Jaime Lannister had never been anywhere more... vibrant. Nor chaotic. The tourney grounds at Harrenal were like something out of the tales of his childhood, of knighthood, chivalry and glory. Bright pavilions in all colours had been erected for what seemed like miles around. Standards bearing every sigil imaginable, from that of the lowliest hedge knight to the proud banners of the great houses, fluttered merrily in the breeze. Lords, ladies, knights, merchants freeriders, sellswords, tradesmen, farmers and whores, all mingled amongst each other, some dressed in rich silks and satins, others in mail and plate, more in roughspun wool and plain leathers. So many people... He didn't even remember seeing this many together in one place even in King's Landing. And more were yet to arrive, all to attend the great tourney that began the next morning.

Even despite the hordes of people, his little sister was easy to pick out of the crowd. There she sat, golden and radiant on her blood-bay mare, dressed in Lannister colours, surrounded by an escort of two dozen scarlet-cloaked guardsmen. Her whole face lit up when she saw him, red lips parting in a beaming grin that lit up the field that little bit more. She had always been like that, a true ray of sunshine, sweet, kind, unambitious and cheery, the most genuinely warm person Jaime had ever met. She acted rather young for her age, but laughed easily and often, making others laugh just as much, somehow talking to most people like they were her equals, even though few could ever equal Giana Lannister in most things, not looks, not kindness, not charm, though quite possibly in brains. As lovely as she was, she was rather naive and, like Jaime, thought in terms of the present not the future. Uncle Gerion liked to joke by asking their father if she truly was a Lannister at all. Lord Tywin did not appreciate his wit.

"Jaime!" Giana made to dismount, but he was already there, sweeping her off her horse and twirling her around in a tight hug as she laughed, neither of them caring what anyone thought. They hadn't seen each other for nearly a year, after all, not since his last visit to Casterly Rock before he left with Lord Crakehall to fight the Kingswood Brotherhood; he had been back to the Rock since, of course, for a whole month after being knighted by Ser Arthur, however Giana had been away for that time, father having sent her to visit a Westerlands bannerman prior to a possible betrothal. Jaime ached for Cersei with a tangible pain in the months since he had left King's Landing after the battle with the Brotherhood - even more so now, knowing she wouldn't be waiting for him when he returned to the city after Father had dragged her back to the Rock - but he hadn't quite realised exactly how much he had missed his little sister too until she stood before him. He set her down on the ground, keeping an arm around her waist, and she looked up at him, eyes wide. "You've grown," He had, a lot - he now stood at six feet tall, with no sign of stopping - but so had she. Giana was not as tall nor as womanly as Cersei - she was a year younger, though she was shorter than Cersei had been even at that age, and her features were much softer than his twin's dazzling beauty ever was - but was a world away from the little girl of thirteen he had left behind at Casterly Rock.

"Didn't you hear?" He teased, taking the reins of her horse with his free hand and leading them through the crowd, which parted to make way for House Lannister, their guards following behind. "It's Ser Jaime now. Show some manners, Gin," That nickname came from a time he was too young to say her true name properly.

"I do apologise, dear brother," She said exaggeratedly, amusement glittering in her apple green eyes. "But it seemed to me your head is already inflated enough as it is," He laughed. He really had missed her. Equally, he was ashamed to admit to himself he would rather it was Cersei here today. But he had never had the same relationship with Giana as he did with Cersei. The thought made him slightly sick.

"You're probably right," He admitted. "I still can't believe father let you come. I'm rather glad I didn't cross paths with him on my way," Jaime was far from surprised by his father's fury at his upcoming appointment to the Kingsguard. He had known when Cersei first came to him about it that it was not a good idea. It had taken even her a whole night to persuade him to take the position, even though becoming a member of the Kingsguard was a boyhood dream of his. But then it had come down to whether or not he wanted Cersei by his side, and he had chosen his sister in a heartbeat, as he always would, for what was Casterly Rock and the Westerlands compared to her?

They had expected Lord Tywin to be angry, of course. They had not foreseen him resigning his post as Hand of the King and returning with his household - and his daughter - back to the Westerlands. Jaime was honoured to be accepted into the Kingsguard, more than honoured, but it all seemed soured now that Cersei would not be there to share it all with him. When he was in the Westerlands, she had been in court, apart from the several sweet days he had spent in the capital. Now he was to be a Kingsguard, she had been dragged back to Casterly Rock. The irony did not fail to be anything less than a slap in the face.

"I think he still believes there is a chance you'll get out of this, somehow, or he'll find a loophole so you can still inherit," Giana said with a carefree shrug. Bad things happening never seemed to bother her like they did most people, but Jaime suspected that was because she didn't quite understand consequences. Despite this, no matter what Cersei claimed, Giana was undoubtedly their father's favourite (not that that counted for much) and understood the man remarkably well for someone so utterly different in every way. "He would never disown you, besides. That would leave Tyrion as his only son," She pulled a face, showing her distaste at how their father treated their younger brother.

