A/N: I was backpacking in Patagonia, when at one point, I stood in front of a glacier that was violently calving and heaving the waters around it. And the image that would not leave me was one of Rukia dancing in front of a royal court, and the voice that persisted in my head was that the glacier could very well have been in the North of Westeros, beyond the Wall. Hence this story. I did not choose to have it marked as a cross-over fic, though, since ASoIF readers may well take offense at how I perverted their world (I justified this by avoiding use of its characters, only its backdrop). Here, the First Men and the Old Tongue have morphed into Japanese, the Children of the Forest's magic have become shinigami's, and much of Westeros history/culture have been rewritten (mainly because I am largely ignorant of them, having read the books a long time ago). The time and place is set generations before the events in A Song of Ice and Fire.

Disclaimer: I hearken back to my childhood as I borrow Kubo's dolls and Martin's playground, but alas! I cannot claim ownership.

Edits: re-worded a few things, removed some anachronisms, changed a glaring error (fur coat in summer?); appreciate any corrections; now if only my two betas (dear, beloved sisters) would start getting off their *** and start beta-ing.

~ Chapter 1 ~

Legends, more often than not, can arise out of the most unremarkable of stories, the most innocent of incidents. A lady meets a young man, love follows, and empires crash while others are born. And many seasons later, only the violent birth and more savage death of empires hold our attention, but not that first meeting that seeded it.

My hand shakes from ague and old age, and my sight barely makes out the lines on this parchment, but before the night finally claims me, I swear that I would write of that seed, and of that first meeting.

Many claim 'twas chance they met,
Yet they failed to see their eyes;
Or that another had it set,
Do not listen to their lies;
Still others claim a ruse,
Scent the fear in their guise;
Denial could be obtuse,
Taste regret, bitter flies;
feel the beat in their hearts, echo the rhythm of the stars
in a dance so ancient, in a story time forgot.

- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)

~o~

ICHIGO

Ichigo muttered his greeting prayers to the goddess, as he looked down the length of the blade pointed at his chest.

"I swear Keigo, if at the end of the day I am still breathing, I will make sure that you are not." He felt his companion, slight frame shuffling against his right shoulder, shudder at his whispered statement.

"As much as I would like to join you in throttling our dear friend, Ichigo, I am afraid we have other more urgent things to be worrying about right at the moment." Mizuiro's bland tone belied the fact that he was as tense as the others, as he eyed the two men in front of him.

Chad, towering over the three of them like a dark rock, merely grunted his assessment of the situation they were in, and instead moved a hairsbreadth closer to Ichigo's left arm.

The four of them were clustered together in a tight-knit square, their backs to each other, facing a dozen or so men armed with swords that were aimed at their very tender fronts. Ichigo cursed yet again at the foolishness of men and their urges, both Keigo's urge to bring them to a disreputable brothel, and his own urge to throw a particular person against the wall. And as Mizuiro pointed out, neither would serve his purpose at the moment.

It was either try to reason or fight their way out, and fighting was not an attractive option, at least, not for the supposedly genteel Emissary from Essos. "If it is our coin that you require, we would gladly part with it." He untied his pouch from his side and threw it at the likeliest leader.

"Aah, but ser, we would'a gotten that anyway, with or without your glad consent," the man spat to the side and grinned at him, his voice mocking Ichigo's learned speech. "We had it the moment you and your friends went through the door, lookin' to feel up some Westerosi skirts."

Ichigo scowled even harder. They were in the drawing room of the brothel. Its grimy walls were far too close in, its decrepit windows shuttered from prying eyes, and its one door firmly blocked by the brigands. There was no help for it; they would just have to cover their ears. "Mizuiro," he said in soft warning, indicating his consent.

The most diminutive of them, and the most deceptively dangerous, nodded imperceptibly, and surreptitiously slipped his right hand in his vest.

Keigo, noticing the movement, started immediately wailing, consequently calling the men's attention away from their friend. "But Ichigoooooo! I am far too young and dashing to die in this place. I have not even tasted the forbidden fruits of womanhood. I cannot die a virgin!"

