Chapter 3: Pact of Ice and Fire

They said Oldtown was bigger… they said Lannisport was grander… they said Gulltown was more bustling. Swilling the honeyed Arbor gold in a silver goblet, Lord Torrhen Stark hadn't seen any of those so couldn't ascertain the rumors for any truth. King's Landing was certainly larger and grander than White Harbor, the one city of the North and its only major port… the lifeblood of his Kingdom. Once he ruled it by crown, now with the authority of a crown less ornate yet far more powerful.

You're part of something greater now. Fostered with his mother's family at Bear Island, a veteran of battles against the Ironborn and wildlings, explorer of the swamps of the Neck with his young bride, the still youthful Lord Stark hadn't been south of Moat Cailin since marching his men for a first strike against the Targaryens - which led to him doing the opposite and bending the knee. A set of circumstances that must change.

Such led him to surprise the Kingdom by accepting the Royal invitation to celebrate the birth of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the second child of his Grace King Aegon and his wife Queen Visenya. No one expected the Starks to show up. Torrhen enjoyed their surprise.

There were other reasons why he was here rather than sending his cousin or the Manderlys, but that was a topic for another time.

"My wolf?" Torrhen's smile curled up. "Why are you out here?" Out onto the balcony of the large keep walked his beautiful bride - Jocelyn Reed, daughter of the Neck and once the Queen of Winter. The sparkling crown didn't adorn her dark-black hair or accentuate her petite features anymore, but she was still stunning to him. "You are the talk of the feast, besides the Princess of course."

Chuckling - quite dour to most, Torrhen was open to those he cared about… something that his taciturn brother didn't even have. He drew Jocelyn into his arms. "Just enjoying the sights of this city." Outside, the flickering lights seemed to ward off even the darkness of night. They flickered through the resounding echo of sound, crowds clogging the streets and alleys to celebrate their new Princess. "They love the Targaryens here."

Jocelyn nodded, leaning up on tiptoes to kiss his chin. They were alone. A perfect time for a bit of affection for two northmen lost in the south. "There's no chance they'll be dislodged… dragons are here to stay."

"I think the sentiments are different in Oldtown or Lannisport." He sighed. "I suppose that's why I'm here."

"Inclined to accept?" Though born among the secretive Crannogmen, Jocelyn was bright and a quick study in politics.

Torrhen shrugged. "Have to see how much they want it." Wordlessly, he extended his hand… offering to escort her in. Giggling, his bride accepted.

Feasts in the North were nothing like the elegant affair that seemed plucked right out of a painting or mosaic of Gardener-era Highgarden. By the gods, were the Northmen bored, drawn eagerly to the flagons of wine being brought about by the servants. Luckily Lady Mormont - Torrhen's cousin - and Lord Bolton were even-headed enough to keep their comrades from making fools of themselves within the formal crowd.

Shunning the alcohol, Torrhen mingled among the guests. Introducing himself to familiar and unfamiliar names alike. The Tyrells were pleasant enough for a man that lost his father in the ill-fated war with Dorne, as was Edmyn Tully of Riverrun - though for the first Lord to rebel against Black Harren Hoare, the redheaded Lord Paramount seemed quite weak and indecisive. A paradox… one that Torrhen enjoyed deciphering.

"I must say," Lady Sharra Arryn elucidated, her beauty and poise self-evident even as she aged. "Your bannermen are making a wonderful impression against reputation." Both he and Jocelyn were rapidly being introduced to the half-compliment, half-insult of court. While Sharra smiled at them, her facade dropped into a genuine sneer at someone in the distance. "Unlike some people."

Eyes flickering to the side, all of the group gathered in a circle close to the Iron Throne itself watched as a burly figure with dark-silver hair repeatedly shoving a servant. Wine sloshed out of a goblet, the man both a sloppy and angry drunk. "I presume that is the young Lord Gargon," Torrhen said, looking at the war hero Lord Quenton Qoherys, the boy's grandfather.

As Osmund Strong and Markus Darry both moved to subdue the hulking brute before he killed the hapless servant who had simply told him that he would need to rush to the kitchens for another pitcher of Arbor Gold, Lord Quenton buried his head in his hand. "I don't know what is up with that child."

