Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

15th Day of the 2nd Month, 299 AC

The Besieged Bog Devil

Howland was beside himself with worry. His worst fears had come true, and the Dothraki scouts belonged to a Khalasar. His misfortune was somewhat limited, as the foe they had provoked wasn't one of those infamous horselords commanding tens of thousands of screamers. Still, the man they faced was more than the Northmen could handle. 

Ten days ago, Khal Polo, with over six thousand horsemen, had arrived before the gates of their fort, demanding surrender.

Of course, no such thing happened, and arrows had started raining after they told him to sod off. The Northmen were stuck in the fort with no way out. It defended them well enough, for even the overproud horselords weren't foolish enough to charge at a tall wooden wall. But they had sufficient patience to besiege them.

Worse, they were outranged - the enemy's bows had far longer range, and it quickly became clear that the Dothraki had far more arrows than the Northmen.

Even the wooden wall and the hill barely gave them a slight advantage, but the advantage meant nothing when they lacked the arrows and proper bows to leverage it. True, they scavenged the fallen Dothraki arrows and salvaged some for their use, but their enemy had a dozen mounted marksmen for every bow the Northmen possessed.

"Forty dead so far," Wylis Manderly said, plump face grim at the dawn of the ninth day. "Most of those are the sailors lacking proper armour, but we are starting to bleed archers; Knott, Harclay, Burley, and the Slate men have ten dead and five times as many wounded.

The hail of arrows was relentless and could go over the walls, forcing everyone to walk around clad in armour, huddle behind shields, or cluster at the top of the hill where the Dothraki bows failed to reach. At night, they used their spare timber to hastily construct a few motley sheds down the slope with wooden roofs for protection, which gave them some relief. 

Howland's shoulder was still sore from lugging a hefty heater shield everywhere. His back and waist were no better; wearing his bronze scaleshirt day and night had begun to take a toll on his thin frame.

The bigger problem was the water. There was plenty of food to last the Northmen for another fortnight, but their fort was thirty meters from the nearby river, and the Dothraki shot down anyone who went to fetch any. It forced them to ration, but their supplies were dwindling; Vayon Poole said they had just enough to drink for five more days.

At least today was rainy, which meant the Dothraki would leave them alone. The petering of the arrows was replaced with the rhythmic raindrops. It also meant they could gather more water for drinking, though men had gotten sick from it unless it was boiled.

"Unlike our wooden recurves and longbows, the glue holding their composite horn bows comes apart in the rain," Rickard Ryswell, who had turned quite knowledgeable about the Dothraki, had explained the first time it had rained.

"How many arrows do those savage fucks have?" Damon Dustin was frothing mad, but even he wasn't crazy enough to charge six thousand horsemen with less than half a hundred lancers.

"The Dothraki live and die on the saddle," Ben Burley grunted. "Each one of them makes their own arrows."

They were fucked, everyone knew that. The Dothraki had no mercy either, and Damon Dustin had been the one to slay the scouts. Not that it would have mattered; the only way to get rid of the horselords was to give them some tribute, and the Northmen had very little riches and were too proud to part with them at the point of a bow. 

It was even questionable if they would accept anymore; Ben Burley had managed to take down a handful of important-looking horselords with his weirwood longbow, though it only made them attack harder.

Cregan Knott and a few others wanted to sally out at night, but it was too risky, for the Dothraki could simply retreat and wear them down with their bows or surround and charge them from every side. The Northmen had at least two dozen ideas on what should be done, but none could agree on even one, and thus, they turtled up behind the walls.

It was an ugly conundrum, for Howland himself couldn't decide what to do.

Should they wait inside the fort and pray for something to happen before they run out of food and water?

Or should they fight against terrible odds? Even if they chose to fight, the question was how, and he had no idea, despite the score of different plans offered to him. If this had been a bog, a marshland, or a forest, Howland Reed was confident to come up with dozens of plans that would see the Dothraki dead or fleeing sooner rather than later, yet they were in a makeshift fort atop an open hill. Subterfuge had little place here, and the Crannoglord did not like the chances a direct battle would offer. 

Each day, the mood in the camp turned grimmer, and Howland still didn't dare make a decision. 

