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NYMERIA MARTELL

She twirled one of her daggers in her hands, imagining it flying straight at the Queen's head, impaling her to her chair.

The thought made Nymeria smile, and helped soothed some of the irritation that had been building in her since their welcome. She scoffed inwardly. It didn't deserve that moniker. It was a hurried peace attempt at best. A way to usher the Martells and their household into Winterfell before they could encounter any Lannisters.

It was no secret there was no love between the two houses, even less so since the Baratheons took the throne. They had murdered Elia, murdered her children, and never showed any sign of remorse. And here Nymeria was, inches away from the Queen and her children.

With one sleight of hand, she could slip one of Oberyn's deadly poisons into their cups and they'd all be dead by morning.

Instead, she was breaking bread with them, trapped by Guest Right. And she remembered how well that had gone for the Rat Cook.

A story she had been told by one of the Northmen as he escorted them to their side of Winterfell, far away from the Lannisters. No doubt it was a warning of some kind. A barbaric tale that encouraged young children to hold their honor.

But there was no honor in killing and raping an unarmed woman and her children.

Nymeria bristled, the laughter of the northerners echoing in her mind, unable to take the merry atmosphere anymore. Since her stay at Winterfell, she had been insulted in more ways than one. The King's words still lived in her skin, scratching the itch to take him out as well for claiming that her culture was good for little else other than providing pleasure in bed.

The Dornish were proud. They had evaded three hundred years of conquest, only entering the realm through marriage. She was a Princess of Dorne, but here she had been treated less than a common woman.

Ignored in favor of paler beauties, horribly received by her host, and dining her with her enemies.

Oberyn wouldn't have stood for it. But he wasn't here. Everyone she loved was back home, relishing in the burning sun and shifting sands. With the crashing waters of the Summer Sea at their backs and the finest wine in the realm at their disposal.

And she was here. Shivering down to her toes and downing cheap ale to try and calm the temper within her.

Thankfully Areo seemed just as displeased as she was. Although she was unsure if there was anything Areo actually enjoyed except service.

She'd be patient. She'd play the part Doran needed her to play. But one wrong move, one reason to suspect the crown was coming for her house?

Then that would die, and she'd make sure they'd pay.

Her throat constricted, and she felt herself grow hot. The crowds were finally getting to her. Why did the Starks insist on accommodating everyone in their household? Especially in such incredibly close quarters?

Her breathing grew shallower until it was reaching her ears, the quiet sound drowned out by drunken laughter and tavern songs that were bellowed at the top of the northerner's lungs.

She needed air.

Nodding to Areo, the guard released her, granting Nymeria a few minutes alone as she snuck out, colliding into something solid.

"Forgive me," The figure spoke up, his voice deep and his coloring resembling Lord Stark's.

"There's nothing to forgive," Nymeria lied smoothly. She held no quarrel with the North except a slight to her mother, and they were only words.

After all, words were wind.

The figure tilted his head and Nymeria waited a moment, watching as he embraced Lord Stark with a wide smile on his face, the brotherly embrace causing her chest to constrict.

She whirled around, moving down the torchlit hall until she reached a wooden door, pushing it open and breathing in the cool air. It slithered through her lungs, almost burning them. She almost thought she could smell the cold.

In the Great Hall, she felt as if she was choking. Surrounded by Lions and Wolves and Stags, all vulnerable animals to a Viper.

But she was vulnerable too.

Oberyn wasn't here.

Arianne wasn't here.

Obara and Tyene weren't here.

Her mother wasn't here.

She missed Dorne. She missed the hot desert winds and the perpetual sweat on her back. She missed the clang of steel against steel. The thrill of a good spar, the citrus fruits and wine, lounging on the smooth shores of the Broken Arm, jumping from whatever cliffs she could find. Usually with Arianne leading the way.

When she closed her eyes she thought she could will herself back there. That it would all be some horrible dream she would wake up from. And she would be back in her bed, Tyene and Obara waking her up at dawn to spar.

But it wasn't a dream.

Here there were no beaches. There were no citrus fruits or jumping from cliffs.

It was only cold.

Only snow.

Clang! Clang!

A distant thump pulled her out of her thoughts, and she peered around the corner, boots crunching against frozen grass, almost making her jump at the sound.

It was the bastard. The pretty one who had greeted her earlier.

And he was pretty. With his dark curls and grey doe-eyes, she finally understood her cousin's desire for deflowering pretty boys.

And he was exactly Arianne's type. Maybe not politically with no title or knighthood to speak of, but his features would have made her cousin go weak in the knees.

They certainly were working on Nymeria.

Taking great care to silence her steps, she leaned against the pole of the stable, watching the bastard hack at the dummy, not caring about his strokes or his form.

He was angry.

He needed to let it out.

She knew the feeling.

Nymeria didn't know what drew her to him. Maybe it was his pretty face. Or the way he had been quick to correct himself when they met. Or maybe it was his anger.

Whatever it was, it was enough to push her forward, leaning against the training pen, the wood digging into her shoulder blade as she watched him pant, sweat forming on his brow, sword ready to swing.

