Emerging out of the gloom into the cold evening sunlight made Ross let out a deep breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. It was a relief to be out of the dungeons, not that she would show it. She was not a squeamish woman, but there was only so much stench of blood and filth anyone could take. The screams and shuddering gasps of pain were even worse, and more than once she had to blink anyway memories of the Mad King and his wildfire, but she stood through it all. It was necessary, if not pleasant, and though she could have handed over the assassin to the jailers and waited for results, rather than being present herself, that did not sit right with her. She had given the order; thus, she would watch. Besides, the jailer may not have asked the right questions, nor known the right answers.

They did have an answer. A perplexing, concerning answer. The man had been given eighty silver stags to kill Bran after the King left, along with directions to his rooms, and a dagger. The one who hired him was a young boy, no older than sixteen or seventeen years, with sandy blonde hair and a wispy moustache. He spoke like a noble, and though he wore a hood and had not given a name, he 'looked like a Lannister'. Lancel, it had to be; that described him perfectly.

Ross held the dagger in her hands now, and examined it as she walked into the keep. It was Valyrian steel if she wasn't mistaken; its edge looked as deadly as Ned's greatsword, Ice, and the blade had the same perfect sheen. It was a wonder Bran hadn't suffered more injuries than a few scratches and some missing fingers.

Why would Lancel, of all people, want Bran dead? He was just a boy, nothing to do with the Lannisters. What seemed more likely was that someone had used Lancel as the messenger boy to do their dirty work for them. And as for who that could be, there were not many options. Either the King, or a Lannister, and sending daggers in the shadows truly wasn't Robert's style, never mind that he would never lay a hand on any of Ned's children; why would he? A Lannister, then. The only ones capable were Cersei or Joffrey. Again, the motive remained; why?

Bran had fallen. Aileen was right, he never fell. He couldn't have been pushed from that height, there were no windows that low in the First Keep, but perhaps he was in a hurry. Running away from something, and slipped. Perhaps he had seen something he shouldn't. That would explain why he hadn't

"Lady Rosennis to see you, Lady Catelyn," The guard bowed her through the door of Ned's solar.

Her goodsister was sat behind the desk, looking over some ledgers. She hadn't looked herself since Bran's fall, and now after his attack was even worse, with dark circles around her eyes and a wan, pale complexion. Ever the lady, however, she was sat up straight and raised her chin as Ross entered.

"What did he say?" Catelyn didn't bother with pleasantries. "Who sent him?"

She would have to be careful here. Her goodsister already suspected the Lannisters of killing Jon Arryn. Confirming Lancel's involvement would only fan the flames, and have her doing something rash. Ross would rather keep it to herself for now, and give herself time to think.

"He doesn't know," She sat down opposite Catelyn, without invitation, playing with the dagger in her lap; it would be excellent to fight with, and was small enough to hide on her person with relative ease. "We asked him his name. He's a nobody, a poor sellsword from the Riverlands who joined with the King's party on their way north, hoping for some work," She placed the dagger between them on the desk with a soft clunk. "This is the dagger he used. He says a cloaked figure gave it to him, and paid him to kill Brandon Stark. They gave him directions to Bran's chamber, so would have had to have known the castle at least a little,"

"Are you sure he wasn't lying?" Catelyn took the dagger, eyeing it darkly with tired eyes. "He could be withholding information. He knows the moment we've got everything, he's dead,"

"I'm sure," Ross nodded shortly. "We were... thorough,"

Her goodsister wrinkled her nose ever so slightly at that, making Ross' lips twitch, but she still looked unsure.

"If you like like, you can go and see him yourself," She bluffed. "He's still alive," Just. And not exactly coherent any more.

"I'll take your word for it," Catelyn shook her head, lifting the dagger. "That dagger is Valyrian steel, correct? What family could afford to throw something like that away on a sellsword?" It was a rhetorical question.

Ross did not rise to the bait. "We'll post more guards on Bran's door. And Summer stays in the room with him. You don't have to worry,"

"Wouldn't you worry?" Catelyn smiled tremulously.

"Of course I would, I'm not made of stone," She said. "But not unduly. The man isn't in any shape to attack anyone, and any others - which is unlikely - won't be in a hurry to try their luck having seen what the wolf did to the first one,"

She reached out to take the dagger. Her goodsister's fingers twitched towards it, as though to take it first.

Ross raised an eyebrow. "Do you want it?"

"No. Apologies,"

Catelyn blatantly did want it. Why, though, Ross couldn't tell, but she firmly took the blade herself as she stood to leave.

"Thank you, Rosennis," Her goodsister said on her way out. "I'll see you at dinner?"

"See you at dinner," She nodded, then left.

