"Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time. You and I drink the posion from the same vine. Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time. Hidin' all of our sins from the daylight"
The air is cold, though winter has not yet come. It is the kind of lingering Northern chill that slips beneath your clothes and reminds you that snow is never far away. I rest my forearms against the wooden railing overlooking the courtyard, watching from above, as I so often do.
Below, Bran Stark grips a bow with both hands. It is far too large for him, though he would never admit it. He wrinkles his nose in concentration and lets the string fly. The arrow veers off course, striking the wooden barrels well wide of the target.
“Close!” Robb Stark laughs. There is no mockery in it, only the easy, open laughter that makes Winterfell seem like the simplest place in the world.
Bran whirls around, outraged.
“It wasn’t close,” he protests. “It was terrible.”
A quiet laugh escapes me, but the sound of footsteps on stone draws my attention elsewhere. The Lords of Winterfell have arrived—Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Lord Stark inclines his head in my direction, while Lady Stark offers me nothing more than a measured glance.
Below, Jon Snow looks up and finds me. His smile is slight, little more than the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, but enough for me to catch it. He crouches beside Bran and whispers something into his ear. I cannot make out the words, yet the effect is immediate. Bran turns at once, searching for his parents. Then he faces forward again, carefully nocks another arrow, draws the string, takes a steady breath, and releases.
The arrow lands beside the first.
This time, Jon Snow and Robb Stark laugh openly, the kind of laughter that comes easily when you are surrounded by those who are yours.
“Which one of you could shoot straight at ten?” Eddard Stark asks, silencing them at once. “Keep practicing, Bran.”
Bran nods solemnly. He sets another arrow, adjusts his footing, and draws the bowstring once more.
Before he can loose it, another arrow whistles cleanly across the yard and buries itself in the very center of the target.
Every head turns at once.
I lean farther over the railing for a better look, and there she is—Arya Stark, bow in hand, wearing a mischievous grin. Bran stares at her for a heartbeat, disbelief written across his face, before taking off after her.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, approaches Eddard as the courtyard slowly settles back into order. He inclines his head and murmurs a few words. Lord Stark answers with a brief, serious nod. Whatever was said, it was no light matter. It rarely was.
I stay where I am, watching Jon. He stands alone before the target now, gathering the scattered arrows. As I watch him, I find myself thinking—as I have so many times before—that it makes perfect sense he is the one I understand best.
Lord Stark returned from the south after the war had already ended, after the Mad King had fallen and a new king had claimed the Iron Throne. He came back to Winterfell carrying victory on his shoulders… and two infants in his arms.
Two lives that appeared in none of the chronicles of the rebellion.
The rumors spread quickly. They said Jon was Eddard Stark’s son by another woman, the result of a mistake made during the war. Lord Stark never confirmed the tale, but the world decided for him and allowed the story to become truth. That is why Jon bears the name Snow.
The bastard of the North.
I arrived bearing the surname Sand—a single word that revealed where I had come from.
The daughter of Ashara Dayne and a father with neither face nor name. No one ever believed Lord Stark was mine. My surname alone closed that door.
Perhaps that is why Jon is the one I understand best.
Because we both know what it is to grow up as the consequence of something no one ever speaks aloud.
Catelyn Stark approaches with measured, purposeful steps, and I straighten at once, as I have done since I was a child.
“Lyara, I need you to see to the chambers in the west wing,” she says in her calm, composed voice. “We will have guests soon.”
I nod without asking a single question.
“I’ll make sure they’re ready.”
Catelyn studies me for another moment, weighing something in silence. At last, she gives a satisfied nod and walks away with the same poise she arrived with.
Below, Jon has already left the yard, and the courtyard becomes nothing more than cold stone and colder air once again.
We are all assembled before the gates of Winterfell.
The Starks stand at the front, already in place, their cloaks resting neatly upon their shoulders and their expressions carefully composed. The entire castle seems to be holding its breath.
I remain a step behind them, my hands folded before me, my gaze fixed ahead.
Catelyn’s eyes travel along the line before coming to a stop.
