"It's not fair!"

A Prince, Leopold Lannister, who was busy drawing plans on parchment, threw his golden head back and grinned as the familiar whine of the youngest Stark daughter thundered into his room and the door slammed behind her. He shut his book and tossed it to the other side of the bed, for, while his love for books and grand ideas was great, his love for the young Stark girl was much greater.

"And here comes my Little Lady Stark to ruin my peace." He stretched out like a cat and his gleaming green eyes watched her stomp and rave. As soon as she entered, a fierce wolf pup came running into his chambers. Nymeria pounced onto the Prince's bed and have him a good lick before settling herself by his side.

The direwolf found comfort in the lion's den.

"What happened now? The Septa made you do… could she possibly be so cruel? … cross-stitch!?"

"Ha. Ha." She tossed her handiwork at him and he caught it in one hand, familiarly. "Hilarious, Prick."

"I do my best to amuse you, Little Lady Stark."

"Fuck off."

"Language!" He reprimanded, but grinned all the same.

"Can you fix it, jester?"

He observed her work and there was no polite way to put it: it was horrendous. There were knots in the string and the lines of stitching were crooked in every direction. It was chaos. He honestly had no idea how she could butcher something so simple so badly.

"I assume you had the brains to bring the string and needle, Little Lady Stark."

"Obviously, I'm not stupid." She tossed the items to him as well.

"Really?" She gave him a hard look that only made him laugh. "What about the scissors?" Without looking up, he heard her disappointed sigh. She had forgotten. "Lucky for you…"

His knuckles supported his body upwards and he patiently waited for Arya to pass him the two wooden crutches that rested beside his bed. They had been designed by his Uncle Brain and taught to use by his Uncle Brawn, as he called them affectionately. Balancing on them, his bare mangled feet touched the cold, stone floor and he hobbled to the door, like he hobbled everywhere. He made his way across the room where he opened a cupboard's drawer and took out a small wooden box. Opening it, he pulled out every knitting utensil known to man.

"… I might have some."

She watched him wobble unsurely. He was so very strong. He could have been a great warrior. He could never be, though, because his older brother, Prince Joffrey, had ridden a horse over his legs when he was 7 years old in an 'accident'. That violent mess forced the king to separate them and send one boy to his only trusted friend, Eddard Stark. The Queen had apparently fought fiercely against sending either, but eventually the damaged Prince volunteered. She was so thankful that it was this brother that came, rather than the older. He was her closest, most loved friend.

He landed quickly back into bed and his botched legs were back on their proper pillows.

Arya huffed, and she dropped herself by his feet. "You know sometimes I think you're Sansa. You certainly have enough lady things to rival her." She watched him thread the needle and prick himself at least twice. This was where her fitting nickname for him came from- because he pricked himself so often with a needle – for she did not know its other, more phallic, meaning when she first thought of it when she was five years old.

He lightly glared at her. "If I was in your shoes, I wouldn't insult the man who holds your fate in his hands. Excruciating chores or a stern talking to from your mother, was it this time?"

"Both, and I wouldn't be allowed to go outside my room for a week."

"Ooh, a triple punishment. You must have been driving the Septa up the wall this time. Then pray to the gods I don't slip and make a single mistake, or this will be the end of Arya Stark of Winterfell."

Arya rolled her eyes but remained silent, watching the Prick work. He bit threads, pricked his fingers and sucked his own blood, all for her. His brows furrowed and at some point, in their comfortable silence she leaned gently on his calves, mesmerised. He, and his doing the task, was fascinating to watch.

He had luscious, bright golden hair and cool green eyes, like all Lannisters were famed for. There was a harsh royal air about him, a brutal kind of gracefulness. His square jaw and the lines of his face made him look both handsome and older, Arya admitted to herself, though she would suffer torture than confess that to him. The cloaks he wore were Stark wolves, Stark leather and Stark fur. His large bed, which she had often plopped on after an angry fight with Septa or Sansa or Mother or anyone else, was covered in wolf skins and wolf engravings. If it wasn't for his western roots, you would think he was a Stark. It was strange to think that he was a Prince.

Suddenly, Nymeria jumped off the bed to race against some invisible spirit, in one of those inexplicable moments that animals do. and with her shattered the many needlepoint utensils.

"Nymeria!" Both Leopold and Arya shouted at the pup, but she was too wild to heed their reprimand.

"I'll get it," Arya growled at the foolery of her pet and bent down onto the floor to collect the tools most foreign to her.

"Arya…" the cautious, almost afraid, voice wavered.

"What?" She growled. The bloody scissors fell under the bed.

"Come up here for a moment."

"Why?" She lifted herself off the floor and looked at the place in which she sat, with mortified horror

There, on the wolf furs, was a humongous blob of blood.

Shocked eyes trailed to the Prince who with a pale face and a quivering finger pointed to the back of her dress. "Arya… I believe you've… flowered."

It was then that she screamed. It was the most piercing, glass shattering sound that he had ever heard.

"ARYA! Shush!" He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his chest. He leaned on her in order not to fall but his body mass muffled her panic. "Arya listen to me…. Shhh listen to me… here's what's going to happen."

