1

CATELYN TULLY

Eddard Stark was a man known for his honour. It was a trait that the Stark family had ancestrally favoured. His own upbringing by Lord Jon Arryn in the Eyrie, as well as his father's teaching and eventual demise, had only caused him to become more righteous. Ned was a devoted father, a loving husband, and a reliable Lord and Warden. This was probably the reason that Catelyn found her husband fathering a child while away fighting in the war so unforgivable. Or rather, she found the fact that he dared to bring the bastard back to Winterfell for her to love and raise as one of her own, even going as far as to treat little Jon as an equal to their trueborn children, so unforgivable. It didn't help matters that the child held more Stark in its features than any children of her own did.

Where did I go wrong? Catelyn wondered as she stood beside her husband, watching as their eldest son, Robb, and the bastard attempted to teach Brandon how to shoot an arrow. Brandon was nine summers old, her second youngest, and was epically failing at the sport. I have given him six beautiful children. She allowed her Tully blue eyes to wander to her eldest son as he laughed; then to Brandon's face; and, finally, to where her eldest daughter leaned against the wooden partition, her pale hand resting casually across Rickon's knee to save the young boy from falling off it, already aware of his tendency to rock back and forth when sat in one place for a long time. Lyarra's resemblance to her Aunt in everything from looks to personality was utterly devastating for her father, and, despite having not known her sister-in-law well at all, even Catelyn occasionally found Lyanna's name on her tongue while speaking to her. The likeness was so uncanny that often Ned found it hard to stare in her steely grey eyes without feeling a sense of crushing loss. She was a beautiful young woman, striking, and had grown to be everything that Catelyn could have wanted in a daughter – quiet but spirited, and holding a cold fire within her heart, often dubbed has having inherited the Stark wolf-blood. It was the similarity between the two that resulted in Ned having a startlingly protective standpoint in regards to her, hence why she was seventeen summers old and unmarried, despite having got her moons blood at ten. It was Lyarra's bright grin and tinkling giggle that had an unbidden smile creeping across her face as she shook away the thoughts, saving them to be pondered another time as her husband's voice cut across the laughing boys.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Ned called, but his voice held no malice, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he directed his next words to the downtrodden boy. "Keep practicing, Bran." He encouraged. "Go on."

"Don't think too much," Jon advised his half-brother.

Robb watched critically as Bran got into position, pulling the string taut. "Relax your bow arm."

An arrow whizzed by, landing in the centre of the sloppily drawn black circle in the middle of the target. A bullseye. But the arrow did not belong to Bran, it belonged to his sister, Arya – her cheeky face alight with mischief, a bow clasped in her hands as she stood at least fifteen feet behind her brothers. Her mocking curtsy prompting a loud laugh to escape Lyarra's lips, the laughter of her siblings soon joining her own as Bran dropped his bow, taking off after his elder sister. The Stark siblings watched them zip around the training area for a few moments, jeering at them and hollering.

Catelyn's mirth was dying down as Winterfell's Master-At-Arms appeared, face reddened. "Lord Stark!" He stood, inclining his head respectfully to Ned. "My lady," he did the same to her as Theon Greyjoy, Ned's Ward, came to stand beside him. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills, they've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch." Any remaining smiles disappeared, and Catelyn glanced at her husband as he sighed sombrely.

"Get the lads to saddle their horses," he instructed Theon gruffly.

"Do you have to?" Catelyn questioned sadly, but knew the answer.

"He swore an oath, Cat." Ned stated.

"Law is law, my Lady," Ser Rodrik added, and she looked away grimly.

Her head snapped back towards the men when Ned spoke once more, shock heavy on her face, "Tell Bran he's coming, too."

Catelyn waited for Ser Rodrik to leave before voicing her disapproval. "Ned," she snapped, gaining his attention. "Ten is too young to see such things," she shook her head, but he remained unwavering.

"He won't be a boy forever," Ned replied gravely, "And winter is coming."