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't, but they had not only a royal prince to protect, but the Lord of Winterfell as well. May the old gods forgive him, but Howland Reed struggled to make any decision, as it looked like he was faced with a dead end in each direction. 

A commotion near Ned's tent grabbed his attention as noon approached. Everyone was flocking to it, faces filled with trepidation, excitement even–Slate, Knott, Burley, Manderly, Liddle, Ryswell, Harclay, Glover, Flint, Dustin.

Howland Reed couldn't believe his eyes when Eddard Stark walked out, hale, hearty, and unbothered by the downpour. His eyes had gone flinty, cold, and fierce like a winter blizzard. He was met with stunned silence amidst the pittering rain; many had given up on their liege's awakening after nearly four moons. 

"Report!" The Lord of Winterfell's voice was no less cold than the white winds of winter and even more full of authority than the Crannoglord remembered. Suddenly, everything was right in the world, and Howland could feel the tension bleed out from his shoulders.

Ned was finally here, and the Lord of Winterfell always knew what to do, especially where fighting was concerned. 

"We crashed in Andalos…" Wylis Manderly was the first to gather himself and quickly explained the situation to Ned. Howland chimed in now and then with things the merman knight had forgotten.

"You have done well to wait. Tommen," Eddard Stark barked, "my arms and armour, now." The golden-haired prince scrambled into the Stark tent.

Damon Dustin's eyes were full of hope, "We fight?"

The Lord of Winterfell unsheathed the crystalline sword, stepped and twirled it. It blurred, whistling with a shrill cry through the rain under his deft hands–the bone-chilling sound was nothing like Howland had heard when Ned practised before. The motion was impossibly smooth and practised as if the icy blade had become an extension of his arm and been wielded for decades, not a few weeks.

"Rain means they won't drown us in arrows, and they would be foolish to charge us in the mud lest they risk killing their horses," Ned explained, voice steely. Tommen struggled to help him in his armour, for the suit of plate seemed to be half a measure too small on the Northern Highlord. "We fight!"

The deafening cheer almost knocked Howland off his feet.

***

In one hour, everyone was clad in steel. The gods smiled upon them, for the rain had yet to halt or lessen. Howland was on the wall with a hundred and fifty marksmen and a hundred sailors who were good at slinging stones and spear-throwing.

Ned quickly arranged the Northmen in front of the wooden fortifications in a tight line of muscle, steel, shields, and spears. With a few words, all the proud, prickly, and quarrelsome men Howland had struggled to rein in had become like obedient pups eager to please their master.

At the front of the line was Eddard Stark, clad in his suit of heavy grey plate from head to toe. Aside from the pauldrons forged in the shape of snarling direwolves, the armour wasn't too fancy, with a padded surcoat depicting the running direwolf of Stark on top. To his left was Jory Cassel, armoured in grey lobstered steel, while to his right was The Red Wake's hulking form clad in his new armour acquired from that Qohorik master smith in King's Landing.

As in every battle, the Giant of Winterfell carried the enormous banner of House Stark. Only this time, the fluttering direwolf banner was attached to his titanic poleaxe. Twelve feet long, it was a monstrous weapon with a wickedly sharp head made by Tobho Mott and an ironwood handle so heavy that Howland struggled to lift it a few inches from the ground. 

It didn't take long for the Dothraki to notice them.

Across the field, the horselords quickly assembled. In five minutes, they were already riding at the line of Northmen. As Ned had predicted, Khal Polo had accepted the unspoken challenge.

Ben Burley grunted as he palmed his bow. "If those mad fucks used lances instead of those curved swords, this would have been far scarier."

"Or if they weren't charging up a muddy hill and had armour," Howland admitted, reluctantly stringing his short bow, a gift from his wife Jyanna he would be forced to ruin. 

"Enough with the chatter," Artos Harclay grounded out. Ned had assigned him to command the men at the wall, and the clansman was tense. "Get ready!" Nervous hands tugged at the bowstrings one after another, and the air was filled with the whistle of slings whirling as the Dothraki were fast approaching. Their lack of armour had made them lighter and thus faster and more manoeuvrable. "Release at will!"

