Chapter Twelve

The Great Hall had been rearranged to one main rectangular table at the center and three smaller tables situated around it. Grand Stark banners of grey and white covered almost every stone surface. There were candle bowls, a Westerland invention, bringing light from the hollows carved on walls. Blades of dried grass were interspersed with the straw floor, adding a fresh, crisp scent to the room. Plates of bread and salt and tankards of ale littered the tables strategically and it was a mark of migrant influence that jars of Dornish Grape Sour and Vale Redvine Wine joined them.

His Father, northern to the core and unapproving of the 'foreign muck', eyed those jars with disdain. Domeric inwardly rolled his eyes; Lord Roose Bolton had enjoyed the Vale wine well-enough in the secrecy of his solar. "Father, may I sit with the other Heirs for the proceedings?"

"Hmm?" His Father looked up, the pale and- according to a tactless Arya anyway- unnerving eyes of their House warming slightly. "Yes, of course, son. Who will you be sitting with?"

"Robb, Lyarra, Smalljon, Cley, Dacey, Darryn, Wynafred and probably the Karstark brothers," Domeric listed off. It was an impressive list of Heirs and assorted siblings and Roose nodded approvingly. These annual meetings in their liege lord's home were ideal for building ties amongst the Northern nobility and the older Bolton was proud that his son managed to endear himself to so many important Northern sons and daughters.

This would be the fifth Stark Firefly Festival since the tradition was instituted by Lord Ned Stark. Held two moons after the Spring Equinox, it was meant to honor the Battle of the Reeds, where the North repelled the Andal invasion at Moat Cailin. The crannogmen had played a key role in that victory, harassing the enemies for three days and two nights until reinforcements could arrive and there would be a play to illustrate that at the theatre next sennight. Domeric had been uncertain about showing it- this year, the festival would be held off until the King and his retinue could arrive, thus sparing House Stark the expense of two such grand events- but Lady Sansa had been insistent.

"Why should we hide our history for their sensibilities?" Those river blue eyes had been lit by passion, her skin flushed with fury. Domeric would have agreed to anything she said then. "Why should we cater to their interests or honor their victories? The North has prospered long before the other Kingdoms took notice of us and it will prosper long after the Stags lose their crown. I won't allow our pride to be suborned to the South! House Stark bows to no lion- uh, Southroner."

'If nothing else, Lady Catelyn's hatred of House Lannister bred true,' he had thought dreamily. 'Gods, she looks so bea- wait, no. Robb's sister, Robb's sister, get your head out of the gutter, man!'

"Pay attention to our discussions, son," Roose continued, unaware of the direction his son's thoughts had headed. "Even if you do not agree with the ideas proposed, observe how they are presented and why. There is much wisdom to be gained here. These are the men and women who rule the North and one day, you will take your place beside them."

"How many of Lord Stark's children will be observing the proceedings?" Lady Dustin inquired, a smile pulling at her lips.

"Robb and Lyarra will," Domeric confirmed. Wary of the amusement in his Aunt's eyes, he cautiously added. "This will be Lady Sansa's first."

"Oh? I hope Lady Sansa will not be too bored," the woman teased. "Should that occur, you will entertain her, I hope?"

"Why would he do that?" His baffled Father protested. "Domeric wouldn't lose such an educational opportunity to entertain a little girl."

"Not so little any more, Roose. Not so little any more," Barbrey grinned wickedly. "Right, Domeric?"

"Ah… I think Robb may be calling me. Father, Aunt." With a perfunctory nod, the brown-haired boy turned on his heels and did not run away. The table he arrived to was one closest to the door and almost full to bursting with everyone wanting to sit next to the Stark Heir. Domeric would have had to fight for a spot had Robb not looked up and patted the side to his left in welcome. His right had the dark haired and violet eyed Lyarra Snow.

