11

1) So it's been quite the month for me. I finally got new glasses; my eye infect still hasn't completely cleared but at least I can see. Had some minor surgeries; not serious but those pain meds will really mess with your mind. That's part of the reason I wasn't writing as fast as I wanted, I'd start then a bit later I'd realized I was writing about pancakes. I watched Umbrella Academy (really great show) and marathoned all the seasons of Ben 10 while waiting to heal up enough to go back to work. Some new video games I've been waiting for finally came out (I've got a major THING for Dante, it's kinda embarrassing) and I ended up dropping like $200 at once for them. Oh, and the family cat got by a car, my sister took it really hard.

2) Just a warning, There is a fair amount of swearing in this chapter. The Hound is in it quite a bit so if his usual language offends you than you might what to skip those sections.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.(two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.

Jon XI

This was, by far, the best weather Jon had experienced in a long while. No one would ever call Skyrim a balmy land with the Rift being able to truly be called temperate, mostly during the months of Sun's Height and Last Seed. But here, on the banks of the Trident, it was quite comfortable with a clear sky, bright sun, and lack of wind; it was still far too cool for any swimming to be done, but the sun-warmed shallows were very pleasant to rest his feet in and Jon intended to make the most of it.

"Have you figured out what you want to do with these yet?" Enzo asked, turning one of the dragon eggs -this one a stunning azure blue interwoven with glistening pale gold waves- over in his hands.

Jon shrugged with a non-committal hum, crossing his arms behind his head and shifting his weight to get comfortable in the grass while using a knapsack as a makeshift pillow. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to bask in the sun, "Not sure yet; I can't exactly go hatching them in the middle of the capital."

"Then why did bring them?"

"What else was I supposed to do? Stick them in Winterfell's chicken coup and hope no one tried to use them to make breakfast?" Enzo snorted but Jon paused, remembering the years he spent ignore the calls from the crypts that echoed in his dreams, "They need me. I couldn't leave them down in the crypts, all alone and unprotected."

There was a long moment of silence, leaving Jon briefly wondered if Enzo had finally decided that Jon was truly mad and it was time to lock him away, before the older man simply sighed, "Do you think they are viable?"

"Yes," Jon answered immediately, recalling the way the egg had pulsed against his hand like a little heartbeat. That egg -all of them- were alive, alive and aware of the world around them. "I don't know how; they're old and they were down in those crypts for a long time -a century at least- so they should be stone by now. Maybe it had something to do with the heat of the hot springs, I cannot say, but I know they're alive in there."

Enzo hummed, giving the egg a gentle shake, "I would like to see a baby dragon."

Jon chuckled, "As would I, but sadly I have absolutely no idea how to hatch dragon eggs."

"Well, how did you ancestors do it?"

"That is an excellent question. The Targaryens may have had some secret method but it must have eventually stopped working because it seems that one-day dragons just stop hatching. That's not to say that they stopped trying though; my great-grandfather, Aegon V, tried to hatch a set of dragon eggs and it caused a devastating fire that killed over a dozen people, including himself and his eldest son. Not many dabbled with dragon eggs after that and I don't intend to start, at least not right now."

Enzo nodded, pensiveness carved on every line of his handsome face, "We will have to keep these hidden, trouble would almost certainly follow if anyone were to discover them in your possession."

Jon considered pointing out that it was Enzo who dragged them out from where Jon had tucked them away in a secret compartment of a trunk under the security of a trio of locking wards to discuss them in the open. Well, not open exactly; the pair's tent was set up away from the main camp -under the justification that Sweet Roll became unruly around large groups of people and that Enzo was an extremely light sleeper- so it was just the two of them aside from Ghost, Sweetie, Phantasm, and Specter -Enzo's male shadowcat. But he ultimately decided against it as he watched the giant Redguard situate the blue eggs back in the truck alongside the other two: the mostly gray one and the third of the trio, a gloss black specimen that reflected tints of green, blue, and purple when the light it just so.

'The gods know he's put up with plenty of my antics,' Jon mused as he settled back into the of grass, hoping to catch a bit of a nap before supper. The party had been traveling for a while now, a little over two weeks, and were only about halfway to King's Landing. This was due to the rather slow, almost tedious pace they were forced to travel at; the Queen's wheelhouse looked like a magnificent work of art and was about a practical for long-distance travel as one too, breaking down every few days and needing repairs. Additionally, Prince Joffrey had a tendency to complain about saddle sores if they road more than a few hours any given day. Jon initially thought the king would force them to remain on schedule, but the man seemed to find long days of riding almost as enjoyable as his son (though that meant less work for the man's poor horse though, if nothing else).

'At least he decided to skip a visit to Riverrun, I'll be eternally grateful for that.' It went without saying that there was little less in the world Jon wanted to do than visit the family home of Lady Stark, not that he would be welcome anyway. Though, as a personal guest of King Robert, they'd be expected to receive him graciously. Jon gave a small, wry grin at the thought; oh, the Tullys would hate that.

But in the end, the potential of making the Lady of Winterfell's family squirm was outweighed by his general happiness of just not encountering them at all. After all, Jon had more to important matters to focus on than indulging his own vindictive spite. Besides, the two nights stay at the Twins was more than enough for him. Oh, the castle itself was quite impressive to look at but its inhabitants were…less so.

Jon had come to the conclusion that Lord Walder Frey was, in fact, not a man but rather a cockroach that somehow -possibly through magic- took on the form of a man. It would certainly explain his hideous appearance, horrendous personality, and rather uncomfortable ability to breed a family larger than would ever really be needed. Few people had the ability to induce the desire for a bath by simply being in their presence but Lord Frey was one of them.

'It'll all be worth it in the end,' Jon reminded himself. 'You've got to see this through, for them.' He let out a long, slow breath and allowed his mind to wander far until he felt the familiar sensation of slipping into Ghost's skin. It was a strange, but not entirely uncomfortable sensation and, while it had once been something that caused fear, Jon had come to welcome it. Things were easier while wearing Ghost's fur, thoughts simpler and instincts more pronounced as the minds of man and wolf blended together, the world around him nearly overflowing with interesting sounds and smells.

Ghost -he- was crawling through the underbrush downstream, Nymeria by his side. The pair had been hunting - the metallic tang of blood filled the back of his throat- and it was time for a drink of water followed by a nap in the sun. But those plans were interrupted when his packmate's ears pricked back as the she-wolf let out a deep growling, shooting forward ahead of the crimson-eyed wolf.

