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NYMERIA MARTELL

against the parchment Lady Stark had laid out for her. Areo had convinced her to send a raven to Doran, explaining everything and to list where she was going in case she was stuck up North longer than expected.

Each raven took a month to send and a month to receive. The North was too isolated for them. She would be alone. A chill struck her bones and she stood up to stoke the fire. If it was this cold in Winterfell, she dreaded what it would be like at the Wall.

Nymeria had instructed Areo to sail back to Sunspear, a demand the Norvosi was unhappy to fulfill.

"There's nothing you can do this far north Areo," She had told him, trying to imitate the dismissive yet sympathetic gaze Doran always used, "I will take Ser Marwyn with me to the Wall, but I insist you head home, We both know how much you despise the snow,"

She had meant that last part as a jape, but they both knew the truth to it. Areo was loyal, to a fault really. He would give his life for any of them, and that chilled her more than the northern climate did.

She wouldn't let him freeze up here.

"I must insist upon my being there, Princess," Areo protested, his deep voice echoing off the walls, "Your Uncle sent me to protect you, I would not disobey him."

"My Uncle is not here," Nymeria frowned, trying to keep her emotions under wraps as she stamped the sigil of her house on grey and white wax, "And I can protect myself. My Uncle however, is in need of your services. Especially with his condition."

"My Princess, I—"

"There's nothing more to discuss," Nymeria shut the guard down, handing him the letter, her raised eyebrow indicating that she did not wish to discuss it any further, "Take this to Prince Doran when you reach Sunspear, up here a ship is far faster than a raven."

Areo reluctantly grabbed the letter, stuffing it in the pocket of his ochre velvet armor near his chest. Nymeria smiled gratefully at the man as she stood up, he knew he had no choice but to follow her orders. Invoking her Uncle's condition left a sour taste in her mouth, but she knew it needed to be done. He wouldn't leave otherwise, and she would not have him die here.

The Starks were playing a dangerous game and she had sworn to herself that she would be the only Martell caught up in it. This was her part to play. This was her part in Doran's plan. This was her way to show the world that Dornish people are not all one way. That the Martells could be just as noble as the Starks. It was a perception that needed work, but one Nymeria would gladly devote herself to.

The dagger was strapped to her upper arm, easily accessible but hidden by the thick cloak Lady Stark had gifted her. The woman and her son had given her many tunics and dresses to wear in the unforgiving climate. Nymeria had chosen to ignore the latter, favoring tunics and breeches for their movement. Dresses she wore on occasion, for martial matches or trips to court. Not everyday.

This was a trip with a purpose, in a place she did not know. With weather she was unused to. The tunics were the logical decision.

"And so you're off to the Wall," A northern accent appeared behind her, and Nymeria whipped around, Areo readying his halberd. Robb raised his hands in surrender, and Nymeria waved Areo down. The red-headed heir pressed forward, moving away from his spot by the door, playing with something in his hands. It glinted when the sun hit it and soon Nymeria saw what it was.

"I wanted to thank you," He offered the pin toward her. The sigil of her house slid between his fingers, gilded and shining. Her hand wrapped gingerly around it, the golden flames of the sun pricking the pads of her fingers.

"It's beautiful," She spoke through choked vocal cords, securing the thick wool around her shoulders with the ornate broach. Robb smiled at the gesture, his Tully blue eyes lighting up.

Deep down, he was just a boy, and he got excited when a pretty girl complimented him.

"It's not enough payment," Robb muttered, "You saved my brother, and I wish I could do more to show our gratitude."

Nymeria shook her head. "It's perfect," She embellished. She had been here to make allies with the Starks, and it seemed she was doing just that. She didn't need to be in their debt.

She tightened the pin on her cloak, the golden sun and spear shimmering in the rare sunlight. It had been difficult to pierce through the thick fur and wool of her cloak, but it didn't bend. It was well-crafted.

She hoped it would last the winter.

"You're a good man Robb," She tested the name on her tongue, and decided that it fit him. "Don't let the south steal that from you."