The brigands glanced at each other in stupefied silence at this declaration. Keigo, sensing he had a captive audience, continued. "Certain persons are already questioning my bedroom preferences. Could they not see my virility, sense my overpowering charisma?"

"Mayhap they see your virility spilled on your sheets every morn, and sense your overpowering desperation in bedding anything that will comply to lie still," Ichigo bit back.

"Aah, 'tis no shame then, for it seems you know what I speak of."

Ichigo violently refrained from turning to his side and bashing his head in. "What I know is that I am taking the coin I lost today from your hide in the next quarter of a candlemark. Now, Mizuiro!"

Mizuiro, short dark hair styled close to his chin, bobbed his head as he swiftly threw something to the side. A loud explosion reverberated throughout the small room, eliciting screams and general confusion. The four of them took advantage of the chaos by entering the melee. Ichigo threw a vicious punch and followed it with a swift kick at the thieves' leader, earning a satisfying groan. He did not have time to savor his triumph, however.

"Chad! Grab a hold of Keigo. Mizuiro should be on his way out already." He shouted over the din, as he fought his way through. Smoke was starting to fill up the confined space, and he did not want to inhale whatever poisons that damned alchemist used in those thunder throwers.

Finally, he was able to smell the sewage stench from the cobbled streets outside, instead of the stale ale and even staler sweat stench from inside. He glanced around and spotted his friends, with Mizuiro already running ahead and gesturing for them the way out of the maze of streets.

They ran heedlessly through throngs of people, knocking about anyone who stood too long in their path. Behind them, the thieving crew, largely recovered and mostly unharmed, was running just as fast. Ichigo knew that the thieves' overriding impetus to buy their silence with their blood pushed them to their limits. It may have been lucrative to rob a foreign envoy, but it was still a hanging offense, or at least a lifetime with the Black, which was much the same.

Finally, they left the squalid rows of houses and came upon a somewhat cleaner market square. He thought it might be one of many that led to the Starry Sept in the center of town. They could stand their ground here, and possibly attract the attention of the roving Watch.

As one, the group turned around to face their pursuers, anchored their legs for better balance, and readied themselves in Heron Looks Over Water stance. Ichigo glanced at each of his companions. Of the four of them, Chad, long dark wavy hair framing a pit fighter's face, again positioned himself close to Ichigo's left flank. Mizuiro, effeminate-looking and smiling with amusement, stood easily to one side, protecting their back. Keigo, messy hair and twitchy eyes, nervously hopped from one foot to another. Not one of them carried weapons, as ordained by the High Septon for all emissaries visiting Oldtown. A decree that Ichigo now found to be extremely inconvenient.

"Ho, there! Seems like someone's having a bit of fun, eh?"

Ichigo glanced towards the new voice. It was a gaunt looking man in colorful court attendant garb, straight blond hair veiling a grinning face. He was standing protectively in front of an ornate closed carriage. Around him clustered a motley group of seven other individuals, three of which were women.

"If it is fun you are after, friend, then best get on to the tourney being held for the Valyrian prince. I do not think these are people that you would enjoy drinking ale with." Ichigo silently urged them forward. It was going to be messy in the next half candlemark or so, and he did not want to have to look after innocents.

"Aah, well, see here, friend, that was our destination, but you are somewhat blocking our way. Mayhap it would be faster if we assisted you in your own celebration first, before we attended ours?"

"Much obliged, but I fear you are not well equipped for this revelry."

The man snorted, obviously amused. "I think we are better equipped than you and yours."

Ichigo stared hard at the new group again, and noticed for the first time that beneath their attendant attire, they all wore hardened leather hauberks, even the women. They also all carried steel tipped staves. It seemed like they go about masking their true strength, he thought. In the murky political waters of Westeros, it was a thought that needed to be tucked away for future contemplation.

"Besides which, our lady insisted that we help you in your grand endeavor," the man continued. He then rolled his eyes, "the Mother's charity is definitely not my favored virtue of the Seven."

