‎⋆ naminpun ⋆

Shuddering, Petra flexed her stiff fingers. The sun was still high—midday. They didn’t come out during the day. The Others hated the sun. The sun and the warmth of all living man, Old Nan had said.

But the dead men… the dead men.

-You shouldn’t have gone out.

Leaf had warned her. Beyond the protection of the cave, she was vulnerable. And none would come to save her.

“I can save myself,” she'd insisted, thrusting the spear at her for emphasis. It was Meera’s spear. Carved with lines to mark the days they’d spent wandering beyond the Wall. The same spear that had done her in the end.

No. She wouldn’t think of Meera—Meera, or Jojen, Rickon, and Osha, who had parted from them before they’d arrived at the Nightforth. Hodor who still blissfully served ignorant of what his little Lord was becoming.

And Jojen… Jojen.

Pausing, she knelt into the snow. The tracks were there—faint imprints half concealed by a fresh downpour. Rabbit. Yes, she'd like a rabbit right about now. She'd not tasted rabbit since they’d gotten to the cave. Just queer fish and fruits, the meager sustenance the Children would forage for them.

She didn’t trust it—them, the cave, the Three Eyed Crow. The pale man on his weirwood throne, who had promised Bran he would never walk again—but he would fly.

Petra should have asked at what cost.

Shuddering, she trekked on— plowing through the snowfall, chasing the tracks. The branches crackled above, ice crystals glittering amid them like jewels in a crown.

A low rustle sounded to her right. Petra jerked, thrusting the spear out, as Meera had taught. The trees beyond remained silent—a row of faceless sentinels standing watch amid a field of white.

Petra retreated a step. She'd not gone far. If need be, she could run back.

A shadow moved amid the trunks. She raised her spear, aiming—she had a good shot. She just had to throw and kill whatever was out there. Lest the thing was already dead.

She drew a breath, her heart stilling. A shock of smoky fur appeared in the distance.

Her grip on the spear eased.

“Summer,” she breathed, her muscles uncoiling. The direwolf stalked from amid the trunks, his footsteps landing silently in the snow. She let the beast approach, hand extending toward it almost on reflex. But then she saw the eyes.

Pale grey, like winter frost. Human eyes. Human eyes staring back at her.

Petra inhaled. Beyond the trees, more shapes moved. Smaller wolves, the pack Summer had claimed for himself back at the wildling village they’d come upon before arriving at the cave.

“Go back, Bran,” she said, the words scarce more than a whisper. Summer's ears raised. Mist streamed through his nostrils, the clouds shrouding his maw in shadows.

-Does he know me?

Of course he did. It was Bran. Little knight. The boy she'd grown up with at Winterfell, the one she'd sworn to follow till the edge of the world, and beyond.

But it wasn’t him looking at her. It was a direwolf. A beast of white and grey, with the eyes of a man, but not quite. Bran was someone else now.

Something else.

The direwolf stalked past her, vanishing beyond the branches of a bare bush. The pack followed suit, the smaller wolves trailing after their leader like shadows. Petra looked back to where she'd come from. She should return. There was nothing out here. The pack itself was gaunt and skinny, fiending for game that was no longer there.

There was nothing here. Just death. Death, red eyes, and blue. A cup of weirwood paste, and Jojen's thin smile.

Her belly roiled, and she flexed her hand. No. She was being silly. Jojen had passed of a chill. His bones were entombed beneath the earth, with the other singers, Leif had said.

The Three-eyed Crow was teaching Bran to warg. To fly. They’d come here to learn the secrets of the children, the magic of life that had defeated the Others. There was no blood there—no death.

Turning, Petra stalked after the pack. She couldn’t go back to the cave. Not now.

Not now.

*   *   *

The first word Petra had learned in her girlhood was bastard. She'd not understood what it meant. But she did assume it had something to do with why everyone treated her differently. Having her sleep in the servant’s quarters, play with the stable boys, chase Edric around Sea Dragon Tower while Maester Cressen howled after them to behave.