It was usually ill-advised to throw projectiles over your own men's heads, for the slightest mistake could end in tragedy. Yet the Northmen were beyond confident in their prowess with their marksmen, especially after more than a hundred days of practice. Javelins, arrows, and stones soared through the air, and scores of Dothraki and their horses fell. Those struck down tripped a few more behind them, yet the horselords were undaunted and continued their charge.

The marksmen were stopped after Artos' gruff "Halt!" as the foe closed into the shield wall; the rain was already loosening their strings. Yet the horsemen's momentum was lost, and they tried to break apart the Northern shield wall. 

They failed. 

The curved swords did little against armour, shields, and spears. As Ned had said, only fools charge into a disciplined line of heavy spearmen. And for good or bad, their group was the cream of the crop of the North, the personal retainers of all the Northern bannermen. They were veterans who had fought in at least one war, bred and trained for battle from childhood, and clad in the finest armour their lieges could afford.

The collision was bloody and filled with pained neighing and cries of agony, muffled by the pittering of the rain. Yet, by the time the Dothraki retreated to allow another group of horsemen to charge, the ground was strewn with blood and corpses, both of horses and their riders. 

A few Northmen had been wounded, but no deaths had occurred. Artos Harclay had Howland and the other men on the wall release a second volley at the retreating horsemen, bringing down dozens and scattering horses away. 

Despite the slope's width only allowing three hundred or so horsemen to charge at a time, it did not stop them from trying. The horselords were stubborn; Howland would give them that, for they charged again, with even less success this time. 

Eddard Stark leapt into the fray like a hungry wolf, holding a shield in one hand and his ice blade in the other.

Each swing of his blade was aimed at vitals and killing. And kill it did; some curved dothraki swords were sliced cleanly before the ice effortlessly dug into their flesh without armour to block it. Ned had never been a bad fighter, but now it was as if he had awoken with bloodshed in his heart. 

His crystalline sword became a blur again, and all Howland could see were red arcs gleaming in the rain as Ned slaughtered the horsemen with uncanny speed and laughable ease. Red Wake Walder was by his side, not allowing any foes to flank his liege and gleefully cleaving through flesh and bone with his gigantic poleaxe. 

A stronger strike of the monstrous weapon could cleave a screamer in twain and dig into the horse below, slaying it on the spot. The direwolf banner attached to it was now dripping crimson, like a grey direwolf who had feasted itself bloody on prey.

Jory followed on his liege's other side. If The Red Wake was violence personified, then Jory was skill and finesse, elegantly slicing through any savage trying to flank his lord. The last moons had been good for the Stark captain; sparring and fighting with his fellow Northmen had significantly sharpened his skills. 

Seeing their liege lord fight with such valiance inspired the other Northmen, and the fighting became increasingly savage.

The Dothraki wheeled around; this time, they took their time deciding who would charge. Ned's cold voice echoed through the rain as he stepped back: "Reform ranks, do not give chase!"

Following Stark's example, everyone hastily returned to the line.

The Dothraki came again, their numbers visibly dwindled.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It was a brutal slaughter, and Howland's fingers began to ache from releasing arrow after arrow until he halted as his bowstring began to loosen dangerously under the rain. Even Harclay's hoarse shouts of trying to coordinate the marksmen could no longer be heard in the pittering of the rain and the sound of death and battle. 

The Dothraki stubbornly charged eleven times yet couldn't even dent the Northern lines. By the end, the Crannoglord no longer saw Khal Polo in his painted vest or bloodriders. The reddish mud was filled with small hills of bodies.

The horselords, now significantly reduced, hesitated halfway up the hill and began cutting their braids and throwing them on the muddy slope.

According to Ryswell, cutting off their braids meant their fighting spirit was broken, and they acknowledged their defeat!

"I do not accept this!" Eddard Stark's bellow echoed through the rain. "DAMON, NOW!"

The gate behind them opened, and the Northern lines split apart to make way for Damon Dustin, garbed in his bright yellow plate, leading their fifty lancers, all clad in iron and steel like a grey wedge falling down the hill.

