Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

18th Day of the 7th Moon

The Heir of Winterfell

He was to be a father.

Not only that but there was also another sibling on the way.

The news left him happy and worried in equal measure, even more than before. That was far from his only worry - his father's departure had him fretting even before the ominous revelations dropped at the last moment.

Many things made chilling sense after that fateful morning; the usually calm and placid Lord of Winterfell had begun making quick and daring moves, and it seemed it was for good reason. His father possibly rode south to his death, and the only consolation Robb had was that things were supposedly different now - Eddard Stark had brought many leal swords and sound advice with him.

Howland Reed might be a small and quiet man, but he had cunning and wisdom in equal measure.

No, he could see how his father had taken Jon's foreboding warning and had changed many a thing.

But the Heir of Winterfell couldn't help but worry - things might have diverged, yet trouble still brewed.

The Ironmen loomed from the west, dark, icy foes stirred from the myths of yore from the north, dragons and sellsails from the east, and the south seemed to have an uneasy peace.

His cousin, no, his brother, because Jon was still his brother in all ways that mattered, had easily shown with a few words how fragile the calm that had enveloped Westeros was. Robb knew his history well enough - every generation, there was a war or two, and House Stark would not be able to avoid this one. While the Baratheon dynasty seemed stable, he had seen the king with his own eyes - the days when the Demon of the Trident was a lauded warrior were long gone. No, it was only past glory and new, uneasy vows that held the kingdoms together, and Robert Baratheon himself had shown that oaths of fealty could be broken and the Iron Throne snatched if you had enough swords, no matter how righteous your cause.

It was no wonder that everything could go to shite once Robert Baratheon died. The royal succession was oft messy, even more so when the next in power would be Joffrey, who was overly arrogant and quite spoiled under his courteous veneer. It was little wonder so many used the tumultuous time to make a grab for power.

And Robb Stark wasn't ready; he didn't feel ready to lead men into battle, nor did he feel ready to be a lord or a father.

Winter was coming.

The Starks always prepare and endure, my son; they have done so since the Age of Heroes.

Robb Stark was not ready, so he did everything in his power to prepare. His mother had been delighted to continue expanding upon his knowledge of the Southron Houses and their different feuds and interests. The time spent in the yard and the solar only increased - his father had inked down his woes, considerations, and plans for him to mull over.

Thankfully, Myrcella and his mother were deftly handling the resupplying of their larders and granaries and replenishing the household staff that had left with his father. That left Robb with the time and energy to focus on his tasks - lordship duties, personal training at arms, and swelling the number of the House Stark household guard.

His father had taken a fifth of Winterfell's Household down south, along with Jory, and now, Robb was faced with the daunting task of refilling the household guards and expanding them. Named the Royal Guard before the Conquest, they were still the peerless elite and the leal backbone of their house, albeit going by a far more mundane name now. Recruiting and training new members was a slow process, but nothing worthwhile was ever easy. Those who wanted to serve House Stark in the North were not hard to find, yet Robb had to screen every single man with the aid of Rodrik Cassel.

Still, no matter how hard he prepared or how much he did, it did not feel enough; Robb trained until he could lift his weighted sword no more; he planned and ran figures and fights in his mind until his head got dizzy.

But it did not feel enough.

"Are you trying to become a fish by staying in the spring for so long?"

With a groan, Robb opened his eyes and craned his neck to be met with Theon's amused grin.

"If staying in the hot springs overmuch was enough to turn one into fish, you'd have become a squid long ago," he joked weakly.

"And what would you do without my company, I wonder?" His friend quickly discarded his clothes and dipped into the pool himself. Theon was pale and lean, but at seven and ten, Robb was finally half an inch taller than his friend. "It seems that lordship has made you a man too busy to have fun."

"I have duties now," Robb sighed.

His feelings about his friend had grown cool. At the beginning, he was in denial about Theon's possible future deeds and betrayal, but upon some introspection, he realised that he too would choose kin over kith every time. A difficult choice as it may be, but blood was thicker than water, and Greyjoy was an old line of reavers and raiders since the Age of Heroes, and a single hostage-turned-ward could never truly undo that.

His mother had always treated Theon with distrust, as an outright hostage even, and maybe she had a point. Still, while the feelings of friendship had cooled down, Robb tried to keep treating Theon well in his spare time, which was dwindling more and more. That did not prevent him from holding a feeling of caution within.