Though she shared lessons with little Shireen, oft sup with her at the same table, no one ever called her little Lady as they had her.

“The title of Lady is reserved for a maiden of noble birth. Which you are not,” her Mother, Lady Selyse would snap. Petra had made the mistake of asking her what bastard meant, and it was only after the woman had started scolding her that she'd realized this was one of those dreadful things she wasn’t meant to say.

“Being a bastard means being born of sin. Shame that occurred outside the sanctity of the marriage bed.”

Petra had squinted at her, the words slowly sinking in.

 “So it’s someone whose mother and father aren’t wed?” she'd echoed. “That doesn’t seem too terrible.”

The way the woman had gasped, it was as if Petra had insulted her late Mother’s memory.

“Only one of your ilk would not place any importance on it,” she'd snickered. “Well, you will guard your tongue. And I’ll not have you asking anyone to call you a Lady ever again, do you understand?”

Petra had grumbled. “I never asked them to call me a Lady. I’m not one.”

Small, skinny, quick underfoot. The servants oft mistook her for Edric Storm, especially because she was so fond of stealing his clothes.

“You’re not,” the Lady Selyse had reiterated. “And you’d do well not to forget that.”

Petra had grimaced, but hadn’t contradicted her. It was an unspoken rule at Dragonstone—everyone was to do as Lady Selyse asked. She was mistress of the island, a proud, stubborn woman, as rigid as she was ugly. It was the Florent ears—two floppy domes that stuck out of her head like dinner plates. It didn’t help that she was always sneering at everyone, pursing the wispy moustache above her lip as if she'd tasted something foul.

Petra struggled to imagine why Lord Stannis had ever wed a woman such as her—she plainly didn’t have the looks to offset the shrewishness, and her family wasn’t all that wealthy either. Then again, Lord Stannis wasn’t much better looking either—nor was he any less shrewish.

She oft wondered how someone as darling as Shireen could come from such ghastly people.

“The Squishers must have dropped you off,” she's oft jest with her. “Switched out the true daughter, and gave them someone better.”

Shireen had peered at her through her lashes, their sums lessons scattered all over their tables.

“Is this your funny way of calling me fishy?

Petra straightened in her seat. “No! Of course not! You’re not fishy!”

The other girl sighed, her fingers curling against the scars on her cheek.

“I suppose it fits. They do look like fish scales.”

Petra grimaced. Grayscale, they’d called. The foul plague that calcified the flesh, and condemned the sufferer to a slow, painful death. Shireen had survived it only thanks to the skill of their Maester—but the way she looked at the grey strips marring the right side of her face sometimes, Petra thought she looked like she preferred not to have lived at all.

She thought her Mother felt the same—though she knew better than to say it.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re a noble Lady. Who cares about some scars?”

Shireen had looked at her, her big, blue eyes bottomless.

“Everyone with eyes,” she said, and turned away.

Petra had tried to lift her spirits. Made silly faces, juggled their ink pots. She'd even called that fool of hers, Patchface, to have him tell her jests, and sing queer rhymes that made Petra’s skin crawl. She lightened some—after much effort, and many apologies.

It relieved her. It made her sad. Bastard she may have been, but looking at the judgement Shrieen had to endure every day reminded her that nobility didn't always have it better.

*   *    *

She'd met the King only once.

Sometimes after her eight-nameday, Robert Baratheon had come to Dragonstone to pay his brother a visit. Petra had been beside herself. She'd grown up hearing the tales of the brave, strong warrior who had single-handedly defeated the last of the dragons and seized the crown for himself.

She and Edric had excitedly traded whispers, tallying everything they were going to ask him. But then he'd ridden through the Dragon gate, and that elation had soured.

He was a… man. Broader and taller than Lord Stannis, but still haggard—thick waist, soft limbs, a mop of shaggy black hair, and the bluest eyes Petra had ever seen—not unlike Edric's. He was loud though. A boisterous presence who devoured the feast his brother had served him, and spent the evening trading war tales with Lord Stannis’ household. That bit, she'd liked.

