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NED STARK

had finally cemented Catelyn's hypothesis in his head. The man felt threatened, and now he was trying to make Ned feel so.

Touch his children and the Riverlands burn.

Ned wasn't trying to start a war. But he could not let his son's attempted murder go unsolved. He prayed the Martell girl's letter held more answers.

When Ned reached his solar he found Sansa and Arya already there. The elder girl was quietly sewing herself a new silk dress, no doubt to dress more like the Queen. It was a gesture Ned had seen from Catelyn a thousand times. It relaxed them, and Ned was happy that Sansa had found something else to focus on.

Arya was practicing her new water dancing skills, using a stray stick as a stand-in for the braavosi blade she had brought with her. Ned smiled slightly, envisioning a scene at Winterfell from his youth, before he left for the Eyrie.

He could practically hear Lyanna's voice as if she was standing right next to him. His heart tugged at the memory of her knocking him into the ground, a wide smile on her face not dissimilar to his youngest daughter.

Gods it hurt him to see such a resemblance in Arya. The wolfsblood ran hot in her too, and not for the first time, Ned second-guessed his decision to bring her to King's Landing.

"My Lord," Jory pulled him out of his thoughts, presenting a piece of parchment with a blank black seal.

It was from the Watch.

What could Jon have to write about?

He nodded to the guards to close the doors, needing privacy for this act. Everyone he trusted was in this room. Sliding the letter opener underneath the wax, it cracked easily, crumbs of it decorating the table.

Lord Eddard Stark,

Your wife requested I investigate the exact circumstances regarding the attempt on your son's life. I initially believed Tyrion Lannister to be the one behind the attack, however, after a recent series of revelations regarding the dagger used, I have determined that the person behind the attack is none other than Cersei Lannister.

The knife was one from Robert's weapon collection, won on Prince Joffery's nameday.

Nymeria Martell

Princess of Dorne

His stomach dropped, knotting itself into a terrible mess of guilt and worry. Guilt for believing Tyrion Lannister capable of murdering a child and guilt for letting his daughter near the woman who had tried to kill Bran.

But there was no reason for the Queen to target Bran. Unless she had something to do with his fall. But she hadn't been in the tower that day, at least not to Ned's knowledge.

He was right, the letter had only provided more questions than answers.

But he was sure of one thing.

King's Landing was no place for his daughters. Sansa had become too southern as it was, and Arya's wildness was bound to cause more trouble later. He turned to Jory, a solemn look on his face.

"Gather a small retinue of soldiers, men you trust," Ned cautioned, his voice low, "You leave for Winterfell in a fortnight."

Jory nodded, exiting the room. Ned sighed and stuffed the letter in the desk, turning toward his daughters.

Sansa would hate him forever.

"Girls, come here."

Arya froze, dropping her stick as she joined Sansa near the fire, who was now setting down her embroidery loop.

"What is it?" Arya began to ask, grey eyes wide with questions, "Is it Jon? Is everything alright? Did he die?"

Ned shook his head, still wishing daughters were easier than war. "Jon's safe, but that's not what this is about." His eyes wandered toward the floor, not wishing to see Sansa's eyes when he broke the news. He knew it would crush her. He raised his eyes to meet hers, "I'm sending you back to Winterfell."

"What? Why?!" Sansa's cry made him wince, and Ned moved to speak until Arya spoke up next. He was barraged with an array of responses,

"Is this because I'm practicing in here? I can practice somewhere else!—Please father, don't make me go, I like it here—Syrio finally says I'm getting good—What about Joffery—

"This isn't a punishment" Ned finally spoke over them, stopping the whining. He knew it would be difficult, but he also knew that Winterfell was the safest place for them, "I need to know you two are safe. That's why I'm sending you back."

Arya and Sansa grew silent at his words, their faces turning solemn. Sansa's lip quivered, her eyes glassy. Ned's heart tore itself in two.

"Can we take Syrio with us?" Arya asked, her eyes grey and wide and suddenly Ned wished to say yes, they could.

