298AC

Lyanna Stark

She was stirred from sleep by the feel of a rough tongue against her cheek. Grumbling in disgust, Lyanna turned away from the offending tongue and snuggled deeper into her pillows. A few minutes of reprieve was all she was granted for she soon felt a scrape of teeth against her big toe. Her sock slipped down her feet, exposing it to the cold of her chambers. Absentmindedly, she kicked out and felt a brush of fur and then air. Pulling her legs to her chest, Lyanna tried to recover some of her warmth and lull her body back to sleep. To no avail. Soon her covers were pulled abruptly out of her grip and to the floor.

The shock of cold was fierce, and her sleeping shift did little to combat the chill. She shivered and sat up. Playful green eyes met her glare. Less than a year old, the wolf pup was near as large as some hunting hounds though with oversized paws that hinted at the true size he would grow to. Her fur comforter was in the jaws of the black wolf pup. He wiggled his tail and let out a mock growl in challenge when she merely sighed.

Lyanna's eyes found his albino brother in the corner. Ever watchful red eyes stared at her. The white wolf sat silently as ever. Since his birth, Lyanna had heard Ghost make only a handful of sounds. Even when threatened, Ghost would only bare his teeth rather than growl. The pup had been born the runt of the litter of six but now he was a touch larger than either of his three brothers.

"At least you don't wake mama when she's sleeping," Lyanna said. Then she noticed her sock laying on the ground before Ghost. The wolf cocked his head when she frowned.

Lyanna slipped her feet from the bed, wincing as her bare sole came in contact with the cool stone floor of her chamber. The fire burning in the hearth had long ago extinguished and the cold was quick to seep into the room through the cracks of the large double doors that led to the balcony. She grabbed her stolen sock, pulled it on her foot and up her calf then threw open the balcony doors to let the cold wash over her. Like swimming through the icy lakes and pools that were found in the forests on Bear Island the cold air was painfully refreshing. Shocked to alertness, she took in the sight of the rising sun.

Every sunrise at the edge of the known world was breathtaking, no matter how many times one bore witness. Veins of red and gold broke up the blackness of the Wall. Shadows and light warred, briefly and brilliantly. Blacks and blues, golden hues, stripes of pale red reflected off the icy surface. Seven hundred feet high, the Wall seemed to rise for a small eternity until the top of it was at one with the lightening sky above.

A summer snow fell from the sky above. Not enough to add to the drifts that had already been piled higher than her head against the walls of the buildings but enough to add to the dizzying majesty of the scenery. She had been at Castle Black more than a week and still smiled like a little girl at such a sight. Well worth the journey. She decided.

A knock at her door interrupted her musings. Lyanna crossed the room and threw open the door to find Ser Waymar Royce staring back at her. The lordling blatantly drank in the sight of her body in her sleeping shift. Aware of how the cold had stiffened her nipples and how her breasts pressed flush against the fabric, Lyanna let him look for a long moment. She had endured worse leering and crude commentary from his brothers in black. At least Waymar was pretty enough for her to leer at him right back. He's much too young. She reminded herself.

When his eyes met hers, Lyanna gave him a playful smile. "Ser Royce, what a surprise. What brings you to my door at this early hour?"

Waymar gave her a wide smile of his own, showcasing a full set of white teeth. He was dark-haired, grey-eyed, lean and a graceful. A shadow of a beard graced his jawline. "Lady Lyanna, the sight of you in the morning could warm a frozen man's heart."

Lyanna crossed her arms, aware of how such a motion accentuated her breasts and leaned against the door. Waymar mirrored her motion and rested against the frame. "Thank you, Ser, but you did not answer my question."

From behind his back the knight produced a steam cup of tea. He held the cup to nose level in offering. The smell of it alerted her to just how dry her throat felt. Perched on the rim of the cup was a slice of lemon. "There's honey in it as well."

Lyanna's brow rose in surprise. "You remembered."

The knight gave her one of his cocky grins. "Of course, my Lady."

She accepted the cup gratefully. Surprisingly sweet, the warmth that flowed through her chest was most welcome. With a cheeky smile she said, "It seems steward was your calling after all."

Predictably Waymar's grin lost some of its luster. As the third son of the great Bronze Yohn Royce, the Ser had come to the wall with great fanfare. In the Age of Heroes, it was said that near a quarter of the men on the wall were knights, nowadays every knighted man on the wall was a rarity. There were fewer than a hundred of them split between the three active castles on the Wall. Privileged with starting martial training at a young age, most were made rangers the day they swore their vows. A fate Waymar undoubtedly thought he would share. Lord Commander Mormont had a different plan in mind for the young Ser. Still too prideful to realize the Old Bear is grooming you for command. It should have been obvious, making the Ser his personal steward and all. Men and their pride.

Waymar recovered after a time. "Somehow serving a beautiful woman such as yourself is more enjoyable than doing the same for the old man." He's growing bolder. Lyanna thought with amusement. Waymar had taken to pursuing her ever since she arrived at the wall a week and a half ago. Much to the hilarity of Dacey and Alysanne. As the only women at the wall, they were bound to attract a deal of attention though Lyanna's furry guardians and perhaps her Stark name were enough to discourage the masses. Not Waymar though.

"You're a flatterer, Ser. Are you sure your calling was not to be a poet rather than a knight?"

Waymar snorted. "You have yet to see my skill with a blade, my lady."

Lyanna nearly rolled her eyes. If the boy had inherited half his father's skill, then he would be quite formidable, but his cockiness would be his undoing. "You forget yourself Ser. I've seen Ser Arthur Dayne fight with Dawn itself. I am hard woman to impress." She nodded at him and then nudged the door closed with her foot.

Waymar's boot prevented the door from closing fully. His cocky grin had not abated. "Perhaps I can impress you in other ways?"

Really? Rather than reject him outright, Lyanna paused as if she was seriously considering his offer. "What did you have in mind?" Her head cocked to the side and she allowed a teasing smile to touch her lips.

Waymar took a step forward. "Perhaps you would like some company this morning?" No sooner had he made his advance did Ghost step between her and the knight. The albino direwolf bared his teeth. Fenrir was quick to join his brother. His growl was audible. Belonging to a wolf twice his size. Even as pups the wolves were fearsome and more than enough to the Ser pause.

Lyanna gave him an apologetic look. "I think I have all the company needed but I thank you for the tea." She raised her glass in toast and this time successfully shut the door in his face.

She scratched behind Ghost's ear. Fenrir was quick to brush against her side, jealous for her attention. Lyanna rubbed the black wolf's flank with her other hand. "I think it is time to start our day."

