LADY SNOW

Sleek, soft, dark, sensual skin was between my legs. The black fur against which my legs were sliding up and down was warm, at least warm enough to compensate for the lack of wrappings around my trembling body. My pink, chaffed lips stuttered, slightly opened to pant and drink in all the air. The cold was merciless, and I was relentless.

Groaning in frustration, knowing this was not my strength and surely, not my limit or the threshold I would want to settle for, I leaned forward towards the warm, sneaky bastard, lifting my ass up in the air and screamed to his ear. "Faster, Hero!" And his dark ears stiffened up in attention. He knew what I want… No… What I need… Such was our relationship. His slender but muscled limbs stretched out in the air, only bothering to touch the cold snow on the ground for not even a second long, and he fleeted, carrying me, like a hero from Sansa's songs.

With him between my legs, I never had to worry about running away. He would carry me to the end of the world if needed. We have a promise to each other, unsaid and unwritten, but we knew each other enough to understand what the other needed. Robb had called me a crazy witch, accusing me of seducing animals just for my pleasure. And I often refuted telling, "A bastard should have no shame in doing so".

I never shunned away from what I was made of. Not really. Everyone around me made sure to remind me, now and again, of what my blood was made of. Lust, sinister, bloodthirsty sin of my mother–the woman I had no idea who was. But the world reminded me of her with a name. "Whore… Harlot… A serving wench who gave head for all the soldiers in the bloody war." At one point my knuckles had landed on anyone's chin, who would as much as breathe about my mother.

When I say 'world', don't mistake me, it was not the household, not the Maester Luwin, who'd sit with me for days together, locked up in his little turret, instructing how to make potions and pastes, or Jory, who I had goaded till he would rile up to face my scrawny sword with all his power, or the stable boy Tom or the sweet old Nan. No… They never as much as flickered their eyelids when it came to my blood. I was just their sweet little Lya, as my father had often addressed me.

When I say 'world', it had the scariest creatures, worse than wolves in the woods, lions in the mountains, dragons in the sky. The lords of the North and their pretty lady wives who'd come to the feast gave me the strangest stares, the one where their eyes would gauge to find me sitting next to Robb, the one where their toxic tongue would lash at me venomously for being less courteous, blame me for over assuming my position on the table, for being less… even when I strived, thrived, learned, listened, day and night to be better.

And I am better. I have no shame in taking pride that I am far better than the little ladies who they'd tugged beneath their arms to show off to Robb, just so he would dance with one of them and take attention of their pretty flushed cheeks.

Had I been less cruel than those cynical bastards, I would have walked away with my head down and lips sealed. But I never was. I blame it on the bastard blood. Just to spite those lickspittles, I would take Robb for a dance in front of the whole crowd and he had never refused. Never… Robb had never turned down my pleas. He was such a pure spirit, came out from such a monster. My head falling on his shoulder, hips swaying along his arms, I never had allowed him to take another girl's hand, even if the moon showed up.

Not that he complained. He knew my pain and he would do anything to make my heart bleed a little less. If he hadn't been named Robb, I would have named him Hero. The black bastard beneath my legs neighed, feeling jealous of me pondering to hand over his name to another. Hero could read my mind. I don't know how, but I am sure he could sense my feelings. I traced my fingers on his glistening skin and whispered him to run even faster.

I already knew Robb would be following me, in his new palfrey, that he swore would never give a name, because he was scared as shit for losing it, like the last one. That was a sad affair. He couldn't eat without spilling his guts out for several days after 'Fire' had died that I had presented him for it matched with the color of both their mane. It was not an exquisite creature, not like the coal-black Hero, between my legs that uncle Benjen had presented. I had no good coins to buy the best horse, but Fire had stood out for me, with a red mane, and I couldn't find a better present for my brother, even when I knew the horse had an illness. Robb had this strange habit of getting associated with unloved, unique pathetic creatures, like me, to an extent of days together grief, which our father had clearly admonished about.

