𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; act one

───────────

     THEY CALLED HER THE TRUE WOLF IN THE NORTH FROM THE MINUTE SHE HAD BEEN BORN. Nymeria Stark, named after Nymeria of Dorne, born on the coldest night during the twelfth moon, the wolves howled violently with the wind as Gilliane Glover screamed out in pain. Her breathing labored and heavy as the midwives encouraged her to push, her tears mixing with her sweat, the blood soaking the white sheets beneath her.

  Nymeria Stark had come into the night with a fight. She was born prematurely, her body frail and weak, her mother's tears falling onto her newborn face. Nymeria Stark had entered the night weak, broken, and frail, like the snow that fell outside of Winterfell, and above her was Lady Gilliane Glover, her mother, hands clasped together praying to the Gods she had yet to believe in. Lord Rickon Stark had yet to shed tears, but he could feel the burning in his throat as he swallowed back his emotions — he had lost one son, he could only pray to not lose a daughter as well. Cregan Stark was six when he watched his mother pray and cry for days and nights over his little sister, and eventually, he found himself beside her, their hands clasped together, praying to whomever would listen — even if they never believed.

  It took seven days, and seven nights, for Nymeria Stark to pull through completely. Gilliane could remember it clear as day, the way she cried as the Maester's spoke to her, the way her arms gripped onto her only baby girl out of fear that Nymeria would evaporate into thin air. From those early days on, Gilliane Glover would never have been seen without her daughter. Their hands clasped together, Nymeria sat on Gilliane's lap whilst they read a book on the history of House Stark, their conversations flowing through as Gilliane taught Nymeria needlework.

  And then Gilliane Glover was gone.

  In the year 120 AC, Lady Gilliane had fallen ill. Her skin had gone pale, her eyes bloodshot, her nose gushing with blood every time she sneezed, her throat coughing blood up, and even while she laid on her deathbed, her hand clung to her daughter's. At the age of six, Nymeria held her mother's dying hand until Gilliane's very last breath, and with tears flowing down her face she collapsed into her older brother's arms.

  With the death of Gilliane, Cregan took it upon himself to take care of Nymeria like Gilliane would — mainly because Lord Rickon Stark could barely take care of himself after the death of his wife.

  But Cregan couldn't teach Nymeria needlework, or the history of their house and other houses (well he could, but not quite like their mother could for Cregan had never been taught to read properly), so Cregan did the best he could for a two-and-ten — he taught Nymeria what he had learned. He taught her the work of swords, and eventually bow and arrows, he taught her the politics he would learn to eventually become Lord of Winterfell. Cregan taught his little sister how to hunt if she were to ever find herself lost in the cold of Winterfell. Anything Cregan Stark knew, Nymeria Stark learnt.

  On Nymeria Stark's seventh name-day, she was gifted a snow white dire-wolf courtesy of her elder brother, Cregan. Even with the joy of her name-day, and her gifts, the Stranger had smiled wickedly down upon her happiness for he took her father later that day.

  It had taken a few nights since the death for Lord Rickon's brother, Bennard, to arrive in Winterfell. A three-and-ten Cregan Stark could not take over the chair of Winterfell, and in this situation, Winterfell would be passed to Bennard until Cregan became of age.

  But the world had decided to play games with the Stark siblings.

  During the funeral of Lord Rickon Stark — which was a close affair, his immediate family only surrounding the place where he had been buried — is when Bennard had struck. His power-hungry eyes turned to Nymeria, almost cruelly, hand placed on her shoulder with such a grip, Nymeria flinched back, "I am Lord of Winterfell now, Nymeria," Bennard had started, voice low as to not alert Cregan, "And there is a promise to be upheld."

  "A promise?" Nymeria echoed, her brown eyes, which resembled a mouse being hunted, looked up at her uncle in fear.

  "You are to be married." Bennard replied, his eyes were narrowed like a snake as he stared at his seven-year-old niece, "To Prince Jacaerys, who is heir to the Iron Throne."

  "I am not of age to be married, Uncle." Nymeria was confused, eyebrows furrowed, she was young, yes, but she was no fool. Even Nymeria knew that ladies did not get married until one-and-three, they most certainly did not get married at seven.

  "You are of age when I say you are."

  Nymeria bit her tongue, fear clawing at her spine as she shakily looked at the grave of her father, her brown eyes flickered towards Cregan — who was too lost in grief to pay any mind to anything else in the current moment, but Nymeria couldn't blame him for that, she would have been, too — and then her eyes eventually found her uncle.

  "Yes, uncle." 

─── NOTE ;
in every universe, nymeria stark will go
through hell 😊

lmk ur thoughts on this chapter? (personally
i feel like it's better than the old)