Chapter Four: Pack Bonding

It was six moons after the welcoming feast and the following morning's duel that I finally managed to settle into life in Winterfell. It took me that long to learn the names of the servants I interacted with most and to get used to the rhythms of living in the stronghold of the Starks. I had also become somewhat familiar with the Starks throughout that time. Jon and Robb were the two I spent most of my time with, training, riding, and doing other things that were probably beneath me at my older age. I did my best to avoid Theon, and he seemed to do the same so that we only really saw each other at meals. Even so, we managed to stay civil when we did run into each other, and I had to acknowledge that he was a skilled archer and horseman, as well as having seemed to have been working feverishly at his swordsmanship ever since I beat him in the yard.

I spent less time with the younger Starks, but I had still spent a decent amount of time with them and had grown to enjoy their company. Sansa was a sweet girl, though her near-obsession with romantic songs and stories could quickly grow tiresome. She enjoyed when I would play my mandolin and sing for her, mostly southron songs that she had learned from her septa and I picked up from a songbook I found in the Winterfell library. Once we had more of a rapport established, I was going to try to convince her to ask her father to let her spend some time at Bear Island. For some reason it bothered me that the oldest daughter of the Warden of the North was as soft and as, well, southern as she was. Her septa's influence was to blame there. The only other House I knew of that had a servant of the Andal's Seven were the Manderlys, and they were originally southrons in any case.

Her sister had no such leanings. Arya was a wild child, a daughter of the North. She had her father's looks, but none of his restraint. Arya ran, fought, and laughed just like the boys around her age in the keep. I couldn't count the number of times Ser Rodrik or Jory Cassel, Rodrik's son and the captain of the guard, had to chase her away from the training yard or from trying to steal a dagger from the armory. Of course, a dagger was more like a longsword to the four year old, but she was determined. She loved Wojtek almost as much as Lyanna did, and I told myself that I should never let them meet if I ever wanted to have peace again. Sansa was wary of the bear cub, but he was growing on her, as well as just growing. He was nearly fifty-five kilograms and growing every day, though luckily the clumsiness he had had at first was quickly disappearing so that he didn't often break things.

Bran was normally found watching us in the training yard, running around with his younger sister, or attempting to climb things. He was only four, so the only things he really managed to climb were some low walls and his pony, but Robb, Jon, multiple guards, and myself had all had to grab him when he went for a tower many times. I had no doubt that when he was older there would be no stopping him, unfortunately for his mother. Lady Stark obviously loved her children, even if she had trouble keeping Arya and Bran under control while she was still caring for Rickon. She was friendly to me, but I felt a certain wariness for the woman since I saw how she treated Jon. Jon was my friend, and loved his siblings. He was certainly no threat to them, but she still treated him not dissimilarly to how I treated Theon: cold distance and poorly hidden dislike. When I realized that, I made an effort to be nicer to the kraken. No one deserved that kind of treatment twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

-6 moons later-

I sat in a small common room near the Stark's quarters, my mandolin across my lap as I idly strummed at it. Sansa and Arya sat in the middle of the room, Septa Mordane showing Arya how to thread and hold a needle while Sansa worked on a simple project. Sansa had recently turned eight, and Arya five, so the septa had begun to include the younger girl in her lessons on the womanly arts. I was just bored and didn't feel like being alone. Lord Stark had taken Robb on a visit to House Glover, Jon was training with Ser Rodrik, and while relations had improved between Theon and myself I wasn't about to seek him out. So I found myself in a room with the three women, fiddling with my instrument while the septa occasionally sent me dirty looks I summarily ignored.

After a few moments of relative quiet while Mordane helped Arya with her needle, Sansa looked over at me. "Jonah, would you play a song for us?" she asked, her voice quiet and demure as she had been taught.

I couldn't help but smile at the eight year old trying to act like a proper lady, not because she did a poor job, but because she was better at it than even Jorelle, the most ladylike of my sisters. "I could," I said. "What would my ladies like to hear?"

