.

Death by starvation; not the best way to go, but there are certainly worse. Like burning or drowning. I don't think I could deal with the pain or clawing despair those two imply.

At the age of four, I believed those to be my last musings. I was later ashamed to realise I barely spared a thought to the sisters I would leave behind.

However I think I can be pardoned for that, during that moment I was half delirious half giddy, I was filled with irony and bitterness- I had done my best and it just wasn't good enough- I was going to die again.

There was a sense of resignation- I shouldn't have got that second life in the first place, it only makes sense to be got rid of so quick.

In the end I didn't die- what a surprise. I didn't die then, and I didn't die in any of the following occasions.

Even when I should have, even when my tiny little body reached its end again and again; I didn't die.

For with starvation came steam. Whenever I approached death once more, my body would burn like a stove. Heat erupted from my innermost cores, warming me viciously, seeping into my bones and permeating throughout my muscle.

Steam would erupt from my pores, the evaporating moisture all the more visible in the cold Northern air. To me those thin and faint white streams floating up to the sky looked like my spirit leaving the body.

I panicked a bit the first time.

For all the resignations and idle musings, I didn't want to die. At the very least I didn't want to see myself die, how cruel would that be?

'Couldn't you just let me sink to black, why must I be aware, why make this harder than it already is?'

Such thoughts raced through my mind.

'Fuck a donkey, I'm still alive.'

Was what followed.

Upon a "steaming," changes would occur to my body. I regain some measure of body fat and bodyweight, resulting in my face being more rounded than it should be (but not abnormally so) plus my strength would increase just a tad.

Then comes the dehydration and dizziness, if I wasn't already on the floor due to starvation making me weak, those two would certainly bring me down.

Strangely the dehydration would pass fairly quickly, quicker still if I had access to water. The dizziness and vertigo was something I just had to tough out.

However most importantly; I would no longer feel hungry.

I would never feel bloated or stuffed, but it was like I had a warm wholesome meal in my belly when in fact I had mostly been eating roots and berries with the occasional fish or salted leftovers for the last three years.

I was like a real weak mini titan or something. Cuts and bruises I may have had whenever I "steamed", would be slightly more healed by the end of it.

Oh, I doubt I could grow back anything, smaller cuts are probably the best it can do in respect to healing.

Maybe, maybe, it could help mend a broken bone, but it was only accelerated healing rather than regeneration.

And I don't think for a second I'm immortal. This steaming is accompanied by an intense, if slow and drawn out, burning sensation. This leaves me to wonder what exactly I am burning.

I haven't eaten any souls (to my knowledge, who knows what I did whilst [actually] dead) so that leaves the usual more grounded suspects. Namely; lifespan and future potential.

Everything comes at a cost. And I highly doubt such a useful… trait, would be cheap of cost. Without further proof, (how would I even prove it?) I have decided to take my steaming as something that burns lifespan.

'An abnormal trait that cannibalises the body in order to sustain itself when it needs to,' thinking it like so will ensure I do not rely on it overmuch.

I think it of a string. Myself at the start and a flame at the end.

Normally the flame at the end burns quietly without moving, but now occasionally it will flare up, eating the string with its flames.

With each flare of the flame at the end, the string at the start that was fraying and thinning will be woven anew, slightly stronger and thicker than before.

These "flares" are my steaming. That "string" is my life.

Eventually I will run out of string to burn, and who knows how much is burnt in a single steaming, who knows how long I have left now? How many years I wonder, Fifty? Fourty? Thirty? Twenty? Less?

If at all possible I would use it sparingly… sadly that wasn't possible.

When my sisters fell ill I was not surprised. I expected it and had prepared for the trial as best I could. We were children living alone, barely scraping by in terms of food and clothing, to fall ill is not a matter of if but when. So of course I had prepared as best I could for the eventuality.

However I had prepared to face it in our house… in our crappy little village. I had stockpiled food as best I could, gathered favours from the other villagers best I could.

Having them in my debt would be impossible, but I did away my pride and endeared myself to them as much as possible. With flattery, hard work or guilt trips, I made sure we were in mind at least.

And as long as we are remembered there would be guilt in the hearts of those who would ignore our suffering. I could play on that guilt at crucial times in order to supplement what we might need. Be that food, furs of firewood.

