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NYMERIA MARTELL

, what had happened to the Stark boy. Barely ten and fallen from a tower. Potentially dead.

Although Nymeria suspected that there was more behind it. A fall like that could kill and she was almost certain she had seen the Lady Lannister lingering near the tower later that night.

It wouldn't be the first time a Lannister had murdered a child to keep their power.

She sharpened her daggers one by one, the gesture helping soothe the hot-blooded anger in her. Dornish were hot-blooded by nature, and while her mother may not have had it, Nymeria certainly did.

She was convinced it came from Uncle Oberyn. That somehow he had snuck in a bit of himself when she was made.

Nymeria wasn't nearly as bad as Arianne or the Sand Snakes though. She suspected that's why Doran was so harsh with her. He didn't have anyone else he could temper. Arianne inherited Doran's intelligence with words, but Nymeria was patient. She could wait out her enemies, endure and survive until they tired.

And that, she told herself, was the only reason she wasn't challenging the Lannisters to an open fight in the courtyard of Winterfell.

That and Tywin Lannister would lay waste to Dorne if he caught wind of anything. The Rains of Castamere come again.

That was the only thing the Lannisters and Martells had in common. The lengths they would go to protect and avenge their family.

But Elia's death hadn't been avenged. Her cousin's deaths hadn't been avenged. Arthur Dayne's death hadn't been avenged.

Instead, Doran was content to sit around and wait for something to happen, when it had been proven time and time again that was ineffective.

He had ordered her to stay in the North, close to the bastard she had become intrigued by. What for? What possible part could this play in his plan? Doran said little in his letter, only to tell her the intel was good and they would be making their move sooner than expected. But there had been nothing about his own plans, still keeping up the facade of trading her off in a marriage.

He had been good at that. Arranging powerful marriages. Is that why he wanted her up north? To stay close to Robb and the Starks in case his other plan fell through? To make sure she was in good standing with the North if Doran needed a powerful marriage? Even when she held a higher title than Robb Stark ever would?

She'd rather be joining Jon Snow at the wall. The few conversations she'd held with the boy had been intriguing, and the more she learned the more she wanted to know.

His mother was dornish yet there was no dornish in him, he claimed to be born in the south but was more northern than his brothers and sisters, and his inane sense of honor seemed to be intact, with no sense of tarnishing it anytime soon.

She wouldn't mind traveling further north with him, even if the climate bugged her to no end. The howling winds were much kinder than the ones near the Red Mountains, but they still whipped her skin dry and froze her fingers. If she was to stay in the North she would need warmer clothes than what she had been currently wearing.

She felt a small shadow over her and Nymeria lifted her eyes, arching an eyebrow as she caught sight of the youngest daughter, her grey eyes wide in awe as she stared at her.

"It is true you're named after the Queen?" The girl asked, awe replaced with curiosity. Her wolf fidgeted next to her, just as restless as her owner. Nymeria would be lying if she said she wasn't jealous. The symbol of their house, living and breathing at their sides.

"I am," Nymeria answered the girl, a wicked smile crossing her face, "My mother loved the story of Nymeria, and she wanted me to grow up to be strong like her."

Arya smiled back, a wide and wild thing that struggled to hold back her nature. It was oddly reminiscent of Nymeria and Arianne's favorite cousin, Tyene.

"I named my wolf Nymeria," Arya spoke plainly, scratching the ears of the animal, which barked, as if proud to bear the name. The girl held a hunger in her eyes, and Nymeria didn't miss the way she eyed the daggers in her hands.

Nymeria flipped one over, hilt facing the younger girl in a silent invitation. Arya's gaze flickered to the dagger before grasping the hilt in her hand, twirling the weapon as if she had discovered gold for the first time.

"I won't teach you much," Nymeria announced, standing up and facing the young girl, "But I can teach you how to strike." She took her stance, sliding a smaller knife out of the compartment in her tunic, raising the smaller weapon in front of her face. It drew her opponent's attention upward, and soon they forgot all about the other dagger she was holding in her hand. It was her defense, and she would be able to deflect any blows that came her way.