Sansa smiled at my formal response, while Arya let out a snort. We had all spent enough time together that most formality had been dropped, but the septa's presence caused me to be more lordly. More because I didn't feel like listening to a lecture than any other reason. "Would you play Jenny of Oldstones?" Sansa asked.

Arya groaned. "Not again!" she said. "Play the Rains of Castamere, or the Bear and the Maiden Fair!"

Arya's outburst got her a look from the septa, and her second suggestion earned me a dirty look as well. How was I supposed to know that Arya had snuck back into the hall that night? "Arya, your sister asked first," the septa said firmly.

The younger girl pouted for a moment, but quickly cheered up at my next words. "You can play with Wojtek later, Arya," I told her. The quickly growing bear had been banished to the godswood after knocking over a servant at breakfast in his rush to get to some bacon I had put on a plate for him. Arya mollified, I started playing the song Sansa had requested. "High in the halls of the kings who are gone…"

We were in the godswood, myself, Arya, and Wojtek, a few hours after the sewing lesson had ended. I had had a lesson with Maester Luwin on managing finances, and I wasn't sure what the girls had been doing. However, Arya had been waiting for me when I walked out of the Maester's tower, practically jumping down my throat in her eagerness to go see the bear.

The five year old was currently riding the ninety kilo bear, who at my best guess was around two years old. He was darting around the clearing in front of the heart tree, while she squealed with joy, her arms wrapped around his furry neck. I started laughing as she nearly fell off when he accidentally shouldered a tree, but she recovered and he kept galloping around.

I heard footsteps behind me, and turned away from where I leaned against a tree. Sansa was walking into the clearing, her dress a stark contrast to the scuffed leather jacket I wore over a cotton shirt and pants, or Arya's pants and tunic, filthy from falling off the bear multiple times. "Come to join the fun?" I asked, jerking my head at her sibling.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm a lady," she said plaintively. "Ladies don't scream and run and ride bears."

I crooked an eyebrow at her. "Try telling that to Jorelle," I muttered.

Apparently I wasn't as quiet as I thought, because she responded immediately. "Who's Jorelle?" she asked.

"One of my younger sisters," I said. "And the only one I've seen in a dress outside of a formal event. She convinced Mother to teach her to be a proper Northern lady, but she's still one of the most dangerous archers I've ever seen. The dagger of hers isn't fun to fight against either," I mused.

Sansa's eyes had widened. "She's a lady and she fights?"

"Aye. A year older than you are," I told her. Sansa lapsed back into silence, apparently processing this new information.

"Do the other ladies in your family fight?" The question came unexpectedly, as she had been silent for quite a while, giving me time to shout tips to Arya after she fell off of Wojtek once again.

I glanced over at her, and her face was inquisitive rather than the judgemental look I had seen more and more lately, especially while watching Arya struggle with needlework. I could only guess she had picked it up from Septa Mordane. I did not like that woman. "They do," I responded slowly. "Mother is one of the finest warriors in the North, Dacey and Alysane were trained by her, Mother and Dacey trained me, Jorelle's an amazing archer as I said, Lyra's started training with a morningstar that scares the living hell out of me, and Lyanna's your sister's age but has been running around with a wooden training blade for the last year and a half."

"But, but, fighting is what men do, not ladies," she sputtered.

I had to laugh at that. "My sisters can all stitch as well as you can as well as swing a sword," I told her. "Hell, even I learned to stitch."

"You know how to sew?" she gasped.

"I can sew, sing, and play the mandolin, the lyre, and drums," I responded. "Just because I'm good with a weapon and born a male doesn't mean I can't appreciate the finer arts. Though I'll admit that I only learned stitching so I could help with medical care."

She frowned at that. "How does stitching help with medicine?"

"You can stitch up cuts and stab wounds so that they stop bleeding if you know how," I told her.

Her mouth gaped open, then she seemed to gather herself to ask another question. It wasn't the one I was expecting. "Could you show me how?" she asked.

"Are you sure?" I said, looking at her. "It's not exactly a skill for a proper southron lady."