"Understandable," Theon tutted cheekily, "You ensured your wife is round with babe, not that I blame you. If I was wed to such a beauty, I'd hardly leave the wedding bed!"

He did not raise to the bait, "There's some time until she starts showing. Oh, are you perhaps looking for a wife yourself? Has some maiden caught your eye?"

His friend snorted.

"Aplenty, but I am in no rush. Looking at you, being a husband is an unfortunately busy thing - you scarcely have time to visit Wintertown with me," there was a tinge of sourness in Theon's voice.

"It's more the lordship than anything else."

"I've yet to see or hear of any lords practice so hard or so much in the yard, Robb. You're training as if you want to join the kingsguard and become the next Dragonknight or the Bold."

"Mayhaps," Robb shrugged, "it helps me clear my mind, truth be told. And, no matter how lauded the Dragonknight and his swordskills were, he still lost to an elderly Cregan Stark. A lord must not abandon his skill at arms."

"You have all the swords in the North to fight for you," Theon wryly shook his head. "All this practice is for nought."

"You say that as if you don't spend many hours each week polishing your skills with a bow."

Archery was traditionally a skill considered below most of the nobility, for the smallfolk or those too craven to fight at close quarters, or something to entertain yourself and show off during hunts and the such at most. Yet, Theon had a great talent for marksmanship, and not pursuing that was folly.

"Ah, but your sword must be plenty polished by your wife," Theon crassly laughed at his sputter and moved to the opposing side of the pool, away from Robb's swat.

"I hope you remember your courtesies in public - my wife or not, Myrcella is still a princess and the future Lady of Winterfell besides," he reminded, trying to suppress his rising annoyance. His vexing friend was very good at dancing around the line of vulgarity in private, almost offensive but not quite. "How are my sisters doing in their archery practice?"

The Greyjoy heir straightened up, and his face grew thoughtful.

"I'm still surprised Lady Stark entertained, let alone allowed such a thing. But, to answer your question, both are doing quite decent for novices. Sansa is quite talented but mostly goes through the motions, while Arya is… enthusiastic. If she keeps it up, she'd be a force to be reckoned with in a few years."

Robb let out a heavy sigh; he was delighted his sisters were here. No, his siblings and parents would not die, and Winterfell would not fall, not now, not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

"Do you miss your home?"

The question made Theon still, then crane his neck and look to the sky. It was not a topic Robb tried to breach - he still remembered the boy who arrived nearly a decade ago, looking lost and alone. He wanted to make him feel welcome as much as he could, but alas…

"Sometimes," he admitted quietly. "But I scarcely remember Pyke anymore - only the gloomy dreariness and the smell of salt in the sea wind remain. Yet, neither my father nor sister have sent a word for nearly ten years now…"

Robb closed his eyes for a moment; blood ran thicker than water indeed…

For a brief moment, he considered letting Theon write to his father, but the idea was quickly discarded. After all, he was a hostage.

Gods, knowing what could be was such a curse, and it left him both wary and weary.

With a slight groan, Robb stretched out his fatigued form and got up.

"Leaving already, Stark?"

It had been some time since he prayed.

"I have a stone waiting for me by the heart tree and a load of work besides."

Theon shrugged with a huff.

***

The Princess

Winterfell's godswood was far older and more primal than the one at the Red Keep. Still, Myrcella did not mislike it, but she had to be careful as she stepped over the mossy stones and errant roots, trying to make her trip.

A few birds sang their chirpy song, making the place oddly calming.

Before her, Grey Wind faithfully trodded, silvery paws making no sound. It made sense that people feared the direwolves; they would undoubtedly be a terror in the forest. This one already reached her chest in height and still had a tad more to grow. His littermates were slightly smaller in stature but no less imposing.

Rosamund walked behind her, warily looking around as if something would dare to jump out of the next bush and ambush a direwolf. Or pass through Winterfell's ironclad defence that continued strengthening even under Robb.

It took them some time, but they finally arrived at the centre of the ancient grove, where the enormous heart tree loomed with its grasping red leaves and bone-like bark before a black pool of still water. Undoubtedly, it was far more ominous a sight with its melancholic face than the Sept, but it lacked the overly righteous septons and septas that loved preaching their sermons and rebuking you at the slightest misbehaviour.

Truthfully, the princess never cared for religion - if her royal parents only paid the Faith lip service, why would she be any different?

And here, in Winterfell, the Old Gods lacked the annoying clergy of the south. Sure, there was Septon Chayle and Septa Mordane, but they were confined to that shack they called Sept.