"Let me guess," Nymeria spoke up, a smirk crossing her face, her shield against the world, "He insulted your honor,"

The bastard froze, his sword hanging in the air as he furrowed his brow. She pointed her head at the dummy, and he dropped the sword to his side, eyes widening as he realized who he was talking to.

Who was watching him.

"My Princess, I didn't mean—"

"Please don't apologize," She cut him off, anger rumbling in her chest, "I've had enough for one day."

Jon Snow simply nodded and moved to put the sword away. "Why aren't you inside?" He asked, still not facing her. "I thought you would be enjoying the feast,"

Nymeria scoffed, shaking her head, "I don't want to spend any more time with the King and Queen than I have to."

A chuckle left the bastard's lips, and she could almost imagine his grey eyes brightening up. It made her smile. Something she hadn't done since leaving Dorne.

As he continued to shuffle the position of the armory, Nymeria raised her eyes toward the fortress she would be living in until Doran ordered her home.

The towering walls and watchtowers held no warmth. They were lonely, chilly beings that refused to budge, as strong and stubborn as the Lord within its halls.

Even the slight drifting snow felt as if it was the only thing that was moving before being engulfed by the darkness that surrounded them.

There was no light in the North.

"Winterfell looks so...cold." She spoke up, eyebrows furrowed at the castle, meaning every word of it. The bastard turned around, forehead creased as if trying to decipher her words, "I can't imagine what it must have been like to grow up here."

Jon chuckled slightly, leaning against the other side of the pen, staring up at his home with a nervous smile on his face.

"Much colder than Dorne Your Highness," Jon answered, staring back at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Something about his grey eyes relaxed her. "But I wouldn't have traded it for anything else," He stared up at his home once again, smile easing as his nerves dissipated, "It's my home, princess, nothing can change that."

Nymeria nodded, fully understanding the feeling. Despite her circumstances, Sunspear was as much her home as it was Arianne's. They would rule it together one day.

Arianne as Princess and Nymeria as her advisor. Much like Doran and Oberyn. Quentyn and Trystane weren't that happy about it, but perhaps they should have paid more attention in lessons.

"Did your mother live in Winterfell with you?" Nymeria wanted to take back the question as soon as she asked it. Not only had Jon's relaxed expression tighten into something sterner, but she herself had forgotten that she was not in Dorne anymore.

Paramours did not exist in the North the way they did in the south. Bastards were frowned upon and not celebrated.

Here Jon would have no rights. His best bet would be to squire for a noble house and become a knight, or to travel to Essos in the hopes of becoming a sellsword.

Neither of which seemed to suit him all that well.

"I never knew my mother," Jon bristled, his words as cold as she felt, "All I know is that she was a dornish wet-nurse. That I was born in the south."

Nymeria perked up at that. His mother was dornish? If he hadn't looked so pained when he said the words, she would have called him a liar.

There was nothing dornish in his coloring or his temperament. He was fully northern. If his mother was from Dorne, she left nothing of her in him.

"I'm so sorry," Nymeria apologized, guilt clawing at her stomach for even asking the question in the first place, "I never knew my mother either, or my father." She confided, hoping to remedy her mistake before it got out of hand, "They were ghosts before I could walk."

Jon's eyes softened in sympathy, and she soon found herself under his gaze. It was almost as if he was scanning her, whether it was for weaknesses or due to curiosity she couldn't say.

But there was sort of gleam in those sad grey eyes. They begged to be understood, the same way Nymeria had when she was younger. Before she had been legitimized and recognized as a Princess of Dorne.

Before she had truly been accepted by her Uncles as more than a reminder of their dead sister. Her dead mother.

Jon Snow held no other wish than to be loved, Nymeria was confident of that.

"Perhaps they knew each other," Jon smiled tightly, referring to the two dead women who had sired them. Nymeria doubted it. Even if his mother had been some highborn lady at court, Elia had been hidden in the red keep since she had been wed.

There was no way they could have met.

But when she saw the brightening in his solemn face, the hopeful look he possessed, something tugged at her chest, asking her to spare his feelings.

She listened to it.

"Perhaps." Her lips twisted upward, nodding as she moved to leave toward her chambers, catching sight of an irritated Areo leaving the hall, his eyes narrowed at the two of them.

The Guard had been wary of the bastard since their awful welcome, but he was wary of everything these days. Nymeria could not see any harm in getting to know the boy, especially since it seemed no one else was taking an interest in her.

Sensing Areo's lingering gaze on her, Nymeria straightened, slightly bowing her head.

"Goodnight Jon Snow," She spoke gently, leaving the bastard to his thoughts as she turned to meet up with her retinue. She froze when he called after her, a small smile gracing his face.

"Goodnight princess," he returned the favor, eyes scanning her up and down before flitting back to his sword as Nymeria sauntered away, a smirk written across her face as Areo began to escort her to her chambers.

"I do not trust him, my princess," He confided when they were back in their wing of Winterfell, far away from the Lannisters and Baratheons. To minimize the damage, she suspected.