She looked indignant at that and drew herself up. "I'm not a southron! I'm a Northern lady!"

"Someone should tell your bloody septa that," I muttered, forgetting her apparently bat-like ears, though that comment only drew a curious look from her.

"What do you mean?"

I sighed and thought for a moment before responding. "Not all northern women are trained to fight like they are in my family. But southron women are still far softer than northern women. Northern women are taught to run the household when their husbands or sons are away. Southron women are taught to look pretty, sing well, and stitch pretty things. Your septa is from the south, like your mother. The difference is that your mother adapted to the ways of the North. Your septa is trying to teach you to be a southerner. How much time do you spend on sums?"

She looked at the ground, not meeting my eyes when she answered. "Not much. I'm not very good at them," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Bullshit," I snorted, and her head snapped up at the profanity. "Apologies. But you're a smart girl. The only reason I can think that you wouldn't be good at sums is if you hadn't been taught properly."

She looked up, meeting my eyes, and there was a fire in them I had previously only seen when she was fighting with her sister. "Can you teach me?"

"Teach you what?" I asked. I wanted specifics before I agreed to anything.

"How to be a northern lady," she said. "Sums, stitching wounds, whatever else you think I should know."

I thought for a moment before responding. "I will," I told her, then held up a finger before she could respond. "But. First off, we can't tell your mother or your septa. Some things we can't hide, like teaching you to ride properly, but teaching sums or stitches we can. I don't want your lady mother angry at me because of this, and there are some things I can't teach you that you'll need them to teach you."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Things you'll understand when you're older," I said. "But for now, first lesson: northern ladies know how and when to have fun." I pointed out into the clearing, where Arya had fallen off of Wojtek once more and was leaning against a tree, panting, while he licked her face and chuffed happily. "Go on," I told her, and gave her a little push. She glared at me for half a second, then kicked off her shoes and walked over to the bear and her sister. I spent the next hour watching the two play with my bear, grinning that they were having an interaction that wasn't fighting for the first time in several moons.

-2 moons later-

I had quickly roped Jon and Robb into my lessons with Sansa, an action that helped stall a rift that had been growing between Jon and Sansa thanks to Lady Stark's attitude. Arya had also joined in, relishing the lessons Robb, Jon and I gave in riding and other things. She even improved her sewing when I explained its battlefield applications, and Robb and Jon asked to learn some as well, which I found mildly surprising. My suspicions about Sansa and sums had only proved partially correct. While she was a very intelligent eight year old, she just didn't have a head for mathematics. However, with consistent practice between the five of us she steadily improved.

The six of us and my bear had ridden out into the wolfwood since Arya wanted to try her hand at the bow and dagger after hearing my stories about Jory. Really she wanted to try a rapier like the one I had told her Alysane used, but I didn't have one on hand and she was too small for a longsword. After quite a bit of pestering I had convinced Sansa to try out the weapons as well, so Robb and I carried a bow, full quiver, and poniard dagger each, in addition to our own swords and daggers. I was the only one who carried live steel, as I had been wearing a proper sword even before I came to Winterfell. The other two wore blunted training longswords, but the dirks they carried were sharp enough to cut through leather without issue. Jon had a pair of hay-filled targets slung over his saddle, as well as a couple of spare quivers and the necessary protective gear for archery.

Once I judged we were sufficiently far into the wolfswood to avoid anyone noticing us and asking awkward questions, I signaled the group to dismount. I rode Roach, and Jon and Robb rode a pair of Yakutians, horses extremely well-suited to the bitter cold of Northern winters. When I had Roach covered in blankets, the Yakutians would just shrug off the extreme temperatures. Sansa, Arya, and Bran all rode Yakutian ponies, making me the odd man out. Bran and Arya rode well for their age, though Sansa was still working on the adjustment from riding sidesaddle like a southron, an adjustment made harder by the fact that Mordane and Lady Stark still expected her to ride like a lady. Even so, she was making progress. Jon and I set up the targets while Robb helped the girls put on the arm and finger guards, as well as coaching them through the basic movements of firing a bow. Both bows had reduced draw weights from the longbows I would use, or even from the slightly lighter bows that Jon and Robb still used. As such, there was little risk of injury to themselves or others between the low power and the wooden-pointed arrows we had brought.

