Chapter One: A Maiden in Chains.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Robb Stark often felt that he was the most dutiful to House Stark's customs of all his siblings, even surpassing Jon. He worshipped the Old Gods fervently, visiting the Godswood once every single morning. When not training in the yards, or assisting his parents with the arduous task of balancing ledgers, he could be found studying the Stark history. Memorizing the names of ancestors whom Robb felt both pride and shame for. This dedication to the legacy which coursed through his veins was perhaps the reason he knelt dutifully in the Crypts of Winterfell on a very cold day. Every fortnight the heir of Eddard Stark would spend an entire day sharpening the, more salvageable, blades of his forefathers.

This was a time of reflection, an opportunity to lose himself in the memory of ancestors long deceased. A small part of Robb even hoped that, perhaps, by doing such a splendid deed he might one day be remembered by his own grandchildren. Torch flickering, reaching out occasionally to sweep cobwebs from glowering statues he noticed something strange. In an almost absent minded haze the Lordling managed to get rather lost. Trapped inside of the lowest levels of the crypts where the ceilings were sinking beneath eons of burdensome pressure. Black curls coated with dust he blinked about with those Tully-blue eyes for some indication of his location. "Gir-," Robb enunciated slowly, "No. Walton Stark?" That disintegrating name was ancient beyond belief, outdating the only other Walton Robb knew of by centuries at least.

Sighing at this unfortunate predicament that frustrated gaze noticed something very strange. Hidden behind the dense manse of cobwebs based upon King Walton's statue was the distinct glimmer of something very red. Using the torch Robb removed this visible barrier with a disgusted frown. Slipping into the crevice he recognized various patterns etched into the stone, yet the layers of dust were so thick that a hand needed to be run across the surface. Circling the large, ruby orb was the partial depiction of a dragon, snarling and fearsome. Words were also present though they looked nearly faded beyond comprehension. Something scrawled in a language not familiar to him. In a curious manner he reached upwards to poke the faded gemstone. "Aah," Robb gasped when the thing pushed backwards triggering an ominous grinding noise. With an explosion of dust the wall rushed open as though it were some sort of door.

Waiting long enough for the flame to rise back to a steady level he stepped inside very slowly. There were millenia-old whispers of the secrets hidden inside of Winterfell, especially the crypts. Some were absolutely false, others held a kernel of truth, while most were long forgotten having faded into the mists of time. Robb wondered nervously if he somehow managed to stumble upon one of Brandon the Builder's terrifyingly complex contraptions. A torture room, perhaps. The first thing he noticed were the various vessels. Boxes, crates, trunks, chests, and even boudoirs were packed into the surprisingly massive cell. Patchy, stone walls rose higher than the torchlight could reach leaving an inky-black cloud overhead. Shivering, Robb Stark passed more richly decorated, grime-coated containers prior to making a discovery that would change his life.

A shout of surprise broke into the air, echoing loudly throughout the crypts. There was another dragon carving, sprawling and fearsome, etched into the wall. Littered with more rubies it extended from wingtip to wingtip, fangs to claws. In the center of this shocking scene was the most beautiful woman Robb could ever recall having seen, or even read of. Despite the foul concoction of dust and grime which coated her body there was still a sort of unearthly luminescence that clung to her milky skin. Golden-silver cascades of hair tangled around her naked thighs. Womanly hips led to a willowy waist which in turn led to what even his inexperienced eyes could only think of as the most bewitching pair of breasts in Westeros. After admiring this strange woman's gorgeous, heart-shaped face, Robb found himself descending into a horrified realization.

There were tarnished, silver chains wrapped tightly about her nude body, and both hands were staked into the wall by rusty spikes. Robb rushed forth without thinking. Only wanting to release this ethereal creature from such a wretched suspension, so that he might embrace her loveliness in both arms. With no small bit of effort those manacles were pried apart allowing a limb at a time to swing free. The spikes were a much more difficult undertaking. Using every bit of his strength the Lordling ripped one free only to find himself staring at the next. Face turning redder than a berry he emitted a large groan, tugging until the final piece of metal was twisted free from her flesh. Gagging at the dishonorable atrocities committed against a woman Robb pulled her into his arms.