“Arya is missing.” She glances toward her eldest daughter. “Sansa, where is your sister?”
I turn without a word and slip quietly through the gathered servants and guards in search of her.
I find her almost at once.
She is crouched behind a wagon on the far side of the courtyard, dressed perfectly for the occasion, whispering to a cat that clearly has no intention of coming any closer. The moment she reaches for it, the creature darts between her hands and disappears.
“Arya,” I murmur. “Now isn’t the time.”
“This one’s cleverer than the others,” she complains.
“And neither will your mother.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh but climbs to her feet.
“If you behave, I’ll help you find him afterward.”
“Really?” She looks up at me, hope lighting her face.
That is enough to convince her.
She nods with theatrical determination and hurries beside me.
We slip back into formation just in time. Catelyn casts us a sharp look, and Arya quickly takes her place. I move quietly to Jon’s side, and he greets me with an amused smile.
Trumpets sound across the courtyard.
The great gates of Winterfell swing open, and the royal procession enters.
The pounding of horses’ hooves reaches us before anything else.
Among the foremost riders is Joffrey Baratheon, sitting tall and proud in his saddle. His gaze drifts along the line until it settles upon Sansa Stark.
Everyone has heard the rumors.
The prince and the eldest daughter of the North are to be betrothed.
One day, they will rule together.
Behind him rides a knight impossible to ignore.
His armor is dark and heavy, and the helm upon his head is shaped like a snarling hound. When he dismounts, he removes it, revealing exactly who everyone expected.
Half his face is scarred by old burns, and his reputation as a fearsome warrior has long preceded him.
Then the royal wheelhouse rolls through the gates.
Its wheels groan against the stone, and the murmuring throughout the courtyard fades into silence.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, steps down first.
He is even larger than I imagined.
Behind him descends Queen Cersei Lannister.
If Robert commands attention simply by taking up space, Cersei commands it by owning every inch around her. Her beauty is sharp, almost dangerous, and there is calculation in her eyes. She gives the impression that nothing escapes her notice.
Robert strides toward Eddard Stark.
It is instinct, drilled into us since childhood.
When Lord Stark straightens again, a long silence hangs between them.
Then, without warning, both men burst into laughter.
Robert steps forward and embraces Ned with the force of a man who has never cared much for distance or ceremony.
Their friendship is legendary.
Movement at the edge of the gathering catches my eye.
A knight of the Kingsguard removes his helm.
He does so slowly, with the effortless confidence of someone accustomed to being watched.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of his posture radiating quiet assurance.
Golden hair frames a face both handsome and refined, while his eyes are the deep blue of the sea.
“That’s the Queen’s twin brother,” Arya whispers, glancing toward Sansa.
“Quiet,” Sansa hisses back.
He is not merely handsome.
He is the sort of man who knows exactly what he is and has no need to prove it. There is an easy confidence about him—calm, effortless, and somehow dangerous.
At last, Robert and Ned pull apart, still laughing.
The King greets Catelyn with the same rough familiarity before ruffling Rickon Stark’s hair.
The youngest of the family beams.
Robert continues down the line at an unhurried pace, taking in everything around him.
He offers Sansa a compliment on her beauty, leaving her blushing.
Then he tells Bran Stark to show him his muscles.
The King lifts his gaze once more.
His eyes pass over the Stark children…
There is no surprise in his expression.
He simply looks at me a heartbeat longer than feels ordinary, as though confirming something he already knew.
I hold his gaze, unable to understand why he is looking at me that way.
The silence lasts only another second.
Long enough for me to notice Cersei following her husband’s line of sight with cold curiosity.
Long enough for Jaime Lannister to lift his chin ever so slightly, intrigued.
He walks on as though nothing has happened.
“Ned,” he says, looking at his old friend, “take me to the crypt. I want to pay my respects.”
“We’ve been traveling for weeks, my love,” Cersei says, stepping forward, her voice smooth but firm. “The dead can wait.”
Robert does not even turn toward her.
His eyes remain fixed on Eddard.