Once the targets were ready, we circled back around to the girls, Robb, and Bran, just in time to hear Bran whining about how he wanted to shoot too. I looked at the two older brothers, then flicked my gaze to the younger one and patted the hilt of my sword. Robb nodded, and I stepped up behind Bran, ruffling his hair to get his attention. "Ever held a live blade?" I asked.

He spun towards me, his complaints forgotten thanks to the implication in my question. Robb looked relieved behind him, while his sisters were trying to contain giggles. "No," the younger Stark boy replied.

"Well, I think it's high time we fixed that, don't you agree?" I said. He nodded eagerly, and I led him away from the other Starks, who were beginning to work on getting the girls to fire their first shots. My help would not be missed, as I was a middling archer on my best days. Once we were far enough away from the others that I was sure we wouldn't wind up in the way, I stopped and turned towards the boy trailing after me.

Bran's eyes were glued to my sheathed blade. "Can I hold it now?" he said, bouncing on his toes, his eyes alive with excitement.

I had to grin at his enthusiasm as I knelt to get closer to his height. I pulled the weapon from its scabbard slowly, keeping the hilt in my right hand and resting the flat of the blade on my left. "Can you tell me what kind of sword this is?" I asked him.

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. I was sure I had told him, but it wouldn't be surprising if the four year old had forgotten. "A longsword?" he guessed. I shook my head, and his face fell for a moment before a stubborn glint came into his eyes. "A… bastard sword?" he said, and immediately glanced over his shoulder at Jon, a guilty look on his face.

"That's right!" I said, keeping the smile on my face. Damnit Lady Stark, were you trying to poison your children's interactions with their sibling? "You don't need to worry about Jon when you're talking about swords," I continued. "After all, I'm trying to convince him to carry one as well."

The guilt disappeared from Bran's face as he giggled at that, much to my relief. "Can I hold it now?" he asked again.

"I don't know, can you?" I responded, then offered him the hilt. He grasped the hilt with both hands, still pudgy with barely diminished baby fat, and it suddenly hit me that maybe handing a four year old a sharp steel sword may not be my most inspired idea. At this point I was committed though, and denying him would probably result in him going to his mother. That wouldn't be good for anybody, especially me.

I helped Bran with the sword, both of his hands clasping the wire-wrapped hilt while one of mine steadied the blade. The look of awe on his face was amusing, to say the least. His arms quickly grew tired, so I took the blade back, moving from a crouch to sitting with legs folded together and the blade lying across my knees. I walked him through the pieces of the weapon and why it was the way it was. Pommel, a simple iron knob, with a small, threaded cavity I could screw a specially made spike into, a spike currently resting in a small pouch next to my scabbard. Hilt, wrapped in wire to increase the ease with which I could keep a grip on it and with room to place a hand and about a half before it overlapped onto the pommel, and the crossguard, a simple T-bar that widened at the outside edge to protect my hands. The blade was a little less than a meter long, its single edge honed to razor sharpness and each side had a pair of blood channels that ran the length of the blade.

"Have you ever killed anyone with it?" Bran asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. I had heard quite a few times from his siblings that Bran's favorite stories were the scary and bloody ones, so it wasn't surprising that he asked the question.

I debated for a moment before deciding to be truthful. It wouldn't do any harm so long as I left out the details. "Yes," I told him. With any luck, he would leave it at that, but no such luck.

"Who did you kill? Were they bad? I bet they were bad. When did you fight them?" The questions carried on, until finally I was saved from trying to answer them with as little information as I could get away with by Jon walking over.

"Oh, thank the gods," I interrupted. "Jon, if White Walkers ever return to the realms of men, all we need to do to convince them to turn tail and run is send Bran to ask them questions."

We shared a laugh while Bran flushed bright red. I ruffled his hair again and stood up, returning my blade to its sheath. "Ran out of arrows?" I guessed.