At the same time, a loud, blood-chilling howl echoed from the nearby forest up the river, unsettling the Dothraki horses. An enormous grey direwolf dashed out from the tree line, followed by a veritable army of smaller but no less vicious-looking shaggy wolves.

***

Horses liked wolves very little and direwolves even less. The Dothraki horses weren't used to it, and Winter's presence had made them all mad with fear, kicking off their riders or even running straight into Damon Dustin's mad charge.

The Mad Lance had earned his nickname once again. In the end, thousands had escaped, but they had forced over half a thousand horsemen to surrender, captured thrice as many horses and left five times as many dead, while the Northmen had only a dozen dead and about half a hundred injured. 

Was this what Ned meant when he said tactics, terrain, armour, and discipline trump ferociousness and numbers?

Eddard Stark had been in the thick of the fighting, and he looked like a demon from the Seventh Circle of hell, with his armour dripping with crimson from head to toe. Winter by his side was no better; the grey direwolf had his damp fur caked with gore and mud. 

The other wolves were cautiously feasting on the fallen Dothraki and their slain steeds, and nobody disturbed them. 

While the Northmen were binding the surrendered horselords, Wylis Manderly and his men counted the newly acquired horses.

Damon Dustin and his lances arrived after looting the Dothraki camp. He proudly showed off… a Valyrian Steel Arakh looted from the corpses of one of the horselords. 

Gods, Howland shuddered to imagine the Mad Lance with such a weapon. But behind the Dustin Barrowknight was a long line of cattle followed by men and women, most bound in chains.

Slaves.

Eddard Stark personally stepped forth, followed by the Red Wake, and all the chained ones started trembling and crying with fear. 

Yet the crystalline blade whistled through the air, and dark irons were cut in twain. A second, a third, a fourth, and the Lord of Winterfell personally struck down the chains of every man, woman, and child. They all stared with wide eyes before falling to their knees.

"STARK!" The Northmen cheered, and even Howland joined in, "STARK!"

There was no sweeter thing than to follow in the footsteps of victory, and Eddard Stark had always led the Northmen to triumph on the field—what more could one want than a capable and righteous liege?

The slaves eased when they saw they weren't being cut down. Cregan Knott had found the keys from some corpse and was unlocking the cleaved shackles. After nearly three hundred pairs of shackles were sliced through, Eddard Stark finally stopped, not looking even remotely winded.

"Rise," his voice had gained a sliver of warmth now, "You're now free, and one only kneels before a king."

An old, copper-skinned man with a completely bald head rose first and bowed deeply.

"We not go," his voice was chalky, speaking in a broken common tongue. The man looked in his fifties, yet his body was sinewy and tough. "No place."

"I have no use for slaves," Eddard Stark stated as Winter obediently sat beside him like an obedient horse-sized dog. "You're free." 

"Freedom useless in the open. We be all useful. I raise horses good," the man proudly slapped his chest. "Can fight with whip and bow and know to speak many tongue."

Someone behind translated his words into the rough, harsh language of the Dothraki. About a third of the slaves began to leave skittishly, turning around every few yards to check if the wolves or Northmen wouldn't give chase. To Ned's chagrin, the rest, all men, women, and even the occasional child, stubbornly remained, all clustered behind the bald old man.

After a few moments of silence, he finally relented, "I can use more aides, but I live in the cold North across the sea. I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. What is your name?" 

"Name is Mallo," the bald man puffed up. "We no disappoint."

"Should we fear another attack?" Rogar Wull grunted, face bloodied and left ear missing. "Thousands of horsemen fled."

"No, no, they no dare," Mallo waved energetically, "Loss too big, no more fight."

"We have captured six hundred, Lord Stark." Wylis came over. The Manderly knight, pale green plate covered in blood spatters, had lost some of his girth and joviality but now looked like a tougher barrel of ale. "What shall we do with the captives?" 

"The Dothraki don't give or take ransoms," Rickard Ryswell grunted while cleaning his bloodied sword with a rag.

"I say we kill 'em," Damon proposed, still inspecting his newly acquired Valyrian Steel arakh and swinging it with glee. "They are savages. Even if we showed mercy, they know nothing but reaving and banditry."