Under her grey woolen breeches, she wore hose and thick woolen socks. Her long-sleeved shirt was a deep blue grey and a welcome warmth on her cool skin. The grey coat she wore was fur lined, same as her gloves. She donned her sword belt, complete with her longsword and dagger. There was a knock on the door as she was lacing her high boots.

Dacey and Alysanne entered her chambers without invitation. The Mormont sisters were the sharpest contrast of each other. Dacey was long and lanky, six feet tall with flowing black hair held in a long braid. She wore dark green breeches, a matching studded coat with the black bear of House Mormont emblazoned across her chest. Her tall boots were heeled adding an inch to her already considerable height.

Alysanne was far shorter than her sister. Shorter than Lyanna. Thick, both fat and muscled in equal measure with large breasts, hands and thighs thick enough to crush a man's head. Her smile was full of crooked teeth but lovely still. "What did the young Ser want?"

Lyanna lifted a brow. "Young? He's not much younger than you."

Alysanne shrugged. "True, but he wants the she-wolf to ride him not the bear."

Dacey snorted. "Ignore her. Uncle Jeor wants us to break our fast with the men in the common hall. Are you coming?"

Lyanna shook her head. "I ate too much at dinner last night. Not hungry now."

Alysanne frowned. "I ate twice as much as you."

"She's twice as small as you," Dacey ribbed her sister good naturedly. Alysanne made a rude gesture in response. "Are you planning on staying in here all morning? The wolves are undoubtedly hungry. Ravenous little bastards." She knelt to pet Fenrir who moved between the two sisters. Ghost in contrast, sat in the corner of the room. Ever watchful but also standoffish.

"No, I think I'll go to the library," Lyanna said honestly. They had been here for more than a week, long enough that her absence from a meal would not be of great notice.

Dacey gave her a look of concern. "Alone? You of all people should never be anywhere by yourself."

Her words were true. "I won't be alone. Ghost and Fenrir will be with me. They'll be happy to tear any man's cock off who decides to get too close." While the Starks were always respected by men of the Night's Watch, more than half of the men present were Targaryen loyalist sentenced to the wall in punishment for supporting the losing side in Robert's Rebellion. To them, Lyanna was the temptress who led the honorable Rhaegar astray. She was the reason why the war was lost. The reason why they would never see their wives again nor have any freedom away from the great wall of ice. Benjen's absence embolden a few of them, some had the gall to spit her feet that is until Rudge the Unclean was pulled off his feet by Ghost and Fenrir, scared half to death that they would rip his throat out. After that incident, glares and muttered insults were all she had to endure.

Neither of the sisters seemed fully satisfied by her answer but eventually agreed to let her be. They were her closest friends and had traveled from Bear Island to Winterfell and finally to the Wall merely because neither wanted Lyanna to travel such a journey alone.

The Old Bear had them placed in the King's Tower with Lyanna inhabiting the chamber meant for the queen. No king nor queen had visited Castle Black in a hundred years, but the sheets and rushes were fresh, and the hearth had been cleaned so it did not smoke too much when lit. She would have thought such a placement was a mean-spirited joke if it had come from anyone else. The whispers of Queen Stark followed her wherever she went. Her moniker was hardly donned on her out of respect.

Instead of following Dacey and Alysanne through the yard, Lyanna descended the set of stairs outside of the King's Tower to enter the wormways. A series of underground tunnels that connected the entirety of Castle Black they were the only way to traverse the castle when winter snows buried the grounds under heavy snows. She forwent a torch, every other scone along the wall held a lit torch, bathing the twisting tunnels in a dim light.

There were a few builders and stewards who passed Lyanna, giving her escort of wolves a wide berth. Fenrir stalked ahead of her, seemingly aware of her purpose and destination while Ghost walked beside her, his ears twitching at every movement.

She recognized one such shadowy figure and crossed his path before he could slip by her. "Chett is it?" Lyanna questioned, already knowing the answer. The red-faced little man was one of two of Maester Aemon's assistants. He was a plump thing, a head shorter than her with boils covering his face, a cyst on his neck and beady green eyes that that did not stray far from the black and white shadows that lingered close on her heels. Unpleasant to look upon in his dirty black garments and seemingly harmless but a rapist and murderer all the same.

"What do you want?" He asked rudely. I wonder what crawled up his arse today.

Lyanna's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Where is the Maester?"

"He does not have time for the likes of you." Chett responded. He tried to shoulder by her only for Ghost to impede his path. The direwolf sat on his haunches, a flash of teeth made Chett pause. "Tell your beast to move," he demanded and then almost as an afterthought he added, "My Lady."

"I know you're in charge of emptying the Maester's chamber pots, but I did not know you had been promoted to managing his time as well." Fenrir took up position opposite of Ghost, closing off the way behind Chett. His eyes flickered between the wolves nervously. "Answer my question and then you can go."

"The library," Chett growled.

Satisfied, Lyanna snapped her fingers. Ghost moved away from Chett immediately, but Fenrir lifted his leg as if to pee on the steward until Lyanna called him off. Chett stumbled away, his muttered curses still audible to her ears. Dragon's whore, she heard but chose to ignore the insult.

They met no one else on their way to the library. The building was sequestered amongst the vaults adjacent to the food stores. Two torches were held in scones beside the iron banded door. It was remarkably cooler in this section of tunnel than from where she started. We are closer to the Wall. Lyanna realized.

The door groaned loudly as she entered. She knew in the days before the dragons came, Castle Black boasted a score of Maesters along with the individual Maesters and their assistants assigned to each castle along the wall. Present day had whittled the number to one man. There were enough books and scrolls in the library that a single man could spend a lifetime of reading and not be satisfied. However, the collection was in a state of decay visible even to her untrained eyes. A layer of dust settled on many of the shelves, there were several scrolls bite marks that gave evidence to an infestation of book lice.

It was almost pitch black in the library, save for the few flickering candles placed well away from the delicate and flammable parchments. She walked carefully through the room while her eyes adjusted. Fenrir with his dark fur disappeared before her while Ghost served as her guide of the twisting pathway through the bookshelves.

She found Maester Aemon seated in the far corner of the library. He sat at a wide oaken table with two tall candles held in iron scones at either end of the table. A large book was set before him, near as wide as her torso. Beside it was another tome, equally as large. Dragonkin. She read. The Maester lifted his head at the sound of her footsteps. He was an ancient man, over a hundred, made tiny with and wrinkled with his age. Thick Myrish lenses connected by copper wiring sat on his nose, aiding his failing eye sight.

"Lady Lyanna, I was wondering when you would look for me." His voice was soft to the ear, almost enough to strain her own. She was surprised by its warmth.

She paused, caught off guard. "Maester Aemon?"

He smiled. "Well it has been near two weeks since you arrived at the wall. Nine days to be exact. Unless your cover story of visiting the wall on behalf of the Lord of Winterfell has more truth to it, I suspected you would seek me out much sooner."