He followed, his larger size allowing him to pull ahead and catch Nymeria with a careful, but firm, bite on the scruff of her neck. She snarled and tried to shake him off, only to eventually bow in submission when he increased the pressure of his jaw. Her displeasure continued though, and he felt her desire to break through the last bit of brush between them in the river. The sound of familiar man voices caused his ears to perk up and he pushed his head through the undergrowth.

There was the she-pup, the one Nymeria claimed with another, this one with an unfamiliar scent. The pair seemed to be play fighting with sticks while two other pups, the female who had scratched him behind his ears and her smaller male littermate, made sounds of encouragement. All seemed content and safe, he could sense no reason for Nymeria's anger, but that became clear when two others intruded on the peace. One was Lady's chosen, the other was that runtish pup; the one who smelt wrong and rabid. He stalked forwards and every instinct within Ghost's body was screaming to put the whelp down. He started to salivate at the thought-

-and Jon opened his eyes.

"Fuck!" He shot to his feet, pulling on his boots.

Enzo looked up, concerned, "What is the problem?"

"Joffrey is a little shit!" With that thorough explanation, Jon dashed into the undergrowth hoping he reached Arya and the others before either one of the wolves -or his little sister- decided to take a chunk out of the Prince's throat. Sticks and leaves crunched under his boots as he was led to Ghost by the subconscious pulling at the back of his mind that was the product of their bond. It took only moments for him to reach the direwolves, but it still felt far too long. Ghost still had a hold of Nymeria, but she was struggling now and it was only a matter of time she was able to slip away. The massive she-wolf wasn't simply mad, she was furious and she wanted blood.

Jon couldn't blame her. The Prat Prince had a disgusting smirk on his and his sword at the throat of an ugly boy with a rough face, freckles, and red hair -he has seen the boy before, he was the son of a nearby butcher who befriended Arya. Misha? Mikhail?- who was positively terrified. As for his little sister, Arya -teeth bared and fuming with rage- was being held back by the fearful Myrcella and Tommen. Sansa, on the other hand, stood away from everyone else, eyes wide with dainty hands clasped over her mouth.

It was all Jon to could do not to tear that blade from the little cunt's hand and beat him bloody. The look on the prince's face, the sheer enjoyment he got from the terror he caused in others, disgusted him; it was easy to be brave when you had a sword in your hand and the belief the world existed solely for your pleasure running through your head. It would have been wondrous to teach the boy what it's like to be humbled at the feet of someone far superior to you.

But, sadly, this was not the time or the place for that. It didn't mean he couldn't put the prat through a bit of humiliation while preventing bloodshed. Jon murmured a spell under his breath and focused on a medium-sized tree across the river, twisting his wrist sharply with his hand curling into a fist.

CRACK!

The tree snapped in two, the top half crashing to the ground. The crash echoed across the water causing everyone to jump in surprise. The Prince pulled his attention from the frightened butcher boy, lowering his sword, and looking across the river, perhaps expecting to see some strange beast he could boast about fighting off. He took a step forward and Jon saw the perfect opportunity; using another telekinetic spell he froze the boy's right foot in place while forcing his knee to bend, causing the prat to pitch forward into the shallow water and mud with shrieked cut off by a splash. The sight was truly glorious, and it took every once of the young Dragonborn's self-control not to burst out laughing even as he remembered to magically tug the sword out and away from Prince Joffrey's hand so as to minimize the risk that the boy would fall on his own blade.

There was a silent pause as the prince struggled in the muck but that was broken when Arya burst out laughing, quickly joined by Tommen and Myrcella. Jon chose this moment to emerge from the underbrush, Ghost at his side and Nymeria darting straight to Arya who brightened immediately at their appearance. "Arya, is everything alright? I heard a scream."

"I'm fine," she said with a smirk, pointing a finger at the wet and muddy heir to the Iron Throne, "he was the one who screamed."

Jon smiled but looked over to the still terrified butcher boy; they locked eyes and Jon mouthed 'run' with a jerk off his head in the direction of the brush. With a shaky nod, Misha-Mikhail-something hurried off, quickly disappearing into the treeline.

"Joff, Joff, please, let me help," Sansa pleaded as she hesitantly reached out to the crown prince, who was finally managing to pull himself to his feet, mud and lake water dripping from his clothes and hair.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, shoving her hand away. He turned his glare to the still laughing Arya, eyes burning with a fury that coldly silenced Myrcella and Tommen who both ducked behind Jon. "Stop laughing or I'll have your tongue!"

Jon bit back a threat of his own only for Nymeria to lung forward, lips curled back in a snarled. It wasn't an attack, as the she-wolf pulled back to her place at Arya's side almost immediately it was clear that what she settled on merely giving the prat a firm warning about threatening her girl. It was still enough to send the coward tumbling back on his ass though, a pitiful whimper on his lips and fear in his eyes.

'Direwolves respect personal strength, dear Prince, and you have none that wasn't handed to you,' Jon thought with a small smirk playing on his lips as Arya opening began laughing once again. "Are you alright Prince Joffrey? Would you like assistance?"

"Silence, Bastard! I'll-"

"Seven Hells, what is all this yelling about?" King Robert boomed as he stormed towards the small group, followed by the Hound, Jaime Lannister, Queen Cersei, and his Uncle Ned. "What are you doing in the water, Joffrey?"

"That beast attacked me, Father!" The prince shrieked, pointing at Nymeria who certainly didn't help matters by baring her teeth at the runt. "I want its pelt!"

"Stop lying, you prick," Arya snapped. "You tripped over your own two feet and you know it! Quit pretending to cover your own idiocy!"

"Shut your mouth, you horrid little girl. How dare you insult my son, the future king!" hissed the Queen as an emerald fire burned in her eyes. She turned to the king, pointing to Nymeria, "That beast is savage, I want it put down now!"

"Hold your horses, Woman! We don't even know what happened here yet."

Queen Cersei's face flushed red, "Don't know what happened? It's obvious, that rapid monster attacked a child!"

"No, she didn't," Myrcella cut in, her voice soft in comparison to her mother and brother, but still firm. She stepped forward, the back of her small hand brushing against the back of Jon's; her little chin raised, the princess deliberately avoided the eyes of her mother and older brother, looking only at her father. "Joffrey fell, Father. Nymeria attacked no one, she only growled when Joffrey threatened Lady Arya for laughing."

The King snorted, "There you have it, your son is a clumsy fool and the wolf is just being loyal to its master."