"Small chance of that," Jaime said, with a humourless smile. She hummed in agreement, and he didn't push the matter. They walked in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Is it true you fought the Smiling Knight?" She turned to him with glittering eyes, previous discussion forgotten, and he grinned, eager to tell the story again. Giana was refreshing in a way few people were.

Harrenhal was a dark, ugly, twisted shadow with a stinking aura of death about it. The great hulking castle had been on the horizon for days, without it seeming like they were getting any closer, though they had passed countless people flocking there for the tourney. Any locals they came across gave their party of mostly northerners either wary looks, or watched with wide-eyed fascination. It was rather satisfying, in a way, but disconcerting in others. She was unused to so many people. The North was vast, its population largely spread out, with huge swathes of untouched, deserted wilderness. That suited her fine. The busier it got, the closer they grew to Harrenhal, the more on edge Rosennis Stark became. She couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding, that something bad was going to happen before they returned north.

She rode with her brothers and sister, as well as Robert Baratheon, as she had been doing for the weeks it had taken them to travel after meeting up with the party from the Eyrie. Jon Arryn rode farther back, with the Arryn guardsmen, speaking to some of his bannermen that had joined their small convoy on the way. Up at the front, Robert made some bawdy jest, which made Brandon howl with laughter and Ned snort. Benjen was sniggering, unsure as to whether he should be laughing or not, and Lyanna was grinning, clearly amused, but there was a wariness in her eyes that had been there since they met the man she was to marry. Lyanna did not quite know what to make of her betrothed; Ross did, but didn't want to put her off any more than she already was by voicing her thoughts. Her sister seemed to like the man well enough when they were laughing with her brothers, telling stories as friends or racing horses, however whenever Robert tried to do anything that dared venture even slightly into courtship - for example, pay her a compliment or try to help her dismount her horse - she became rather clammed up, short and defensive.

The logical conclusion to be drawn from that, Ross thought, was not that Lyanna did not want to marry Robert, more she did not want to marry anyone. But of course she knew that already. Ross was as different to her younger sister as ice was to fire, and though they often had their fights and rivalries, they had always been very close, able to read each other remarkably well. However much her sister was against this match, she would do her duty to the family, she knew her that much. Lyanna might be wild, but she was not stupid, nor selfish, and most of all she was loyal.

Lyanna slowed her snow-white mare to ride beside Ross. People had asked why it was the younger Stark daughter betrothed to the powerful southron lord rather than the elder. They stopped asking when they saw the two side by side. Lyanna was not typically pretty, but she had a wild sort of beauty, she was bold, and her fiery nature was alluring to many. Ross had none of that. At newly five-and-ten, little less than a year older than her sister, she wasn't ugly but she was no beauty either, tall but thin as a beanpole, with little to no womanly curves. To describe her as charming would have been laughable. Prickly would have been a better suited word. Icy cold, another, all sharp edges and blunt cynicism, which was often a well-needed foil to her sister's follies. However, just as Ross could temper (some of) Lyanna's wolfblooded notions, Lyanna always did bring out the reckless side of her. The two sisters exchanged a look.

"Race you to the edge of the trees," Lyanna nodded to some way ahead of them with a challenging grin. Her sister's white mare, and Ross' own steel grey, had been a gift from the Ryswell's (looking to marry their daughter Barbrey to Brandon, Ned or Benjen). Both horses were very well-bred, strong and hardy as befit a creature of the North, but also agile enough to pick up speed in the dense forests around Winterfell. These Riverlands woods would be child's play. Ross smiled wickedly in acknowledgment, nodding once and digging her heels sharply into her mare's sides. The powerful animal leapt forward as though stung, but Ross gently but firmly took her in hand to gain control, dodging between the other horses in their group, between Robert Baratheon's great chestnut courser and Ned's dark bay, to cries of surprise from the others. She heard Lyanna laugh loudly from behind her, but Ross' eyes were ahead, keen and sharp. The road narrowed and then they were in the trees. She didn't know these woods. Any misstep - a trip on a log, misjudging a gap, not seeing a burrow - would bring them both down, break the horse's legs, break her own neck. For Lyanna, that was the thrill of it. For Ross, on the other hand, it wasn't even a concern. She knew the horse wouldn't fall for her, she had been an expert horsewoman at ten. Where other - better - ladies had skills in embroidery, stunning beauty or pretty musicianship, riding was the one thing Ross could truly claim to be a master in.

