2 Fire Kissed

Winterfell 296 AC.

Nolan Snow.

It had been four years since Nolan and his lord father had talked, and he'd spent an ungodly amount of effort proving the seriousness of his dream to journey throughout the Known World. Whether it was spending hours in the training yard every morning going through drills or hours in the library every night learning about the histories of the places he would be travelling to, the Bastard of Winterfell was always doing something to better himself. At times, he wondered if it was worth it, but then Nolan would see how Bran's eyes sparkled whenever he read those stories to him…

He wanted to be someone who made people's eyes shine like that.

Of course, dedicating himself to his training and studies left him with fewer hours in the day to spend with his siblings and friends, and it had sometimes shamed him—never more so than when he noticed how Sansa had grown out of the wild little girl and into the perfect little lady Catelyn Stark had always wanted. Yet, Sansa was happy, and that was the only thing that mattered to Nolan Snow. He didn't care if she stopped playing around as long as she was content.

Besides, Arya was wild enough for both Stark girls.

Not one to be ignored, the little she-wolf had taken to interjecting herself into whatever Nolan was doing. Tired as the bastard would get, Nolan sometimes had to carry her on his back while doing chores so she didn't get in the way. But again, it made his little sister happy, so he didn't mind much.

"What are you thinking about?"

Lifting his eyes from the book he hadn't been too focused on, Nolan looked at the strawberry blond-haired girl. When Ros gingerly climbed onto the parapet, the bastard offered her his hand to ease her onto the place beside him before replying. "Training." Nolan heard his friend snort when she shifted to get comfortable on the wall.

"Why do I even bother asking?"

"Because you love the sound of my voice?" Closing his copy of Jade Compendium, Nolan smiled as his friend gave a somewhat annoyed scoff. Despite his social skills being rather lacking as of late, the bastard could still see that Ros's eyes were unfocused. "You seem troubled. Is this about your father pressing you to marry Donnel again?" The cook's search for a suitable husband for his fourteen-year-old daughter had been going on for a year now, and there had not been a lack of boys who vied for the redheaded girl's hand. This Donnel was Gage's favourite, a pock-scarred boy of sixteen from the winter tone whose father was an accomplished hunter.

"What? No. It's not that," she assured, smiling at him. "When he tried convincing me again the last time, I might have been a bit bitter after… Jon. So I warned him that if he didn't stop trying to marry me off like some prissy highborn girl from the south, I'd run away and become a whore. Now he doesn't even mention marriage anymore."

Nolan blinked at her. 'What did my idiot brother do to make her snap like that?' Ros had always been obedient, to her father at least. So the Bastard of Winterfell couldn't help but wonder what his twin had done to cause the redheaded girl to give Gage that sort of ultimatum. Curious as he was, Nolan did not think asking about it would be in his best interest—Ros was fond of hitting things that annoyed or upset her.

"Not marriage," he said slowly. "So, what is troubling you?"

His friend chewed her lip and played with her strawberry blond braid, ticking the end against her freckled cheek. That she only did that when contemplating something very deeply made him pause. "A few days ago, I might have gone to join the older girls for a sip of wine," she admitted, making Nolan raise his brow, incredulous at her bashful tone.

"Might have?"

"Anyway, after a few glasses," Ros continued.

Nolan corrected, "A bottle."

"A bottle," she amended, glaring at him. "It was the weak stuff. Not that fancy Arbor gold you sneak out of the cellars so we can get pissed after feasts." The Bastard of Winterfell grinned at the memory and winced when he recalled the agony they'd been in the following morning. "That doesn't matter. So, I stumbled into Jon while returning to my bed. It was bad, Nolan." A furrow formed on his brow as he looked at her.

"What; you told him you loved him, did you?"

"..."

Nolan sighed, "Seven hells, Ros, seriously?"

"I was drunk!" A pained expression painted her countenance as she glared at her hands on her lap. "Of course, I love Jon, but I'm not entirely sure I love him quite like that." Putting her face in her hands, Ros lamented. "He gave me the look, and I felt so stupid!"

"The look? Do you mean this one?"

She glanced at him, then shoved him when she saw his extremely solemn expression. "Aye, that one, you ass. But it was more guilty," she scoffed, drawing her legs up and placing her chin on her knee as she glared out over the forest ahead. "Even if I didn't entirely mean that I loved him in that way, that look still hurt so much. It was like he hadn't even thought about being with me." The redheaded girl rocked side to side before glancing at him. "Cheer me up, Nolan."

"What do you want me to do?" Nolan asked. "Beat up my brother for being a moody bastard?"

His friend thought about it, a dangerous gleam in her grey-green eyes. "Now there's a thought."

The Bastard of Winterfell stared at his redheaded friend impassively. "Beat him up yourself."

Ros tutted annoyedly, dropping her legs over the parapet. "You're awful at being comforting," she pointed out. "There has to be a book that helps with that somewhere. You should read it." The bastard rolled his eyes and turned to drop onto the narrow walkway along the top of the Hunter's Gate. "Wow. You're leaving me to wallow in my sorrow? How gallant of, son of Ned Stark."

