CHAPTER NINE
word count: 2861

Bran Stark’s room was stuffy, as usual. Taryn wondered how the poor boy could breathe under the furs and hot air. As a southern princess, Taryn was more than accustomed to warm weather, but she was more used to humidity — something she almost missed now.

Between her hands were knitting needles and a carefully made sheet of knitted wool. Taryn looked to her right. Bran’s face was screwed up in concentration, his eyes trained on moving his own pair of needles. When he dropped another stitch, he sighed in frustration and threw the needles down.

“This is silly. I’m hopeless!” Bran complained.

Taryn gave a small chuckle. “But are you bored?”

Bran thought for a moment and shook his head.

As the boy could no longer run around the courtyard chasing the wolves with his brother, Taryn had been trying to find ways to keep Bran occupied — anything so he did not waste away in his room. His pony was being trained well from what Taryn had heard. So Bran would soon be able to go riding again. Taryn could see how desperately Bran was waiting for that day.

Nan sat in the room with them. Bran was tired of the ancient woman’s presence, but Taryn did not mind her. When she first came to Winterfell, Robb had told her about Old Nan — except his retellings were more spooky than the woman’s actual life. He told his little lies with such certainty that Taryn believed every word and shrieked. She avoided Old Nan for a week until Robb’s father promised that what his son had said wasn’t true. (Taryn thought Robb would die laughing when she confronted him. That was the only moment in her life where she had hated Robb Stark, even for a second.)

Taryn found herself able to smile at the memory — until she recalled their last conversation, then she slipped back into disappointed misery.

Meanwhile, Bran had begun to stare forlornly out of the window and watched Rickon play with Grey Wind and Shaggydog.

“I can’t fly,” he muttered to himself. “I can’t even run.”

Taryn was about to ask what he was talking about when Old Nan cut in, musing from her own needlework. “Crows are all liars. I know a story about a crow.”

Taryn kept clicking her needles — she didn’t know what she was making, she just liked watching the wool grow. Perhaps she would make a cardigan of jumper for when the days grew even colder. Cloaks were nice, but Taryn had a soft spot for good knitwear. If she made a jumper for herself, maybe she could make a matching one for Robb for his next Name Day?

“I don't want any more stories,” Bran snapped. “I hate your stupid stories.” Taryn probably should have reprimanded him for being rude, but she sympathised with the boy and his short patience. Plus, Taryn held no authority here — she was no Stark. She was a Baratheon and a Lannister, no one had to listen to her. Winterfell was not her castle, it was not her place. (At least, not yet. Taryn hoped it would be one day.)

“My stories? No, my little lord, not mine. The stories are, before me and after me, before you too.” Old Nan was a very strange woman. Tayn quite liked her stories — her mother never told her real stories, and her septas didn’t know any fun stories, only the boring ones of knights saving princesses. Taryn hoped her siblings’ Septa Naerys was filling Myrcella’s head with better epic tales.

“I don’t care whose stories they are,” Bran told Old Nan, “I hate them.”

“Bran, be nice,” Taryn warned. “Shall I fetch Hodor and you can get some fresh air?”

“I know a story about a boy who hated stories,” Old Nan said as she picked up her knitting again while Taryn set hers down and folded her hands in her lap. “I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder,” Old Nan said. “That was always your favourite.”

“That’s not my favorite,” Bran countered. “My favourites were the scary ones.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.”

Even stories of winter failed to reach Taryn in the south. Or people thought the Princess did not need to hear such gruesome tales. She had only experienced one winter. It was hardly a real one all the way South when fires raged in every hearth in the Red Keep and Taryn was wrapped in too many layers to know what being cold felt like. She did not know winter, not in the way Old Nan described.

“Thousands and thousands of years ago,” Old Nan continued, “a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she looked up at Bran to ask, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?”

“Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only…”

Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles clicked. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.” (Taryn and Bran were both entranced, fearful and in awe. This was a real story.)

“Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—”

The door opened with a bang, Taryn jumped in surprise. Bran giggled at her, but she could see he held more fear than she did. Maester Luwin entered the room, with Hodor lingering in the stairway behind him.

“We have visitors,” Maester Luwin announced, “and your presence is required, Bran. Yours too, Princess.”

“We’re listening to a story now,” Bran complained.

“Who is it?” Taryn asked. She stood and set her knitting down on the wooden chair she had been sitting in for hours.

“Tyrion Lannister, and some men of the Night’s Watch. Robb is meeting with them now. Hodor, will you help Bran down to the hall?”

Taryn stood up straighter. A smile of relief cut across her face as Hodor came into the room and scooped Bran up with ease. She had not heard a word from her uncle since he had left to find the Wall with Benjen Stark and Jon Snow. Taryn missed Jon, like she missed the Robb she used to know — they had been friends, Taryn had even written to Robb’s bastard brother too and Jon happily wrote back to her. That was until Cersei Lannister found out and decided it was improper for a Princess to correspond with a bastard, and Taryn was not supposed to talk to Jon Snow anymore — regardless of how horrid it made her feel to ignore him in the last weeks they had been at Winterfell together. They left Old Nan behind as they walked to the Great Hall.

***

Taryn was quite sure Robb looked more handsome every time she saw him. Though she wasn’t sure if that was possible.

He sat back in his father’s seat, towering over the room. The Great Hall was busier than Taryn had seen it in months. Theon and Hallis Mollen stood behind Robb. A dozen guards lined the room. In the centre, was Taryn’s uncle. There was an anger in the air that made Taryn feel like she was interrupting, like she should not be there at all.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay,” Robb was saying. He had his sword drawn, laying across his knees.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion repeated, “but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?”