But Lyanna was very nearly as good, and ten times as daring. Ross could hear her sister's catcalls and whoops behind her, could hear her horse's hooves pounding on the ground as they cleared a ditch, then a fallen tree, not bothering to find a way around, just leaping straight over. This was nothing compared to their rides in the Wolfswood, but it gave a similar rush, even without the smell of sentinel pine and the chill northern wind in her hair.

Up ahead was a stream, cutting out a gully about four feet across right in their path. They could have found somewhere to ford it, but... no. Ross fixed her eyes straight ahead, spurring the horse on when she felt it hesitate slightly, counting the strides underneath her, feeling a rush of anticipation that the mare picked up on, firing it up even more, one, two, three-hands-forward-lean-forward and up!

One split-second of weightlessness as her mare cleared the stream easily, then hooves crashed down on the opposite bank. She felt the horse stumble so kept its head up with the reins, digging her heels into its sides again and it surged forward to the finish, Lyanna right at her side.

Ross won, but by a hair's breadth, so of course her sister disputed the fact. They were still arguing when the others caught up, Brandon laughing at them, Robert looking slightly bemused but roared with laughter nonetheless. Ned grinned beside him, and Benjen looked on in jealousy; he never couldn't keep up with his sisters. Not that anyone could, if there was a horse underneath them.

"I say Lady Lyanna won," Robert said, still chuckling, with a charming smile that was normally all it took to have an otherwise chaste innkeep's daughter lifting her skirts for the handsome storm lord. Lyanna wrinkled her nose.

"Now I think of it, I think Ross did win," She said, turning away and riding off, and Ross couldn't help snorting with laughter at Robert's bemused expression, falling in beside Ned.

Being presented to King Aerys II Targaryen was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Giana's life. Countless people had warned her of the king's affections towards her lady mother Joanna, but she hadn't quite appreciated exactly how far that had gone. Though Giana wasn't as beautiful as Cersei, she was used to the lustful (but usually hidden) gazes of men, but this was different. She looked more like their mother than her sister did, and even their names were somewhat similar. Something that the king they called mad had certainly noticed. She shivered, remembering the way the old man's - because he was an old man, king or not - eyes had roamed up and down her body, almost like he was undressing her just like that, and the salacious comments he had made had made her skin crawl. She had seen Jaime's jaw clench as he stood beside her, but of course he could do nothing. Soon he would be sworn to protect that man with his life. She wasn't sure if she liked that thought. She had always thought her brother would make a good white knight, but now she wasn't sure. He was reckless, she knew, and he way he looked at the king when he made those comments... there was something in that look that gave her pause for thought.

The day only seemed to get worse after that, even though she tried to put the king out of her mind. During the opening ceremony of the tourney that evening, she watched as Jaime knelt before Lord Commander Gerold Hightower to be inducted into the Kingsguard, a pure white cloak fastened around his shoulders. To the crowd, excited for the festivities, her brother looked the perfect knight, young, talented dashingly handsome and golden, and they cheered him with enough noise to wake the dead. Jaime stood, the newest member of the Kingsguard at only fifteen years old, and the king soaked up his praise, believing it to be for him (though surely no one in their right mind would cheer for such a horror). She furrowed her brow as she saw the king say something to Jaime that made his face fall for a fraction of a second - she couldn't hear what was said over the noise - before his expression became carefully blank and he nodded, once. After she rejoined him, he wouldn't tell her what Aerys had said.

The feast that night was wonderful, truly. So many people, all dressed exquisitely; she herself wore a gown of pale orange and gold. Casterly Rock was her home and she loved it, but this was all so new and exciting. Her whole life she had mostly been confined to the Rock - not that it was by any means small - yet here it was like a whole new world. There were so many people, packed into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths (though Jaime assured her there were only thirty-three). The Tyrell ladies with roses woven in their hair and embroidered on their dresses. Lithe spearmen in orange silks from Dorne. The beautiful Tully sisters, both with flowing copper hair. The wild-looking Northmen in leathers and furs down from Winterfell. And the powerful young storm lord, Robert Baratheon, arms like tree trunks, who grinned roguishly when he saw her looking; she smiled merrily back, which seemed to please him more.

Jaime didn't notice Giana slip away; he was with several others his age, mostly the sons of Westerlands lords, and a few more squires, and more than a few serving girls were hovering around him, giggling amongst themselves.

"My lady," Baratheon bowed when she approached, a gleam in his eye that even she knew was far from innocent. Was that even a bad thing? A thrill went through her at the scandalous thought and she giggled, curtsying sweetly. "I don't believe we've met. Surely I'd remember such a fair face," The compliment was transparent, but appreciated nonetheless.