That was the plan.

Sadly it didn't go according to plan.

I miscalculated, or rather I didn't have enough information to make a calculation in the first place. How utterly foolish of me. How utterly ignorant of me.

Winter had come.

I was blindsided.

No one but us was caught unprepared you know? They all knew it was coming. Of course they did. They had lived through a winter or had someone who had to tell them it was coming. They had parents and families who would work together and get through it.

But y'know we don't.

We didn't know winter was coming, no one had told us. I had thought we were already in winter, how stupid am I huh?

Those stockpiles in preparedness for illness was nothing in the face of winter. Those few favors forgotten, buried under the snow.

When people don't want to deal with guilt, they just forget about the source. Out of sight, out of mind. We were forgotten easily.

All of us the children of whores, pariahs already, it was easy to forget us wasn't it? No one important.

"Who cares about the foreign brat? It would seem those two sisters won't be offering us their cunts like their mother then. Oh well."

Never before had I resented parentage like the day I heard those words.

"Oh well."

Parents... I know my mother was a whore, as were my sisters' mother. I managed to wheedle out our stories from one of the lumberjacks.

My mother, the Dornish whore, was for whatever reason travelling from Winter Town to Barrowton. Somehow she didn't fucking realise she was pregnant until she was halfway there. In the middle of nowhere.

Should she continue to travel, the pregnancy would take its toll on her health. Bare in mind that they were mostly travelling by foot with only a few horses to shoulder luggage; a pregnant woman is simply not something that the travellers could bare.

The obvious thing to do would be to get rid of the baby. But nooo.

My idiotic bint of a mother decided to suddenly find her humanity and did the foolish thing.

Instead of choosing to kill the brat and prolong her life, she grew attached to the parasite living in her womb and most stupidly chose to birth the beast in some (even more) backwater village. One ill equipped to handle a tough birth and ailing mother.

To me it sounded like a roundabout form of suicide. Most thought so too. She did it anyway, and she succeeded; both in killing herself and in birthing the babe.

In the year 266AC a Dornish whore voyaged for lands of the dead, leaving a single baby behind in this godforsaken spit of land.

My sisters births were a tad less stupid.

Their mother too was a whore; the local whore mind you, and the only one sympathise with my mother. The shack we lived in was actually hers, the place she would accept customers and the place I was born.

She was the one to take care of me during the first years. It was of off her that I breast fed. Given the fact she was lactating yet without a babe I imagine it was stillborn or aborted. This lends credence to her sympathy at my mother's plight.

Unfortunately she too was fairly dumb.

Despite seeing my mother die to childbirth in front of her, she would go on to birth the first of my sisters a year later, then die birthing the second sister a year and a half after that.

She was foolish, but when I recall the look she had upon laying eyes on the two for the first time, perhaps she thought it was worth it. I first accepted those two girls as my sisters as a way to repay the woman's foolish kindness.

Alas they grew on me.

Who the girls father is I do not know. Who my father is I know even less, but I assume he's from Winter Town.

It was an idle thought of mine that I may see said father when we arrive at Winter Town.

But that was all buried under the mounting stress, panic and horror I felt during that journey.

My sisters were going to die. Of this I was as certain as could be. With each snowflake is saw and each step I took I was certain.

Yet there was little I could do to stop it.

To travel from our village to Winter Town would be long and arduous enough on horseback, but on foot? When winter is setting in? For a child of nine carrying an eight and six-year-old? Who are both ill, whose lives drip by with every passing second?

I don't know exactly what expression I was making, but there were few who could bare to look at me.

Of our travelling companions, people from our village and other villages surrounding, there were few indeed who could bare to look at the child stumbling through the snow supporting two more bodies tied to his back.

But I did not hate them. I did not have that kind of leeway.

'Wouldn't it be easier to give up? The snow is warm. The snow shouldn't be warm. Sleep. Sleep together. Food. Eat. Close your eyes. You don't belong here anyway...'

I was too busy battling with myself, exhaustion, hunger, cold and a rising sense of hopelessness to indulge the luxury of hate.

Without my steaming, there was no possible way for me to have made that journey.

So steam I did.

As winter began to set in the skys changed. When before the clouds might have let snowfall they had still been light, summer snow was certainly a thing, yet the striking blue sky was always behind it.