Many seemed to agree with that statement, and Morgan Liddle also coughed, "Six hundred mouths to feed for nothing are useless."

"Lead me to them," Ned grunted, finally removing his helm. "Mallo, with me. Jory, send all these new camp followers to Vayon for sorting. I'm sure he'll welcome the additional hands."

Howland and most of the Northmen followed after their liege, curious about how he would deal with the tricky captives.

The captured horsemen looked miserable on the muddy ground. Most had bare chests, and all silver, gold, and steel had been removed from their persons, leaving them only in boots and trousers. They had all cut off their hair earlier, so many looked like poorly- sheared sheep.

"Loser become slave, Khal Stark," Mallo explained to Ned. "But you no need slave?"

"Indeed," Ned waved the words away as if they were annoying flies. "Can you translate for me?"

"Yes," the former slave nodded eagerly. 

"Tell them they are free to go. I gift them their freedom but no horses, bows, arrows, or arms."

Mallo paled considerably, "I will tell, but this big slight."

Eddard Stark just stared at the bald man, blood-splattered face looking like stone.

The newly freed translator spoke quickly in the harsh tongue of the horselords. Some of the Dothraki began to weep, others looked indignant, and a few leapt up angrily, their faces twisted into snarls, only to be cut down by the mountain clansmen when they advanced towards him.

One of the captives, a tall, muscled man, spewed a river of harshly angry words.

"Zolo begs for way out," Mallo translated. "No good for slave, no good for horse be Dothraki's highest insult and dishonour. Death be better than it."

"Ask him what way out?"

The former slave did, and the copper-skinned waved his bound hands as if swinging a blade, and many of the captives looked slightly hopeful at his words.

After half a minute of silence, Mallo tilted his head and sighed as if disappointed.

"He say they ride for you to death, Khal Stark. You give freedom and horse back, and they be your men until the Ghost Grass covers the world."

Ryswell whispered from behind that the Dothraki considered that to be the end of the world. 

The words were meant with a deafening silence that you could even hear a pin drop. Accepting Dothraki–nobody had done such a thing before. And the horselords notoriously disliked sea travel.

But it seemed the Stark of Winterfell dared to tread the roads untravelled. 

"Very well," Ned declared, "But they will follow my rules or be left behind, with no horses or anything else. If they're to follow me to death, every single one of them must learn my language and the Northern customs."

Over five hundred Dothraki recruited later, Eddard Stark's face grew even frostier as he finally turned to the entirely too-happy Tommen Baratheon.

"And why were you on the wall instead of in my tent as I commanded?" 

"I wanted to help," the princeling ducked his head. "I used the sling as Jeor Norrey taught me to take down three riders-ow-ow-ouch," Eddard Stark had grabbed him by the ear like an errand child, much to the amusement of everyone else.

"In battle, you always follow orders, Tommen. Your courage is admirable, but when fighting, insubordination is grounds for treason. And traitors lose their heads, remember that." Ned's face softened as he finally released the now whimpering prince. "You'll be helping us burn the bodies now since you're so keen on killing. And you'll be digging latrines until we return to Westeros on top of your other duties." 

The young prince's eyes widened, and he clenched his jaw with a hint of defiance before shaking his head. "Yes, Lord Stark."

***

23rd Day of the 2nd Moon, Vaes Dothrak

Daenerys Targaryen

She woke in a sweat, feeling weak, facing the familiar ceiling of her quarters. The last thing she remembered was waking up in pain, and pain again, someone shouting and crying…

"What," her voice was hoarse, and her throat as dry as the desert, "where is Drogo?"

"The Khal is gone, Khaleesi," Doreah came over, face filled with concern.

So her beloved Sun and Stars was out hunting again. Would he bring her another trophy, a different pelt this time?

Her gaze settled on her arms. They looked thinner than she remembered, and moving felt even more tiring than Daenerys remembered. Yet more urgent matters weighed on her mind.

"What of my sons?"

"There's no son," the handmaid shook her head regretfully.

Her insides tangled into a knot.

"What do you mean there's no son?" 

Doreah smiled, but her eyes didn't look too happy, "Two healthy girls, Khaleesi. They are there." 