Sansa chimed in before he could answer, "Who cares about your stupid dancing teacher?" She snarled, "You promised me I'd marry Joffery! That I was to be his Queen and have his children! I love him Father, please don't take that away from me!"

Arya rolled her eyes, "Seven Hells."

Ned moved closer, sitting in-between the two girls, and took Sansa's hand in his own. "When you are old enough I'll make a match of someone worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong."

He leaned in to kiss her forehead but she moved away, snatching her hand from his grasp, "I don't want someone brave and gentle and strong, I want him." Ned sighed again and Sansa's eyes widened, her chin stuck up like a toddler, "He'll be the greatest king that ever was, a golden lion, and I'll give him sons with beautiful blonde hair!"

Arya scoffed and leaned over Ned to tell Sansa off once again, "The lion's not his sigil stupid, he's a stag. Like his father."

Sansa grew enraged at the suggestion, face growing as red as her hair, "No he's not, he's nothing like that old drunk. He's better than him!"

Suddenly it all clicked for Ned. Blue eyes, black of hair. Barra was yellow-haired, the smith's apprentice's mother was yellow-haired. He stood up, and dismissed the girls, telling them to pack for their journey.

He needed to take a closer look at that book.

A knock on the door ruined his plans. "Excuse me m'lord?" A brown-haired squire popped his head through the door, a nervous look on his round face. "Lord Varys told me to alert you to a small council meeting."

Ned nodded and moved to dismiss the boy, "Thank you, I'll be there shortly,"

"Actually, you should probably go right now m'lord," The squire spoke, swallowing his words nervously, "Lord Varys says the King is in attendance."

Ned looked up from his book.

SANSA STARK

It was so unfair. Joffery was finally starting to treat her like a princess and suddenly Father made the decision to send her and Arya home. She hadn't even gotten the chance to interact with Willas Tyrell much more since the tourney ended, the Hound watching her every move.

She squirmed in her seat at the thought of the man.

Sansa had hidden her fear well, but the image of Gregor Clegane slamming the Hound's face into the fire would not leave her mind. Nor would the drunken sadness and glistening eyes of Sandor Clegane.

It had been a moment of drunken madness that had led him to tell her that story, and Sansa found herself filled with a twisted sort of gratefulness at his actions. It had opened her eyes, encouraged her to look past the songs and stories she had grown up with. Before that night at the feast, Sansa would have dismissed the Hound and the Mountain's fight as one of honor. But now she saw it as brother vs brother.

No one could have missed the rage in Gregor Clegane's face after the Hound took up arms against him.

Her hands found the dress she had worn the night of the feast, the blue silk and floral embroidery matching that of the Queen's common gowns. She hadn't touched it since that night. It still held some wine stains from when Septa Mordane's cup had grown too full.

Sansa tossed it aside.

"My lady," A small voice brought her out of her thoughts, and Sansa found herself facing one of the handmaidens the Queen had gifted her. She was a slight thing, with mousy brown hair piled atop her head in the common style of the south. The style that Sansa sported more often than not nowadays. "The Queen wishes to speak with you."

Sansa's hands froze, and quickly she smoothed down her skirts, silently wishing she had time to put her hair up in the same style her handmaiden was wearing before meeting with the Queen.

But Sansa was ushered out immediately, one of the Queen's handmaidens beside her own. The two escorted her through the Red Keep until they reached Maegor's Holdfast, and with each step Sansa took, she was acutely aware of how her dress dragged across the floor, the embroidered blue roses hanging dully. She had worn it that day because Joffery was sparring and had sent the Hound to tell her that the prince would have no time for her.

There was no need to impress her Septa or Arya. But Sansa felt as foolish as ever. She should have still dressed to her station. She was to be a queen, she should dress like one no matter what.

The door opened and The Queen smiled at her, a gorgeous gesture that caused no wrinkles on her smooth skin. She looked absolutely radiant, the sun creating a golden aura around her. The Queen's soft curls hung around her shoulders, like Sansa's, but they looked like pure molten gold, and Sansa briefly recalled an old tale Nan had once told her. Of a man from the Westerlands who could once spin straw into gold.

