The North, Winterfell.
A fast horse galloped along the King's Road, hooves shattering the packed snow and spraying slush in its wake.
The rider's cloak whipped wildly in the wind. From the urgency of his pace, he clearly carried urgent news…
In the training yard, the Stark children were enjoying a rare mont of warmth.
Robb Stark and Jon Snow stood beside ten-year-old Bran Stark. Robb watched with arms crossed, while Jon leaned in to demonstrate.
Bran gripped a wooden bow nearly as tall as he was, listening intently as Jon explained the essentials of archery.
"Keep your arm steady, breathe evenly, and don't rush the release," Jon said gently and patiently. "Feel the direction of the wind. Let the arrow beco an extension of your body."
Bran nodded seriously, his small face full of concentration.
Little Rickon Stark sat on a wooden saddle in the gallery, clutching imaginary reins and shouting "Hya! Hya!" as he pretended to ride.
At only four years old, he had no idea what his brothers were doing; he was lost in his own world.
On the second-floor balcony, Lord Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn Tully stood side by side, watching their children in the yard.
Eddard's face—usually marked by solemn lancholy—softened for once.
He watched Bran struggle with the bow, Robb pretending to be mature as he instructed, Jon gently encouraging his little brother, and Rickon playing with innocent joy. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
Catelyn sensed the change in her husband. She glanced sideways at him, her eyes full of tenderness.
She gently took Ned's hand. Husband and wife shared a look, the quiet affection that only long-married couples possess.
For a mont, Winterfell felt peaceful and tiless.
Inside the room beside the training yard, the brazier burned brightly.
Sansa Stark and Arya Stark sat beside Old Nan, learning embroidery.
Old Nan squinted as her needle flew through the cloth, offering occasional guidance.
"Lady Sansa, your stitches are as lovely as ever. Very good indeed!"
Old Nan looked at the handkerchief in Sansa's hands with open approval.
It was embroidered with a floral pattern—neat, flowing stitches that showed real effort.
Sansa lowered her head modestly, every movent graceful and refined, like a noble maiden raised in a southern court. "Thank you, Nan."
When she lifted her head, her face was exquisitely beautiful: long, lovely red hair inherited from her mother Catelyn Tully; deep blue eyes like the sumr sky; delicate features and a tall, graceful figure.
She looked nothing like the wild, open-hearted girls of the North. Instead she resembled the elegant princesses of the southern courts.
Arya beside her was the complete opposite of her sister.
She was a pure Northern snow girl—innocent and wild.
Right now she was frowning at her own embroidery… a ss of crooked stitches that looked like nothing at all, just a tangle of thread.
She hated embroidery. She hated every skill a proper lady was supposed to master.
She loved riding and shooting, loved swinging swords and spears, loved running after her brothers.
She had inherited her father Eddard Stark's long face and ash-brown hair. A few years younger than Sansa, she sat there looking exactly like a little boy forced into a chair.
"Lady Arya…"
Old Nan looked helplessly at her "masterpiece," uncertain. "Is this… a wolf?"
"It's a horse," Arya declared confidently.
Old Nan was left speechless. "…Very nice. It has a… very abstract beauty."
In the training yard, Bran finally finished listening to all of Jon's instructions. He took a deep breath, drew the bow, and aid at the distant target.
Thwip—
The arrow flew.
It missed the target by a wide margin and buried itself in the snow beside it.
Laughter erupted.
Robb clutched his belly. Jon tried and failed to hide his grin. Even little Rickon on his pretend horse laughed along, though he had no idea what was funny.
Bran's small face fell at once, full of frustration.
His dream was to beco a great knight—ideally the "White Knight" who guarded the King, riding a warhorse and swinging a sword like the heroes in the songs…
But he seed to have no talent for anything. Everything related to knighthood was beyond him!
A light cough ca from the second floor.
Lord Eddard Stark's face grew stern as he scolded, "What are you lot laughing at? Were any of you master archers at ten?"
Robb and Jon quickly wiped the smiles from their faces and stood straight.
Eddard looked at Bran and gave him an encouraging nod. "Keep practicing, Bran. Practice makes perfect."
Jon leaned down and whispered in Bran's ear, "Don't lose heart. The first ti I shot, I nearly hit my own foot."
Bran smiled again, renewed. He gripped the bow tightly, took a deep breath, and focused on the center of the target.
At that mont—thwip!
An arrow shot through the air and struck the bullseye dead center.
Bran froze.
He hadn't released yet.
Everyone turned at once.
There stood "Arya Two," bow in hand, gracefully curtsying like a perfect lady.
The motion was textbook perfect, but paired with the mocking grin on her face it looked utterly punchable.
The perfect shot had co from her.
Laughter rang out again. Even Eddard on the balcony couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.
Bran could take no more. His face flushed red. He dropped his bow and charged at Arya with a roar.
Arya let out a shriek and ran off laughing.
A ten-year-old boy chased a nine-year-old girl in circles around the training yard.
Unfortunately Bran clearly couldn't catch the sister who spent every day running and fighting. After a few steps he was already panting, while Arya darted about like a little deer.
The warm scene was interrupted by approaching footsteps.
Ser Rodrik Cassel strode into the yard, followed by Theon Greyjoy—Lord Eddard's ward, a young man of Ironborn blood.
Theon Greyjoy ca from no small background; he was the only son of King Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, bearer of many titles such as "First Speaker of the Iron Islands," "Reek," and "Captain of the Sea Bitch."
Ser Rodrik's face was grave. Clearly sothing important had happened.
"My lord, my lady," he called up to the balcony. "The patrol guards have caught a deserter from the Night's Watch."
Lord Eddard's smile vanished. His face returned to its usual solemn lancholy.
He looked at Theon. "Have the children saddle their horses."
Catelyn's eyes showed a flicker of reluctance. "Must he die?"
Eddard looked at his wife, voice low. "He broke his vows, Cat."
Ser Rodrik added respectfully, "My lady, the law is the law."
Eddard paused, then added, "Tell Bran he is to co as well."
Rodrik nodded and left to make arrangents.
Catelyn frowned. "Eddard, Bran is only ten. He is still too young to watch an execution!"
Eddard gazed at the little boy in the yard who was still chasing his sister. His voice was calm. "He will not be a child forever. Besides…"
He turned, leaving only his back.
"Winter is coming."
Catelyn watched her husband's retreating figure, drew a deep breath, and pushed down the unease in her heart.
She turned to leave, but her eyes fell on Jon Snow at the edge of the training yard.
That damned "Snow"!
Jon was crouching, picking up the bow Bran had dropped and gently comforting his disappointed little brother. Feeling Catelyn's gaze, he looked up and offered a respectful bow.
Catelyn did not return it. She turned and walked away.
No matter how respectful and well-behaved Jon Snow was, nothing could lessen the disgust she felt toward him.
This bastard born of so whore's womb was a living reminder of her husband's betrayal every ti he appeared before her.
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