He chuckled, and shook his head, "I have no plans to go south my princess,"

Her teeth peeked through her lips, a shy smile on her face as she met his bright blue eyes. They were wide and hopeful, the same idealism as the rest of his family present in them.

"Your mother is practically declaring war on the Lannisters," Nymeria informed him, thoughts drifting to the silent war the Martells were already waging, "You'll be heading south eventually, and when you do—"

"I'm a Stark," Robb cut her off, his stern demeanor returning, trying to become his father. But he was too soft. Too green. "And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Nymeria couldn't keep the smile from her face. He was so serious, so much like the man who raised him.

"You truly are your father's son," She complimented, and Robb smiled at her words.

"I can imagine no higher compliment, my princess,"

"No," Nymeria said, "I don't suppose you could." Her fingers drifted to the pin, spinning it around once, biting the inside of her cheek, "I suppose this means the marriage is off."

Robb's chuckle exploded into laughter, and he moved forward, his arms still crossed, "A pity, you bring some much-needed cheer with you." He repaid her compliment, "Winterfell could have used a protector like you."

Nymeria held out her hand, and instead of clasping it, Robb brought it to his lips, the sweet gesture feeling out of place in the Northern cold.

"Until we meet again, Princess Nymeria,"

"Lord Stark," She nodded, and watched his retreating figure, unable to quell the growing fondness in her chest.

Her black stallion was waiting for her, already dressed for the nine-day journey. Ser Marwyn climbed up beside her sand steed and Nymeria nodded gratefully, tying the packs near the back of the horse with the complicated knot she had learned in her youth, chuckling slightly at the memory of how she had learned it.

Oberyn had attempted to sit her down to teach it, only to realize that she was too restless. The next morning she had woken with her hands and feet bound together with the exact knot she was using now.

It had taken her all day to untie them, but she had learned it. And she had never forgotten it.

"My Princess!" A voice called, halting her steps. Nymeria turned to see Lady Stark striding over toward her, the Maester not far behind, Nymeria nodded her head, still unsure how to feel about the family, "We wish you safe travels, hopefully, you find what you are searching for,"

Nymeria now understood why she had come to see her off instead of her son. Northerners were annoyingly straightforward. It would be a miracle if Lord Stark and his daughters would survive King's Landing, he was the worst of them all.

Life was an endless series of duels and battles, her Uncles had taught her. Some with a blade, some with wit. Always be on your guard, even with those you love.

Lady Stark seemed to understand this. She was from the south, she knew the game.

Nymeria would not insult her by speaking her mind. "If I do, I shall send a raven about anything interesting I find."

They were veiled, but she was certain that she had been far too transparent. She wasn't Doran after all. But she needed to be.

Lady Stark's strained expression only confirmed her thoughts. Nymeria huffed as she mounted her horse, spurring the animal forward. She had spent far too much time in the north. It was time she returned home.

TYRION LANNISTER

Somehow the North never ran out of depressing sights no matter how far up you went. And one of those sights happened to be the Bastard of Winterfell knocking down every boy in his path, while Ser Alliser Thorne shouted at them for not being strong enough to take down a lad of seven and ten.

Tyrion sighed. The Night's Watch truly had fallen from what it once was. Not that it had been something great to begin with.

Oh yes, he'd heard the stories, read most of them when he was a child. Of how the great men of the Night's Watch had bravely fought off the creatures beyond the wall. And how the grumpkins and snarks were back at their doorstep once again.

It was little more than a prison now. A way to punish the wrongdoers of the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion felt rather sympathetic toward the order, especially after discussing war stories with the Lord Commander and Benjen Stark.

They were still proud to be members. Jaded and cynical, but proud. Much like Ser Barristan in that regard.

Steel clashed against steel again and Tyrion winced as he caught sight of the farm boy Grenn collapse to the ground, the Bastard standing victorious once again.

Ser Alliser looked unimpressed.

"A charming man." Tyrion jested, watching the group of new recruits glare at the curly-haired bastard who had knocked them on their feet. His eyes narrowed at the sight. That would only lead to trouble.