At that, Ichigo tried to peer into the shuttered carriage they guarded. His curiosity was definitely most piqued. "Well, if you and yours are going to help, may as well start." He turned towards the leader again, who by that time was looking nervously at the newcomers and was gauging the wisdom of fighting or fleeing. "What say you, ser?"

"See here, you dunno what business we're having here. Be off with you, and we'll leave you be."

In response, the blond man merely grinned wider, and hefted his stave. "As you say, may as well start."

A blur of motion. A slight widening of eyes. An intake of panicked breath. And the thwacks of wood and flesh against steel and flesh suddenly sounded throughout, mingled with strangled screams.

Ichigo, dodging a vicious swing, jumped back and collided against the carriage. He heard a yelp and a vicious curse from inside. That was funny, Ichigo mused, he never thought that particular word was spoken anywhere but in the seedy wharves of the Stepstones.

"My apologies, milady, I was merely trying to call your attention to my agility." He was a little surprised at his own forwardness. It was usually Mizuiro who had a way with women. But something about parrying lethal attacks rushed the blood to his head, and made him reckless. He swung a kick at his opponent's leg, and crouched in Snake Hunting Prey position to better avoid the sword swings.

"I do not think I can overlook you, not with that bright head of hair. Why, it fairly hurt my eyes, and prevented us from seeing the road we were on."

Startled at the strong female voice from within the carriage, Ichigo unconsciously held up a hand to his closely cropped hair. It was a bright shade of orange, for which he had been teased mercilessly, and which he had long ago learned to ignore. Then why did this woman's jibe suddenly affect him so? He scowled at the direction of the carriage door. "If you were not peering at me so through your door, milady, then perhaps you would not have bumped your head."

There was a sudden intake of breath and an overheard mutter of 'impudent'. He guessed correctly then, an impish smile forming on his lips. She was watching him. "I was merely making certain you did not stain my carriage with your blood, good ser, seeing as agile feet and an equally agile tongue seem to be your only skill in battle." His smile immediately went away.

He grabbed another opponent's head and slammed it against his raised knee. "I also seem to have agile knees as well. I just seem to be brimming with agile appendages."

He heard a muffled snort from inside. A snort? From a lady? Curiouser and curiouser.

All at once, however, the fighting ceased. The two men he had been fighting looked around at their fleeing comrades, and started running as well.

Keigo, as Ichigo expected, started crowing about his battle prowess. Chad looked him over, and nodded to him. Mizuiro just shrugged his shoulders. The eight sellswords – for that was what they undoubtedly were – started walking back to him and the carriage.

"That was a nice bit of entertainment, eh, Lady Rukia?" called out a diminutive female figure, blond hair held back from her face in two buns. She eyed Ichigo askance when she approached, "what are you still doing here? Off with you and your play skirts."

"Please do not mind her, Hiyori does not look right in a skirt, and she always takes it against anyone who likes them on women." The blond man, whom Ichigo took for the leader of the crew, patted the other's head much like with a child.

The woman started spluttering and shouting obscenities, while the rest of the group ignored the bickering. Ichigo, however, had not forgotten the occupant of the carriage. He sidled up closer to it, and placed a hand against the wood. "If it matters somewhat, I was not playing with skirts as your sellsword implied."

"No, you were merely being chased by what was obviously a brothel's hired arms for their own amusement. Your agile appendages were never near inside said brothel."

He coughed suddenly to cover his flummoxed gape. That last sentence had a slight bit of coloring that he did not know if he could attribute to an innocent rebuttal of his earlier remark, or to a more cunning courtesan's double-edged wit. "Perhaps I can better prove my innocence by letting you see my face fully?" He smiled as he reached for the door handle.

A large hand covered his own, and he looked up to see an extremely wide genial man looking down at him. Behind him, he felt a sudden quiet descend on the group. "I apologize, ser, but I was tasked with blocking all entry to the carriage. And I do not think it is appropriate for you to see Lady Rukia."

