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JON SNOW

closer to him, a slight shiver slithering down his back as he did. The sensation was unknown to him. The cold had always been a comfort rather than an annoyance, but something else in Jon's head told him that the cold wasn't the reason for the sudden burst of anxiety in his stomach.

He turned around and found a pair of brown eyes staring at him, lips turned down in a frown as Nymeria went back to grooming her black sand steed, gaze narrowed at the other men of the Night's Watch.

He'd never asked what had happened to her that night. All he knew was that Ethan was dead and Nymeria was now responsible. His brother was dead because of a stranger.

But she was no stranger. She was a friend. Someone he'd confided in at his lowest.

His nerves knotted themselves up, forcing Jon to clench his stomach to keep his dinner down. He didn't know why he hadn't told anyone yet.

Why he hadn't told Lord Commander Mormont yet.

It was a serious crime. One that his father wouldn't have stood for.

And yet he couldn't stop the tugging in his chest that told him to keep it to himself. Nymeria had been more of a friend than anyone he'd ever known, and he refused to sell her out.

He wasn't a brother yet.

He still held onto his honor.

"Your work must be done here then." He spoke openly to the young woman before him, not daring to look into those cold eyes again. He hadn't seen warmth in them since the night in his chambers and yearned for it once again.

Nymeria's shoulders tightened along with her grip on the horse's reins. "Yes, although I suppose it was only a matter of time." Her gaze flitted toward Ser Alliser and Lord Commander Mormont, "I suppose I must earn my uncle's pride another way."

Jon knew the bitterness in her voice. He'd tasted it himself many times. He scanned her face, quirking an eyebrow up with a sad smile. "Is this goodbye then? Princess?"

Nymeria's lips quirked up at his words, a soft chuckle leaving them. "Not quite Snow. Mormont wants me to stay for a while longer." His chest fluttered at the thought, "I'm not done bothering you yet."

A chuckle slipped out of his mouth, "I'm glad." The knot in the back of his throat grew tighter, never taking his eyes off Nymeria's delicate face, recognizing the soft crinkles near the corner of her eyes, the dimple near her mouth, even the small mole just above her cheek.

She was soft and delicate and sweet with a spirit like Valyrian steel.

And I could've had her. Something in his head spoke aloud.

Her eyes were wide and warm, flecks of gold scattered among russet. She blinked, a quiet breath leaving her.

Jon gasped as her lips met his, soft and lovely and sweet. Warmth fluttered through him and his stomach bubbled, a sensation he'd become familiar with. Everything tingled, and Jon leaned in to reciprocate when she pulled away, brunette hues peering through long lashes, a shy smirk spreading across her face.

"I had to do it." She justified, something in her voice cracking, "Just once."

She left him alone in the stable, lips wet and hungry for more.

Jon could still taste her as he made his way back to the courtyard.

He wondered if he was making a mistake.

Metal ground against metal as the north gate opened, fresh snow lining the path leading to the Weirwood.

To the palace of the Old Gods.

When he was beyond the wall he knew he could never look back. This was where he belonged now.

Jon was an honorable man. He'd told himself such when he had nothing else left. He was a Stark. They prided themselves on being fair and honor-bound. His father was the perfect example of that.

But that assessment had been challenged the very day he'd arrived at the Wall. He'd met them all. Growing closer to robbers and rapers, using his training with Ser Rodrik to his advantage, even relying on Nymeria for advice when it came to dealing with Ser Alliser.

He never said a word against the Watch. He'd earned his place, hadn't he?

His boots crunched against the snow, Ghost nuzzling his leg as they grew closer to the heart tree, bright red leaves against the stark white trunk.

Crimson on snow.

Like the blood near the stables. Like the blood staining the knife.

White eyes with blood-red tears stared into Jon's face, as if judging him right then and there.

He was still an honorable man.

The incident was before his vows. Before he was a true brother.

Jon Snow of the Night's Watch would be honorable, like his father and uncle before him. Like the Starks of old.

His knees collapsed to the ground, the comforting presence of Sam beside him.