He knows. Lyanna realized. "How?"

The Maester motioned her closer. "Please sit my lady. I'm afraid my eyes are not what they used to be and even with these lenses it is a strain to see your face." She took a seat across from him and folded her hands in her lap. His eyes roamed her face. "Ah, I have heard tales of your beauty, my lady; I'm afraid none of them have done you justice."

"You said you were expecting me, why?" Lyanna questioned. Her mind raced at the possibilities.

Maester Aemon leaned forward. "We both know why. Young Aemon does have a mother. And for her to travel so far, to such a place like this, she clearly does care for him."

"Ser Arthur contacted you?"

"Ser Arthur is aware of our exchanged letters, but the young king took the initiative to write me himself." An ache emanated in her chest. Her pain must have been visible on her face for the Maester said, "He has asked about you as well. Though I am afraid I did not have much to tell him never having the pleasure of meeting you in person. That is until now."

A memory came to her. Long forgotten but now sudden and vivid. A smiling silver prince, nude beneath thin sheets, his skin glistening with sweat. More god than man. They spoke of her family, her brothers and the North with its summer snows. Pride filled his voice when he spoke of his great uncle on the wall. More than half a century had passed since the Maester had sworn his vows, long enough for most of Westeros to forget there was a Targaryen at Castle Black. Not Rhaegar. "You should hate me. For what I said about Rhaegar."

Maester Aemon snorted. "When the news first came to me, I will admit I was angry. Rhaegar was too good a man for his memory to be tarnished so; yet now it is all in perspective. You were merely protecting your son. That much is clear."

Lyanna nodded. "I-" She paused, struggling for the words. "Does my son know my reasons?"

"I am sure he is aware, but he is also young with his own biases. Lady Ashara's death weighs heavily on young Aemon and there is much bad blood between Eddard Stark and Ser Arthur as well. The reality of your decision may not become clear to him until he hears you speak."

Lyanna released a bitter laugh. "I have been waiting for that day for fourteen years. Did you know when Ser Arthur took him from me, he denied me the right to hold the child I brought into the world? Now my baby is a man and he is still a stranger to me."

Maester Aemon bore a look of remorse. "It is a cruel world where a mother can be separated from her child." He shook his head. "Ser Arthur is a man compelled by duty above all else. His duty is both to protect your son and his claim; you can take solace in that he has thus far succeeded in both pursuits."

"Aye, at least my son is safe," she admitted. Ever since her vision at the heart tree of Winterfell she should have known Ser Arthur would keep her son safe. It was a man she had seen. Not a frightened boy. A warrior. He hated me. She remembered.

"For now." Maester Aemon gave her a mournful look. "I am afraid the path your son has been chosen for is a most difficult one. Ser Arthur and the minders he has assembled around your son have prepared young Aemon to the best of their ability, but I fear even the Conqueror would find challenge in the task laid ahead for Aemon."

The Conqueror had Balerion, his sisters and their dragons. My son has nothing of the sort. Lyanna turned her gaze to the table. "My brother believes overthrowing Robert is an impossible task. He says Ser Arthur is leading my son to die."

"That is why Lord Stark sent men to retrieve young Aemon? To save the boy from that supposed fate? Perhaps to spare the realm another bloody war?" Maester Aemon asked. His words were without accusation.

She could not hide the bitterness from her voice. "That is what I used to believe. Robert Baratheon is the brother and king my brother chose. Ned swore himself to Robert and will not renege on his promise if possible."

The Maester nodded. "And I suppose the rumors of a betrothal between your niece and Robert Baratheon's heir have merit?" She nodded. The frustration that ran through her veins felt anew. Lyanna had quarreled with her brother heatedly over his course of action but Ned could not be swayed. Even more with Catelyn in his ear, whispering that what happened to the Iron Islands could just as easily happen to the North if subsequent actions were not taken.

"We have to protect our family. Do you think Robert will hesitate to attack the North if he finds that we have helped Rhaegar Targaryen's son in any way? Ser Arthur has promised to burn Winterfell to the ground, he is not our ally either." Catelyn exclaimed.

"He is my son!" Lyanna reminded her good sister sharply. "Rickard is Brandon's. Stark blood flows through their veins just as much as your children's. What are your house's words? Family, Duty, Honor? In that order? Why is it any different in this case?"

Catelyn had long been her friend but that day they may as well have been bitter enemies for how at odds with one another they were. "Your son is raised by a man who would have killed my husband without a shred of remorse. He is raised by a man who stole a babe from his dying mother's arm. He is raised by a man who stood silently as a mad man ruined the Seven Kingdoms. The same mad man who burned your father alive, made Brandon watch as he choked to death. Your son-"

Lyanna slammed her dagger into Ned's desk. The castle forged steel bit deep into the wood. Lord and Lady sat across from her. Catelyn flinched at the sudden movement while Ned's eyes merely narrowed. She refused to be cowed by his cold gaze. "Go on, say it. My son is the Grandson of the Mad King. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin?" She snarled in disgust. "For all of the grievances I have of Ser Arthur, you cannot fault him for father's or Brandon's death. He was not there. And I refuse to believe my son is anything like Aerys Targaryen. Say it again... I warn you."

Ned's gaze turned sharp. His voice was hardly a yell but carried an edge to it that could not be ignored. "Enough Lyanna. You may be sister, but I will not tolerate any threats to my lady wife. Do I make myself clear?"

Lyanna turned her glare on Ned. "Brandon's wife is dead because of us. You promised me my son, you said this was the best way to protect him and I believed you because you are my big brother. Instead, Lady Ashara is dead. A woman who did no harm to us. She was never a threat, not by any stretch of the imagination and yet now her son has been deprived of his mother." Tears stung her eyes. "Don't you see? The only way we can save this from spilling its own blood is by making peace. No matter how difficult. Robert wants to make your daughter a qu

.0een? Then Sansa or Arya can be my son's queen. What did Father used to say… the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We can be pack once again."

Across the table from her Catelyn reached to squeeze Ned's hand. Her voice was soothing. "You and Robert have known each other since you were boys. Has he given you any reason to betray him? Ned, you know that doing so is condemning your friend to death if Ser Arthur succeeds. Does Robert deserve to die? And if Ser Arthur were to fail, if your lords were to balk at supporting a Targaryen king so soon after fighting to overthrow them, if Robert were to grow wrathful and throw the full might of the south against the North then what happens to our family? Do you think Ser Arthur cares about the fate of Robb or Bran or our girls?"

Ned sighed and Lyanna knew she had lost. When he reached for her, she flinched away and stood. "You promised me, Ned."

His eyes were mournful. "I have to protect my family, Lya. In anyway I can."