"Not a child anymore," mused Argella Baratheon. Beauty not exaggerated, she could hold her own in any conversation much as Jocelyn. "I suggest you do something about him."

"Put him under my care, Quenton," her husband, Lord Orys, grunted. Torrhen remembered a boisterous, jovial man… sullen and blunt, the wooden hand in place of one of flesh and bone belied the personality change. "I'll have that idiot battered into shape in no time."

But Quenton shook his head, hair long since gone to white. "I'll handle it myself." No one found it their place to challenge that.

"Be thankful you have a spare heir, Lord Quenton," Sharra said, sipping gingerly. "Lord Loren had to start over with a younger wife and a new son when his old one disappointed him."

Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "How did that happen?"

"You didn't hear?" Sharra seemed amused at the Lord of Winterfell's ignorance of southern gossip. "Poor Jason Lannister… he was pursuing Dornish raiders and allowed his men to be ambushed. Rather than fight, he shat himself and was forced to be carried from the field."

"Luckier than the Gardener sons, that's for sure," Argella remarked.

"Quite… but Lord Loren basically disowned him and ordered him to the wall. Rather than take the black, he killed himself." Sharra shook her head. "Unfortunate business."

Jocelyn was incredulous. "What sort of man does that to their own child?" The Boltons were known to do it in the past… as were the wildlings… but they bred like rabbits so it wasn't as much of an issue there.

Sharra raised an eyebrow. "Survival is different here in the South, Lady Stark. There, only strength matters. Here, one must also consider how one appears. A weak heir only invites challenge and pain." She shrugged. "Hopefully his Tully bride would produce someone stronger."

"Fat chance of that happening," Orys mumbled, drawing a chuckle from Argella. Given their inauspicious start, the couple was quite affectionate.

The conversation was interrupted by the heralds. "Presenting, His Grace Aegon, First of His Name, and Visenya, First of Her Name - and the newly born Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen!" Trumpets blaring again, out of the royal entrance walked the King and Queen. Falling to one knee along with all the others, Torrhen studied them. They wore formal wear in the fashion of Oldtown, colored red and black of House Targaryen. They looked immaculate and ethereal in their Valyrian beauty, and Visenya carried a little bundle in her arms.

Princess Rhaenys… after the Late Queen. Both truly did care for her.

Turned out, after Lord and Lady Baratheon - not surprising, being the King and Queen's half-brother - and the fawning Lady Arryn, all of it fake yet propriety insisting their Graces overlook it, Torrhen was the third Lord to approach the monarchs. Jocelyn by his side, they both bowed. "Your Graces," Torrhen said with respect. "Allow my sincerest congratulations to the birth of your beautiful daughter."

From her perch in Visenya's arms, little Rhaenys seemed quite… taken with the world. She cooed and grunted, violet eyes looking every which way. Any other parent would have struggled to keep her in their arms, but Visenya was no ordinary mother. "Thank you, Lord Stark." Her strong arms kept a tight grip on Princess Rhaenys. "You have our gratitude for arriving. By boat?"

Torrhen shook his head. "No, nothing so pedestrian. We rode from Winterfell… much easier when not at the van of an army."

Visenya quirked her lips ever so slightly. "Quite." She seemed amused, yet not wishing to show it. "Why did you go overland though?'

"To speak to my goodfamily, the Reeds… as well as visit my cousin, Lord Blackwood." He was the son of Torrhen's father's sister, the only old gods-worshipping house in the South other than Dayne or Royce. A noble match for a Stark.

"Keep your family close, I like that." Their eyes shifted to the King. "Truth be told, I won a bet with poor Lord Celtigar that you'd show up," King Aegon said with a tiny grin. He seemed a lot looser and jovial than the stern conqueror Torrhen last witnessed. Took on his late sister's role, eh?

Torrhen's pondering could wait, though. "I must keep my eyes peeled for Lord Celtigar's revenge, then." Jocelyn snickered, while mirth danced in the Queen's eyes.

King Aegon, on the other hand, barked out a laugh. "It was only a single gold dragon. He's got thousands more." Casually, he tickled his daughter's cheek, earning gurgling giggles from the princess. "I know Princess Rhaenys appreciates the secretive Northmen to join us for her feast."