Lyarra turned the corner as she opened her mouth to reply, Rickon balanced precariously on her hip as she pushed past Theon – she'd never liked the boy. Setting Rickon down beside her, Lyarra curtsied briefly, "Father," she muttered, rising to kiss his scratchy cheek.

"Lyarra," he smiled for a second, but it dropped as they locked eyes. Eddard loved his daughter dearly, and she adored him similarly, though he struggled occasionally to be around her – she was far too much like Lyanna. Looking away instantly, Lyarra deflated slightly as he ruffled Rickon's hair and walked away. Her eyes moved to Catelyn, and she opened her arms. Rushing forwards and embracing her mother fleetingly, Lyarra stepped backwards as Rickon flung himself at Catelyn's waist, burying his face in her stomach.

"You appear troubled, Mother," Lyarra noted as Rickon released his grip, busying himself by hiding in the skirts of Lyarra's dress.

"Yes," Catelyn spoke quietly. "Your father thinks it is time to bring Brandon along."

"Well, he is a boy, I'll give you that, Mother. But perhaps it is time that Brandon learns what it takes to be a Northern Lord. Also, Robb was his age when he first saw Father pass the sentence."

Catelyn sighed, knowing that Lyarra was right. Looking down at her youngest child, she raised an eyebrow at the mud streaked on his left cheek. Where did that come from? She wondered, but knew better than to ask. "Take your brother for a bath, will you, Lyarra? It seems that whatever the two of you have been doing today has dirtied him."

"Of course, Mother." She kissed Catelyn's cheek and took Rickon by the hand once more, ignoring his complaints as she led him back to the Castle.

~8~

Catelyn remembers the first time Lyarra had one of her dreams well – she had only been around five summers old, and Catelyn had been nursing Arya at the time in her chambers when shouts arose from the courtyard. Ned had gotten out of bed, and picked up his sword before rushing out of the room. Catelyn had wrapped herself in a thick fur cloak and placed Arya back into her cot, before following him, curious, as the noises increased.

"What do you mean you don't know where she is?" Ned had roared suddenly at his men as Catelyn reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Ned, what's going on?" She'd asked, coming to stand beside him.

He looked at her then, eyes filled with panic and fear. "Lyarra's gone missing."

Her heart had lurched with a feeling that she will never be able to accurately describe – cold terror would be the thing most akin. The thought that her little girl was out in the dark and the cold in nothing but her nightclothes, kidnapped or lost and most certainly afraid, had sent every fibre of her being into overdrive – even the thought of it now, all these years later, sends chills down Catelyn's spine.

Catelyn had wanted to fall to her knees, cry even, but something inside stopped her. She likes to think, now, that it had been the Mother's influence guiding her, but she knows it was probably just blind shock that had kept her standing. "You better find her, then." She'd replied.

Everything seemed to pass in a blur, her ears ringing so loudly that she could barely even hear Ned bark out instructions to search the entirety of Winterfell and Wintertown, and, if they didn't find her then, to alert the Northern Lords and search the rest of the North until she was found. The men, to their credit, set off and did as told, speeding off to do as their Lord had commanded.

"I'm going, too." Catelyn had said faintly, jaw set.

Ned had tried to stop her, but ultimately failed, sighing, "Check the Godswood. Jory, go with her."

"Yes, my Lord," The young man had nodded, and the two of them set off on the path to the Godswood, a path that usually took ten minutes to go down, but one they managed to run in only five.

They spotted her quickly in the icy water that surrounded the ancient weirwood tree, eyes shut as she sank underwater, almost angelic as she lay in rest with her white nightdress billowing out around her like a shroud. "Lyarra!" Catelyn cried out, running faster than her legs had ever taken her to the edge of the pond. Turning to the young man who was stood, shell-shocked, beside her, she snapped him back to the real world. "Jory, go and fetch Ned and Maester Luwin."

"My Lady-" Jory protested meekly as Catelyn took off the boots she'd hastily thrown on, keeping her dressing gown on as she lifted her skirts.