She clenched her fist. Her shoulders shook with rage. "Liar. I know you Ned, and I know you are no coward. At least admit the truth. Your loyalty to Robert exceeds the blood ties you have to both of your nephews. You would rather see them die than betray your precious Robert."

Ned took to his feet. He leaned his palms against the table and stared directly into her eyes. "If you think so little of me, Lya then you are welcome to leave. I have done my best to protect you and bring your son home. I have lied to my king and my wife for you and your boy. For years I have harbored your secret knowing full well that when Arthur pursues Aemon's claim it could very well mean the destruction of family. Yet if you cannot comprehend the sacrifices I have made and will continue to make for your folly then leave Winterfell. Go to White Harbor and cross the Narrow Sea, find Ser Arthur and see if the man who stole your son and left you to die in the desert is more helpful to your plight. See if the son you have never met, the boy who has likely been raised to hate your very name welcomes you with open arms." He rapped his fist against the table. "And if you are foolish enough to believe that Ser Arthur won't take you as a hostage the second he catches sight and use you as some pawn against the North then it would be very clear to me that have you not matured in the slightest. Go on, the choice is yours."

"Ned has made his choice and I have made mine." She gestured to Ghost and Fenrir who laid silently at her feet. "There were six pups in their litter. Six pups for six Starks. I cannot pretend that is not a sign these two are meant for the boys across the Narrow Sea."

"There have not been direwolves seen south of the wall in two hundred years. I am inclined to agree with you, my lady, this is hardly a coincidence." The Maester paged through the great tome set before him. "Can you tell me of your son's birth?" He asked without looking up.

"His birth?" Lyanna repeated. "What do wish to know?"

"Was there smoke? A fire perhaps?"

She paused in thought. "I-I don't remember. Ned said Ser Arthur lit the Tower of Joy ablaze after he took Aemon. Why?"

Maester Aemon ignored her question, still paging through the book. "This tower was it by the sea?"

Lyanna shook her head and then realized he was still not looking at her. "No, the Tower was miles inland."

He nodded absentmindedly. "Tears perhaps?" He questioned to himself.

"I shed tears," Lyanna admitted. "I had to beg Ser Arthur to spare Ned's life."

The Maester settled on an elaborately illustrated page. At the center stood a man with a bright sword that chased away the shadows. "What was the sky like during that day?"

"Clear."

That made the Maester paused and his brow wrinkled further. He saw her interest in the book and turned it to her, so she could read the page. "Azor Ahai," she whispered. Her eyes scanned the text even as Maester Aemon narrated the words for her.

"The book speaks of the sword Lightbringer and three trials required for its blade to be tempered. First water and then beast and finally the life blood of his beloved wife. From her sacrifice a sword was forged that no darkness could stand in its presence."

She traced her finger over blade, failing to imagine a sword that could produce light and heat. "You think my son is related to this legend?" The vision of Aemon came to her again. The sword he had wielded was black and cold. Could that change? Ser Wendel had been terrified of Aemon and the strange power he claimed her son possessed. Lighting a sword on fire seems simpler than killing a man with your mind.

"I don't know." Maester Aemon answered. "This is an old book, translated dozens of times and with each translation comes with the possibility of errors or misinterpretations. Yet the legend itself is remarkably similar to one both Rhaegar and I were more familiar with."

Lyanna swallowed at the mention. "The dragon has three heads?"

The Maester's near blind eyes filled with surprise. "I see he spoke of it with you?"

"Elia could not give Rhaegar another child and the dragon needed three heads." Lyanna could remember how Rhaegar assuaged her worries that bearing him another child was all he needed her for. In the beginning, keeping her prince's love was her only worry. Then word came of her father's and Brandon's deaths. "I am sure he wanted a Visenya, but he would have been pleased with another son."

"Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. So, says the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised. Smoke from the fire that engulfed Summerhall, salt from the tears of those that survived that day. Even without the bleeding star, I had thought Rhaegar to be the Prince that was Promised. He was of the same opinion until the signs changed. On the day of Prince Aegon's birth there was a comet seen above King's Landing. The bleeding star or so we thought. Rhaegar had wrote to me that this Aegon was the prince we had been waiting for. His is the song of ice and fire." He watched her reaction.

The words made her sick. "Ice and fire. Stark and Targaryen you mean."

"Prophecy is a difficult matter to interpret and long has my family grappled with such a challenge. If the legends are true, prophetic dreams saved my ancestors from the doom that consumed our homeland. How can one deny such a power that has had such a large effect on the course of history? Several in our bloodline were gifted or cursed, depending on your perspective, of dreams and visions of futures yet to pass. My brother Egg met a Blackfyre who had thought that he would win his crown from the dragon that would hatch from Whitewalls. That dragon was Egg himself and Daemon the Younger won himself no crown. My brother Daeron had dreams as well. He dreamed of his brother's death. That should give you some idea of the trauma his dreams caused. Rhaegar grew with the burden of the combined weight of generations of expectations and he tried his best to answer them."

She stared at the wood grain of the table. "So, he did." Her brow furrowed. "I had a dream of things to come as well. The Old Gods took my blood and sent me visions of my son. If what I saw was true, then Ser Arthur is molding him into some sort of warlord."

He sighed. "The world may soon thank Ser Arthur for training the child. You are much younger and better traveled than me, so I am sure you have heard of the strife found in the east. Not since the Century of Blood has Essos been so divided. A new God King has risen in Ibben and threatens Braavos and never before have the Dothraki Horselords been so powerful nor so bold. These dark times are well suited to mold a warrior king Ser Arthur wants. Yet I do not know if that will be enough."

Lyanna stared at the Maester in realization. "You want to join my son?"

"I will join him." The old man said with certainty. "Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. Why could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a sucking babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother's poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children... Now the gods have seen to test me once again. This time I will fail that test. What is honor compared to my family's salvation? What is duty against helping a young dragon find his wings? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy." Sadness bloomed on the old man's face. "I am but an old man now, and I do not know how many years as I have left to devote to our young king, but I do know of gifts that could help your son immeasurably. Fortune is truly smiling on us, Lady Lyanna, for the gifts I seek to give your son are of great value and I can think of no one more trustworthy than yourself to retrieve them."

She leaned forward. "What would you have me do?"

The Maester's smile was almost mischievous. "Tell me, my Lady, what stories have you heard of the Nightfort?"

Samwell Tarly

Blunted steel slammed against his armored fingers drawing a cry from him and causing his own steel to slip from his grip. Tears beaded at his eyes and he pulled his wounded palm close to his chest.

"Pick up your sword, Ser Piggy!" Ser Alliser snarled from his knoll that overlooked the training yard. Sam rushed to follow the order, knowing the beating the follow if he dallied. He bent to pick up the ugly stick of steel from the dirt when Ser Alliser shouted, "Small Paul, would you let a wildling pick up his sword?"