Ichigo slowly released his hold and help up his hands to the eight figures that suddenly loomed around the four of them. Somehow, unlike the first one, he knew this was not a fight that he could easily win. "It was my own mistake. I was too overtaken with the lady's voice and banter."

He stood back as the sellsword company clustered once more around the carriage, and started towards the center of town. His friends joined him in his vigil of the carriage's procession. It was, of course, Keigo that broke the silence. "You must be spending too much time with Mizuiro, Ichigo, you are starting to chase after women."

Mizuiro quirked an eyebrow. "Alas, not enough time. For the women I chase usually end up in my bedchamber, not in a carriage blowing dust in my face."

The raucous laughter that followed was enough to make Ichigo rue men and their foolish urges, both his urge to throw Mizuiro against a wall, and his own unexplained urge to see Lady Rukia.

~o~

TOUSHIRO

Toushiro Hitsugaya gazed at his reflection in the looking glass, as he reached out a hand towards the false image.

He dropped his hand, the shards of cold green eyes gazing back at him hardening. He looked at his hair, silvered in the streaming light that crept into his chambers. He scrutinized his slight build, still not mature at age sixteen. And lastly he checked his eyes. They were still the same.

"That looking glass will crack if you scowl at it so, and you know how difficult it is to transport anything from Valyria to this gods-forsaken backwater land."

He spun around to glare at the new voice. Matsumoto would be the only one who would dare disturb him in his own chambers. She stood by the door, idly resting against the frame, her long blond hair falling in waves around her face, her gown clinging and teasing the eye with her generous chest.

A chest that she had used to smother him repeatedly during her enthusiastic embraces when he was a child, he remembered with not a little irritation. "As my High Steward, Matsumoto, you really should remember to ask permission before entering my room. I could have been in the middle of dressing myself, or worse."

Matsumuto snorted disdainfully. "I have seen worse." She walked towards the tall windows that graced the western side of the room, overlooking the town. Oldtown was the center of power for the major religion in Westeros, the Faith of the Seven, and as such exhibited the qualities of all faces of its deities, Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Crone, Smith, and Bastard. It had seven guard towers dedicated to each aspect, with each quadrant forming a neighborhood: The Seven Faces. And at the center of the town was the Starry Sept, a fortified keep that housed the Most Devout, the highest council for the Faith of the Seven, and arguably the very center of power in middle Westeros.

Toushiro turned away from her, a little disconcerted at the memory she brought back of that particular night. To recover his dignity, he took the ivory tabard that was given to him as a gift when he first visited Westeros, and clasped it around his shoulders. "Then you would not mind seeing much worse, then, including the sight of my back as I escape from this drudgery."

"My Lord! You have a tourney wherein you are the honored guest. I hardly think that-"

"Matusumoto, I know that I need to make an appearance at this ridiculous event, but it does not mean I should take pleasure at such debauchery." He finished tying the laces of his coat, and stepped towards the doors to his freedom, when he felt a hand at his right shoulder.

"Lord Hitsugaya," her voice skimmed against his ear, light as summer birds, "cast your mind from Valyria, it is as dead to you as the Children are to these Westerosi."

His breath hitched, his muscles tensed, and his face shadowed even more by the light that streamed through the exquisite stained glass that graced his rooms. "Valyria is my home."

"It was, my lord," she whispered back. "With your eyes, and your dragon, they will never accept you as one of them."

Toushiro Hitsugaya, Tenth of his name, stole a glance once more towards the looking glass. His eyes sparkled in the brilliant light of the noon Westerosi sun, but it did not mask the utter desperation, the profound loneliness, engendered by its very existence. Green eyes. Eyes the color that was not of his own kin. Eyes that he inherited from his grandmother. Eyes that marked him as utterly, and irrevocably, different.

I might as well ask for the moon, it seems a much more achievable notion than wishing for a place where I truly belong. "My cousins in Valyria and in Dragonstone may not accept me as one of them, seeing as they threw me to the Westerosi nobles as soon as they can, but I still represent the glories of Valyria. I will not behave in a way that would bring shame to my House. I will be present for the tourney festivities, as much as it pains me."

