredth compliment she had given to the princess in the past hour.

"Arya, why aren't you at work?" The septa suddenly asked, honing in on Arya like a hawk circling its prey. "Let me see your stitches."

All the other ladies in the room pretended to go back to their own work as the septa held her hand out at Arya expectantly. The poor girl looked like she wanted to scream.

"Here," she said, finally offering her work up.

Desmera flinched at the look of disapproval that flashed across the septa's face. She was reminded of her own septa, back home in the Arbor, who used to whack Desmera with a small wooden cane whenever she got an answer to one of the woman's questions wrong. Thankfully, after Lady Mina had caught her daughter bleeding one night from her knuckles, she had demanded her husband have the woman fired. And when Mina Redwyne orders you to do something, you listen.

"Arya, Arya, Arya," Septa Mordane sighed. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Arya's face flashed red and her eyes filled with tears. Besides Sansa, her friend Jeyne was smirking evilly and even Myrcella had her face twisted in pity. Desmera bit her tongue anxiously in an effort to keep her silence — she knew all too well the humiliation the youngest Stark girl must have been feeling in that moment. Stuck-up sow, Desmera thought bitterly in Mordane's direction.

Suddenly, Arya pushed herself out of her chair and headed for the door.

"Arya, come back here!" The septa shouted after her. "Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You shame us all."

Arya stopped at the door and seemed to consider something for a moment, before she turned back and bit her lip. Desmera watched in mild surprise as the girl managed a stiff little bow to Princess Myrcella. Tears were running freely down Arya's face now and Desmera knew that the effort to keep them in must have become too much to stop them any longer. She felt a fierce rush of admiration for the young girl then. "By your leave, my lady."

Myrcella blinked at her and turned to Desmera for help. But Desmera could do nothing to comfort her friend, for she was still staring numbly at the Stark girl.

"Just where do you think you're going, Arya?" The septa demanded.

Arya glared at the woman viciously, and Desmera saw a glimpse of the wildness the Starks were famed for in her expression. "I have to go shoe a horse," she said, her voice was saccharine before she whirled and made her exit, slamming the door behind her as she went.

Desmera stared at the spot where Arya had been a few seconds before as a tense stillness settled in the room around her. She could not help but wish she were brave enough to openly defy what was expected of her as the young Stark girl had. That she could will herself to talk back to those who belittled her and merely remove herself from their presence, instead of allowing their baiting to persist.

Alas, Desmera lacked the boldness to echo the thoughts that rang in her head aloud. And so, she turned back to her embroidery with a huff as the incessant chatter once again picked up amongst the ladies around her. Septa Mordane was still seething with rage, her dour face contorted with displeasure.

Plunging her needle back into the handkerchief she was sewing, Desmera imagined she were stabbing it into Prince Joffrey's head instead.

It made her feel a little better.

__________

Robb Stark

Robb had always liked to spar. He liked the way the wooden sword Ser Rodrik still made him use when he fought felt in his hands. He liked the rhythm of the movement and the way the constant slapping of blade-against-blade cleared his mind. He liked japing and jesting with Jon and Theon as he did so, dancing with their words as well as their swords to their own amusement. What he did not like, however, was sparring with Prince Joffrey.

He had not held a particularly high opinion of the crown prince in his mind prior to their sparring — Joffrey had proved to be much too Lannister in nature for Robb's liking, as was evident by the lion he currently sported on his coat-of-arms. But it was not until he had beat the blonde boy in a spar that Robb realised just how much of a prick Prince Joffrey truly was.

The belligerent way that the prince had refused to accept the defeat as his own fault was enough to make Robb roll his eyes. But it was the snivelling way Joffrey kept making jabs at Robb under his breath that had the young wolf ready to howl.

Even now as they stood, watching as Bran and Prince Tommen readied for their own fight, Robb could see the prince whispering animatedly to his guards across the courtyard and casting dark looks in Robb's direction.

The one saving grace of the situation was that Lavinia looked as put out by the prince's behaviour as he was from where she sat against the northern wall of the courtyard with her handmaiden, Lady Ellyn Rowan. She had cheered him on loudly as he fought, much to Joffrey's disgruntlement, and the sound of her voice encouraging him was enough to stop Robb from pummelling the unbearable prince into the ground. He did not want to upset Lavinia and her friend, after all.

