Staring at the ragged, used clothes of skin and fur in her hands, she remembered what he had told her.

"Thank you. For helping me."

These words brought a memory back into her head, one that had recurred as of late: On the evening of her 14th nameday, her mother decided they had to talk. She wanted to tell about the adult life of a noble lady, even if they were Crannog. At some point, she said, a day would come when she'd find herself interested in a boy, and he in her. And when that happens, they may wed. Of course, the young daughter knew the falseness of this; marriages are of political nature. The talk about liking boys would never become relevant anyway, she had assured her mother. They were Crannogs, after all.

Time, or at least most of it, would tell she was right. Never did she meet a man, her own age or older, trying to advance with her. That truth wasn't exclusively for knights or lord's sons, but just as much for soldiers, mercenaries, squires, travelers, or someone else who might mistake her for a commoner. Most could recognize her as a Crannog, and thus no one showed affection. Not that she had given any of them much opportunity anyway – as with her Prince's sister, she would much rather ride and hunt alongside them.

That state of romantic avoidance had lasted her entire life. In her 20 years she had been far too occupied to care about such matters – hunting, her skills with the bow, her alliance with the Starks, her crippled Prince, her weak brother… All had left no room for herself. Now she had a room at Winterfell, but not for long. She clenched the skin clothes in her shaking fists, tossing it across the room.

Her Prince claimed to know everything. So did Leaf and the others, even in the brief talks she'd had with previous The Three-Eyed Crow had said so. Clearly, surely, this wasn't true. For the first time in her life, she had truly cared for someone outside her family. Hell, she had mercy-killed her own brother for him. If he knew everything there is and was to know, how could he punish her support with such vague thanks? If he knew everything, how couldn't he tell those words would hurt her? If he knew everything, why didn't he care for the feelings she felt for the first time in her life?

A cautious knock suddenly came from the door. "Lady Meera?" a voice spoke.

"Come in." she answered, quickly laying the thrown clothes on the bed.

The tall, beautiful Tully-haired Lady Stark entered slowly through the door, closing it behind her.

"Lady Stark" Meera said, frustratingly attempting a curtsy. "What can I do for you?"

At first, the second-born Stark seemed to ignore her question. She walked slowly, throwing looks here and there around the room. Her lips smiled and opened: "I'm not sure you should refer to me as Lady Stark. That title isn't suitable for me. Call me Sansa."

Meera nodded in response, waiting for her visitor to continue.

"Our fathers were close friends, I've heard. Eddard would oft speak kindly of Lord Reed. Odd you never came to any feasts." Both were aware Meera knew the latter implied a question.

She had caught Meera at an unlucky mood. "No, I don't think it's odd. We are Crannogs."

Ignoring her tone, Sansa went on with triviality. "I'm glad we found you some more appropriate clothing, Lady Meera. Those rags must have been an obstacle on your journeys."

There was truth to that statement. In the last few years, she had only been able to change attire twice. Wearing comfortable, fit clothing was a delight she had forgotten all about.

"I hear you're going home to your father at the Neck." Sansa said, receiving a nod from Meera. "Why?"

Her voice feeling thick, she gulped before answering. "I have to be with them when the war comes"

Sansa did not seem convinced. "There is plenty room here for you to stay in. I couldn't help but wonder why you leave us so shortly after arriving here. It just seems strange, considering all that you've travelled. And what's more, I don't think my sister would mind you here..."

Meera was unsure of what to answer. She felt the now recognizable feeling of disappointed anger boil up inside her – as if she wanted to shout rage and give up at the same time. "There is no need of me here. I'm the heir to the Greywater Watch, now that my brother's gone. I'm needed back home."

Sansa sighed. "And what of Bran? After all, you're the one who knows him the best by now."

Meera smiled sadly, remembering the words and his expression while speaking them. "I wouldn't be so sure…" her ironic smile disappeared. "Had you asked me a few months ago, I would've agreed."

The Lady of Winter fell stepped towards Meera, sitting down next to her on the bed. The height difference was considerable, Meera noticed. "Do you know why he's like this? I remember him a happy boy, but that was of course before the fall. He always climbed, made jokes, teased… Now… I've not seen him smile since he returned."