"Aye," Jon said. "Sansa doesn't care for it and it showed. Arya's as good a shot as I am." He shrugged. "Natural talent."

I grinned. "Not surprising," I told him. "Arya was born to be a warrior. We need to convince your father to send her to Bear Island even if we can't convince him to send Sansa." Jon, Robb, Sansa and I had been discussing my idea to send her to foster at Bear Island for a time, an idea the three of us boys were in favor of and Sansa wasn't opposed to. Sansa had been the one to bring up sending Arya when she was older, and idea we all more or less agreed with. "Well, if you're out of arrows I suppose you want me to show them some dagger techniques?"

Jon grinned. "You're the only one who's had any real training with a dagger," he said. "Ser Rodrik doesn't care for them, thinks they're too short to be of any real use in a fight."

"Your sisters are fairly short, so it seems appropriate," I said. The three of us returned to the others, where Arya and Sansa held the two training daggers, their grips awkward on the hilts. "First thing you need to know is how to hold the bloody thing," I told them. "There are two grips: a forward grip and a reverse grip. Forward grip is good for thrusts and broad slashes, reverse is good for stabbing. If you have a sword, you want forward grip. If you have space, forward grip. If you're in tight, reverse grip. Here's how to hold it."

I spent the next few minutes adjusting their hands into a proper forward grip, their palm on the lower half of the hilt, furthest from the crossguard, to add reach to their strikes and their fingers wrapped around in a secure grip without white-knuckling. Once I had their grips correct, I decided it was lecture time. "What are you holding?" I asked them, looking at the pair expectantly.

"A… dagger?" Sansa said.

"Are you asking a question or answering mine?" I asked.

"A dagger," she said, the hesitation gone.

"Yes, but can you tell me what kind of dagger?" I said. The sisters looked at each other, then back at me, clearly confused. "You're holding a poniard," I explained. "Poniards are slimmer than a dirk or most other kinds of fighting dagger, intended for stabbing and to slip through chinks in armor. As a bonus to their smaller size, they are also easier to conceal. Jorelle uses a poniard, and she keeps it strapped to the inside of her dominant side thigh under her skirts. Which hand do you write with?"

Arya raised her left hand, Sansa her right. Arya had her dagger in her right hand, having copied Sansa, so I had her switch hands and helped her get the grip right again. "Alright," I continued, "I'm not going to have you figure out how to carry the dagger right now, but I want you both to take the dagger and sheath with when you we get back and get used to wearing it." Sansa looked relieved that she wasn't going to have to hike up her skirts in the wolfswood, while Arya looked mildly disappointed, most likely since she wore trousers instead of skirts. "It'll be up to each of you to figure out how to make it accessible most of the time. Now let's work through the basic strikes."

The next half hour was spent demonstrating the dagger strikes I had been taught: abdominal thrust, thrust to the throat, right and left side slashes, and leg slashes. Each attack had a different target and aim, abdominal to kill or maim, throat to kill, left and right slashes to disable and distract, and leg slashes to disable. Once they had those down, I worked them through the defenses against those strikes, sweeps to deal with the thrusts and blocks and parries for the slashes. Then I had them start working on velocities, matching the attacks to the parries, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, trying to ingrain the movements until they didn't have to think about it.

After another hour, I felt that they had the forehand techniques as ingrained as they were going to get them on their first day. The sun was descending in the sky, and by my reckoning we had an hour or two of light left before the dark closed in. It was an hour's ride back to the castle at the speed dictated by the younger Stark's ponies, plus a quarter hour or so to rearrange Sansa's saddle so her mother and septa didn't realize what we were doing. In short, I judged we had enough time for a spar, Sansa and Arya working together against me. During the course of our work that afternoon we had cleared a roughly circular patch in the middle of the clearing we had been using. Sansa and Arya stood on one side of the circle, practice weapons in hand, and I stood on the other side.