Still, it became harder and harder to refrain himself from doing anything to the prince as the jabs continued. Robb tried, instead, to focus on Bran and Tommen circling one another as they readied for the drill.

Both boys had been heavily padded to ensure their safety because of their tender age. Robb had been forced to swallow his amusement as Bran had walked out onto the yard earlier and headed for him and Theon, looking as if he had strapped a feather pillow onto himself. And it was not helped by Prince Tommen, who had been plumper than the other boy to begin with, and now appeared positively round because of his padding.

The younger prince had gone over to Lavinia and Ellyn by the wall to ask the rose to wish him good luck. She had obliged and had given Tommen a delicate kiss on the cheek as her favour. This, Bran had complained, was unfair. And so, he too got a kiss for good luck on the cheek from Lady Lavinia before the spar began. Theon had then jested that he should have asked for a kiss before his match against Ser Rodrik, to which Robb had promptly given his friend a slap on the back of the head and told him to shut up.

Now, both Bran and Tommen had begun their fight, huffing and puffing under the weight of the padded swords they were using. Ser Rodrik was watching them closely, his great, white whiskers twitching with the effort of it. Robb's voice rang the loudest throughout the courtyard as he cheered his brother on with the other men around him. Lavinia and Ellyn were clapping politely and whispering to one another, refusing to pick a side, whilst Theon watched it all with his usual smile of wry contempt.

Above them, Robb knew Jon was watching from one of the windows in the covered bridge. He had not been permitted to spar with them today on the orders of Catelyn Stark, something only Robb had contested whilst his half-brother had just accepted the defeat quietly. Apparently, it was forbidden for a bastard to spar with a prince, lest he damage him. And so, Jon had been left out.

It was yet another reason for Robb to resent Prince Joffrey. Trueborn or not, Robb knew enough about the prince to know that his brother was a better man than Joffrey could ever be. And Robb would have taken sparring with Jon any day over the king's insipid son.

At least his brother still had the Tyrell men to drill with. From what he had seen, Jon seemed to enjoy his time with the men Robb's betrothed had brought north with her — the men Jon would be travelling with when the time came for him to leave for Highgarden. To leave Robb.

Robb bit back a sigh at that and forced himself to refocus. His family's departures from Winterfell were for him to worry about at another time. Not now.

He knew his father had hoped for him and Joffrey to get along as he and Robert had once done in their youth, but the crown prince was not his father and neither was Robb. He had been polite and done his duty in welcoming Joffrey to Winterfell, but no one could force him to do any more than that.

"Go on, Bran!" Robb jeered as his younger brother whacked at Tommen.

He felt a little guilty for cheering at the young prince's demise — unlike his brother, Tommen had been nothing but sweet to him so far. And yet, Robb knew where his loyalties lay. Bran was his kin, he wanted him to win. Especially if it meant wiping the stupid smirk off of Joffrey's face.

It would no doubt wound the prince's pride to know that he and his brother had both been bested by Starks. After all, Bran and Robb were not the nephews of Jaime Lannister, nor lived in the same keep as Barristan the Bold. The only knight they had in their family to live up to was the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, and Robb could not remember the last time he had seen the man. He could not have been much older than Rickon was now.

Suddenly, a shout rang out as Bran managed to knock Prince Tommen off his feet. Robb felt his face split into a grin at his brother's victory, whilst Theon laughed along with some of the other men at the sight of the small prince rolling around on the ground. The poor boy's padding was preventing him from getting up.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out, silencing the laughter as he pulled Tommen back onto his feet. Robb mussed up Bran's hair proudly. "Well fought, boys. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armour." The master-at-arms looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"

"Gladly," Robb said, briefly casting his eyes over to where Lavinia was watching him. He would not say no to another chance to put Joffrey on his arse in front of his betrothed.

Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Ser Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like spun gold, like a lion's pelt, and he looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik. Let us fight like men and give the ladies something good to watch."