I love Hero, trust me, but I will never wrap my quilts around my shoulder and heave up food if he dies. I loved food in my belly more than my horse. I would miss him, sure. I would never get linked with another horse in this lifetime. But we both know we were just bidding time till the cold would come and take us all. I think my horse heard everything my father would often warn about the winter, just like me.

Hero knew when I was in trouble. Hero knew to calm me down by taking a ride like this up on the high mountain. This was just yet another day of trouble. The trouble often had followed me in auburn hair and pursed lips, with terrifying blue orbs that threatened to pop out if I as much as sniffed in its direction. I could fight against the 'world' with a snarky comment and a silent smile of mockery. But I never succeeded in fighting against this 'trouble', because I never got a chance to. How could you fight against invisible air, which beat your body raw and bloody? How could you plunge your sword into cold water that wholly swallowed you?

How could I ever say a word against the woman, who never bothered to speak to me, but did everything to make me know with even through the twitch of her muscle that she would only dissipate anger and wroth for me being born? It was all in subtlety. Her games were cruel. It was not a war I could fight and win. She always won. She would tear the flesh of my heart out from ribcage and ask Ser Rodrik to throw it in the Narrow Sea because even the ripped, bleeding heart of mine wouldn't deserve to be in Winterfell–my home.

Eager to show the newborn foal to our father, me and Robb had given a visit to his solar this morning. Usually, I would avoid going anywhere around the auburn-haired woman. Robb had urged. He had me convinced that Father would only listen if I'd ask him to visit. Our father had a special place for me. I know that. He never as much as took Robb in his arms as he had taken me, ever since we were babes. Lord Eddard Stark compensated my missing mother by pampering love than I deserve. Bastards don't sit in the Lord's hall. Bastards don't train with his sons. Bastards don't get love from their father, for they are his shameful reminder of a sinful night's pleasure. But I got it all, so I never felt I was a lost cause.

"The Lord Hornwood has agreed to the terms. In fact, they are more than pleased to take her in." Lady Stark said in her usual prideful tone when they arrived close to their chamber.

"I told you yesterday and I say you today. She is going nowhere!" Lord Stark gave out a thundering voice. My father had never raised voice, not even while correcting us when we were adamant and silly. It had been an odd experience to hear his shrilling voice.

"Tell me what your plans are, Ned. You never so much as told her mother's name, but do tell me if I have to put up with that bastard, till I die." Lady Catelyn hadn't given less competition to my father, in the war of voices, but my interest had piqued to know the details and I had stood on the tip of my toes to see through the tall window. Robb nudged my elbow to give it up, feeling dreadness in the air just like me, that practically screamed at me to leave.

"Whatever my plans about her are, you no need to concern yourself with." My father had sighed, his long face had become longer. "Gods, Cat! Would you damn as not give a rest to the history? Do you have to go behind my back? Now, I should speak with people about my daughter that I have no intention of."

"Are you feeling the shame, only now, Lord Stark?" Lady Catelyn's voice laced with poison. "Imagine the shame that I am putting up for all these fourteen years."

My mind had raced, pleading, and begging for my father to lash out and pluck away the fins on that trout woman and tell her that he had never felt the shame, never as much as had cared about anyone when it came to me. But he had given only a silent whisper, moving away from the auburn-haired lady. Lady Catelyn had started to throw more shades of my uselessness, worthlessness, in my father's direction.

Finally, he had screamed. "She is a child, Cat! Like Sansa. How could you be so cruel?"

"Don't you ever compare her with my child." The trout woman had warned, her whole body shaking.

I'd felt it in my bones, then, when my father hadn't rushed to defend me. 'The sweet little Lya,' would never be enough before 'the pretty Sansa,' even for my father. No… He hadn't as much as flinched for that word. He had kept his face stern and calm, processing the matters in his mind. "It hasn't even been two moons since she got her moon blood, and you have already planned to send her away? I can't in my right sense, send her to marry a Hornwood boy, who hasn't even earned a keep of his own. What in the seven hells are you making me think?"