"Go, you fool!" Catelyn shrieked, and he did so, sprinting from the Godswood as she dipped her foot into the withdrew it with a scream. It was cold, so cold. But the thought of Lyarra being in it pushed her into forcing her shivering form into its depths.

The water was deep, deep enough that Catelyn had to wade after getting a few metres in. Her teeth were chattering viciously as she swam out to the girl, her body beginning to go into overdrive as she struggled to stay afloat. Never had Catelyn been so thankful for her father teaching her brother, sister and her to swim as children. Reaching her after what felt like an age, Catelyn gripped her by the arm and pulled her to the surface, tears turning to ice on her cheeks as she looked down at her tiny form – she was going blue, eyes shut and unmoving. She puffed, air coming out a cold cloud before her. Come on, Catelyn.

Catelyn finally reached the bank, hauling Lyarra's frozen body onto the side and then her own. Shivers wracked her body like sobs, and she coughed loudly, expelling water onto the dirt. She looked down at her eldest daughter, her little frame across her knees as she held her in her arms, shaking and weeping.

I ask the Mother, please- please let her live. I ask the Father, the Stranger, the Smith, the Crone, the Warrior, the Maiden – anyone who will listen. Please, please, please let her live.

A sharp gasp, followed by even sharper inhalations of breath made her sob as Lyarra sat up suddenly, eyes white and glassy as she did. "Jon," she'd breathed, before going limp in Catelyn's arms, sleep claiming her once more. The week afterwards, her half-brother had come down with a deadly pox and nearly died.

Coincidence? I think not. And was proved right in her thoughts when, again and again, Lyarra was both blessed and cursed with prophetic dreams by the Crone.

That had been so long ago, and yet even now as she approached her seventeenth nameday, Lyarra's limp body was found in the pond near the Godswood. They knew better now than to jump in to get her out, all it did was cause a chill that had never quite been shaken in Catelyn's bones. So, instead, she perched herself on the bench and waited for her daughter to awake from the dream she was trapped in. Robb had joined her on this occasion, silently watching the water with a crease of worry on his brow. Fenrir, the large black direwolf pup that had been saved – along with its siblings – and brought back to Winterfell after they'd been discovered orphaned during a hunt, joined them, too, growling and howling at the sky as he waited for Lyarra.

They didn't have to wait long – she shot up, gasping and panting in the same way she had when she was but a child. Her eyes were a cloudy white, rolling and looking around the Godswood unseeingly. "Three wolves venture southward, three more follow, to a death by stags shrouded in gold. One shall be lost, one shall be destroyed, another changed. Irreversibly."

Lyarra coughed brutally, the water she had inhaled shooting from her mouth and to her side as she crawled out from the pond. She looked to Catelyn, steely eyes shifting back into focus. "Mother," Lyarra whispers, before slumping down into the mud, unconscious.

Robb sprung up quickly, taking his twin into his arms and rushing her back into the Castle, where Maester Luwin was waiting in her chambers with blankets, hot water, and the fire roaring in its hearth. Lyarra was laid down on her bed, heavy furs placed over her thin frame. Fenrir barking all the while.

She slept restlessly, cold sweat on her brow as nightmares claimed her once more. Catelyn sat in the chair that had been placed beside her bed when her dreams had first started, slumped over and exhausted.

Her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord, cheek resting on her palm as she began to, at last, fall asleep. It felt as though she'd only slept for a second when a whisper sounded throughout the chambers, waking her.

"Mother?" Lyarra had muttered feebly, the direwolf that had grown to be so loyal in such short time sitting vigil beside her, warming her.

"I'm here," Catelyn replied, taking her by the hand and brushing away a curl from her forehead. "I always will be."

~8~

"All these years, and I still feel like an outsider whenever I come here."

Catelyn's voice caused Eddard to lift his head, watching her as she came to stand before him beside the weirwood tree, looking out at the pond she had come to hate.

