Season 8 does not exist, welcome to my outlet.

I've had this story in the works for a while now, but since I've been preoccupied with 'A Lion in a World of Lambs', I haven't gotten around to editing this story. So, after the season finale, I will take it upon myself to give Jaime 'I Deserved Better' Lannister the ending he actually deserved.

Fanfiction is my canon.

*Speaking of ALiaWoL It will be updated Friday for sure! I'm decompressing, Tyrion discovering his siblings was a stake through the heart and I'm in mourning*

"though she be but little, she is fierce!"

— w.s

Winter is Coming.

The history of House Stark began with the upraise of Winterfell, a seven-hundred-foot wall of solid ice, and a black castle at the foot of what kept them and the monsters apart. The North never knew a true summer. No such warmth was at a Northerner's disposal, all that was familiar was perilous amounts of ice, mud, and snow. Frigid nights and gentle mornings; a winter's storm was generous.

Winter is Coming

Northerners were a different breed, many from the Southern lands would whisper. Northerners took their pride in the cold being their home. No pretty palaces encrusted in gold or proper rituals unlike what they practice in the South. Northerners survive; pray and preach the old gods and their heart trees with pride; decedents of the First Men, the stories told. And the lives of masses to prove just that.

Winter has Come

They say the North never forgets.

The water that flows listens, once it sets and is solid through the harshest of winters, it is the ice that never forgets. For once it melts, the evocations fluctuate, and one again reminds of all the misdeed and sin.

For all that has been done had never left in the first place.

Laisa was the first to come up with her own interpretation of the Stark words and their common proverb. She came to her father one day, little Robb attached to her leg as she burst into her parent's chambers, at the break of dawn, hoping into their bed and awaking the Lord and Lady with a jolt.

"Father, father!" she excitedly called, trampling Eddard beneath her sharp little knees. Robb curiously sought out his mother's swollen belly, hearing her mumbling in her sleep. He crawled forth, wedging himself between the two to snuggle up to his mother's side.

Eddard awoke with a pressure on his chest, and his one child staring him in the face, a silly grin and still in her nightclothes. "What is it, sweet girl."

"I figured it out!" Laisa announced, speaking in hushed whispers as she fought with Robb for what little space remained between him and her father. "Why the North never forgets."

She proceeded to elucidate her reasonings, her childlike understanding, and Eddard listened as well as he was allowed. His responses were short as she continued to ramble on, unexpectedly dozing off only to be awakened by small jolts and a pouting girl.

"Father.." Laisa scowled, "You're not listening."

Eddard cleared his throat, turning over just a hair more to face his daughter, and smile. "Yes, I am sweet girl. And that belief is sensible…the origin of that proverb is but a mystery."

"Perhaps, I'm on the path to reason."

"That you may be, child." Eddard agreed, gently petting down her wild raven curls, "That you may be.."

She was smiling—her freckled, rosy cheeks and sprouting teeth did not diminish its innocent beauty. Eddard glanced over to a sleeping Catelyn and Robb, priding himself in his family and all the little ones to come. He reached a large hand over to caress the swell, feeling the babe kick once, twice and three times. He saw, even still in his mother's womb, he was a fighter. And Laisa watched with intent, reaching her small hand to touch her belly.

"How does mother do it." Laisa quietly, asked, "Carry a babe."

"She's a strong woman, your mother. She carried you and Robb, and now she carries another."

Laisa reared back when she felt the jab against her tiny hand, cowering in her father's chest. "Why did it do that!"

He laughed. "It's the babe, sweet girl, he does that when he knows another is near. To let you know he is a fighter."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"I've…got a feeling."

She giggled, "A feeling?"

"You know, when you were still in your mother's belly, I thought you'd be a boy as well."

Laisa scrunched up her nose. "Why?"

"When you were born, it was in the dead of Winter, during one of the fiercest of storms. Maester Luwin conceded that the brewing of strong winds and hundreds of feet of snow fall meant a boy was to be brought to us. Others believed it was ominous for a child to be born in such harsh conditions. And few believed you would be delivered in a week's time." Eddard brushed her hair down once more, completely enthralled by her large, gray eyes pinned to his face and her attention, still. "But that day, your mother had waddled down the halls, screaming, 'The babe is coming, the babe is coming'. The Maester, the nurses, the entire kingdom erupted into a panic. The storm worsened, people had passed in amass, babes starved…myself, your mother, the maester were worried you would meet the same fate as our people."