"Lord Hornwood agreed. He hasn't asked for any dower. It is a fair match, Ned. A bastard to another bastard. You can't ask for more in this plight. One day she will have a family of her own."

I had to chuckle that the woman had managed to imagine me having a family of my own. Rest assured, I was sure that was the least in her mind. She had been just spraying peaceful words across my father's ears to make him agree. I know that because I had done the same, so many times, to make my father agree on things he would never agree with me.

Halys Hornwood had two sons. I had met them in a feast long before, and I knew the bastard boy well enough. Theon had made sure to insult the boy's bastardy, till he had wept. And then the Greyjoy had started teasing him for being a girl, for crying.

I had no care for the red lady's whispers. Nor for the boy. If my father would order, then I would obey. I loved him too much to hurt him, in any way. I would have no use of the boy, even if he hadn't secured a wealth of his own. I had learned all the skills that were needed for surviving. This was an anticipated move from the dreaded monster who was my nightmare. Besides, who was I kidding, I knew there would be a day when I would be left out in the cold.

That had never been my worry. I had hunted animals, skinned it like any man would do, with no flinch of fear in blood. I had learned to make potions, salves, and pastes, and currently, began assessing and treating minor wounds with the help of the Maester Luwin. That thing could alone keep my purse filled, as long as the world had war. If I had enough golden dragons, then I would start an infirmary in case no war would happen. I had trained till my ass had hurt with a sword. I was not the best. No… I was not even close to best, because Ser Rodrik wouldn't train me, not even when my father had asked him to, but neither Jory nor Robb had any qualms over helping me. Partly it was because Jory had this sweet crush on me.

Not the kind that Theon had paraded about. It was the innocent one, and I had milked that care to take all advantage in learning the tactics. Robb would never be a good sport with me, but if goaded enough of their manly strength, they both had knocked me down and I'd learn a little better every time I rose up from the dirt. So better, that one day, Ser Rodrik gave his whisker a soft pat, as he nodded at my landed ass, a polite gesture of appreciation. That in itself was my pride. And I had no shame in using deceits and cunning in winning the game. I would survive. I had never dreamed of what Sansa would dream.

Our dreams were different. When Sansa had sung songs, I had only time to learn to make arrows from ironwood branches, sharpening the head with preciseness so it could cut the throat of an enemy. When Sansa stitched embroidery on gowns, I had only time to stitch the torn tunics that I had borrowed from Robb. Sansa had often dreamed of heroes and princes, that she would marry one day, while I was aware that the only hero of my life would be this horse and Robb, neither of whom I can marry. My father forbade all these painful measures I had taken upon myself, constantly worrying about my insecurities, but I had the right of it and he never sugarcoated the truth.

I knew what my position was in this world. I had been in my vices ever since I knew why Robb was different from me. It was hard to understand, but slowly it had seeped into my being every waking hour. But none of it had braced me from hearing my father utter those words.

"Don't I know that, Cat?" He had asked in a sorry voice, his temper reduced. "Yes, she is a bastard!"

That had been the trigger for me when my own father said it out loud and clear. A small butterfly that always fluttered its wings when seeing my father, had died instantly hearing that word, and blood had started seeping out of my heart. He had never once said before and I had always been delusional thinking, 'If he hadn't seen me a bastard, then I would not be one of them. Damn the world!'

It was that illusion that had often drawn me to him. To love him, to protect him, to honor him every second till I had to die. I had never questioned my father about that little affair which eventually led me to my birth. If he had to tell, he would fess up one day. And if he was not, then I didn't deserve to know. He was a harsh and stern Lord to the world, even to Robb, but he was a gentle, loving, kind father to me. Sansa had never been able to compete with me on that. How could he call me a bastard in front of the woman I hate? He had pierced my heart with a sharp knife with that one word, and my chin had started trembling, unable to bear the pain that was flooding throughout each nerve of my body.

