"The North is not always the north." The King had said this to Devan the same night he told him that Devan would not be coming with them on the march to Deepwood Motte. "Lady Melisandre has need of your service," His Grace had said. "Bryen Farring should suffice as my squire."

Bryen's uncle Ser Godry Farring had slain a giant during the battle with the wildlings. The Giantslayer, some of the men had taken to calling him. Perhaps, Devan thought, His Grace preferred to take Bryen for that reason.

He dismissed the thought after some reflection. The King did not evaluate the worth of a man or a boy based on his family, their titles or their accomplishments. He would not have made father his Hand otherwise. Perhaps I had done things that displeased him.

Devan could not think what he had done wrong, however. The King was not the sort of man who would hide his anger or displeasure. He would have spoken out immediately if anything was amiss, or did not rise up to his requirement and satisfaction. Devan had been present during many a tongue-lashing from His Grace, and had been a recipient of quite a few himself at the beginning of his service as the King's squire.

But not as much as Bryen Farring, he thought.

The problem with Bryen, Devan mused, as he was polishing the last of the King's armor, is that he's still terrified of His Grace, after all these time. Bryen was better at many, many things, mending things, reading, fighting with swords and lance. He will be a better knight than me, Devan thought, without any rancor or envy. But Bryen Farring was so terrified of the King, his hand would shake when he was pouring water, making a mess of even a task as simple as that. He would forget which piece of clothing should be put on His Grace first, because the sound of the King grinding his teeth made him so nervous.

"His Grace is not angry with you when he's grinding his teeth. He's thinking of something else, or someone else. He would tell you if you're doing anything wrong."

Devan had told Bryen this over and over again, but it had not help. And when the King was finally angry at Bryen for the spilled water or the armor placed the wrong way, that would ony make Bryen clumsier and slower. Which would make the King even angrier. And Bryen would be more and more terrified. And on and on and on. It reminded Devan of how his youngest brother Steffon liked to run around in circles until he was too dizzy to stand.

Does Steffon still like to do that? Devon did not know, he had not seen his mother and his younger brothers in many, many moons. And it seemed like such a silly thing to ask his mother in a letter, when there were more important things to write. He set aside the thought of his mother and brothers for the moment, and went back to thinking about Bryen and the King.

Poor Bryen, he thought. But he felt bad for the King, too.

So why not take me, instead of Bryen? The thought would not go away, no matter how many times he told himself that it was not his place to question His Grace's command.

"The North is not always the north." Devan smiled as he thought of the King's sudden words, as he was leaving His Grace's chamber. Devan had wondered why the Black Brothers kept saying that King Stannis was marching south to Deepwood Motte. And why the wildlings referred to all of them, including the Black Brothers, as southerners.

But Deepwood Motte is in the land of the Northmen. The land of the boy who called himself the King in the North. The boy not much older than me, who is now dead.

He had wanted to ask Maester Pylos the question, but the maester had been spending most of his time sequestered with the maester at Castle Black. I will ask father once he's back from White Harbor, he thought.

Devan had not mentioned his curiosity to anyone, yet somehow the King knew. It did not surprise him that the King would know, His Grace always had a way of knowing things that people did not expect him to. Devan had wondered if this was the same gift Lady Melisandre had, of looking at a man and knowing what treachery lies in his heart. The gift from the Lord of Light. His Grace is the Lord's chosen after all, Devan thought.

But somehow, he felt that it was not the same thing. Devan could not explain it if asked, except to say that the King's way of knowing things did not feel otherworldly. It was rooted more in the way His Grace was ever vigilant, always watching, always observing.

"The North is not always the north. It depends on where we are standing. To the wildlings, anyone living on our side of the Wall are southerners. To the Black Brothers, anything beyond Castle Black is the south. Yet the Northmen think of themselves as living in the North. The only constant is, we ..." the King paused, looking at Devan expectantly.

"-are southerners to all of them." Devan quickly replied.

He got a vigorous approving nod. "To the wildlings, to the Black Brothers, to the Northmen, we are southerners. I am a southern King with my southern lords in their eyes." The King paused again.

"And that is why you are marching to Deepwood Motte, to liberate it from the Ironborn, so the North will know Your Grace as their King too."

The King was grinding his teeth again. Devan wondered is his words had been the cause.

"Yes. I had hoped that my rightful claim to the Throne would have been enough for them, but since it was not, other means are necessary."

The King spoke with a finality that told Devan that the conversation was over. He left the room, closing the door quietly. Once Devan was on the other side of the closed door, he broke into a smile, as he thought of the nod.