"I don't believe we have, my lord," Giana said, looking him in the eye, feeling daring. She wasn't going to mention her name if she didn't have to; any mention of Lord Tywin was enough to scare anyone away. And Lord Baratheon was just being friendly, surely. She looked too young for him to be truly interested.

"What's a beauty like you doing all alone?" Another man - handsome in a wild sort of way, rangy and strong, though not as large as Robert - joined them unabashedly, with a wolfish grin. "Brandon Stark. A pleasure, my lady," He bowed, taking her hand and kissing it, cutting across Robert to do so. Though delivered smoothly, the pretty words were clearly uncharacteristic from this one, judging from the way the man's younger brother, a slight boy of one-and-ten, was gawping. Giana did not miss the warning glance Brandon Stark gave Baratheon, suddenly remembering then that the man was betrothed to Stark's sister.

"I am charmed, my lords," She smiled sweetly, not wanting to upset the Stark girl by flirting with her betrothed. "But I'd best be going. My brother will be looking for me," She curtseyed once more and turned to leave, feeling Robert's eyes on her back as she returned to Jaime, whose eyes narrowed at her.

"Where have you been?" He asked.

"Talking to people," She said with a smile, catching his arm as he turned away. "Jaime, what's wrong?" She had noticed the pained look he was doing his best to hide all evening. He didn't speak for a moment.

"You'll have to spend the rest of the tourney on your own," He said eventually. "I'm to return to King's Landing in the morning," Her mouth fell open.

"What?" She exclaimed indignantly. "Why?"

"The King commands it," He said, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Even though the queen and Prince Viserys already have two Kingsguard with them. But it's my duty now, to obey the king. I have to go,"

"But you'll miss the joust," Giana said in dismay, knowing he had wanted to compete; he could win, if he wanted to, there was no doubt about it. He nodded.

"So be it,"

All the women here were so beautiful. The dazzling Giana Lannister whose dress shimmered like spun gold. Violet eyed, alluring Ashara Dayne in black and purple. Lyanna, all bared teeth and Northern wildness but no less beautiful for it. And then there was Ross herself, tall, skinny and sharp, dressed in a fairly plain dark green dress with black and silver trim. She had hoped to remain mostly unnoticed, however her family name made that impossible no matter how plain she appeared.

"My Lady," An average sort of man maybe a few years older than her gave a deep bow, kissing her hand what he clearly thought was a nice gesture but just came off a little limp. Awkward, too, as she was still sat down.

"Ser," Ross said without much enthusiasm, because he clearly wasn't a lord. Second son, maybe? Third? She looked him over critically. He'd clearly only come to her because he'd worked out someone like him would have no chance with the likes of Giana Lannister and Ashara Dayne. Nor with me, she thought with dry amusement. Why was it that men thought the plainer girls were easier to achieve?

"Call me Erren," He said with a sickly smile, as though Ross would have any idea who he was from that. He took a seat beside her, rather too close. "I must say, you look most beautiful tonight," She gave a short nod to that, no more. If the compliment had been true, daresay I'd be charmed. Even her thoughts were dry. Ross appreciated honesty, and, as it was, she felt only mild irritation. She had been enjoying watching Brandon and Lyanna tearing a mad streak across the dance floor, completely uncaring of anyone else yet somehow still managing to look good doing it, yet now Ser Erren the Irrelevant was blocking her view. There was a pause; he was clearly expecting a response, but when it became clear she was not going to give one he spoke again. "May I call you Rosennis?"

"Lady Stark will suffice," She said, misliking the look in the man's eyes. Ross wasn't taking the title in vain; she had been Lady Stark ever since her mother died birthing Benjen. The Irrelevant laughed.

"The Northern ladies are as proud and unattainable as they say," He said, as though it was some great joke. She glanced over to where her drunken sister was hanging off Robert now; admittedly she was a bit drunk, but regardless, she was laughing loudly and openly as he spun her around. Ross raised an eyebrow.

"Frozen, is what they say about me I believe," She gave a tight smile. "Cold, icy, frigid. I even heard one man compare me to a statue," He seemed rather disarmed by her bluntness. Most men were. She was good at putting the few that did show an interest off. The Irrelevant gaped at her. "Who are you, Ser?"

"I told you," His brow furrowed in confusion. "My name is Ser Erren,"

"Excellent," Ross said flatly. "Forgive me, I don't believe that tells me your house?" He gaped at her again.

"I thought you knew," He sounded almost wounded, a little annoyed. She raised an eyebrow, her meaning - why would I? - all too clear. "I'm a Florent, Ser Ryam's son," He tried to take her hand in his, but she pointedly moved it out of reach. "Would you like to take a walk with me, Lady Rosennis?" He was clearly trying to get the conversation back on track. His track, judging from the way his hand was moving rather to close to her upper thigh.