"You have five northern children, you're not an outsider."

"I wonder if the Old Gods agree," said Catelyn.

Ned looked up from where he was polishing Ice, his sword, a small smile on his face. "It's your Gods with all the rules."

The smile died as he looked to his wife's face, and she frowned. "I'm so sorry, my love."

His hand stilled. "Tell me."

"There was a raven from King's Landing." Catelyn paused. "Jon Arryn is dead. A fever took him. I know he was like a father to you."

"Your sister, the boy?" Ned masked his grief in the way all Northerners did, asking after Lysa and poor Robin, who were now alone in the Vale.

"They both have their health, Gods be good."

Catelyn sat down as he looked out to the water solemnly, "The raven brought more news," she said. "The King rides for Winterfell with the Queen and all the rest of them."

"If he's coming this far North, there's only one thing he's after." Ned spoke grimly.

"You must say no," she warned, the words spoken by Lyarra last night haunting her thoughts. "Lyarra dreamt of it last night, and dreamt only of death and sorrow. You can always say no, Ned."

"No, I can't." He replied gravely, standing, and leaving her alone in the Godswood.

Dark days were yet to come, and the cause of these darker days would soon be arriving in my home.

LYARRA STARK

When Lyarra awoke it was early, the birds still chirping and only the sounds of the baker who woke at dawn to ready his bread were audible. She left the warmth of her bed, removed the nightdress she had been changed into. Standing before her mirror naked, she ignored the chill that caused goosepimples to appear across her body - she didn't feel it, anyway - and went through the chest that held all her dresses, having to get to the bottom of the pile to reach her best dress.

It was a pretty, dark blue-black colour and was fitted tightly, billowing out in the way that many of her dresses did. The sleeves were long and heavy, fur-lined. She didn't like the dress specifically, and she hated tying the laces of it, but knew better than to try and complain; there was too much stress, too much of many things. The only thing that separated this dress from her many others was the thin silver lines that Sansa had painstakingly embroidered onto its bodice for her sixteenth nameday. Today would be its public debut.

Lyarra would be lying if she said that the butterflies in her belly were from nerves about meeting the King – well, partly they were, but they were mainly for her father and sisters. She'd seen it in her dreams, she saw flickers of death in the flames. King's Landing was a snake pit, the lion's den, and her father was far too honourable to survive there, Sansa too sweet and naïve. Only Arya had a chance, but she was too young, too impressionable. She feared for them.

A knock sounded at her door as she released her hair from its braid, allowing the black curls to fall to her waist. "Come in," she muttered as she pinned back two sections from her face.

"Sissy!" Rickon giggled, bumbling into her chambers with a shriek and Shaggydog in tow, Jon following with an uncomfortable smile.

"Sorry, Lyarra," He said as Rickon climbed into her lap. "He wouldn't come down for breakfast until he'd seen you."

"It's okay, Jon," Lyarra replied, running her fingers through Rickon's messy hair. "Oh, little pup, what am I going to do with you? You seem to find a way to get messy, no matter what anyone does." Rickon screeched as her poked his belly, springing up and running over to where Shaggydog had begun playing with Fenrir. She smiled softly at the boisterous child, glancing up to Jon. "Speaking of hair, yours looks ridiculous. You've been growing out that beard for moons."

Jon blushed slightly. "I know," he replied, laughing slightly. "The boys and I got it sheared this morning."

"At my mother's insistence, of course." Lyarra couldn't hold back her laugh at the mild distress on his handsome face. "Here, stay still," Jon looked at her with bemusement on his brow as she approached him, stilling as she lifted her hand to his greased hair and ran her fingers through it, restyling it into something distinctly more… Jon. Our eyes met, his a shade of grey far darker than her own icy tones, an almost black colour that matched his status as the black sheep. "There," she breathed, smiling in the slightest. Lyarra moved past him before he could form a reply, holding out a hand to her youngest brother, "Come on then, Rickon, let's go and get something to eat."