The Queen sat down and gestured for Sansa to do the same. "Hello little dove," She spoke with a soft smile, glowing like the sun behind her, "I heard about your brother and wanted to check in,"

Sansa nodded, staying silent before realizing that the Queen expected a response, "Maester Luwin says he doesn't remember anything," Her eyes kept darting to the parchment the Queen was scribbling on, a knot forming in her stomach. She hoped she wasn't wasting the Queen's time. "Nor will he walk again."

Sansa's face turned solemn at those last words, recalling how happy Bran had been when he was running across the towers of Winterfell.

Winterfell. The place her father was sending her, with its cold dark walls and little sunlight. Grey was all that lived in that place, and Sansa had seen so many colors it was hard to give it up. She didn't want to give it up.

"You sound as if you miss him," The Queen commented, looking back up at Sansa, green clashing against blue, "Do you?"

This was her chance, Sansa realized. Father would have to obey if the Queen requested it. No one except the King could refuse the Queen.

"No, Your Grace," Sansa confessed, feeling a thousand stones lighter, "I love my brother, but King's Landing has helped relieve my thoughts of his condition."

Sansa patiently waited and after a moment, the Queen smiled, placing her quill down on the table.

"I'm glad," She said, standing up, her red dress glittering, "Joffery absolutely adores you, It would be a shame to part two lovers such as yourselves." The Queen chuckled, a fond smile not reaching her eyes. "I do hope you'll stay here Sansa, and come to love the city as much as I do."

The Queen reached out to twirl a piece of hair around her delicate finger, the wave bouncing as she let go of it. Sansa's chest tugged and she knew that this was her only chance, the only time she would be alone with the Queen without her father's guards around.

There had always been one by her side since the Imp's arrival to King's Landing.

Was that why the Queen summoned her? Because she could see how stifled Sansa felt? How lonely she was?

It must be. They were to be gooddaughter and goodmother soon after all. Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned toward the Queen and told her everything.

JON SNOW

He had gotten used to watching alone. His first month it was all he did. He was still arrogant and angry toward his brothers back then and none of the senior members wanted to deal with him. Only Benjen had approached him, telling him that a man got what he earned at the Watch. No more. No less.

He wanted more. Jon didn't want a repeat of Winterfell, where he was pushed aside in favor of higher lords and knights. He wanted to be like Lord Commander Mormont. Respected and loved by his brothers. Like he was really a part of a family.

Jon already felt closer to Grenn and Pyp than he ever had with Robb or Bran. And Sam was finally getting there too. He'd been requested by Maester Aemon these past few weeks instead of watching on the Wall with Jon.

He found himself missing the large boy, his humor easy and conversations intriguing. It was a respite from the weight of his duty. He would be taking his vows soon, and Jon knew that the transition would be easier if Sam was by his side. He was really the only person other than Nymeria who knew how he felt. Jon's thoughts drifted to the dornish girl, how she seemed to be a constant presence since the King's visit to Winterfell. Everywhere he went there she was.

In Winterfell. At the Wall.

No women were ever allowed at the Wall, and those that tried met the same fate as Danny Flint. Yet here Nymeria was, able to convince Lord Commander Mormont to let her stay, because her uncle was dangling men before him.

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the thought. He didn't know much about Prince Doran other than what Nymeria had told him. And according to her, the prince never did anything without a reason. Placing her here, sending her north, Prince Doran had a plan and somehow Jon was part of it.

The Wall was a part of it.

And Jon hated not knowing anything about it. Surely she would have told him anything she knew?

Footsteps crunched against the ice and Jon whipped around, a hand resting on his sword. He had heard the stories of Wildings climbing the Wall, although he wasn't sure how one of them would have gotten past his brothers. He relaxed when he saw who it was, falling back into his seat.

"Careful there Dragonknight," Nymeria teased, a slight curve to her lips, Jon bristled at the comparison to his childhood hero, "I pity the man who meets you in battle."

Jon scoffed, "There won't be any battles for me."