"Neither have I" Meera admitted. It hurt to speak so truly, she didn't want to – but the fact seemed unavoidable. Sansa stared at her, confused with a hint of fright. "Not in a long time. He would sometimes, a few years back, when I told him stories. He knows all of them now."

An awkward mood ruled the room. Hesitatingly, Sansa broke it. "I thank you. House Stark thanks you, Winterfell thanks you. I'm sorry I didn't come to you earlier, that I didn't even ask who you were or why you were with him."

Meera shrugged the words off. It wasn't Bran who had sent her, it wasn't even herself. It was simply a courtesy of thanks – a fallacy, so Meera could tell her father she had been thanked and treated well by the Starks. A shame the alliance between house Reed and house Stark had come to this.

"Bran also needs you."

The words cut her thoughts short. She was taken off guard, with her mind far away from the room she was in. Sansa's ignorant statement only made her more annoyed. "What makes you say that? 'cause clearly, he doesn't."

"I don't know him or you. But I know my brother's nothing like he used to be, or what he should be like. And I know you're the only one who knows him, the only person who he can connect to. I beg of you, please don't leave."

"Do you know what he told me? 'Thank you.' That was the extent of it. After all that I did for him, that was his only response, which of course only came after telling me he didn't need me."

Much to her surprise, Sansa placed a firm hand on Meera's. The Crannog lady received an intense stare from her liege lady. "He needs you. He may not admit, or even know it, but he does."

'He needs you'. The words rang clear within her head. They had been spoken to her when she was at the brink of feeling completely superfluous and empty. Initially, she'd blamed this feeling on all the moss they had lived off. When she realized the well-cooked meat she had been served at Winterfell had not filled that emptiness, it confirmed what she already knew, not that deep inside.

"You can have this room or any other in Winterfell. I can place you next to Bran's, if you want."

Too proud to openly admit, she only nodded yes in response. Sansa smiled, stood up and went to the door. "I'll have your things brought to next his room. You should write to your Lord father."

She had to say it. "My lady" she started, making Sansa turn just before exiting her room. "Thank you."

"As your liege lady, I command you to call me Sansa from now on."

Winterfell seemed so great to her. Despite all that she'd seen, The Wall, white walkers, wights, Children of the Forest, Winterfell stood out amongst all of those. It seemed so vast and wonderful – perhaps it was because she had grown up in a flowing castle amidst a swamp, but the great castle of the North appeared endless, almost fantastical. There was no way for her to find way herself, and she had to consult both soldiers and servants to know which way to go.

Everybody seemed to have something to do besides her. She simply strolled around the castle, while others were deeply occupied by various tasks. Most of them seemed to ignore her anyway, and she hadn't mustered the courage to seek out her Prince. To pass the time, she settled with bow, arrow and some practicing targets – after all, it had been some time since she'd needed those skills.

The clothes she had been given were too tight for her to properly stretch the string of the bow. As a result, the first arrow didn't even hit the target. Embarrassed, she quickly turned her head in search for anyone who might find the failed shot entertaining. But alas, Father was not here and every other was too busy to even take note of her. She shot once again, still annoyed at the limiting attire she was wearing. This shot was more successful than the previous, but not by much; at least this time she hit the board. As she remained unsatisfied and embarrassed, she considered how silly she was actually being. It had in fact only been her father who had ever supported, or even cared, for her archery abilities. Jojen couldn't really have cared less and Mother had of course been against it. Here at Winterfell, her father wasn't there to judge each shot and no one else could be asked to care. All of those who lived here had been used to Lord Eddard's second daughter anyway, so why should any care for a foreign Crannog firing her bow?

When some Vale soldiers came to the shooting range to train, she deftly left. Perhaps it hadn't even been their intention to force her from practicing, since they didn't even seem to notice her. Nevertheless she felt misplaced besides them. Littlefinger was observing from a balcony above, talking to Sansa and a Vale solider. She didn't pay them any mind, and darkness was beginning to arrive; she might as well inspect her new room. On her way to it, she passed two guards who were staring condescendingly at her. She felt small between them, and she was sure they spoke about her after she had gone pass them.