Without another word, he turns and walks away, as though the matter had been settled before anyone else had spoken.
Cersei remains where she is, watching the two men disappear.
“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asks, loud enough for far more people than she intends to hear.
“Arya,” Sansa whispers sharply again, tugging at her sleeve.
At the question, Cersei turns her head at once.
Her eyes pass over Arya like the edge of a blade—brief, cold, and filled with disapproval.
Then she pivots toward Jaime.
“Where is our brother?” she asks, unconcerned with who might overhear. “Go and find that little beast.”
The Great Hall is alive with light and noise.
Torches flicker against the stone walls. Laughter echoes beneath the high ceiling. Goblets are raised, and the scent of roasted meat mingles with sweet wine.
The high table commands the room.
Catelyn and Cersei sit beside one another, perfectly composed, yet neither speaks nor so much as looks at the other.
Farther down the hall, Robert Baratheon refuses to remain seated. He wanders from table to table, laughing far louder than necessary, surrounded by women who seem anything but uncomfortable in his company.
I sit beside Robb at one of the long tables.
We’ve been friends since we were children, and he includes me without ever giving it a second thought, as though there were nowhere else I should be.
While he chats with the other boys about hunts and wagers, I only half listen.
My attention has settled elsewhere.
I spot Eddard speaking with Jaime Lannister.
Jaime smiles easily, speaking with effortless confidence. Ned answers with quiet courtesy.
From a distance, it looks like little more than polite conversation.
Their eyes give them away.
Jaime watches Ned as though he is measuring him, testing him with every word.
Ned, by contrast, has no need to prove himself.
I have known Lord Stark long enough to understand that if he keeps someone at a distance, it is never out of pride.
The Lord of Winterfell is too humble for that.
Robb nudges me lightly with his elbow.
“You’re frowning. You only do that when you’re somewhere else.”
“I was just thinking,” I reply, forcing myself back to the present.
“Have a drink.” He gestures toward my goblet, still nearly full. “It helps you stop thinking.”
“That sounds like terrible advice.”
“But effective,” he answers with a grin.
I pick up my cup and take a small sip.
Without even looking at me, Robb slides his plate toward me and takes mine instead.
His is still almost untouched.
“You haven’t eaten anything either,” he says. “This one’s better.”
Robb has always been like that with me.
Never in ways that draw attention.
Just quietly attentive to the little things.
Not because he has to be.
Because it comes naturally to him.
He has never made me feel out of place.
Never made me feel like I didn’t belong.
“You always do,” Robb says with a crooked smile.
I barely have time to taste the food before I see Arya using her spoon as an improvised catapult.
A piece of food sails across the hall and strikes Sansa square in the face, splattering the front of her dress.
“Arya!” Sansa cries, furious.
I push back my bench at once, ready to go after her, but Robb stretches an arm across my path before I can move.
“I’ll handle it,” he says.
He’s already on his feet before I can answer.
He walks around the table with steady strides until he reaches Arya.
Without raising his voice, he slips his hands beneath her arms and lifts her straight off the bench.
“Time for bed,” Robb tells her.
Arya lets out a defeated sigh but doesn’t argue.
Robb leads her from the hall toward her chambers.
Only then do I finally take my first proper bite.
I step out into the courtyard in search of fresh air and follow the familiar path toward the stables, where I know Jon will be practicing against his wooden training dummy.
Halfway there, I hear voices.
“Take me with you when you return,” Jon says. “Father will let me go if you ask him.”
“The Wall will always be there,” replies a voice I know well.
Lord Eddard’s younger brother.
“I’m ready to take the oath.”
“You don’t understand what you’d be leaving behind,” Benjen says at last. “We have no families. None of us will ever father children.”
“I don’t care,” Jon answers without hesitation.
“You would,” Benjen replies more quietly. “If you knew what I was talking about.”
I take a step forward, but the wooden floor creaks beneath my boot, betraying me.
Both of them turn at once.
The sternness on their faces softens the moment they see me.
Benjen crosses the distance between us and pulls me into a brief embrace.
I’ve always gotten along well with him, despite how rarely he is at Winterfell.