Nymeria rolled her eyes, "The same way you don't trust Obara?"

Areo shuffled his feet but his head remained high. Nymeria sighed and wished the guard goodnight, knowing that he wouldn't budge on anything. Before she shut the door she whirled around to face Areo once again. "Try not to frighten him too much," She requested.

Areo only shrugged, "No promises little one,"

She chuckled at that, knowing that despite what he thought, Areo would listen to her. And Jon Snow did not deserve to be frightened.

The bastard of Winterfell didn't leave her thoughts until she snuck under the covers that night, something lifting off her shoulders as she recalled their conversation.

Jon Snow, she decided, made the North a little bit more bearable.

BRAN STARK

The walls of Winterfell were this favorite playground. The wolf trotted after him, like his mother did when she thought he was going to do something stupid. But he was just climbing.

There was not much harm in climbing. Not when he knew every brick of the home he lived in.

Not when he was sure of each of his steps.

Climbing might come in handy in the south. It might come in handy as a knight. He wanted to shout for joy when his father had told him the news. He was to be a knight, just like he wanted.

He could never be Lord of Winterfell, so his father would grant him the one thing he wanted most in this world. A chance to be a true knight. A man of honor like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.

They'd call him Bran the Surefooted, because he would know every step he would take and where it would lead. Plus it sounded much better than Bran the Small or Bran the Meek.

Jon and Robb had taunted him with those titles for years. Since he had first confided his wish to them. Bran still wasn't sure whether he regretted the decision or not.

He raced over the thin rooftop of the castle, following his feet until it led to the base of the Broken Tower, Bran's blood racing as he grabbed hold of the small ledges, a burst of pride puffing in his chest every time he managed to climb past one of them. He stared down at the courtyard of Winterfell. His dire wolf was still growing but he looked as if he was a puppy again, and in the sparring yard, he heard the sound of steel against steel. Bran squinted, a braided head of dark curls going head to head with a bald man with a halberd. Live steel. Not training swords.

It was the Martell Princess and her guard. She would never be a knight but she fought like one. Although something tugged at Bran's lips, and he briefly recalled his lessons with Maester Luwin.

Poison is a weapon of a snake, the elderly man had taught him, there is no honor in such a weapon.

Honor. Father had plenty of it, as did Jon and Robb. Had Bran inherited any of it? He supposed he wasn't old enough to know. He was only a boy of ten and he had a long way to go before he ever joined the likes of them.

He hoped the trip south would help. His arms were growing tired and the sun had started to appear in the sky behind the clouds. The midday meal would be served soon and Mother would be furious if he didn't show. A faint bark drew his gaze downward again, and Bran's Direwolf was standing, wagging its tail at the sight of his owner high above the ground, unable to be protected.

Bran sighed and climbed up one more ledge. He really should name the poor thing soon. It was terrible, calling the animal "puppy" and "wolfie" when he had been unable to come up with anything else.

All his siblings had such fitting names, except for Rickon, but Bran could hardly blame his younger brother, who was just learning to read instead of hearing stories from Old Nan. Bran didn't want to feel inadequate compared to his siblings. He didn't want to look like a fool. All the names that rang through his head were silly, and the ones Bran did like didn't seem to fit the light-haired beast. Bran felt his hand slip slightly as the wolf barked once again. Uttering a curse he had heard Jon use, Bran decided that he could climb the broken tower later. Mother would be furious anyway, and even the sound of steel was starting to die down. Bran lifted his eyes up to his prize, the window only a few feet away. But he was so close.

A raven flew onto the ledge of the open window, its caw almost taunting Bran, daring him to take the next step and claim his victory.

He gave in.

One step, then another, his arms aching as he hoisted himself up onto the last ledge, scooting slightly so he had better footing on the edge of the window, able to climb in if anything happened.

He didn't expect to see anyone else up here with him. A man and woman were currently inhabiting the lonely building, sounds he had once heard his mother and father utter in private being shared publicly. Bran went red at the memory. The woman's skirts were hiked high above her waist, and the man stood behind her, moving every once in a while.

But they looked familiar. And he couldn't recall seeing anyone with that coloring this far north until...suddenly realizing that he was watching something that he probably shouldn't, Bran attempted to scurry down, his foot slipping, rocks tumbling down the side of the tower, threatening to take the boy with it.

He felt himself pulled back into the window, a large hand grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Bran's blue eyes met green, and there was a smile. A brief expression coming from the Kingsguard. He and the woman were discussing something, but Bran's heart drowned out any words they were discussing.

He shouldn't have continued. He should have listened to his wolf. He should have listened to Mother.

Instead, he had caught the Queen and her brother in a position they definitely should not have been in, and he was paying for it.

Gods, curse his curiosity. It had always gotten the better of him.

The words passed back and forth again until the Queen's brother met Bran's gaze once again, his smile sharp like the knives the Martell Princess bore, and when the Queen's brother turned back toward the golden-haired woman, Bran heard his words as clear as day.

"The things I do for love"

And Bran flew.