Through the Crypts of Winterfell Ned Stark's heir marched skillfully, focused only on finding Maester Luwin. In fact, he was so absorbed with this task that none of the odditties could be considered. Namely how a woman so viciously imprisoned in the Crypts of Winterfell still had a pulse. Finally they broke into the courtyard where every pair of eyes present were drawn to the peculiar scene. Despite the gloom sunlight still managed to strike down upon the filth-covered pair. As soon as Robb's feet touched down on the cobbles outside of the crypt the woman jerked violently.

Green and blue, sapphire and emerald respectively, peered upwards at him prior to rolling backwards.

OOOO

Robb found himself sitting next to her bed often over the course of the next month. She was a comatose wreck, Maester Luwin claimed, who suffered from strange conditions he found quite unnatural. Further adding to the peculiarity was the now-guarded vault in the crypts. Far older than this young beauty could ever possibly be, as well as filled to the brim with vessels of exotic items. Delightful gowns of lace and cloth-of-silver, entire boxes of precious jewelry and ivory ornaments, leather books calligraphed and bound by the Maesters of Oldtown took up most of the space, while more was being uncovered with each day. So valuable that large hoard turned out to be that a constant rotation of guards were cycled throughout the crypts every day.

Fingers knitted beneath his chin the young man watched the rise and fall of her chest while wondering about unknown identities. As usual Robb's mother pointed out what the Stark men were admittedly too clueless to ever acknowledge. That silver-gold hair was the mark of a Targaryen, or any other person of Valyrian descent. Knowing the Lady of Winterfell had danced with Rhaegar Targaryen at a Riverrun banquet prior to Robert's Rebellion, Robb did not question her judgement. Still, this information only wound up leading to even more confusion. What could a woman, presumably a Targaryen woman, have been doing in the crypts? She was no older than twenty, and even if a mere bastard of Aerys, Rhaegar, or some Velaryon, much too pretty to have slipped through the cracks. No, Robb thought to himself, this young woman could have been gifted to some humble Lord.

He forced himself to move over towards the window at this point. Septa Mordane refused to go anywhere near the comatose woman after having heard rumors of sorcery. Robb could not blame the smallfolk for jumping to start such rumors, yet he did blame the Septa for her idiocy. In such a situation it was only proper for a recovering girl, such a beauty at that, to be watched over. So the Stark children took it upon themselves. Even Sansa joined in which was a great departure from her normal obedience to Septa Mordane's opinions. "The Drowned God himself put tits on this one," Theon Greyjoy crowed raucously upon slipping into the room. Mentally Robb agreed with his lecherous friend though it would not have boded well to say such.

"Get out Theon," He snapped easily enough, "If you would be so despicable as to speak such of an unwell maiden." Moving quickly Robb sat back down in the chair next to the bedside, so he might better glare at the Ironborn. Theon simply raised both hands in silent submission while his eyes continued to rake over the beauties' prone body. Even beneath pounds of sheets there was still an undeniable luminescence to her. As though a spell were broken the lecher jumped in surprise after Jon elbowed him violently in the side. Appearing from the shadows with a tray of dinner.

"I came with your supper, and to tell you that Arya will be late to her shift tonight. She has to make up for a shoddy day of needlework." With a frown the bastard nodded back into the shadowy hallway. "Theon simply decided to force his company on me. Since none of the serving maids were interested in having his poxed cock." They soon left Robb with the tray and a pounding headache, sniping at one another viciously all the way out. In the silence he sat with both hands propped beneath his chin. Staring out the window at the bright moon above head.

"I was always told," A voice both breathy and sensuous shocked him, "That these breasts were sculpted especially by each of the Seven." He turned to stare as the ethereal creature sat shakily upwards. Tully-blue eyes met with the mismatched pair. "Though the Ironborn are known to copulate with anything that possesses a hole. So I will not take his opinion on such theological matters so seriously."