Matusumo sighed, defeated. She nodded and let him go to the place she knew she could always find him when he was in such melancholy moods. In the mews with his dragon, the only ice element dragon known to the world of fire dragon Valyria. The dragon that marked him as different, the dragon that marked him for exile.

~o~

YORUICHI

"So you are certain you were not delayed because you were having a dalliance with this fellow you bumped into?" Yoruichi snickered playfully.

"O-of course, not! Princess Yoruichi, that is most-" spluttered Rukia.

"Uh uh," Yoruichi waved a finger at her ward, although she doubted that Rukia could see the gesture from behind the dressing curtain. "I have told you to call me Yoruichi, or Lady Yoruichi, if it really distresses you to refer to me so familiarly."

The figure behind the gauze curtains stopped briefly, and then continued on with her preparations. "I apologize, Lady Yoruichi. It seems my tutor's teachings in Rhoynish customs had been too deeply ingrained in me, that I had forgotten your wishes for a moment."

Yoruichi cackled, she could not help it. The little Northerner was just too rigid, she could not help teasing her a little. "I was not offended, little snow hare. Dornishmen do not stand for formalities, even when I was still one of their nobility. However, I do not think these godsworn septons would take kindly to being reminded that an exiled Dornish princess is living amongst them." Or that she is not under their thumb, she added silently.

"I doubt they would take kindly to me either," was the quiet reply.

Yoruichi's gold-flecked eyes hardened as agates. She still could not decide whether she could ever forgive Byakuya for what he did to his sister, and what his sister would be forced to do. Sometimes she wished she had done more to the arrogant noble bastard than to beat him in shunpo and tease him mercilessly with his loss. Sometimes she wished she had grabbed his long hair and given his rump a resounding beating instead. It might have taught him something other than one's duty to one's House. She decided to change the topic instead.

"Recite to me the tenets of the Art."

"I know it by heart, Lady Yoruichi, I really do not think-"

"Humor me, Rukia."

The younger girl sighed, and started reciting in a practiced voice. "The Art of Zanpakutou was handed down the generations of First Men, from the very mouths of the Children of the Forest. It is the art of singing and of," a very slight pause, "dancing. It is based on the Children's legacy of lost songs and dances, it is a reminder of our tangled connection with nature."

Yoruichi kept silent, waiting for Rukia to continue.

"It is the ability to mesmerize with the arts."

Yoruichi nodded, finally satisfied that her ward's fierce determination, the spark that had kept the girl alive during the long cold months of her childhood, has re-surfaced. "And mesmerize them you will. You will have the whole court under your heels."

The curtain fell away, and Rukia stepped into the room wearing her robes. "I need only do it to one man."

~o~

URAHARA

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and as such he positioned himself close to a side door in the Main Hall.

From his position, he could observe the flower of Westerosi nobility gather for the night's entertainment. The tourney events for the day had passed, and the accolades had been duly awarded.

The guest of honor for the tourney, for which brave knights had repeatedly bashed each other's heads in, was sitting by the main table. He was attended by his High Steward, a breathtakingly beautiful woman with long blond hair and a body that drew the eyes of every male that was at least half awake.

Urahara's own eyes, however, were drawn to the young Valyrian. Urahara wondered what he thought of the bloody events that were celebrated in his honor that day. As far as he knew, they did not practice the Andal tradition of gleefully breaking another man's nose in the name of glory.

He wiped at the sweat on his brow, and attempted to cool himself with a Yi Ti paper fan. The unusually long summer season was not helped by the prolific number of sweaty bodies that crowded the Starry Sept's Main Hall. The sept, after all, was not intended for rowdy celebrations by the High Houses, but was rather built for the quiet contemplation of the godsworn.