Arya mimicked her stance, looking out of place with a bare fist above her forehead where the other dagger should be.

Nymeria smirked. "Your weapon is an extension of your arm," She explained, showcasing how smooth her strokes were, "No matter dagger, sword, spear. A blade is always part of you." Oberyn's words poured from her mouth, recalling her early lessons with Obara. They had only been children, and Oberyn was fashioning them into weapons. She had been younger than the Stark girl was now, but her lessons had never left her.

"Keep your distance," Nymeria continued, "Especially if your opponent has a much longer weapon, chances are they're compensating for something," Her jape earned a smile from Arya's face, who continued to copy her movements like a cat, "When you get an opening..." Nymeria's words drifted, weapon switching into her opposite hand, her other dagger nowhere to be seen. Soon the smaller blade was resting nicely on the girl's rib cage, and with one jab she would be dead at her feet, "That is when you strike."

Arya trembled slightly, although her face betrayed nothing of fear. Instead, she was filled with a sense of curiosity, which was reflected in her glinting gaze, "How will I know where to strike?"

Nymeria smirked and dropped her guard, thankful for the honor of Northerners, especially as Arya handed her dagger back to her. Tracing her hands on Arya's skin, she recalled the seven weak spots her father had taught her when it came to stabbing. "There are seven places you must aim for, much like our new gods," Nymeria explained, almost repeating Oberyn's words verbatim, "The spinal cord is the surest way to ensure death, but it is the hardest to access. Your blade must be flat, inserted between the two discs in the neck," Nymeria tapped the exact spot on the back of Arya's neck, the girl jumping slightly as she did,

"Once you strike there your opponent is rendered physically useless, unable to move." Nymeria moved her hands to Arya's carotid, carefully explaining each role as her delicate hands moved over the petite girl's body, squeezing the arteries just enough to make sure the girl remembered each different spot, "The final spot is here," Nymeria gestured, hand over her own heart,

"But like the spinal cord, it is difficult to strike, especially if one has armor. But a sure strike through the ribs will do the trick, and should puncture the lung as well."

Arya's fascination only grew with each lesson, and soon she was tracing the spots herself, hand resting on her throat.

The girl moved to say something but was cut off by a loud retort, "Ah teaching young children to murder," Tyrion Lannister japed, a half-drunken smirk written across his face as he stared up at the Princess, "I see the dornish ways never change."

"Neither do the Lannisters," Nymeria responded, and Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her veiled comment. But she had learned from the best, and while Tyrion was witty, Doran was better. "Besides why shouldn't she learn? She may need it in the capital," Nymeria continued, her vitriol for the family barely concealing itself at this point.

While she was only a few inches taller than the dwarf, her presence alone had ruined any safety net the Lannisters were hiding behind.

Who better than the daughter of the woman they murdered to remind them that they weren't untouchable? That with one swift move Nymeria could decimate their entire house the way they had hers?

She narrowed her eyes at the dwarf once more, hand twirling the knife Arya had handed back to her, "After all, King's Landing is rather well known for hurting little girls."

Tyrion's body tensed at the veiled reference. It was a reminder. Like the Rains of Castamere. A reminder that Lannisters weren't the only ones who paid their debts.

Sending her a tight smile, Tyrion bowed respectfully, "Excuse me, my lady, I'm afraid I have much to attend to before my journey north,"

Nymeria's eyes never left his retreating form, not until he slunk into the shadows of the Great Hall of Winterfell, his head hung low.

Her dark gaze turned back to the girl before her, who had heard every word. "What do you mean?" Arya asked, awe and curiosity replaced with concealed fear, "About King's Landing hurting little girls?"

Nymeria straightened, something clawing at the inside of her gut, a feeling she slowly recognized as shame. Shame for exposing a young girl to harsh truths too early in life. Shame for revealing her greatest card to the daughter of the man who killed her father. Nymeria sheathed her dagger, shoving the feeling away.