“I decided I’d done my part,” I answer with a shy smile. “It seemed like the perfect time to disappear before anyone noticed.”
Benjen chuckles under his breath.
“I’d better go rescue my brother from his guests.”
He looks back at Jon before turning to me once more.
His gaze lingers on my face, calm and thoughtful, as though measuring the years that have passed.
“You’ve grown since I last saw you,” he says.
There is nothing else behind the words.
Only Benjen’s usual honesty—plain, direct, and kind.
He inclines his head in farewell before walking back toward the castle.
Silence settles over the stable once more.
“Do you still mean to join the Night’s Watch?” I ask after a moment.
Jon takes his time answering.
He leans back against one of the beams, folds his arms across his chest, and stares at the wooden dummy.
“Robb will become Lord of Winterfell. Sansa and Arya will marry into noble houses and leave. Bran and Rickon will serve Robb and rule lands of their own in the North.”
“What is a bastard supposed to have left?”
The answer comes to me before I can stop it.
Together, as we’ve always been.
Two people without titles.
Two children who grew up side by side.
There has always been something between us that neither of us has ever named.
We’ve never crossed that line.
But neither has it ever disappeared.
“Guarding a frontier so the rest of the realm can pretend there’s nothing beyond it…” I say, trying to lift his spirits. “That’s no small purpose.”
“Besides, you’ll be wearing black.”
“It’s always been your color.”
I step a little closer, nodding toward the sword resting against the stable wall.
I tilt my head toward it.
“Show me some of those moves you’ve been practicing to impress your future brothers.”
That’s what everyone calls the men of the Night’s Watch.
Jon lets out a quiet laugh.
He picks up the sword and offers it to me.
I take it, surprised by its weight.
With a light touch against my ankle, he adjusts my stance.
When I raise the sword, his hands slide over mine, covering them.
His thumbs make a gentle adjustment over my knuckles.
One arm circles mine to guide the arc of the swing, and as he does, his fingers brush the bare skin of my forearm.
…that becomes something deliberate when he doesn’t pull away.
“Like that,” he whispers.
When the movement is finished, Jon doesn’t let go.
One hand glides slowly along my forearm toward my elbow, correcting the line of the blade.
I can feel his breath near my ear.
I turn my head just enough to realize how close we are.
His eyes drop briefly to my lips…
…before returning to mine.
His hand remains on my arm, as though he’d forgotten he was supposed to let go.
Ready to shatter at the slightest interruption.
The voice cuts cleanly through the silence.
Jon steps away from me at once.
I lower the sword, though the memory of his hands still lingers against my skin.
Leaning against the stable doorway stands the Imp.
A goblet sways lazily in one hand.
He is drunk enough to look relaxed.
Sober enough to understand exactly what he interrupted.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, raising his cup. “I admire Northern dedication.”
“Tyrion Lannister,” I murmur.
Yet another name immediately comes to mind.
“My greatest accomplishment,” he replies with a crooked smile.
“And you two are the bastards.”
Jon turns toward him at once, offended.
I don’t react the way Jon does.
The word has never wounded me in quite the same way.
I’ve never had a place from which to fall.
Because every time someone says it, he’s reminded exactly where he stands…
…and why he never truly belongs.
“Have I offended you?” Tyrion asks, strolling toward Jon.
As he passes me, he gives me a brief glance before continuing.
“Let me give you some advice, bastard.”
“Never forget what you are.”
“The rest of the world never will.”
“…and it can never be used to hurt you.”
I know the rigid set of his shoulders.
He’s holding himself back.
“What would you know about being a bastard?” Jon asks at last.
Another silence settles between them.
“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes,” Tyrion replies.
Until today, the Imp had been nothing more than a mocking nickname to me.
Yet in the space of a few sentences, he’d shown more understanding than many men who boast of their honor and noble birth.
He speaks with precision.
It occurs to me then that underestimating a man like Tyrion Lannister would be a dangerous mistake.
A man who sees the world so clearly may prove far more influential than many who sit upon thrones.
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