The big man shook his head rapidly. Small Paul was as strong as he was simple. Easily the strongest man in Watch it was rumored that he had once broken the back of a wildling by hugging him. Normally Small Paul's considerable strength was utilized to lifting heavy bags of grain or stone if the builders needed him but today the steward had been summoned to the yard on Ser Alliser's orders.

You're a special case of coward, Tarly. How could a man like Randyll Tarly raise a son as useless of a man as yourself? If I can't craft a man from that all that fat, then I'll find someone to beat the coward out of you.

Indeed, he had. Small Paul moved without a shred of warrior's grace and he lacked any sort of finesse with a sword. Such shortcomings mattered not for Sam. Every swing of Small Paul's sword brought a rattling to his arm and any blow that connected reduced Samwell to tears. Even through the padding of his armor and his layers of fat, Sam could feel the bruise of steel. This was the second time he had dropped his sword, much to Ser Alliser's frustration.

"Then why are you letting him pick up his sword?" Ser Alliser scolded. His voice was sharp and cold. Those black eyes of his glared down at them, hawk like. The effect was made even more apparent by his long-curved nose. Streaks of grey in his black hair were the only color about him other than black. Black coat, black boots, black pants and black ringmail over a black tunic. Small Paul was near a foot shorter than Ser Alliser but he may as well have been a lamb at the mercy of some oversized bird of prey.

Small Paul tucked his shoulders. "Sam's no wildling," he muttered.

"Here he is. Hit him like you mean it." By now Sam had snatched the blade from the dirt. Awkward and clumsy in his hand, he deflected two club like swings of Small Paul's before the large man stepped close, Samwell flinched, and the next stroke of steel caught him his side. Yelping and rolling away from the pain, Samwell lost his feet when Small Paul's shoulder crashed into him. "Hit him!" Ser Alliser bellowed when Small Paul hesitated again.

Sam curled into a ball, desperately trying to roll away from steel laden swats. "Harder!" Ser Alliser would roar, and Small Paul would hit Sam just a tad harder. On the third swat, this one across the back of his thighs, Sam squealed like a pig before a slaughter. The sound terrified Small Paul and he dropped his sword and ran from the yard. Ser Alliser hollered after him till he grew red in the face, giving Samwell a moment of reprieve.

"You three." He pointed at three recruits who had arrived within months of Sam's own arrival. Sam knew them all by name, Pyp the Mummer's Monkey or so he was deemed by Ser Alliser, Grenn the Aurochs also deemed by Ser Alliser, and Daeron the Lover, as deemed by Ser Alliser as well. They were all of age with Samwell, lowborn and neither was half as fat as Sam. Naturally that set them against him. Pyp was quick to tease Sam, Grenn was quick to laugh at Pypar's jokes and Daeron would set Pypar's quips to music, furthering Sam's embarrassment. None had said a word in defense for Sam, not even when he screamed for help. "Finish where Small Paul started."

Pyp, the shortest of the three, small and huge eared muttered a protest. Ser Alliser glowered until the boys picked up their training steel. Sam remained on the ground, tensed. He knew trying to defend himself was pointless. "Next time it will be live steel, Ser Piggy. Mayhaps will have you for dinner."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut but the blows never came.

"Enough!" A woman roared.

There was a scuffle of a dirt and ring of steel. When Samwell opened his eyes, he found Lady Stark before him. Her feet were planted into an aggressive stance and bare steel was in her hand. Long and polished to a sheen, the grey sun reflected off the blade with dangerous intent. Her back was turned towards Sam, opposite of her were the startled form of his fellow recruits. "You three should be ashamed of yourselves." Her voice cracked like a whip. She made a gesture towards Sam's prone form. "Attacking a defenseless boy? Is this what men of the Night's Watch have been reduced to?"

"Men of the Night's Watch know how to follow the orders of their commander. These boys are learning that lesson. Now step aside Lady Stark, the yard is no place for a woman."

Lady Stark did not step aside. Nor did she lower her blade. "I thought the yard was for training. Not butchery."

"The yard is for men. Unless you can grow a cock between your legs then I suggest you leave. There are places more suitable for a Lady such as yourself." Ser Alliser said, his voice full of false courtesy.

"Mole's Town!" Some boy shouted, drawing laughter from the crowd of onlooking recruits.

Lady Stark hardly seemed bothered. "I see three frightened boys misled by a spiteful little beast that thinks he's a man. Perhaps you are the one who is lost, Ser."

Ser Alliser grit his teeth. "Your brother is not here to help you. Nor are your beasts it seems like; you'd be best to step away."

She turned; her blade held out while her eyes scanned each recruit. "If these boys are all trained by you, Ser Alliser, then I have nothing to fear."

Instead of rage, a dark smile touched Alliser's lips. "Is that a challenge, my Lady?"

Brave or foolish, Lady Lyanna did not cower. She nudged her boot backward to hit Sam's right foot. "Get up, Samwell. You may not be brave, but you still have a shred of dignity."

Samwell struggled to his feet; he could already feel the growing bruises.

"You three have been shamed by a woman. Will you just let spew her shit or will you answer the offence like men?" Ser Alliser growled.

"She's a lady," Grenn the Aurochs insisted. A flush ran up his thick neck.

"Not here she is. Issuing such a challenge lets us ignore any rules of chivalry. Pretend she has a cock between her legs and treat her how you would any other upstart who doesn't know their place."

The boys still looked unsure till Lady Stark beckoned them forward, "You'll find I am a lot harder to hit than Sam."

Pypar was the first to leap at Lady Stark. She deflected his wild swing with ease, their blades clanged and then laughter erupted through the yard when Lady Stark backhanded him.

"I told you," she taunted. Pypar rubbed his abused cheek. Grenn was next to duel Lady Stark. Big and slow, though not as slow as Small Paul, he looked clumsy compared to Lady Stark's practiced grace. She seemed to dance around him. Lithe and lean, with steel in hand she was formidable. A cut across his cheek made the big man stumble. Lady Stark sent him to the dirt with a kick to his shins. She held the point of her blade to his throat. "Yield," She ordered. "Yield," Grenn sputtered.

Daeron struck at Lady Stark's shoulder without warning. She must have seen him in her peripheral for the blow was glancing. She spun to meet him, parrying his next slash with ease. Quicker than Grenn and stronger than Pyp, Daeron proved more of a challenge. Or so it seemed till Lady Stark, caught his blade on the flat of hers and delivered a riposte. Daeron gasped as the sword bit into the meat of his shoulder. Before he could recover, Lady Stark grappled his sword away from him and brought the pommel of her own to bash his face. Daeron cried out, blood dripping from his nose.