"A second son of a second son," She ignored his question, and use of her name, to move it further on her own. "Trying to get the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North to walk alone with him?" She didn't state anything more than the facts, but glanced down at his hand, and he flushed in embarrassment and anger, only proving her suspicions correct. The world was full of ambitious second sons, trying to seduce the daughters of greater lords into giving up their maidenhead, to ensure her hand was his when no one else would take her.

"How dare you suggest anything of the sort?" He blustered. Some men were frightening when they were angry. Most were just amusing. Ser Erren Florent was most definitely the latter.

"So if I was to tell you that I'm betrothed, that wouldn't make you get right up and find some other poor girl?" She said, unimpressed.

"Betrothed? To who?" His disdainful look angered her.

"Lord Bolton," She said; she was to marry Roose Bolton a month after she turned sixteen. He blanched, and she smiled grimly. "I'm not a naive little southron girl with a head full of songs and Septa's fairytales," She kept her own tone even but letting her eyes flash with anger. "Do not think to mistake me for one, you who's green as summer grass,"

"How dare you?" He blustered again, but had no other reply. She smiled then, seeing Ned coming up to them. Ser Erren didn't notice. "What they say about you is true, you're as cold and frozen as a winter storm," He spat. Ross pointedly looked at her brother, and Ser Erren's face dropped as he came face to face with an irate Ned Stark. Though not as tall nor as broad as Brandon, her normally quiet and reserved brother - happy to remain unnoticed at the edge of a room - was nonetheless just as intimidating, when he had to be. Where Brandon roared and raged, threatening every violent thought under the sun, Ned was quiet and intense, his icy stare promising everything Brandon voiced and worse. He was probably about the same age as Ser Erren, second son to second son, but Ned seemed twice as much a man.

"What excuse have you, Ser, to speak to my sister like that?" He asked, voice steady but cold. The Irrelevant floundered.

"I - she - beg pardons, Lord Stark," He said grudgingly. "I've drunk too much. I forgot myself," Ned continued to stare, and Ser Erren left in a hurry. Her brother turned to her, a small smile curling the corner of his lips.

"No man is good enough, Ross?" He said. She gave a small laugh, nowhere near arrogant enough to believe that. There were plenty good enough for her, plain and un-charming as she was. She just wouldn't have them.

"He was a grasping climber," She said, unconcerned. "And a pampered little Reach boy,"

"Yes, I could see that," He seemed amused. "He called you cold,"

"Cold by his standards is practically summer by ours," Ross said. It was almost a compliment if you looked at it that way.

She was a pretty little thing. Very pretty, in fact, and full of youthful energy. Robert had been watching her all evening and would guess she was aged six-and-ten, perhaps five. Her hair was a cascade of gold curls, her big laughing eyes were a bright apple green, and she had a smile that lit up any room she entered. She seemed the perfect woman, whatever her name was; for tonight, at least. Robert didn't need Lyanna Stark and her funny moods he couldn't keep up with; they had seemed to be getting along, then his hand had slipped a little too low - not even on purpose - and she had closed off immediately, returning to bloody Brandon. But he didn't need her. Not with the golden girl around.

Some rational part of his mind - albeit a rather small part, which sounded like Ned - warned him that she was most likely a noble, that she would have a father who would be out for blood for despoiling his daughter, that it was more trouble than it was worth. It made him hesitate, but only briefly. He saw the golden girl leave the hall alone, casting a laden look his way as she disappeared around the corner, and that was enough. The drink, and his cock, won that argument. Robert lurched to his feet, following the little lady. What's the worse that could happen? Who could she be to get him into trouble?

She laughed merrily when she saw him - he suspected she was rather tipsy too, though not completely drunk like he was - dancing and swirling between the tents. He chased after her with a grin, and she danced nimbly out the way, but he caught her eventually, grabbing her around the waist and swinging her around easily - she weighed next to nothing for him - as she squealed delightfully, before he pulled her back tight against his chest. She fell silent, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she craned her neck around to face him, eyes wide and innocent. She was tiny in his arms, a little doll with a vivacious smile.

"Come, my lady," He found himself saying, unable to resist such a delicious little thing any longer. "My tent's this way," She smiled.