Hearing about the battles, the men he'd slain. His Small Councilors told him there was a disturbance brewing on the Iron Islands, and he was hoping to go there and chastise Lord Balon himself.

“Get me some of that youthful vigor back,” he'd laughed, and slapped his belly. His gaze had wandered to one of Lady Selyse's Ladies in waiting. And her delight dimmed.

She later told Edric she'd not found him as impressive as he.

“I don’t know,” she'd shrugged, when Edric had slapped at her shoulder in reproach. “He's just so… fat and loud. And I don’t like how he looks at the women in the castle.”

Edric had seemed aghast. He then launched into a tirade about how he was the King, a brave warrior. That wasn’t fat, it was muscle, and he had every right to look at whomever he pleased. Petra had disagreed but she didn’t wish to contradict him—he'd seemed taken with the man, gazing at him as if the Warrior himself had come to bless them with their presence.

Lady Selyse less so. One of the serving women had overheard her and Edric's conversation, and had informed her exactly what Petra had said.

The woman had immediately ordered that she be sent to the stables as punishment, so as to not shame them further with her crassness. Though Petra had seen her smirking about the comment with her Ladies after.

She’d spent the night tending the horses and shoveling hay, devising countless different ways to saw off Lady Selyse's tongue with none being the wiser.

Come the morrow, the men-at-arms came, to inform her that the King wished to see her.

Petra had tried to sputter quiet apologies, her cheeks blazing with each word spoken. Robert Baratheon heard none of what she'd said.

“Gah, look at you! Pretty lass,” he'd thundered, before slapping her shoulder so hard, her teeth rattled. “Look just like our kinsmen, eh? We should send you off to Ned, shouldn’t we?”

Petra had blinked up at him. But he was already turning away, waving Maester Cressen over to mumble into his ear. Ned? Did he mean Edric? The Maester oft called him Ned. But that made no sense—Edric was here.

Later, as she was rifling through her drawers, Maester Cressen came to have words.

“No, child. He wasn’t speaking of Edric, but of Lord Stark. His boyhood companion.”

Petra had dropped the tunic she was clutching.

“So I’m… I’m to go North?”

“King's orders,” the Maester intoned. “He wishes to send a young ward to Lord Stark for tutelage.”

Petra didn’t know what stumped her more—the fact that the King himself would occupy himself with the doings of a motherless bastard, or that he'd command she, specifically be sent fostering.

To the North, no less.

“But… why? I don’t want to go,” she'd whined.

She didn’t want to leave. Dragonstone was dull and dreary, but it was home. Warm, damp stone, carved dragon reliefs, the smell of salt that would drift in every morning when she pulled the shutters open. Shireen was here, as was Maester Cressen, and though she hated Lady Selyse and that dullard Patchface, she preferred them to strangers halfway across the world.

“Because the King commanded it so,” the kindly Maester replied. Noticing the clothing she'd haphazardly stuffed into her chest, he immediately went over to help tidy it. “And we must needs obey the King.”

Petra grumbled. “I don’t see why he would care about me. I’m just a bastard.”

The Maester let the silence stretch between them.

“Because the King wants to ensure the well-being of all his kinsmen.”

Petra kept folding, begrudgingly mimicking the neat squares he was fashioning with her breeches.

Then his words sank in. Kinsmen. His kinsmen. Petra blinked. Surely not. She was a bastard, he was a noble. The highest authority in the seven kingdoms. But nobles had bastards—in fact, they had quite a lot of them.

Lady Selyse had spent Edric's entire life raving about his mother dishonoring her marriage bed. She faulted her sin for the curse placed upon her union with Lord Stannis, and treated it as divine punishment that had left her unable to bear sons. Petra thought it was more likely that she was simply too sour for any son to want to take root inside her.

Had the same occurred with her?

As she and Cressen ordered her things into the chest, Petra gathered up the courage.