Her room had quickly been established – most of it had probably already been in condition, but what few possessions she had with her were laid on the freshly made bed. It was a rather large room for a foreign guest, but it was next to her Prince's, so it had to be. She had not seen him since their 'goodbye' and honestly, she wasn't too confident she'd like to speak with him just now. For the moment, a truce between the two was needed. Instead of spending her thoughts on him, she spent them on organize her room. It was different from her room home at Greywater; this was clearly intended for a person of noble birth. The servants must've thought her a more ladylike woman, as there were brushes and neat dresses in her wardrobes and cupboards. A large mirror hung upon the wall, a thing she had never used. Her mother had one placed in her room, but Meera continuously kept sneaking it out of her room – that feud went on until Father took his daughter's side on the matter; seeing mother accepting her defeat had been a great victory.

Bran had told her of pipes in the walls, filled with warm water, placed all around the castle. At first she found the idea quite ridiculous, but reality would see her doubts be proven wrong. The walls were in fact warm, despite the now very cold outside. She wondered whether or not the walls had always been like this.

To impress her new hosts, Meera thought it a good idea to make something out of her on the first evening. She attempted to brush her hair, but it proved far too unruly and curly. There was simply no helping it. Then the dresses were put on, but not one single of them made her feel comfortable – they were made to compliment a womanly body, one of which Crannog ladies rarely had; Meera was no exception. Just as she was putting the clothes she had received at her arrival back on, a servant girl called her through the door. She had been invited to dinner with the Starks.

This was far from the first meal she has had to share with members of the Stark family, but it was the first one with a Vale lord. And now she was to dine with two Vale lords, no less: Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish and Yohn Royce. The two Stark sister were also present – but no Bran.

"Ah, Lady Meera." Littlefinger said, rising from his seat. "We thank you for bringing home Lord Stark."

The smile he wore while talking, made him look like he enjoyed a joke only he was in on. Meera noticed Royce glaring at him. 'Lord Stark?' she thought. The idea of her Prince being Lord and ruling an entire kingdom seemed unnatural to her. "Unfortunately, he couldn't be here with us tonight." Baelish continued.

"As much is evident from his absence" Lord Royce said, still staring at Littlefinger, who now turned his head.

Before speaking, the oldest Stark sister took the word. "We reserved a place for you. Here" she said, gently pulling a chair next to herself.

While there was awkward silence in the room, Meera didn't pay it much attention. She was far more focused on Arya Stark – the wild and uncontrollable daughter of the Stark family. The second Stark daughter wore almost the same expression as her brother; cold, emotionless and stiff. Meera found herself wondering why as she took her seat.

"I heard you planned on leaving for the Neck. I'm sure Lord Reed would understand your change of heart." Baelish said with his that sly smile of his on his face.

"I remember him." Lord Royce said. "Always by Lord Eddard's side and capable on the battlefield. A good man."

"I'm still deciding" she answered, earning a somewhat worried look from Sansa. "I miss my Lord Father, but my allegiance is still to my-… Lord Stark." The title was hard for her articulate. It just didn't fit.

Baelish smiled. "We understand. Loyalty can be an odd thing, Lady Meera. I find myself in a similar situation, you see."

"Is that so?" Royce muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Littlefinger turned his stare from Meera to smile at Lord Royce instead. "Indeed it is. But surely, you can relate yourself, my Lord? Both of us have left the Vale, our home, to uphold our alliance with House Stark. I reckon Lady Meera feels exactly the same as us." His gaze returned unto her, awaiting agreement.

Unsure of what to answer, and whose side to take, Sansa came to her rescue. "My Lords, let's first let Meera choose for herself. Know you're always welcome at Winterfell." As she said this, Meera noticed how Arya was glaring intensely at her sister.

The servants came with smoked pork, a thick gravy, wine, both honeyed and not, alongside all sorts of roasted vegetables. Despite never having drunk real wine in her life, she poured herself a cup. It was a mistake though; she coughed a little too loud as the liquid burned down her throat. Both Sansa and Littlefinger smiled at her, and she wasn't quite sure how to take it. The reactions from Lord Royce and Arya were different, however: both of them remained untouched. On Royce's part, he was clearly too occupied looking, and probably thinking, suspiciously of Littlefinger. Arya simply didn't seem to care. Meera wondered how Bran would've reacted – only, she knew the answer already but preferred not to think of it.