"You were awake, my Lady?" He blushed, feeling sorrowful that she was forced to listen to Theon's tale.

"Of course," She smiled upwards at him, leaving Robb in a horrifyingly uncomfortable position. This woman was devastatingly beautiful when awake. Before she left him thinking of Old Nan's tale about a maiden locked in some sort of glass coffin. Now, however, with silver-gold hair, and those strange eyes it was clear that any other maiden would be hard-pressed to pose any challenge. All too aware of his sudden hardness, Robb wondered silently if it were not time to take up Theon on his offer of a skilled whore named Ros. So long as this Valyrian beauty inhabited Winterfell the urges would doubtlessly only grow stronger. "I found myself in a strange place, in a stranger bed, with a strange man sitting at my bedside. Was it not common sense to continue with the pretense of unconsciousness to ascertain my surroundings?"

"I suppose," Robb tried to fight the blush at being called a man when he was so clearly not. Her honey sweet voice was so overwhelming that such a feat proved immeasurably difficult. "May I ask your name, my La-."

He found himself cut off upon noticing that those delightful eyes had shifted intently upon the tray of supper. "Would it be overtly impudent of me to ask if I might answer your questions after having eaten? I am feeling famished beyond sufficient description." Without wasting a moment, or waiting for an answer, she gnawed her way semi-violently through the food. Bandage covered hands flashed with more efficiency than could have been expected from the wounds on her delicate palms. At the sight of such savagery Robb found himself even further enthralled. He could not recall having ever met a maiden who did not care what the future Lord of Winterfell thought of their courtesies.

"My brothers must have been angry to lock me away for so long," She admitted callously, "I can feel that the heat of summer is dwindling."

"Pardon, my Lady," Robb ventured cautiously, "But your own brothers put you in the Crypts? How could they do something so cruel?"

A hard look flooded into that strange gaze, "Forgive me, but did you say Crypts?"

"Aye, the Crypts of Winterfell," Here any confidence she seemed to have faded away. "My name is Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully." No recognition seemed to cross the woman's increasingly horrified face. "My Lady, perhaps I should summon Maester Luwin. You look very unwell." She was indeed breathing heavily while that pale skin took on a greenish tinge.

"No, no maesters my Lord," A beseeching look crossed the gorgeous woman's features, "What year is it?" At that question desperation finally seeped into her formerly refined voice.

"Two-hundred-ninety-eight years after Aegon's Conquest," He answered immediately with a concerned expression. She collapsed backwards on the bed in response.

OOOO

Catelyn scurried through Winterfell the next afternoon. Quite unladylike, yet there was nothing that could have been done. According to chatter the mysterious, Targaryen-featured woman whom her son had found in the Crypts was allegedly awake once more. "Move," She snapped stringently at a flat-footed serving girl that struggled to move aside quickly enough. Anything related at all to the Targaryens made for an awful omen ever since Robert's Rebellion. Some Houses might have replaced their dragon banners with those of a stag, but it did not mean they burnt the old ones. So it went without saying that the best course of action would be to do away with anything that might be misconstrued as treasonous. Lest the Lannisters catch wind of a silver-haired girl in Winterfell, and manipulate Robert Baratheon upon House Stark.

Nearing her Lord husband's solar the Lady Stark smoothed her frazzled locks of Tully-auburn. "Let me pass," She snapped at the guards prior to slipping into the large study. Instantly the occupants turned to stare at her surprising arrival. Predictably Ned was stone faced, his typical response to uncomfortable political situations. "I heard word that our guest had awoken, my Lord husband," Catelyn pursued a pretense of courtesy. Calling him by his given name would only undermine the authority of House Stark in the eyes of this woman. Moving to stand beside him in a strategic position which oozed with solidarity.

"We have not discussed anything...Substantial yet," Ned stumbled with the words. Clearly aware that he should remain measured though quite unpracticed with such precautions in his own home.