So bright and blue it hurt the eyes.

Now it was dim. Even during the day, the clouds overhung and darkened the land below. Rarely would there be a beam of unfiltered sunlight to warm us.

The sight of blue skies seemed like a distant memory compared to the brooding heavy grey clouds of that day.

Under that gloom, where snowfall was constant and unrelenting, there was a strange child carrying his burdens letting of steam almost bi-daily.

That was I.

With every steaming, with every flare of that fire at the end of my string, I grew just a little stronger.

The faces of those around us were filled with incomprehension. That I was still alive, that my sisters were still alive, that I steamed, that I kept up with those who had horses on foot…?

I do not know what exactly they found incomprehensible, but I planned on doing them all anyway.

I stumbled less, my footing becoming more sure with experience and greater strength. I became strong enough to hold one sister in my arms whilst the other was strapped flush to my back.

I would forgo eating on purpose, both so that my sisters could have more of meal and to increase the times I steamed. I did not care if I was burning my life, I used myself as a human heater.

Using the increased body heat I would experience during a steaming to warm my sisters.

With how many times I experienced the steaming I gradually grew used to the dizziness and dehydration. I was now able to keep moving during a steaming, unlike before when I would have to stop and fall behind the group.

This gave me the much needed strength of hope.

The second wind of hope came from Lord Stark's runners.

They came on horse-drawn sleds from the direction of Winterfell. We were to group up with other evacuation civilians. It was quite a sight.

When night is not much darker or colder than day, huddling together like penguins and torchlight was necessary.

I saw the group from a hill before we joined them. It was almost enough to make me cry. The warmth of numbers and light of torches beckoned like the moon and the starts to me.

The runners were to guide us to Winterfell and provide rations for the last leg of the journey.

'Last leg?' I thought at the time. I had completely lost track of time, only focusing on moving forward.

Ironically, the rations and furs the runners gave to the young and elderly were better than anything we had had back at the village.

The people were far kinder too.

The children would take turns to ride on the sleds and rest our feet... Well for other children I suppose it was just a luxury, but for I it was a godsend respite form a constant trial.

In the massive hoard of people we were warmer and better fed than I could remember ever being. I had hope.

As I lay mine and my sisters heads down on the cold wood of the sled under the concerned faces of the adults around us, I couldn't help but think;

'They have sleds but no snowshoes…?'

It was just a passing thought before much needed sleep then.

But of course things went bad once more.

My sisters took a turn for the worse.

Three days from Winter Town, despite the improvement in food and warmth, it became apparent they were nearing their ends.

At this point they were barely conscious, at least in the beginning they could talk but now I was lucky if I could get them to recognise me.

Hope was dripping away.

I started making a snowshoe. I needed to get to Winter Town quicker and we weren't moving at night, so I forwent sleep and got to work best I could.

It was slow going between the lack of materials and my shaking hands. The "basket" edge was crude and prone to snapping, whilst the crisscrossing deck was made of twigs and bush instead of leather.

It was the best I could do with just twelve hours.

The shoes broke not even an hour after we started moving again in the morning.

I made a new one come midday break.

It broke in even less time.

During this time, even though the path was cleared by the runners and there were hundreds others around me to trample down the snow as we walked, you could still sink in, or even worse, slip on the compacted snow.

However I needed to move quicker.

My sisters were getting no better. The people who handed out rations would often shake their heads sadly at them. They pitied us, but they never did help further.

I no longer knew where the people from our village was amongst the crowd, but I'm sure they were numb to our continued survival by now.

'We should have been dead long ago.' That fact was starting to sink in. We were on borrowed time already.

The hope and strength I felt at getting food and furs was draining.

Two days from Winterfell and the healer I asked to check my sisters said the same thing as yesterday;

"I'm amazed they made it through the night, but I doubt they will last till the morrow." With that he would shake his head and walk off.

I was starting to lose hope.

I was desperate. So I did something stupid.

There was no point stealing a horse, I didn't know how to make it move, and rations were to heavily guarded for me to get too, but I needed better food for my sisters and to be in Winter Town asap so they may get better attention.

So I ran ahead.

When the group stopped for the night after handing out dinner rations… I didn't.

"The group ahead of us should have reached Kings Road by now." I heard.

