The Winter Beast and River Beauty

Chapter One / For Who Could Ever Learn

Author's Note: ASOIAF meets Beauty and the Beast. King Aerys has cursed the Starks—Brandon with death, Benjen with servitude to the Wall, and Eddard with the body of a beast. The young lord of Winterfell was dealt a final cruelty—the curse ends the moment a woman offers her love. Of course Ned Stark would not condemn a maiden to this madness. And winter has already come.

Started with an ASOIAF kink meme prompt but outgrew its one-shot status.

Like most rumors that fly from King's Landing on stalwart raven wings, the truth is a matter of perspective. The truth is a matter of entertainment. Some claim the Mad King made sacrifices to the heathen gods of Old Valyria, who still reign on the fringes of existence, sustained every time a vainglorious sailor wanders too close to the smoking ruins.

Others claimed King Aerys forged an alliance with the priests of R'hllor. They saw the Targaryen fires and pondered if their god had come closer to earth.

But if truth prevails, it rests in the minds and throats of those who stood in the middle of Aerys' court, close enough to suggest loyalty, far enough not to garner attention. From them, the truth emerges: an exiled sorcerer from Asshai found his way to the Iron Throne and pledged himself to the king of the Seven Kingdoms. The king accepted, and at that moment fire became the least of anyone's worries. In truth, the Mad King has no power but the voice of a king. But such a voice can call on many, including a sorcerer from the world's darkest places. A sorcerer who speaks with the voice of fire finds his patron in the king who lives to burn.

So spake the most disgusted of courtiers when Lord Rickard met his end. His was the cleanest of the Starks—if being roasted alive in one's armor is clean. Cleaner than his poor babes who earned the wrath of the Mad King.

Lord Brandon died before the court. No hand touched him, nor blade cut him. But Brandon Stark stood there spewing blood and lungs, strangling on his own throat, until he fell to the same floor as his sire.

His youngest brother Lord Benjen was the only Stark son in Winterfell. The North is far—the Mad King knew this. He knew Benjen was hardly more than a child, and ordered his sorcerer to bestow a dram of mercy. Benjen was forced to take the Black, and cursed if he should ever try to ride back to Winterfell. His death, the sorcerer assured him, would make Brandon's seem a sanguine slumber.

But the cruelest punishment went to Eddard Stark, the middle son with little of his brothers' wolfblood. King Aerys despised him because he turned his Warden of the East against him. And so, he demanded of his sorcerer, Eddard Stark will know neither death nor peace.

The curse unfurled when Ned had escaped to White Harbor. He called his bannermen—newly his, in wake of his father. He could fathom being Warden of the North, but perhaps it is for the better, as his best friend and foster father are raising their banners in rebellion. He called his bannermen all the same.

War, death, and defiance bring the grim cheer of the North to the fore. Deep in their cups, the Northmen carouse about the death of the dragons. They only looked up when their young lord screamed.

Ned Stark, a man of solemn manner and quiet thoughts, roared as if his bones were wrenched backward then rightward. His cry strangled off into a growl, as the lord topped from his high seat.

The wolf thrashed forth. A ferocious beast, ursine in bulk, fur thick and streaked in grays and blacks and bits of tawny. A slavering animal that could not find its feet—it howled in terror, legs taking out the chair beside it, and driving the lords to reach for steel.

Lord Umber was closest, and struck first. The beast screeched as a blade cut to the bone of its shoulder, and another nicked across its face. It still could not stand, four legs too much to control.

Lord Manderly was almost as close, and saved his liege lord's life. Whatever this creature was, it was Lord Stark a moment ago. His guest is under his protection. The Manderlys and Boltons together defended the gigantic beast—the Manderlys out of loyalty and the Boltons because they have seen—and slain—stranger things in their history.

The beast fled. Steel burned along his sides as some reacted in fear, but he was able to lurch through the hall. Finally he found his balance, and so he ran. He ran like the ghosts of a dozen Houses chased him, like his dead father and brothers howled for his blood. Like his honor scorned him, his bannermen betrayed him, Aerys' sorcerer ruined him.

It seemed hours the beast ran, paws scouring the earth with nails meant to rend flesh.

"Hello, Lord Stark."

The voice caused the beast to slide to a halt, teeth bared, eyes delirious. The sorcerer stood in a clearing, his cloak hiding his features. Only his eyes are distinct. A sharp, icy blue, so unsuited for fire. Of course Lord Stark lunges, legs not perfectly in tune with his mind but strong enough to hurtle him toward the exiled sorcerer.

In midair he plunged to earth, smashing into the ground with enough force to wind a shadowcat. The sorcerer sauntered over.

"You've fallen on hard times, as martyrdom for your treacherous kin." The voice was sonorous, beautiful, but Ned only snarled more. The whites of the man's teeth glittered. "But I am not without mercy. Your curse is as breakable as your Seven Kingdoms. Earn a woman's love and all will be assuaged." The mocking smile told Lord Stark what a jape it was.