The pressure on his legs became too much and he fell back onto the bed, taking the panicked girl down with him. The jolt in adrenaline shut her up.

"Arya… here's what will happen… you are going to put on this cloak to hide the stain… then you are going to run to your parent's chambers and find your mother who will know how to deal with the situation… give you a bath or something argh I don't know how girls deal with this okay?! Then you are going to calm down and we'll meet in the Great Hall for some hot goat's milk and put this entire traumatising affair behind us." He held her close. "Say 'I understand, stupid prick'."

"I understand, stupid prick."

"There, see? You feel better already." He let her go, barrel rolled across the bed and reached into his closet to find the crimson Lannister silks that he had hidden away for eight years. "There you go. Remember, up the stairs, two lefts and at the end of the corridor is the Lord's chamber."

She sent him one final glare and sped off, gripping his cloak tightly around her shoulders.

When she was gone, Leopold let a relieved sigh escape him while he clutched his heart. That was a moment of horror he never wanted repeated.

He looked at the blood stain on his furs. "Well… never thought I'd be in this situation."

)-'-,-

A lone figure stood on the platform above the Training Courtyard watching boys down below. Robb Stark and Jon Snow were teaching their brother Brandon Stark on how to shoot, one of the finer educations of a lord's son no matter the order of birth.

Green eyes watched the younger boy fire arrows, however inaccurately. Leopold was never given that education, nor would he ever. The Heir of the Seven Kingdoms had saw to that.

In a flash of a moment, Robb Stark looked up and saw the cripple on the balcony. Discreetly, he waved his head for Leopold to join them and discreetly, with the wave of her hand, denied that invitation. Any closer proximity would make the bitter bile of jealously so much sourer.

The Lannister hobbled further into the depths of the castle for which he ventured out of his rooms, before being briefly distracted by the unattainable.

"Your Highness!" The stone mason welcomed the boy into his quarry. "So happy that you are here."

"I do hope that I don't disturb your work, Tommy."

"Not at all, Your Highness. Now… let's get started. As with last week, we discussed the steels, I thought this week we'd get onto melting…" For the next few hours, the humble blacksmith explained to the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms how to make swords.

Every day, for over four hours, the Prince would sit in a different craftsman's abode and listen to how their trade worked. Amongst blacksmith and the stone mason, the cook and the butcher, the farmer and the baker, the soldier was completely forgotten.

"I still don't get why you choose to spend all your free time with the commoners. What are you trying to be Aegon the Unlikely or something?" Robb asked the boy after the lesson with the blacksmith was over and the two boys made their way to a lesson that they shared, one that was the most important part of their education as heirs of great estates – the Lord of Winterfell.

"Someone has been reading a bit of history, I see," Leopold said as he struggled down the stairs.

"Not really. I've just been listening to you ramble on about it for eight years," Robb chuckled, as he ran down the steps. "One tends to pick things up when all you talk about is Aegon the Unlikely, Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys the Old King, Maekar I and Daeron the Good and that's just off the top of my head and only when you're on the subject of kings. You never shut up."

"I'm very glad… that I've been able to… drill the Heir of Winterfell's knowledge… of our past kings… I notice you don't mention many of the go-to kings. No Conquerors or any Young Dragons," Leopold laughed. "I'd say Maester Luwin and I have done a very good job."

"You're not the bloody Grand Maester of the Citadel, Leo."

"No," he said, as they finally reached the bottom of the stairs and into the courtyard where horses waited. "But I'm smarter than you, Bobby. Don't you ever forget it."

"What took you so long?" Lord Stark was not pleased to wait for the two of them. The Lord Paramount of the North had been saddled for ten minutes.

"His Royal Highness was having trouble descending stairs," Robb rolled his eyes. "You know Leo, if you're so smart, why don't you invent a lift to bring you up and down stairs, so you could be on time for once?"

Instantly, Leopold's eyes bulged. "By the Seven, Bobby, you've just given me an idea."

'Bobby' looked very unamused. "Oh really? Well, if it's a good one, then you'll remember it. In the meantime, do you still remember how to get on one of these things?" Robb patted the neck of a fine horse.

"Bestial creatures, horses," Leopold halted and made a face of dislike. "Must we use this mode of transport, my lord?"

"I'm afraid so, Leopold, today's terrain is off the road, so a carriage is out of the question," Eddard said sternly, but he gave Leopold a sympathetic look. "Come on boy, you have to get used to them at some point."

Leopold sighed. "I suppose." He looked at an attendant. "Groom, help me up this monstrosity."

"Careful Leo… horses smell fear," Robb grinned from atop his own horse.

On top of the beast, Leopold grumbled. "Not well enough." Only the Gods knew how much he hated horses.

They rode for two hours until they came to a suitable destination across the White Knife river. The three went fishing once a fortnight. It was a chance for Eddard Stark to teach his eldest son and ward on the what it meant to be a Lord, while being outside of the castle itself. No one could disturb them out here in the open nature, field and sky. Originally, Eddard had intended for this slot of time to be devoted entirely to his wards so that they would feel the compassion of their warden, especially since, when in Winterfell, it was easy to feel his distance when surrounded by his true children. However, Theon Greyjoy had proven to be a poor fisherman, despite being an islander, while Robb proved to be a natural. For Leopold of course, there was no field where he was not a talent in if he put his mind to it.