He wasn't a man of the Watch yet, and he doubted Robb would be calling the banners soon. Jon was still a boy, but he itched for a battle, if only to prove himself. He wanted to be seen as more than what he was. Bastard. That word had followed him everywhere he went. He wanted to be free of it. He went to the Wall to lose his last name. To lose the distinction of being the only stain on Ned Stark's honor.

"You'll get your chance," Nymeria assured him, sitting down beside him, "We all will."

Jon shifted in his seat, chest pounding as he considered asking her outright what her Uncle's plan for him was. "Is this your chance?" He asked instead.

Nymeria's eyebrows creased, brown eyes narrowing in confusion at his statement, "I'm not quite sure I know what you mean."

"You want to prove yourself right?" Jon asked, moving his gaze back toward the skies, uncomfortable with how she was looking at him, "Is coming up North your chance to do it?"

She nodded in understanding then, opening and closing her mouth as she tried to come up with an explanation. Her gaze met his.

"I don't know," Her eyes shifted downward, watching her hands fidget with each other, "My uncle isn't exactly the most...expressive with his pride." She explained, biting her lip bitterly, "Like any Martell he has it in spades, but rarely does he bestow it on anyone else. You have to earn it," She chuckled mirthlessly, staring at the flames like she saw something dancing in them, "I've spent my entire life trying to please him."

Guilt pressed against Jon's chest. He was expecting something else, a yes or no. Some kind of deflection or a new way to tease him. That was how she spoke. Martells dealt in secrets. Nymeria was no different.

But when he saw how wet her eyes became and how strained her expression looked, all of that dissipated into thin air. Because she was still a bastard, and no family name could ever change the way a bastard felt.

"Is that what you wanted to hear?" Nymeria's words turned sour, and gone was the playful girl Jon had grown used to, "That I came North on a foolish mission to win the pride of my uncle?"

His mouth flapped open and closed, trying to come up with a way to talk himself out of this situation. But there wasn't one. He'd never been good at talking his way out of things in the first place. That had been Robb's specialty.

"I didn't mean—"

"No," Nymeria shook her head, a wry smile briefly flashing on her face, "Of course you didn't. You never do."

Jon went silent again. He never knew what to make of her. But here she was, telling him something personal because he'd pried too far into her life. Because his own suspicions about her house had forced him too.

"I was never really welcome at Winterfell," He confessed, moving closer to the fire. She met his gaze again, curiosity burning behind the glassy brown eyes. "Robb and the others treated me well enough, but Lady Stark—" He cut himself off, a knot forming in his throat as he recalled what she had last said to him.

It should have been you.

"Lady Stark gave all the kindness a bastard deserved," He finally spoke. His life at Winterfell felt like a dream, sparring with Robb in the courtyard, playing with Arya in the godswood, teaching Bran how to climb when he was old enough. It was as if someone completely different had lived that life, but he was left with all the emotional weight of it. He still cared for Robb and Bran and Arya and Rickon, even Sansa. There were strings attaching him to each of them, but a different person had made those memories.

It never felt like Jon when he looked back on them.

But the barbs that Lady Stark threw he felt in his bones, fueling his anger until he took it out on a sparring dummy or one of the castle walls. Those Jon Snow remembered and became lesser when he recalled them.

There was not a single word Lady Stark had said about him that wasn't true. Her coldness of him had been apparent since he learned to walk, only calling him 'bastard' or 'boy' instead of his name. Most of the time she refused to talk to him, but when she struck, it was a killing blow, shattering Jon's confidence and lingering in his head long after he'd gone to sleep.

But she was perfectly justified. He was a mistake. A stain on the white cloak of Ned Stark's honor. An endless reminder that her husband had slept with another woman.

Gods, how horrible a woman was his mother to make Ned Stark forget his wife?

All this he told to Nymeria, whose expression remained unchanged except for her eyes. They hardened into a cold amber, flames dancing in their reflection as they remained on Jon's face.

It was after he told his tale, he finally remembered who had sent her up to the Wall.

Nymeria remained silent.