Winter had come, and she was encaptivating.

Laisa had never been told of the perils of Winter. Though a child, she would have to succumb to the North eventually, and Eddard was not shy in telling her—all and true.

"I was not allowed in the birthing chambers. I heard your mother screaming, begging to the Gods for hours and she was afraid."

Eddard watched the first flecks of sunlight vanquish the darkness of his chambers.

"She was?" Laisa whispered.

He nod, "Yes, and for two nights, she fought for your life. To my dismay, I could not comfort her in her most agonizing time…but in an hour's time, you were born. Red faced and wailing, your mother must've complained about the fire roaring too high and too hot, which is why you became so red and loud."

"But once you quieted down, cleaned up, and wrapped in swaddles, I held you for the first time…I had named you Rickard, after your grandfather, until I was informed you were not a boy as I—as we all imagined."

Laisa was smiling again, giggling sweetly.

"Your mother renamed you Laisa, and as the whispers of your birth had spread. Many were threatened by your presence…for they believed the Gods had bestowed a witch upon them. One that manipulated winter and caused death and hardship."

Eddard noticed the worry creasing in her features, and her eyes had fallen. "Did I…did my birth really kill people.."

"No, sweet girl, it was a matter not of yours or your mothers' control. Northerners and their ominous beliefs struck fear into the hearts of the defenseless." Eddard hadn't realized the devastation Laisa must have felt. A girl of seven feeling guilt over lost lives, for a synchrony that overcame Winterfell. He watched the tears that brimmed her eyes fall, dripping onto her tiny and shaking fists.

Laisa murmured, "Do they not like me, father.."

"Absolutely not." Eddard defended, pulling her into his arms to console her, "Do you want to know something?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"Once the storm cleared, and the people became familiar with Lady Laisa…do you know what they called you?"

Laisa shook her head.

Eddard held her up, softly gazing into those beautiful eyes of hers; a smile became of him. "They called you Laisa the Fierce. Others coined the Winter Rose, for only something so beautiful must be winter born and raised."

He gently wiped her tears, kissing her forehead and combing back the mess of black curls once more. Laisa, however, sniveled and murmured, "But…father I'm not fierce."

"Aye, but you are."

Laisa threw her arms around her father, squeezing him tightly, his thick arms curling around her little frame.

"Laisa the Fierce.." she whispered.

A little girl never stayed little for long.

She gave her father one last squeeze before climbing out of bed, dismissing herself from his chambers and sneaking back to her own. Her Septa, Maude, must have been scouring the castle grounds looking for little Laisa before the crack of dawn. For perfection rose early and a Lady should greet the morn. Laisa was not one to accept propriety but what could it hurt. The mind of a child ran from manners and tradition, for Laisa had one thing in mind and it was something her Septa would disapprove of, greatly.

Perhaps, her father too.

Laisa threw off her nightgown, exchanging it for a pale grey gown that was adorned in a darker blue stitched pattern and lined with fur at the wrists and collar. She brushed out her hair and yanked it back into a tight plait to avoid her Septa's torment that she defined as brushing and braiding.

Avoiding her Septa still, Laisa gallantly strolled through the keep, rounding the corridors and skipping down the stone steps to reach the outer courtyard. Laisa hid behind stables, peering over a lone saddle as she watched the men draw and nock arrows into haybales; others fought with shields and longswords; slaying wooden dummies, strengthening their swordsmanship.

Laisa payed more attention to their feet than she did their blades, counting the steps backwards and forth. Then, as their swords collided, the hums of steel vibrated through the air, once, twice, and three times before it was ripped from his opponents hands. It was a unlike any fear when staring down the blade of the enemy, aware of a like coming to the end and there was nothing to be done. In those moments, Laisa overheard stories of men who experienced just that, while hearing the voices of the Seven. Almost as if they were calling their faithful home...unless the Gods be good.

She excitedly watched as another practice ensued, unaware of the soldier who stood behind her and overlooked the courtyard almost as eagerly as she.

"Your Septa has torn apart castle grounds in search for you, m'lady."

She snort, "Let the old woman look. I have more pressing matters."

"Is that right."