There was multiple groups travelling to Winterfell. We were all currently making way to Kings Road where it would an easier travel to Winterfell.

Leaving the group behind me, with one sister strapped to my back and another held in my arms, I started to run. I started to run and steam.

I'm not sure what happened that night. I shut off. I was purpose without ego.

I reached the forward group at dawn break, then immediately continued running with them as they left.

It took a whole night of running and steaming to reach the group, but I did it.

Winterfell was only a day away.

'There my sisters could get help.' I thought I had found hope once more.

I was disillusioned of this notion when we reached Winter Town.

This was not a town but a refugee camp. People were spilling outside the walls of the town, having to set up tents and mass bonfires. Using the walls as shelter from the wind crammed together to share warmth.

I went into denial I think.

I went to the nearest healer and asked them to see my sisters. The old woman only shook her head at the sight of them. I stood still for a moment as they looked at me sadly… then ran off.

When I came back with a second healer the old lady was gone, but I had already forgotten about her. The young man shook his head silently at my sisters and looked at me sadly. I trembled on the spot and ran of once more.

When I came back with the third healer the young man was already gone, ut I had already forgotten about him. The old man shook his head softly at my sisters and looked at me sadly.

This time I broke down.

I clung to him, I begged, I cried, I threatened… eventually I could only ask;

"... why?"

The old man's face twisted further in sadness with each try I made, but he didn't move or try to get out of my grasp. He was kind man, I can tell that now.

"... They lack the proper food and housing to even attempt to get heal. I am amazed you three have managed this far… but I'm sorry. They will be gone by the morrow." This time, unlike when everyone else said so, there was a feel of finality to the kind old man's words.

My mind blanked.

When I came to I was on my knees, hands loose by my side. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

For a while I clung to my sisters and cried silently. Their unconscious forms were light, far to light in my arms and that had nothing to do with my increased strength.

I felt sick. I was going to lose them. Despite all I've tried it just wasn't good enough. As both my sisters lay side by side, faces flush and sweating as they barely managed to pant.

'So small.' It felt like I fit them in my palms. They were my little sisters. My treasures.

As I knelt by their side silently in our little corner of a public tent, I felt… nothing.

I was prepared to die with them. If they were to die I will follow after. I don't know why I thought thus, but I truly did intend to go through with that promise.

I lost hope.

I was to await death by their sides. It was not resignation or contentment, but that was the only acceptable decision my oh-so-tired mind could conjure.

Then my eyes widened slightly.

'...They lack the proper food and housing...'

Then… if I get them that?

'Okay.'

My body moved before my mind. Towards the outskirts of our camp.

'Help will not come freely.' Number one.

'Only Lord Stark would be able to help.' Number two.

'I will need something to bargain with.' Number three.

What though?

'They have sleds but no snowshoes…?' It was truly an idle thought before sleep.

Snowshoes.

'Okay.'

I had hope once more.

.

.

Some hours later I found the old man once more and asked of his help.

"Please look after them till I get back." It was my most sincere wish of the kindest man I had met in this life.

"Very well. I wish you luck." I'm not sure if he would have said that had he known what I was risking.

There was a high possibility for me to just get chucked into jail, knocked unconscious and left for dead, or being straight up killed for what I was going to attempt.

In that case I won't be getting back soon and my sisters will pass… However at the very least they will have someone kind by their sides at the end. Even if it's not me.

.

.

"I need to see Lord Stark." As I stood before a guardsman at the gates of Winterfell, I said thus loud and clear.

I was mocked then ignored. Obviously.

"I need to see Lord Stark." They were got a bit irritated, it had been a stressful day for everyone sorting the influx of people. They had no time for a kid and his nonsense.

I gulped.

"Come back tomorr-" One of the guards came up to me. He looked like a reasonable fellow, just trying to shoo off the troublemaker with words when he could do much worse.

I sighed to myself at what I was going to do. This would make an enemy of a guiltless guardsman for, to him, no reason at all.

'I have not quarrel with you but…'

I punched him in the crotch.

The guard doubled over with a groan. I made no further movement. This needed to be as big of a scene as I could make it.

When the guard straightened up again there was fury in his eyes. That is as expected. This man I don't know the name of will now try to hurt me.