"Unfortunately you weren't inclined to do the same for Maegor's nameday… or Aenys'." Visenya let it out there, a challenge.

It was Jocelyn that answered the woman, herself a head shorter. "Our apologies, but winter was dreadful at the time. Six foot snows… they are hard to travel through, even for a dragon." It hung, Visenya's hard look meeting Jocelyn's cheery but equally hard smile. "I trust Lord Manderly represented ourselves properly."

Softening, Visenya nodded. "He was very respectful, yes."

"I am glad to hear that." Jocelyn turned her attention to the Princess. "I have no doubt that the wee one will break many hearts in the future."

"No doubt at all, dear wife." Torrhen peered down at her. "The eyes… they resemble the late Queen's, I'm sure." A flash of grief clouded Aegon and Visenya's eyes. "Forgive me, but I must say that her presence was a light on the entire Realm. Her Grace is sorely missed."

Aegon sighed. "Aye. I just hope that she will look down with joy at her namesake. The least Visenya and I can do to honor her."

Gaze flickering to Visenya, he could see the Queen still silently grieved. Torrhen knew from the death of his parents that these matters never truly healed. "My people, we believe that when we die, our souls pass into the bosom of the old gods. Since they inhabit nature, our loved ones are always around us. Their memories serving as guides we cannot see but that our souls can feel. I can sincerely hope Queen Rhaenys is doing the same for you."

For the first time that night, Visenya cracked a genuine smile, even though it was small. "That is a lovely thought. Thank you, Lord Stark."

The two couples parted way not long after - second impressions only confirming the intentions of all parties involved.

They were seven strong. Clad in black and red armor in the color of their patron House - three headed dragons emblazoned on their breastplates - the knights of the Kingsguard surrounded the King and Queen of Westeros. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, ready to defend their monarchs with their life. Drawn from the highest born families in the Six Kingdoms, there would never be another close call on the King and Queen's lives if they had anything to say about it.

"Are you still sure about Lord Stark?" Visenya asked her husband, tone hushed to avoid unwelcome listeners. Though, given the introduction of the completely loyal Kingsguard, they had much more leeway to speak than years prior.

Aegon nodded. "Yes, though it's not sure that we have many more options. Orys is behind us, while the Tyrells need us. Everywhere else we have either weak fools or persons more willing to see us dead than not."

Visenya frowned. "I told you to kill Loren Lannister and be done with it."

"And yet it wasn't I that left Sharra Arryn the Lady Protector of the Vale for her young son."

There was a silence for a moment before the two of them ended up chuckling at their twin accusations, hands weaving together in their personal form of public affection. The years of the Dragon's Wroth and its aftermath were ones fraught with death and pain, but two children and many nights intertwined in each other's embrace led to the solidified relationship between the King and Queen. For their confidants, it was a blessing of providence - even if their fights still shook the very cliffs of which the Aegonfort rested upon.

Such was the risk of waking two dragons at once.

But yet another trait of a dragon was that they loved fiercely. The Kingsguards stationed outside their chambers every night could attest to that… but so could the nursemaids that tended to the three royal children. Housed in the same wing of the Aegonfort, Aegon and Visenya made sure that at least once a day besides meals would find them spending time with their children. Three times more than most Lords.

Head bent as he scrawled drawings on parchment - rather intricate ones for someone so young - the six nameday Crown Prince Aenys' lips curled into a bright smile at his parents' arrival. "Muna! Kepa!" He rushed to Visenya and hugged her waist tightly before darting off to Aegon.

"Easy there, son," laughed Aegon. "Don't crush me."

While he giggled at that and Visenya grinned, both monarchs knew it was only in jest. Hatching his dragon moons ago had drawn the sickly child into health, but he was still slender and weedy. Someone who preferred the stories of the gods and sorcerers rather than the warrior dragonlords of Old Valyria. Not a fighter, but a charming boy they both loved dearly.

He reminded them so much of Rhae, if without the fiery temper.

Kissing the tops of his head, Visenya made her way across the room to where her second son, the first of her womb, played with a wooden dragon. "Hello, hatchling."