Laisa turned, tilting her chin upward. She recognized his face, one of her father's men—barely of seventeen and stood about the height of the sacred weirwood tree.

Jory knelt to level with Laisa's line of sight, glancing between the archers and the gleam of excitement in her eyes.

"Teach me."

"Teach you?"

Laisa faced him, nodding. "The bows."

Jory snorted, "You want to learn to wield a bow and quill? You're the size of the damn thing, if not smaller."

She smacked his shoulder. "I want to learn. Father will not sanction it, but I must learn."

"And why must you learn, m'lady."

Laisa raised a hand to smack him again but he held her tiny fist, knowing something so small and feeble could not damage. She, however, raised her other hand and hit him, harder.

Jory thought it was smart to hold both her wrists.

"Other than your lady commanding you," she sneered, "What good is there in being titled The Fierce if I have no ferocity."

"Laisa the Fierce." Jory repeated, "Named such after the storm you were birthed and rightfully titled after. I can see why, now."

Laisa struggled to free herself after that comment and her struggle made the boy smile.

"Okay, lady Laisa, I will teach you. One condition."

Her brows knit and her eyes narrowed. "What condition."

"You stop hitting me."

Easier said than done, Laisa believed Jory needed a strike or two to rattle what stones he had rolling around in that head of his. Though, she was not one to lay a hand on man nor woman—her Septa would have her head for it—sometimes a good strike was necessary. An informal way to tap into the undiscovered senses, her Uncle Benjen would say.

"Deal."

"We'll begin and nightfall, my little lady."

And so it did.

Seven years, wielding a long bow that was twice her height and three times her weight. Jory took much amusement in watching this babe sway from front to back in attempt to balance herself. Laisa cursed at him for laughing at her, her chubby cheeks flared up crimson and she threatened to nock her arrow into his chest if he dared laugh at her again.

"You could try," he taunted.

Laisa growled, regaining her stance and adjusting her hands as he instructed. Jory knelt beside her, correcting little mistakes. "Relax your bow arm, lift your drawing arm up a tad higher…there you go."

"Now, try to pull your arm back."

Laisa did just that, struggling with its draw weight and groaning, trying to keep herself still. Her little body was twitching with tension before she released, the loud thwang of the bowstring gave her good scare. "Did I hit anything?"

Jory laughed, "No, silly girl. There was no quill."

"Can I try with the arrow."

Jory could never get over Stark's and their straightforwardness, though, Laisa sounded more demanding than any Stark he knew. "If you're careful."

"You're here. I'm sure everything will be fine."

He ruffled her hair some, pulling one quill from the barrel behind them and handing it to her. "Nock it."

Laisa took it, fumbling with its placement against the bowstring, and drew. Jory assisted her, pulling the string taut and aiming the bow just a bit higher. "Keep your eyes open, the one-eye trick doesn't do you good if you plan to hit a moving target."

"Now, take a breath," Jory instructed, "When all the air leaves your lungs, let it fly."

Laisa did as told, feeling the quill brush her cheek as it cut through the bitter air, though it landed nowhere near the mockup target, it landed somewhere. And she was ecstatic.

"Jory! Jory did you see! I hit it!"

"You did, m'lady. Hush, now, before the whole castle awakens."

Laisa flushed, covering her mouth soundly but that did not stifle her smile. "I want to try again."

She sprinted to the barrel, snatching another quill to stand where Jory knelt, assuming her stance and drawing it.

"There you go, a little farther."

Laisa's arms were shaking but she held still until her lungs were clear of air and loosed the arrow. The landing wasn't perfect, but it was an inch or two closer to the outermost circle of the target, causing Laisa to erupt in a fit of joy.

"Few more years of practice, you'll be the best damned archer Winterfell had ever seen." Jory thought it best to stroke her confidence, for he knew if her father or any man worth his salt found the heiress to Winterfell took up archery lessons, they would laugh and unkindly remind her of what her rightful place in life is. Whether she was the Lord's daughter or not.

"Shall we try again?"

"Try what again." A bellowing came from the perch above, what little firelight illuminated the presence of Lord Stark.

Jory hit the muddied grounds with a loud smack. "Lord Stark."

"Young lady, what are you doing and why are you out of bed."

Laisa scowled, still brandishing a respectful tone, "I was practicing, father. I forced Jory to teach me to use a bow. I wanted to."