Meera had to ask. "Why is it Lord Stark isn't with us?" She asked, looking mainly at Sansa. "If I may ask." she apologetically added in haste.

They all waited for Sansa to answer. Putting down her knife, she answered. "He told me he would spend his evenings in his room, or at the Godswood."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He didn't mention."

"Perhaps he needs time to compose himself after such a long journey. Some boys are like that – especially when forced from his home at such a young age." Baelish broke in.

"Even if what you say has merit, you must admit he has been acting strange, Lord Baelish" Royce stated. Of course he was the first argue with Littlefinger.

"Think of our Lord Arryn. How would he fare, had he been through the same as Lord Stark? What if he had had to fight wildlings, wolves and gods knows what else beyond that wall?"

That seemed to make the proud lord Royce loose his words in defeat. Why, Meera hadn't a clue.

"It wasn't just wildlings and wolves" Meera sputtered. 'Shit'. Why did she have to say that? Hadn't she realized whom she was talking to?

In a middle of all the silence, the next to speak hadn't uttered a word during the entire dinner. "What else?" Arya said coldly.

What was she supposed to answer? She couldn't tell the truth – they would all think of her as crazy, just as crazy as her Prince. She could just picture guards and servants speaking of the "crazy crannog lady". But then again… What would that matter? She was here for Bran, not the guards.

"Dead people." She turned to look Arya directly in the eyes. "Walking skeletons with dead, cold flesh hanging from the bones." She dared not look the others in the eyes – no doubt they were rolling their eyes at her. But Arya didn't – her eyes did not steer from Meera's own, and they appeared to take her seriously. The longer the two kept eye contact, the more apparent it became how scary the face of the wild Stark daughter was – how vacant, how different, how deadly.

"At any rate, if you decide to stay at Winterfell, you ought to write your father" Sansa suddenly stated, breaking the two untraditional ladies' shared gaze.

"That will be problematic." Littlefinger answered before Meera could do it herself.

"I asked our guest, not you."

"He's right – no raven can make its way to Greywater. It's a floating castle – making it more protected."

"Then how are the Reeds kept informed on the matters of Westeros?"

"We're not. Not really. Which is probably why you haven't seen us at any feasts"

"… How will your father know that you're safe?"

"Maybe he won't." She said, brushing off the issue. "Bran is my concern right now."

"What is it you want with him?" Arya spat.

Meera was a bit taken back by the sudden, harsh response. "Nothing you care about, I assure you."

"Arya, don't get mad at her." Sansa interrupted. Arya switched her eyes between her sister and their guest. "She is our guest."

"No, I want to what she wants with our brother. We don't know her, nobody in this room has ever known her."

"I'm sure our king would've let her stay as well."

"Our?"

"Yes, our."

No one said a thing. The two sisters were staring daggers at each other; Lord Royce looked awkwardly at the windows, while Littlefinger had leaned back into his chair, twirling his chin beard. Meera just looked back down on her almost empty plate before rising from the table. "In the Godswood, you say?"

Sansa nodded.

Without another word, she left the dinner table.

The early winter snow fell slowly into her curly hair as she wandered through the Godswood. The entire concept of a Godswood felt strange – after all, she had grown up in the exact opposite, with a castle constantly surrounded by forests, not forest within the castle.

However, it was only logical that this would be where Bran sought solace. He had been sitting right next to a tree for almost a year and having seen gods know what through them. Long ago Meera had already accepted her role as the protector of the important, not as the important themselves. Sure, she had found herself jealous of her brother – his powers, the attention he was given. Where she had to listen and obey her father, father listened to her brother. Her own solace became hunting and fighting. But since she's been doing little else the past years, she wasn't so sure if she still had one.

A bird bashed its wings among the leaves and branches. The noises proved the quiet as a foundation of this part of Winterfell. The silence felt wholesome. Snow crackling under her boots, the leaves whistling, birds flying – it all reminded her of the North. The far North. It was no wonder why Bran then would claim this place as his refuge.