"Myrcella is just a girl, she can't be sure what she is talking about," the Queen retorted. The woman pinned her gaze on the younger prince, still partially behind Jon. "Tommen," she called, sweetness dripping from her words like poisoned honey, "would you please explain to your father what that beast did to your brother."

The boy bit his lip nervously, green eyes fixed firmly on his feet. Jon reached down and gave him a nudge forward, nodding his head slightly when the lad looked up at him, trusting Tommen to do the right thing.

This trust was proven right, when the youngest prince sucked in a breathe and let the words tumble out, "Nymeria is nice; she didn't hurt Joffrey, he just tripped into the water."

Queen Cersei gritted her teeth in displeasure, "What about the other two, they haven't said anything yet. I'm sure the girl will know what to say."

"Gods be damned, what more do you want?" King Robert grumbled though he did not stop her.

Wariness shaded Uncle Ned's face as he looked to Jon's auburn-haired cousin. "Sansa, do you have anything to say?"

Eyes flickering between her father and the queen, Sansa squirmed for a moment but eventually squeaked, "I cannot say, Father. It all happened so fast, I cannot be sure of anything."

The Queen pursed her lips but his uncle just nodded, "Jon, what about you?"

With a serene smile, as if butter wouldn't melt in his melt, Jon looked directly at the king and queen, "The banks of the river are quite slick; I fell once myself, there is no shame in it."

"Well, we have it four-to-one that your son is just an idiot. Now, let's be done with this shit so we can eat."

"No! I want-"

"Be silent, Woman! I will hear no more of this; the little girl isn't to blame and neither is her pet. If anything happens to either of them, it'll be you who's on the line for it. Understand?"

If looks could kill than… well, King Robert would have been dead a long time about, but for now, she simply gave a terse nod while glaring death at her husband.

"Good, now grab your son and get him cleaned up for supper. He looks like he wallowed in a pig pen." With that the king left, leaving the Hound with Queen Cersei as she fussed over her eldest and Uncle Ned to gather up his daughters and the man's two youngest children. Jon took this as an opportunity to speak with the king in relative privacy.

"Your Grace, I was wondering if I could speak to you about something?"

"Huh? Of course, m'boy, take a seat," the fat king gestured for Jon to join him by the main campfire, motioning to a servant to bring something to drink. "What do you want to know?"

"The tourney, I was wondering if you know who might be attending?"

King Robert took a deep swallow of wine, "As competitors or spectators?"

"Both."

"Well, you can never be too sure about these things; something could always up. But it's going to be a big one, I've got quite the prize set up for the events, so plenty will be there. The youngest Tyrell boy, Bronze Yohn Royce, and that Dayne fop will all be there. Dondarrion and his crowd will likely show up. I know that Old Tywin is bringing a few of his bootlickers from the Westerlands: Addam Marbrand, a couple of Banefort, Clegane, maybe even a Swyft. Some of the kingsguards will also be competing too, of course. Maybe I'll even be able to convince your father to join in."

"I doubt that, Your Grace," Jon chuckled, smiling into the drink he had been given. That was good news indeed. "He isn't much for the pageantry of tourneys, prefers to keep his skills private until he must reveal them. But I do know that Jory Cassel is hoping to try his skills against knights of the south."

"What about you?" Ser Jaime cut in.

"Me?"

"Will you be participating in the tourney?"

Jon felt his eyebrows shoot up at the question, "It honestly hadn't crossed my mind, Ser."

King Robert laughed, "That may just be the first smart thing you've ever suggested, Lannister. You should go for it, Boy; it would make some pretty lass' day when you crown her Queen of Love and Beauty."

"But I don't know much about jousting and I'm definitely not a knight." Now that it was mentioned, participating in the tourney could certainly work in his favor. If he could get in.

Ser Jaime shrugged, "Being a knight isn't always required to participant in all events, but if needed then you could always get someone to vouch for you. I'd be willing or you could probably get the king here to do it. As for jousting, it's mostly horsemanship and, from what I've seen, you're quite a good rider. But there is always the melee if nothing else; you'd excel there."

The compliment was surprisingly kind and made Jon smile as the wheels turned in his mind, planning. "I'll consider it."

Jon couldn't say what it was exactly that woke him up. He laid still on his cot, letting his vision adjust to the darkness of the late night -or extremely early more, he couldn't say- and scanning the interior of the tent. It was not a large tent, nothing like the opulent temporary dwellings used by the royal family, and there was no place an intruder could hide. Enzo was snoring away on his own, larger cot a few feet away, Specter curled up asleep on the giant's chest. Sweet Roll had commandeered a wicker basket and turned it into a makeshift nest. On the ground at the foot of his cot was Ghost, guarding the entrance of the tent even in his sleep.

'If Ghost is still peaceful than all should be well, and yet…' The young Dragonborn swung his legs out of under his blankets, disturbing Phantasm who'd been snuggled up with him in bed. She raised her head, blinking up at him in confusion and letting out a tiny mewl. Jon resisted the urge to coo and instead gave the kitten -now about the size a small housecat- a scratch behind the ears.

"Jon, is something wrong?" Enzo had woken and propped himself up on his elbows in order to better survey the tent for any potential threats, somehow managing to sound perfectly awake.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. No, nothing is wrong. I just… have a strange feeling; I'm going for a walk, clear my head." Jon mumbled, pulling on his boots and grabbing Frostbite, 'You can never be too careful'. Ghost's crimson eyes flickered open and tail thumped against the ground once, signifying that the two men now had his attention.

"Hmmm, do not stay out too long. We have a long day of dealing with imbeciles tomorrow, you will need your rest. Oh, and refill the water jug if you do not mind. We can purify it in the morning. "

With an amused huff, Jon ducked out of the tent with the water jug tucked under his arm and Ghost padding silently by his side, an ever loyal and lethal shadow. The night air was cool enough that Jon could almost see his breath and, seeing as he'd neglected to grab a cloak of any kind, Jon shuffled briskly towards the lights of the main camp flickering downstream in an attempt to warm up.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?"

Jon bristled in surprise when the Hound's massive figure emerged from the shadows that surrounded the camp, his scarred face twisted into the seemingly permanent scowl he always wore. He was surprising stealthy for a man that size.

"You startled me, Ser. Why aren't you carrying a torch?"

"None of your fucking business, Brat, and I'm not a fucking knight. Now, answer the damn question."

'I wonder if he's always been so joyous,' Jon thought wryly. "Woke up, decided to do a perimeter check. Has everything been quiet tonight?

"Unless you count the king's fucking snoring than yes. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, go back to sleep. I'm sure lying through your teeth earlier tuckered you out."