Eddard hadn't moved but a muscle, simply snapped his command. "To bed, we'll discuss this in the morning. And you."

Jory was still kneeling, unable to shake the feeling that he had done something unforgivable. To his left, Laisa marched forth, resting the bow against the stables and dashed straight to her chambers.

"We'll continue this in the morn."

Laisa heard her father's last words before turning into the keep, tumbling into her bed chambers. At seven name days, she may have already killed a man if he had not taken the liberty to relieve himself of his own life for forcing his hand, defying his Lord. As any child would be, Laisa was angry. She heard her father talk of nothing but Robb and Jon; at six name days they would have to learn the basics of swordsmanship. The younger they are taught, the better they become.

She ripped her dress, stuffing it beneath her bed and flung on her nightgown before sitting in the middle of her room with a piece of wood, stabbing it into the floor. Hearing her father's heavy stride coming down the stone corridor and pausing before her bedchambers, Laisa prepared herself for an argument. At seven name days old, not only would she have a man killed but a Lord disrespected.

Namely, the Fierce was in her wheelhouse.

"Laisa—"

"It was not Jory's fault, I made him do it. I wanted to learn like the other boys, to learn like Robb will learn at my age." she defended, "I do not want to be a lady. I want to be on the front line, with you and my brothers to come. Perhaps my future husband, as well."

Eddard softly grinned at her demands. She truly earned her title and utilized it well. "Sweet girl, you need not worry of using a weapon nor learning to use one. You will marry a great lord, one who might not appreciate his wife in the line of battle, and one who will rule with a fair hand and your sons will be the soldiers. It is how young ladies play their part."

"Then no lord husband." she simply put it, "If he cannot fight with me, then he will fight against me."

Eddard sighed, "Laisa—"

"How can I be Laisa the Fierce if I am not fierce."

She faced her father, what was anger and spite changed into unmoving, expressionless. Perhaps it was sadness and Eddard could not see it. Laisa took his silence to means, tucking the wooden piece beneath her pillow after she kissed her father goodnight, tucking herself into bed, bundled under the thick furs and quilts. Eddard inched to her bedside, petting down her curls once more before kissing her forehead and blowing out the candles above the hearth.

How could he answer with honesty if the truth pained him more than she could ever know? A daughter demanding to learn a man's weapon, conning a soldier to teach her, and seeking answers for a title that did not make much sense. His sweet girl made his head spin, but it was to be expected. Laisa must've inherited that vigor from her late aunt, for she was similar if not identical, growing up wanting to be more than what she was meant to be.

Eddard thought it best not to subject Jory to the torment of secret meetings with his young daughter. Though the actions were not punishable, he did want to know how Laisa happened to force the young man to bend to her will.

A spitfire, his sweet girl is. How he wished Robb to be. And before long he was thinking of his new babe, and his traits amongst all others.

He prayed to the Mother for a son.

Though, Eddard was not prepared for his prayer to be answered so soon.

The wailing of Catelyn had caught his ear, sending him scrambling towards his bedchambers were nurses and Maesters corralled at the sound of childbirth.

"To the birthing chamber, now!" shouted Maester Luwin.

Mighty as they were, Catelyn was in no condition for travel. As Catelyn put it lightly, the babe was coming, and he was a stubborn thing. Eddard was pushed out of his own chambers, laid to wait for another Stark to be birthed, red-cheeked and healthy. He prayed to the Mother and the Warrior this night, praying he lends strength to the woman who desires it most.

Eddard waited, enduring the wailing and screaming of Catelyn was harrowing and he was not the only one disturbed in the latest hours of the night.

"Father?" yawned Laisa, hand in hand with Robb, "Is mother alright?"

Laisa was startled by the unpleasantries coming from their chambers. Robb was sleeping soundly against her side, snoring and drooling as any babe would be.

"Yes, she is quite alright." he answered, unaware of the pain in his voice, "Your brother is being born as we speak."

She smiled. "Are you certain it is a boy?"

"Aye. Stubborn thing, your mother said." He beckoned his children to his side, letting them huddle in his arm.

"I was a stubborn thing, too, father."

That you are, sweet girl. Eddard kissed the top of her head, resting his head against the cobblestone and cradling his two pups in one arm. His cloak extended over both their shoulders with Laisa's cheek pressing against his dagger, "Father.."