Her personal Septa, Eglantine, was quietly dismissed shortly after the royal party departed - Myrcella needed neither a judgemental priestess nor her mother's spy.

Shaking her head, the princess focused her gaze on her husband, back nestled amidst the pale bark of the heart tree, his chest rising rhythmically as the enormous ancestral blade of House Stark, Ice, was clutched within its grasp. A monstrous thing of Valyrian Steel, barely shorter than him when upright in stature.

Yet, he carried it almost everywhere and could already wield it well enough.

She gently approached and shook his shoulder, attempting to wake him up.

"Cella?"

His eyes blinked drowsily at her, and a giggle escaped her lips.

"You missed luncheon, Robb, and I was beginning to worry," Myrcella sighed. "Thankfully, Grey Wind always knows where to find you."

The direwolf was not only well-trained but incredibly smart, and hearing his name spoken, a shaggy silvery tail began to wag furiously.

"It seems that you've stolen my direwolf," he rubbed away the sleepiness from his eyes. "Ah damn it, I was supposed to review plans and reports in the solar."

"And eat, don't forget to eat," she shook her head wryly. "You're running yourself ragged."

"But-"

"Taking an afternoon or a whole day off every once in a while would not hurt. It might even help - everything should seem easier with a rested body and mind."

"As my princess commands," he surrendered with a chuckle that made her heart flutter. "I suppose I can take it slow for a day every now and then. How are you feeling?"

His face gazed at her belly with concern, making her sigh.

"I'm pregnant, not a cripple, Robb. And to answer your question, I've had better days."

The feelings of nausea and exhaustion came and went as wilfully as the wind, and she found herself letting the reins of her temper slip from time to time. Still, the prospect of bearing a son warmed her; even her catty mother took joy in her children.

Robb finally stirred from his resting place, stretched lazily, her nose wrinkled as she heard his joints and back pop.

"I can get Rosamund to fetch a luncheon here if you wish."

"Nay, I'll have it in the family dining chambers," he waved away and led them back to the Great Keep. "Keep me company?"

She inclined her head in agreement and hooked her hand through his elbow.

"I had a few suggestions to discuss with you either way."

That made him laugh; it was a clear, ringing sound that also brought a smile to her face.

"Wasn't I supposed to be resting?"

"I hope it's not such a chore to listen to me," she retorted coyly.

"Never!"

"Well, it's just a suggestion I brought to your Lady Mother, and she tentatively agreed. I intend to do most of the work and the planning myself."

"Oh?" That seemed to grab Robb's attention, and his blue eyes lit up with interest.

"I want to restore the broken tower and the First Keep."

"That is doable enough, although it shall cost quite some coin," Robb rubbed his stubble thoughtfully.

"Not too much - we have the masons, we have the workhands, summer shall stay for quite some time, and such an endeavour shall barely make a dent in Winterfell's coffers."

"I am inclined to agree with the watch tower, but what shall the First Keep be used for? The upkeep for an empty building alone is not… insignificant in the long run."

"I was thinking of inviting a few ladies-in-waiting from your bannermen, with Lady Stark's input and permission," she used her free hand to twirl her golden curls. "Placing them in the Great Keep feels inappropriate since they are not kin, yet they are not exactly guests to stay in the lacklustre Guest House, which can also use renovation-"

"Do it."

"Wait, just like that?"

"I have no issues with such preparations," Robb smiled warmly. "You can tear down the Guest House and remake it completely if you wish. My only condition is that all the workers are from Wintertown and the lands of House Stark. You mean to form some sort of northern court by summoning ladies-in-waiting?"

"A small one, to get to know the daughters of the northern bannermen," her words were slow and deliberate.

There was a hint of caution in her husband as his gaze grew thoughtful. House Stark notoriously did not bother with the usual scheming ever present in the South, but that did not mean it did not exist. Having a few confidantes would allow Myrcella to make connections and pull knowledge and influence into her grasp.

In King's Landing, her royal mother had entrenched herself firmly in the court, letting Myrcella feel stifled by a gaggle of Lannisters, Lannys, and Lannetts, all hailing from Lannisport or more distant branches of the Lions of the Rock.

Truthfully, she could do something similar here, but the princess was wary of Cersei Lannister inserting her own spies, and thus, she would court the northern maidens instead. It didn't seem daunting, as the Lords of the North beheld House Stark almost with devotion.