It was to Bran's rooms that Ross went to next. The boy was sat up in bed, Old Nan beside him telling a story. That one about the Long Night was one of his favourites, but his face was forlorn. Of course it was. Not only had he not been able to go south with his father and sisters after his fall, now he never would fight with a sword in his right hand. Sure, he could learn with his left once it healed - it would be easier for a boy like him who had barely started training than it would for an adult who'd been fighting for years - but he would never reach his full potential. Nor would he be able to climb as he had done before, not that his mother would let him after this. The boy was barely eight years old, yet had already lost three and a half fingers, and most of the things he loved to do.

"Aunt Ross," He sounded as miserable as he looked. "Have you seen Maester Luwin? He said I might be able to get out of bed today once he'd checked my head, but I haven't seen him,"

"He's with a patient in Wintertown," She sat down in the other chair. "But he'll be back before long," She paused. "What do you remember about your fall, Bran?"

"I don't know," His expression fell even further. "Maester Luwin asked me that too, and Father, when he was here. I don't remember. I remember climbing. And falling. Then it all went dark, and I woke up here. Before that, I don't know,"

He looked so lost that Ross didn't press it any further.

"About your fingers - " She started, but he cut her off.

"I know," He glowered at the blankets. "I won't ever be a knight. Who ever heard of a knight with no fingers?"

"Don't be stupid," Ross said. "You've got a whole other hand of fingers right there," She nodded to his left hand. "I'm sure there's a boy out there somewhere missing a whole arm, or wishing he could walk on crippled legs. That boy would much rather only missing a few fingers,"

"Lady Ross is right, young Stark," Old Nan nodded along, voice quavering. "Men have fought with far worse injuries than yours,"

The woman must truly be ancient, for Ross remembered her being called Old Nan when she was a girl. She had read her and Lyanna stories, then Benjen joined them when he was old enough to understand. Ross even had very distant memories of piling into her brothers' room to listen to the stories Old Nan told them, but that was long ago. Brandon had declared aged ten that he was too old for stories, and shortly after than Ned was sent away to the Eyrie.

"But my left hand's useless," Bran protested. "I can't even write with it. The letters look as bad as Rickon's, and he's three,"

"Writing isn't fighting," Ross said. "You'll learn, it'll just take a bit longer than for most boys," She stood, walking towards the door. "Or you can stay inside and feel sorry for yourself. It's your choice, Bran,"

*

Several days later, Ross woke to the clatter of horse's hooves outside. Quickly dressing herself, she hurried downstairs to see what the matter was, only to find her goodsister preparing to mount, Ser Rodrik beside her. Robb was stood there too, looking regretful and somewhat out of his depth, as Rickon clung to his legs.

"Where are you going?" She asked sharply.

"King's Landing," Catelyn's expression dared Ross to challenge her. "You and I both know who sent that assassin. I found a long, golden hair in the First Keep. I need to warn Ned,"

"Catelyn, don't go," Unlike the other woman, who would act a lady until the end, Ross didn't care what any of the servants or guards in the courtyard thought of their conversation. "You haven't got all the facts. No one has, and that's asking for trouble. And besides, won't people ask questions when you suddenly turn up in court, unannounced?"

"I'm going in secret," Catelyn's eyes narrowed.

"Secret?" Ross raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "How? You have one of the most recognisable faces in the Seven Kingdoms, and that city is crawling with spies. They'll know the moment you arrive. You say you're going to help Ned, but this will just put him under suspicion,"

"It's been planned for days," Catelyn said shortly. This is the first I'm hearing of it. "I'm going via White Harbour. We'll take a ship, and get there around the same time the king does. You won't stop me, Rosennis, it's my husband and daughters in danger"

"It's my brother and daughter too, don't forget," Ross said. "I'm sure Ned will be glad to see you, but other than that I cannot see any benefit in you going south,"

"We are the only ones who can do something," Catelyn insisted.

"No, we're not," Ross shook her head, tired of this. "He's got half the household guard down there with him, all of whom who'd die for House Stark. He already knows there may be trouble from your sister's letter. Robert, the King, is as good as his brother. There was a single assassin, and we dealt with him. If whoever sent the man wanted any of us dead, they wouldn't have started with the second son. They would've gone for Lord Stark or his heir, or even Sansa, she'd be a valuable hostage. Whoever sent him wanted Bran in particular,"

"And that isn't a cause for worry?" Catelyn said, raising her voice in anger. "That someone is sending assassins after my son?"

By this point, the whole courtyard was staring at them. Catelyn quickly gathered herself, as Ross stood there, impassive.

"Do you really think I'd let some get away with attacking my house?" She asked coldly.