"Just come here," Nolan snapped, sliding down the wall and sitting against it. "You want to be consoled? We might as well get comfortable while we're at it." Opening his arms, he looked up at Ros as his redheaded friend peered down at him with a strange expression. She seemed to think about it before joining him, sitting on his lap and burying her face in his chest. "I might not be great at consolation, but I can give you this much." Ros shook her head, melting into him.

"It's alright. This is plenty."

-xXxXx-

"Nolan… Nolan, wake up."

The Bastard of Winterfell groused and hugged his pillow closer, ignoring the continuous whisper in his ear telling him it was time to awaken. Gods, why was his bed so… hard this morning? Inhaling deeply, relishing the strawberry scent that filled his senses as he did, Nolan decided a day off from his training couldn't hurt. He had spent four years toiling away to achieve his dream—who would blame him for taking one day off? So, sighing contentedly, the bastard son of Eddard Stark and (probably) Ashara Dayne allowed himself to relax for the first time in a long time.

"Oh, you can be adorable when you want to be," the whisper in his ear complimented, and something started playing with his hair, nails gently massaging his scalp. "I could have sworn you promised to take Arya riding. She won't be all that pleased if you've forgotten." Nolan's eyes fluttered open at that, and the first thing he noticed was the warm orange light of dawn casting streaks of fire through the pale mists of dawn… and Ros's grey-green eyes gleaming with mischief.

"…"

A smile split Ros's lips. "He rises."

It was coming back to him now that he was more conscious. "We slept on the walls," Nolan groused, more to refresh the memory of last night than anything. Rolling onto his back, he covered his eyes with his arm and thought about his bed and how much he wanted to go back to sleep. 

"No. You slept on the walls," Ros laughed softly, turning and lying on her stomach on top of the cloak Nolan was sure he had been wearing when he fell asleep. "I slept on you." Propping herself up on her elbows, the cook's daughter let an amused smile spread across her lips as she swung her feet back and forth and looked down at him. "You make a very comfortable bed, Nolan… Though, something kept poking me."

"It was a dagger," Nolan replied smartly.

Her smile grew broader and more wicked.

The bastard ignored her and sat upright, leaning back on his palms as he raised his brows sleepily at his friend. After a silence that she wasn't likely going to break, Nolan tapped her leg with a booted foot. "You're looking better," he observed, swallowing as she moved to sit between his legs, shimmying up until her back was against his front. His senses were again invaded by strawberries, such an intoxicating fragrance. "Did my presence relieve your confusion about Jon?"

"It relieved some sort of confusion, at least," she whispered, tilting her head back against his shoulder and giving him a strange look through her half-lidded eyes. "You smell like horses." Nolan scoffed at her slander and lifted his arm to prove her wrong but frowned in disdain when he realised she was right. A laugh escaped her lips, "Come on."

Somehow, Nolan found himself being dragged by a girl a head shorter than himself. Too lethargic to fight, Nolan gave up before even trying and allowed her to lead him to wherever it was she was leading him. Passing the kennels, they were the first to hear the hounds waking. A cacophony of barks, yelps, and howls filled the air to rouse the castle, the bald, bearded kennelmaster stumbling out of the stone house with a large trough of raw meats. Farlen nodded at them as Ros dragged him by, and Nolan shouted back a greeting before being yanked around a corner.

"How are you so… awake?" Nolan wanted to know as Ros pulled open a small wooden door that, after it swung open with a creak, led into the godswood. A spark of nervous mischief flashed through her eyes as she turned her head to look at him, a strange smile on her lips and a light dust of pink across her freckles.

However, she didn't answer his question—not that he was expecting one in the first place—and only led him through the untouched wood of stubborn sentinel trees armoured in grey-green needles, might oaks, and ironwoods as old as the realm itself, giggling to some secret jape she kept to herself. Shaking it off, Nolan scrutinised the godswood, mind lost in memories. His lord father would always seek the solace of this ancient forest after taking a man's life, and both his baseborn sons would sometimes accompany him and sit in silence together. Once, Nolan remembered, his father had even let them clean Ice, the ancestral greatsword passed from lord to heir within House Stark for generations.

Nolan had always wanted a sword like that…

Steam rose into the cool dawn air as they pushed through a stand of sentinels, bubbles breaking upon the surface of the three small pools beneath the windows of the Guest House, the wall looming above them thick with moss. Ros let go of his hand and skipped ahead, stopping by the edge of the hottest pool, lifted her skirt, and dipped her toe in. Her lips were parted in a broad but anxious smile when she turned to him. Yet, her eyes were glowing with resolution.

Nolan frowned, puzzled by the look. "Ros?"

The redheaded girl hesitated for half a heartbeat before bending and grabbing the hem of her grey woollen gown and lifting it over her head as she stood upright. A shy smile appeared, her eyes now nervous under the bastard's gaze, a hand outstretched to him.

"Will you," she started, her voice soft and shy, "join me for a bath, Nolan?"

He was fourteen… not stupid.

-xXxXx-

Author's Note: I know things are moving very quickly, but that's because I want to get out of the North as soon as possible. Flashbacks/memories later on will dive deeper into the relationships between characters, if that helps.

I want to also point out that I write, edit, and do everything concerning this on my own. So, please, if you spot any grammatical errors or find lore points I have gotten wrong, point them out and I will gladly try my best to fix them.

Stay positive, and thanks for reading!