Eddard gathered his new legs beneath him, sprang at the sorcerer's throat, only to end once more smashed into the ground, a whimper forcing its way past his bleeding lips.

Just as suddenly the man was gone—perhaps he was never there. Eddard lunged to his feet. Like a creature driven mindless from fire, his only thought was of Winterfell. It took almost a week to reach it. Sometimes, between the setting moon and waning sun, he forgot why he was running. Had he not always been running? But his hulking wolf's body was strong if nothing else, and days later he limped with bloodied paws through the gates of Winterfell.

Some claimed the sorcerer's magic demanded a price. Others said was coincidence. Whoever guessed the truth still had no recourse when winter arrived fast and bitter, against all the maesters' predictions.

Winter may have saved the North—even King Aerys was not so mad as to send a Southron army past the Neck in winter—but the last days of autumn were the bloodiest in memory. Lord Stark escaped with his life; Robert did not. Without the Northern army, the stormlord died at Stoney Sept, slain by Jon Connington, who knew death here and not at the Red Keep was its own kind of mercy. Jon Arryn survived because of winter. He marched back to the Vale and did not stop until he reached the Gates of the Moon. Though it might have been a miserable winter, it saved him from the Targaryens.

All that remained were the Tullys. Their marriage contract broken, they took their only recourse—throw down their swords and swear they never intended to side with traitors. King Aerys claimed to understand—bonds made in matrimony are nigh unbreakable—but every lord and lady knew his spite lasted longer than his complaisance.

Winter and sorcery drew their war to a standstill. But such peace could never last.

There are ghosts in Winterfell, and there are beasts. Ned awakens to a cold chamber, head lifting from his paws. He only knows it is cold because of his steaming breath—his thick coat wards off the chill.

Somewhere below he can hear he humans shuffling about. Three remain, and only because they could not join their kith and kin in the initial wave that left Winterfell. The young man and wife stayed because she was bedridden from a miscarriage. The older stable hand was ill. Now the roads south are too dangerous and cold. It took Ned weeks to convince them they were welcome to stay. The larder would go to waste otherwise. He still sees them tense up whenever they cross paths; their lowered gazes and soft voices make him irritated or melancholy depending on the day, as he knew them all by name when he was…himself.

He stands and stretches, claws ripping new holes in the tattered carpet. The Wolfswood calls. Every time Ned knows he should not answer. Killing all the deer and hares will hurt the new season, while the larder will sustain them for years. Yet every time he still trots through the Hunter's Gate, waiting until he reaches the Wolfswood to run full speed. Ned hates these hunts because they clear his mind—everything fades and all that remains is the cold air in his nose, his paws tearing through the snow, and the creatures he will soon bring down. That is the beast at its happiest, and Ned loathes that letting it run wild is the only thing that eases his grief.

Robert is dead. The Tullys withdrew their support. Jon Arryn retreated to the Eyrie. So he has heard. The rest of the North has gone quiet as a winter tomb. And Lyanna? That question is the only one that cuts through his dreams of forests and fleeing prey.

He trots to the Hunter's Gate when the wind shifts and new scents assail him. Human and wolf. The fur bristles around his neck. Wolves are not uncommon beyond the Neck. The human, female and sweet-smelling, even with the other scents of sweat and horse…his memory stirs but he cannot place it. In a moment it matters not, for she blunders into view.

Running for her life, the girl is all fear. Three wolves are rapidly closing the gap—they know the Lord of Winterfell, even if the other kingdoms have forgotten. Her fleeing form tugs at the beast in him.

The wolves would not try to steal his kill if he tore her throat out. His blood sings at the thought; his lips grow cold as his mouth starts to salivate. This is why he runs and hunts. If he did not terrorize deer and rabbits, he knows deep inside he would turn on his household.

At last she sees him, just after she has crossed the gate. He hears the moment a new fear lances through her—her breath draws, just as her foot hits a patch of ice, slides too far, and she goes down in a crunch of snow.

He is pelting forward, haunches launching him toward the girl. The wolves are closer, but slower. Leaping over her, he takes one in mid-air. Ned lands on his feet while the wolf tumbles into the snow with a yelp. He comes face to face with the wolf's mate.

You know her.

The she-wolf regards him coolly as her mate springs to his feet with bared fangs. Ned has met her before in the Wolfswood. Almost a year into winter and none of their ribs show; she is canny, more of a leader than her overeager mate. Always, he has felt they are on the cusp of speech, but he will never know her mother tongue. Her kind has no high regard for him—they know however much he looks like them, he is not one.

Once or twice he has felt the urge to follow, to leave Winterfell and give in to the curse. Every time something stops him. The thought of Winterfell falling to ruin, the justice he must seek for Brandon and his father…memories that have their hooks in him, and a pride cuts him too deeply to give the Mad King and sorcerer that victory.

His fangs flash and it is enough. The wolves amble away, knowing they need not run. They save their speed for the next hunt.

"Lord Stark?"

He jerks around, faster than he meant. No one has called him that since he walked on two legs.