"I have something to tell you both," Ned said, as he threw his fishing rod into the ice-cold lake. The two boys looked at him. "I've received a raven from the Capital. It seems the King and court are coming to Winterfell."

The news surprised both boys. Robb looked at the blonde prince. "What does my dear Father want so badly that he'll be willing to come all the way North?"

"Jon Arryn has passed away," the Lord said, with great solemnity.

"Jon Arryn? The Hand? The Lord whose ward you were, Father?" Robb asked. "My condolences."

"Indeed," Ned paused for a moment. "So, the King will need a new Hand."

"And will you say 'yes', Lord Stark?" Leopold asked, processing this information. He had a sneaking suspicion that Arryn's death was not a natural one and he was guessing which information might have caused such a drastic measure.

"I have no choice. Whatever the king wants, he must have. I may be his friend, but I am, above that, his sworn lord who is bound by oath to obey and serve him. I cannot deny him."

"What about the family?" Leopold asked almost immediately.

"We'll have to separate. The girls and Bran will come with me is what Lady Stark and I have decided." The solemn eyes of the Lord turned to his son. "You Robb, and Rickon too, will remain here in Winterfell with your mother and act as the acting Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." His eyes then turned to the Prince. "As for you, there is further news."

"Oh goodie."

"Lord Tywin Lannister has raised some concerns. He feels that now that you've reached manhood it is time for you to journey to Casterly Rock and learn the ways of being the Lord Paramount and Warden of the West. He feels that it is time that you took a wife and started a family. As soon as the journey party reaches The Trident, you are to go down the River Road to get to Casterly Rock."

Leopold groaned. "Was this all written in the same parchment of paper?"

Eddard laughed. "I know that this is much to take in. Despite the distaste that I feel for your grandfather, I feel that he is right. You, and Robb this includes you as well, are old enough to get married and given your precarious health—"

"Really? 'Precarious health'," Leopold interrupted. "I am rarely sick. I am mostly crippled."

Ned lightly glared. "It is wise for you to start thinking about heirs."

"With whom? Some bimbo from the Westerlands that is a cousin close enough to call it inbreeding and whose as plain and boring as a brick? Thank you, grandfather, but no thank you."

"Yes, but unfortunately the more colourful women of your life Leo are off the table. They'll never pass Lord Tywin Lannister's approval," Robb laughed. He made a pun about the colour, since Stark women, particularly those who took no interest in fashion or dress choices, were obliged to mostly wear the grey colours of their banner.

Leopold rolled his eyes. Eddard made no sign of having heard his Heir speak.

"Leopold… what I wanted to say is that it might be time for you to say goodbye to Winterfell. The South is calling," Ned said, as he caught a fish on his line, leaving the Prince to stare at him in shock.

The impact hit him. A goodbye to Winterfell would mean a departure for his entire childhood. There were so many memories hidden in the cracks of the castle. The grey corridors lined with Stark flags in which he japed with Robb Stark, coming up with all sorts of nicknames for each other; brooding in shadows with the sombre Jon Snow, while those more fortunate than them basked in whatever it was that they lacked; the glass window through which he caught Sansa's scorching glare when the Septa praised Arya's (Leopold's) needlework to be of a greater quality than her own; of Arya he possessed countless memories in all parts of the castle; the specific direwolf statue on which he leaned upon when Bran was showing him how high he could climb the castle walls; the disfigured stone statue of Torrhen Stark in the crypts near which little Rickon asked him so many questions about the mythical Kings of Winter. The very walls danced with the ghosts of remembrances that were sacred to him. To let it all, go, on the whims of his grumpy old grandfather, seemed wrong somehow.

A pebble hit the side of his head. "Hey, earth to Your Highness… you've caught something," Robb gestured to the paddling hook in the lake. Leopold pulled out a fat fish.

)-'-,-

The long-awaited moment was upon them. The king's procession was through the gates of the castle. Lannister and Baratheon guards piled in. A golden carriage, a similar if not the same that brought Leopold here, rolled in. He immediately recognised his fat father riding in on a tall stallion; almost as quickly as he recognised his older brother on top of his own horse. The gold hair and vicious face, in addition to Leopold's utmost hate of him, made it difficult to miss him.

The Prince, who hobbled beside Rickon on Lord Stark's left, heard the real Lady Stark ask Lord Stark where his Little Lady Stark was. No sooner than she asked, a scrawny grey dash whizzed past him. A metal helmet propped on her head, she looked at her father meekly, saying sorry with only her eyes.

The king dismounted and headed straight for Ned Stark. The entire host party bowed low for a moment, except Leo, whose crutches were problematic and, so he settled with only bowing his head.

"You've gotten fat," were King Robert's first words.

Ned Stark looked at the king's own obese belly. The king only laughed and hugged his long-time friend. He moved onto Lady Stark and embraced her, roughly but affectionately.

"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, your grace. Winterfell is yours."

He shook Robb's hand, ruffled Rickon's head, remarked on Sansa's beauty, asked Arya's name and saw to Bran's muscles. He greeted all the Stark children before he moved onto his own son, even though he stood right beside Rickon.

