The farther north Daven rode, the colder he felt; and the colder he felt, the faster he tried to advance forward, so as to reach his destination before the next snow blizzard buries both him and his mare. The poor animal has been losing weight ever since they set out, much as he. Dry grass and moss were becoming harder and harder to dig up from underneath the snow; as for himself, all the provisions he had left were a few slices of hard bread and some stripes of beef, so solidly frozen that he nearly broke a tooth last night when he tried to take a bit without thawing the meat first.

And it was bloody cold. He had never felt as cold as he did now, when he got closer to Winterfell. He wore fur-lined gloves, a heavy cloak, and thick leather hide boots. Still, he felt the sold seep right to his bones.

No matter. Winterfell was close, he could feel it by the faint smell of wood smoke and the unmistakable signs of habitation.

The sound of horse hooves could be heard coming closer towards him, nearer and nearer... and as Daven turned backwards to look, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his mare reared and neighed in fear. She was spooked by a nasty-looking grey stallion ridden by a maid who looked almost as ill-tempered as her horse.

"Forgive me," she said, dismayed more than surprised, "it is usually a path no one but me rides. I had not expected to see a lone stranger here, now that winter set in. Who are you, ser?"

"I'm no knight," the young man smiled rather insolently.

"Good," said the girl, "right now, I'm sick of knights." Particularly king's bastards who are so damn prickly about their honor that it is impossible to have an entire conversation without offending them.

The young man looked at her more intently now. She wasn't exactly pretty, but there was something instantly attractive in her easy manner and the bold look of her grey eyes.

"Is m'lady bound for Winterfell?" it was a silly question, he supposed. Where else would she be going?

"Yes," she said, "I am Arya Stark."

"Daughter to the late Lord Eddard and sister to the lady Sansa, are you not, m'lady?"

"I am. My two younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, are here as well. Bran is now Lord of Winterfell, though my sister's husband is Warden of the North and rules until Bran comes of age. You haven't told me your name yet," she felt she got too talkative with this golden-haired stranger who wasn't a knight or squire.

"Daven Rivers," the boy replied curtly.

A bastard, noted Arya. "You don't speak like someone who was born in the Riverlands," she said.

"I was born there, but grew up in the Vale, in the household of Lord Nestor Royce."

"And what brings you here?" asked Arya, blunt as always. "You are going to Winterfell, are you not?'

"I am," he said. She set her horse to a brisk trot, and the boy followed suit. "I am here to see the Lord Lannister," he said.

"Tyrion?" Arya shot him a curious glance. "Where would you know him from?"

"I don't," Daven said simply, "but I hope to."

Arya looked at him sideways. That golden hair and haughty manner of his forcibly reminded her of someone she had briefly known long ago.

"Have you ever been told you look a lot like..." she started, but he cut her off with an airy laugh.

"M'lady is yet to learn that bastards, as a rule, do not like to be questioned about their family history."

No, thought Arya. I have already learned this all too well.

... "So he didn't tell you who he was?" asked Sansa, balancing little Eddard on her knee.

"Daven Rivers," shrugged Arya, "some bastard from the Riverlands, grew up under the care of Nestor Royce at the Vale, he said."

"I know Nestor Royce," said Sansa, "we stayed with him for a fortnight once, and I never saw anyone looking remotely like this boy."

"Either he was away, or he wasn't important enough for you to notice."

"I'm sure I would have noticed him anywhere," said Sansa, gently disentangling her pearl pendant from her son's grasp. "Have you noticed how much he resembles -"

"The Kingslayer," finished Arya, "yes, he looks so much like him that I thought at first he must be a Lannister. But if he were, he wouldn't be so stupid as to come up with a bastard name."

"Perhaps he is a Lannister bastard," suggested Sansa, "be that as it may, Tyrion will figure him out soon enough."

All was well in Winterfell. Tyrion was a good Warden and a responsible lord, and saw that they would be amply provisioned throughout the winter. As for herself, Sansa had long gotten over what she had felt on the day she married him. His kindness and gentleness towards her, his bravery, his noble spirit and the devotion he had shown her have made her see that some notions of her maidenhood – such as that her husband must be a strong, handsome, gallant knight – had little to do with her actual happiness.

And of course, the fact that Tyrion named their son Eddard warmed her heart towards him as well. In all their time together, their meals and their walks, their joys and trials, and in the darkness of their bedchamber they would pour out each other's souls and heal each others wounds.