The girl's eyes are wide and her face lacks the flush of winter air, paled by a fear he can taste. Though she wears a hood, her yellow-brown hair falls in tendrils around her cheeks. Her eyes are deep blue—at least blue is a color he can see. His eyesight is sharp, but now he sees few colors beyond blue, yellow, and brown, set against shades of gray he never thought to name.

Her gloved hand is still in the snow; Ned knows she must be numb from cold.

He tries to answer, but the sound that comes from his mouth is such a rough approximation that it snaps her frozen fear. The girl flinches back, pulls her knees under her. He is still taller than she is. Though his body is a wolf's, his size is closer to a bear. Gods, how he must look. His left ear is split from a shadowcat, his lip notched by a blade from a terrified Umber.

His throat and tongue fight for speech. He knows he can—he had to convince his three servants they were not in danger. But speech rarely has use now, and every day words mean less. Thus he lowers his belly to the snow and gives a slow, deliberate nod.

He feels her breath on his nose. "So it's true."

"Why here?" Ned manages. Words form sluggishly in his head, like half-forgotten lessons.

Her fear remains but she seems to have grappled it to the ground, enough so her breath is even. "I am Catelyn Tully, eldest daughter of Lord Holster Tully." For a girl so scared, her voice barely trembles. "I came here with an escort, to see if any remain here. We met bandits on the road."

"Why?" he growls.

Her face betrays little, but his eyes are less perceptive than his nose and tongue. Something in her seized at his tone, sensing his ire. Not at her, at the thought highwaymen would be so close to Winterfell. He almost tastes their blood as his fangs tear them apart.

"My House stands accused of treachery. Your House and mine were to be wed. Brandon is dead, yet…" She betrays herself then, trembling off into silence.

He guesses the rest. Wed the new Lord of Winterfell. See if the rumors of him being a beast are untrue, and instead he is merely a craven traitor. Which would be worse? Ned wrestles with his tongue, forcing his lips to move like they once did. It takes effort, but he can sound coherent when he tries.

"I am the only Stark in Winterfell."

Her eyes dart away. A glimpse at the perverse, only a glimpse for she is merely a maid who has somewhat seen more than her years. She has a low voice, gentler to his ears than the squawking of the serving woman, who always seems shriller when she speaks to him.

"My lord…my uncle Brynden knew where I was going. He will come looking for me if he receives no word, and I cannot go back on my own. May I stay here?"

It shames him, but his first thought is no. The sorcerer twisted the knife when he told him the only supposed way to break the curse. Twisted it right through any hope and wiped it clean on his slate-gray fur. Lord Stark is not so much a beast as to destroy a girl in some foolish hope. A lie, most like. All he knows of magic comes from the tales of the Children of the Forest and the Old Gods, nothing a king or drover should have any part in. He has nothing left but Winterfell—must it too be invaded?

Lady Tully must see him bristle, for her teeth nibble at her lip, too smart to bolt from a wolf, too unnerved to do anything but stay there.

What would Father say? This girl was almost his goodsister. He twists his snout away, but she hears the rumble.

"Winterfell is yours, my lady."

She breathes in relief—relief to be living with a wolfish monster instead of bandits—but he sees her face turn strange, almost panicked, as she tries to stand.

Southron girls. No sense for realizing that snow growing warm is not a good thing. Her legs must be numb from the cold. Rising with forced slowness, he steps closer, lowering his neck to better show his shoulder. Lady Catelyn looks at him in puzzlement.

"Pull yourself up," he growls, looking down.

Her fingers make him want to jerk away as she hauls herself to her feet. It is too close, too foreign. Legs beneath her, the girl can walk, and he leads her back to the doors of Winterfell. But he stays close. When she squeals in spite of her pride, he knows the blood is gnawing its way back into her legs. He does not know that her fingers digging into his ruff as her balance falters will make him want to bite off the offending hand.

Ned's jaws click as he stiffens, every nerve twitching. Her hand quickly loosens and he smells a fresh rush of fear. Picturing Brandon's scowl, he continues on. Brandon could make guests feel as if they were the first ones to ever stay at Winterfell. He cannot, but he will see she is provided for.

She knows. The thought swats him too late across the eyes. The Tully girl will know what has happened below the Neck. One inside, he hears the drip of her sodden cloak, and the clicking of some piece of jewelry as she shivers.

He lets out a bark. His servants know to come; he makes it rarely enough. If there is a positive to his claws and fangs, it is the hasty scrambling of most to obey. Those that do not try to put a spear through his heart.

The serving girl—Sarra, her name tugs at some long-away memory—scuttles from a chamber. Her yellowish eyes widen at the lady, who for her part meets her gaze with a dignified smile.

"See she is cared for. She is a guest."

Brandon would stay and fill her ears with stories and jests, but he can hardly speak without it sounding like a hunting call.

"We must speak at some time, my lady," he forces the words out, throat aching in the effort.

Her chin dips, eyes askance. "Of course, milord."

He snorts as he bounds for the open door. Ned loathes that title most of all.