“Does that mean my Mother's a whore?”

The aged Maester halted at the door, his chain jingling softly.

That was what Lady Selyse always said. Only whores and fallen women sullied themselves enough to bear bastards.

“No, child. Of course not,” the Maester's face scrunched. “We all err at times. But more oft than not, these errors are not of our choosing.”

Petra tried to parse what he’d meant. Had her mother not… wanted to bear a bastard? She could imagine she wouldn’t. Not when she'd be judged by the likes of Lady Selyse. Not when her child would be called an abomination.

Grimacing, she sat herself on the edge of her bed, to regard her cramped, now barren quarters.

No. She didn’t particularly like the King. No man worth his salt would dishonor a woman like that. Neither would he condemn a child to a life if being called an abomination.

*    *    *

She came to Winterfell after nigh on a fortnight at sea and on the road. They’d shipped her off to White Harbor first, with a small retinue of men as escort. A wonderful place—cold, misty, dreamlike, with white marble walls, and a twisting Merman fountain in the Square.

Petra had wished she'd been allowed time to explore, to purchase a trinket from the market to send back to Shireen to lift her spirits. But bastard girls were not allowed leisure, and she was quickly stuffed into a carriage and sent on her merry way.

Winterfell was just as dreary as Dragonstone. Tall granite walls, twisting towers, vast, hilly terrain. It was snowing when she'd arrived, fat, white flakes that caught in Petra's hair and refused to melt.

She'd liked it—and she'd told Lord Stark as much. He'd reminded her of Lord Stannis in many ways. Stern and serious with dark hair, and pale grey eyes as steely as a freshly forged sword. But whilst Stannis bled resentment with each breath, the Lord of Winterfell was kindly.

He'd hailed her as little Lady upon arrival, and welcomed her to his keep.

“You have free rein of the castle. Just keep away from the rooftops. I’d promised his Grace I’d keep ye hale and healthy. I’d not have you falling off and breaking your neck.”

“I won’t fall. I’m good on my feet,” Petra had countered. The towers here were tall, but nowhere near as steep or as twisting as Dragonstone's carved, coiling points.

“You know, my son says much the same. Somehow, it does little to stop me from fretting.”

A small, gentle smirk curved his lips, and Petra decided that she liked him—much more than the sour Lord Stannis or the blustering King.

She'd met the son in question, after he'd led her into the great hall to be introduced. He had two of them—the eldest, a strapping boy some years Edric's elder with auburn curls and eyes as blue as a spring stream. Petra had taken one look at him and the lovely Lady seated at the head of the table and immediately realized who he took after. In fact, most of Lord Stark's children had taken after their Mother.

Sansa, the daughter, who was as pretty of a girl as she'd ever seen in her life, and Bran, a small, willowy boy a year her junior. He was the climber, Lord Stark had said.

“Though I expect you to have more sense, and not follow in his example,” he grimaced, earning himself a sulk from his son. “You can shadow the girls. Attend embroidery lessons with them, singing, poetry.”

“I’m not going to sing,” the second girl announced with a sneer. She was the only one who looked like her father. Long, solemn face, dark hair, grey eyes. She had a fire to her too. Despite her Father chastising her the entire breakfast, she refused to yield, insisting her singing was vile, and her embroidery too crooked to trouble with.

“Which is why you must needs practice, Arya. So that you may improve,” her Mother had gently reminded. “Do you embroider, child?”

Petra had made a face. At most, she knew how to stitch up holes in her clothing—but she did it so poorly, her Septas oft said how she had feet for hands.

Lady Stark seemed immeasurably disappointed.

“Well, I suppose I should not be surprised.”

Her face fell then, her mouth working soundlessly. Petra saw Lord Stark seizing her hand under the table, to give it a warning squeeze.

“You mustn’t begrudge her. She's been in a foul mood for weeks.” The climber leaned in to whisper to her after she'd been invited to sit at their table to break her fast. “I’m Bran.”