"Food!"

CATELYN TULLY

"We'll need plenty of candles for Lord Tyrion's chamber, I'm told he reads all night." Catelyn said to Maester Luwin as they walked through the hall, where preparations for the King's imminent arrival were reaching their last moments.

"I'm told he drinks all night."

"How much could he possibly drink?" She wonders. "A man of his stature?"

"We've brought up eight barrels of ale from the cellar," The Maester informs, "Perhaps we'll find out."

"In any case, candles."

They continued walking, checking over any last minute things that haven't already been accounted for, and reached the courtyard, where she spotted one of the direwolf pups sat alone, staring upwards. "Gods, but they grow fast." Catelyn remarked, stopping as she waited for the appearance of the owner of said pup. She wasn't disappointed, and scowled as her eyes rested on the form of her second youngest. "Brandon!"

He was unmoved by her anger, continuing to climb down the side of the castle happily. "I saw the King," Bran beamed. "He's got hundreds of people."

Catelyn sighed in exasperation – The boy never listens. "How many times have I told you? No climbing."

"But he's coming right now, down our road!" Bran shook his head, laughing slightly in amazement and excitement. A feeling she couldn't share as her stomach felt heavy with dread.

As his feet landed on solid ground, Catelyn bent down before him. "I want you to promise me," she said seriously. "No more climbing."

Bran looked down at his feet sadly, looking back up with innocent eyes and a forlorn face. "I promise."

"Do you know what?" Catelyn asked as she leaned back to her full height.

"What?" He asked confusedly.

"You always look at your feet before you lie," she informed, a small smile forming on her face as he laughed. "Run and find your father, tell him the King is close."

~8~

Catelyn smiled softly as she watched Lyarra usher Rickon into line beside her. She'll be a great mother someday, she thought as Lyarra offered her mother a smile of her own, though hers seemed more sallow – she was nervous. What about, Catelyn couldn't be sure, but her thoughts turned as she looked down the line, doing a mental count to ensure everyone was in place – Rickon, me, Ned, Robb, Lyarra, Sansa, Bran – her heart sinking as she noticed the gap where her youngest daughter should've been stood.

"Where's Arya?" She voiced her thoughts aloud, at the lack of response she asked again. "Sansa, where's your sister?" She shrugged uncaringly, looking the other way. "Lyarra?"

She shook her head, "I've been with Rickon all morning."

Catelyn's concern died as a little figure bumbled past in one of the soldiers metal helmets, panting as she went to her place in line. Ned stopped her, taking her by the arm. "Hey," He got her attention, looking at her confusedly as he removed the helmet. "What're you doing with that on?" Lyarra and Robb smirked, hiding their laughs as their father released his hold on her and let her go to her place in line. "Go on."

The Northern people watched as one by one the horses of the King's caravan rode into Winterfell, the Queen's carriage and finally the King reaching the square, the whole of the court falling to their knees in respect. Seeing Robert after all these years was a shock, Catelyn must admit – the stories were true, no longer was he the handsome warrior wielding a huge warhammer, but was instead the fat whoremonger that he had been reported to be. Good looks and muscles had ebbed into a red face and fat, his huge black beard streaked with grey. Poor horse, she thought, but quickly reminded herself that that was the King.

They all watched in a deathly silence as one of Robert's squires brought over some steps so the King could climb down from his horse, which he did so after a moment of struggle. King Robert Baratheon stomped over, his great gut jiggling slightly as he did, and stopped before Ned. With a gloved hand, Robert gestured for them to stand, and at once everyone rose.

"Your Grace," Ned bowed.

Robert looked at him seriously, assessing him. It was tense for a moment as they waited with baited breath for him to reply, "You've got fat."

Catelyn's eyebrows wanted to shoot up, but she coached her face into a neutral expression. She looked to her Lord husband, waiting for his response. Ned pulled a face, raising his eyebrows, and gesturing to the King's gut with a look of 'you can't talk'.