Robb felt his ire rise as he watched the prince wink at Lavinia and Ellyn. Even more so when his betrothed flushed in response.

"You are children," Theon said with a bark of laughter. In truth, the Greyjoy boy was only a few name days older than Robb himself, but that counted for everything in the eyes of Robb's father. If it were not for his status as Lord Eddard's hostage and his family's history, Theon may have already been wed and permitted to return home.

It is strange, Robb thought. He regarded Theon in the same way he did the rest of his brothers, and yet it did not change the fact that the man was essentially his family's prisoner. The politics of such an arrangement muddled too much with the emotions of it for Robb. And he thought maybe Ned Stark felt the same — that was why his father had not yet freed Theon. Not because he did not trust him.

"Robb may be a child," Joffrey rebuffed. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Stark with a play sword."

"You got more swats than you gave, Joff," Robb said amusedly. Hearing the prince call Robb a child had almost made him laugh. He was practically a man grown, whilst Joffrey was only a boy of four-and-ten. "Are you afraid?"

Prince Joffrey turned to Robb mockingly. "Oh, terrified," he said, his voice haughty. Robb's lips curled up into a snarl. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Robb saw Lavinia turn to say something to Ellyn beside her as he gritted his teeth and tried to keep his anger in control. It was a good thing he'd had time to lock Grey Wind in his room before he had headed down to the courtyard, otherwise he was sure his wolf would be growling by now.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his whiskers as he turned to the prince. "What are you suggesting?"

"Live steel." Joffrey smirked.

"Done," Robb shot back, unable to stop himself as he took a step forward. Joffrey was tall for his age, but Robb still had at least an inch on him as he glared down at the prince. "You'll be sorry."

The master-at-arms put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."

Joffrey said nothing. This time it was the man Robb recognised as the Hound who spoke. He had a wicked glint in his eye, so unlike the one in Lavinia's that Robb was used to. And Robb found himself wondering, as the man opened his mouth, whether all those in King's Landing were so malevolent of nature. "This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge to his sword?"

Robb seethed. No one disrespected Ser Rodrik Cassel like that. His father would have Clegane's head, scarred and all, if he were here.

Across the yard, Lavinia and Ellyn had stood up from the wall and were watching the men wearily.

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane," Ser Rodrik replied sharply. "And you would do well not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" the burned dog asked.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of age."

The Hound turned to Robb. He was even more intimidating up close and muscled like a bull. "How old are you, boy?"

"Nearly seventeen," Robb replied, not liking the way the burned man looked down at him.

"I killed a man at fourteen. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."

Robb bristled then, the dog's words having succeeded in wounding his pride. He wanted to yell — Clegane had come of age at the beginning of a rebellion, of course he had killed young. Robb had only ever known peace in his lifetime and he was not eager for it to change. But that did not mean the prince and his men could look down on him for it.

He turned to Ser Rodrik, his fists balled. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Then beat him with a tourney sword," Ser Rodrik said.

Infuriatingly, Joffrey just shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not too old." Once again, a chorus of laughter rang out from the Lannister men.

Robb was done with holding back his anger. As the prince turned to walk away, the slew of curses that escaped his lips would have normally been enough to earn him a clip around the ear from his mother. It took Theon grabbing his arms to stop him launching himself at Joffrey. Ser Rodrik beside him had begun tugging at his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his brother. "Come, Tommen," the arrogance in his voice was unhidden. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics."

That brought more laughter from the Lannisters and more curses from Robb. Theon's grip on his arm tightened as Robb strained against him, and his friend did not let go until the princes and their party were safely away.

Robb rubbed furiously at his arm as Theon finally released him, scowling at his friend who he was sure had left a bruise with his grip. A delicate hand touched down on his own and Robb was surprised to see that Lavinia had joined the boys and Ser Rodrik now that Joffrey was gone, Ellyn not far behind her. He had not heard his betrothed approach and he felt himself blush at the realisation that she had witnessed everything he had said and done in his anger at the crown prince.

She did not laugh at him, though. Instead, a soft smile of understanding played on her red lips. Robb did not know if that made him feel better or worse.