“I know,” Petra had said, accepting his hand. “You’re the one who's unsteady on your feet.”

His cheeks flushed as brightly as his hair. “Am not! I’m the best climber there is! I’ve never fallen.”

“Hm, with those skinny legs of yours? Doubt it. Suppose you’ll have to prove it,” she’d snickered earning herself another pout.

“Oh I will,” he narrowed his eyes. “You’ll eat your words.”

She did. Petra had never been one for climbing. Swordplay had been her passion, and despite Lady Selyse objecting to her interest, she'd not cared enough to earnestly try and keep her from the tiltyard at Dragonstone. Something about her “deserving the mud, if she chose to act the beast”.

But Bran… he'd made it look easy. Hopping from rooftops, hanging off ledges, as nimble as a squirrel. Petra had tried to lift herself up a ledge, and had failed miserably, falling on her backside hard enough to leave an angry mark on her skin.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get there eventually. Once you make those skinny legs stronger,” the little wretch had teased, smirking down at her from his ledge.

Petra had cursed, under her breath, but couldn’t resist smiling. “One of these days, you’ll come tumbling down to crack your skull on the stones below. And then we'll see whose skinny legs need to be stronger.”

Bran only stuck his tongue out at her. “As if. I never fall.”

Petra rolled her eyes—just as haughty and as self-assured as Edric. But he was sweet. Brave, daring, kind. The sort of friend who would make her separation from home more bearable.

And mayhaps, after years of restlessness, she'd finally find peace.

*   *   *

They came upon the remains after hours of trekking.

Or at least it felt like hours. It was hard to tell the time beyond the Wall. The thick snowfall would blot out the sky, cover the sun under a film of misty whiteness. The bitter cold oft addled the senses, to the point where Petra could scarce tell which parts of her body were her own.

The pack wove between the trees, scenting around for any sign of fresh prey. When she noticed one of the smaller wolves stop and snarl, she realized they’d found something. Her belly rumbled in excitement, and she quickly notched an arrow, ready to fire. All she got was more white, and more whistling wind.

She darted between the trees, squinting past the whiteness to where Summer was standing. Bran's direwolf was scenting the ground, his breath misting each time he exhaled. Petra watched him paw at the snow, before wrenching something buried beneath.

Cloth. No, fur. A piece of a fox-fur cloak. Her belly dropped.

The wolf pack stalked forward, bleeding between the trees. Petra followed cautiously, bow and arrow at the ready. She came upon a boot next. Bound animal hide, sticking out of a freshly fallen snow pile. Then a satchel—completely empty, hanging off a low branch.

The wolves circled a clearing, wedged between two imposing elms. Summer had resumed digging, this time pulling out something solid. A black slab, frozen solid. He bit into it hard, the crunch echoing in the silence. Petra gaped at the chunk he'd taken out—it pink. A sickly, grayish pink.

She carefully inched forward, her eyes squinting against the frost—a pair of toes, a slender calf. It was a leg. A man's leg.

Her bow dropped.

“Summer, let go,” she snapped. This wasn’t right. Bran wasn’t Summer, but he was inside him. He couldn’t be eating a man whilst he was inside him. “Stop it!”

She tried to yank the direwolf away, but all she got were growls. Summer lashed, snapping his teeth at her in warning. The other wolves started circling her then, their glowing eyes turning predatory.

Petra retreated.

-It's fine.

It was just the wolf eating the meat. Not Bran. Wargs were not their animal. They were men. Men who could do queer things, enter the mind, control—

Goosepimples rippled down her skin. She recalled the tower, Hodor screaming. The way his eyes had glazed over, and how he'd fallen to his knees. Bran had sworn he'd not done it on purpose. He was just afraid, and wanted Hodor to be calm.

“I believe you,” she’d told him, and tried to take his hand. Her fingers had faltered partway.