Robert's face split into a laugh after another moment of tenseness, and the two boyhood friends embraced, laughing. As they pulled apart, Robert's attention turned to her, and he embraced her in a powerful hug. "Cat," he beamed.

"Your Grace," she bowed her head.

Robert's eyes flitted to Rickon, and he tousled his hair roughly before moving back down the line to Ned. "Nine years… Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace," He said as the Queen and the royal children departed from their huge carriage. "Winterfell is yours."

Robert looked to her eldest child, "Who have we here?" He wondered. "You must be Robb," he shook her son's hand. Robert's eyes then flitted to Lyarra, and he froze, looking at her with wonder and lust and sadness and many emotions that no mother would never want Robert Baratheon, of all men, looking at their daughter with. He does not see my daughter, he sees a ghost.

"Lyarra, Your Grace," She informed, snapping him from his trance. The emerald eyes of Cersei Lannister were boring into her poor daughter's head, and the gaze of Robert was undoubtedly scalding, but Lyarra squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

Robert hurried down the line, looking away to Catelyn's relief. She looked to Ned, who's eyes shared the sparks of concern. "She cannot come to King's Landing with you," she whispered almost inaudibly as Robert spoke to Sansa, Arya, and Brandon.

"I know." Ned's reply was of the same volume, and she had no chance to reply as Queen Cersei Lannister, beautiful and blonde, approached, holding out her hand delicately with a false smile and eyes that spoke of her insincerity. "My Queen."

Catelyn curtsied. "My Queen."

"Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects." Robert interrupted, beady gaze having returned to Lyarra, who stared staunchly ahead, avoiding his gaze. Never has Catelyn seen her proud, wild daughter look so uncomfortable.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Cersei spoke. "Surely the dead can wait."

Robert promptly ignored her. "Ned," he said, spinning on his heel and storming away. Ned had no choice but to follow.

It seems that my husband is often given no choice in matters regarding Robert Baratheon.

EDDARD STARK

Robert and Ned walked through the crypts beneath the Castle, the way lit only by candles as they went.

"Tell me about Jon Arryn." He said.

Robert sighed, "One minute he was fine and then- burned right through him, whatever it was. I loved that man."

"We both did." Ned replied, thinking of the man who had raised the two of us in the Vale.

"He never had to teach you much, but me? You remember me at sixteen? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls. He showed me what was what."

Ned gave him a sideways glance, "Aye."

"Don't look at me like that," Robert said indignantly. "It's not his fault I didn't listen." They shared a laugh, coming to a stop before the tombs of Ned's sister, brother, and father. "I need you, Ned, down at King's Landing, not up here where you're no damn use to anybody. Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."

Ned dropped to one knee. He had not been surprised by the offer – what other reason would he ride this far North? The Hand of the King was the second most powerful man in Westeros. He spoke with the King's voice, commanded the King's armies, drafted the King's laws. At times, he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the King's justice, when the King was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world Ned wanted.

"Your Grace," He said. "I'm not worthy of the honour."

"I'm not trying to honour you," Robert replied with good humour. "I'm trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink and whore myself to an early grave." He looked down to him, bumping his shoulder. "Damn it, Ned, stand up. You helped me win the Iron Throne, now help me keep the damn thing. We were meant to rule together. If your sister had lived, we'd have been bound by blood. Well, it's not too late. I have a son, you have a daughter."

"No, Robert," Ned objected. "Lya-"

"Not that one, I won't let her marry him." Robert interrupted, disgruntled at the thought in a similar way to Ned. "My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses." He said before storming away, the stone eyes of the dead seeming to watch his every move.

LYARRA STARK

"Do you think Joffrey will like me?" Sansa asked as her mother ran her fingers through her soft auburn locks, plaiting them as Lyarra watched from beside the fireplace. "What if he thinks I'm ugly?"

"Then he is the stupidest Prince that ever lived," Catelyn replied to the love-struck girl.