Jon felt himself stiffen, "I don't know what-"

"Cut the crap. I've been the Crown Cunt's personal guard for most of his life, I know what he's like," Clegane grunted, taking a long drink from a hip flask and plopping down to sit on a crate.

"Why didn't you speak up?"

The man shrugged, "As I said, I know what he's like and that, whatever happened, he deserved it."

"Aren't you supposed to protect him?"

Another shrug, "I didn't see anything and besides, it looks like the only thing bruised was the little cunt's ego -which desperately needed a good hit anyway- so I figure it isn't my place to say anything."

"Well, Ser, you have my thanks then."

"Just be careful, the Queen is just as bad as her spawn and sneakier to boot and I told you before, I'm not a fucking knight. Now, get!"

Jon bit back a chuckle at the older man's tone, Skyrim had made him extremely used to grouchy older men. He gave a wave of departure but instead of heading back to his own tent went to the riverside to fill up the water jug. He dipped the mouth into the flow, letting the cold liquid run over his fingers; it was shallower at this particularly bend, only up to level with a man's mid-calf, not as swift-moving which allowed the half-moon and stars to reflect brilliantly on the water's surface. It was beautiful and yet Jon could only observe it with a sense of melancholy.

His father had died in this river.

Not here exactly, of course, but all the same Jon couldn't help wonder if Rhaegar Targaryen's blood had once flowed through this exact spot twenty years ago.

'No use dwelling on it,' Jon reassured himself before a familiar sensation -the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and his teeth went edge. A quick glance to his side showed Ghost crouching down, ears back and teeth bared in a silent growl with his attention focused on the treeline across the river. Jon squinted -he always had better than average night vision, something that only improved after his brief stint as a werewolf- and fixed his suspicions on a bush that seemed...odd. It kept shifting and something in it would, every other moment or so, catch the moonlight.

His eyes went wide and flicker to where Clegane was still sitting on the crate drinking with his back to Jon. In one smooth, practiced motion the young Dragonborn threw himself at the older man, grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate and flinging them both to the ground.

"WHAT THE-"

Whatever indignation Clegane was about to express was silenced when an arrow impaled itself on a tree branch above them. Their eyes met in a moment of shocked silence before the Hound's face twisted and he growled out, "Get that fucker!"

Jon nodded and rolled to his feet, bolting in direction of the shooter with Ghost rushing ahead of him through the water. Clegane pushed himself up, sprinting into the main camp, "GET UP YOU LAZY FUCKS! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

With his words, the camp came alive with the shouting of guards and the snarls of angry direwolves. Jon took this as his chance to do a bit of much-needed stretching.

"WULD NAH KEST!"

The power of Jon's Thu'um propelled him forward through the water, allowing him to pass Ghost and close the distance between himself and the archer in the blink of an eye. The man -dressed in ragged clothes but clean with neatly trimmed hair- fell back, pale with fright, allowing Jon to seize him by the arm and shove Frostbite through his chest before letting him fall to the ground in a puddle of his blood. A twig snapping behind him had Jon twisting to the side to avoid the sword of another, larger man; a slash across the belly doomed his attacker and the following swing that took the man's head clean off was a mercy. Ghost lept at another archer, catching him by the wrist with a muzzle full of dagger-sharp teeth and retching with all his might; if the gut-curling scream was anything to go by, the man was an archer no longer.

The darkness made fighting more difficult, even with his exceptional eyesight; It made it harder to how many enemies there were and where they hid. Ducking behind a tree to avoid a trio of incoming arrows, Jon whispered out a detect life spell and counted as dozen figures scattered amongst the trees lite-up bright red. More than he wanted to deal with right now, not while his family was so close and potentially in harm's way

"I really don't have time to deal with you all individually," he growled. "KRII LUN AUS!"

The effect was instantaneous; men fell to their knees, gasping as the life was drained from their very souls by Jon's voice. It was not a pleasant sight, nor it one he took any pleasure in, but given the circumstances, Jon couldn't allow himself to care for these men. They were a threat, nothing more and nothing less, and time was of the essence; the effect of his shout would not last long and, though it was usually deadly, if any lasted through it they could possibly run and join their comrades in attacking the main.

So Jon rushed from dying man to dying man, stabbing down through the neck for a quick, easy kill with Ghost occasionally leaping in to finish one off before he got there. The thick, heavy stench of blood sunk into the air, radiating off the fresh corpses; Jon fought the urge to gag, even after all this time he still hadn't gotten used to that smell and he doubted that he ever would.

TWACK!

Jon threw himself to the side, Ghost darting into some undergrowth that swallowed him whole, just barely avoiding the crossbow bolt that flew by him. Eyes narrowed, he tracked mentally tracked the bolt back from its point of origin. 'I missed one.'

Silhouetted against the little natural light there was stood a large man -not as big as the Hound or Enzo, but certainly impressive- clad in bulky armor, moonlight catching dully on the metal, unlike the others who wore boiled leathers. The man reloaded and aimed for Jon's head; he missed yet again though when the young Dragonborn ducked behind a nearby tree. Heart pounding in his ears, the dark-haired youth's mind raced as he considered his options; there were about 25 yards between him and his attacker, should he try to close that distance while the man was reloading? Gods, Jon wished he had his bow.

He could try using another shout, but burning in his throat told him the two he'd already used in such a short about of time had taxed it and one more would likely causing injury. Jon had the misfortune of learning that throat injuries caused by overuse of Shouts could not be healed by spells or potions, damage caused by the magic of the Thu'um too powerful to undone. The only thing to do in such situations was to wait for the body to heal itself. The other option was a magical attack but-

"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"

A wall of blue aura hit the man, ripping the crossbow from his hands and sending stumbling backward. Jon took advantage of the moment, sprinting forward and thrusting his blade into the narrow, vulnerable space between armor and helmet. With a gurgle, the life left the man's dull brown eyes; an arch of blood spurted when Jon withdrew his blade, slattering across his face, hot and wet. He attempted to wipe it away, only to smear it further; a hand seized his arm and forced his attention.

"Jon!" Enzo's shout had given him the chance he needed and now the man -his ever-present guardian- pulled him closer, dark eyes checking him for injuries. The giant Redguard was clan only in sleeping pants and boots, ebony sword ready in his hand with blood dripping down over Enzo's fingers. "Are you alright?"

Jon nodded and tried to pull away, "I've got to go protect my family!"

The hand on his arm tightened and Enzo shook his head, "No, they are fine. They are safe; fighting is over."