"Hear my words and bear witness to my vow.

Night gathers and now my watch begins.It shall not end until my death.I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.I shall live and die at my post.I am the sword in the darkness.I am the watcher on the walls.I am the shield that guards the realms of men.I pledge my life and honor to The Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

A black coat shielded Jon's vision, and he refused to look anywhere else except the heart tree. He almost thought it was smiling.

"You knelt as boys," Othell remarked, a slight smirk tugging on his lips, "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

Relief coursed through his veins, the unbearable weight he'd been shouldering since the day he left Winterfell evaporating alongside his breath. The embrace of his brothers felt warmer than any fire or cloak, and Jon found himself smiling.

His brother's affirmations rang in his ear, something he'd always wanted and rarely got.

Small voices whispering "well done" as hands clasped his back and shoulders, like he truly belonged there.

He knew he did. This was the right choice. This was what he was meant to do. As a Stark. As a brother. He'd made a vow.

And he kept his vows.

The moment was broken by a slight rustling from the trees. Ghost's paws were silent as he moved across the ground, a soft whimper leaving his mouth. None of his new brothers gave any indication of hearing it.

"What's he got there?" Sam asked, tilting his head in confusion, voice slightly shaky. Jon stepped forward and knelt down again, beckoning with his hand.

"To me Ghost."

The wolf obeyed and dropped the object at Jon's feet. Horrified murmurs spread through the group, Othell gagging behind him.

Jon couldn't tear his eyes away.

Because at his feet lay a severed, frozen hand.

TYRION LANNISTER

King's Landing was finally getting interesting. Before Ned Stark, life in the capitol had been horribly dull, with Jon Arryn handling the affairs of the castle while Robert whored and drank his way to an early grave.

Not a bad way to go if Tyrion was being honest.

His mind drifted back to when he was of a younger age, and that soft singing voice haunted him again.

Her name was on the tip of his tongue, and he could almost taste her sweetness again.

The vows they made to each other before Jaime had told him the truth.

He shook himself out of his stupor and continued his walk down the halls of the Red Keep, his new squire Podrick trailing behind him.

After the outburst in the council chamber, Tyrion had approached the Payne boy, thanking him and accepting him into his service for the time being.

Everyone had spies in King's Landing, Tyrion figured the boy made for a better one than Bronn the Sellsword.

With agonizing steps, Tyrion began climbing the Tower of the Hand, legs throbbing as pain pulsed through his veins.

He moved his thoughts elsewhere to distract himself. Tyrion drew his thoughts to the summons he'd received instead.

Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, demanding his own testimony regarding the situation up North. Apparently, Princess Nymeria's letter wasn't enough for the Warden of the North.

"Lord Stark," Tyrion announced his presence, drawing the man out of his books, wax littering the desk of the solar. The Lannister noted orange and yellow among the muted colors. The Martells had been given an answer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Ned Stark stood up, his face hollow and sunken, grey eyes dull and rimmed in purple. The Hand of the King had aged several years in the span of six months, and Tyrion almost thought he caught a glimpse of grey streaking through the man's hair.

"Lord Tyrion," Stark's gaze narrowed his direction, but Tyrion remained impartial. Lord Stark held no love for Lannisters as most of the capitol knew. The sooner he convinced Stark to look somewhere other than him, the happier he'd be. "I understand you stopped at Winterfell on your way south."

Tyrion sighed and moved toward the decanter of wine near the side of the room, leaving ample silence between the two men as he poured himself a cup. "I wished to see how your son was doing. Seeing as he is to be family in a few years time."

At the mention of the proposed marriage between Sansa and Joffery, Lord Stark stiffened, his hand clenching themselves into a fist. Tyrion smiled inwardly at the victory.

"You were well treated I hope?"

Tyrion almost scoffed at the feigned hospitality. Court manners were not Ned Stark's strong suit. Nor any Starks' strong suit. His mind drifted to Sansa Stark as he took a sip from his cups and reconsidered that notion.