Arya may be young but she would learn these truths anyway. And it was better that she and her sister were forewarned of the atrocities that awaited them.

But she could barely form the words.

Every time she tried her throat constricted, a familiar dull numbness crawling across her chest until it reached her heart, burning through the organ, hands clenching into fists before releasing the tension in one deep breath, uncurling her fists.

"Remember what I've taught you, and you won't have to ever worry about it," Nymeria said instead.

Arya nodded and scampered off, no doubt to finish packing before heading south. Nymeria smiled at the young girl's retreating figure and sheathed her other knife, adjusting the scabbard before a head of blonde hair obscured her gaze.

"Princess Nymeria," Cersei said, her nose slightly upturned, as if she had smelled something awful. Nymeria had seen that look on many faces outside of Dorne. She had seen it on the faces of the Northern Houses and small folk as well. No doubt Aerys wore the same look when Rhaenys was born.

"Queen Cersei," She had to force herself to use the correct title, anger bubbling in her chest each time she did, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I only came to wish you luck," Cersei remarked, hands laced together over her stomach as she stared at Winterfell with the same look of disgust she gave Nymeria, "Robb Stark is very lucky to have snatched you up."

Suddenly remembering the story that had been circulated about her arrival, Nymeria hid the initial sense of confusion she felt as she plastered a soft smile on her face, playing the role of a blushing bride-to-be. "Yes, I am very fortunate that Lord Stark decided to accept the offer,"

"You're quite fortunate in a lot of aspects," Cersei's tone shifted into something more confrontational, and Nymeria steeled herself, "A bastard legitimized by the man who smiled over your mother's dead body."

Her smile dropped, and Nymeria bit the inside of her cheek, refusing the blatant bait Cersei was dangling in front of her.

"King Robert is very generous," She lied, forcing herself to imagine the Queen's pale face before her, the heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch beside it.

Cersei chuckled mirthlessly, "Of course he is. It's a shame you won't be accompanying us, Myrcella is quite interested in your culture, whatever it may be."

Nymeria shrugged off the insult and straightened, holding her head up high. "We have plenty to offer should the Princess ever need a respite," Nymeria replied, a small victory dancing in her chest as Cersei's expression fell. She was a Princess of Dorne, and Cersei Lannister did not frighten her.

The blonde woman threw another look at Winterfell, "How thoughtful of you. I suppose you need time to get acquainted with your new surroundings," Cersei smiled tightly, the gesture as hollow as her cheekbones, "I imagine it's quite jarring, going from a sunny kingdom to a frozen one."

Nymeria narrowed her gaze, but continued to smile, "Yes, well I'm lucky to have such a faithful and devoted betrothed." She watched as Cersei's smile grew hard, eyes shifting to Robert before moving back to Nymeria.

"Princess of Dorne to Lady of Winterfell," Cersei chuckled, her tongue between her teeth, "That's quite the trade."

Nymeria smirked. She knew it was all for show. Cersei was running out of cards to play, so she went for the quick jabs, the ones that were meant to elicit a quick reaction. "And you went from the Lady of Casterly Rock to Robert Baratheon's Queen. I'm unsure which one is worse."

Cersei's smile dissipated at her words and Nymeria tilted her head.

"Clever girl, aren't you?" Cersei finally spoke, anger rumbling underneath her words, her narrowed green stare failing to unnerve the woman in front of her.

Nymeria curtseyed, "I certainly hope so. Your Grace," She excused herself and moved over toward the stables, her smirk widening into a wide smile. Doran and Oberyn would be proud of her.

JON SNOW

His goodbye with Bran had soured his entire mood. He knew to expect Lady Stark there, he had even prepared himself for it, but there was a reason he avoided the woman, and the blatant malice she had spat at him while he tried to say goodbye to his little brother was one of the many reasons why.

Jon shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking such things. Lady Stark was grieving, just as they all were. But he hadn't done much wrong. He didn't know if he would even see Bran again, let alone if the younger child would wake. It had only reinforced the idea that going to the Wall was the right decision.

