ARYADNE WOKE EARLY the next morning and took breakfast in a corner of the hall, undisturbed. There had been talk of a hunt and she wanted to be ready. Her usual dresses were replaced by leather trousers and a long tunic. The courtyard was mostly empty. Heading straight to the paddocks, she found her mare snuffling a bale of hay with some dissatisfaction. She petted the dappled grey of the horse's neck and fed her some smuggled apple slices from the palm of her hand.
A scuffling of footsteps caught her attention. Initially unnoticed by her, a boy paced the courtyard alone, his sword aloft. He was nimble and his feet moved in intricate patterns between each thrust and parry against thin air. Not far from him, another watched. A wolf cub, white as snow, with red eyes following every move. She knew not to be alarmed, having seen the other Stark children's pets at the feast.
It was only the loud snort from her horse — a betrayal in Aryadne's eyes — that broke his focus and he froze when he saw her. He hurriedly sank into a deep bow, his dark curls falling across his face. "Apologies, Your Grace. I did not see you."
"Neither did I," she replied with a shy smile. With a disapproving glare at the horse, she took a step towards him. "You were here last night, when everyone was at the feast."
"Your Grace?" It was a request for her to elaborate.
"It's all right, I snuck out. But you seemed... agitated, if I remember correctly. Why?"
He gave a shrug and sheathed his sword. "It is nothing you need worry about, Your Grace." The title grated on her. It was uncomfortable to hear in her own home but here, under the shelter of another noble house, it did not seem right to be honoured so persistently. With a simple look, she urged him to explain himself. "Lady Stark thought it best for me to stay out. I am a bastard of his Lordship."
She nodded curtly. "Thinking to spare us the 'insult', no doubt. What is your name?"
"Snow, Your Grace."
"Well, I know that. All bastards of the North are Snows. What is your name?"
Confusion gave way to astonishment. She wondered if anyone had bothered to ask before, especially those of noble birth. Bowing his head in shyness rather than deference this time, he mumbled, "Jon."
"A pleasure to meet you, Jon. And you may tell Lady Stark that I won't take offence to your presence at future gatherings — my mother, I cannot speak for, but she is outvoted. After all, most of my siblings are bastards." At the widening of his eyes, she winked. "Don't tell anyone I said that. Although, considering my father's lack of discretion regarding his tastes, I doubt it would make much impact."
He opened his mouth to reply but the main doors opened for the wave of servants. With a nod farewell, she returned to her steed and began to saddle her. A servant hurried over with her bow and quiver which she also fitted.
"What brings you here, Your Grace?"
At Robb's voice, she turned quickly and found him to be smiling already. She mentally kicked herself for somehow forgetting that there were a myriad of things in the world capable of making a person smile, and she was likely to be last on the list every time. Her hand flicked in the direction of the quiver and she started to lead her horse from the paddocks. "Why, I'm joining the hunt. I do hope it's still going ahead?"
He stared at her, almost tripping over his own feet as he fetched his own. "I— I didn't know you could— N-Not to say that you can't. I just wasn't aware that you had an interest in... this."
It took great effort not to laugh. She adopted a stern expression, lips pursed and a slanted brow arched. "Of course not. I suppose I should be embroidering a lady's favour instead?"
"I didn't— I never said that."
At his clear horror, she relented. "I'm teasing you. How cruel of me."
"I don't mind," he was quick to assure her. "Though, you might make such a favour if you feel so inclined."
If it were any other boy, she would likely take it as a jape at her. However, it was him. For some reason, that meant something else. She hummed, pretending to consider it, then patted his shoulder before mounting. Beginning a slow walk to ease the mare into activity, she called over her shoulder, "I might. It is a shame there's no knights to claim it."
The clopping of hooves soon followed her. It slowed as Robb caught up. As he went to speak to her again, a quiet yapping cut him off. A grey puppy had streaked right across the courtyard, narrowly avoiding getting trampled by all the hunters. It now padded along between them, its tongue wagging as it stared up at them. With a click of his tongue, it jumped right up onto his lap.