I can think of a Prince who was significantly more stupid than Joffrey Baratheon, namely one that went by the name Targaryen, Lyarra thought, but stayed quiet, rolling her eyes discreetly at her sister. One day she'll lose this innocence, and it'll be the same little lion that she's fawning over now to destroy it.

"He's so handsome," Sansa murmured dreamily, causing mother to sigh in exasperation. "When will we be married? Soon? Or do we have to wait?"

"Hush now, your father hasn't even said yes." Mother reminded her sister.

Sansa, as much as Lyarra loves her, reminded her of a bird – flighty, air-headed and naïve, and always desperate to change the topic of conversation to something of little importance. A caged bird that sings. "Why would he say no? He'd be the second most powerful man in the kingdom."

"Power isn't everything, San," Lyarra spoke as she put on her boots. "Father would have to leave home. He'd have to leave us, leave mother. And so would you, if you married the Prince."

"But, mother, you left your home to come here. And I'd be Queen someday." She turned to their mother suddenly, "Please make father say yes," she begged, "Please, please! It's the only thing I ever wanted."

Catelyn could do nothing but stare.

~8~

Lyarra had always hated feasts. It seemed that they never quite went the way they should, always ending in some sort of situation that resulted in Jon Snow having to intervene. But, tonight, he wasn't here, forced outside into the cold by my own mother, she thought bitterly, sipping from her goblet as she looked onto the festivities, only faintly hearing the laughter of her siblings as she sat at the high table, locked in a tense silence with her mother and Queen Cersei.

In some ways she felt for the Lannister Queen – she was a woman, after all, and no woman should have to watch her husband dishonour her. Whether there is love in the marriage or not, shame and embarrassment is not an emotion that a man should make his wife feel. But, as she looked at her, golden and regal and prideful and evil, Lyarra remembered what she'd seen, what she knew Cersei would do, and felt her heart turn cold to her. Lyarra looked to her face, harsh yet so beautiful, unloving and unyielding as she stared at her husband with the whore, so blatantly snubbing her. Robert Baratheon was a man who had given way to his sadness, and allowed it to drown him – Cersei, no matter how beautiful, could never fill the hole in his heart, and didn't have the patience or loving heart enough to chase away the demons that haunted his core. His sadness had festered into hatred for all things Targaryen and Lannister, his wife included.

Cersei was a stunningly beautiful woman – with her long blonde waves, emerald green eyes and perfect features, it would take a blind man to think her ugly. But, as Lyarra peered at her again from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but notice how long her neck was. Perhaps it was the intricate hairstyle her hair had no doubt been painstakingly knotted into that had elongated it, or maybe it really was just an exceptionally long neck. Either way, come this time next year, when many in this room are dead and Westeros is marred in chaos, there will be a large number of hands eager to wrap themselves around that pale, white throat. Mine included.

"Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?" Catelyn asked the Queen, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes, lovely country," Cersei lied through her teeth, not taking her eyes away from her cheating husband. Lyarra's eyes, however, watched as one of the Queen's maids went to the bench where Sansa was sitting, no doubt telling her sister that the Queen wished to speak to her, if her reaction and the fact that she started walking over was anything to go by.

"I'm sure it's very grim after King's Landing." Catelyn said, not seeming to notice the interaction. "I remember how scared I was when Ned brought me up here for the first time."

Sansa appeared before us, slightly bashful before the woman she idolised as she bowed her head, a small smile on her face.

"Hello, little dove," the Queen greeted her, insincerity leaking from her very pores, not that Sansa would realise that, not yet. "But you are a beauty. How old are you?"

"Thirteen, Your Grace." Sansa replied, the Queen's emerald eyes assessing her.

"You're tall," Cersei noted, "still growing?"

"I think so, Your Grace."

Cersei smiled pleasantly, "and have you bled yet?"

Sansa's smile dropped, her eyes turning wide in an instant as she looked to her mother and sister in shock and confusion. She hasn't, and it was for the best that she hadn't. Lyarra sipped from her goblet silently as Sansa shook her head, "No, Your Grace."