"I shall allow it," Robb finally responded, voice cautious. "But since you're getting so many builders and masons, add two more large granaries inside Winterfell."

Myrcella's heart swelled with joy, and in a fit of daring, she twisted her neck and lunged forward, smashing her lips upon his. Robb was quick to respond, and for quite a few heartbeats, they got lost in the heat of the moment. When they finally separated, Robb gazed at her lustily while Rosamund had her eyes covered behind her hands, cheeks reddened. Still, the green eyes of her distant cousin could be seen between the two big gaps in her fingers, causing the princess to chuckle.

A guardsman clad in a mail shirt and a padded surcoat hastily ran through the stone door leading into one of the numerous yards.

"Lord Robb, the First Ranger is here!"

Myrcella peeled herself off Robb's embrace with a grimace and whispered in her husband's ear.

"You can have a quick luncheon with your uncle, and then we can retire in your chambers."

Robb coughed, his ears reddening adorably as he tried to school his face, then turned to the guard.

"Lead us to Uncle Benjen, then."

A few minutes later, they were in the yard before the Great Keep.

On the way there, they were joined by Nymeria and Lady, who were cautiously trotting just behind Grey Wind.

Benjen Stark looked worse for wear, and it was not his gaunt stature or unkempt hair. There was a long, smooth scar running diagonally from the temple to the other side of the jaw, giving him a fierce look, especially combined with his icy blue eyes.

But the most significant change was the… pitch-black direwolf beside him.

Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Lady all had their tails and hackles raised and growled quietly at the interloper.

The black wolf was a little smaller than Lady, yet he did not back down. Instead, he looked on with challenge with a pair of icy blue eyes, just like his master.

"Sit, Midnight," Benjen's command was immediately obeyed, and the wariness of the other direwolves lessened as Grey Wind cautiously approached.

For an endlessly long and heavy moment, Myrcella worried, but then Midnight's ear was nipped playfully, and the tension bled away as the two direwolves began to spiritedly race around the yard, soon joined by Nymeria and Lady.

"I see you've found yourself a companion of your own, Uncle," Robb cautiously noted as his eyes were trained upon his uncle's scar.

"It was but a gift. There's so much to tell you, Robb," the First Ranger tiredly ran a gloved hand through his damp hair, and then his eyes flickered to Myrcella. "But first, congratulations on your nuptials."

He did not seem particularly happy, yet the princess couldn't blame him - the man radiated worry and exhaustion, so something… serious must have happened.

Undoubtedly, Robb saw much the same as his face grew pensive, and he squared his shoulders.

"Well then, I've yet to have lunch. Join me, uncle?"

Benjen Stark nodded tightly and followed them into the Great Keep.

***

Jarod Snow

The wildlings might be savage folk, but even most of them understood strength and followed the proper traditions.

Now, all the chieftains and warband leaders had gathered here - Styr of the Thenn, Tormund Giantsbane, Morna Whitemask, Soren Shieldbreaker, Harle the Huntsman, the Great Walrus, and many, many others of some renown, including skinchangers or famed hunters or warriors. Over a hundred souls had gathered here, though just by the Heart Tree stood Leaf, surrounded by a score of direwolves. Mag the Mighty was also standing to the side in his greyish coat, his enormous figure towering over everyone but the trees.

Ghost loomed over six feet tall on four legs, enormous, vicious, and deathly silent. His pack had kept swelling further and further; the enormous snow-furred direwolf and his retinue sat still like statues, making for a surreal yet imposing sight that unnerved countless men.

It was a blatant show of force - one easily understood by even the biggest of lackwits.

Jon Snow proudly stood before the Heart Tree, garbed in a plain surcoat depicting his personal coat of arms. The heavy cloak the Liddle had gifted him rested upon his shoulders, albeit now covered in patches from the long road and many fights.

"Who comes before the old gods tonight?"

The spearwife approached with a soft smile, clad in pristine white furs, her silver-gold locks bound into a long, elaborate braid. The other wildlings treated her quite cautiously now - apparently, the Valyrian hair was considered cursed, much to Duncan's amusement.

Jarod had seen such features long ago in the south from a few sailors hailing from Driftmark, and while silver-gold hair was quite rare, there were thousands of those bearing the Valyrian features of yore still.

If he had to guess, someone with enough Valyrian blood made his way to the Watch and spread his seed Beyond the Wall, as some of the lustier black brothers oft did despite their vows. Brynden Rivers was far from the only dragonseed that found its way to the Wall in the past two centuries, although most were of far lesser names and renown to garner any attention.