Daenerys tracked her finger to the corner of the room, where two cribs lay, padded with purple sandsilk. She struggled to get up to see, but her limbs felt as heavy as lead, and she failed. Was Drogo out hunting because he was disappointed with the lack of sons? Dothraki didn't put much stock in daughters…

"Wise woman said you stay abed until you get better," the handmaid shook her head, and Daenerys finally stopped attempting to sit up.

"Bring me my… daughters here," she ordered. "And fetch for Ser Jorah."

A minute later, two little bundles were placed into her hands. Both babes were small and wrinkled; one had skin the colour of copper with a silver-gold tuft of hair, and the other–had pale skin with coal-like small curls. Her daughters were silently looking at her with great interest with their dark eyes, and the second one was already curiously tugging on her silver hair with her chubby fingers.

Daenerys loved them already; the first would be named Rhaella for her mother. And the second would be Visenya, after that fierce Queen.

Jorah came quickly, garbed in a painted vest and horsehair trousers like the Dothraki, but his grim face looked foreboding.

"My princess," he bowed. "How may I serve you?"

"Look at my babies," she smiled. "They're beautiful, aren't they?"

"Indeed," the Bear Knight stiffly agreed.

Why were the handmaids and Jorah acting so… odd?

"What's wrong? How long have I been sleeping?"

"Twenty days now." This explained why she felt so thin, so feeble. Jorah bowed his head, "Drogo is gone."

"I know, he keeps going hunting," Daenerys muttered, feeling her insides twist into a knot.

"No, he rode off, leading his Khalasar to raid the lands around the Jade Sea," the knight muttered sadly.

He rode off to the Jade Sea.

He rode off… Daenerys began trembling, her eyes suddenly swelling with tears. 

"...He left me behind?" She croaked out weakly. "Why?"

"The healers said you will not be able to ride a horse for at least two moons," Jorah sighed. "The birth took a heavy toll on your health. And he was displeased with the lack of a son. Daughters cannot become Khals, let alone the Stallion Who Mounts the World or lead the Khalasar when the Khal grows old or falls in battle. The Dothraki are a hardy people, and those who cannot ride a horse for long are disgraced." Like you, he did not say it out loud, but Daenerys heard it regardless.

"But… I can give him more babes," she said, despairing. Her heart clenched as if someone had stabbed it. Her daughters began wailing then as if having felt her despair. "At least one of them will be a son!"

The Bear Knight frowned, "You cannot even get up from bed, child."

Why were her daughters crying? Did they feel her sorrow? She tried to sway and sing to them gently, but her voice was hoarse, and they only wailed harder. 

Daenerys, feeling too tired and unsure how to deal with the two crying bundles, weakly waved over Irri and gave her the crying babes, "Take Rhaella and Visenya. And calm them."

Then, she attempted to sit up from the bed, but her arms buckled, and she fell on her silken pillows.

"You must rest, Khaleesi," Jorah insisted. "Do not despair; the Khal will return sooner or later; the horselords always return to Vaes Dothrak. It is only normal for Drogo to be impatient after half a year of waiting. For now, you are left here to recuperate." 

***

24th Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC

Arya Stark

They said the war wasn't going well. Robb had yet to fight, but Winterfell was covered by worry. At least Uncle Benjen was winning big at the Wall. Her mother, however, was even more worried about all that heretic nonsense and the two High Septons in the South.

Arya, however, still struggled to see why people even cared about the Faith of the Seven. Septs were stuffy, smoky, and boring.

"The Reach and the Stormlands can easily command over a hundred and twenty thousand swords after the long summer," Luwin had explained a few days ago. "With Ser Edmure Tully, Ser Stafford Lannister, and Ser Jaime Lannister suffering defeats, the Riverlands, Westerlands, and Crownlands probably have half or less now."

"This is bad?" Rickon had asked childishly.

"Very," the maester had grown grim. "While numbers are not all in war, your elder brother will have a hard time tilting the scales of victory in King Joffrey's favour."

"Uh-uh," Rickon puffed up his cheeks. "Robb will win!" 