"Lannister." He nodded curtly.

"Father," Leopold replied, with equal short courtesy and he averted his eyes from the king's. Although he'd never admit it, Robert Baratheon terrified Leopold.

Of all his children, Robert hated Leopold the most. Never taking an interest in his children, he didn't know their true characters. He didn't know that Joffrey wanted his attention, or that Leopold wanted to compensate for his useless legs, or that Marcella wanted to make him proud or that Tommen was an isolated little boy who knew little of masculinity. When he looked at his four children, he saw only the progression of House Lannister but with his crown. At least they styled themselves as Baratheons. Leopold, however, rubbed the salt in the already stinging wound and adopted solely the Lannister name. Tywin Lannister named him his Heir to Casterly Rock. In the king's eyes, his son had sold the Baratheon name for gold and he hated this spawn the most.

"I trust the Starks have treated you well?"

He looked at Lord Stark. "Exceptionally, your grace. Why Lord Stark might as well be my father. He's treated me so well."

Something angry sparked in the king's eyes and he left his son before he would do something he would regret in public. "Ned, take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects."

"We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." It had been the first time that Leopold noticed his mother. She had been in the carriage and he was too busy avoiding the glare of his father to notice. Robert ignored her and continued to the crypts anyway. Cersei rolled her eyes, humiliated once again, and made a beeline for Leopold. Unlike Robert, she embraced him warmly.

"My son." She kissed the top of his golden head and made Leopold's cheeks flush red with embarrassment. He could already see Arya teasing him about this later.

"Hello, mother." He coughed to let her know that was enough time for hugging him. She seemed to understand and recomposed herself. There was some water in her eyes. "I trust your journey hasn't been too difficult?" Formality and discipline, he told himself. That was the best way to deal with the swirling in his head.

"Ours may have been but I can't imagine the difficulty you must have, brother, to even lift yourself onto your own chamber pot on your journey to take a shit." Joffrey's taunting and cruel gaze stopped the swirling in his head. The Crown Prince had emerged from behind the Queen's skirts. As he always does, thought Leopold bitterly.

"Now boys—" the Queen tried to interrupt, but while she was a good mother, she was terrible at diffusing the tension between her two eldest. She loved them both too much to pick a side.

"No mother, the Crown Prince is kind to worry about his brother's lavatory methods. The next time I need help shitting, I shall call on him. He's clearly a master of it."

"How about the heir to the great house of Lannister be reminded who is next in line to be king? He seems to have forgotten. I could have your head on a spike with the click of a finger."

"There's my favourite nephew," a metal hand hooked him out of his thoughts. There stood Uncle Brawn, tall, golden and as handsome as a fairy tale. Leopold bit back the coming insult and instead flung himself at the armour of the Kingsguard with a large clang, all crutches forgotten. The strong, metal arms of his uncle clasped around him, to support him, to make sure he didn't fall.

Joffrey stood behind, awkward and forgotten.

If there was any one he was anticipating greeting in the party, it was Uncle Brawn and Uncle Brain. Uncle Brain he would find later, Uncle Brawn he had all to himself now.

"I've missed you, Uncle Brawn," he whispered, and he could feel his uncle's arms tighten a little bit more around him.

"Is there a private place for us to talk, my son?" The Queen asked, coming back to the pair after giving the Lady of the castle a customary greeting. Her tone was not jealous or resentful towards her brother, but rather that she wanted this whole affair to be a private one.

"Of course, Mother," for the first time in seeing her, he smiled brightly. "If you would be so kind as to give me my crutches, I would show you the way to my chambers."

Jaime laughed. "Like hell." He bent low and picked up his nephew by his legs, flinging the large portion of his body onto his shoulder, then bending low again to pick up the two crutches. "Lead the way, my Prince."

It was awkward and uncomfortable for Leopold with his belly on his uncle's hard armour, but he was used to being carried around by various strong stable boys when his crutches wouldn't suffice; on long steps, for example. He felt weak and vulnerable and hated that feeling every bit, but for his uncle he would endure. "Straight ahead, uncle."

He looked at his mother, who walked behind his uncle. Her eyes were filled with longing and tears.

This was going to be a long talk, he felt.

His chambers were large, but they were mostly taken up by a massive bed, constructed specifically by the carpenter for the crippled Prince. There was a fireplace burning at the heat of a furnace because the Prince was easily cold. A huge writing desk faced the window and looked out towards a variety of sights like the courtyard where boys practised their swordplay, the rooms of a certain wolfish girl who hated needlepoint and an abandoned tower that had never been refurbished. Books and papers were scattered everywhere in the room. Prototypes of inventions – flying machines, boats, bridges, ladders, castles. The boy was born to be a genius.

"This looks comfortable, Your Highness." Uncle Brawn stacked the Prince onto the soft bed. "You're much heavier than I remember," he panted, cold breath leaving his mouth.

"That's what happens when you grow up, Uncle." His mother took visible offence from those words, but she didn't say anything, only swooped in, like hawk, and landed beside him. Jaime sat on Leopold's other side.

"It's good to see your sense of humour hasn't waned with these stoic Northerners," Jaime laughed and put a proud gauntlet on the Prince's shoulder.