Mormont sighed, shaking his head at the new men, "Don't need him to be charming." The older man explained, "I need him to turn this bunch of thieves and runaways into men of the Night's Watch."

Tyrion resisted the urge to laugh. A pipe dream if ever there was one. "And how's that going, Commander Mormont?"

Jeor Mormont huffed, it almost sounding like a chuckle. Strange, to find humor in a humorless place. Maybe he had some use up here after all, "Slowly," The man responded, pausing before continuing his next words, "A raven came for Ned Stark's son."

Tyrion wrinkled his brow. A month and almost no word from Winterfell, yet Jeor Mormont held the parchment in his hand. Something must have happened that alerting the Bastard was necessary. Sentimental, not practical.

His half-brother must have woken up. His suspicions were confirmed when Mormont handed him the letter, the older man turning his back on the courtyard and moving into the keep. Tyrion sighed and bounded down the stairs, his hip aching with every step.

The pain was dull and he was used to it, but by the gods it annoyed him. Crossing the courtyard was easier, even with the snow falling. Yells coming from the armory drew Tyrion to the commotion, and he was unsurprised to find the Bastard in the middle of it all, Grenn holding a dagger to his neck while two others held the boy down.

"If we threw you over the Wall, wonder how long it'd take you to hit." Grenn snarled, his knife inching closer to Snow's neck.

The one he barely recognized as Pyp smiled just as wickedly, "I wonder if they'd find you before the wolves did."

Tyrion's sigh drew their attention toward him, their angered looks not diminishing in his presence. He understood better than most. Their pride had been wounded, Snow thought himself better than them. So they make him bleed, prove him to be human, to take him down to their level.

It was quite transparent really. Tyrion was almost disappointed.

Grenn spoke first, "What're you looking at, halfman?"

Tyrion's eyes narrowed at the moniker. Smalfolk had called him much worse to his face, but like Jaime and his title of 'Kingslayer', it still stung.

"I'm looking at you." He began, playing a game with the three men before him, "You've got an interesting face. Very distinctive faces. All of you."

They shifted slightly, but still showed no signs of backing down. Tyrion's smirk grew wider.

"What do you care about our faces?" The man he didn't recognize, but had a surprisingly punchable face was the next one to speak, and his voice was just as insufferable as the rest of him.

Tyrion's eyes never left the men, "It's just I think they would look marvelous decorating spikes in King's Landing." He bluffed, preying on their fear, "Perhaps I'll write my sister, the Queen, about it."

That was enough to shut them up. Grenn squirmed before dropping his knife, Pyp and the other recruit releasing their grip on the Bastard.

Satisfaction pinged in Tyrion's chest.

Snow turned to face him, and Tyrion had to hide his shock. The look on his face was surprisingly similar to his brother's. Jaime had always been the proud sort, not as much as Cersei, but when he was confident he let everyone know it. And when he got angry at others for taking advantage of him, he wore the exact same look Jon Snow was wearing now.

The last time Tyrion had seen it he had been eight, watching Jaime pack his things for the Kingsguard after Aerys had told him to leave the Tourney of Harrenhal and guard Queen Rhaella.

The look of a man who had been tricked.

There weren't many similarities between the Bastard of Winterfell and his brother, but this was one of them.

"Everybody knew what this place was and no one told me." Snow muttered, vexation apparent in his tone, "No one but you. My father knew and left me to rot here at the Wall all the same."

Tyrion wanted to tell him that Ned Stark had cautioned the boy against the Wall. That he had only given in because of how stubborn Snow was.

Tyrion wanted to tell him that his own uncle, Benjen Stark had warned him the night of the King's feast in Winterfell.

Tyrion wanted to tell him that even the Martell princess had given Snow an alternative. That he could have ridden down to Dorne, where bastards are loved, and perhaps been given a chance there.

But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he turned to Grenn and Pyp. Two boys who had no hand in the cards they'd been dealt. Who had no choice in their appointments to the Wall.