Lord Stark gestured to the seat across from him. Tyrion set his cup down and pressed himself upward, "Your son had all the manners of a Northern lord."

Lord Stark nodded, not catching onto the double meaning. Tyrion took another sip. How had this man managed to stay alive so far?

"No doubt, you've heard the news regarding the assassination attempt on my son Brandon's life."

Tyrion sighed again, "Yes, an unfortunate tragedy. How lucky he was to have the Princess Nymeria there to protect him from the unseemly threat."

Lord Stark stiffened again.

Tyrion smirked slightly.

Ned Stark lifted his chin upward, refusing to sit back down. His personal guard, Jory Cassell, stood behind him, eyeing the dwarf warily. "You're an intelligent man," Lord Stark looked as if he was ready to purge himself of his mid-day meal as he spoke that statement, "Would you trust the Martells at their word?"

Tyrion let the man stew in silence. Any man was a fool to trust what he did not know. But Tyrion knew the realm was on the brink of war because of this, and he needed to play his cards right.

"Trust is a rare thing in the south," He said, pouring himself another cup of wine, "Especially in King's Landing. One finds it rather exhausting, I believe."

Lord Stark rolled his eyes, "Do you have a point to this my lord?"

Tyrion froze, quirking an eyebrow upward at the Warden's impatience. "My only experience with the Martells is through the Princess Nymeria," He needed to be careful what he said next, "I do not trust her, but I do believe her to be honest."

Lord Stark nodded, a pensive look crossing his face. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion." A nod of his head dismissed the Lannister and Jory moved toward the door, opening it with an unchanging expression.

Tyrion set down his cup and moved toward the door, pausing slightly to turn back to the Hand of the King. "If you're thinking of challenging my sister Lord Stark, I'd advise you not to." Ned Stark narrowed his gaze again and Tyrion inhaled sharply, "Cersei is not one to be trifled with. And she always gets what she wants."

"I appreciate you looking out for your family Lord Lannister," Stark's voice was clipped, "The Old Gods know I would do the same for mine. But your sister has provoked war in the kingdom, and she will face the consequences the same way all criminals do."

A shiver ran down Tyrion's back and he stared at the Warden once again. He couldn't help but feel like Ned Stark had just signed his death sentence.

***

"Father has ordered me to lead the Riverlands host," Jaime spoke with a bite of bitterness. The two brothers were walking through the gardens, one of the few places in King's Landing where the chance of being overheard was little to none. "I'll be gone on the morrow."

Tyrion could feel the anger emanating from his older brother, a pang of sympathy striking his chest. While Jaime loved to fight, he hated obeying Tywin's orders more.

One of the many traits all three of the Lannister siblings shared.

They lived to spite their father.

"If rumors are true we may be needing it."

Jaime stopped in his tracks and met his brother's gaze, "The Martells aren't stupid. Driven by vengeance maybe, but not stupid."

Tyrion nodded, "It's not the Martells I'm worried about." He continued strolling through the hedges, it was dangerous to stay in one place for long, "Ned Stark has a vendetta against the Lannisters. And Cersei is right in the middle of it all."

"Since when have you ever cared about our sister?"

Tyrion shot his brother a glare. "I don't. But I care about family and unfortunately, Cersei is family."

Jaime grew silent, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Ned Stark is a fool, but he's not stupid enough to go against Cersei."

Tyrion smiled at his brother's naïveté. Ser Jaime Lannister, always overestimating his own power. They were Lannisters after all.

Cersei was the exact same way. Overconfident and sure of herself. The idea that Ned Stark could target them was incredulous, but Tyrion had seen how the Lord had glowered. The mistrust in his gaze as soon as Tyrion stepped into the solar.

Lord Stark was that foolish. Tyrion knew it.

"You would go to war for her," Tyrion stated, trying to discern the look on Jaime's face. It was stiff and tense, jaw clenched.

Jaime turned toward Tyrion again. "I would go to war for any of you. Like you said, Cersei's family."

With a clank of metal, Jaime marched away, Tyrion's gaze on his brother's retreating figure.