Giana woke before dawn with an ache between her legs, in an unfamiliar tent, next to a huge man, whose arms held her tight against his chest. The events of the previous night flooded back to her, and she was torn between a girlish giddiness - at the rebellious thrill of losing her virtue, and to such a man as Lord Baratheon - and a sense of pure terror and foreboding at what her father would do when he found out. No, not when, she tried telling herself. If he found out. He didn't have to know. All her guards had spent that night deep in their cups, and would hardly face Lord Tywin's wrath by telling him they'd let his daughter out of their sights for a whole night to drink at the feast. And no one but Robert knew exactly where she'd spent the night, and he didn't even know her name. It was still early, no one except the servants would be up yet. She couldn't get with child from this encounter, you couldn't on your first time. She could've sworn she'd heard that somewhere, from a couple of gossiping maids. And it wasn't like Cersei was still a maid; Giana still remembered seeing those love marks on her sister's body, and that man's sock in her rooms last year that she claimed was Jaime's. Whoever she had been with then, it certainly wasn't their brother, no, she was seeing someone in secret. If Cersei could do it, then why couldn't she?

None of that had helped. She was still terrified. But first she had to get out of here. Giana slid out from under the furs, not taking care to not wake Robert, but he barely stirred regardless. Hopefully he'd been so drunk that he'd forget this happened. She didn't regret it, but it wasn't something she would've done sober, and the thought of her father finding out was making her worry grow. Gods, she'd made a mistake. A huge mistake. She quickly dressed herself, struggling slightly to lace herself back into her gown from the previous night. It was rather gaudy for early in the morning, and would definitely get her noticed, so she took one of Robert's plain travelling cloaks - which was large enough for her to use as a tent - and covered herself with it, pulling the hood up so it hid her golden hair and face.

The guards at the entrance to Robert's tent chuckled and made a few lewd remarks as she passed, most likely believing her to be some common serving girl. Giana made herself ignore them, slightly perturbed, and snuck across the quiet campsite just as it was beginning to stir. In the guise of a commoner, no one spared her a second glance, except for a dark-haired girl with a long, sharp face grooming a horse, who eyed her rather curiously, for an uncomfortably long time. Giana cursed in her head, recognising her as Brandon Stark's sister, the taller one. The girl didn't approach her, nor did she call out, but Giana knew she'd been recognised so was forced to stop beside her. The girl looked like she'd rather be left alone, but Giana couldn't take the risk.

"Lady Rose, was it?" She asked, for the first time since her mother's death having to fake her usual cheery smile as her heart pounded in her chest. The girl's lips twitched slightly; she didn't seem very friendly.

"Rosennis," She said rather shortly. "My brothers call me Ross. That'll be what you heard," That was a rather pointed reminder that they didn't know each other.

"Of course," Giana fought to keep the smile on her face. The girl didn't seem to be trying to be rude. She was just... prickly. Rather hard to talk to, not like any noble ladies Giana had met before. "Well, I'm glad we could be properly introduced now. I'm Giana,"

"Lannister," Rosennis stated, with a raised eyebrow. There was a pause as Giana floundered. "I'm not going to tell anyone, you know,"

"Tell them what?" Giana's tone became slightly strained in her concern.

"You know what I mean," The dark eyebrow raised further, unimpressed by her weak attempt at lying.

"You saw me, then," Giana's heart was pounding.

"Coming out of Baratheon's tent? Yes," Rosennis shook her head, resuming grooming the horse. "Like I said. I'm not going to tell anyone,"

"But he's your sister's betrothed," Giana blurted out incredulously, surprised by the girl's unexpected kindness. "Why wouldn't you? I'd be furious if I were you," Even for Cersei. "Anyone would," Rosennis was silent for a moment.

"You're not me," The Northern girl looked at her with sharp grey eyes, her tone blunt. Apparently that was all the answer she was going to get.

"Well, thank you," Giana was still puzzled. "If there's anything I can do..?" Rosennis shrugged, but Giana suspected all she really wanted was to be left alone. "I'll see you at the tilts today, I suppose," Rosennis gave a curt nod, turning back to her horse. Giana hesitated for a moment, before turning on her heel and hurrying away, wanting to scream.

Ross frowned as Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, joust champion, trotted down the stands on his silver destrier, the crown of love and beauty on the end of his lance. Now there's a tourney knight if ever I saw one. There was something wrong, though. The prince was slowing before the box containing the royals and the high lords, and Princess Elia Martell, his wife, got to her feet in anticipation of being handed the crown. But Rhaegar wasn't looking at Elia, Ross realised a second before a collective gasp ran through the crowd. The crown prince had ridden past his wife, who stood there with a wide-eyed, hurt expression she quickly tried to conceal.

It was like something out of a nightmare as the prince reigned in his horse before the Starks, extending his lance to Ross' sister Lyanna.

Elia Martell sat back down with quiet dignity and painful finality. Brandon, contrasting, was on his feet in an instant, opening his mouth to roar in outrage, but Ned and Ross both yanked him down.

"Not here, Brandon, sit down. Not here, not now, we'll fix it later, just don't kill him now," Ned was murmuring under his breath, calming their brother in a way only he could, though the look in his eyes was mutinous.