"Yes?"

"Is Jory in trouble?"

Eddard laid a hand on the back of her head, twirling her curls in his fingers, "No, love."

"Then can he teach me, still?" Laisa interjected, "I think I'd be good at it."

"Well.." He was pulled from the conversation by the ongoing screaming. Eddard prayed once more, begging for mercy for both his wife and child. Laisa winced at the sounds her mother made, clinging to her father's breeches and hiding her face. He gently pressed a hand to her ear, doing what little he could to suppress the noise.

Eddard could feel her little fists bawling up in his cloak, her other gripping to Robb. "Come…let's get you two back to bed.."

He guided them away from his chambers, Laisa's little hands were shaking from her hold on him and Robb. The screaming began to fade. Once they were farther enough into the keep that Laisa could relax, holding her brother to her chest as she lugged him towards her chambers. Eddard was never ceased to be amazed at their connection, how Robb never ran to his parents nor Old Nan when he had nightmares. It was always Laisa coming to his rescue, adoring finding both children bundled up in furs, holding each other even in sleep.

"You know, Robb has to sleep in his own chambers sometime."

Laisa nod, "He will and when that day comes he won't need me anymore."

She tucked Robb in, pulling the quilts and fur over his shivering little body before climbing under the covers herself. Laisa let her head fall heavy against the pillows, staring up at the stone ceiling, silently praying to the Seven for some guidance.

"What am I to do if my brothers will not need me."

Eddard sat at the edge of their bed, holding his hand against her cheek, "You will fight; survive. You are a Stark, a Northerner. It is in your blood to be strong, to be—"

"Fierce."

"Your brothers will be lost without you, sweet girl, not only because you are my eldest but because you are strong, and they will strive to be everything you are."

Laisa managed to smile, "Do you believe that?"

"Of course." Eddard leaned forward to kiss Robb's cheek, then Laisa, and tuck them in securely, one last time. "Get some sleep, love. Your little brother will be waiting for you in the morrow."

"Goodnight, father."

"Goodnight."

Eddard satiated the hearth before taking his leave.

He shut the chamber door soundly, meeting Maester Luwin on the other side.

"Congratulations, Lord Stark. The babe is red-cheeked and healthy, she is a fighter much like Lady Stark."

Eddard swore by the Gods he heard wrong. "She, Maester?"

"Yes, my Lord. A beautiful, red-haired babe, indeed."

Perhaps, the stubborn and the fierce were not meant to be born as sons and he was in need to alter his beliefs. Eddard knocked twice before entering, finding his vision of a wife and their newest child. He adored from afar, not minding the nurses curtsying in his presence for the two people that truly mattered were skin to skin, swaddled.

"She's beautiful.."

"You've done well, m'lady."

Catelyn held her third born, staring into the eyes of this pink-faced babe who hadn't said but a wail since her birth. No birth went as planned or smoothly, one or the other was bound to meet an unfortunate fate, but the Gods had been watching over. Carefully and cautiously, it seemed. The little Stark mumbled and whined, for merely a second.

Catelyn had been tended to well by the midwives, disposing of the bloodied and soiled sheets whilst watching upon the newest mother in Winterfell. Her skin slicked in sweat, hair no longer bound by plaits and a glint of somnolence in her eyes.

"Another Tully." Eddard joked, joining Catelyn at her bedside. "And another daughter."

"And she is beautiful.."

"Aye." He answered, sitting himself behind Catelyn upon the cot, resting his chin on her shoulder. "We thought you'd be a boy."

She chuckled, "Again."

Eddard gently swept his fingers across the babe's cheek, watching her stir, swaddled in grey cloaks and furs. "Winter was kind, again."

"That is was."

Eddard nudged his cheek into the crook of Catelyn's neck, pressing a peck to her shoulder. "That is was.."

I hope you all enjoyed the prologue and I hope the trope of Lyanna Stark reborn isn't too tired out yet because I'm actually in love with the concept?

And with this story now in the fold, I hope to break the wheel on my own terms and HOPEFULLY do a much better job than D&D did, in order to provide justice to the characters that have been brutally fucked over.

Enough rambling, I truly hope this story satiates something in all of you and please don't forget to fav/follow/review, it helps me out so much that people respond to my work!

See you next time!