"Val of the free folk comes to ask the blessing of the gods!" Her voice echoed through the dark clearing. "Who wants to claim her?

It was an odd deviation from the traditional northern custom, but the spearwives oft gave themselves away, requiring no father or brothers to consent ceremonially. But considering that whole distasteful business with the stealing, it was little wonder. For good or for bad, there was no bedding, as those who chose to give vows before the eyes of the god had already stolen each other…

"Jon Snow," there was a deep, pregnant pause filled with odd tension. "A son of Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?!"

Any hesitation was gone from his voice, which whipped like thunder with power and resolve towards the end.

"I give myself," the words were bold but not unfitting for the likes of Val as she stepped forward and interlocked her hand with Jon. "Here, before the gods, I take this man!"

And then, Jon Snow removed the white pelt from her shoulders and clasped the snowy direwolf cloak in its stead.

A kiss later, they were considered a man and wife.

"This is not much different from what we have back home," Duncan said thoughtfully.

"Weren't the Southron weddings full of pomp and excess?" Dalla asked, next to him.

The woods witch had sneaked into his nephew's tent at night, and they had been together ever since, leaving poor old Jarod on his lonesome.

"The Northern ceremonies are similar to this," the greybeard nodded to the now newly-wed pair as they kneeled before the heart tree in a silent prayer. "It's those below the Neck who have long, drawn-out rites."

"If you say so," the woods witch shook her head, disbelief evident in her amber eyes.

While Dalla was also a beauty, she lacked the Valyrian features of her sister - quite possibly conceived by a different father, not that he would poke at such a personal topic.

The even shorter-than-usual ceremony ended. Jon Snow grabbed Val in his hands, and they headed to the clearing filled with rough, long tables cut in from raw pine.

As the personal companions of Jon Snow, they had a seat at the head table, albeit at the end.

The Bastard of Winterfell's efforts to introduce order into the chaotic minds and lives of the wildlings had begun to bear some fruit - albeit at the cost of plenty of broken noses and thousands of overproud swords and spears leaving. However, most of that was offset by other tribes and warbands that had decided to come under Jon's protection instead.

The wildlings' nomadic ways, however, did not lend themselves to a great bounty - the tables had modest amounts of food, most of it meats, stews and fish, with a smidgeon of cheese and herbs here and there.

There were no fruits, bread, corn, or vegetables like cabbage and leek. Jarod loved meat very much, but he loved variety even more, and the lack of simpler spices made everything even more bland than usual. Not only that, but most of their plates and cutlery were made from rough wood, crudely made stone, or very rarely - bronze.

Still, it was not all hardship - they had a significant excess of wood from clearing the forest, and Jon planned to construct a wooden hall atop the hill. The wildlings were shoddy craftsmen and builders with even worse tools, but Jarod had participated in building the hall back home and promised to lead the efforts.

Jarod's gaze wandered towards one of the lesser tables, where Leaf was animatedly speaking to the red witch, who tried to sport a blank expression but failed as her red eyes glimmered with interest. For good or for bad, the leafcloak had managed to craft an odd friendship with the Essosi woman.

"Gods, if anyone told me I'd be here half a year ago, I'd call them mad and laugh at their faces," Duncan shook his head.

There were a few bards and singers, singing their odd wilding songs, some of which in the harsh, clanging old tongue. As with everything else, they had their own songs, though they did not lack for ones from south of the Wall. Probably spread by the unlamented Mance Rayder, who had also been a bard.

"Why, did you think you'd never come to the true North?" Dalla smirked at him.

"Nay, I planned to join the Shadow Tower as a ranger," his nephew merrily waved away, earning him an outraged squawk from his lover.

"You, a crow?!"

"The Night's Watch always needs able men, and it's an honour for the clansmen to serve."

"I'll never understand you, Southrons," Dalla shook her head, "Crows have to swear off women and children, you know? What's the point without those?"

"Ha, did you hear that, Dunk?" Jarod barked out in laughter and elbowed his nephew in the rib. "You got yourself a lass with a good head on her shoulders."

If they ever returned home, it'd be amusing to watch Torren's face at his new good-daughter.

"I ain't ready to be fathering any children," Duncan panicked for a moment, but the woods witch clasped his hand firmly.

"Fret not - my ma taught me how to brew moon tea. I shan't be growing round with babes anytime soon unless I want to."