"You, boy!" Ser Rodrik said as he regained his composure and turned to Robb, finally leaving his whiskers alone. "What were you thinking? You cannot speak to a crown prince like that! No matter how much he riles you up. Not to mention, if that had been a real fight then your anger would have likely caused you to lose. Anger is only useful if you can control it and hone it."

Robb turned from Lavinia shamefully and faced the furious master-at-arms. He felt a bite of bitterness in his blood. "You are right, Ser. Next time I fight Prince Joffrey, I will control my anger and use it to put that prick of a prince in his place."

Theon and a few of the other Stark men laughed. Ser Rodrik just sighed and shook his head before he waddled off with Bran in tow.

Robb knew the old man was probably off to tell his father of what had gone down between him and Joffrey, but Robb could not bring himself to care. Besides, if Ned Stark could hold a grudge against the queen simply because she was a Lannister, then Robb should be allowed to dislike the prince. He was not Sansa, after all. He was not being sent south to wed Prince Joffrey. No, Robb already had his betrothed here with him and he much preferred Lavinia to the rest of the southerners he had met so far.

"You were great," Lavinia said kindly, pulling Robb out of his thoughts. Theon was talking to Ellyn now and he gave Robb a wink before leading the other girl off with the rest of the Stark men, leaving him alone with his betrothed. "Joffrey was being a sore loser. The queen never let him train with live steel once on the journey from King's Landing, I do not doubt he only brought it up to try and save face after you beat him."

Robb shrugged, but he did feel his anger subside somewhat at the girl's words. There was something that was still bothering him, though, and he could not get it out of his head.

"You blushed," he said, his voice more accusing than he had intended it to be.

Lavinia queried an eyebrow at him. "Excuse me?"

"When the prince winked at you," Robb explained. He felt a bit silly now that he was saying it out loud. "You blushed."

There was a silence for a moment as Lavinia seemed to think on what he had said before she suddenly burst into laughter and shook her head.

"And you think it was genuine?" She asked with a smirk, her chuckles calming down as she took in Robb's confused face. "Here I was thinking you were angry at the prince taunting you, not because you were jealous that Joffrey winked at me. You Starks really are as obtuse as you seem. Of course I blushed, he is the crown prince. He would have taken offence if I did not show that I was at the very least flattered by his attention."

Robb furrowed his brow, still not quite understanding. "It was a mummery?"

"Yes," Lavinia nodded with a smile. "It was a mummery. My grandmother always taught me that the best way to get by with men like Prince Joffrey — men who have never been denied anything they wanted their entire lives — was to play into it. To appease them just enough so that they leave you alone, but not enough that they pursue you any further. Trust me, Robb, the prince is the last person that could impress me."

A small, sheepish smile crept its way up Robb's face at that. He felt as if he had been an idiot. Lady Catelyn had always told him how different the politics of the south worked compared to the north and praised him for being more mischievous and clever than the rest of his siblings when it came to the game of words. But Robb was still his father's son at heart, and it seemed he had a lot more to learn about the way things in the other kingdoms worked than he had thought.

"Oh," was all he said and Lavinia chuckled again.

She linked her arm through his own and began leading him over to the armoury so that he could put away his sparring sword. "I must say," she began, a frown suddenly replacing the smile on her lips, "I do feel sorry for your sister, Sansa. She is a sweet girl and I fear what being in King's Landing with Joffrey might do to her."

Robb felt himself sigh at her words. He would be lying if Lavinia's concerns about Sansa had not been playing on his mind as well in the days since his father and King Robert had announced the betrothal between his sister and the prince. He was worried enough about his father leaving for the capital with his sisters and Bran already, and the news of Joffrey and Sansa's pending marriage had only accelerated his anxiety.

Growing up, Robb and Sansa had always been close in a way that neither one of them were with the rest of their siblings. Jon was Robb's best friend, but Sansa was the sibling Robb felt like he could relate to the most. They were both the eldest children, after all — Sansa was the eldest girl and Robb the eldest boy. And it meant there was a level of expectation put onto them that the others simply did not receive.