Even if Robb was able to protect him from Lady Stark's vitriol long enough to make something for himself, she would always be there. Lingering over his shoulder, a shadow that would follow him until the end of his days. Her words always ringing in his head.

It should have been you.

He'd been on the receiving end of her anger many times, but she seemed to forget that Bran was Jon's brother too, and he was grieving just as much as she was. How many times had he thought that exact sentence? It should have been him instead. But hearing it come from the mouth of Lady Stark chilled him.

She was grieving, he reminded himself. He shouldn't think such awful things when she was grieving. She was the Lady of the house and she the right to say what she wished to her husband's bastard. But when Jon's throat closed up, he forced himself to turn his thoughts away from the incident. He would headed to the Wall soon, and the men there would be his brothers. And soon all of his memories of Winterfell would be forgotten.

As he was prepping his horse, he found himself ambushed by Robb, the red-haired heir still sticking by his side. Jon would miss him when he went up to the Wall. He would miss all of them.

He knew he wouldn't get to visit for a long time, not until he proved himself worthy of it. His mind flew to the conversation he had with Jaime Lannister earlier, the knight's arrogance and glib manner calling Jon's whole world into question.

He had joined the Kingsguard hadn't he? What was the difference between the two positions? Did the knight really believe a white cloak made him superior?

Did Jon really think a black cloak made him honorable?

"You've said goodbye to Bran?" Robb pulled Jon out of his thoughts, something the heir had been doing more of late. Jon nodded simply, not wishing to talk about the affair any further. His stomach dropped at the memory, anger burning in the pit of it. Robb stared ahead, his lips twitching upward just slightly, "He's not going to die," he spoke confidently, and Jon wished he could share his assuredness, "I know it.

Jon had already soiled one goodbye, he wouldn't ruin this one. "You Starks are hard to kill," is what he said instead, that one phrase all the hope he allowed himself to have. Jon turned away from his half-brother, trying to distance himself to make the transition easier. He buckled the saddle to his horse, the loyal beast his one and only nameday present a few years ago.

"My mother?" Robb asked, clearly picking up on Jon's avoidance of the subject. Jon simply sighed, he didn't have the heart to tell Robb the truth. Not when it would only place more blame on him.

"She was very kind," Jon lied, hating how the words sounded in his mouth. He'd been saying them for years, and they never got any easier. He was an honorable man, exactly like his father. Lying would always be uncomfortable for him.

Robb nodded, face taut as he comprehended the news, "Good."

Jon knew that Robb's relationship with Lady Stark had only gotten stronger as Jon got older. He turned to face his half-brother one last time, the heir's smile growing wider and more strained. This was bothering Robb, and Jon knew it. But there was no place for him here. Not anymore.

If Robb had been Lord then perhaps there could've been a chance. Jon could have become Master of Arms or Castellan of Winterfell instead of a bastard exiled to the Wall.

But angry blue eyes flashed in his mind, and the dream shattered. "Next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon smiled tightly at the jape, trying to ignore the pain growing in his chest, "It was always my color," He jested back, the air turning serious as more of the King's party left the courtyard.

Robb's arms wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. Jon reciprocated. But all he could think about were words he had heard long ago, where he could not say.

Never trust an embrace, it's just a way to hide your face.

"Farewell Snow," Robb whispered, pulling away, something glistening in his eyes. Jon knew better than to comment on it, especially when he was feeling pressure behind his own.

"And you Stark."

Robb's disappearance from his side hurt more than Lady Catelyn's words had, and just as the party was getting ready to set off onto the Kingsroad, an unfamiliar presence was by his side.

Jon would like to say that the few weeks Princess Nymeria had been here, he was used to her sneaking up on him, but that was completely untrue.

Somehow she always startled him, despite having several guards on her at all times. "And so he's off," She japed, her smirk growing wider, "The honorable Jon Snow, protector of the realm."