"Grenn's father left him too..." Tyrion began, recalling the story the Lord Commander had told him, "Outside a farmhouse when he was three." He turned to the skinnier boy, "Pyp was caught stealing a wheel of cheese. His little sister hadn't eaten in three days. He was given a choice: his right hand or the Wall." Snow's expression fell, but the pride remained, "I've been asking the Lord Commander about them. Fascinating stories."

Jon Snow launched forward, his words guttural, "They hate me because I'm better than they are."

Tyrion wanted to slap him upside the head like he'd done to Jaime so many times. Like Father had done to all his children. Of course, he was better than they were. He was raised at a castle.

"It's a lucky thing none of them were trained by a master-at-arms like your Ser Rodrik." Tyrion threw in the bastard's face, trying to shame him into deflating his head, "I don't imagine any of them have ever held a real sword before they came here." That seemed to knock some sense into the poor bastard and Snow's gaze wandered to the two recruits who had attempted to beat him up. Tyrion sighed, he didn't have time for these petty squabbles. They would be resolved in time. His hand held out the parchment toward Snow, the seal unbroken, "Your brother Bran. He's woken up."

Snow tore the letter from his hand, eagerly reading the words until a horn drew his attention away from it. It drew Tyrion's as well.

His interest was piqued even more when he saw men in black hurry down the stairs and across the courtyard, gathering as the gates were lifted, and when he and Jon had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, he understood why the men were so curious.

"Tyrion Lannister," The Martell Princess smirked, dismounting her black sand steed, "I have a gift for you."

He gulped. This was why she had come north. To isolate his family and kill them one by one. Revenge for her mother. Revenge for her cousins. What better way than to rob Tywin Lannister of his heir? Even if it was only by blood.

He watched as she reached underneath her cloak, unstrapping something from her arm and pulling it out. Tyrion examined the weapon before him, eyes widening as he recalled the dagger he had almost won from Petyr Baelish back at Joffery's awful nameday Tourney. Robert had won it instead.

"You should be lucky Catelyn Stark sent me and not her guards," the princess uttered, Tyrion and Jon's eyes flicking up to meet hers.

"Lady Stark sent you?" He asked, trying to understand why the woman was so invested in a dagger that hadn't been used in years. The princess nodded, her smirk never leaving her face. Martells, also too proud for their own good.

"She asks you to pray for her family," The princess remarked, words becoming pointed and straightforward, "Apparently, Winterfell is not as safe for children as we once thought."

Her words hung in the air, conversations erupting around Tyrion as he put the pieces together. There was only one child vulnerable enough to send a catspaw after, and he did not doubt that Cersei would have done it in a second. But it was the dagger that stumped him.

But he also knew that there were eyes on him, waiting for his next move. No doubt wondering why a Princess of Dorne had traveled all the way up North to inquire about a dagger of all things. Not to mention bearing news that Winterfell may not be as safe as it once was.

Wasting no time, he nodded toward the King's Tower, and the princess followed, winking at Jon Snow as she passed, the Bastard's cheeks flushing at the gesture.

She let him lead, which was rather generous of her, but he briefly wondered if it was some sort of veiled insult he hadn't caught on to.

When they were safely inside his quarters, he closed the door behind them, locking it to ensure no one else would hear their words.

The Princess was waiting patiently, a gleam in her eyes as she stood, hands intertwined in front of her.

She was a pretty thing, her mother's more homely features hewn away by the Dayne blood coursing through her veins, leaving a cut jawline and defined cheekbones, a deceptive softness filling out the rest of her face.

From what he'd heard, Nymeria Martell had a much prettier older cousin, but Prince Doran had only brought her before men unworthy of her hand. It looked as if he was doing the same with his niece. Honey-colored eyes and slender curves that would drive lesser men mad, Princess Nymeria seemed too pretty a jewel to ship away. Her height had been inherited by her father, but her charm seemed a welcome trade for the attribute. He was convinced it had come from Prince Doran. Ser Arthur Dayne and Elia Martell hadn't had much at all.

But none of that charm was present as she eyed him.