"What you don't know, Uncle, is that the Northerners have a better sense of humour than the rest of us. It's the coldness, you see. You can't afford to not have a sense of humour in these frozen climates," Leopold grinned.

"I suppose."

There was a beat of silence.

"I'm glad that you're here, Mother… and Father." He could feel them looking at each other over his head. "Don't worry, there are no devils in the walls. We're all alone." The Queen's warmth embraced him and this time he fell into her bosom and clutched her close. "I've missed you."

"We have as well," the Queen said. "I hope you can forgive us."

"I understand… kind of." He detached from his mother. "Hell, if my son had almost murdered my other son, I would have probably done what the King had done too."

"But to the Starks—"

"I wouldn't have anyone else. They've been very kind to me. They've swallowed their hatred of Lannisters for my benefit. They've tolerated my disabilities and cultivated my gifts. I've felt as if I was at home, except for the coldness. I'll never get used to this cold, but the Starks are not to blame for the weather." He pondered on whether he should tell them about all his adventures here. About Lord and Lady Stark's parental love, or Robb's skills with a sword, or Sansa's beauty, or Jon Snow's sorrows, or Bran's ability to climb or Rickon's wild nature, or the direwolves, or what books he'd read. Most of all, he wondered if he should tell them about Arya.

"Of course, the only reason they've done all those things is because they think you're Robert's son. It would be very problematic if suddenly they found out you weren't." Well, that made his choice for him.

That question had plagued him since the day he arrived, and the Starks showed him any kindness. What if they knew that he was not the son of a king, but a bastard born of incest? There were times, when things were especially good, that he was sorely tempted to test out their love and confess of his parents' perversions. Reason, thankfully, and not emotion, governed him in his decisions usually. He didn't want to jeopardise his and his parent's lives.

"Thank you for the reminder," he said. "It's not like I've thought about that a lot or anything."

"My darling, it is time that you said goodbye to this place. In a fortnight, the court will be moving back to the capital. The King has ridden to ask Lord Stark to be Hand of the King – he'll have no choice but to accept," the Queen told him, looking meaningfully at her brother.

"That much we all gathered."

"We need you to come to the capital with us. It is time that you finally embraced your role as Heir to Casterly Rock. Your grandfather has written to me. He wants you to start learning the ways of the Westerlands. He wishes to make you the acting lord of Casterly Rock and to take a wife and father sons."

Horror and fear struck the Prince mute.

"Oh, leave the boy alone, Cersei. You sound like Father." Jaime tugged the boy closer to him. "Tell me about your life here instead, boy. I want to know. Do you know how to ride a horse? Tyrion and I sent a saddle. Of his design of course."

"Where is he anyway?"

"Where do you think?" Cersei said, harshly.

"Ah yes, there's a brothel outside the castle walls." Leopold mentally slapped himself for not putting two and two together.

"How would you know that?" Cersei's piercing glare bore into her son.

"Not by the methods that you presume, mother. The other ward of Lord Stark, the Greyjoy heir, has a magic cock that is hugely… famous. Have you heard of it? He doesn't shut up about it sometimes. I made him a song about it for his name-day, if you want to hear it sometime. It's funny. Anyway, he visits the brothel and he ejaculates… all this information onto anyone he'll find… as if I don't have a magic cock."

Jaime laughed. The Queen rolled her eyes. Secretly, both were happy that Leopold had inherited Jamie's sense of humour.

"I would love to hear the bard, but later perhaps," Jaime chuckled, seeing his sister's discomfort. "Are there any girls that my son would like to use his 'magic cock' on?"

He sorely wanted to tell them. He was dying to tell them, despite the embarrassment. They would both disapprove, though, and his chances would be diminished. He took a gamble. "Yes, but Mother won't like it, so I won't speak it."

"A Stark girl," the Queen rolled her eyes. Why did he feel the need to hide it, again? His mother was a human lie detector.

Leopold shuffled sideways and stared hard at his twisted boot. He didn't want to ruin the atmosphere. "Let's not talk about this now."

"Now, now Cersei. You're being a bit hypocritical, don't you think. What's he supposed to do?"

"Let's not talk about this now," Cersei glared hard at her brother.

"Agreed." Leopold grinned, awkwardly.

"Fine." Jaime resigned.

Seven years' worth of awkwardness now fully set in.

)-'-,-

The feast was a tiresome affair. For one thing, Leopold didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see the king groping women and embarrassing his mother. He didn't want to sit between Joffrey and Marcella. He didn't want to be in this crowd.

"So, sister…" He was already bored with the conversation that he was beginning with his sister. "How is the capital?"

"Warmer than this. How did you live in this cold, brother?"

"Hmn," conversations about the weather were boring affairs. His sister was a boring girl, so was his younger brother. The only sibling that was not boring was his older brother and he would rather suffer boredom than Joffrey's excitement. Joffrey, who sat beside Leopold, seemed to be making the same choice. "Any marriage deals for you, princess?"

"Not yet, though there are some whispers, but the really juicy news is that Father is organizing a marriage for either you or Joffrey to Lord Stark's daughters." That didn't seem to surprise Joffrey at all. He surely heard them, but he didn't move from his bored posture. "What are they like, Leo? Lord Stark's daughters?"