Urahara's smile became brittle as he looked over at their host. Sosuke Aizen was young to be the High Septon. It was even more unusual that he rose to such prominence without being originally part of the Most Devout, the council that led the Faith of the Seven. He had the genial smile and the small metal scales on a leather thong around his neck that spoke of his devotion to the Father. His eyes were quietly hidden behind a pair of Valyrian spectacles, small rounded wire frames that held graded glass and were placed on the bridge of a nose to aid in sight.

Urahara doubted, however, that Sosuke had any problems in seeing, particularly in seeing any stumbling blocks to his own ambitions.

His own sight veered back to the reason for this whole affair. He had received as much information as he could from his own spies on the young prince, especially his unique status as an undeclared exile. The Valyrians, in their haughty disdain for the rest of the known world, would not stoop to air out their dirty laundry to the whole continent. No one in the gathering, therefore, knew that the prince was not a welcome member to their ranks. No one, at least, except possibly Sosuke Aizen.

Hence the source for Urahara's slight irritation. He had hoped to be able to hold this in the slightly more tolerant atmosphere of the Northern keeps. As it was, they would be performing one of the lost Arts right within the heart of power of one of the most oppressive religions in Westerosi history. He knew even Yoruichi's status might not help their ward tonight. She would be all on her own.

He eased the white-knuckled grip he had on his fan. He just had to trust her, their little snow hare. It was the last night that the prince would be in Westeros. After tonight, he would be travelling onwards to the Freeholds. They needed to delay him here.

He drew in a sharp breath when he saw Shinji come into the hall, followed by his seven comrades. They were carrying various instruments, drums of animal hide, the most massive of which was gently handled by the giant Hachigen, two wooden flutes, a lute strung with sheep gut, a bone horn. None of it contained any trace of iron.

It was time.

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and he had the ability to step back in the shadows and escape notice, but when need called for it, he can call attention to himself in the most outlandish way.

"My good sers! Ladies!" All heads quieted down and turned to him. His arm was raised, and the fan, its many colors catching the eye, was held open for everyone. "As part of the group that came down from the North, we wished to present a gift of entertainment to our guest, Prince Toushiro Hitsugaya." He nodded to Shinji.

Hiyori Sarugaki started with the smallest drum, a slow melody, barely a whisper above a heartbeat. A space cleared in the middle of the crowd, right in front of the main table. Right in front of the prince. Rukia was standing there. It called to mind the Stillness of a Night with A Full Moon.

No one knew how she came to be there, she was just there. She was veiled completely, her robes immaculately white. The robes covering her seemed to be stitched together from fog, wispy fragments flowing over her small figure. The beat continued. She started to sway. The Clouds Descend In the First Cold Breath.

Love Aikawa started the second drum. Rukia lifted both arms and extended them in front of her. The motion exposed her hands and wrists, and she executed a series of flurried waves with both her hands. The movement spoke of the Deer, the Elk, the Owl, the Wolf, and the Snow Hare, Cocking An Ear to the Sound of the Night.

Rojuro Otoribashi placed his lips on the first flute and started to play. Rukia extended a leg to the side, and followed the motion with her hands. She swayed in an arc, maintaining her balance on a single upraised foot. The motion exposed her feet, bare to the earth and its elements. The Heavens Weep with Cold Tears.

Lisa Yadomaru drew in a breath and blew into the second flute. Wind of Frost Blows Through the Mountain Valleys. Rukia slowly spun in a circle, while stepping to the side. The circle widened around her, as the other guests instinctively acceded to her that she was untouchable, unreachable. Rukia stepped to the side again and again, a movement subtly faster, subtly more out of breath, than the last one. Her robes formed and twirled around her, whispering against her lithe figure, drawing the eyes to the lines and curves shaped by her presence. A shiver ran down everyone's spine.

Mashiro Kuna, grinning vacantly, started tapping against the wooden pipes. Rukia's movements sped up. And then suddenly the music and the movement stopped. A slight gasp was heard from the back of the room. From Rukia's outstretched hand, part of her white sleeve fell down in a gentle breeze. It showed a hint of ivory skin. First Snow Falling At Night.