"Your dress, did you make it?" Cersei changed the topic quickly, the cogs in her mind no doubt turning. Sansa nodded happily, all uncomfortableness vanishing as the Queen smiled back falsely. "Such talent, you must make something for me."

It was a dismissal, and Sansa smiled, curtsied slightly, and flounced back to her seat, already giggling with her idiot friend Jeyne and making eyes at the Prince. Cersei spoke once more to Lady Stark, "I hear we might share a grandchild someday."

"I hear the same." Replied Catelyn.

Cersei turned her head, "your daughter will do well in the capital. Such beauty shouldn't stay hidden up here forever."

Lyarra bristled slightly at that – No, my sister is a Northerner, a winter rose. The North is where she belongs.

"Mother, I find that I suddenly feel rather lightheaded," Lyarra said, speaking for the first time that night as she stood from her chair. "I think I shall retire, if you permit it?"

"Of course, my sweet." Catelyn said, eyes worried as she looked upon her face, resting a warm hand on Lyarra's cheek, but they were quickly drawn away a commotion in the middle of the room, one probably caused by Arya.

"Your Grace," Lyarra curtsied, grey meeting green as they locked eyes. The eyes of a wolf meeting those of a snake in the clothing of the lion. Cersei nodded in return, and she left the hall, returning to the sanctum of her chambers, shutting the door with a sigh of relief.

Removing her dress and putting on her nightclothes was a routine action that passed in a blur, and Lyarra felt an unbidden relief as she climbed into bed, laying on jer back for a moment before turning to her side, eyes turning to the fire.

They glazed over quickly enough, and she knew now better than to fight it. Her body went limp as whispers filled her ears, vision turning white and cloudy as the abyss overtook her.

Bran looked in the window.

Inside the room, a man and a woman were wrestling. They were both naked. Bran could not tell who they were. The man's back was to him, and his body screened the woman from view as he pushed her up against a wall.

There were soft, wet sounds. Bran realised they were kissing. He watched, wide-eyed and frightened, his breath tight in his throat. The man had a hand down between her legs, and he must have been hurting her there, because the woman started to moan, low in her throat. "Stop it," she said, "stop it, stop it. Oh, please…" But her voice was low and weak, and she did not push him away. Her hands buried themselves in her hair, his tangled golden hair, and pulled his face down to her breast.

Bran saw her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, moaning. Her golden hair swung from side to side as her head moved back and forth, but he still recognised the Queen.

He must have made a noise. Suddenly her eyes opened and she was staring right at him. She screamed.

Everything happened at once then. The woman pushed the man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bran tried to pull himself up, bending double as he reached for the gargoyle. He was in too much of a hurry. His hand scraped uselessly across smooth stone, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was falling. There was an instant of vertigo, a sickening lurch as the window flashed past. He shot out a hand, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Bran dangled, one-handed, panting.

Faces appeared in the window above him.

The Queen. And now Bran recognised the man beside her. They looked as much alike as reflections in a mirror.

"He saw us," the woman said shrilly.

"So he did," the main said.

Bran's fingers started to slip. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand. Fingernails dug into unyielding stone. The man reached down. "Take my hand," he said. "Before you fall."

Bran seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength. The man yanked him up to the ledge. "What are you doing?" The woman demanded.

The man ignored her. He was very strong. He stood Bran up on the sill. "How old are you, boy?"

"Ten," Bran said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man's forearm. He let go sheepishly.

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove.

Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him.

Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf was howling. Crows circled the broken tower, waiting for corn.

Lyarra shot up from bed with a bloodcurdling scream, sweat dripping down her forehead as the fires in her chamber suddenly went out. "BRAN!"

A/N: Hey guys, hope you like my new Game of Thrones story. Let me know what you think! Follow, favourite and review, LittlexMissxVicious X

Faceclaim for Lyarra - Katie McGrath (as Morgana Pendragon)