What was he supposed to say to that? Tell his gossipy sister, and by default his filthy brother, about Arya's fierce, wild nature or Sansa's pretty needlework that was only slightly better than his. He felt sick to imagine either being Joffrey's wife. Any girls in the whole world, but those two. Those girls were too precious to him. "Excuse me. I need some fresh air."

He grabbed his crutches and left the table towards the direction of the door. He could really use with some fresh air. Maybe he'd find his Uncle Brain. He wasn't at the feast. How long could a man be in a brothel?

)-'-,-

After briefly greeting Benjen Stark, Leopold proceeded towards the cold air. Jon Snow was in the courtyard, but he was talking to someone. As Leopold hobbled closer he realised that it was his Uncle Brain.

"…Lord Stark is my father."

"And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you the bastard."

"Oh no, is Jon bemoaning you about his bastard problems, uncle? Am I missing the opportunity to bemoan my cripple problems?" Leopold hobbled in and leaned against a pillar beside Jon and facing his dwarfish uncle. Breathing heavily, he looked at his Uncle Brain. "Let's compromise. I'll get to your height, but you have to walk to me."

Tyrion grinned. "Sounds like a fair deal to me." They embraced, like two old friends and agreed that they should talk. "One last thing. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you." He looked at his crippled nephew. "Well, we're off. See you around, Snow."

They left the bastard to his brooding.

"I trust the crutches work?" Tyrion asked. They were heading to Tyrion's designated chamber.

"They're immensely useful on stairs and such. Also, they don't make me a lazy git like a wheelchair does." He made his uncle laugh.

"I'm glad that I've managed to suit my favourite nephew."

"Have you ever thought about making yourself some stilts to make yourself taller?"

"Yes, and I looked completely ridiculous. It doesn't work if everyone knows that you are a dwarf pretending to be tall."

Leopold laughed. "I've missed your humour, uncle."

"I've missed your laughter, nephew." They entered the dwarf's chambers, however long the journey for them was. "Are you old enough to drink?"

"Yes, I am."

"Thank the gods!" Tyrion lifted his head to the skies. "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words from you."

"That doesn't mean I will get drunk with you, but it does mean I will drink with you."

"It takes a crack in the wood to make the whole barrel pour out." Tyrion grinned and brought out the wine with two goblets.

The next few hours were a blur of wine and laughter and Leopold only left his uncle's chambers in the morning, accompanied by a cracking headache.

)-'-,-

"Boy!" Robert Baratheon was making a beeline for him. "We need to talk!" The king has impeccable timing for Leopold has only just left his uncle's chambers.

Leopold swore under his breath. "Would you like to make it private?"

Robert came closer and leaned his giant frame against the stone wall. In one hand, there was a jug of wine and in the other, there was no goblet. Robert was very drunk.

"Listen here, Lannister," Robert coughed and then swallowed more wine. "Your mother insists that you come South. She also won't let me have peace if I don't wed you to the Stark girl. So, here's wants to go to happen, you little shit. You're coming to King's Landing, you'll wed the girl and then you'll go to your fucking Casterly Rock, so that my eyes don't see you, ever." Robert spluttered, gruesomely.

"Yes, your grace," Leopold gritted out. He did not enjoy being spat on by drunken fools.

"Yes… wed and bed Ned's youngest girl and make more Lannisters to please the high Lord Tywin Lannister."

That caught Leopold completely off guard. "…T-the youngest Stark girl."

"What's her name… Arry or something… the little, grey one that looks like a boy. Your mother insisted, for some reason. Ned was so happy to comply… don't know why since I promised Joffrey to the pretty one… probably because yours has bled and everything." Perhaps Robert was saying something more, but Leopold heard little more. He only heard that he was going to marry the girl that he loved. His heart swelled at the very thought. It had been a favourite fantasy of his.

He left Robert to continue his drunken babble and his crutches carried him to Arya's chambers.

When they arrived, there was a light burning inside the chamber. He approached with caution. The door to the chambers slammed open with the sound of protesting cries leaving the chambers, followed by Lord Stark. Eddard noticed the luminescent golden hair of the prince immediately. He walked towards them, brooding and angry about how his favourite daughter reacted.

"Robert told you I take it," Eddard spoke, gruffly.

"Yes."

"And you're not… displeased by it?"

"Very much the opposite, sir," Leopold remained serious to the stoic lord. "I promise you I will protect your daughter with every ounce of my being, even when she doesn't want me to."

Those seemed to be the magic words for Eddard Stark as he broke into a relieved smile. "That's what I want to hear. Lady Stark and I have wanted you and Arya to have a chance together for years. I know you love her. You're a good lad and I can't think of any one I'd like more as a son-in-law."

"Thank you, my lord. I truly hope that I can live up to such high esteem." He glanced at the door. "Shall I talk to her? Calm the raging storm."

Ned looked amused at him. "You can try." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I wish you luck."

The prince leaned against the wall to rest his legs. With a deep breath, Leopold knocked on the door of the chambers. He was greeted with a very rude and wet "Go Away!"

"Arya! Open the door. We need to talk."