Kensei Muguruma sounded a blast from the horn, signaling the Beginning, or the End. Rukia jumped to the side with a dainty leap, one foot landing, and the next quickly following. From her outstretched arms moving in a blurring motion, from her hips swaying side to side, pieces of her robe would flutter to the ground. Storm of Snow Come At Last.

A crashing boom was heard from Hachi's massive drum. Thundering, echoing, blasting through the other sounds. Furious Gales Howling From the North. Rukia leapt higher, spun faster. The pieces of fabric were falling from her in a chaotic windstorm. Breathless, Fearless. A flower on the edge of the snowy precipice screaming defiance into the wind. More than one lady screamed.

Shinji's lean fingers strummed the lute, and the rhythm joined the others, bringing all of them together. Winter Has Started. The beat crashed against everyone's chest, leaving them subconsciously bracing themselves against the onslaught. The melody ripped through everyone, leaving them shivering. And Rukia danced.

She spun in a circle with her arms outstretched, jumping from one spot to another. Soft silk started to pile by her feet. Her veil, however, was still firmly in place.

The music started its climb to its crescendo, peeling back the clouds, echoing the stars as they started to come out. Rukia stood in the same spot where she started, right in front of the prince, spinning in a dizzying motion, fabric frantically flurrying around her.

When all eight instruments reached its peak, Rukia abruptly stopped, garbed in nothing but a wispy snow-white shift. The music was hushed.

Rukia raised a hand to her veil, smoothly ripped it off, and looked up to the prince.

Her voice resounded throughout the crowd. "I am Lady Rukia of House Kuchiki from the Kingdom of the North." Urahara heard several women collapse in a faint, but they were hardly given any notice.

Everyone's attention was on the ephemeral beauty that stood before them. For Rukia Kuchiki was a name that had been whispered of in the Westerosi royal courts. It was the name of the only noble that had not been previously presented to any Westerosi Court, the name of a young girl that had been adopted from the streets by the wealthiest Northern House, the name of a woman that had caused the biggest scandal in the High Houses and one House's downfall.

But Urahara knew the court's attention was not on the woman merely because of a name. They were all riveted on her because of something more far-reaching, more momentous. They were looking at her eyes. For Rukia Kuchiki, street rat, cloistered maiden, and shunned noble, had lavender eyes. Eyes that were irrevocably, undeniably, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Valyrian.

And she had just offered herself to the Valyrian prince.

Urahara scanned the shocked crowd. Shocked was probably putting it mildly. Attendants and servants were loudly clustering around ladies that had fainted from the shock and outrage, young knights that were heady from bloody victory were leering and hooting at the figure in the middle of the crowd, and older, more cynical individuals were busy calculating the power plays that would come about from this night.

Urahara, however, focused on Prince Hitsugaya. Ah, there. The prince was renowned to be of short temper, which probably meant that he did not have complete control over his emotions. And Urahara noticed that the prince gave away his extreme interest from the tensed grip he had on his chair's arms, the way he leaned forward, the way his eyes were dilated, the creeping flush from his neck, and yes, the very slight bulge in his breeches that was only partially hidden by the table. Prince Hitsugaya was definitely interested in Rukia.

Urahara nodded imperceptibly to himself. Their work was done.

He idly scanned the crowd once more to further gauge the reactions that would come in the morning. And then he noticed another figure in the front. A young man with bright orange hair was leaning forward, concentrating on Rukia, disregarding the entire room of fools. It was not lust that he saw in the man's eyes. It was something far more disturbing.

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and he knew trouble when he saw one.

~o~

RUKIA

Rukia's heart was hammering against her chest, threatening to burst. Her unique brand of zanpakutou, Sode No Shirayuki, was extremely taxing. Yet she had practiced it for the past few moons and it should not be overly tiring for her. And still her heart insisted to pump like a runaway bellows.

Rukia suspected that it was not exertion that was causing her heart to beat incessantly, but terror.

She refused to let this needless emotion show on her face. She has finally come out of the shadows. She has finally made her play in the Great Game.

She was finally facing down the man that had murdered her brother.