Prince Maegor was the opposite of his elder brother. Happy and the picture of health, he was a boisterous babe… good thing that he had two dragonriders for parents to keep up with him. "Hi muna." Unlike Aenys at his age, Maegor was tight with his words.

"You're gonna be a strong dragonlord, like your father," she said with pride, ruffling his silver hair.

This perked him up. "Really?"

"Oh no doubt!" called out the King, proud as any father could be. "All three of our hatchlings, chained by neither man nor god."

"Fire and blood, kepa!" Visenya chucked his cheek once more before going to pick up the newborn Rhaenys, eager to hold her babe.

"Your Graces?" Lord Commander Corlys Velaryon bowed, hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "Lord Torrhen has been admitted to your solar as you requested. Ser Humfrey is watching over him at the moment."

Visenya nodded. "Thank you, Ser Corlys. Give us but a moment."

"Of course." Professional and loyal, he took a step out of the nursery.

The Queen, released her eldest boy and placed her hands on his shoulders. "We'll be gone for an hour or two, sweetling, but after we'll have that ride. I promise."

Aenys pouted. "Why do you have to go?" In his corner, Maegor just played silently… as if enjoying being alone.

Kissing his newborn daughter on the cheek, Aegon looked at his son. "Meeting with the Lord of Winterfell. It won't take too long, I promise."

Trusting of his parents, Aenys smiled. "'Aight, kepa! I can't wait!"

Ruffling his silver curls, Visenya then approached Maegor - his hair was straighter, more wispy. Much like his father. "I'll be back soon, hatchling."

"I wanna ride Vhagar." Voice mushy with his age, the Prince nevertheless was blunt and direct.

Visenya saw nothing wrong, laughing and hugging him. "You're just like your kepa."

"That sounds more like you, Vis," Aegon replied with a grin.

Yes, their little dragon creche was the joy in their lives.

"Hmmm… it is ironic, your Graces." Torrhen Stark fiddled with a cyvasse piece between his fingers as he sat across the King's desk, the airs and formalities of the Andals lost on him… or deliberately ignored. "The last time that I, the Warden of your largest Kingdom, were alone with you was two days after I bent the knee."

Aegon melded his fingers together, resting on his desk. "Aye, it is quite ironic." He looked up from his seat to Visenya, perched to his right upon the ironwood surface with hard eyes. The stick to his carrot. "One of the reasons I chose to send the raven to you - it is a situation I would like to rectify."

Saying nothing - letting her husband speak - Visenya took her time to study the Warden of the North. The blunt, relaxed man before was an enigma to her. Every other high Lord had their mettle tested on more than one occasion and Visenya knew what to make of them. Ronnel Arryn… growing into a man by looks but still a boy by temperament. Loren Lannister, a conniving manipulator broken by abject defeat but who could rise again. Edmyn Tully, opportunistic but weak willed. Harlan Tyrell and his son, perpetually pissing themselves to hold their new domain. Orys, their strong and shrewd bastard brother, always in their corner. She knew them all.

Torrhen Stark, none at all. A blank slate for Visenya and she didn't like it.

One thing she was sure of, though - the nonchalance and impolitic attitude was a front. While he may have been like this with family, it served as useful armor for him here. "You know, your Graces… we have something in common. Both of us have bastard brothers that are quite near and dear to us."

Raising an eyebrow, Aegon nodded. "Seems the North and Valyria have the same attitudes towards bastards… not that the Andals share such concerns within the Seven-Pointed Star."

"Another matter that binds us… significant distrust of the majority of this continent, given we come from different stock." He tilted his head to look at Visenya. "It's greater for you, isn't it, my Queen? Being you still practice the faith of Old Valyria."

Visenya narrowed her eyes - how did he know that? "You speak quite boldly to your monarchs."

Torrhen pursed his lips. "Given how affectionate you two are, I wouldn't doubt his Grace has less of a commitment to his official faith as proclamations would announce."

"You are out of line, Lord Stark," Aegon said firmly.

"Apologies." He leaned forward. "Perhaps it would be better if the three of us decided to be up front and honest… dispense with such formalistic horseshit the southern flower knights engage in."

"I seemed to have identified your boldness quite underwhelmingly, Lord Stark." Visenya happened to find her impression of him rising. "Accepted. Please continue."