Her heart jumped violently at the sight of her Prince in his wheelchair. Heat rose to her head, from both anger and excitement, creating blushed cheeks. He had been placed just in front of the weirwood tree, a pool just in front of it. The boy appeared unmovable, just staring into the face cut into the bark of the tree. What was she supposed to say? Now, she had found him, but didn't know exactly what next. She could beg to stay, stand up to him, slap him, she could kiss him. Ultimately, it depended not on her, but on the words her Prince chose.

"Don't mind my sister." he stated as she approached him. "She's not really angry with you. She has just changed a bit over the years."

His back was still turned to her; he hadn't even bothered to turn his head. Though composing herself, her right fist became clenched - his 'goodbye' had not been forgotten, and most of all, hearing his voice reminded her of it.

"You told me you would be leaving Winterfell."

She gulped. "I did."

"... But you haven't."

She couldn't answer.

"Why not? Lord Reed knows something of importance. His position gives his words value. You could tell hi-"

"Look at me." The tempting 'please' did not escape her lips.

He slowly raised his head, not yet turning it. Meera refused to open her mouth and ask another time. Instead, she stepped closer to him, realizing he was studying the tree in front him. She could've slapped him right there and then.

"I used to find them scary. Especially this one. The face gave me nightmares."

She closed in on him, just standing a few feet away from the wheelchair. The bank water of the pool had a thin coat of ice on it, freezing the sticks in place. One could easily break through the trapping ice, and the stick would flow freely once again. Of course, you'd have to pick it up and keep it, in order to prevent the stick from freezing into place again.

"But I never had any reason to be frightened of them. I just needed to get to know them."

Her sword itched to be drawn - not to kill, but to be heard. It certainly would make a statement, but she knew it wouldn't help. She sighed as she took just one more step closer to her Prince. Yet he refused to turn his head. He refused to look at her.

"You plan to stay. There's no need. Your father has been waiting for years."

She violently reached out for the armchair, turning it, forcing their eyes together. Even now, he dared showing her those dead, hollow, blue eyes. Her own must have been in stark contrast to his, as she could've sworn they were burning red with desperate anger, had she been asked. In one quick move, she raised her hand and slapped him. Not hard, but not too softly either. At least now she had made him look at her.

"Stop! Just, stop!" she shouted, her voice cracking at the last word. It didn't matter if anyone heard her. As a matter of fact, the entirety of Winterfell was allowed to listen every single word she said. "How can you be like this? All that we've done for you, everything we have been through. All… For this? I just…"

The Lady heir of Greywater Watch was breathing heavily, glaring fury into the eyes of Lord Stark, to which he did not seem to respond. She grabbed his coat angrily, awaiting herself to begin shaking him. She didn't. His gaze had turned from cold to indifferent, however small that change may be. "You are right. I will be staying at Winterfell. 'My Prince'"

With that, she left him alone. Starting with walking determined, she began almost running back to her room. She needed to get away from him, even though she knew he never really would leave her mind. His damned, ungrateful, frustratingly cold face would be plastered all over her thoughts, both asleep and awake. They had been together for too long for him to just disappear from her mind. He had literally been what she kept herself alive for, of course she couldn't just leave him now. He had known. He had known this, yet still urged her to return home. Little was he aware, her home was no longer Greywater.

The reflections of her actions crept up on her as she was lying in bed. Her hand and head remembered the slap; it had felt right, correctly timed and deserved - yet still wrong somehow. Not because there would be talk about it all over the castle the following day, nor because he was her Prince as well as Lord Stark. No… The guilt was rooted somewhere else.

Bran had never mentioned the nightmares before. Visions, yes, scary ones as well. But he had never called them nightmares. The boy she remembered would have told her about them. Then again, he had hardly ever told her of his weaknesses - he'd much rather tell of the time he had climbed something or when he had done something 'impressive'. Her lips turned reluctantly turned upwards at the memories.

It was all the fault of that bloody cave. Whatever it was her brother had been so insistent on reaching, it had better been worth it; so far, it had cost Meera the life of her brother, her friend, and in some way, her Prince. Despite having seen them herself, the living dead seemed so far away, so distant. They weren't her primary concern. Bran was.

As her eyelids and head grew heavy, wings bashed just outside her open window. A raven flew through it, landing on the headboard of her bed. It didn't screech or irritate her. Nor did it try to - it just stared.