"Gods, isn't that marvellous? Is it yours?"
He nodded eagerly and presented the pup to her by the scruff of its neck. "This is Grey Wind. He's only a few weeks old. Go on, you can pet him if you like."
She didn't dare. As cute as it was, she only knew of one creature that could grow to such a size in little time. "It's a direwolf," she gasped.
"He won't harm you, I promise. He's well-trained. Here."
Before she could protest, he had taken her hand and placed it palm-down on the creature's fur. She winced, waited, but nothing happened. The pup gave a yawn and a soft whine. With a tentative stroke, it was clear that it was truly harmless. It nuzzled into her hand and gave it a big lick. Gasping, she recoiled and held the afflicted limb up to show Robb. "He's slobbered all over me!"
He anticipated her next idea and took the pup back, veering his horse away as she tried to wipe the saliva off on him. Both laughing, a game of chase started up. He sped up and she nudged her steed on, arm still outstretched.
"Robb."
Freezing, the pair looked to where his father and the King stood. The lord fixed his son with a disapproving look. They immediately put a stop to their game. The second they were unobserved again, the boy looked to her and burst into poorly stifled snickers. She played along until she could get close enough to run her soppy hand across his back. With a gasp, he shifted away. "No, that's disgusting!"
"You said he was harmless," she reminded him.
"He is."
"Tell that to your cloak."
—
The hunting party paraded into the forest that lay at the edge of the castle. Though they were freer here, a procession still had to be followed. Aryadne's father and Lord Stark lead the way with their servants, then her brother Joffrey with his Hound, her uncle Tyrion and gaunt, sullen man she came to know as Robb's uncle Benjen. She rode alongside Robb. They chatted idly about everything and nothing in particular. She was sure she had never spoken so much in her life.
"Grey Wind," she mused to herself, watching the cub follow behind them, always keeping at a safe distance and never snapping at the hooves like many dogs liked to do.
Robb's attention shifted from the trees to her face. His brows furrowed. "What of him?"
"It is an unusual name. No doubt for the colour of his fur?"
"He's a fast blighter. Runs faster than the wind. All my enemies will see is a blur of grey heading towards them," he replied with an affectionate glance at the creature.
She brought a hand to her mouth but too late, failing to stop a snort of laughter. At his questioning look, she hurriedly shook her head. "Apologies, my lord. I cannot think of you having enemies."
"My father is the Lord of Winterfell. We are the last defence, bar the Wall, to protect the Seven Kingdoms from Wildling threats. There will always be enemies." He clearly did not like to dwell on such things, as she could tell by his soured expression. He quickly moved on with a grimace. "So, I have Grey Wind. What about you? Surely Your Grace has a companion of some sort?"
For a moment, she wondered if she had made it obvious that she was lacking in friends, seeing as he was quick to resort to animals. She nodded nonetheless and patted the long, dappled neck of the mare she rode. "This is Argella. She is a loyal steed whom I can always depend on."
He eyed the horse curiously. "'Argella'? For the Storm Queen, I take it? A noble name for a Baratheon princess."
"Indeed." Craning her neck to see where their fathers rode far away at the front of the party, she leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. "Truth be told, I would have preferred another name — Rhaenyra. Tales about the Dance of Dragons always fascinated me as a child but, well, you know the King's hatred for anything Targaryen."
They both did. It was no secret how her father became King. She was born in wake of the rebellion, her parents' marriage a pact to seal its end. She had learned of Rhaegar's crimes against her father from a history book, how he had taken his love — Lyanna Stark — , raped and murdered her. It only occurred to her now that the girl she had read about was Robb's aunt. It was strange to think of such events being in the history books when she herself was so soon to come into the world.
She began to wonder in the quiet that followed if, perhaps, she should not have mentioned such a thing. Then Robb leaned in as well, almost conspiratorially, and whispered, "I've always liked that story, too."
There was a rush of movement up ahead, over as fast as it had started. Someone had spied a rabbit in the brush. One arrow loosened from her father's bow saw to its end. They watched the servants scurry to fetch it.