Both of them had been groomed from a young age to do their duty. Robb had to bear the weight of being Ned Stark's heir. Trying to fill his father's shoes and live up to his expectations was tiring, and Robb still doubted whether he would ever manage to make the other Lords of the North respect him as much as they did Lord Eddard. And Sansa had been molded her entire life into being the perfect lady. As the eldest daughter, it was understood that she would be the one most likely out of her and Arya to make an advantageous match when the time came for her to wed. That meant Sansa had always been expected to one day leave the North and head south.

Robb still remembered a time, long before his sister had enamoured herself with tales of the South and accepted her station, when Sansa had first learnt of what was expected from her as a highborn lady from their mother and had spent the entire night afterwards curled up crying in Robb's arms.

Thinking of his little sister left to the whims of a prick like Joffrey, Robb found himself wishing for the first time that he was already the Lord of Winterfell so he might refuse the betrothal and keep his family safely with him away from King's Landing.

But Robb knew that was not possible. He had to trust that his father knew what he was doing in accepting the offer to become Hand of the King and that Ned Stark would continue to do what was best for both Sansa and Arya when it came to their futures. When Robb had confided in his father of his concerns surrounding Prince Joffrey, Eddard Stark had only told his son to continue to give the prince a chance and promised that he would not marry Sansa to the boy if Robb's fears proved to be true.

"Robb?" Lavinia said, shocking him out of his thoughts. His betrothed was looking at him with worry and it was only then that Robb realised his mind had run away with itself.

"Sorry, Lavinia," Robb finally replied. "I was just thinking of what you said. I would be lying if I said I did not have concerns about my sister marrying the prince. But I trust my father to make the right choice. Just because we may think Joffrey is a prick, does not necessarily mean he will treat my sister the same. She is his betrothed after all and from what Sansa has told me, he has been nothing but nice to her so far."

Lavinia nodded and gave him a small smile. "You are right. I am the one who should be sorry, Robb, I should not have doubted your father's judgement. Your sister will thrive in the southern court and I'm sure Lord Eddard would not agree to anything that would make her unhappy."

Her courtesies had come out now, worried that she had upset him.

Robb shook his head and took Lavinia's hand into his own to show he was not mad at her concern for Sansa. If anything, he was pleased she seemed to already care so much for his sister. "You do not have anything to apologise for, Lavinia. I want you to be able to speak freely with me and I with you. I am an obtuse northerner after all, I'm much better with honesty than the tireless farces of the South."

Lavinia chuckled at that and Robb felt a grin appear on his own face.

"As you say, Robb," Lavinia teased. "But if I am to be frank, I must admit, having now watched you fight, that I do not doubt my brothers could beat you easily in a spar if they wished. It seems that is one thing the south does better."

Raising his eyebrows in amusement, Robb decided to join in on the jest. He appreciated the change in subject. As much as he had admired Lavinia's concern for his sister, he wanted to put off thinking about his family's departure from Winterfell for as long as possible. "Am I mistaken, or was that a threat, my lady?"

"Only if you displease me, my lord," Lavinia retorted with a giggle. Robb thought that he could listen to her laugh all day long and never tire of it.

"Well, then I shall do my best not to displease you," he smiled. The two of them had come to a stop outside the door to the armoury and Robb pushed the door open, gesturing for Lavinia to enter before him. "After you."

He heard Lavinia continue to laugh as she walked inside the old building to rejoin Theon and Ellyn, who were waiting for them. And Robb felt a small chuckle escape his own lips as he stepped in after her, letting the door swing shut behind them.

__________

A Fortnight Later

Jon Snow

It had been almost a full moon's turn since King Robert and his company had arrived at Winterfell and still Jon had not been able to clear his mind of what he had seen the night of the welcoming feast. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was back in the crypts, watching in horror as Old Nan turned to him with her own eyes shifting colours and shoved that wooden chest onto his own. And when he finally managed to fall into a restless sleep, his dreams were filled with whispers and ravens, and rubies.

Even now, as Jon stood watching Mikken, the Blacksmith, working on the sword he had commissioned for Arya as a parting gift, his mind still wandered to the dream he had of the dead woman with the blue-eyes. Something about it unsettled him to his core and, though it was a rather mild day for the North, Jon felt himself shiver.