I slipped my dagger from its sheath, and the apprehension on the girl's faces at the sight of the sharp steel was unmistakable. I smiled at them, "Don't worry, I'm only going to defend, not attack. All you have to do is land a touch within the fifteen minute time limit," I reassured them.

They nodded, and when Robb shouted "Go!" they charged in tandem, Arya from my right and Sansa from my left, placing me on both of their dominant sides. Arya's abdominal thrust I easily turned aside using the sweep block I had shown them, and Sansa's leg swipe, aimed at my kneecap was dodged when I slid my left foot back behind my right. A slash at my throat I leaned away from, and a pair of quick swipes at my arms were blocked. The two worked surprisingly well together, never striking at the same spot and rarely tripping each other up. They both had an impressive killer instinct, especially Arya, who consistently struck with potentially lethal effect, even with the blunt training weapon.

The girls had just mounted a rush in tandem when Wojtek came running into the clearing, moving with speed and agility that would shock anyone not familiar with bears. He had wandered off to hunt almost as soon as we got settled, but now he returned, at a speed he rarely bothered to move at unless he was following me on horseback, a warning growl emanating from deep in his throat. It was a testament to the gentleness of the bear and the ever-deepening bond I felt with him that none of us felt threatened by the growling beast.

"What's wrong, boy?" I asked. I sheathed my dagger and laid my hand on the pommel of my sword, resting my other hand between the bear's ears. Jon and Robb both went for their daggers, proper dirks rather than the poniards we had given the girls. The three of us cast around, looking for what had set off Wojtek's normal staid demeanor. The girls moved to either side of the bear, putting themselves under the aegis he represented with the weight of his presence.

When the danger finally revealed itself, it was something we never expected. "What's all this, then?" The voice came from the direction of the path we hooked off from, the track that led into the wolfswood from the kingsroad. We turned and saw a man sitting atop a dark-furred horse, his own hair long but well-kempt. He wore jet black furs, and a sword at his side. Most importantly, he looked remarkably similar to Lord Stark.

When Robb spoke, his voice cracked. "Oh. Ah, hello Uncle Benjen."

When we arrived back at Winterfell, led by Benjen Stark, Lord Eddard's brother, Lord Stark was waiting at the gate, Jory Cassel and a group of guards at his back. They looked to be preparing to ride out, even though the sun had mostly dipped behind the treeline.

"Benjen!" Lord Stark called, relief in his voice. "You found them! Thank the old gods."

"Aye, I found them," Benjen said. "Mayhap we should retire to your solar, along with your wife."

The seriousness in Benjen's tone tempered Lord Stark's relief at seeing his children unharmed, and the mask of the lord slipped back over the face of the worried father. He nodded decisively, ordering Jory to get the guardsmen back to their usual duties before turning to us. "My solar. Now."

We trooped up to Lord Stark's solar, none of us talking. Lady Stark was pacing back and forth when we walked in, Lord Stark closing the door behind us. She descended on her children instantly, fussing over them and checking them for injuries. Once she had ascertained that they were uninjured (bar a few bruises on both girls from when Arya was… overzealous), she turned her attention to their appearance. Arya was covered in dirt and grime, but that was nothing new. Sansa, on the other hand, was ordinarily pristine, even after a day in the woods with her brothers, another rare occurrence. She was nearly as dirty as Arya, though not quite as she didn't have Arya's tendency to throw herself on the ground and roll around when she lost at something.

Finally, we were all standing in the solar, Lord and Lady Stark, Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch, four of the Stark children, Jon, and myself. The adults were seated at a small table, facing us, each with a goblet to go with a carafe of wine in the center of the table. I had been in the solar a few times, but never before had the simple room evoked dread in me. Large windows covered one wall, a feature which made the room impractical during the bitter winters, but enjoyable during the summers. The table the adults sat at stood in front of these windows, a simple but well-carved four-legged block of wood. Lord Stark's desk, a considerably larger version of the table, stood near one wall of the room, and a few upholstered chairs and a couch occupied the rest of the room.