'Not that she will be a Snow much longer.' Lady Catelyn had broken the news to the household before the earliest lords arrived, so it was still secret. Otherwise the pale-eyed boy suspected many more noblemen to be jostling for the beautiful girl's favor. As the eldest daughter of Lord Stark, she would make a prized wife and with knowledge of her intellect, wit and accomplishments, even his father would consider the former bastard a potential bride.

This wasn't a consideration that Domeric held in the least. Not because Lyarra often felt a mirror of himself, a gifted rider, scholar and harpist with Northern features. Not because she was a former bastard and thus, someone open to ridicule in his House. Not even because he was at dangerous risk of falling in love with her sister, though that would undeniably make matters awkward. No, the reason Domeric wouldn't consider her for a bride was because a good friend did not court the woman his best friend loved, however impossible that love may be.

Torrhen Karstark made a jape now that sent the table roaring. Lyarra joined with her own silvery laughter, atypical for the melancholy that followed her recently and Robb leaned over to tuck her loose curls back. It was an intimate gesture, one rewarded with a soft, quiet smile that only Robb Stark seemed to receive and for a brief moment, they were refractions of Lord and Lady Stark. Robb with his mother's coloring and Lyarra with her father's features, younger and softer and more beautiful than the ones holding the castle now. And pity wells in Domeric's breast for the two he counts friends for Ned Stark cannot give away a daughter to his own son.

Not that it should ever reach that point. Robb was the very soul of duty and far too honorable to seduce his own bastard sister, despite, as Domeric suspected, a lifetime of loving her. A less charitable part of him wondered how it could have gotten to that point. Lyarra Snow possessed a rare beauty, true- frozen, Domeric had thought, ice and snow unlike Sansa's hair of fire and river blue eyes- and she was kind but even without Robb, he would not have fallen for her. Lyarra was, frankly speaking, rather terrifying. Absurdly talented with a blade, adept in the magical arts, intelligent and perceptive and intimidating, with a gaze that would strip a man to the core and dispassionately study its inner workings. There was even an aura of tragedy about her, as though she was born from and into suffering. How his best friend could freely tease her, Domeric did not know.

Of course, Robb was also at ease stealing food from Bran who had an army of animal minions to spy for him, so mayhaps Domeric was just friends with an idiot.

Turning his attention away from the lovers that could never be, the Heir to House Bolton focused on the discussion. It followed the same format as the last: each of the Lords and Ladies presented their harvest and field numbers, estimated the yield for the next year, mentioned any notable breaches of law, bragged of their respective projects and reviewed the impact of the foreigners. For the third year running, there were worrying murmurs about the wildings slipping past the Wall.

"Does it matter how many of those fuckers get through?" Greatjon Umber demanded. "If they attack us, then we'll put them down like we have been for years now!" There was a roar of approval.

"Just because you're eager to run to battle, doesn't mean we all are," Aunt Barbrey rebuked. "My House is better served when our sons farm the land, not ride off to kill savages that should be well behind the Wall."

"How do they keep slipping past at any rate? The Wall hasn't gotten any smaller than before."

"My son's a Crow and he says it's through the unmanned bases. Thirteen in all and three alone have any men to guard them."

"Aye and the wildings are banding together under a Crow of their own. Mance Rayder, the King Behind the Wall, would know which bases to slip through."

There was much shouting here before his father's voice managed to eclipse its way through. "What I want to know is why they're invading us."

"What do you mean by that, Bolton? Of course they'd want to stay on this side of the Wall. No man would want to deal with those storms for another year."

"And yet they have been doing so for generations," the pale-eyed Lord sneered back. "Colder winters, wilder game, harsher lives and only a handful braved the Wall to come here before. Now they fall in line behind a Crow, risk life and limb to escape here, where they know we will kill them if they are caught. If they seek refuge with us, then what are they fleeing from?"