The other guards were looking over, but made no move to interfere. This was just a strange little brat about to be beat up. Maybe they were laughing?

The man charged me barehanded.

We tussled, if you could call it that. I mainly just dodged, only hitting to keep him fighting. I took a blow to the lip and a punch to the face. But I didn't let it stop.

With my newfound strength I ducked and weaved. I needed to gather more attention.

The guardsman was well and truly incensed now. He reached for his spear.

More people were paying attention, a few guardsmen closing in around us. This was the moment of truth.

He swung at me. Not a stab, or thrust but a motion like a baseball swing. He did not intend to kill me.

I'm glad. He was a kind man.

I did not dodge, I did not guard or flinch, I only stood there and took it. As the butt end of the spear buried itself in my gut I was lifted off my feet, my breath stolen from my lungs.

I landed heavily on my back, the guardsmen around us paused. The sight of a child who could have definitely dodged taking the full brunt of an adults strike without a word caught their attention better than any scream, shout or struggle could have.

They were confused.

My opponent panted in exertion. Our little game of cat and mouse took more out of him than I thought. But despite his rage there was a hint of confusion to his eyes.

More guards approached my fallen form. They were probably going to chuck me in jail. I was tired. I didn't want to get up. But I had too.

The approaching men stopped when they saw the boy they thought unconscious quite calmly clamber to his feet.

I shook the snow off my back and faced the guardsmen before me. I was scared, scared this wouldn't work but I had to try.

I focused on my sisters; their flushed faces, scrawny limbs, the way their ribs show all too easily under their skin. I focused on their smiles, their laughter, their tears, their scowls… I focused on how that all may be gone come the sunrise.

Standing straight, fighting down the fear, desperation and pain, I bit my lip to hold back the tears and spoke with the steadiest voice I could muster.

"I need to see Lord Stark… please." Reluctant as I am to admit, in the end I just couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

I think, however, it was that very failure that got me in.

.

.

I kept myself straight. Resisting the urge to clutch my stomach in pain. I dried my tears as someone lead me through the castle.

I'm not sure what he might have said as we journeyed to the Lord's solar, my mind was in a haze. I was only barely staying on my feet.

'It's cold, I'm tired, I'm hungry. What if it doesn't work? You should be by your sisters.'

I ignored the voices and we reached the solar.

He was intimidating. Even when sitting behind a desk his frame was imposing and strong. His grey eyes heavy on my person and the shadows cast by candlelight only made him more ominous.

Yet I almost fell to my knees in happiness. I had reached him. Now there was a chance.

I had hope.

We talked, of what I can't recall. I was on autopilot. Merely going through the motions. I think I acted childishly in my giddiness, but somehow we got to the point.

I could barely see, my vision was starting to swim, but I kept my eyes on him. I know people find them unnerving and I needed to make an impression.

"These are called snow shoes."

.

.

A few hours later my sisters had been extracted from the public tent I left them in. I said goodbye to the kind old man and promised I would repay him.

A few hours later still there were people fussing over my sisters. I think I saw a man with an ornamental chain hanging from his neck. I do not know.

I sat by their side as words were exchanged above me. People became blurs and voices vague.

I sat there on a chair to the side, with my hands on my knees and head bowed, waiting.

Eventually someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was a man I did not recognised. I looked at him with a blank face. I was exhausted.

"They will make it." The words swam through my consciousness.

I let out a long sigh.

Then my eyes rolled back and I blacked out.

.

.

AN: Reviewed version. Cut out the dialogue in the beginning. I don't think it was that bad, but given the real crappy reception I guess I'm weird.

This ended up as I hoped it wouldn't; real fucking wordy. I was trying to cut back on that.

This is the new backstory. I didn't mean for the healing to come across "regeneration superpower" but I guess the way I wrote it, that misunderstanding is understandable.

The "superpower" is a minor thing. It is not a pivotal plot function. It's just a thing that keeps Arthur alive long enough to make his life interesting.

So I downplayed it a lot more in this version. Hopefully it comes across more "he's gonna need that" than "that's fucking game breaking" because it's not.

To all those who gave up upon reading that second chapter very well. I do not blame them.

However to all those who have chosen to give this a second chance by reading once more, I sincerely thank you.

It is you who I write for.