"You prick!" She screamed. She was crying. "I don't want to marry. Especially you!" Those words stung badly, but the boy ignored the pain and continued knocking. Knowing this girl for as long as he did, he had swallowed a fair amount of her poison.

"Why 'especially'?" He turned to a jesting strategy, which had usually amused her. "Do my mangled legs repulse you? You didn't seem to mind them so much before."

"It's not the legs!" Came the sobbing reply.

Leopold placed himself on the floor at the bottom of the door and leaned back. Standing up was becoming a lot of effort for him and the chances of Arya wanting to see him were slim. "Is it the peach fuzz? I can assure you it'll be a wonderful lion's mane one day… or well… if you don't want me to wear a lion's mane I suppose I can go bald."

"I don't care about your stupid hair!"

Leopold chuckled. "Really, then? I can't seem to think of any disadvantages to the match. You'll be rich, well-provided for, have your own castle. I'll hire you a master swordsman and you can learn how to swing a sword if you like." He paused. This attack was weak and unconvincing. He'd have to press harder. "…I'll let you have anything. Just ask."

The door unlocked, and he fell backwards onto her room.

"Um… uh… that was abrupt. Here, help me up," he held his hand up, waiting for her help, but it didn't come. "Are you deaf? Help me up."

"You're a really stupid prick."

"Why, thank you, my little lady. Such fine compliments only you can provide." Seeing that she wasn't going to be helping him up, he sprawled on the floor to be more comfortable. He was good at sprawling on various surfaces. He was like a cat that liked to lie on its back.

"I don't want to be your little lady." Arya gritted out. "Don't you understand!?"

Leopold masked the pain once again and smirked. "Why not?"

The tears returned to her eyes. In all his years knowing her, Leopold had seen Arya cry a few times and they were always the results of physical harm; a scrapped knee or a broken arm or a bout of tickles. He had never seen any tears of an invisible force, an emotional pain.

"Y-y-you're my only friend. If we marry, everything will change. You won't fix my awful needlepoint. I won't be able to tell you things that I heard about the castle any more. And what's the point of learning how to swing a sword if you have hundreds of guards around you to protect you… If we marry, we'll have to… do things… that friends don't do…. Give you heirs and other dirty things." Then she truly blanched. "I'd have to become a lady of all things - the Lady of Casterly Rock."

Lying on the cold floor of his betrothed's chambers, Leopold did nothing but laugh, while she, frustrated, could do nothing more than pout at being patronised and blush red for revealing such intimate fears.

Now was the moment for the lion to pounce.

"Oh, Arya… how naïve you really are. Point number 1, remember this. Of course, you don't have to become a lady if you don't want to. Don't be daft. This is you we're talking about. I can't force you to do anything. I don't expect, and nor do I want you to. I want my wife to be a fierce and vicious beast, so that Joffrey and all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms cower in fear from her. Imagine how powerful that would make me! Every lord has some meek, little, submissive doll on his arm, while I have a snarling doll-killing direwolf. You being as you are plays in my favour. Point number 2: you're going to learn swordfight whether you like it or not. I don't know if you've noticed but I'm a bit useless with a sword… or any weapon for that matter… and we're going to the South. Sometimes guards will not be around, or worse, they'll betray us. I'll need you, my trusted friend who will be bounded to me by a flimsy ring, to protect me from my enemies. We will both have enemies in the South and I pray to God that you can swing a sword for the both of us. Point number 3: I will fix your needlework even if all my fingers are chopped off. Point number 4: I will never tire of your assessments on the goings on in a castle. And my last point, Point number 5, marriage won't break us apart. Much the contrary, it'll mean we'll never be separated. In fact, if you don't marry me, you'll have to marry some other worthless little lordling and then we'd truly be separated, forever. So… really… make your pick." The lion grinned at the girl, victoriously. This was a struggle that he had already won.

She still looked unconvinced, though admittedly much more amused. The redness in her eyes was starting to fade. "You'll do my needlework if you have no fingers? How do you imagine doing that?"

"With my teeth, of course." He laughed and, to illustrate, he loudly clapped his teeth together. "Of course, you'll have to make sure that I don't swallow the needle, that'll be very probl— "

"You didn't answer a certain problem." Ah, yes… that. He'd deliberately and futilely avoided that one specific necessity of marriage.

"I don't see a problem," he joked, feebly. She hit him.

"I do.".

"Arya…"

"You said things won't change between us if we're married…" She lowered herself down to the floor and sat beside his broken body. Sadness overwhelmed her at the thought of departing from youth. "…but things will change if we have to do… that."

"I never said things won't change. They will. We'll both grow up. We'll both change, but that doesn't mean it will be for worse."

"Easy for you to say… you're… older and this thing will be easy for you… y-you're also a boy!"

"Not completely sure about that last one. With all the needlepoint that I've done for you over the years, I'd say I'm the more girly member of this marriage."

"Be serious."

"Alright… how about this compromise, then? We won't do… the unspeakable thing… until you are ready. Until you are 100%, unequivocally and stubbornly ready. Believe me, when I'm done with puberty, you'll be begging for this lion meat." He made a show of his admittedly large bicep and Arya rolled her eyes, but laughed nonetheless. "And I'll say no." He laughed raucously.