There was a moment of hushed silence and then the Lord of Deepwood Motte hesitantly noted. "The men I catch make claims of the dead rising-"

Lord Glover was almost immediately under deluge of both support and condemnation. One ornery Lord demanded to know if they were to hunt for grumpkins and skinchangers next. Knowing the latter to at least exist, Domeric turned to the trio of Starks sitting on the table. Robb had put down the quill he was jotting notes with, exchanging concerned looks with the dark-haired Snow while Sansa frowned. When he turned back to the main table, he caught Lord Reed none-too-discretely rolling his eyes.

Ned Stark had to slam his hand on the table multiple times until the crowd fell silent.

"Enough," he rumbled, many of the adults in the room looking sheepish at his glare. "We are not children to squabble before our chores. We have a duty to our Home and we will fulfill it with reason and judgement. On the matter of the wildings, I agree with Lord Bolton."

From the look on Roose Bolton's face, his Father looked contemplative of changing his position.

"The wildings are behaving strangely," the Quiet Wolf allowed. "But we have not enough knowledge to discern the matter truly. My brother, Benjen, will be arriving to Winterfell in two days. I propose questioning him on the Watch's account of things and then returning to the issue. Are we agreed?"

Once an accord was held, the conversation moved to the next topic of the agenda: the King's visit.

"About bloody time that the North gets some recognition for its contributions in the war," Lord Umber began.

x

Ned withheld a sigh as he regarded the empty pitcher and two stained goblets on the table. His conversation with Benjen, while enlightening, had left him concerned and distressed. His brother was a First Ranger with over a decade's experience, a calm and steady demeanor and extensive knowledge of the Lands of Always Winter. The Quiet Wolf trusted his judgement implicitly, particularly on matters concerning the Night's Watch or the Wall and thus, had no recourse but to believe in his words.

And Benjen's account of wildings fleeing by the dozens, warring tribes uniting under one banner and repeated accounts of men claiming monsters from yore, were downright unsettling.

Ned's first temptation was to deny everything. It wasn't the magic that bothered him. Lyarra had the disturbing habit of sticking her limbs into hearths for relaxation and Arya of persuading local rodents to carry out her pranks for her. There were some brightly colored lizards in Robb's room that his wife swore were from the inlets around Riverrun. He and Cat had even gotten into the habit of checking every room for a strangely attentive animal before they discussed anything of import. As the father of six wargs, Ned Stark was well aware that magical beings existed and had the potential for either great good (his children) or great harm (probably also his children).

The issue was more of this specific magical being and how it could potentially affect House Stark. White Walkers, wights, the Night King… all stories from over 8,000 years past. Had they ever existed, they were defeated, gone, buried under tons of ice and snow. It was impossible to return anything or anyone from the dead and even if it happened, why would they be stirring now? Why another Long Night when his sweet summer children lived? Why a potential war against his unblooded babes?

"Do you think the Old Gods sent direwolves as protectors?" Benjen inquired. He was fully aware of everything that had occurred since Ned's discussion with Cat and while it may have taken two years, had finally forgiven his wife for her role. "I know House Stark has been prepared for war…"

"Against men," Ned scowled. "I know nothing of these White Walkers or their wight armies. Assuming that they should even exist."

"Let's start with the case that they do not. There remains the matter of something spooking the wildlings into banding under Rayder's banner. I've followed the same trails against the Wall for years now and more and more, I find empty homes, cleaned pantries and ravaged stations. People are scared, Ned. They're scared enough to leave everything behind them and run."

"Could it be a clan terrorizing others? Mayhaps one pretending to be the Night King?"

"It's a possibility but…" Benjen grimaced. "Are you aware of the Thenn tribe?"

The Lord of House Stark furrowed his brow, casting memories back to the horror stories Lyarra had begged off of her Uncle. "The cannibals?"

"Aye. They believe the flesh of their enemies and strongest clan members rejuvenate their warriors," Benjen made a face. "I caught one earlier in the year. A former Crow killer, so he was sentenced to beheading. Before he died, he told us to burn his body. Gave a chilling tale of the last enemy they captured being readied for the table and then coming alive when they were midway through feasting."