"You mean," She levelled her gaze firmly at the young woman draped in little more than a black cloak and white gown. "The matter of how this Lady," They would assume the best of her birth until more came to light, "Came to appear inside of our Crypts. Surrounded by, what Maester Luwin called, 'A cache of unprecedented value'."

"Catelyn!" Ned protested predictably, "We do not even know what her name is yet."

"Shiera Seastar, my Lord and Lady Stark," The beauty cut them off, much to their shock. "I considered feigning otherwise, claiming to be a Targaryen bastard. Though from what I hear the Targaryens have recently been ousted by Robert Baratheon. Therefore, I presumed that I might as well give you the courtesy of knowing my true name. Before you behead me for performing sorcery, or some other smallfolk-satisfying explanation for how I wound up in the Crypts."

"That must surely be a lie!" Catelyn was, more than she wished to betray, absolutely flabbergasted. "Shiera Seastar. Last of the Great Bastards, daughter of Aegon the Unworthy, born well before this current century began." So caught up in her relief of having arrived on time the Lady had not noticed Maester Luwin sitting in the corner. Now he interjected.

"I spoke with Lady Shiera at length prior to this meeting. Among her numerous belongings were hundreds of diplomatic documents stamped with the Targaryen insignia and seal," He paused thoughtfully. "She also allowed me to administer a verbal exam of sorts. The Lady was immensely knowledgeable of heraldry, and society of the times from which she claims to hail. I utilized a multitude of texts to verify the accuracy of her knowledge."

"How?" Ned managed to speak the words she could not bring to both of her own all, even Luwin, stared at the Great Bastard carefully after that.

"My brother Brynden Rivers was a sorcerer as you all might well know." Each of the three nodded in agreement, for the Bloodraven was much more famous than her in history. "I often disappointed both Brynden and King Daeron. The two wished that I wed, Brynden even preferring himself over some Tyrell or Tully. I did not feel obliged to sacrifice so much as a mere Great Bastard with virtually no claim to the Iron Throne, especially not after everything I had already done for House Targaryen during the Blackfyre Rebellion." She froze, pretty face wrinkling with enraged furrows. "When Bloodraven caught wind of my intentions to flee for Lys, the home of my mother's family, he informed King Daeron. They vowed to punish me dearly for such a 'betrayal'. I was trapped beneath a powerful spell by my own brothers."

Catelyn halted herself from judging the foolishness betrayed by the young woman in her own story. Even Arya understood to some extent that it was a Lady's duty to marry, but clearly Shiera Seastar had paid dearly for this mistake. Robb described a torturous scene of chains and rusted spikes which were only corroborated by Maester Luwin's description of his patient's troubling injuries. "You have no idea how you ended up in the Crypts of Winterfell? Lady Shiera?" She added the last part as an afterthought, still extremely stunned to be speaking with a woman rumored to have been the greatest beauty Westeros ever saw. Having met Lyanna Stark, Cersei Lannister, Ashara Dayne, and even Rhaella Targaryen made Shiera's loveliness all the more stunning.

"I can tell you more than the Lady Seastar can on that matter, Lady Stark," Luwin stepped over to the desk to confer more effectively with them all. "On a hunch I reviewed any ledgers from the Bloodraven's journey to Winterfell on his way to the Wall. He brought many large wagons with him along the Kingsroad. Only half that number proceeded onwards to Wall, yet there were no records of any significant changes in any inventory registers." A thoughtful pause ensued, "Given the vast quantities of new wealth being excavated from that tomb each day it seems to have been a gross oversight."

"In my time I was involved in many different trades and had a great many… Admirers," Shiera Seastar spoke factually in answer to their unspoken questions. "My duties as an ambassador to House Targaryen led to much wealth. My beauty yielded many gifts. I am merely grateful that Bloodraven did not leave me stranded in a strange time with no assets." Humility and modesty were some of the most vastly underrated weapons in every woman's arsenal, Catelyn thought silently, yet the Great Bastard was employing them with talented ease. Like a dragon feigning innocence until the men lured into her outstretched jaws could no longer hope to escape.