"You promise?"

"I vow on my pretty hair… and you know how precious my hair is to me."

"Okay… but what if… never mind."

"Say it."

"I said never mind."

"Something is clearly on your mind."

"What if… I'm not ready. What if I'll never be ready? What will you do then?" Her voice sounded as if something was stuck in her throat. "What if I fail at this whole marriage thing? I don't want to disappoint anyone - especially you."

Leopold wanted to laugh because the notion was so absurd it deserved an ugly sort of laugh. She – Arya Stark of Winterfell – disappoint him… at marriage? But she was telling him complicated feelings, so he stifled the desire to laugh. "You can't disappoint me."

She glared at him and looked away. "That doesn't answer my question."

He sighed. "Can I tell you a secret?" Pause. "Moreover, can you keep a secret, little Lady Stark?"

"Of course, I can."

"Without letting anyone know? Shielding it to your death, like a soldier?" She laughed. "No, no it's no joke. A royal prince is giving his most trusted warrior a secret to safeguard from danger. If the warrior should fail with this mission, the prince will trust the warrior no more."

Arya rolled her eyes again, but listen to him. "The warrior is not laughing. Now what's the secret?"

The laughter fled from Leopold's eyes as the impact of the secret on him. He was making a mistake in telling her that he loved her right now. Neither of the two were ready.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. The way he had thought about it since he began thinking about it involved a lot more romance. He wanted to carve it into the stone of Winterfell or Casterly Rock or the Red Keep or all three. He wanted to scream it from the top of his lungs. He wanted to climb to her chambers' window sill, even if he possessed no legs to speak of. He would make love to her in the snow. He wanted the maesters of the Citadel to write in their books for a thousand years about the great love that he had for this girl. He wanted the whole world to know that Leopold Lannister loved Arya Stark of Winterfell, even if the words Lannister, Stark or love meant nothing to the rest of the world.

"Well… the warrior waits," Arya said, impatiently.

He thought of something quickly. "The Prince's secret is… that the Starks have raised him to be honourable and faithful."

She slumped, disappointed. "That's a boring secret."

"Warrior… we're going to the South. That secret is the most dangerous of all."

She didn't seem to heed his warning. She was far too inexperienced of the intricacies of the South to understand it. She would learn soon enough, sooner if she was going to be his wife. His path as brother of the future king and Heir of Casterly Rock was a dangerous and twisted one. His matrimonial partner would have to share it.

"So… are you still mortified that you have to marry the legless beast?"

"You just called yourself a prince!"

"Princes can be beasts too, you know."

She laughed. "To answer your question - no, I guess. I think… if I must marry anyone… I'd rather marry you. It's just… marriage is… not really my thing." She curled into a little grey ball. "I'm going to be pretty terrible at it."

"You're the daughter of a high lord. It is your thing," he reasoned, but his reasoning only bought him glares from the girl. "But don't worry. We'll have fun, you and me. We'll have so much fun that we won't bother with being good or bad at marriage."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Prick."

"A Lannister always pays his debts."

)-,-'-

With his bride pacified and his respects to the father-in-law paid, Leopold made his way to his mother's chambers. He knocked and hoped to the gods above that Robert wasn't present. It was Jaime who opened the door at night and let their huffing son in.

"Almighty Father preserve you, shouldn't you be more discreet?" Leopold huffed, taking a seat at a stool.

"I'm on Kingsguard duty— "

"I don't want to know what 'duty' implies," Leopold flinched. The image of his parents making love was a traumatising visual affair for the prince, at seven, when he first witnessed it, and now at fifteen.

Jaime didn't look amused. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now, young man?"

"I wanted to talk to my mother." He turned to Cersei, who was brushing her hair by a little boudoir. The gleaming green eyes of his mother were watching him from the mirror.

"I assume about your marriage."

"Exactly. Seems a bit too easy and a bit unlike you to just fling girls at your children, especially in the legal way. What do you want in return?"

She was brushing her hair gently, controlled. "Your uncle did some reconnaissance about the castle," her intense stare turned into the direction of Jaime. "It seems the entire castle believes that you love this girl. We both saw how you looked at her during the feast. Like a puppy that you really, really wanted for your name day." She was ripping her golden locks with the sharp comb. This was evidently not her idea.

"What your mother is trying say is that this is a peace offering for you, from us," interrupted Jaime. "Should you have any lingering anger at us for sending you away to live with these barbaric Northerners, we would like to soothe this ruffle. Be a family."

Arya was a peace offering from the Queen. Oh, how the strings of the game strummed!

He had to play his cards right.

"I've yet to wed and bed her, but so far consider me pacified." He grinned. "But on the additional condition that you get rid of the engagement between Joffrey and Sansa."

"Robert seems dead set on that union. I can't promise that I can break it," Cersei said.

"Mother… if you want your second born to not hate you for sending them away to these so called 'barbarians', then you can achieve that by betrothing them to the second born daughter, but if you want that second born to not come after your firstborn as vengeance for these crippled legs, then you'll break Joffrey's engagement to Sansa Stark. I hope you consider my offer. Good night." He left them, alone, to ponder.

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