"That doesn't give you any right to plot behind my back. If the boy ever grows up to be a man and earns his keep, then I shall think about this match. We will not speak about this anymore." He had warned Lady Stark, but none of that promise had calmed me.

And I ran, not allowing those unshed tears to be seen by anyone. I had always holed up with my feelings, and would never let my armor down for anyone to see the wounds. Not even Robb had the right of it. So, I had run and taken Hero to the mountains.

Hero on his own mind stopped on top of the cliff, trying to soothe me out of my mind. But that hadn't calmed me. The blessed serenity where I had often come with Robb, and grudge, edgy, mean Theon, that held all our waves of laughter couldn't persuade me. For the first time in all those years, I had this wicked thought of running away. North was no good. I will have to fight wildlings for no reason. I had to pick my battles, cleverly, else I would lose. South was better and even farther down south, there were strange exotic lands, where I could be resourceful, just in case no one would allow a northern bastard in their Keep to be a help.

The mirage of thoughts rolled over my mind. This was my curse. I can't stop preparing myself for the worst. Many times, it served no good. Keeping a good relationship with anyone new was impossible for me because I was always sniffing around to find betrayal. I can't in any world understand how as a Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark puts on a poised face, that never has a marred reflection of emotion, even at worst hours. I never had a need to learn such dignified manners. I was never going to be a lady. Those were the skills that would get wasted upon me if I trained. Arya had said the same about herself, even though she was just a babe to know such things. While Sansa called it unmannerly and crude, Arya had called it a war tactic. Never let your guards down!

"By the Gods, Lya… You scared the shit out of me!" Robb screamed, panting, the aftereffect of striding the hills above making him gasp for air to his lungs. "Father is already planning to bring a search party to find you."

My brows creased. "Don't tell me you said to Father that we overheard." The dreadful tone of my voice plunged in air. I don't want my father to worry over this. I can throw this harsh memory to the back of my head and bury it down till it would fade like all the other days, rather than making him worry. I could not bear to see him crushed down.

Robb didn't answer, not for a long time, gasping all around and cursing for letting me down, and I started hurling back curses at him. "Useless, bloody cunt! It seems to me, I am not the stupid bastard, you fool! Why would you tell that to him? Don't you know–" It was in the middle of those curses that I found his lips curving. My heart has been etched with the memory of that sheepish smile to call out his bluff. He was teasing. When he came down from his horse to help me down, like a gentleman, I fell on him, crushing his broad shoulder with my lean arms.

"Hush now! I would never do anything that would hurt you, Lya. And father too." He whispered, gently waving his fingers to brush my dark curls, just like he had always done since we were children. "Don't put your heart on what my mother says."

He would often ask me about that. And I knew he loved his mother. Not that the woman hadn't tried to come between us, poisoning with bad tales of me behaving like a boy. But Robb would draw a line there, even if it was his mother. It was an incident a few years before… something stupid and silly, leading one thing to another, had made him stern against his mother for me. After which Lady Stark wouldn't as much as dare to tell anything about me to him. Like I said, the woman wouldn't give me a chance to fight. She regarded me as dirt, and that had always hit my core.

"Bran has claimed the foal. And Arya is fighting with him to reclaim it." Robb informed, and I stifled a laugh. The foal was black, like my Hero, dark as sin. It was rare to get such a beautiful beast as my Hero. Which was why, Bran and Arya had decided to claim the foal to own just so they can ride like me, besting anyone. No one had ever matched Hero. He was fascinating and powerful beyond belief for a normal human to contemplate his unnatural grit.

"Tell me they aren't rolling in mud to figure out the problem," I asked.

Robb laughed, and we moved to sit across the edge, both our knees pulled to chin. "There is a good show going on, and father's guards are already bidding on who would win. Arya has resorted to solve the issue by calling Trial by Combat."

"My wager is on Arya."