"I think you're forgetting, Lady Bolton," Her goodsister mounted the horse, assisted by a grim-faced Ser Rodrik who looked at Ross with a little regret. She didn't blame him for this, he couldn't disobey his lord's wife. "You haven't been a Stark in well over a decade,"

Ross' jaw set. Fine. "Try not to do anything to get us all killed," Without another word, nor a glance back, she turned on her heel and went back inside, skirts sweeping on the ground.

"Aunt," Robb was jogging after her, keeping up with her long strides. "Aunt, wait,"

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him. "If you want me to give your mother my blessing on this fool's journey, I won't do it,"

"I don't," Her nephew said determinedly. "I agree with you, Mother needs to be here to look after Bran and Rickon," You too, Ross thought. You're near to being a man, but you aren't one yet. "But Father does need to know about Bran,"

Ross looked at him. At a first glance, he looked like Catelyn. Reddish hair, only slightly more brown than the Tully's, and his mother's high cheekbones and good looks. But his eyes were bluish grey, more like Ned's, and the look in his face... that was all Stark.

"Don't worry," She smiled grimly. "I was on my way to writing him a letter,"

*

Maester Luwin knew well enough by now not to question the fact that her letter was addressed to Jaime Lannister. All her letters she sent to Ren had Jaime's name on them, usually with two envelopes inside, one for him and one for her son. This one had three, however. Ren, Jaime and Ned. Though anyone else would laugh at the idea of trusting the Kingslayer not to read her private correspondence, she knew Jaime wouldn't, simply because he didn't care enough what she wrote to her son or her brother. Sending any letters to King's Landing through a Lannister was a good way of ensuring Grand Maester Pycelle didn't go snooping through what she had written; the man had been kissing Tywin Lannister's arse for decades, he was hardly going to be spying on his son's letters.

Ren's letter was the usual, asking him how things were and what he'd been doing, but also included a warning, beyond the one she normally gave, to be extra careful and wary around anyone who wasn't family. Jaime's letter was for his eyes only. And Ned's... Ned's was rather strongly worded. Her quill had broken through the parchment in places, and her handwriting was even spikier than usual, inkblots dotting the page.

She only hoped her brother managed to read it before he met with his wife, for gods know he wouldn't turn up a chance to blame anything on the Lannisters. Despite the fact it was likely either Cersei or Joffrey who put Lancel up to finding an assassin, the question of motive still remained. If it was bad enough to kill for, it was likely someone's dirty secret that Bran had stumbled across. Poking around the Lannisters without solid proof, or blackmail, would lead to a world of trouble. They had to do this carefully. Not whatever Catelyn was doing.

The raven flew from the south window, wings dark against the overcast sky. There would be a summer snow that night, she could feel that the wind was cold. Her father's grim face appeared in her minds, his low voice rasping their words. Winter is coming, and don't you forget it.

Ross didn't feel like dealing with anyone at dinner, but she had to, seeing as Catelyn was gone. She was the Lady of Winterfell for the first time since she was fifteen, and that came with responsibilities. The children needed someone, given that their mother had gone tearing off at the drop of a hat. Well, not quite the drop of a hat, more someone trying to kill her son, but it had the same effect. Robb might have been the heir, but it was Ross who held the North.

Dinner was as bad as she had feared. Edrick had been off with her since seeing her and Jaime in the Godswood; she had understood to some extent, but was now growing tired of his narrow-eyed looks and sulking. Bran had finally been allowed out of bed, but was picking miserably at his food with his knife, scowling as he struggled to stab the meat. Aileen leaned over wordlessly and started to cut it for him, but he told her he wasn't a baby and could do it himself. Robb, to his credit, put on a brave face, inviting the blacksmith, Mikken, up to the head table to talk with him, like Ned always did; to anyone but Ross, he was convincing. He seemed to have grown up a lot in the days since everyone had left.

Baby Rickon was the worst of them all, however. He wouldn't sit still, wouldn't eat his meal, and directed angry outbursts at anyone who tried to tell him to, loudly asking for his mother, and why she wasn't here. After he knocked over his cup on purpose, Ross had had enough. She stood and pulled the boy off his seat by the wrist. Ignoring his furious tantrum, she half-dragged, half-carried him out of the hall, where she gave him a sharp slap on the palm of his hand. He looked taken aback by that; Catelyn was strict with her children, though it was Ned who punished the boys.

"You will behave," She hissed sharply, bending down to his level without letting go of his wrist. "I know your mother isn't here. I wish she was, we all do. But she isn't, and there's nothing we can do, so stop acting like a baby,"

"I'm not a baby!" Her little nephew said angrily, stamping his foot. His hair was redder even than his mother's, but his eyes were a stormy grey. At four, he reminded her of Edrick when he was young, and before that, Brandon.