"Midway?" Ned hoped that didn't mean what he thought it did.

"Man claimed to be chewing down a leg when it started… wiggling in his hand."

"...If you mention that to the children, I will personally thrash you until you have to be carried back to the Wall. Am I understood?"

"I have no desire to spread my nightmares, Brother. I am merely pointing out that it was a compelling story for the Night King theory. The man I caught was proud. He would not have requested such a 'dishonorable' death had he not truly believed it possible that his corpse could rise again."

"Our first useful piece of information then. Burn the corpses," Ned frowned. "Is that the only account?"

Benjen shook his head. "I believe- and Maester Aemon concurs- that the accounts solely come from their side of the Wall. There may be something in the Wall keeping such foul magics from spreading to the North. It may also be the reason why the wildings are so desperate to come here."

"That's the good news," his brother added. "The bad is that Mance Rayder is gathering a wildling army in the hopes of bring down the Wall."

Ned stared at his brother blankly. "If the Wall keeps the dead from rising, then why in the Gods' name would Mance Rayder want to tear the damn thing down?"

His younger brother shrugged. "If I must die, then you will too?"

"It is my deepest wish that he proves himself less petty than that," Ned gulped down his wine. "Alright, what are his chances for bringing down the Wall?"

Another shrug. "His following is massive. Tribes that have hated each other for generations are gathering under the hope of escaping south. And…"

"And?" Ned raised a brow when his brother looked briefly sheepish.

"I have met First Ranger Rayder multiples times, Brother and while he has his follies, overt lechery including, he is a good man. An honorable and brave man. I could not believe it when he abandoned the Night's Watch. He was raised by the Black Brothers. He took pride in being a Crow. Then he took a trip north and saw something that compelled him to abandon his oaths."

"This grants me no more relief than before, Brother."

"Men of honor can be reasoned with. They can be approached under the banner of peace-"

The Quiet Wolf jerked back. "You mean for the Watch to parley with a wildling King?"

"No," Benjen shook his head. "There is too much bad blood between the Watch and the wildlings for that to work. We need someone with more authority. A man whose honor is known far and wide…"

"Don't prevaricate, Ben. You've never been good at it. Not even as children when you tried to butter me up for riding lessons or an extra sweet."

His brother barreled on. "A parley between the King Beyond-the-Wall and the Warden of the North."

Ned's eyebrow rose. "Not the Lord of House Stark?"

"They don't believe in lords there, not truly. The dragons gave us that title but we were Kings and Wardens long before then. The latter title was bestowed to the first Brandon Stark in the Age of Heroes. The wildlings will kneel to no King but even they will respect the Warden."

"And what do you expect me to offer them? Entrance south of the Wall?"

"They wouldn't believe any such promises early on," Benjen noted. "Perhaps an exchange of information?"

"They have the knowledge of White Walkers and wights, Brother. We have-"

"Old Nan." Benjen grinned at his brother's disbelieving look.

"Old Nan?"

"Old Nan," Benjen confirmed happily. "We shall offer intelligence from the oldest source in Winterfell."

"Brother, you expect me to call a parley with the wildlings armed with only the fairytales that our elderly nanny used to tell us?"

"Well, I don't see you offering a better idea," Benjen sniffed.

It took a good twenty more minutes of arguing before Ned acknowledged this to be their best (and currently only) plan. They fleshed it out further by agreeing that a party of Northern Lords, Umber perhaps and Cerwyn and others, would represent the North. Benjen was excluded as a representative for House Stark due to his Black Brother status, though he agreed to take part and persuade Lord Commander Mormont to send him in an official capacity for the Watch. Ned would lead the party himself though Benjen was concerned.

"What if you end up going south with the King's party? Doesn't he intend to make you the Hand?"

Ned grimaced. "Cat believes so. She is worried about the possibility and… did not take it well when I didn't immediately refuse the idea."

"That does explain why you were sleeping in the family guest room," Benjen mused. Then, "Wait? You mean to go south? Are you mad, Ned?!"