Thankfully, Jon was drawn from his memory of the dream as he spotted the familiar figure of Elias Mullendore making his way across the courtyard towards him. The young knight had been a blessing of sorts since the night of the feast and had eagerly welcomed Jon's enthusiasm to train with him as much as they could before they left for the Reach.

Jon had never trained so hard in his life as he had the past few weeks, but it had proved to be a great distraction from his whirring thoughts and the perfect excuse to keep himself out of Winterfell's halls. And consequently, as far away from Old Nan as he could possibly get.

The old woman had not approached him since she found him in the crypts, but Jon swore he could feel her eyes following him whenever he passed by her whilst she watched over Bran and Rickon. As such, he had taken to avoiding her altogether, which was a much easier task than it might have been if Old Nan was not mostly confined to the Great Keep because of her age. It still puzzled Jon how she had even managed to make it down to the crypts in the first place, let alone how she knew he would be there as well.

Shaking his head, Jon turned to Elias and flashed the man a smile. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Elias shrugged, giving Jon one of his easy grins as he returned the boy's greeting. "I was just coming to check you are not skipping out on your packing. We leave tomorrow and Davis won't be happy if we're not ready. I think he's half tempted to ride with us to the Neck to make sure I don't get us lost or separated from the king's men on the journey. As if I would." Elias scoffed.

Earlier that day, Davis had joined King Robert, along with Jon's father and Robb, on a final hunt to celebrate the royal party's stay in Winterfell. They would all be leaving on the morrow and Jon felt a jolt of excitement as he thought of how close he was to finally getting a chance to escape his bastard status. He would not have to worry about Old Nan or Lady Catelyn once he reached Highgarden, and the notion was so liberating that he could not help it as his smile widened.

Jon would miss his siblings, of course — Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and even Sansa, whom he had never been as close to because of her likeness to Lady Catelyn in how she regarded him — but he was confident he had made the right choice in accepting Garlan Tyrell's offer. After all, he would not be the only member of his family who was moving on and he knew he would have felt like a burden staying behind with Robb, Rickon and Lady Catelyn without his father in Winterfell to vouch for him.

He doubted even his close friendship with Robb would be enough to stop Catelyn Stark kicking him out on his arse with her husband gone and unable to stop her.

Besides, Jon would be travelling with Lord Eddard and three of his siblings, along with the king's party, for at least a month before he would have to leave them. So it was not as if he would have to say his goodbyes to his entire family all at once.

And after he was knighted, Jon would be free to travel wherever he wished and swear himself to whomever he pleased without any lord or lady being able to refuse him because he was not worthy enough. Jon knew it would be expected for him to swear himself to the Tyrells after his squiring was completed in order to show his gratitude, but he could not shake the idea of riding back to the North and pledging himself to his brother's side after earning his titles — this time as an equal, not a scorned burden.

"Aye, I'm almost packed," Jon replied to Elias as both men turned back to watch Mikken work. "I only have a few more pairs of breeches to pack along with some books and then I'm done."

"Good, lad," Elias clapped Jon on the back before tilting his head in question as he took in the thin, small sword Mikken had almost finished forging. "What's that for, Snow? You're not thinking of taking that to Highgarden, are you? Ser Garlan will beat you easily when you train with him if you do."

Jon chuckled at his friend's confusion and shook his head. "No, I am planning on giving it to Arya before we depart for the kingsroad. I debated giving it to her nearer to our separation from the king's party, but I did not want to risk Father seeing it. She's too small still to wield a proper sword, but this one will do nicely enough whilst she learns."

Elias nodded approvingly. Jon knew the older boy would not judge his sister's will to fight — he had remarked often as they sparred that he regretted not being able to travel to Bear Island before their company headed back to the Reach. Ser Elias believed that the Mormont's had the right of it and that everyone who wanted to learn to wield a blade should be allowed to do so. He had even confided in Jon to teaching Lady Margaery a few lessons with a dagger back in Highgarden.

"Davis would have my head if he knew," Elias had said to Jon as they sat on the wall of Winterfell's courtyard to catch their breath. "But I do not think Ser Garlan would mind. He'd be glad to know his sister knew how to protect herself. I would have given lessons to Lady Lavinia as well if she asked, but she was always too busy with Lord Willas. And I'm sure your brother will take good care of her regardless."