Luwin just smiled sadly, "Perhaps. Victory is never decided until the armies meet on the field."

Arya inwardly agreed with her younger brother; there was no way Robb would lose. Still, war sounded stupid and didn't make sense when she tried thinking about it.

"Why was Aunt Lysa sent to the Faith?" Arya had inquired another day when word from the Vale arrived.

"Word is she went mad with grief and was killing her household on a whim," the maester nervously tugged on his chain. "It is a dangerous thing to lose the trust of one's retinue."

"Then, why must the Valemen fight to decide who raises cousin Robert?"

"Because there are many powerful lords in the Vale, and each has a different idea of how such things should happen." Luwin's words made her frown. It all sounded very stupid, but then again, all lords in the South sounded stupid. "Many have ulterior motives, like wedding their daughters to Lord Robert Arryn."

Arya vaguely remembered her lessons on laws and succession.

"Shouldn't they arbitrate with the king for such a matter?"

"Indeed, but there are two kings now. Should the lords not like Joffrey's arbitration, the others might not acknowledge it because of the contested throne or outright turn to Renly instead."

The kingdoms were at war, but Arya couldn't bring herself to care about people she had never seen or who were dying in a faraway land. To her, it was as fantastical as Old Nan's tales. As Luwin had once said, thousands of people died from Asshai to the Arbour every day, and it was the way of the world. 

Despite all the worry, Winterfell and the North were peaceful. 

At least Arya's punishment had finally ended. She now knew how to dance enough not to step on her partner's toes. Her mother even reluctantly allowed her to hawk with Ava once a few days ago, if with a hefty escort. Nymeria had joined, hunting down a boar. 

Despite what the falconer said, the snowy eagle definitely became her friend and always came back, and Arya even dreamt of flying some nights. Her archery lessons were coming along very well, even if Theon had left with Robb. Arya knew many thought she would give up, but she was nothing if not stubborn!

Stubborn and consistent practice paid out, and she could shoot a bull's eye from nearly thirty yards at least seven out of ten times. Most importantly, Arya finally had something she was better at than Sansa! While her sister was not terrible, her aim was simply less steady.

At least she no longer had to suffer Myrcella's giggling retinue; her hall was constructed—although they now called it the Maiden's Manse. It was a beautiful three-story structure with colourful glass windows capped by a fine slate roof with walls, a snowy edifice plastered in white with various animal motifs, an inner courtyard, and even a steaming hot marble fountain. Even the whole first floor, where the parlour and the ballroom were, was lined with polished white marble.

The place would be very interesting if it weren't filled with tittering ladies-in-waiting talking about boring stuff like boys and gossip.

But now, with all the builders and Robb gone with his group of friends, Winterfell felt empty. 

For some reason, the Stark seat was being fortified again; Ser Rodrik was fervently training the overly large garrison, refilling it to the numbers from before Robb left. 

Myrcella's belly was swollen like a ball, and she got easily tired and more irritated than usual. Arya's mother had swelled even more, and Luwin speculated she might be carrying twins this time. Not only were boys icky, but pregnancy also looked like some terrible sickness that would not go away for moons, and Arya's decision not to get wed and bear a gaggle of children for some stupid idiot only solidified further. 

Shaking her head, Arya put away her practice bow and made a beeline for the kitchen, trailed by Nymeria and Lena Harclay. She had finally warmed up to the clansman's daughter, for Lena didn't do stupid giggling and mooning over boys, and they often played together.

In the yard, they intercepted a new face in Winterfell.

"You're not from around here," Arya pointed suspiciously at the man in a gaudy black velvet coat with gold squiggles and lines embroidered on the hems of his sleeves.

"Indeed, little lady," he bowed deeply with a flourish. His voice possessed an annoying twangly Southron accent. "I am Alastor, the finest Arbalist in the Seven Kingdoms!"

She scratched her nose with confusion. 

"So… you can shoot a crossbow very well?"

"What?" The man seemed outraged and theatrically waved his hands. "I don't do something as pedestrian as shooting crossbows, little lady. I make them, and there is no finer maker of the beauties than me on this side of the Narrow Sea!"