Luwin proved himself just enough a fool to fall for such tricks. "The Lady Seastar speaks no justice of the true role she played in Daeron Targaryen's government." The Maester set a stack of yellowed, ancient, official documents before Ned who initially gave them a cursory glance. That glance caused an immediate change in his demeanor as he eagerly tore through the papers with his grey eyes. Catelyn did not harbor any misgivings about reading them herself as her husband set them aside.

Now it seemed that her initial impression of Shiera Seastar was correct. This Princess, born to a King nearly a century dead, had been a ruthless administrator in her half-brother's early tenure as ruler of Westeros. Her claims of a mere involvement in only matters of trade had been misleading to say the least. From what the Lady of Winterfell could surmise this gorgeous Targaryen had had a hand in nearly every aspect of the Small Council. Each of the papers detailed endeavours in affairs which ranged from the royal finances to oversight of state intelligence. She already knew that her husband would spare this woman a death in King's Landing, though Catelyn hoped Ned was doing so because he saw the sheer value in keeping such a woman close.

Lady Shiera's entire family was dead, a jaw dropping hoard of wealth which technically belonged to her resided in the Crypts, and she had contributed a great deal towards the development of King's Landing into a major power. They would shelter her, Catelyn decided, and make what use they could of such an astute mind. Of course there would be whispers of the sorcery which led to her unnatural longevity, but the political benefits surely outweighed such minimal ramifications. Already Hoster Tully's daughter was plotting and considering what might happen if they wedded the Great Bastard to Wyman Manderly, or ordered her to construct another Northern port. One that could rival King's Landing.

"I cannot send you to King's Landing," Ned finally spoke, wrenching his wife from her feverish machinations. "Knowing King Robert that would certainly result in an underserved execution. Then there is the strange matter of proper courtesies. You are no longer the daughter of a King, though you were once of enough societal esteem to be kept as a ward. I am incapable of determining how to place you within my household."

"Recently I have begun to consider that Sansa will soon outpace Septa Mordane's teachings," Catelyn remarked easily, filling in the cracks where Ned's uncertainty showed. That was no lie either, for the Septa's time truly had come to an end. Sansa, at the mere age of nine, was already more courteous than half the Noblewomen in Westeros. Yet Hoster Tully's daughter understood that there was an even more important step to be made. Before Edmure's birth she had been raised like the heir to Riverrun, and had fared all the better for it.

Her darling Sansa was already shaping into one of the most desirable maidens in all of Westeros, perhaps even beyond. Politics were vital to function ably in such prominent capacities, and who better to instruct her daughter than a woman who practically operated King's Landing during the Blackfyre Rebellion. "Arya could do to well spend another year or so learning the intricacies of propriety," By the Seven could that not have been more true, "But Sansa gains nothing from being held back. I recommend that Lady Shiera fill in as a governess. Then when she has spare time we can have her assist Maester Luwin with his duties." Sansa would surely prove capable of endearing the former Princess to House Stark, and Luwin would test just how capable Shiera Seastar really was.

"That does seem to be a befitting arrangement for a woman of your stature, Lady Seastar," Ned agreed, knowing better than to buck against his wife's suggestion. Talks soon devolved into more trivial matters regarding Shiera Seastar's accommodations, as well as the complete transfer of her wealth to the Winterfell treasury for safekeeping. Catelyn Stark simply eyed the Targaryen beauty cautiously the whole while. Eager to put her abilities to use, but still wary of the immensely enigmatic air which surrounded her person. Though the 'younger' woman simply continued with that innocent pretense in response.

As though nothing would make her happier than to play a Northern nursemaid.

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Future.

I am going to be honest and say that this fiction is really just going to be a lot of wish fulfillment for me. Read if you want, but don't get pissy over the direction it starts to go. Furthermore, I am aging all of the characters up a bit except for Rickon really. Not too sure by how much, but it will be a bit more appropriate than in the books.