His Grace allows her to answer for him . Their reputation as joint rulers was correct. "My bastard brother, Brandon Snow, felt that I shouldn't have come here. That even if your dragons gained our fealty, that we Northmen should stay out of the affairs of the South as we've done for thousands of years."

Aegon furrowed his brows. "Brandon Snow? That name seems familiar."

"He…" Torrhen fought between a grin or a wince. "May have plotted to sneak up to your dragons and kill them with a weirwood arrow to the eye." He watched them both stiffen. "Given that I bent the knee instead, that did not occur."

"And yet your bastard brother still seems to harbor disloyalty."

Torrhen shook his head. "He honors his oaths, even if he's more committed to… the old ways than I am. While we both agree on the substance, he embraces the form as well." He didn't expect the King and Queen to understand the old way, so he moved on. "What he did end up advising me on is that your raven for a specific alliance between us is quite deficient. I agree with him."

Glancing at each other, Visenya answered for the two of them. "You decline, then?"

"Yes, but with room for renegotiation."

It had been hotly debated ever since the evacuation of Dorne. So far only the inevitable tide of victory kept their young hold on power from delving into widespread discontent, but the dragons had been humbled by the vipers. Aegon and Visenya spent many a sleepless night in each others arms, worried over the future their children would inherit. The Faith had been lucky to fall into their laps during the conquest of the Reach, but perhaps they wouldn't be as lucky later.

Only one Kingdom resisted the knights of Andalos, a Kingdom that the Targaryens wished to bind to them beyond fealty for the wars to come… if Torrhen Stark accepted that is.

"Why do you need to renegotiate?"

A sigh left the northern lord… his first expression of weakness. "You need to realize the Northern mindset… it's hard to explain to someone not of the blood of the First Men, but we cannot trust the Andal houses of the south. No one can given our history and how the North Remembers…"

"Remembers what?" Visenya crossed her arms, intrigued.

"Everything. We remember everything." As cryptic a statement as could be. "You clearly wish for an alliance given how humbled you were in Dorne, thus breathing new life in the battered and subjugated Andals after you humiliated them in battle after battle." Her was smart, Visenya gave him. "However, I cannot make such a deal even if I wanted to unless you give me something to shore up my position. A few northern houses are still not happy with my decision to bend the knee."

"I didn't expect that all would," Visenya conceded to him. "What do you want, then?"

Torrhen had thought about it for his entire journey down to the capitol. His position was tuned well. "A betrothal… between your newborn daughter and my son and heir."

There was a silence before Visenya hissed. "You wish for us to barter our daughter after she was just born?" Aegon's eyes burned as well - the Princess was their joy in a life of struggle and sorrow, just as her namesake had been.

"It would show my bannermen that you are negotiating with us in good faith, without seeking to subjugate us." He had been hesitant to insist on it, but Brandon convinced him that this was the only way. "Princess Rhaenys would have significant authority as Lady of Winterfell. Given our hardy life, we're more… egalitarian when it comes to women."

While such talk would usually mollify the Queen, not when her daughter's life was at stake. "She will not be traded like a farm animal, end of story." She wasn't, Rhaenys wasn't, and ultimately her muna and kepa weren't. Each of them married for love once of age - Visenya pledged long ago to only marry them to highborns that drew their fancy.

For the King, he saw merit in Torrhen's proposal, but the urge to shield his daughter from a potentially horrible marriage also raised its head. "I'm not adverse to a… pact of ice and fire if you will." Before Visenya could berate him, he replied to her. "We need this alliance, Lord Stark, but you need it as well."

"How so?"

"The north is a proud land, but it is also desolate and… largely virgin land. I know you love your home, so wouldn't you wish to better it into a stronger and greater entity? With the resources of the Crown, you can make it happen."

Torrhen's eyes twinkled. The King and Queen had certainly grown into shrewd rulers from the brash conquerors he had bent the knee to.

"I will not make a formal betrothal until my daughter has the opportunity to meet and grow fond of your son."

"Do not misunderstand me, I do not wish for your daughter to feel trapped… but my bannermen need something from you if they will concede to binding the North with the Crown?"