"Uh, sure," Arya shrugged. Crossbows sounded dreadfully lame. Unlike bows, they required very little skill and practice to be good at it. Mastering a bow meant something.

Lena, however, squinted her eyes suspiciously, "What are you doing here in Winterfell?"

Those words shook Arya awake, and she grabbed her dagger. Even Nymeria growled threateningly, forcing the man to hastily retreat with raised arms.

"I apologise if I offended you, m'ladies," he waved weakly, his pale eyes not moving from Nymeria, who was now taller than Arya. "I am here to answer Princess Myrcella's personal summons!"

It didn't take much to find Ser Rodrick and confirm that Alastor the Arbalist was indeed summoned by Cella from King's Landing. It did make sense; otherwise, the man would never have been allowed in Winterfell. Still, Arya chided herself for the lack of caution.

Afternoon came, and it was time for embroidery, but the usual chamber now only held Lyra Mormont.

"Where are the rest?" Arya asked.

"Dismissed." Lyra's gaze was distant as if it weren't seeing the two of them. "The babes are coming."

"Already? Both mother and Myrcella?"

The she-bear gave her an amused smile. "Aye, it's been nearly over nine moons now, and fortune sometimes comes together."

Lena returned to her quarters while Arya went to Great Keep's upper hallway, where her siblings were waiting before the birthing chambers's oaken door, behind which Luwin was toiling with a midwife. The pained shrieks and angry curses coming from behind the door had her vowing again not to get married ever. 

Even Sansa had grown pale, and Rickon was fretting around the hallway. Lady was sprawled on the floor, covering her eyes with her paws, while Shaggydog was playfully chasing Arya's brother.

"Luwin expelled the direwolves," her sister explained with a faint voice laced with worry.

"Aye, childbirth is no place for beasts," Lyra Mormont murmured. "It's a battle where no amount of steel, claws, or fangs would be of use."

Arya cringed at a pained scream that she recognised as her mother's. Was Rickon's birth so bad? She couldn't remember… because Septa Mordane had dragged Sansa and Arya away until their brother was born.

"Will Mother be fine?"

Lyra patted her shoulder. 

"Don't worry. Your mother had five healthy births before," she explained with a strange, distant look in her eyes. "Screaming is a part of it, and her body is used to delivering babes. I've heard Maester Luwin is an experienced hand at birthing, which is also important. You ought to be more worried about Myrcella. She is a bit young as she has just become six and ten, and my lady mother says first births are the hardest."

They descended into silence as the pained wails didn't stop. 

The heaving Rickon finally got tired after ten minutes and stopped to rest near Arya.

"I want three new brothers," he declared breathlessly.

Sansa came over and ruffled his hair. 

"Robb's child will be a niece or a nephew, not a sibling," she explained gently. "And I think it will be three girls."

Yet Rickon was more stubborn than a mule, "Nuh-uh. Three brothers that I will play with."

"Three-girls-"

Arya didn't care if the new siblings would be girls or boys as long as they were like her and Jon. 

The birth dragged on even after sunset, and Arya's ears had grown number than her legs from the screams and cries. She couldn't even begin to imagine how painful it would be to give birth.

Lyra Mormont corralled the three of them to dinner. All the ladies-in-waiting and Winterfell's household had gathered in the Great Hall and were dying to find out how the situation with the birthing bed, but all the Stark children remained silent. 

When they returned, the screams were replaced with baby wails, and the hallway was choked with a heavy metallic stench. Maester Luwin was already waiting outside the door, his grey robes damp with sweat.

"How are Lady Stark and Princess Myrcella?" Lyra asked. 

"In good health but asleep from exhaustion," he croaked out, his voice hoarse. "Lord Robb has a robust son, now named Edwyn-"

"Like the Spring King?" Rickon interrupted excitedly.

The weary Luwin gave her brother a tired smile. "Indeed. And Lady Catelyn has twins—Artos and Lyarra."

"Can we see them?" Arya asked hopefully. Did they look like her? Or perhaps they looked like her mother or even Myrcella. 

"Perhaps tomorrow," Luwin shook his head. "Young babes have fragile health, and only wet nurses and the parents ought to visit regularly."