She didn’t want to admit it. To herself, much less to him. She was afraid. Of the dreams, the queer things he'd said, his bond with Summer. Old Nan used to tell them tales about the magic of the Children of the Forest, and how they’d used it in their war against the First Men. It sounded exhilarating. To make animals do your bidding, control the rivers, and sing to the wind. But despite the thrill, Petra couldn’t help but remember. The magic always came at a cost—one's life, one's blood. Oneself.

*   *    *

She never actually embroidered with Lord Stark's daughters.

She didn’t have the patience for it, and the looks the Lady Sansa and her insufferable little friend Jeyne liked giving her, let Petra know she wasn’t even wanted there.

“Why send her?” she'd heard them whispering one time. She and Bran had decided to play a hiding game, and Petra had found herself sheltering inside a barrel to escape his persistent seeking. “She's a bastard. It seems dishonorable.”

She knew it was Jenye who had spoken those words—only her voice had that nasally, insufferably squeaky quality to it.

“Father says the King ordered it,” Lady Sansa said this time, her voice measured, subdued.

“But why? Why would the King trouble himself to send a bastard girl here?”

The sound of shuffling feet and whispering wool rang out on the other end. Petra flattened her ear against the barrel, trying to hear.

All she caught was something that sounded like “she's his.”

“Your sister doesn’t like me,” she'd told Bran after. They were sitting on the ledge overlooking the Broken Tower, watching the sun make its slow descent behind the horizon.

Petra huffed out a laugh that held no humor. “She certainly acts like it.”

Bran frowned at that, his legs swinging idly over the edge.

“Sansa doesn’t like anyone. She’s just… stuffy. She thinks she’s too good for everyone.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t hate you.”

“She does,” Petra fired, “Your mother doesn’t like me either.”

That made him sputter. “That’s not true. My mother does like you. She’s always courteous.”

Petra turned to him then, brow arched. “Courteous. Like she's with your bastard brother?”

Bran went silent at that. His eyes dropped to his boots, scuffing lightly against the stone.

She hadn’t meant to wound him. Not really. Petra had liked Lady Catelyn well enough. She was lovely and proper, a kind mother and a devoted wife—far better than Lady Selyse, at least. But she was distant. Curt. She looked at Petra as though she weren’t meant to be there. It wasn’t as sharp as the looks she sometimes sent Jon Snow, Bran’s baseborn brother, but it carried the same feeling beneath it. An underlying resentment. Shame.

Lady Catelyn had seemed to understand, at least at first. But even then she’d wondered aloud why he would shame them so.

She remembered the conversation she’d overheard, in Lord Stark's solar. She'd crept through the servant's passages, trying to outrun Arya this time, when rising voices drew her attention— Lady Stark, grumbling to her husband about why Petra was here at all. Lord Stark trying to defend himself, saying that the order had come from Robert. He was King—and one did not refuse a King, the least of all one who had been his dearest boyhood companion.

 “To peddle his baseborn upon you… It’s not a matter of duty, but a question of dishonor. Asking you to dishonor yourself, to mend his errors,” Petra had heard her say, the words cutting even through the door.

Lord Stark had stayed silent and brooding in his seat for a long while.

“It was necessary. The Queen… she didn’t want to have the girl stay at Dragonstone.”

“Why?” Lady Stark had snapped. “Why not send her somewhere else? Storm’s End, or… to her mother’s kin.”

“She has no kin,” Lord Stark retorted. “There’s no place to send her. I’ll not discuss this. Not any longer.”

Bran had shifted beside her, discomfort furrowing his brows. “My mother… she doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just—”

“Proper,” Petra finished for him.

A proper Lady who concerned herself with her family, her children, and the honor of her house. A Lady who still resented the nameless woman who had sired Lord Stark a baseborn son who resembled his Father more than her own trueborn children.

Petra had had no choice but to conclude that the mother was the issue.

The mother who had dishonored Lady Selyse’s marriage bed with Edric. The woman who had given Lord Stark his bastard. Her mother too—this mysterious woman who had made the Queen wroth enough to order Petra be sent away, shipped off like an inconvenience.