Aegon had just the thing - it just having come to him. "How would you like to foster Prince Maegor in Winterfell?" He didn't dare to look at Visenya, while Torrhen's eyebrow merely rose.

It used to be the throne room.

Narrow within the confines of the Rock, high stained glass windows let in the brightest of light to shine down upon the twin lion's head armrests of the throne itself. Depicted in the most vivid of reds and golds were images of the Kings of the Rock from history long past, recounting their glorious deeds. Surrounding the throne itself were windows of the purest blown glass paid for by the gold of the kingdom. They illuminated the throne, and oft the proud monarchs wielding Brightroar - their ancestral Valyrian steel sword.

Alone with his flagon of wine, Lord Loren Lannister had them all covered with drapes. He couldn't stand the light. It only allowed him to get a glimpse of the realm that was no longer his. That someone else could rule over him.

A feeling he despised, but could do nothing about.

Tried that long ago… Mern Gardener got off lucky. The poor, immolated King of the Reach didn't have to watch as the dragons raped their land. Didn't have to bow before a young upstart ten years his junior. What illustrious glory did Aegon Targaryen have? House Lannister had ruled over the Rock since the Age of Heroes.

He sighed. No sense in pouring over old matters that couldn't be solved in the here and now. So he drank… and drank… and drank. The old plotter simply had nothing left in him.

Opening a creak, the doors to the throne room revealed the keep's Septon - a thin but vibrant man that believed in the Seven with a modest zeal. "My Lord," he began.

Only reminding Loren of what he had lost… "I told my guards that I wished to be undisturbed."

The septon made no moves to leave. "Forgive me, my Lord, but Lady Alla was insistent. She wishes for you to join herself and young Tyrion for dinner."

Loren winced. In spite of losing his firstborn heir to cowardice, the tragic circumstances to his marriage to Alla Tully didn't preclude him from enjoying her company. Or the new babe she had given him or the one currently growing in her belly. "Tell her I'll be there within the hour."

"Of course, my Lord." But the septon only approached Loren. "There are many who share your… displeasure with the way the last few wars turned out."

Blinking, Loren narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you mean." Was this a trap?

"Perhaps, perhaps not, but there is someone that wishes to meet with you in the catacombs of the Rock. Someone high up in the circle of the High Septon."

"Who is this person?"

"I can't say, but you may bring as many guards as you wish. He will be alone and unarmed… I can come with you if you like."

While this seemed like a possible trap, Loren was intrigued. "When can we meet?"

The septon smiled. "He is already in Lannisport."

"And it is with great honor that House Stark welcomes Prince Maegor Targaryen, the son of our noble King and Queen, to foster within the walls of Winterfell." Lord Torrhen Stark, bearded face soft and welcoming as he stood next to his wife Jocelyn Reed, extended his arms to Maegor as the steward offered the Prince guest rite… officially passing him under their care.

Maegor smiled and nodded through the entire ceremony, though it did not reach his eyes. Inwardly, he struggled to keep from shivering. Seven bloody hells was it cold. How can people live in this beastly weather? Nine namedays old but as precocious as his mother, Maegor could fathom such if there was beauty here, but there was no beauty to Winterfell in his eyes. Just a drab, sorry excuse for a keep.

What were kepa and muna thinking?

With Lord Torrhen leading his Kingsguard protector Ser Robin Darklyn towards the keep, the two of them animated as they spoke of something or other, Maegor was about to follow when a tall figure stepped in front of him - blocking his way. Maegor recognized the figure in black and dark grey as someone who hung back during the welcoming ceremony. He held the Stark look, but it was sharper. Wilder.

This was the Bastard of Winterfell. The brother Lord Torrhen spoke of.

"Brandon Snow."

The bastard nodded. "Observant, good." He inspected the Prince as one would a horse to purchase. "You're strong and clearly skilled in combat… I'll give you that." But the little praise morphed into contempt. "But arrogant… weak… you'd never survive a proper fight."

Eyes widening, Maegor was taken aback. No one spoke to him in such a manner… at least not directly. "Do you know who I am?" the ten nameday-old Prince replied.

"Aye, a puissant, arrogant shitling who knows shit about anything." Brandon scoffed. "It'll take moons just to drum that out of you and into a proper man."