Relief, even if his mind was still racing a bit too fast for him to understand, flooded his body and Jon allowed himself to breathe. "What happened? Is…is anyone hurt?"

"I do not believe so; I saw no bodies wearing King Sload's colors. The camp was attacked for both side; you took care of the attackers from this side and the guards we able to fend off the attackers from the other. Your words kept me from falling back to sleep and when you did not return I attempted to find you, only to stumble upon some of the enemies. I killed as many as possible and then assisted the guards."

"My family?"

"Safe; I saw your uncle and the older girl before I came to find you."

"What about-"

"JON!"

Arya shrieked his name as she crashed through the brush towards him, terror written all over her small face. His beloved little sister's hair was loose and wild, wearing a pair of boots too large for her under a pale nightgown soaking wet to the knees and strained dark around the chest. For a brief but horrific moment, Jon worried she was injured, especially once he noticed the ebony dagger, Candle, gripped tightly in her small hand.

"ARYA!" He ran for her, Enzo at his heel, desperate to know if she was hurt. She was so close and yet it seemed to take forever to reach her. Time seemed to slow even more when another figure came up behind her; a man, fat with a sword in one hand and the other pressed into his gut.

"I'm going to get you, you little bitch!" The man swung his blade widely, missing his little sister by what seemed like a mile. A mile that quickly closed when Arya fell -tripped over a branch or root or something- down on to her hand and knees. With a twisted grin, the man closed in, sword raised over his head and ready to cleave the littlest she-wolf's head from her body.

Fury filled every fiber of Jon's being and he didn't think, just shot a bolt of light straight into the chest of the man who dared threaten the life of his little sister. It arced over Arya's head and blew a hole clean through her attacker's chest, crackling for a moment before it eventually dissipated and dropping the twitching corpse to the ground.

Then there was only quite; silence aside from the distance shouting of the main champ and the heavy breathing of the trio. Arya stayed crouched on the ground, gasping for breath; she looked at the corpse behind her and then to Jon, who stopped in his tracks at her pale-faced, wide-eyed expression of shock.

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Was that magic?"

It was hard to tell if his mind or heart was racing faster and he certainly couldn't form a coherent thought to save his life, but Jon managed to give a shaky nod. He swallowed hard against a dry throat, "Aye."

Tyrion Lannister I

'I wonder if it'll freeze before it hits the ground?' Tyrion idly wondered, relacing his trousers. The Wall was all he'd ever dreamed of; a beautiful, wondrous, terrifying thing that towered taller than anything he'd ever seen, ever imagined. It stretched as far as the eye could see like so some giant, winding ice serpent, strength coiled in ever chip of ice and speck of stone. and standing atop it Tyrion felt as if he was the most powerful man in the world. Far below him, on one side, Night's Watchmen scurried about like black rats -violent, ill-tempered rats Tyrion had found- and, on the other side, was an endless sea of snow-covered forest that seemed to stretch until the end of the world.

It was also, however, horrifically cold and windy enough that Tyrion feared both for the safety of his manhood and that he may be blown straight off if the wind picked up anymore. So he made his way to a much more preferable environment, the library.

The library was located underground, within the vaults; it wasn't a large room and no warmer than anywhere else in the castle with the few rows of bookshelves stocked with old, worn tombs. Tyrion pulled on from it's home and let it fall open in his hand, The Edge of the World by Maester Balder; he ran his finger over the inked words, if nothing else, the cold helped to preserve the books.

"It's not often I have a visitor to my library." The voice of Castle Black's maester was soft but carried the kind of strength that made those around him immediately fall silent so as to listen. Tyrion was not unused to this ability, he had seen used by his own father; in one of his rare moments of generosity, the Old Lion man advised his youngest son that a man who needed to yell to be heard rarely had anything worth say and rarer still were people likely to listen to him.

It was, incidentally, excellent advice...not that Tyrion had managed to master it yet, of course. People only ever seemed to listen to him when they wanted something -be that favors or to reticule him- or because he was paying them to. He was working on it.

"I hope I didn't disturb you, Maester. I was unaware anyone else was in here."

"There are few other places I can go, My Lord, for I am quite old; stairs are the most daunting of enemies."

The maester was old, perhaps the oldest person Tyrion had ever seen. His body, which at one time must have been healthy and fit, was now a feeble sack of bones and skin -bald, wrinkled, shrunken, and, judging by the pale blue film that clouded his eyes, blind.

"Excuse me, but how-"

"I may be blind, but that does mean I cannot hear."

The quick response flustered Tyrion, it was evident that, despite his age, the maester's mind was sharp as ever. "I simply meant to ask how you knew of my identity."

A chuckle told him that his excuse wasn't believed. "Well, I heard of your arrival, of course; it's not often we get a visit from someone as esteemed as the Heir of Casterly Rock but even here we know of your reputation as a lover of books, wine, and women. We have not of the latter and the wine here is all bitter, watered-down swill, so it only made sense that you would seek out what remains. I knew it would only be a matter of before you made your way down here."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not, as long as you're careful, books are made to be read but some of these are quite old and need to be handled carefully. I was also hoping for your help; my library isn't popular with the Black Brothers and I find myself in desperate need of an assistant." The maester pulled a small piece of parchment out of the pocket of his robe and held it out, "Bring these books to me and I'll grant you complete us of the archives here."

Tyrion took the parchment, it was only about half a dozen titles including- "You have a copy of Dragonkin by Maester Thomax?"

"Hmmm, oh, yes; it's been here for many years. Since I first arrived at Castle Black, in fact." The old man slowly made through the shelves, running his long, knotted fingers along the warped wood, "Ah ha, I believe it is somewhere on this shelf here."

Giddy as child promised sweets, Tyrion riffled through the books until he found the one he wanted. It was heavy and made from thick parchment with beautifully inked illustrations that still maintain their vibrancy despite its age, including a particularly nice one of Balerion the Black Dread. "I've only ever seen copies at the Citadel and the Red Keep, never expected to find one here. I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with it for a tidy sum?"

The old man chuckled, "A great thirst for knowledge for someone so small. I wonder… has a giant come among us?"

.

.

.

Tyrion, who'd spend most of his life subjected to mockery and was now able to spot it a mile off, could only sputter, "I wonder if my father would view that as an improvement?"

The maester's face split into a wide, mostly-toothless girl, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his mouth and sightless eyes. "I met a real giant when I was younger, you know; he was a good man, kind and practical in many things. Practicality is a trait so rarely found in me, even in those with great intelligence."

