The wind off the Kingsroad tasted of iron and snow—a distinct, sharp bite that belonged only to the North. Winterfell was waking from its slumber, not with the gentle nudging of dawn, but with the thunder of hooves and the rattling of iron-rimmed wheels. You stood atop the stone ramparts, the grey wool of your doublet heavy against the chill, watching the column of gold and crimson snake its way through the white expanse of the wolfswood. Below, the castle was a hive of frantic preparation: servants scrubbing flagstones, guards tightening straps, kennelmasters silencing the hounds.

Ned Stark was in the yard already, his face a mask of solemn duty, the direwolf of House Stark stamped dark against the snow on his surcoat. You felt the weight of your ownsigil pin on your shoulder—too heavy, perhaps, for a man who had only just begun to shave. The King was coming. Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, the man who had bled beside your father to overthrow the Mad King, and the man who now came to take your father south to the viper’s pit of King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy leaned against the merlon beside you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Look at them,” he said, gesturing with a wineskin toward the vanguard. “Lions in winter. They don't like the cold, Robb. Makes them brittle.”

The heavy oak gates of Winterfell began to groan open, the ice-slicked wood shuddering in its frame. The royal standard unfurled, a stag crowned in gold, snapping violently in the wind. You could feel the vibration of the drums in the soles of your boots. This was history arriving, messy and loud. Your father glanced up, catching your eye from the yard, a silent command in his gaze. Stand tall. Be the Stark.

The first outriders spilled into the yard, mud splashing their pristine cloaks. You had to move. To greet the King. To play the part of the loyal heir when every instinct told you that having this many lions in the wolf's den could only end in blood.

The Wall was a long way off, but you could feel its shadow even here, a phantom weight on your shoulders. You stood in the shadows of the armory, away from the main thoroughfare where the golden stream of the royal entourage was flooding into Winterfell. The air smelled of roast boar and cold steel, but underneath it, there was the cloying scent of southern perfumes—jasmine and myrrh, alien and intrusive in the land of pine and smoke.

Your hand rested on the pommel of the sword Lord Commander Mormont had given you, the worn leather grounding you. Uncle Benjen was due back soon, and the plan was simple: join him at the Night's Watch. Leave the bastard surname behind. It was the honorable path, the only path that didn't involve being a perpetual guest in your father's hall or a usurper in your brother's home.

But watching the golden knights dismount, their armor polished to a mirror sheen that hurt the eyes, doubt gnawed at your gut. Was honor enough? The King laughed—a loud, booming sound that seemed to shake the icicles from the eaves. He clapped Ned Stark on the back, a bear of a man, radiating a life force that seemed to dim the grey Stark men around him.

A shadow fell across your vision. You looked up to see Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, watching you with mismatched eyes, one black, one green. He didn't look like the others; he looked like a man who knew the taste of exile. “The Bastard of Winterfell,” he said, his voice dry, rustling like dry leaves. “I hear you're taking the black. Pity. The whores at Moles Town are going to be heartbroken.”

He was baiting you, testing the steel of the Stark bastard. You could retreat into the armory, or step into the light.

The glass of the window was cold against your fingertips, but you didn't pull away. Below lay the courtyard, transformed from a muddy training ground into a kaleidoscope of color. Banners snapped in the wind—Baratheon, Lannister, the minor houses of the Stormlands—all blurring together in a dizzying dance of pageantry. It was everything the songs promised. It was the South come North, bringing warmth and chivalry with it.

You turned back to your chamber, where your governess was laying out the gown of blue velvet that had been brushed three times to catch the firelight. You were to be a lady of the court, perhaps even a queen one day. The thought made your heart race, a fluttering bird trapped in your ribs. King Robert was old, and drunk, and loud, but Prince Joffrey... you had seen him from the balcony. He was golden. He was a prince.

Arya was somewhere in the stables, likely mucking out stalls or getting in the way, but you had duties here. You had to be perfect. Not just a Stark of Winterfell, but a woman who could walk the marble halls of the Red Keep and not look like a savage.

The door creaked open, and a servant announced the Queen was requesting the presence of the Stark daughters. Cersei Lannister. The most beautiful woman in the realm, they said. Your stomach twisted, a knot of excitement and terror. You smoothed the front of your dress, checking your reflection in the silvered looking glass. The face staring back was flushed, eyes wide with the promise of a fairy tale. It was time to leave the nursery behind.

It smelled wrong. Like horseshit and arrogance. You crouched behind a stack of crates in the lower bailey, Needle hidden beneath your cloak, the grip of the Braavos sword warm against your palm. The knights were dismounting now, great clanking beasts in tin cans, preening and strutting like peacocks in a muckheap. The King was fat. You’d seen him from the rooftops, a man carrying a gut the size of a boar’s, laughing too loud, drinking too early in the day.

Septa Mordane would be looking for you. She wanted you in the solar, sewing and being dull. She wanted you to be Sansa. The thought made your skin itch. You watched a squire drop a gauntlet in the mud, then kick a dog that got too close to it. Your fingers tightened around Needle’s hilt. These weren't the heroes from Old Nan's stories. They were just rude men with shiny swords.

“Boy,” a rough voice barked. You froze. It wasn't directed at you, but close. Two of the King's guards were standing near the stables, tossing dice. “Get these horses watered before they kick your teeth in.” You saw a groom, a boy no older than you, scramble to obey, his face pale with fear. The guards laughed, a cruel, ugly sound.

You could slip away, climb the walls to the godswood where no one would find you until the feast. Or you could stay here, in the dirt, and watch. Watch them when they thought no one was looking. The best way to know a man was to see him when he thought he was alone.

The wind up here was wild, singing through the mortar gaps with a voice that belonged to the old gods. You sat perched on the gargoyle of the First Keep, legs braced against the stone, the world spread out below you like a map. From this height, the people were ants. The King was just a larger ant in a gold cloak. You saw everything. You saw the mud the wagons churned up, the way the guardsmen shifted their weight from foot to foot, the golden reflection of the sun off the Queen's hair.

You hadn't fallen. That was the secret. You had climbed higher than anyone ever dared, right up to the window of the tower, but the window had been barred, and you had moved on, swift as a squirrel, finding handholds where none existed. You were the climber. The walls of Winterfell were yours in a way they would never be for Robb or Jon.

Movement caught your eye. Below, in the shadows of the kennels, two men were talking. One was a knight of the King's Guard, white cloak stained with travel dust. The other was a man you didn't know, a man with a twisted smile and a coin passing between his palms. It was a secret transaction, hidden in plain sight.

You leaned forward, the stone rough against your palms. You were invisible up here. A ghost in the grey sky. You could drop a pebble and hit them, or you could just listen. The wind carried the sound of their voices, fragmented and faint.