… "I will see him," Tyrion told the steward, "just please, Ryk, hint to him it had better not take too long. I still have matters of business to attend this morning."

Then man nodded, bowed and went out. Soon after, the boy entered. The quill fell out of Tyrion's hand.

"Jaime!" he gasped. A moment later he realized, of course, that this was a foolish exclamation, but the lad indeed looked very much like Jaime had, the day Aerys draped the white cloak of the Kingsguard around his shoulders. He was a little thinner, perhaps, and his eyes were grey-blue instead of the Lannister green, but he had the same hair of spun gold, the same nose, mouth and brows, the same stubborn chin with a few soft wisps of yellow hair.

Though to be sure, this boy looked more ragged and unkempt than Jaime ever had in his youth.

"I have had the resemblance pointed out to me more than once, my lord," said the boy, unsurprised, "and was able to attest to it myself, the one time I had seen Ser Jaime."

It wasn't impossible, Tyrion allowed. Perhaps his brother had not been as faithful to Cersei as he had always thought. "Is it true?" he asked, "Are you Jaime's son?"

"No," said the boy, looking him straight in the eyes, "I am yours."

"You…" the words were stuck in Tyrion's throat. No, no, it couldn't be, but –

"Tysha was my mother," added this young handsome stranger, "and you are my father, my lord."

Any of my father's guardsmen could have been your father, Tyrion thought in horror, but the features of this boy were those of a Lannister, there was no mistaking that.

"I…" Tyrion's lips and tongue went parchment-dry. He swallowed with difficulty. "Speak. Tell me more."

"My mother was a washerwoman for a lordling in the Riverlands, but later ended up at the Vale, where she worked for Lord Nestor Royce. She learned to sew and was quite skillful. Lord Nestor was good to me, and took a great interest in me since I was very young."

With a face such as yours, no wonder. No doubt Nestor Royce was shrewd enough to understand that a bastard of a Lannister could one day become a man to be reckoned with. "Your mother… is she alive?" asked Tyrion in trepidation.

"She has been dead these three years," said Daven, and a cloud passed over his face.

Three years. She might have lain dying while I swept over King's Landing on dragon's wings, while I savored triumph and was named Warden of the North.

"She bade me to come and seek you when I am old enough," said Daven, "but first, I spent a year as a sailor, earned some money and bought a horse…"

"What is your name?" croaked Tyrion.

"Daven Rivers, if it please my lord."

"No," said Tyrion, "no, not Rivers. Your mother and I had been married, however briefly. You are Daven Lannister, my firstborn and trueborn son."

… "So he isn't a bastard after all," whispered Sansa in disbelief.

"I understand this is most displeasing to you, Sansa," he said.

"How so?" she frowned.

"It means Eddard is not my firstborn son," explained her husband. "If what Daven says is true, and I am fairly certain he isn't lying, he is my heir."

"I am sure little Ned will not be deprived," said Sansa, "but what would you do, my lord? Will Daven remain in Winterfell with us?"

"With snow that will soon be five feet deep, it seems he will have to," said Tyrion evasively, although he knew perfectly well what she meant.

Sansa looked at him intently and sighed, remembering Jon Snow, her bastard half-brother who had always felt like an outcast in Winterfell. She knew her husband well, and was certain of what he wished to hear.

"Daven will stay," she said, "we will see that he is instructed in the way that befits someone of his birth and station. It is only thanks to the kindness of Lord Royce that he can even read and write. I would say I will try and be like a mother to him," she said, "but since we are about the same age, this can hardly hold true."

"Are you sure, Sansa?" asked Tyrion, and his eyes brightened.

"Of course," the words came easily now that she knew she has done well, and she bent and planted a quick kiss on her husband's brow. She knew she had made the right decision, and she made a silent vow to held her husband's son make his home in Winterfell.

… That night, when they feasted in the long hall, Daven was seated on his father's left. His father was a good man, a just man, just like his mother had always insisted, despite him never seeking them out. He never knew the truth about how his parents' marriage was put to an end. His mother merely told him Lord Tywin made his father set his lowborn wife aside.

Daven looked around the hall, illuminated by flickering torches. He looked at his father, presiding at the head of table, at his beautiful lady wife who wore a dress of deep blue velvet that brought out the color of her eyes. Then his glance wandered towards Arya, who was sitting not far from him, laughing at a joke someone told and feeding morsels off her own plate to the direwolf lying meekly at her heels.

As cold as it was up north, Daven thought, he had a feeling he would not be sorry to stay here throughout the winter.