Ignoring the fact his family was most known for their gold, a pretty but largely useless metal that only had value because men deemed it so, Tyrion let out a hum of agreement as he delicately turned the pages.

"Lannister, Lord Commander Mormont needs to speak with you."

Tyrion looked up from his book into the cold, black eyes of Alliser Thorne and fought the knee-jerk urge to scowl at the clear disdain that radiated in the dark pools. Since arriving at Castle Black the Lannister heir had the pleasure of encountering several run-ins with the former Targaryen loyalist and the mean-spirited older man had made it clear that he wouldn't piss on Tyrion to save his life.

"Oh, whatever about?"

Thorne sneered down at him, "Don't know, don't care. Just do as you're told, Dwarf."

"I was unaware that was how we spoke to visitors, Ser Alliser, especially those who have personality brought us supplies and new members for our ranks."

At the soft-spoken chiding of the elderly maester Thorne's face did soften slightly, even if only for a moment. He bowed his head -not that the old man could see it- and addressed Tyrion again, this time through gritted teeth. "Lord Tyrion, if you'd please allow me to escort you to the Lord Commander's solar, he has something he wishes to discuss with you."

Tyrion considered drawing out the man's displeasure but felt the maester's unseeing eyes focus on the back of his head so instead just smiled as brightly as possible, "I would be delighted; just allow me to put away a few things."

Thorne grunted in gruff agreement but left the room.

"Be careful around him, Ser Alliser absolutely despises your family," the old maester warned.

"Oh really? I would have never been able to guess," Tyrion mumbled as he re-shelved several books before picking up Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons and letting his fingers skim over the cover -it was such a rare book- and he glanced up at blind maester, wondering if maybe-

"I think it would be best if you left that here, Lord Tyrion; it's lasted so long, it'd be a shame if travel you be the end of it."

Feeling very much like a child caught attempting to sneak sweets from the kitchens, Tyrion quickly put the book down and skittered out of the room.

"I've heard you've been butting heads with Thorne; not the easiest to get along with, is he?"

"Honestly? I'd be amazed to hear he gets along with anyone."

Lord Commander Mormont let out a low, dry chuckle. In spite of his age, the Old Bear still cut quite the imposing figure, broad-shoulder, and straight-backed with a stern gaze. From appearance alone, it was easy to see why he was held in such high regard by most members of the Black Brothers. "No, he is not an easy man...but he is loyal and at least half-competent-"

"Corn!"

"-which that is more than I can say for some of my men."

"You seem to be holding things together fairly well."

"Aye, but I am old. Who knows how much longer I'll last before the cold or the pox or the food or the wildlings get to me. After that my successor, whoever he is,-"

"Corn!"

"-will be stuck with the task of holding this madhouse together; far from an envious task. But what can be expected, when the majority of recruits are criminals with no real motivation-"

"Corn!"

"-to dedicate themselves to the Watch or-"

"Corn!"

"Be silent, you bloody beast!" Mormont growled, swatting at the raven that perched on his shoulder. The bird hopped down to the desk, cackling loudly, and fixed its beady black eyes onto Tyrion. "Beast," it cawed, beating its big dark wings. "Beast!"

'Would it be inconsiderate to pluck you?' It probably would, so Tyrion turned his attention from the bird to its master, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Your sister is the queen, correct?"

"Yes, unless you know something I don't."

The older man scowled, "Jap all you want, Lannister, but this is no laughing matter. You need to get your sister to have the king start enforcing Night's Watch taxes once again; the last king to do it was Aegon V and now only the North constantly sends us supplies. What you came with was good, but can only be stretched for a few months."

Tyrion tried not to wince, most of the supplies that he had come up with had been donated by the Starks and yet the Crown took credit for it. "I'll see what I can do when I get back to King's Landing, have some of the cells cleaned out and sent up at the very least."

The Old Bear shook his head, "We need more than that; oh, prisoners will do in a pinch, but I need real soldiers, trained soldiers. At least enough of them to keep the unruly ones inline."

"Why are you so concerned about such a thing? Surely they'd be grateful not to be locked away anymore."

"The men who escape the hangman's nose or the dark confines of a cell by running here are still prisoners, Lord Tyrion, only this is their prison. Do you wonder what if would look like if one day they decided they'd like to run it?"

"Bloody! Bloody!"

A shiver ran down Tyrion's spine as the raven spoke up again, cackling as stared at him with eyes that seemed too wise for a mere bird.

"Manpower is only part of it, too: food, equipment, supplies, we don't have nearly enough for what is coming."

A chill seemed to settled heavily in the air but the Dwarf of Casterly Rock eyed the Lord Commander suspiciously, "What, pray tell, is coming?"

Shaking his head, the older man looked towards the window, "I don't have a name for it, but I know something is coming. I feel it in my bones and my night patrols see things in the trees; its out there, beyond the wall, waiting for its chance."

"I'm going to need something more than a few ominous words if I'm too convince the king to send aid."

Mormont fell silent for a long moment before sighing and pulling out a cloth bundle. Tyrion fought the urge to gag as the wrappings were pulled away to reveal a dismembered, partially decayed hand. "One of my men found this over a moon ago; it was still moving."

Arya Stark I

A sharp pressure on her hand woke Arya up; she blinked sleep from her eyes until they could focus on the glowing gold pair owned by Nymeria. The giant, gray-furred direwolf had Arya's left hand gripped her teeth, biting down lightly and tugging it.

"Whad' 'er you doin' girl?" Arya mumbled, sitting up on her elbows and squinting at her direwolf. Nymeria had never done anything like this before; she'd seen Ghost do something similar, tugging Jon's hand back and forth as a kind of game -had done seen him do it even as a pup- but it was a habit never shared by any of the other litter. She glanced around the tent; it was still dark and through the gloom she could see Sansa cuddled up on her cot, auburn hair sprayed across the pillows and snoring softly.

But something -or rather, someone- was missing. Lady was nowhere to be seen.

This was strange; the smallest direwolf of the bunch as never far from Sansa and only ever left her side when Sansa herself commanded it, then only reluctantly. Nights usually found her sleeping by the foot of the older sister's bed, but no that spot was empty.

Of course, there were many perfectly normal reasons while Lady would have left the tent. But considering how strange Nymeria was acting…

"Did something happen to Lady?"