The adults sat in silence, waiting for one of us to speak. We kept our silence, though Arya and Bran began to fidget. Sansa started to open her mouth, but a nudge from Robb quickly prevented that. After that, Lord Stark seemed to realize we weren't going to budge and finally began the interrogation. "Do any of you want to explain why you were in the wolfswood so late, and why you look like you've been rolling around in the dirt?" he said.

I stepped forward before anyone else could. "It was my idea, my lord," I said, then stopped speaking. I wasn't going to lie to him, but I'd be damned if I was going to offer myself up on a silver platter. I was sixteen, a man grown, and old enough to know better than to admit to anything unless I had to.

"Your idea to do what, exactly?" Lady Stark asked.

I kept my face bland, something I was better at than I would have thought. "To go out into the wolfswood, Lady Stark," I said.

Benjen leaned forward in his chair, his unflinching gaze finding my own steady eyes. "Would you mind telling me why the girls were holding daggers when I rode up?"

Shit. I had hoped he had missed that, especially since I had had them conceal the weapons in their tack as soon as the man had turned his back. Well, then. It appeared that our cover was blown. Time to come clean. "I was teaching them the basics of dagger fighting and archery," I said bluntly. "Arya was interested, and I convinced Sansa to come. It seemed prudent to me that the daughters of a Great House be capable of defending themselves."

Lady Stark bristled. "My daughters are ladies, not soldiers, Mormont," she snapped.

"With respect to Sansa, I agree my lady," I returned. "However, Arya is a born warrior. I believe she should be allowed to pursue her interest in the martial arts in conjunction with the feminine arts, just as the women of my family have done for years uncounted."

Lady Stark seemed to swell with rage at my impudence, but Lord Stark spoke before she could speak. "And what gives your the right to make that judgement?" he asked, his tone soft but backed by steel.

"I merely observe and report on my findings, my lord," I told him. "Sansa has no interest in becoming a warrior, but nevertheless should be capable of defending herself. The world is a dangerous place, my lord. Arya yearns to fight, to learn the skills with arms that her brothers learn. I saw fit to teach her so long as she didn't fall behind in her other studies. I've helped Sansa improve her sums and Arya her sewing, for the price of a few riding lessons and some basic self-defense training."

"My girls learn all they need to be good ladies from Septa Mordane," Lady Stark snarled.

"All they need to be good southron ladies, yes. More is expected of northern ladies, as I'm sure you know, Lady Stark," I said.

Someone else stepped up beside me, and I was surprised to see it was Sansa. I had expected hot headed Arya to leap to the defense first. "Mother, he's right!" she said. "Septa Mordane only teaches us to sew and be humble and polite. How am I supposed to help my husband manage his lands if all I know how to do is sew and speak courtesies?"

Lady Stark was taken aback at Sansa's outburst, momentarily struck dumb, which allowed Arya to join in. "I want to fight!" she whined. "I'm no good at all the lady things, but I'm good at fighting!"

"Your sewing has improved remarkably…" Lady Stark said.

"Under my tutelage," I interrupted. "The problem wasn't a lack of ability, but rather one of application."

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow at that, sharing a look with his silent brother. "Application?"

"Arya has no interest in sewing for sewing's sake, but as a medical practice she finds it endlessly fascinating," I said. "If she weren't so dead set on the warrior's path, I'd wager that she'd make an excellent healer."

"With all of your opinions on how to raise our daughters, why don't you just tell us how you think it should be done," Lady Stark said waspishly.

I looked at Lord Stark, and he gestured for me to do so. I sighed internally, took a moment to gather my thoughts, and began. "Both girls should learn to use and carry a dagger, for their own protection. They should be allowed further weapons training if they so choose. Sansa should spend more time with Maester Luwin learning sums, he's far more qualified to teach her than I. Arya should be allowed to foster at Bear Island in a few years, should she decide to continue in her desire to fight. They should both be taught how to ride properly, not the southron sidesaddle method. And Septa Mordane should be sent back to the south posthaste. This is Winterfell, the heart of the North. The Seven have no place here."

Silence greeted my words, broken by Lord Stark. "Children, step outside. The three of us need to talk."