The yard went silent save for Daeron's whimpers. "As I said, three frightened boys. But you all are no better." She scowled at the rest of the recruits. "When say your vows it makes you as close as brothers," She pointed an accusatory finger at Ser Alliser. "Yet you let this creature order you to beat one of your own. Is there any among you with a shred of honor?"

Her stormy gaze and stern visage brought a rush of shame to many of the recruit's faces.

"What would a woman who ran off with a married man know of honor?" Ser Alliser called from his knoll. He stamped his boot against the ground. "Someone shut the bitch up."

Four of Ser Alliser's more favored recruits moved to follow the order. Lady Stark did not shy from the threat. "Samwell, fetch me a helm and shield."

Sam gaped at her. The Lord Commander would have his head if Lady Stark was injured defending him. He struggled for words, "Y-you don't need to-" That stormy gaze was turned his way. Quelling the words in his throat.

"Now!" She ordered. Sam rushed to comply. Recruits parted in his wake, allowing him to grab a pine shield leaned against the armory's wall and an ugly dented bucket helm, hopefully small enough to fit a woman's head. He rushed back to her side. Lady Stark calmly donned the helm and hooked her left arm in the shield's straps all while the four recruits eyed her. Of them, Todder the Toad was the most skilled while Halder was nearly as strong as Small Paul. Jeren and Albett were both far better than Sam, though that was hardly an achievement.

The commotion of the yard drew curious onlookers beyond their recruit class. No sooner than when Albett's axe connected with Lady Stark's shield did Ser Waymar Royce storm into the yard. With him came Ser Jaremy Ryker. The appearance of the two knights straightened the backs of the recruits.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ser Waymar questioned, the recruits first and then he turned his fierce gaze on Ser Alliser when they remained silent. The older knight pursed his lips.

"Lady Stark takes issue with the way I train my recruits."

"I take issue with you beating a defenseless child."

Ser Alliser scoffed. He pointed at Sam and looked to Ser Waymar. "What would you have me do with this one? Too much of a coward to hold a sword let alone swing it, he's the most useless recruit I've seen in a long while."

Ser Waymar looked at Sam, the expression on his face revealed he hardly disagreed with such a statement. Lady Stark voiced her defense. "All men have use. Samwell is a steward if I have ever seen one. Ordering him beaten to death is just the orders of sad man acting malicious."

The older knight's eyes narrowed. "If Lady Stark wishes to stand in defense of Ser Piggy then so be it. Attack!"

Yet the four hesitated when Ser Waymar and Ser Jaremy stepped beside Lady Stark. "Lower your steel, boys." Ser Jaremy ordered. Black haired and black bearded, the Ser was near six feet and possessed a commanding voice that matched his noble face.

The boys lowered weapons with some reluctance. Ser Alliser's scowl deepened before he strode away from the yard. Lady Stark dropped her shield and removed her helm.

"Lady Lyanna," Ser Waymar Royce began but to Samwell's surprise she ignored the knight in favor of inspecting his health.

"Are you well, Samwell?" She gently prodded his side with her fingers. One touch drew a wince. Lady Stark frowned. "We should have Maester Aemon look over you."

"I-I" He took a breath. "Thank you, my lady." Her pretty smile lifted his spirits.

She turned to Ser Waymar, her ire was plain. "You may one day lead these men. Perhaps you should find someone to set a better example than Ser Alliser." Before the knight could reply, Lady Stark turned sharply on her heel and led Sam away from the yard.

They did not walk far before Lady Stark asked him, "How old are you Samwell?"

"Four and ten, Lady Stark," Sam replied.

The words brought a wistful smile and then she wrinkled her nose. "You can call me Lyanna, Sam. The title of Lady Stark belongs to my brother's bride."

He nodded measuredly. A blush touched his cheek when their eyes locked. Her brow lifted. "I-I" he fumbled for words. Conversing with girls had never been his strength. Not that Lady Lyanna was a girl. She was a woman of an age with his own mother though Lady Lyanna looked ten years younger. Fierce and elegant in equal measure, Sam could see why Prince Rhaegar had been so enamored with her.

"You're Randyll Tarly's son, his heir?"

Sam's face fell at the mention of his father. "Not anymore, Lord Tarly threatened to have me killed and make my death appear to be a hunting accident if I didn't join the Night's Watch. My brother Dickon is his heir now." His younger brother was the son his father always wanted. Once it became clear that Dickon shared none of Sam's shortcomings, Lord Tarly issued his threat proclaiming he would not have Sam steal his brother's inheritance. Heartsbane and Horn Hill belonged to Dickon while Sam was owed nothing save for this bleak life at the wall.

Lady Lyanna shook her head. "My father was a hard ass himself but yours just seems awful." She patted his shoulder. "On the bright side, you no longer have to suffer his presence."

He sighed. "Just Ser Alliser's." The knight's perpetual scorn did much to remind Sam of his father. He had hoped his education as a lord's son would guarantee him a place with the stewards, but it seemed Ser Alliser was determined to make sure Sam never made it out of training.

"I'll handle Ser Alliser," Lady Lyanna promised. She paused their walk when his worried expression did not change. "You forget Sam, my brother is First Ranger. If the Lord Commander will not listen to my advice, then he is sure to listen to Benjen's word. Be rest assured, Benjen will not condone Ser Alliser's actions either."

He smiled apologetically. "Forgive me for doubting you, Lady Stark."

"Lyanna, remember?" Her tone was playful.

Lady Lyanna stayed with Sam while Maester Aemon checked his ribs over. To his relief, none were broken though the Maester predicted the soreness would last for days. Maester Aemon and Lady Lyanna spoke with Sam at length about his childhood in the south, the Maester's attention seemed to perk especially when Sam told him of his past aspiration of studying at the Citadel in Old Town. Lord Tarly had put an end to that dream when Sam's mother mentioned it during a family dinner. Maesters were servants to their lords, his father reminded, and Lord Randyll Tarly would suffer no servant for a son.

As they stepped out into the cool air, fresh from the Maester's quarters, Sam asked, "Where are your wolves, my Lady?" Even with his short time at the Wall, Sam knew many blamed their sentence here on the lady before him. In their eyes, she was the woman who led the honorable Prince Rhaegar astray. The sight of her four-legged bodyguards discouraged any who sought retribution.

Lady Lyanna smiled. "They were hunting but are soon to return. Until then, you can be escort Samwell."

He blushed but consented. The sun was low on the horizon. A hundred different shades of reds and golds were reflected off the dark ice of the wall, bathing Castle Black in an orgy of colors. A flash of white made Sam blink and then he noticed the albino wolf had returned to Lady Lyanna's side. His black furred brother was not far behind. The wolf gave Sam a curious sniff before moving to greet Lyanna.