A small hand pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. When she jerked back to herself, she found Bran there, his long, calloused fingers wrapped around her own.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her, fierce in his simplicity. “I like you.”

Petra smirked and jostled him with her shoulder. “You like me because I never tell you no.”

Whatever misadventure he’d thought to get himself into, she always approved. More than that—she eagerly participated. Despite being meant as a companion for Lord Stark’s daughters, she’d ended up closer to Bran than any of them. The brave little knight, as kind as Shireen and as lively as Edric.

“No, that’s not true,” he said, grinning. “I like you because you’re my friend.”

Petra groaned and rolled her eyes. “Ah yes, the bastard and the little lord.”

His fingers squeezed tighter. “A knight and his lady.”

Silence.

“I’m not a lady. You know that,” she fired after a beat.

“So?” Bran shrugged. “Knights can choose to serve whomever they please.”

Petra snickered. “Not penniless, orphaned baseborns.”

Bran still shook his head. “Well, I do. I’d choose you.”

She almost hit him for that. But the words made something warm coil in her chest, a slow aching heat that set her cheeks to pulsing. Someone would choose her. The overlooked, sinful bastard girl.

“Promise?” she whispered, startled by how thin her voice sounded.

“I promise,” Bran declared, squeezing her hand tighter.

*    *    *

The wolves had started digging.

Petra stood on the sidelines, and watched as they hauled the leg up from beneath the drift. They gnawed and bit at the calf, the toes, the ankle, frozen flesh snapping off in their jaws like rotten branches. 

She expected the thing to come apart. But the more they dragged, the more of it came out. A thigh, a waist, a chest. A blackened body emerged from the white, dragged free inch by inch. The smell was faint, long-smothered by cold, but it lingered all the same.

She swallowed and looked down at the ground. Dark patches, melted and refrozen ice, the ghost of a fire pit, ash ground into the earth.

Whoever this was, they’d burned their dead. Mayhaps the living too—so they would stay dead.

Petra forced herself to move, crouching and scraping snow aside with stiff fingers. If there had been people here, there might have been supplies—furs, food, something left behind in haste. She dug and dug, fingers numb, her teeth. She shouldn’t look. She shouldn’t think of it.

It was the wolf eating the burnt man—not the boy. Not the boy.

She felt eyes on her.

Summer stood apart from the others, his attention fixed on her rather than the body. Between mouthfuls, his eyes flicked back to her face. Big, piercing, and human.

She stiffened, her mind slipping backwards.

Bran had sworn he would never fall.

He’d said it all proud and confident, clinging to stone and sky as if the ground below hadn't existed. Petra had believed him, teased him about falling only in jest.

Then he'd fallen in earnest.

An accidental slip. Shattered legs. A body left gathering the edge of death—a boy who would never walk again, if he even woke at all. Petra had unraveled in the days that followed, hovering outside his door until Lady Stark had ordered her away.

It shouldn’t have happened. Things were supposed to be fine. The King had come. Winterfell was full of noise and merriment and Lord Stark was meant to go south, to serve as Hand, along with Sansa and Arya. Bran was to follow too, to see the capital, become a squire, and then a knight. Just as he'd always wished.

But he would do so without her. She was a bastard, the girl who had been sent here for a reason. She'd seen it—felt it in the way the Queen watched her, the way she'd grimace whenever Petra happened to be in her vicinity. She would never be welcome at King's Landing, no matter how hard she begged to come.

And yet, she couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind either.

Robb was already distant, an older boy wrapped up in his duties as heir. Theon Greyjoy was an insufferable know-it-all she couldn’t stand to he around and Rickon… well, Rickon was still a babe. Even Jon Snow, the one person she'd felt a personal kinship with, had chosen the Wall over staying behind, seeking a place where his name wouldn't weigh him down.

She had wished—fervently—that Bran would stay somehow.

She had prayed to the Old Gods and the New, willing it with all her might: “Keep him here. With me. Just as we promised.”

And then he'd fallen.

Her wish had been granted.