"My wife's reaction was much the same."

"Cat's a smart woman. Mayhaps you should listen to her."

"Do you think I want to become the King's Hand?" Ned looked exasperated. "I am concerned enough with the North and raising six troublesome if wonderful children. Then there is the matter of the Night's King and Cat's ever-increasing paranoia about the Lannisters. I don't have time to manage a kingdom for Robert too."

"Yet you didn't immediately refuse because…"

"Because I have reason to believe Jon Arryn murdered." Ned leaned back and for a moment, a look of such despair crossed his face that Benjen at once fell silent. His brother lived in such contentment with his family that his true age rarely showed. Now it felt like all of Ned's burdens came to roost at once. "Jon was at the picture of health when he suddenly died of heart palpitations and fever. He rarely drank, never ate to excess and lived his life in measured action. Even with the stress of his work, I cannot imagine him dying so suddenly."

"Men of old age often die without cause, Ned," Benjen said gently. "It may have just been his time."

"Aye but before he died, Jon was acting… strangely," Ned frowned. "You know how Cat befriend many of the ladies in the North a few years past? One of them, Lady Forrester, has a daughter named Mira sent south to be a handmaiden for Margaery Tyrell. The sister of Loras Tyrell, squire to Renly Baratheon who's on the Small Council in King's Landing. There was a stir then when the old and honorable Lord Jon Arryn began to visit brothels in Flea Bottom with Lord Stannis Baratheon."

Benjen blinked. "What?"

Ned nodded, knowing how strange the idea of Lords Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon in a brothel was. "I said-"

"No, no, I got that," Benjen waved his hands in the air. "I just- you have a spy network, Ned. You have a spy network made of a woman's gossip circle."

The Lord of House Stark considered those words for a moment- stated in Benjen's most deadpan tone- and chuckled. "Indeed. I have multiple information sources, Brother. According to Bran, you snuck down to the kitchen and ate an entire basket of muffins all on your lonesome."

At his brother's blush- Benjen shared the same adoration for blueberry muffins that his red-haired niece had for lemon cakes- Ned broke into laughter. After a dirty look, his brother succumbed too. The brief moment of levity lightened their hearts before the wolves regained their composure.

"You believe him involved in some risky business then."

"I do and I believe that he was killed for it." Ned looked out the window, down at the courtyard where his eldest two could be seen sparring while his most gentle daughter notched her bow. Arya and Bran would be at their lessons now, Rickon exploring the castle with Shaggydog. He would not have left them for anything less than duty borne of love.

"Jon devoted years of his life to raising me to be the man I am today," Lord Stark uttered softly. "I can pay back a mere fraction of that devotion by catching the man who murdered him."

"I understand." Benjen did not agree but he did understand. "You will be careful?"

"I will take measures for my own protection," Ned swore. "Of course, if I do go south than I won't be able to represent House Stark in the negotiations. As they are merely preliminary exchanges of information, done near the Wall and with the protection of an entire party of loyal men, I would entrust them to Robb."

"Quite possibly the first official contact between House Stark and a King-Beyond-the-Wall and you want to leave them to a boy of seven-and-ten? I love my nephew, Ned but I must say again. Have you gone mad?!"

His brother made a humming noise at the back of his throat. "It is strange, I know. Robb will not be the leader of the group- that will be you and Lord Cerwyn, Medgar does have a way with words- but he will be a key player. It may be instinct that compels me but… I think that he is ready for it. That my generation will prepare the North but the next will decide its future. Everything that Cat and I do now is merely setting the stage for the acts that our children will perform."

"It sounds so noble when you say it like that," Benjen mused. He considered the children at hand, his own nieces and nephews and how far they had come. How far they had yet to go for the challenges awaiting them. "They'll be leaders one day… but not today."

"No." A smile crossed Lord Stark's face. "They have time to be children yet."