Nymeria dropped her hand, teeth leaving twin rows of indentations in Arya's skin, and gave a singular long, slow blink. It was enough to compel the youngest she-wolf out of bed, pulling on a pair of worn boots that she had nicked from Jon's room a year back -they were a bit too big for her, but were better than slippers for walking at night- and reaching under her pillow to grab Candle. She'd been keeping it there while she slept at Jon's suggestion; "Best you always keep it close, Little Sister, so that if you ever need it -even if it is only once in your lifetime- you'll have it," he had said, and she had listened.

Clutching the dagger tightly in one hand, Arya followed Nymeria to the tent's entrance and peaked through the flaps. There were usually two guards stations outside the Stark sisters quarters, but now she could only see one, who was sitting on a crate with his eyes closed and posture lax. Even if he wasn't asleep, he wasn't paying attention so, after a deep breath -she'd been given strict instructions to only ever leave her tent at night if there was an emergency and would surely be sent back to her mother if caught-, Arya slipped out of the tent and around the corner, ducking out of sight.

Creeping through the narrow alleyways created by the tents, Arya trailed after Nymeria, sticking to through the shadows to avoid being seen. 'I am Arya Underfoot,' she thought to herself. 'Sneaky as a cat and just as likely to trip a man.'

All was going well until they reached the outskirts of the camp; a call rang out through the air, "GET UP YOU LAZY FUCKS! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

The shout sent the camp behind her into what seemed to be an instantaneous frenzy; there were men shouting and then what sounded like steel striking steel. Nymeria shot off into the darkness, snarls echoing through camp. For Arya it seemed as if her mind was ablaze; she couldn't think and even though the smart thing to do would have been to turn around and run back to the tent, Arya took out after her direwolf, her instincts spurring her onward along the riverside.

She didn't know where they were going, just...away from the camp. 'Get to safety,' was her only thought. But that was easier said than done because a man she didn't recognize, not wearing Stark, Baratheon, or Lannister colors, lept from the treeline into her path, hand going for a sword on his hip. Arya shrieked but it was drowned out by the man's own cries when Nymeria lept on him, teeth going for his throat.

Not letting herself think about the sounds of screaming or tearing or gurgling, Ayra ran faster; nearly stumbling when she had to skitter to a stop when another man came at her. In what had to have been flash of genius, a memory from her lesson on footwork shot through her mind and she managed to dodge the man's attempt to grab her. He was a fat man and not particularly fast, but also tall and when he lunged again Arya acted purely on impulse. She stabbed him in the gut.

'It felt a little like pushing a needle through a thick piece of cloth.' The morbid thought emerged in the back of Arya's mind as she stared wide-eyed at the handle of the dagger -which her hand was still wrapped around- that stuck out of her attacker's extended gut. The man seemed equally surprised, gasping as he gawked down at his stomach. Their eyes briefly met and that was enough to jar Arya from her shocked state; she kicked him hard as he could in the shin and wrenched Candle from where it was stuck. Blood spurted out, splashing across the chest of her nightgown.

He doubled over, grasping his side, and she took that as her chance to run. But where too? Arya didn't want to get too far from camp but when she glanced over her shoulder she saw what looked like more attackers. They could have been the king's or her father's men, but Arya wasn't going to risk it. So that left only one direction.

This section of the river was shallow and slow-moving, but that didn't make running through it any easier. Water filled her boots and dragged at the bottom of her nightgown, soaking it and making it heavy. She stumbled but forced herself to remain upright, 'If I fall then I am dead.'

The splashing behind her mixed with sounds of grunts and a man cursing told her she was being pursued. 'Just run; don't think, just run.'

Her feet finally hit the solid ground of the opposite bank -knees almost giving out with how bad they were shaking- but it allowed her to run now, really run. Water sloshing in her boots, Arya rushed through the trees, branches catching in her hair and scratching at her face. But eventually her legs needed a rest, so she came to a stop against a tree; chest heaving heavily as she gasped for breath. Though she still felt nearly paralyzing fear, it was nearly all swept away when she heard a familiar voice.

Despite the situation, a wide grin split across her face when, through the dim light, she could just barely make out her beloved older brother's figure. This joy was brief, however, as the breaking of leaves and sticks told her that her pursuer had found her.

"JON!" She called at the top of her lungs, crashing through the brush towards Jon. He'd protect her; he always had. She saw his head turn towards her -she was so close- and he shouted out to her, rushing forward.

"I'm going to get you, you little bitch!" Close as Jon was, the man chasing her was closer. Death was closer than safety and it got even closer when her foot to catch on something and send her sprawling onto the ground. She landed on her hands and knees, the wind knocked from her lungs.

CRACK!

The sound of lighting strike was loud enough to stun the littlest she-wolf long enough for the sound to dissipate into a low humming before disappearing complete, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting a ground. Everything seemed to go completely still until...Arya peeked behind her and saw the corpse of her attack lying on the ground, a hole blown clean in his chest. She looked back to Jon and he froze, "Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Was that magic?"

Jon was quiet for a long moment, as was Mister Enzo, before he finally swallowed and nodded his head shakily, "Aye."

"Oh." Arya felt numb. She had grown up on stories of magic and Old Nan always insisted it was real, but… "Can you turn into an animal?"

"Can I...turn into an animal?" Jon asked, brow furrowed but with a hint of a smile on his blood-smeared face. He pulled Arya to her shaky feet, "Are you hurt?"

She realized what he was looking at, "Not my blood, h-his." Pointing at the dead body of her attacker, she continued, "He tried to grab me and I sta- I stabbed h-h-him-"

Arya bent over and threw up, narrowing missing Jon and Mister Enzo's boots, "O-oh m-my-"

"Listen to me, listen to me!" Jon grabbed her by the upper arms, "He would have hurt you. You did what you had to in order to survive. That is all you can allow yourself to think about! Do you understand? Do you understand?"

Falling into Jon's chest, Arya nodded, blinking away tears, "I understand."

"Good," the deep voice of Jon's friend said. "Then we should join up with the others at the main camp, your...father and sister will certainly be worried about you."

"Aye, let's go." Tucking Arya under his arm and tight to his side, he led her through the trees and back through the river.

"So, can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Use magic to turn into an animal?"

"No, I don't believe so. Not exactly, at least."

"Oh, that's too bad."

Jon chuckled softly, dropping a kiss on the top of her head, but Mister Enzo frowned, "You can not tell anyone about this, Little One. Not even your father or sister."

Arya felt her brow furrow, "Why not?"

"It would be dangerous for Father to know," Jon explained. "I might tell him in time, but it will be on my own terms. Promise me, Arya."

Arya loved Jon but she also loved her father, "I won't tell him. But if he asks then I'm not going to lie either."