The blue crown still remained on the end of the lance, hanging like a noose. The crowd was shouting, many of the nobles too, and Ross saw the Mad King rise from his throne several seats away, turning his vile purple eyes their way.

"My lady," Rhaegar said, speaking directly to Lyanna, who sat there with wide eyes, looking as surprised as Ross had ever seen her. But as she watched, she saw her sister's face turn to ice in an instant as she swallowed. She was angry, embarrassed and afraid, everything the rest of them were feeling right now. But the crown wasn't going away, and she couldn't refuse a prince of the blood, not like this. No matter what she did here, she couldn't win.

Lyanna took the crown of winter roses with steady hands, laying it on her lap with uncharacteristic care. Like it was doused in wildfire. It might as well have been. The commons was still in uproar, the lords and ladies all muttering intently, all eyes were on them. As Rhaegar turned his mount around, having stared at Lyanna for several long seconds, Ross reached out and grasped her sister's cold hand with her own. Lyanna was motionless otherwise, but squeezed back, looking up at her Ross. Although her face was a blank mask, Ross saw the anger, fear and embarrassment in her eyes.

"We're leaving," Brandon growled, getting to his feet now the prince had gone, ignoring the stares all around them. "Now. Up," He yanked Benjen roughly to his feet, Ned swiftly rising himself with a warning hand on their brother's arm. Brandon made to grab for Lyanna, but Ross cut him off, linking arms with her sister as they stood and glaring warningly at Brandon. Robert Baratheon rose to leave with them, but a few quiet words from Ned and he sat back down; he didn't look as angry as Ross would've expected, or perhaps he was putting on a good show.

The five Starks left the stands, ignoring the mutterings and catcalls all around them. Brandon walked in front, Benjen hurrying beside him to keep up with his long strides. Ross and Ned had Lyanna between them, who for once was keeping her eyes on the ground. It was unpleasant, seeing her wild sister so cowed, and looking back at the prince - dismounting casually as though he was above the madness he had just started - Ross wanted nothing more than to run him through with their father's greatsword. Had he any idea what he had done, or was he just as big a fool as Giana Lannister?

She felt Mad Aerys' eyes following them the whole way, and fought the urge to shudder.

"He can't do that," It was her own voice that spoke, but she barely heard it over the ringing in her ears.

"He can," Ned ground out, eyes dark. "He's the king," It had been dire news when Ned and Brandon had been called before Aerys after the jousts that day. The king was seeing traitors everywhere, they reported, particularly after the mystery knight, and his son singling out Lyanna over his own wife had moved his suspicion onto them. He wanted assurance that the North wasn't a threat. He wanted a hostage, a Stark hostage, and not the girl his son had claimed in front of all the Seven Kingdoms so as not to set tongues wagging.

"Fuck the king," Brandon spat, pacing up and down the tent. "He - "

"Stop it," Ross stopped him in his treason with a glare, understanding now exactly what the king wanted. "Don't be ridiculous, I have to go,"

"We can't just send you off there alone, Ross," Her brother exploded. "Aerys is mad! You've heard the stories from King's Landing, he burns people alive on a whim,"

"I'm a Stark," She replied, calmer outwardly than the broiling rage and panic she felt inside. "He can't lay a finger on me, or he will have a rebellion on his hands, and not just from the North. He's doing this with everyone to try to keep the kingdom in check. There's countless Tyrells at court, his son's married to a Martell, he's got a new Lannister Kingsguard, and now me. If he harms me, all those houses will feel their own kin threatened, they won't stand for it," That was true, but didn't make any of them any happier. There was a heavy silence.

"You can't go, Ross," Benjen's expression was grim, yet pleading. He was only eleven. "You just... can't,"

"She has to," Lyanna's eyes flashed in anger, but her tone lacked it's usual bite. All the bite had been taken out of them by the raging argument between Brandon and Lyanna after they returned from the tilts; Brandon had asked if she'd slept with Rhaegar, to which she had been understandably furious given that all the prince had done was help her hide the fact she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree (though no one knew of that but Ross and Benjen). Her sister was sat on the camp bed, having been glaring at the crown of now-limp winter roses that still lay on the table. "It can't be Brandon, he's the heir. It can't be Ned without offending the Arryns too. It can't be Benjen because he's only a third son. It can't be me because of that fool Rhaegar Targaryen who started all this in the first place," She spat the name sourly. "And if none of us go, then we might as well fall on our swords now, because there's no chance of Aerys letting us leave alive otherwise," No one could argue with that.

