Winter Is Coming

"Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you."

The keep fills with the warmth from the fire, dampening Rose's brow. The heat from hot springs is ripe this morning, roasting Winterfell in the dreary weather. She sits, her sisters on either side, concentrating as best she can on her sewing. Septa Mordane shifts between the girls, finally settling in front of Sansa's perfect handiwork.

"Fine work as always," she coos. "Well done."

Sansa beams, proudly. "Thank you."

"I love the detail that you've managed to get in these corners. Quite beautiful! The stitching . . ."

Rose supresses the urge to roll her eyes. From outside, the sound of her jeering brothers creep in through the windows, followed by arrows flying out of their bows.

"Ouch!"

Beside her, Arya manages to prick herself with the needle. She huffs, throws her work down on the bench and pouts.

Rose grins. "I always found needlework a tedious task as well," she whispers. "Come on." She sets her sewing down next to Arya's, then takes her hand and leads her out of the boiling keep. Septa is far too preoccupied praising Sansa to notice.

The cold air is like a refreshing gush of water pouring over her. Lifting her skirt above her ankles, she drags her sister into the courtyard, where their brothers are practising. Bran fires arrow after arrow into the target, each one missing terribly.

Arya looks up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Rose frowns, questioningly. Without saying a word, Arya grabs the nearest bow, draws back an arrow and fires from where they stand. Sharply, it strikes the centre of the target.

The boys spin around, startled. Arya looks pleasantly surprised with herself, and lowers into a graceless curtsey. Bran drops his bow on the ground and sprints towards them, a mildly furious look on his face.

"Quick, Bran, faster!" Jon chuckles.

Rose watches as he chases their sister across the courtyard, leaving the rest of them in fits of laughter.

Rose lies, naked, on her back, watching him begin to undress.

"For someone who witnessed a man's execution today, you're in a good mood," she notes.

Theon shrugs. "He was a deserter. Your father was only doing his duty."

He grabs each of her thighs and yanks her down the bed, making her squeal. Then, he buries his face between her legs, his tongue exploring. Rose writhes, her back arching against the mattress, a hungry whimper parting her lips.

"He could have been sent back to the Night's Watch," she murmurs between gasps. "It seems like a wasted soldier, to me."

A new wave of pleasure is cut short when he lifts his head, looking down at her with exasperation. "That's because you're a girl," he says. "You don't understand these things."

Rose scowls. "I'm a Stark. I understand plenty. You, on the other hand, are still just a hostage."

Something dark flashes in Theon's eyes. Without warning, he pushes himself inside of her, making her cry out, grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them over her head. He begins to take her with deep, hard strokes, watching with smugness as she struggles to contain her wails of euphoria.

"A hostage fucking his captor's daughter," he growls in her ear. He bites it, lightly. "So, who really has the upper hand?"

In the midst of pleasure, Rose feels the sting of his words.

"I wish you'd be kinder about it, sometimes," she whispers.

Theon slows his pace. He looks down on Rose's pretty face with something resembling regret. Those beautiful, snow blue eyes peer back at him, half-curious, half-sad. Leaning down, he kisses her between the brows, the tip of her slender nose, down to her soft lips. He draws back, and brushes the hair out of her face.

"You are the best thing about Winterfell, My Lady," he says.

Rose feels her heart soaring. Using all her strength, she turns him over onto his back, him still buried inside her. Mounting him with confidence, she begins to ride him. Theon's gentle hand snakes up her body, kneading her soft, small breast in his hand. Her lips part again, soft moans escaping her as he reaches, deep into her.

On the outskirts of Winterfell, a procession of gold and red comes marching down the road. The number must be closer to a hundred. Lannister and Baratheon horses arrive, in neat formation, through the gates of Winterfell.

One of the first faces is Joffrey Baratheon, with his golden hair and flowing red cloak. His focus instantly flickers between Rose and Sansa, before settling on the latter with a curious smile. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see Robb eyeing the prince, warily.

Behind Joffrey rides a large knight, with armour darker than the rest, and a helmet in the shape of a snarling dog. When he opens it, the sullen, scarred face of the Hound drinks in the congregation of Starks, stirring horrified whispers.

Rose hardly notices him. She's drawn to the enormous, scarlet carriage being tugged in through the gates by a swarm of horses. Following it, a stout man, far too stout to be riding a horse, with a bushy, black beard emerges, escorted by a series of knights in golden armour. The King.

Winterfell lowers to its knees, every head in sight bowing.

As he approaches Ned and greets him like old friends, from the ornate carriage emerges a line of beautifully dressed ladies, their pink silks and elaborate hairstyles strange against the Winterfell backdrop. Queen Cersei, with hair as golden as the sun, steps out with an unreadable expression on her face. And then her two children, Tommen and the smallest, Myrcella.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asks, a little too loudly.

Sansa glowers. "Would you shut up?"

The King turns to the lining of Stark children.

"Who have we here? You must be Robb." He shakes his hand, and no other words are exchanged between them.

He stops in front of Rose, with a smile. "Lovely Rose, how you've grown."

And to Sansa, "Aye, you're a pretty one."

He looks down. "And your name is?"

"Arya."

Robert says nothing, instead turning to Bran. "Show us your muscles." Bran grins, flexing his skinny arm. Robert chuckles. "You'll be a soldier."

Queen Cersei approaches them, forcing a smile as Ned kisses her hand and Catelyn lowers into a curtsey. Soon enough, Robert heads for the crypt, with Ned following after him.

The Winterfell banquet roars late into the night, full of drunken camaraderie, kissing, upbeat music and dancing. Sansa spends most of the evening clinging to Rose's side, but her eyes are on Joffrey more than anything else.

"He's so handsome," she whispers, over and over.

Rose smiles, putting an arm around her. "You see the way he looks at you? Like you're the most beautiful girl in the North."

Sansa blushes, happily. "You will come with me, won't you? To King's Landing."

"If father will let me," Rose insists. "I'm by your side, always."

They sit and talk, discussing the prince for a while longer, before Sansa is sent to have audience with the Queen. Rose watches them smile and chatter together, swigging back another cup of wine. She is only ever allowed to drink on special occasions, but she has a feeling any more will send her vomiting through the night.

Using the table to support her, she staggers to the other side, where Robb is sat, brooding to himself. "You look troubled, brother," she says once she's plopped down.

"And you look drunk." He tries to sound stern, but he can't keep the amusement out of his voice.

Rose snorts, unattractively. "I have had three cups. That is all."

Robb glances to where Sansa is talking with their mother and the Queen. "Do you think it's a good idea? Sending her off to marry the prince."

"She won't be going alone. Father and I will be there to look out for her."

"And Joffrey? He doesn't seem like—"

"—a right royal prick, as you so poetically put it?"

Robb quirks a brow, surprised by her foul language.

Rose senses his concern, and puts a hand over his. "I know that you worry about us girls, but we can't be locked up in Winterfell forever. Soon enough, we'll all have to marry nobles and have heirs of our own. Sansa's heirs will be little princes and princesses. Doesn't that sound like a good thing?"

Robb considers this. Rose looks over to where Joffrey is sat, his gaze still fixed on Sansa. When he glances their way, Rose immediately turns her head, flushing.

Across the table, Arya is catapulting the food from her bowl across the table. After several attempts, it manages to splash Sansa, right in the face. "Arya!" she screeches.

Robb's expression softens into laughter, and Rose feels a gushing sense of relief. Or, perhaps, that is simply the wine taking a stronger effect.