That seemed to calm down his nephew quite a lot.

"Well, I never thought even in my wildest dreams I'd be fighting the stuff of myth and legend nor seeing wargs, singers, or giants with my own two eyes," he coughed, trying to push down his embarrassment.

"Is it truly so surprising?" Dalla asked curiously. "Don't you have sorcery like the warg lord in the South?"

"Rarely," Jarod said, tone fond as he remembered Little Hall. "Men like Jon Snow and his ilk are few and far between. You might look for them for years, and you could find none."

"There are no other men like Jon Snow," Dalla shook her head. "We've seen wargs and skinchangers aplenty, but there's only one Warg Lord."

"He's a unique one indeed," the greybeard bobbed his head. "A worthy man to follow and die for!"

"Wait," the wood witch's eyes darted between Duncan and him, heavy with suspicion and a tinge of confusion. "Did you come here to die?"

"Of course we did," a guttural laughter rolled out of Duncan's gut.

"All men must die," Jarod Snow nodded in agreement. "And there's no worthier death than dying for a Stark."

"But the Warg Lord is a Snow?"

"A son of Winterfell all the same," his nephew shook his head and bit into a roast fish. "Stark, Snow, we'll follow them if they're worthy!"

Dalla was looking at them with heavy confusion and incomprehension.

"But… why?"

"The Starks have fought and died for the North for millennia," Duncan Liddle said proudly as if it explained everything. It did, but judging by the doubt on her face, she did not truly understand.

Jarod sighed; the wildlings and their crude view about fealty, crowns, and the such limited them greatly.

"From the Gift to the Neck, from Bear Isle to Widow's Watch, there's not a single place where the Kings of Winter have not fought and bled. The North remembers these sacrifices, and a worthy Stark shall always find Northmen willing to fight and die for him!"

The woods witch just blinked in confusion and rubbed her brow.

"What does it matter what his forebearers did?"

At moments like this, the jarring difference in the wildlings reared its ugly head. They acknowledged vows, valour, and honour but did not truly know their worth.

"You see this feast?" Jarod motioned slowly with his hand at the tables. "How is it?"

"It's the most food I've ever seen in one place," Dalla said with wonder, grabbing a chicken leg and taking a generous bite.

"And south of the Wall, any minor lordling can do the same, if not better. Most, if not every, peasant has a roof over their head and the protection of their liege lord to farm and raise cattle and poultry."

"I've heard of your kings and stone houses," she waved dismissively. "You have to kneel and bend over for some unproven fools."

"Are they truly unproven?" Jarod asked. "The line of House Stark has produced great men since the Age of Heroes," he nodded towards Jon Snow. "Here's another. Just like his father before him, and his father before that, all the way to the time of the Builder himself. House Stark might take, but it always gives in return."

"And what if there is a fool or a weak son?"

"Then he dies in due time, and a worthier son, brother, or nephew takes his place," Duncan shrugged. "My father always said weaklings and fools do not last long in winter."

Dalla did not seem very convinced, but she spoke no more and focused on the roast leg in her hand.

"So, nephew mine, you never got to tell me how the hunt went this morn," Jarod grunted.

The wedding preparations and his work organising the unruly wildlings had eaten up most of his day.

"Aye, we followed Orrel's eagle and managed to ambush and kill two Others and three hundred corpses."

An impressed whistle couldn't help but escape from the greybeard.

"Gods, this is the fifth time - having swift eyes in the sky seems to be proving mighty useful."

These skinchanger patrols had proven surprisingly effective. Jon Snow's direwolves had also managed to find and lead an ambush towards the Cold Ones twice. While not as effective as the skinchangers with birds, Ghost's wolf pack probably had over a hundred members, which could cover a great distance. Although, none save Jon Snow knew the number of wolves that answered to him.

"Aye," Duncan nodded vigorously. "I've heard the legends about Lord Stark's mind for warfare, but seeing it is another thing altogether. Our chieftain is brutally countering and killing the Cold Ones and their thralls as if it's some child's game."

"Those who left seem to be struggling, however," Jarod noted. "The Others are hunting them slowly - it feels like we're facing far more wights than before. Could have sworn I recognised one of the fuckers I burned this mornin'. Some of these tribes fight off the Cold Ones and even slay them, but others…"

"They chose their lot," his nephew shrugged, spat out a fish bone, and hungrily attacked another piece of fish. "The strong shall survive as they always do. Fools and weaklings oft die in the cold, after all."