That night Ross dreamed of her sister, her brothers, her father. At first it was fine, they were just all at Winterfell. Father was sat in the Lord's chair. Brandon was sparring in the yard with the Cassels and Benjen. Ned was sat by the pool under the heart tree. Lyanna was galloping over the moorland. Her mother was there too, reading a book beneath the huge arched window of the library. Even her Grandmother Arya, who had died when she was five, was there, waist-length grey hair as she remembered. But then it all changed. Blood, dark and red, started to trickle from the eyes of each member of her family, then the nose, the ears, the mouth, they were all drowning in blood amidst smoke, screams and the sounds of dying men. All her loved ones, dead, gone, the sounds of war echoing throughout the land.

She awoke with a small gasp, heart pounding, nightdress drenched in sweat. The first thing that caught her eye in the dim gloom of the tent was the crown of winter roses that still rested beside Lyanna's bed. In the darkness, it almost looked like it was covered in the same blood as her dream, lying in a pool of it, dripping down the table and onto the floor.

Ross got to her feet and without hesitation threw the cursed thing into the still hot embers of the dying fire. Watching the roses blacken and shrivel didn't bring her much satisfaction. Only a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach that much worse was coming.

Ross rode out of Harrenhal the wrong way. South east, instead of north. Accompanied by a dozen Targaryen guards, with only two Northmen there in the grey cloaks of House Stark. It was all wrong. She wanted nothing more than to turn her horse around and gallop back up the Kingsroad. She could do it, her horse was fast enough, she was good enough to find her way home. The grim grey walls of Winterfell loomed in her mind, the dark sentinels and ancient oaks of the Wolfswood, the bleak and wild moors, the cold wind on her face, the solemn face of the Heart Tree over the pool in the Godswood. Her father's stern expression, Brandon flirting with serving maids, Ned's kind eyes, Benjen's young exuberance, Lyanna's laughter as they raced on horseback. Home. She didn't know when she'd see Winterfell or her family again.

She was meant to be married when they got back, become Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort the day after her sixteenth nameday in ten moons time. She supposed that either way then, she wasn't to be in Winterfell much longer. But at least she'd still be in the North, only a few days ride from home. At least she'd be a lady in her own right, not a hostage in a mad king's game.

Their party moved fast, and they soon caught up with another rider heading to the capital, the newest Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister. He was younger than he'd seemed now she saw him up close; though he was six feet tall and looked older, his clear green eyes, so much like his sister's, showed he was most likely her own age. Her and Ser Jaime were the highest ranking nobles in the group, and though Lannister laughed and joked with the guards and the several other knights accompanying them - with an easy charm and sharp wit he seemed to have been born with - Ross noticed that, when no one was looking, that dazzling smile of his dropped altogether, replaced by a rather different expression altogether; anger, primarily, but sadness too, and a hint of apprehension that she wouldn't have expected from the cocky young knight.

Because Jaime Lannister was cocky, there was no doubt about that. He had plenty of reason to be, which made him all the more irritating; he was the eldest son of the richest family in Westeros, blessed with good looks, skill at arms and he had now become the youngest Kingsguard in history at age fifteen, which can't have done anything to deflate his ego. For whatever reason, he seemed to find Ross particularly amusing, although she supposed that was out of boredom more than anything else. There was only so much joy in the conversation the guards offered, and after the first few days, once he'd heard all their battle stories (which, admittedly, he had listened to attentively) and talk of women (surprisingly, he offered little himself with regard to that subject, leading many of the men to laugh at him for having a sweetheart somewhere instead of the seemingly expected crowd of whores) he slowed his horse to ride at the back of the column with her and her guards, all three of them eyeing him warily.

"You're awfully quiet," He remarked, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. Ross knew when she was being mocked, and glowered ahead of her.

"I haven't got anything to say," She replied. Nothing you'd like to hear, anyway. Lannister pulled a face.

"Gods, you Starks are a dour lot," He said.

"And you Lannisters are rather full of yourselves," Ross said bluntly, earning chuckles from her guards. He gave a surprised laugh, not seeming to care that he was being made fun of.

"So you do have a bite to you, after all," He said. "I was starting to think you were ever so dull," Some would call his constant pestering dull. "How many Lannisters have you met, anyway?"

"You," She said. You're enough to prove my point. "And your sister, Giana," He smiled then.

"I'll give you that," He said. "We deserve to be a little arrogant, though, don't you think?" He smiled that charming smile, and she looked on unimpressed, not letting on that that was exactly what she'd been thinking. Shame you're all annoying cunts. She didn't reply, but he continued regardless. "I must say, though, not all the Starks are so grim and solemn as you. Your brother Brandon made a fine drinking partner that first night, and your sister's practically a wolf in ladies clothing,"

"She wasn't when I last saw her," Ross found herself saying. Lannister's smile became slightly fixed.

"No, I bet she wasn't," He looked thoughtful. "What did she do with the crown?"

"Nothing," Ross said. "I threw it in the fire,"