Mister Enzo nodded, "That is agreeable, Little One."

The finished the walk into the main camp in silence; guards milling about, not seeming to notice them, and Arya tried hard not to look at the various dead bodies that littered the ground.

"Arya!"

"Father!" Arya shot forward and flung herself into her father's strong arms, pressing her face into his shirt.

"I was so worried, where were you?" The Lord of Winter pulled away to look her over completely, check her for any injuries. Arya saw the fear in his eyes and felt guilt flood her.

"I… got scared and just… ran until Jon and Mister Enzo found me. I don't know why, I just did. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

"Don't do it again," her father growled, pulling her into another hug. Then his eyes flickered up to Jon and the blood drying on his face, "Are you-"

"Not a scratch on me," Jon reassured with a brief smile before he looked around and frowned again.

"Well, that is good to here." Arya turned to see the king lumbering towards them flanked by Ser Barristan and the Hound.

"How many casualties, Robert?"

"Four guards, two with their throats cut and two taken out at a distance by arrows. They had all been patrolling the outskirts of the camp; Lord Stark, one of them was from your household." Ser Barristan answered before the king could speak.

Her father let out a deep, heavy sigh, "I'll see that his remains are sent to his family."

"I'm sorry about your man, Ned. But it could have been a lot worse, remember that."

The king's words seemed to do little to comfort her father, but he still nodded and turned to the Hound, "I heard you were the one who sounded the alarm, I thank you for that. It allowed us to mount enough of a defense to keep too many from being hurt."

The big scarred man grunted and jabbed a thumb in Jon's direction, "Don't thank me, he was the one who made sure I could get the guards of their lazy asses.

Jon seemed to flush, "It was blind luck that I spotted that archer, thank you though."

King Robert laughed and slapped Jon's back, "So modest, just like you, Ned."

Father eyed Jon briefly before turning back to the king, "What do you want to do about this attack, Your Grace?"

"Not much to do, is there? All the bandits are dead."

"Bandits?" Jon asked, "Are you sure?"

"Your Grace, may I suggest that we leave at first light? It is too dark to safety travel but too early to settle back in for much longer."

King Robert nodded, "Good, get that started Barristan. Clegane, make sure my wife and her-"

A scream rang out the air, pained and desperate. "Sansa," Father whispered before rushing toward the origin of the scream with Arya and Jon following close behind.

Down in a ditch at the outskirts of camp Sansa was wailing and crouched over something that, after a moment, Arya realized was Lady, dead with a crossbow bolt buried in her neck. The crack of a trig caught her attention; she lookup and saw Nymeria and Ghost -both with drying blood matted in their first- staring down at their dead littermate. In perfect sync, they threw back their heads in twin howls, one echoing across the sky and one silent as the grave.

"Sansa, Sansa! You must let go," Father pleaded, trying to pull his eldest daughter of her dead direwolf.

"No!" Sansa threw her back on top of Lady, blood staining her nightgown, "Get up, Lady! Get up! I know you can do it!"

"She's gone, Sansa," Father said softly, finally managing to pull her up. He turned to the crowd of onlookers, "Did anyone see how this happened?"

"It was the bandits, Lord Stark," Prince Joffrey answered, stepping forward. The sight of him made Arya's jaw clench; she hated the very sight of him -had since the first him she laid eyes on the prince- and even now, with his gentle tone, she wanted to stab Candle into his eye. "I saw one do it and I killed him myself in retaliation. Your pet has been avenged, Sansa; you can rest easy."

"T-thank you, Joff," Sansa whispered through her tears.

"It'll be alright in the end, my dear," the king said, attempting to comfort her sister. "We can have it made into a nice cloak-"

"Septa Mordane, could you please take Sansa to get cleaned up and settled down?" Father cut in when Sansa whimpered in horror at King Robert's suggestion. The Septa nodded and the Hound held out a hand to help Sansa out of the ditch, "Easy does it, Little Bird."

"Come along, Arya," Septa Mordane called.

"No, I want to stay with Jon!" she snapped, pressing back into her brother's side.

"That is far from appropriate. Lord Stark-"

"My daughter has been through a traumatic experience tonight. If being near her brother make her feel better than I see no reason to deny it. Besides, it was Sansa I asked you to attend to, not Arya."

Arya fought the urge the snicker at the septa discomfort at Father's curt response, only managing to bite it back when Jon pinched her side. She glanced up at him and he winked before turning to Mister Enzo, "Can you gather up our thing from our tent, check on the animals?"

The giant nodded, "Of course." His eyes shifted to Arya, "Try to get some rest, Little One; the first battle is always a trying ordeal."

"Will Sansa be alright?"

Jon sighed, wringing a washcloth out as he set to work trying to clean the blood from Ghost fur, "I cannot say, but I think, with time, she'll be able to move forward. It will take time though; she'll be very vulnerable these next few days, be gentle with her."

Arya spat a mouthful of salty water out onto the ground, trying to clean her mouth of the taste of bile; whipping her mouth on the back of her hand, she nodded, "I'll try, but I'm not going to hang all over the prince just because she does."

Jon went still, "You don't like him, do you?"

"You do?" she sneered.

Her brother snorted, "Of course not, but you need to be careful how you speak about him."

"I could beat that prat with one hand tied behind my back."

That got her a laugh, "I'm sure you could, but that is not how things with royalty work, Arya; especially once we get to the capital."

"Why?"

Jon shook his head, "It hard to explain but know that King's Landing is going to be dangerous, possibly more dangerous than I originally thought. You, we, are going to need to be careful."

Her brother was so different now, cryptic and secretive; he spoke in riddles and always seemed to be holding something back. But he was still Jon and, therefore, would likely be unable to deny her much, "Than maybe you should teach me some magic."

An eyebrow shot up into his hairline and Jon looked at her surprised, "What do you mean?"

"If there is going to be danger than I need a way to defend myself and, let's face it, Jon, all the lessons in the world won't change the fact that I'm small; I need a way to fight people bigger than me!"

Jon went quiet for what felt like a long while before closing his eyes and sighing, "Alright, I'll teach you the basics. We'll start with a simple healing spell."

Next Chapter: The gang arrives in King's Landing. Jon meets quite a few people -some of them very interested in meeting him- and does some exploring. Ned chats with Jon about two important people. Bran has a dream and talks with his brother.

Notes:

1) Bet you thought Lady was going to survive for a minute there, didn't you? Sadly, no, I feel like her death is an important part of Sansa journey.

2) So Arya has now been through her first fight; she didn't kill anyone this time but who knows about the next...