We trooped out of the room, pulling the doors closed behind us and stood quietly in the hall, most of us bracing for some kind of punishment. The sound of raised voices came from the other side of the door, though not clearly enough to tell what was being said. The majority of the yelling sounded like it came from Lady Stark. Finally the door to the solar opened once more to reveal Benjen Stark. "Come back in," he said.

The other two were once more seated at the table, and Benjen quickly crossed to join them. Benjen seemed to have been elected as spokesman, as he was the first to open his mouth. "You truly believe what you said, Lord Mormont?" he asked.

I nodded. "I do."

He grunted and looked at his brother, who gave him the slightest of nods. "Lord Stark shares some of your concerns. However, his lady wife is not fully in the wrong. Sansa," he said, then turned to look at the older girl, "you will spend more time with Maester Luwin on your sums and other matters related to running a castle. Arya, you will also spend more time with Maester Luwin. Your lessons with the septa will continue, however."

He stopped speaking, and Lord Stark sat forward. "Benjen, Cat, take the children to their chambers. They should have been there some time ago, and they all need to clean up." The two adults indicated stood, Lady Stark stiff and with anger seemingly radiating off of her, directed at myself if the glare she gave was anything to go by, while Benjen seemed relaxed. Benjen scooped up Bran in one arm, putting the other on Jon's shoulder and nudging Robb with his leg. Lady Stark followed them out of the room with Arya and Sansa each holding one of her hands.

I began to follow, but was stopped before I took more than a step towards the door. "Jonah, stay. I would speak to you," Lord Stark said. The look his wife cast back at me left me in no doubt as to why.

I turned back towards the table by the window and bowed shortly. "My lord."

He simply sat and looked at me for a moment, then shoved a chair towards me with his boot. "Sit and talk with me, Jonah," he said. "Frankly, I agree with you on most counts." I had just sat, and now froze in surprise. This was not how I expected the conversation to go. "The issue we face is twofold: firstly, you went behind my back, which I need an explanation for. Secondly, my lady wife is furious with you," he continued, holding up a hand to forestall questions. "Your position in the household is in no danger, and I will not hold your actions against your family. Depending upon your explanation, they may not even be held against you, though you understand there must be some kind of punishment for your actions. So. Explain yourself."

"Thank you, my lord," I said. "Would you like me to explain the reasoning behind my actions?"

"No, merely why you felt it necessary to hide your actions from me. As I said, your reasons for the actions themselves are valid," he said.

"My lord, the second issue you gave explains the first," I began. "I knew that, if it was discovered that I was teaching your daughters sums, sewing, riding, and more recently combat skills, your lady wife would be at best severely peeved and at worst enraged."

Lord Stark's lips twitched, a smile almost breaking through. "You seem to have failed horribly in that respect," he observed.

I grimaced. "Aye, my lord. I didn't expect anyone to come looking so long as we were back before full dark, much less your brother who to the best of my knowledge was still at Castle Black."

Lord Stark looked at me for another moment, drawing his conclusions. "Very well," he said. "I believe that you were genuinely acting in the best interest of House Stark and the North. I will consider your proposal about fostering Arya at Bear Island. Have you asked your mother about the matter?"

"No, my lord," I said, shaking my head. "I didn't feel it would be right to take that particular action without your consent."

"Hmm. You have my consent. Write your mother, and tell Luwin that I don't want Catelyn to know yet," he said. "There is still the matter of your punishment."

"Whatever my lord decides is appropriate I will gladly endure," I said quickly.

"I'm sure," he responded. "Well then. I believe your punishment shall be instructing the girls in the use of a dagger and whatever other weapons they wish to learn the ways of until such time as you are no longer able to provide further instruction." There was a twinkle in Stark's eye as he passed sentence. "I will deal with my wife on the matter. Good luck corralling Arya and convincing Sansa to get up for morning training sessions."

A/N: Disclaimer: I don't know shit about medieval dagger fighting, I'm making this up as I go based on how I use a modern combat knife (if it was double-edged).

Hope you enjoyed, please review!