Taryn almost flinched when Robb rose to stand, pointing his sword at her uncle. “I am the lord here while my mother and father are away, Lannister. I am not your boy.” Taryn wondered what she could have possibly missed for Robb to hold such ire towards Tyrion.

“If you are a lord, you might learn a lord’s courtesy,” Tyrion replied, ignoring the sword pointed at his face. “You bastard brother has all your father’s graces, it would seem.”

“Jon,” Bran gasped out from Hodor’s arms.

Tyrion turned to where they stood. He flashed a smile to Taryn, which she returned gratefully. “So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it. You Starks are hard to kill.”

“You Lannisters had best remember that,” Robb said, lowering his sword. “Hodor, bring my brother here.”

Hodor brought Bran forward, setting the young boy upon the high seat of the Starks. Robb beckoned Taryn closer. She complied, until Tyrion put out an arm and stopped Taryn walking past him. If Taryn had not been watching him, she would have missed the way Robb stiffened, narrowing his eyes for the briefest moment.

Robb set a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “You said you had business with Bran. Well, here he is, Lannister.”

“I am told you were quite the climber, Bran,” Tyrion said. “Tell me, how did you happen to fall that day?”

“The child does not does not remember anything of the fall, or the climb that came before it,” Master Luwin explained.

“My brother is not here to answer questions, Lannister,” Robb said shortly. “Do your business and be on your way.”

“I have a gift for you. Do you like to ride, Bran?” Tyrion asked.

“Yes,” Bran answered. He quickly crushed his own eagerness. “Well, I mean, I did like to.”

Maester Luwin came forward. “My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs. He cannot sit a horse.”

“Nonsense,” Tyrion replied. “With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride.”

“I’m not a cripple!” Bran cried.

“Then I’m not a dwarf. My father will rejoice to hear it,” Tyrion exclaimed.

“What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?” Maester Luwin asked.

“A smart horse,” Tyrion explained. “The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned.” He drew a rolled paper from his belt. “Give this to your saddler. He will provide the rest.”

Maester Luwin took the paper to study it. “I see. You draw nicely, my lord. Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself.”

“Will I truly be able to ride?” Bran asked. Taryn’s heart ached for him — Bran looked the happiest she had seen him since she arrived at Winterfell.

A puzzled expression grew across Robb’s face. “Is this some trap, Lannister? What’s Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?”

“Your brother Jon asked it of me. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.”

“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” Robb said as he sheathed his sword. He spoke like the role of lord was still unnatural for him.

“Spare me your false courtesies, Lord Stark,” Tyrion said. “There’s a brothel outside your walls. There I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.” He turned to walk away but turned to look up at Taryn. “Dear niece, would you walk with me?”

As they walked out of the Great Hall, Tyrion dropped his voice quieter. “I heard you were hurt.”

Taryn curled her hands into fists. She found herself glancing back at the Starks — Robb’s blue gaze was fixed on her. “It was not too bad.” Taryn trusted her uncle deeply, they had been close since she was born, which Cersei never appreciated. She showed Tyrion the scars across her palms. “There was an assassin,” she confessed under her breath. “He came after Bran. I…I had to help. And I killed the man.”

Tyrion stared at his niece in shock until his expression changed to pride. “Not many men would engage in such a fight. You did a brave and honourable thing.”

“How can it be honourable to take someone’s life?”

“Did you want young Bran to die?” Taryn shook her head. “You protected him with your life, by instinct. Be proud of yourself. The Starks should be celebrating your name.”

Taryn asked Tyrion to tell her about the Wall as they stepped outside. She would never look upon it herself, but she had stories and her imagination. As Tyrion prepared to leave, he took Taryn’s hands.

“Can I come with you?” the Princess blurted out, cutting off what her uncle was about to say.

She looked almost as surprised as Tyrion when she realised what she had said. Did she mean that? Taryn did not want to confess the loneliness clawing at her heart, the selfish feelings she had buried deep within. She could not be homesick when she had only been at Winterfell a few months — she would adjust. (But her mother had not written once and Taryn missed her siblings more everyday.)

“Are you not happy here?” Tyrion pressed. He searched her face for any resignation.

Taryn held her tongue. Robb had more important things to deal with than her. She should not have said anything at all. Taryn felt silly and childish, dropping her head. “I miss home.”

Tyrion gave a sigh. “I would love to take you back to King’s Landing. But my journey shan’t be glamorous or appropriate for a Princess. Perhaps you can convince young Lord Stark to send you south with a proper escort for a short visit?”

“Mmm.” Taryn nodded vaguely. If he stays in a room with me long enough to ask, she thought. Now she wasn’t being fair.

Would journeying back to King’s Landing for a short visit cure her homesickness or make her worse? Besides, Taryn could not leave Bran and Rickon. And Robb… Robb. She missed him as much as her siblings. They were under the same roof, but Taryn had never felt further away from him. (What were they becoming?) It was wrong of her to discredit Robb when he was running the entire North by himself. Taryn wished he trusted her enough to let her help him, but perhaps they did not have the friendship she thought they did. She could not bother him with her trivial thoughts.

Taryn said nothing more. She followed Tyrion Lannister to his horse, hanging back while he mounted it. “I am here for you. Whatever you require,” he promised. “I am a raven away.”

The Princess smiled. “Thank you, Uncle. I hope you have a safe journey home.”

Tyrion gave her a grin. “I’ll write you the story of all my forthcoming adventures as soon as I return to the capital.”

Taryn watched as he left, standing in the cold yard, wondering why she was the one always behind left behind.

✶

AUTHOR’S NOTE.

i’m sorry if this chapter was boring 😭 there should be more fun & action in the next one! all canon was taken from chapter 28 of agot and a bit from the show. septa naerys belongs to my love bowie 🤍

merry christmas, i hope you liked this chapter. thank you very much for reading 🫶