Jon had been intrigued to know more about Lady Margaery and the Tyrells. He had asked Lavinia a few questions before and she had answered him politely, but he got the impression that his curiosity was making her homesick, so he had not not pushed it. She had been nicer to him than any of the other ladies from the South and the last thing he had wanted was to make his brother's betrothed upset.

"Your sister is a fierce little thing," Elias said fondly. He had caught Arya a few times trying to mimic his and Jon's movements when they trained. "Maybe we'll have to find somewhere to sneak off on the kingsroad and put her through her paces."

Jon snorted at the idea. "I'm sure she'd enjoy that."

Their conversation was cut short as a sudden, piercing shriek rang through the air. Both Jon and Elias whipped their heads around in the direction of the cry, but neither had time to react before Ghost came bounding silently up to Jon's side. The direwolf seemed distressed and Jon could tell immediately that Ghost wanted him to follow the wolf as he tugged at Jon's sleeve for a moment before taking off in the direction of the First Keep.

Without hesitation, Jon ran after him, barely registering the sound of Elias' footsteps on his heels as he felt a lump catch in his throat. Whatever had caused that scream, it was nothing good.

Rounding the corner past the Guard's Hall, Jon felt his heart stop as he took in the sight at the bottom of the First Keep in the shadow of the Broken Tower. Sprawled on the hard ground below the old building lay a small figure, twisted and broken in ways that seemed grotesquely impossible. A cry ripped from Jon's throat and his knees buckled beneath him as he registered the shock of auburn hair and a jolt of recognition hit him.

It was Bran. The broken figure was Bran. His little brother.

Behind him, he heard Elias curse as he turned to one of the men that had gathered in the small crowd around the keep to ask what had happened. But Jon did not register anything that was said. His eyes were glued to Bran's crumpled body.

He looks so small, Jon thought sadly as he continued to stare in a daze of disbelief. Has Bran always been that small?

The shrieking sound that had initially alerted Jon to the trouble proved to be emitting from Lady Catelyn. She and Maester Luwin were sitting on the floor around Bran's body, both with devastated looks on their faces. Catelyn was crying, her face a constant stream of tears as she wailed for her darling son to wake up. Luwin, on the other hand, had contorted his face into one of concentration as he called orders to the men around him to help him lift the boy off the ground and bring him inside so he could treat him.

A group of men surged forward at his request. Two braced themselves at Bran's feet whilst the other two moved to lift the boy's shoulders. Maester Luwin was now coaxing Lady Catelyn into standing, whispering reassurances to her as they followed the men bringing Bran into the Great Keep.

Jon watched them leave numbly, unable to rouse himself as his shock kept him pinned to the harsh ground. His thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and sadness. Only one coherent thought managed to break through the fog of his mind.

Bran had never fallen before.

His brother had been climbing since he could first walk and Jon had never known the boy to be anything but sure-footed. It seemed strange that he would fall now, whilst the king's party still resided in Winterfell, right before Bran was due to head south to King's Landing with his father and sisters. Jon remembered the encounter he had in the crypts with Old Nan the other week and felt himself shiver. Why was it that everything seemed to be falling apart? Why were these terrible things happening?

Shaking his head, Jon allowed himself to be pulled up as Elias helped him to his feet. Now was not the time to be coming up with crazy theories. What happened to Bran was a coincidence; it had nothing to do with Jon's dreams, nor what Old Nan had said to him in the crypts. Bran had been climbing for as long as Jon could remember. The walls of the First Keep and the Broken Tower had been in disrepair for years. It was an accident. A tragic, inconspicuous accident.

But Jon could not shake the fear that had seized him since he had first spotted the crumbled body beneath the tower. And whatever happened now — whatever might have caused Bran's fall — Jon knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

author's note.
probably won't get the chance to update again until september! i'm going away for the next month and i plan on barely spending any time on my phone lol. but once i get back i plan on sorting out an update schedule for all my fics.

anyway, i hope you enjoyed the rewritten version of chapter three. please vote and comment if you did <3