Then he felt a rush of heat against his neck. Amber eyes stared at him when he turned. If he had not emptied his bladder just prior, then Sam was sure he would have pissed down his leg now. The direwolf pups that followed Lady Lyanna were larger than any of his father's hunting hounds, though pups still. Their wide paws and lanky builds hinted at the true size they would one day reach. Still, it was one thing to know that a direwolf would grow large and quite another to see such a beast at its zenith. The beast before him was something out of an old savage tell meant to frighten children. As tall as a pony it stood, eyes level with Sam's. Its head was bigger than Lady Stark's torso with a lean and muscular body to match.

Sam thought the massive wolf meant to make a meal out of him and his eyes squeezed shut. Instead, the wolf gave him an obligatory sniff before striding over to greet Lady Lyanna. She laughed when its long tongue licked her cheek.

"Samwell meet Storm." Lady Lyanna stroked the massive wolf's silver-grey fur. He gaped at the beast. Sitting on its haunches, it was taller than both he and Lady Lyanna. Those ambers eyes of his were strangely intelligent.

"He's gorgeous," Sam said weakly.

"She," Lady Lyanna corrected. It was the first time Sam had seen the wolf. His surprise was muted compared to the open shock of the dining hall when they made their entrance. Unperturbed by the attention, Lady Lyanna took her seat at the high table between the Lord Commander's nieces. The women shared a laugh, but the room was not set at ease until Storm laid the foot of the table, her pups in tow.

Sam stood in line to collect his dinner. Someone poked him in his back. He braced himself for a jape when he turned and saw Pypar's face. The short boy's big ears wiggled when he smiled. "When you get your dinner, come sit with us."

Samwell Tarly swallowed his surprise. Since his arrival he had eaten alone. No one wanted to be friends with a coward. His skepticism must have been plain for Pypar held up his hands in supplication.

"It's no trick I swear. Ser Waymar said we should all stick together. Ser Alliser can't bully any of us if we do." His big ears wiggled once more when his smile grew wider. "Come on, we all know you sit alone. Now you don't have to."

Sam did join them, tentatively. He remained quiet while the boys laughed and japed. Mercifully Grenn was the main subject of Pyp's quips. Daeron and his bloody nose and wounded shoulder suffered as well. Sam ate his stew quietly, delighting in the taste of the chicken broth and soft carrots till they included him in their conversation. Eventually his shyness wavered, and the boys asked him questions about Lady Stark.

"They say no one has seen direwolves south of the wall in two hundred years. Where did she get three?" Daeron questioned. Fortunately, his nose had been bloodied not broken and he remained handsome.

"The big one's their mother I suppose. You do know how that would work?" Pyp quipped.

Daeron made a rude gesture. "Of course, I know. I am the only one among us who didn't come here a maid."

Grenn sounded a protest. "Your sister doesn't count unless you're a Targaryen," Pyp added quickly, drawing a sputter from the larger boy.

Come morning, Sam made his way to the yard with great apprehension. Ser Alliser leered at him with a face that promised retribution, but the Ser's sadistic joy was averted when Lady Lyanna appeared along with the Mormont ladies and Ser Waymar. Their appearance made Ser Alliser spit in disgust before he strode away leaving their lesson in the hands of Ser Waymar and the ladies.

Lady Lyanna made an attempt to train Sam personally but even she had to concede defeat when her gentle instruction proved for naught. "You're rather useless at this," she said without malice.

Sam nodded, ashamed. She punched his shoulder. "It makes no matter. Not all men were built to be warriors."

The next day Sam was dismissed from his martial lessons by Ser Waymar and ordered to assist Maester Aemon. Lady Lyanna smiled at him knowingly when he ran into her at the library. She saved my life. Samwell realized when he laid in bed. His mother had been kind to him all his life, but she never had the courage to speak a word of protest to his father. Even in the height of summer, beneath his fur comforter, Samwell could feel the chill of the Wall seep into his skin. Yet when he thought of Lady Stark's courage, warmth emanated in his chest.

Weeks would pass. Though the Mormont ladies would make their departure, Lady Stark lingered. She's waiting for her brother. Sam realized and Lady Lyanna would later confirm it when he summoned his courage to question her. Benjen Stark was First Ranger, amongst the ranks of the Wall's finest warriors and now near a month late of his due arrival, along with the rest of his ranging party. There were whispers that he had been killed.

Miraculously, Samwell completed his training. Not the martial requirement. Sam remained useless with sword or bow or staff but Maester Aemon was glowing with his praise. In the Maester's service, Samwell had copied several rare scrolls, fashioned letters to send to the two other manned castles on the Wall and even learned a bit of ravenry. He had taught a single raven how to say his name. In a week the bird had shared the word with all its friends. Now whenever Sam entered the rookery the entire murder would screech "Sam!" or alternatively, "Corn!"

Maester Aemon named Samwell his personal assistant in the order of Stewards. Chett spit at Sam's feet when he learned the news for it meant he would be assigned elsewhere. Lady Lyanna patted Sam's back in congratulations.

It was to her that he owed his success and so Sam swore his vows in view of her gods. Beyond the Wall in a grove of Weirwood trees at the edge of the Haunted Forest they stood. Each of the white trees bore a face. Some were laughing, others were agonized, others were stern. All were watching as he spoke his vows. Their five fingered red leaves reached out in all directions like bloodstained hands.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come." Sam was not alone in reciting his oath, though he was the only southerner present. Lady Lyanna stood apart from them, her eyes watchful. Her pack of wolves was present as well. The pups had visibly grown since Lady Lyanna's arrival, though still far smaller than their mother.

Sam was not particularly religious, but he was almost certain the Old Gods were present and in great strength. The air carried more than a chill. There was a certain power in the grove. Primoradial.

The wind pushed around dead weirwood leaves and soldier pine needles. Carrying the scent of the forest. Above, the sky was beginning to dim and the brightest of stars could be seen. Brightest amongst them was the eye of the Ice Dragon, a guide to the North. There was the Red Wanderer as well, a dim crimson traveler amongst a sea of blue and black.

He breathed in the cool air, triumph flowing through his veins. Around him, the other newly made brothers slapped each other's backs in celebration. Sam winced when a hand impacted with the back of his shoulders.

"I did not think you would make it, Sam." Close-set, oddly pale eyes stared at Sam. They belonged to an ugly fleshy face half covered by long dark hair.

Sam smiled warily. There were some men whose very presence set one on edge. This one even more so. "I did not either," he admitted.

The ugly man licked his lips. They were wide, meaty, and wormy looking. He was dressed richly: sable black cloak, polished boots and a coat and pants without any patches. His right ear held a garnet shaped into a drop of blood. At his waist a dagger and falchion sat, both bore hilts of yellow bone. "You owe your survival to the Lady Stark. Ser Alliser couldn't touch you. Not with the she-wolf present."