The Black Wolf of House Stark suddenly had another thought. "Have you spoken with your wife about sending her baby boy to parley with wildlings?"

Ned paled but still looked firm. "I will have to tell Cat, won't I?"

"You will," Benjen agreed gleefully. "And to think you stand by your decision regardless. You are a brave, brave man, Eddard Stark."

x

"It doesn't look very grim, does it, Nuncle?" Myrcella inquired, curious, cat-like green eyes swerving from formidable yet drab stone to the gaiety of the people.

The gaudy monstrosity of a wheelhouse that Cersei commissioned is yet inching its way past the iron gates, the spikes above shaped like a wolf's maw ready to tear into them. House Stark and many other Northern Houses behind them are arrayed in wait and Tyrion can pinpoint the exact moment his niece settles her gaze on them. There is a brief squeak of surprise- flustered, she must have been seen- and then the curtain is pulled down and a blushing Myrcella is staring down at her hands.

Shameless as he is, the Imp promptly lifts the curtain- "Nuncle!" Myrcella squeaks- and follows her former line of sight. The boy is pretty enough with his autumn hair and teasing grin, currently turned to a little girl with a helmet on her head but it is the young woman who meets his gaze. Features as still and deceptively harmless as the snow banks of her home and dark hair curled around soft skin. It is too far to see the state of her eyes but her posture remains proud and unyielding.

'This one will break before she bends,' the dwarf thinks.

"The boy or the girl?" His tone remains gentle but there is a wince from the golden-haired princess across from him. Her eyes flit nervously around their corner of the carriage but Tommen is asleep and Cersei occupied with entertaining her little monster.

"Both," Myrcella whispers miserably.

"She is the Bastard of Winterfell but her back stands straight." It is not a dwarf's place to tell a princess that her inclinations are normal and harmless. Not when she hasn't listened the past dozen times and not when it's more effective to make the subject habitual. "Do you think her proud?"

"Not undeservedly." A gentle smile is present now and it is difficult to believe such sweetness to come from his sister's womb. "Father will legitimize her today, won't he? I hope it'll bring her joy."

"I'm certain that it shall, sweetling. Wake up your brother now. We shall step down soon."

At that reminder, his niece quickly rummaged through her bag for a looking glass and checked to the state of her own braided waves. Tommen remained snoring on his sail-striped chaise and it was left to a chucking Imp to waken him. His nephew grumbled and moaned but eventually lifted his eyelids. Slits of a weaker green, the budding of a new leaf in spring, grumpily regarded the man.

"There's a spot on your chin," the Imp said blandly. There was not but it was amusing to see the blonde girl fuss over it anyway, in the anxiety of meeting her two most recent sources of admiration.

Tyrion occasionally wonders if it would have been wiser to smother Myrcella's interest in women at the onset. The kingdoms excepting Dorne didn't accept such proclivities and his niece will have trouble enough should any wonder at her golden hair and emerald eyes. Yet any advice otherwise would be hypocrisy made true; Tyrion had married a whore. Myrcella merely fancied a bastard girl and it was harmless enough when she bestowed her attention with equal fascination to the opposite sex.

She could have inherited her mother's proclivities instead. It's all Tyrion can do not to bury his head into his hands when the wheelhouse opens and Jaime arrives, hands lingering at their sister's waist as he helps her through the door. 'The dangerous games we play.'

Robert Baratheon hardly notices as he swings down from his horse, impressively graceful when one considers his girth and strides up to Lord Eddard Stark. The Northerner's reputation as a man of sound judgement and honor, as well as being the closest friend of the King, long preceded him southwards. There is an awkwardness to the embrace now though and while the others focus on their discourse, Tyrion fastens his eyes to the other members of House Stark. Lady Stark alone manages a smile on her face, most of the children are curiously blank-faced. It is the positioning of them that catches his attention, the Bastard half-hidden behind the Heir, the girls pressed on either side of her, the middle boy standing protectively next to his mother and the youngest clinging to Lady Catelyn's skirts.