"That's a sore point to lose your coin, Lya." Robb drawled, laying his head on the snow, his muscular arms winding to support his head, as he stared at the rising sun. "Bran always wins. He is trained than Arya and far better than her in the sword."

"Always doesn't mean this time. Well, shut up and tell me the price."

"Twenty-five silver."

"Get ready to give me my coins. I am in dire need of some to buy a few ingredients for my new breakthrough in testing salves. Damn, I need more! Can we move the wager to a golden dragon?"

"Do you have a golden dragon?" Robb asked with his vicious, cruel smile out on display.

"Yes…" I replied, lying down to see the sun just like him and he snorted with a groan, catching my lie. "I have a golden sister and I know she will win. Have a little faith, brother."

"Fine… A golden dragon. Pay me back with interest when you lose."

We brawled for some time, staying clear of any matters regarding the incident in the morning. He knew I don't like to discuss my feelings, and he often gave me the space that I needed. He would drag me out of the dark places, by bickering about who we deemed to be a better warrior. I had often picked Aemon the Dragonknight, and Robb would always choose the Young Dragon. Ridiculous as it sounded, that day I said, "I think I am going to go with Visenya, the warrior Queen."

"The witch Queen, more likely. She did nothing but disaster to her family. Kin slaying and all those bloody murders."

"That is what I like about her, the most," I said and Robb turned to see me in his horrid gaze. "Don't scorn a woman, else she will wreak havoc on your mistress's children." It slipped out of my tongue, indirectly meaning to take a jab at Lady Catelyn, something I was often careful before uttering in front of Robb, to respect his feelings.

To my surprise, he laughed like a maniac, eyes tearing up, as the golden sun made his bronze hair shine. "You are quite a thunder, Lyarra. I would never let you go, no matter how my mother feels about it. She can fight all she wants and I will fight for you against both of them if needed."

Feeling warm and welcomed, I snuggled up to my brother, as I had done in those fourteen fucking years, to take in and breathe that moment, letting the worst of my life be stuffed inside the folds on my head. 'Innocent, petulant wish', my head screamed, but that was fine. It was these small moments that I have of my siblings and this north that keeps me moving. I may be a bastard, but a lucky one.

Soon, we left, chasing clouds in a race towards the castle, all the while placing our wager for the winner. Although Robb knew I would win, he wagered all the time. And as usual, I won. Hero had never failed me. Upon entering the castle, I ordered him to buy me the purple velvet gown that I had set my eyes on in the market. It didn't have the aristocratic elegance like what Sansa wore, but it had attracted my eyes.

"Glad to buy it for you, princess!" Robb mocked me, gleaming with a stupid grin, referring to that silly dress as a princess wearing. "But refrain yourself from dancing with Harrion Karstark, when you wear it, else I will have to knock his teeth out."

"I will knock him out by myself," I said, bringing Hero into the stables and offered fresh apples for him.

When we headed out, two little mud sprayed tiny humans were getting reprimanded by their Lady mother, and we waited until the woman had gone to figure out the winner. They both were bruised, in arms and legs, few slashes of blood dripping from Bran's arm, but Arya had endured the worst. Her face was swollen that I thought she would get endless punishment for months to come from her mother. But it was her smile, the wide toothy grin, which she flashed amidst the gray mud on her face, that made me hug her like a bear, tackling her to ground.

"Now, now, sister! We have to celebrate your first victory." I praised, and we planned to take them both out for an extra ride from the castle. And when all was said and done, I went up to Robb with a grin. "Ready to give me a golden dragon?"

"I can't believe Bran lost in a fight with Arya, of all people." He whined.

"I said you so, brother…" He gave a questionable glance, not still understanding how it happened. Arya was scrawny and never had any true training compared to Bran. "Well, she was fighting for the one thing she desired, desperately. A horse… She would give her best shot, unlike Bran. Besides, a woman doesn't only fight with claws, brother, sometimes a bit deeper poison to the mind will help."

"You are shameless, you know." He shook his head with a mild laugh.

"I know what kind of bastard I am!"