Sam nodded measuredly. He fought the urge to inch away from the man. "Lady Stark is formidable, I owe her greatly."

"Formidable, yes. But not here forever. What happens to you when she leaves? Some say that will be soon. If her Benjen Stark does not return, Lady Stark will join the search party." Those pale eyes seemed to pierce Sam's skin, like dirty chips of ice. "You'll need protection. More than what the Old Maester or your lowborn friends will give. I could be that protection."

Samwell may have been a coward, but he was not stupid. There was a cost to this one's offer. "Why?"

The ugly man smiled wider. "You're a lord's son, I am a lord's son. We are a rare commodity amongst the rabble and should look out for each other." He clasped Sam's shoulder once again. "Think about it." Sam watched him rejoin his friends. Seven of them there were, each with a black repute.

"The Lord Commander would do best to separate them," Lady Lyanna said, startling Sam. She moved as silent as Ghost. He turned to regard her. She was the picture of loveliness. Her hood was up, protecting her face from the wind. Fur lined, the dark fur blended with her braided hair, today set into wide loops. Lips set into a thin line, Lady Lyanna regarded the ugly man and his friends with dagger sharp eyes.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

Her grey cloak danced in the wind. She crossed her arms and did not take her eyes off the men. "You must have still been in the south not to hear. The one you were talking to is Roose Bolton's bastard, Ramsay Snow." She all but spat the name. "His heart is as foul as his face. Raped and tortured a dozen peasant girls for sport, him and his Bastard Boys. Some of them they hunted with dogs. Ramsay was brought to justice first and sentenced to the Wall by his father. If it were any other lord, he would have been put to death. And not missed. The rest are his surviving rabble."

Sam shuddered. He knew rapists and murderers were aplenty at the Wall. Exile was preferable to castration or death after all. Still, it set him on edge to be near someone who could commit crimes so heinous. "He offered me protection."

Lady Lyanna scoffed. "He wants your favor." She turned to him. "Your father may have sent you here to rot but you could rise high Sam. Maester Aemon has spoken to the Lord Commander of your wits. Come later in your service and Jeor may send you to Oldtown to become the Watch's new maester."

She did not see his panic. Ramsay's gaze turned to them, along with his bastard boys. Ghost stepped in front of Lady Lyanna and bared his teeth while Fenrir's hackles rose. Storm remained silent and vigilant. Her very presence enough to keep the men from approaching.

Ramsay waved. There was no fear on his face. "Lady Stark, it is nice to make your acquittance."

She glowered at him. "You'd best remember the vows you swore, Snow. If I find you have violated them in anyway, I'll take your head myself."

Ramsay's smile lost its luster. "Say hello to my dear brother for me when you are back at Winterfell. I hear we are to be family someday. Perhaps I'll see you at the wedding." They took their leave, leaving Sam and Lyanna alone save for the faces in the trees.

Lady Lyanna's anger was visible. She was a kind woman but fearsome when roused. For a moment Sam feared she would send her wolf after Ramsay but then she turned and strode deeper into the grove. He followed.

They stopped before a weeping weirwood tree. The tree's tears were red like freshly spilled blood.

"Will you join the search for your brother, my lady?" Sam questioned.

Lady Lyanna stared at the wood carved face. Her eyes were distant. "I am. There is exist no bloodhound with a better nose than Storm. Wherever Benjen is, Storm will find him."

He nodded. Lady Lyanna could not stay at Castle Black forever but he would miss her greatly. "I am sure he will be grateful to see you."

Lady Lyanna's gloved fist clenched. "I need your help, Sam."

The thought of journeying beyond the wall in lands filled with murderous wildlings brought Sam only dread. "Me?" He squeaked. "What can I do?" If Benjen Stark was overwhelmed, they would gut me to pieces.

Lady Lyanna recognized his fear and her eyes flashed with annoyance. "I will not be here to protect you always Sam. One day you will need to find your courage. Now would be preferable."

Shame filled him. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apology. First I need your word that you will help me." Her storm-grey eyes were intense.

For what? Sam wanted to ask but he stilled his tongue. I owe Lady Lyanna my life. Do what she asks. "You have it."

She nodded. "Now I need your vow that you will hold your tongue of the nature of my request and what you will see. This is a vow before a weirwood Sam, there are few crimes worse than breaking such an oath."

Sam nodded.

Lady Lyanna's eyes narrowed. "Say it."

"I swear to hold my tongue."

Satisfied, a bit of tension left her shoulders. "Maester Aemon is leaving soon."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Leaving? Is he being assigned to another castle?" Each castle had their healers and those that managed the ravens but Maester Aemon was the only fully chained Maester at the Wall. He could not imagine Lord Commander Mormont reassigning Maester Aemon unless there was a dire need. Even then, a man more than a hundred years old was not built for travel.

"Leaving the wall. To join my son." Her eyes watched his reaction.

A gasp escaped his lips. "Your son?" Prince Rhaegar's son. She did not need to speak the words for him to know the truth.

"Yes, my son. I meant to join them, but it seems the gods seek to test me. Abandon my brother to see the son I never met or miss this chance to prove to my son I care for him. I cannot do both, but I swore I would help my boy in anyway I can. That is where you will help me Sam."

"Me?" His voice cracked.

"Yes you," she bit out. "In a fortnight, there will be a ranging to find my brother. I mean to join it. Before that, you and I must ride hard to the Nightfort."

The mention of the castle brought a rush of apprehension. Abandoned castles along the Wall carried their own danger. Often Wildling raiders who had summitted the seven-hundred-foot wall would take rest in the castles at its base. The Nightfort had a sinister reputation beyond simple wildlings though. "Why the Nightfort?" He chanced.

"Maester Aemon says Brynden Rivers left gifts at the Castle before he made his last ranging beyond the Wall. Gifts locked behind a door accessible only to a brother of the Watch that has remained true to his vow. I wanted to wait for Benjen but…" a brief look of pain came on her face before her features hardened into a steely mask. "The timetable has changed. You have said your vows and now you are brother of the Night's Watch. The man I need."

What sort of gift could be so important. He knew of Bryden Rivers, few did not. A Targaryen Great Bastard steeped in sorcery. Gifts left by a man such as that could not be good. Sam shivered, not from the cold.

"You swore a vow Sam. You will help me." Her visage was stern.

A gust of wind shook the branches of the weirwoods. A long skinny branch reached out to Sam, red leaves brushed his cheek. Vow. Vow. Vow. The wind echoed.

The three wolves moved to stand beside their master. The four waited for his answer.

"Okay," he squeaked.