Mayhaps his goodbrother feels the tension as well, for he jovially proclaims that he would guess each of the children's names.

"You must be Robb." A steady gaze in return. The lack of any visible reaction was clearly off-putting.

"My, you're a pretty one." The girl offered a tense smile, hands drifting towards the side of her dress.

"You must be Arya then." This one's face communicated her emotions most clearly, emotions that could be easily encapsulated in a question of the other's intellect.

"I see your muscles. You'll be a strong one." A smile so sweet that Tyrion instinctively caught himself from double-checking his pockets.

"This little one is Rickon?" Wide, guileless river blue eyes peeked out and then promptly returned to the comfort of his mother.

It was at the last individual that Tyrion began to suspect why the Stark children could be unnerved. She was a pretty little thing, as Myrcella had been quick to observe and closer now, he could see lipid pools of violet for eyes and full lips pressed into a tight line. When the King gruffly demanded that she come out for a closer look, the Heir's passivity broke to a displeased frown. Tilting her chin up in a proud gesture that felt decidedly too familiar and imposing on a little bastard girl, she complied.

"You're the girl that I'm legitimizing today then," the King said distantly. He was staring at her so intensely that even the dwarf was beginning to feel uncomfortable on her behalf. "What's your name?"

"Lyarra Snow, your Grace." The voice was high, clear, melodic and had clearly jarred with what the King was expecting.

"You look a great deal like your aunt," Robert observed. The girl silently inclined her head. "She and I were betrothed, you know."

"Nuncle," Myrcella hissed under her breath. When his heterochromatic eyes looked up briefly, hers pointedly swept over the crowd. A group of lords and ladies beginning to look quite uncomfortable with the King's enamored gaze caught on Ned Stark's little girl.

'How am I supposed to divert him from this?' Tyrion scowled. 'Of course, Ned Stark's Bastard would end up looking like the King's long-lamented lady love. Why did I expect any better in my life?'

A savior came from the most unexpected quarters.

"Very pretty. You are sure to make a good marriage-" the King was saying, one hand raised to cup the girl's cheek. Before his hand could reach her, a blur of snow white fur barreled into Lyarra Snow. She stumbled backwards, surprised but unafraid, as it was followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth pup all scrabbling at the Stark children's feet.

"Shaggydog!" The baby Stark yelled gleefully, letting go of Lady Catelyn for once to run to a black furred pup instead. "You found me!"

"What in the Father's name is this?" Robert had broken out of his reverie, at least. Looking around, each of the Stark children had broken rank to pick up a puppy of their own choosing. The white-furred one was firmly in the bastard girl's hands, receiving a tummy rub for his hasty actions.

"My children's direwolf cubs, your Grace," Lady Stark informed. Her apologetic tone was undercut by the approval visible in her eyes. "Please forgive them. They are young yet and are not accustomed to staying in the kennels."

"You have direwolf cubs?" Tyrion piped up. The fascination welling up had him edge closer to the children, the youngest preening at his awed tone.

"Would you care to hold him?" Lyarra Snow offered. "Hold out your hand and let Ghost sniff you."

The Imp followed the instruction and was soon holding a squirming bundle of fur in his arms, grinning at the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of cuddling a direwolf. From the corner of his eye, he could see his niece and youngest nephew looking longingly at the scene. The former knew better than to step forward under her mother's sharp eyes while the latter was too shy to do so. Fortunately the Starks had no such compunctions, as soon Sansa Stark was introducing Myrcella to a grey-white beauty named 'Lady' and Tommen was tentatively petting the one dubbed 'Nymeria'.

"He likes you," the dark-haired bastard said as the direwolf pup licked his cheek.

"I like him," Tyrion declared vigorously. "Truly a marvelous creature. I had never thought to see one before."

"Neither had we." The young woman held out her hand. "Lyarra Snow. Welcome to Winterfell."

"Tyrion Lannister." He shook it. "Pleasure to be here."

x