The guilt never loosened its grip. It followed her like a shadow, clung to her soul, till it felt like it might crush her in its embrace. After he'd awoken at last, after Robb had marched south to avenge his murdered Father, Petra had rushed to Bran's side to bear her soul, find relief.

“It was my fault,” she'd wheezed. “I wished you’d stay—stay with me. And then you'd…”

Bran had stared at her from his bed, eyes wide with shock. For a moment she'd been terrified he would agree. Instead, he shook his head.

“Maester Luwin says the gods don’t work like that. Not that way.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because you’d never wish me harm.”

Petra forced down a swallow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll make it right. I promise, I promise…”

“How?” He demanded. “I can’t walk. I can’t be anything. A lord, a knight.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be your knight,” she quickly fired.

He scoffed. “You can’t be a knight to a cripple.”

“Just like you can’t be a knight to a bastard?”

That silenced him. Petra reached over to squeeze his hand, reminding him that they’d promised. That nothing had changed. She'd kissed him too. A quick brush of lips, scarce more than a ghosting of her mouth against his.

A snarl jerked her to consciousness.

He’d still flushed—so had she. Flushed, ached, wept, like a mewling babe, desperate to keep her little knight with her.

The wolves were growing frantic now, tearing at what remained with wild hunger. Petra dug faster, unearthing a satchel and a bundle of furs. She slung them over her shoulder quickly, just as movement flickered at the edge of her sight.

She froze.

The trees loomed, black against endless white. Nothing moved. Her breath sounded too loud in her ears. She tightened her grip on her spear.

Crack.

The sound echoed unnaturally. The wolves went still, their attention snapping toward the forest.

Dread crept up her spine.

She peered up through the canopy above her. The light was fading. Evening was fast approaching, the light bleeding into dimness, flattening the world into shadow. She could not be here after dark.

She raised her spear and took a cautious step.

Something shifted. A branch. A shape.

The wolves scattered, their growls sharp and erratic.

Petra squinted. A flash of blue appeared in the distance.

A cold, unnatural glow pierced the whiteness ahead. The air seemed to change with it, thickening, carrying a stench she could not name but felt in her gut. Fear. Rot. The nearness of death.

She vaulted to her feet. The blue started moving, ambling through the trees, right toward her. Mayhaps it was Meera. Her corpse, coming to seek vengeance for the way they’d fled—left her in the snow to face the wights, whilst they scrambled for the safety of the Three-eyed crow's cave.

Fight, she told herself, though her limbs felt hollow.

The blue lights moved ever closer.

The wolves lunged.

Petra ran.

She plunged through the snow, lungs burning, heart hammering. Behind her came snarls, strangled growls—the sounds of tearing flesh, cracking bone. She didn't look back. She ran and ran and ran, tearing through the snow until her legs failed and she collapsed into the drift.

She raised her bow and stared into the trees, her fingers shaking.

She swallowed and forced herself to breathe.

Nothing came. There was only whiteness. Only silence.

She had promised—to be a knight, to stay, to choose Bran.

But Bran was scarcely Bran now.

He was a man-eater. A sorcerer of the weirwood who could bend the mind of men. Some day, he might do it to her too. Take her over as he had Hodor, grind her meat into paste and drink it, like he had with Jojen. She remembered him then—pale and panting amid the furs, his skin a sickly grey. Petra had offered to go out the cave, to find someone who could heal him, make him better—even though she'd known there were no Maesters beyond the wall.

Jojen had refused.

“I’ll die in this place,” He'd wheezed.

And days later, he’d kept his word.

She whined, her vision blurring.

She couldn't leave. Outside the cave, there was worse. Outside that cave, death no longer meant anything. Outside the cave, the cold threatened to swallow her whole. That was worse. That was worse.

Petra dragged herself upright, fingers numb around her bow.

Above her, a crow cawed.

She looked up as it took flight, black wings cutting across the darkening sky.

Drawing a steadying breath, she followed. One step, then another.