***

Casterly Rock

Kevan Lannister

"Enter!"

The pair of redcloaks opened the door, and Kevan walked in.

In the lord's solar, Tywin Lannister sat in his chair, green eyes gingerly scanning through the contents of the many unfurled rolls of parchment before him. Garbed in his usual crimson doublet trimmed with golden lions upon the cuffs and neck, he made for an imposing sight as always, even in the comfort of his home and when he had no plans to do one of his sudden inspections.

The Lord of Casterly Rock was called many different things, but he was nothing if not meticulous.

Kevan patiently waited for about five more minutes until his eldest brother finished going over his work and quickly penned a letter of his own.

"Is there any word on those troublesome septons in the Reach?"

"None," the knight shook his head. Two long and bountiful summers, one after another, had resulted in abundant harvests, and the smallfolk numbers swelled to almost unprecedented levels. Even prosperity did not come without a price, it seemed. Idle third, fourth, and fifth sons had grabbed the attention of the most devout and quite a few wandering septons. It happened in many places, but it was by far the worst in the fertile Reach.

"Then, I take it there's news from the North?"

"Yes, Tywin. Your granddaughter has wed the Stark heir."

"Your thoughts?"

He found himself under the imposing gaze of his brother, the one that could make lesser men tremble with fear. Yet, for Kevan, this was nothing new.

"I am torn. From what Tyrek wrote, Robert has made too many concessions to Lord Stark. Handship, marriage, the Gift, and reduced taxation until the next spring. Not only that but Tommen has been taken as a page to Lord Stark," Kevan worriedly ran a hand through his balding locks of hair.

"Good."

"Good?" He couldn't help but echo in confusion.

"I'd be apprehensive if this was anyone else but Eddard Stark, truth be told," Tywin's words were slow and measured as usual. "Yet that foolish royal good-son of mine has finally managed to find some wits to rub together between all that drinking and whoring. The Gift is meaningless in truth; the taxes from the North are a pittance, so there's no real loss there. And he finally bound the North by blood, and with it come the Vale and the Riverlands. Lord Stark's honour is undeniable - he would attempt to mould Tommen into a formidable man and a capable aide for his elder brother, not use it to further his interests like many others would."

"And… the position of the future Queen is far more important than giving away a princess," Kevan rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

"Precisely," his brother nodded, the barest hint of satisfaction flashing in his green eyes. "I might have been unable to attend the wedding in person, but prepare a generous wedding gift for my granddaughter."

"It shall be done," Kevan nodded. "Though, it might be prudent to send a few handmaids for Myrcella to have a few ears and eyes in Winterfell."

"Did Cersei leave my granddaughter on her lonesome?"

"Only with Rosamund and Septa Eglantine," he grimaced at Tywin's thunderous expression. The girl was barely eight and clueless, and a Septa in Winterfell would not be too welcomed. "According to Tyrek, House Stark is not lacking for servants or retinue, which they draw with ease from their lands. My son says Winterfell's protection was heavy, even capturing some self-proclaimed savage king. Cersei's offer to leave behind a score of red cloaks was, ah, not appreciated."

"Has my daughter lost her wits?" Tywin's golden brows furrowed in thought for a brief moment. "Send Joy."

Kevan barely managed to suppress his sigh; he knew that eventually, his brother would find some use for Gerion's bastard daughter, but he did not think that moment would come so soon. Still, trying to change Tywin's mind based on silly things like sentiments was folly.

"Sending her alone might be seen as an insult," Kevan grimaced. Even if the North was more tolerant of bastards, it was mostly their own bastards.

"Tyland Lannett had a daughter almost Myrcella's age, did he not?"

"Yes, Cerelle Lannett."

"She shall go too as Myrcella's handmaiden, and my niece will accompany her," Tywin declared. "If Joy is smart, she can catch the eye of Lord Stark's bastard if he returns."

Kevan nodded and quickly left the solar; his brother might have been a hard man, but he did care in his own way, even if it was hard to be seen. Tyrek had some disbelief, but mostly praise in his last report, to heap upon Jon Snow, who seemed to be making quite a name for himself in the North with his deeds. As a bastard of Lord Stark, he'd not lack opportunities, no matter how small, and Joy's future would be well-secured if she managed to garner his interest.

Even without such things, his grandniece was brilliant and resourceful and could possibly manage to set up Joy with a worthy spouse.