Anger truly getting the better of him - one Lord Baratheon would humorously compare to his mother in her youth - Maegor's fist shot out. Attempting to smash into Brandon Snow's gut as it had an insulting household guard that made him miss a deer while hunting with a longbow. But Lord Snow batted the fist aside with his forearm, a fist of his own crashing into Maegor's chest. With a grunt, the boy Prince crumpled on the ground, wheezing in breaths.

The pain was agonizing, Maegor blocking out the laughs as he curled into a ball on the ground. Hearing the crunch of boots on snow he looked up - there was Brandon Snow, crouched down by his head and looking into his eyes. His own greys narrowed and dark. "Can you hear me, Prince Maegor?"

Gritting his teeth, the pain was too much to even respond so he nodded.

"You think you can snap your fingers and have everyone do your bidding. That may work in the south but not here, you know why?" Maegor didn't respond, not that Brandon wished him to. "Because here in the North, you earn loyalty and affection. No one will give it to you."

"I am… the prince…" he sputtered.

"Anyone who says they're a prince or a King expecting it to move mountains, isn't a true one. So endeth the lesson." Noticing the leering northmen enjoying the Valyrian getting his ass handed to him, Brandon leaned in - voice dropping to a whisper. "It is very easy for you to be lost in a blizzard and never be seen again. Think about that the next time you wish to be a right cunt." With that, Brandon Snow stood, shuffled the snow from his cloak, and stalked back to the keep. Leaving Maegor there.

An interminable time passed before a hand poked at his. "Here, let me help you."

Maegor, still shivering from the cold, looked up to see a smiling boy his own age. He was bundled up, but the silver direwolf pinned to his cloak was visible. Squaring his shoulders, Maegor took the offered limb and hauled himself up… brushing off the snow and dirt. "Thank you." The first genuinely kind thing anyone had done for him in Winterfell.

The boy merely patted the Prince's back. "Don't take my uncle seriously. He does that with everyone - you grin and bear it, then beat him at his own game, he'll respect you forever."

An eyebrow raised. "You're a Stark."

He nodded. "Aye, Brandon Stark. Heir to Winterfell."

The boy certainly looked like Torrhen Stark, though he was of a shorter build and much… hardier. Comes from his Reed mother, I suppose. "I must be honest in saying your house hasn't endeared itself to me." Maegor let it hang, wanting to see how he reacted.

To the Prince's surprise, Brandon only laughed merrily. "Then we're doing something right." Wrapping his arm around Maegor's shoulder in an overly friendly way, he gestured to the keep. "It's warmer inside, I promise."

Imagining warmth made Maegor more tractable and he followed without delay.

"You know, Prince Maegor, I'm glad you came."

"Oh? Why?"

"Gave me the day off from my uncle's training regimen." Raising an eyebrow, Maegor found he understood. "We get a feast tonight… but don't expect to eat your fill. We'll be restricted in our portions."

He rolled his eyes. "Trying to torture us, I think. The Dornish supposedly play games like that."

Brandon snorted. "Don't know about Dorne other than it's warm." Suddenly, two little creatures barked at him, racing through the snow until they were mobbing the young heir. "Blizzard, you little devil." A small wolf attracted his attention, Brandon ruffling his fur.

Maegor found himself chuckling, crossing his arms with a smirk. "You keep wolves?"

"Direwolves, my Prince. They're both young, but they'll grow bigger." He grinned as the other wolf, her fur a pitch black, began rubbing her side on Maegor's legs. "She likes you… we haven't named her yet."

"Cute…" Maegor knew not what to do.

"Only the one who bonds with them gets to name them."

That was familiar. "Same with our dragons. My brother got to name his hatchling." Gods, seeing him fawn over Quicksilver was irritating. "I haven't had one yet."

"Why not?"

"Only one is worthy of me." Much as many tried to ridicule him over it, that was Maegor's only answer.

"Fair enough." But his eyes sparkled. "I managed to sneak some pastries from the kitchens for the two of us… if you want to. My chambers have a lit hearth."

Maegor found that his chilled body and rumbling stomach couldn't say no to that. "Lead the way, future Lord Stark."

The heir to Winterfell mock bowed. "At once, my Prince."