SANSA STARK

It was her last sewing circle with Princess Myrcella and Sansa was pouting. She'd been finishing up her final touches on the intricate lion when the Queen entered.

Sansa immediately stood up and curtsied, the pink silk gently kissing the floor as she did so. The Queen looked as radiant as ever, matching the shining sun that hung in the skies above them, her hair a sheet of gold around her shoulders.

Queen Cersei Lannister was exactly what Sansa wished to grow up to be, and she'd taken careful steps to emulate the woman as best she could. Styling her hair in the intricate braids and tiered looks of the south.

But the Queen's radiance dimmed as she rushed into the Princess's room, soft wrinkles creasing near the edge of her lips and eyes, ruining her smooth features.

"Ah Lady Sansa what a surprise," the words were spoken through gritted teeth, and Sansa's mind began to wonder what she'd done wrong. "Could you give me and the Princess a moment?"

The red-head nodded dutifully and grabbed her embroidery, rushing out of the room. The door closed behind her and Sansa came face to face with Ser Boros of the Kingsguard and Ser Barristan beside him. His hand drifted lazily to his sword and Sansa hurried down the hall, trying not to let her thoughts wander.

Surely the Princess wasn't in so much danger that she needed two Kingsguard outside her door? The Queen must have just wanted an escort while the King was out hunting.

The horns blew and Sansa picked up the pace, wishing to see the hunting party return. The hunts in the North weren't nearly as grand, a simple nod from her father and then they'd reappear a few hours later with a stag if they were lucky.

The hunts in the Kingswood were a marvelous affair, men like Lord Renly and King Robert dressing up in armor like they were going off to slay a monster in one of Old Nan's stories.

A shiver ran down Sansa's spine at the thought of the crone.

They'd always scared her.

Arya would always tease her about the queasiness she would get, taunting her by claiming the stories were real.

It was cruel, and wasn't a memory Sansa like to relive. Stopping on the balcony above the courtyard of the keep, facing the King's Gate. Sansa peered around a few corners and through the shadows, looking for the mousy hair of her sister.

Where was Arya?

Her thoughts were ripped from her as the gate opened, a frantic voice yelling for help. A knot in Sansa's stomach took shape, and she watched as a large warhorse came trotting in, bearing the Baratheon sigil.

The King's Horse.

A figure was slumped over the neck, collapsing onto the ground with an unceremonious thump!

Sansa's mouth popped open at the sight, her mid-day meal churning in her gut. Crimson stained the stone, leaking out of King Robert like spilled wine.

It reminded Sansa of young Ser Hugh in the tournament, and how there would be no songs for the knight.

King Robert had songs. Beautiful ones describing his love for her Aunt Lyanna, aggressive ones telling of the fight between him and Prince Rhaegar. None of those songs told his ending, but now they would.

King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, died in the courtyard after a hunt gone wrong.

"My lady," Master Poole was beside her, one of the Stark guards by his side. The look in his eyes was urgent, and she grasped his hand, thinking of Jeyne in her solar, and Arya lost somewhere in the keep.

She shouldn't be seeing such things, Septa Mordane's voice whispered in her ear. It's not for a lady to watch. But the Queen would.

The Queen would watch her husband die in his bed and crown her son the next morn.

Sansa would not be engaged to the prince anymore. She'd be engaged to the King.

The knot in her gut tightened and more of her meal sloshed around in her stomach.

She wanted to retch but knew it wouldn't be proper.

She wanted her father.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted her sister.

Things were beginning to click into place, and Sansa wanted someone to lean on. Someone to play with her hair and soothe her worries.

It wasn't until she was sat on her bed and Poole locked the door that Sansa realized Lancel Lannister hadn't returned with the rest of the party.

NYMERIA MARTELL

The flame flickered near her face, dancing before her eyes as she stared out at the small quarters she'd been confined in for the past six moons.

She didn't sleep anymore. She couldn't.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw Ethan's blood on her hands, the Valyrian dagger plunged into his stomach.