"Then prove it," Ross straightened up. "Any more misbehaving, and you go straight to bed," She raised an eyebrow and he nodded grudgingly after a second. "Are you going to walk next to me or do I have to hold your hand?"

"Walk,"

"Good,"

She led him back around the corner, into the hall again, where to everyone's credit they pretended nothing had happened. Rickon sat and ate, and though he fidgeted a lot, and snapped at Bran several times, he behaved well enough. It wouldn't last. Ross was not their mother. Damn you, Catelyn, can't you see you're needed here?

Hopefully Ned would have the sense to send his wife straight back to Winterfell when she reached the city, and that he wouldn't listen to the dangerous accusations coming from her mouth. Ross had watched her elder brother accuse the royal family, and she had watched him die. This seemed too much like tempting fate.

*

It was a relief to finally be alone in her room later on. Catelyn kept all the ledgers in order, but there was still so much more to be done each day, especially with the steward, Vayon Poole, gone south with Ned. Ross had spent the day dealing with the accounts, dealing with the children and standing by Robb along with Maester Luwin as he saw petitioners in the great hall. Her nephew was capable, and listened readily to advice when he wasn't sure, but nonetheless, being surrounded by people all day had exhausted her. For once, Ross fell asleep without lying awake in bed for too long.

Another pyre was being built, in the empty hall, the Iron Throne looming over everything... It was her own hands that built it, which were shaking, red and raw from the work. She was tired, so tired... She wanted to stop, but knew she couldn't. So tired, so sad... If she could just lie down and sleep... The scene went dark.

She awoke, and the pyre was still there, ten times as big, but the walls were gone. She was on a stage, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a vast, never-ending crowd, all yelling, screaming, baying for blood. Her own? Perhaps. She looked back at the pyre, and her heart was in her mouth. It was suddenly alight already, and above the rising flames her daughter was bound. Morganna wasn't screaming, she just stared at Ross with hollow, dead, accusing eyes as the flames, slowly turning to green, licked at her skirts. Ross felt herself scream, tearing at the pyre, but her daughter was too high, she couldn't save her.

Frantically she turned around, looking for anyone, anything, then sank to her knees with a small moan as she saw the heads of Ren and Ned and Jaime on spikes being shaken by the crowd at her. Covering her head with her hands as the horde of people surged forward, all over her, consuming her as the flames consumed Morganna. The flames were fully green now, and rising up from the top was the shade of Aerys, cackling and mad, twisting, transforming, in the hideous shape of a dragon, spreading its wings and roaring aloud as she died on the ground.

Ross awoke shaking and sweating, suddenly unbearably hot under the blankets, and her legs felt trapped. Trying to get a hold of herself, she kicked off the covers and made it to the open window, where a cold wind was blowing through. She pushed the frame open more, letting the wind catch it, making the curtains flap. It brought her to her senses somewhat, and the shaking of her hands stilled.

It was snowing outside, as she had thought it would. Not heavily, as it was still summer, but enough to remind her that she was still at home. And that two of her children were far, far away.

It was fine when it was just Ren in King's Landing. He didn't look especially like Jaime, and he was a bastard who passed everyone by almost invisible. Or he had done when he was ten; now she wasn't so sure. Either way, few important people looked twice at him. It did help that he was a boy, more than capable of defending himself with a sword. And he was smart. He knew how to keep out of the way and was hardly reckless.

Morganna, on the other hand, was the opposite. She relished in trouble, and had little-to-no cares in the world, least of all when the right time to stop was. She was beautiful, she was a young highborn lady and she looked far too similar to the queen. Ren had a lot of Ross in him, whilst Morganna had a lot of Jaime, to the extreme. Yes, she was clever too, but she was arrogant with it and forgot she was only eleven. Others forgot, too. She looked fourteen.

Ross didn't want to go back to bed. She had gotten far too used to having Jaime there in the last few months. She was not, and had never been, a lonely damsel pining for her lost love - the thought was laughable - and was more than capable of living her life without him, but that did not mean she wanted to. The world wasn't fair, she had understood that for a long time. That didn't mean she didn't miss him.

She shook her head. Pathetic. Jaime would laugh at her if he could hear her thoughts now. She smiled faintly, summer snow falling onto her hands as she rested them on the windowsill. White flakes against the dark sky. Torches burned within the walls of Winterfell, and a few candlelights flickered in the Winter Town, but beyond that it was complete and utter darkness. Ross liked that. King's Landing had too many lights at night. Too many people. Here, the silence was blissful.

*

Edited November 2024