"I must confess, Your Grace, I have never seen a woman in the Hunt. Apart from servants and entertainment, that is."
Realising he expected an answer, she grasped for one, still scanning the forest. "I've accompanied my father since I was old enough to string a bow. Of course, my—" she hesitated at the sight of the golden-haired prince shouting at one of his servants as they fumbled for the waterskin strapped to his belt "—dear brother has joined us as of late, but it is usually I. Especially since Father saw how much the Queen despises the idea of a lady engaging in such violence."
He laughed at that, a little too loudly. Their uncles spared a look to them from up ahead. Tyrion, a blond man with short stature — only a few feet tall and subject to merciless teasing as a result — breaks his usually haughty expression for a faint smirk at her. She stuck her tongue out to rebel his teasing but quickly stopped at the realisation that Robb had seen.
It only made him smile more, his wolfish grin reaching from ear to ear. "I cannot say I blame her entirely," he confesses. "My mother's poor wits would snap if she saw Sansa here. But what of you?"
She faltered. "What of me, my lord?"
"Why do you hunt?"
"I told you, my father—"
"Not your father, you. Why do you hunt?"
To interrupt royalty was a terrible, albeit unspoken, offence. She had known of many servants put out on the streets or even whipped for doing such a thing to her brother. Though Robb was certainly not a servant. Even so, she found herself liking him more for it. "I like the freedom," she said after quite a while spent thinking it over. "I may ride as fast as I like, loose arrows, forego the terrible discomfort that is side-saddle. Nobody cares out here."
"There!"
At her brother's triumphant yell, they looked up. A stag hid behind some nearby bushes, grazing contentedly. The sudden noise startled it into action. It flinched and bounded off, not fast enough to escape the crossbow bolt that Joffrey fired into the meat of its thigh.
The Stark side of the party was quick to congratulate him and comfort him for such a near miss. She knew it was not a mistake. There was a thrilled glint in his eyes as he soaked up the praise, she knew it well. His aim was always perfect. If he wanted to kill it, he would have. He had no intention of finishing the job.
Steering her horse off the trodden path, Aryadne broke into a gallop after the trail of blood. She let go of the reins with absolute trust in Argella taking her where she needed. The stag was up ahead and losing speed as quickly as it lost blood. Notching an arrow, she uttered an apology under her breath. The projectile found its mark in the back of the creature's head and it crashed into the bracken.
—
It was nearing sundown when the party returned to Winterfell, weary and soaked in sweat. Servants rushed up ahead, lugging the carcasses of several rabbits and foxes, and the immense stag that Aryadne had felled. Her brother took the credit and none questioned it. She did not mind.
On the path up to the main gates, movement caught her eye in the tall grass. A wolf cub. At first she thought Grey Wind had strayed from the group but he was in his master's lap again, eagerly sniffing the mane of the nervous horse.
She swatted lightly at Robb's shoulder and pointed. "Do you see that?"
"What?"
"It's one of the pups. There, in the thickets by that tower."
They broke off from the group. Sure enough, the cub waited for them and Grey Wind jumped down to meet it. Dismounting, Robb offered a hand to Aryadne so that she could do the same. They made their way after the wolves on foot.
Something lay at the foot of the tower. The closer they came, the more the pit in her stomach grew. It was a child. His legs were twisted terribly, blood staining the grass around him.
"Seven Hells. Bran? Bran!"
Robb raced up to him but did not make it far before she was pulling him back, falling to her knees beside the boy. "Don't move him," she warned him. Her fingers pressed to the side of the boy's neck and she lowered herself onto her stomach to watch the slow rising of his chest. "He's alive. Fetch the Maester."
No response came. Looking back up, she realised why. Robb was still standing, frozen stiff. His eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly on the broken body of his brother. Nothing could shake him.
Reaching up, she squeezed his hand. He blinked and met her gaze. It took all her effort to keep her voice steady. "Go inside. Find Maester Luwin and bring him here. I'll stay with Bran. Go!"