Game of Thrones 1. Chapter 1

**HOUSE: Eriador **

**ORIGIN: King's Isle, the South**

**AGE: First generation**

**SIGIL: Black beaver **

**HOUSE WORDS: _Endure, Establish. _**

**LORD: Domitian Eriador; heir is his youngest child and only son, Jamett**

_**Honore**_

"Soren! By all gods, HURRY!" The command echoed through the freshly-emptied halls of King's Isle followed by a sharp _thud!_ as a heavyweight boot with a metal heel clamored in the direction of the voice. "Hey! That could have killed me!"

"Gods curse me for missing," was the only response Honore Eriador of King's Isle received from her sister who seemed to think she had all the time in the world to gather her belongings. Honore's drawn-out breath escaped her lips just as her sister escaped her commands. With a heavy gait and an endless list of colorful swears directed at nothing in particular and everything she could think of, the eldest daughter of Lord Domitian departed from the chambers of her lost-cause sister.

Although she donned her circlet nestled in her intricately-braided tresses, some loose curls, with the help of the sea breeze, found their way into Honore's eyes. She irritably swatted at them just as her already-tiring feet guided the girl of 24 years outside of the castle, where the Lord of King's Isle was awaiting she and what would have been her sister at her side, but alas, Soren remained in her chambers wasting precious time. Donning a calm façade, Honore stole a calming breath and approached her father.

The man's shadow met Honore's feet before she was within arm's reach of him – he was nearly as tall as their great friend and King, Robert Baratheon – his own tinted blonde curls, Hono noticed, were whisking into his squinted eyes. At the sight of only one daughter, Dom's eyebrows quirked in a questioning angle and before he opened his mouth to ask where his second daughter was, Hono answered.

"She is, of course, residing in her chambers doing gods-know-what," Honore complained. She was well aware that she was too mature to grumble, but based on the day's events so far, (beginning with an awakening from Soren's rotund white kitten, Stella, purring directly into her ear canal and kneading viciously at her cheek, having her bodice laced beyond too-tight by a nearly-deaf lady's maid, walking up and down, back and forth, and to and fro carrying her belongings to the ship, and lastly, being granted responsibility of her 21-year old sister,) Honore was too tired to give a rat's arse who heard her single complaint. Her father's sigh was accompanied by a roll of his golden eyes.

"Very well. You can go get the last of your things, I'll get your sister. We leave before daybreak," Dom planted a gentle kiss on Hono's stress-creased forehead and pursued Soren's chambers. She wondered what her father did to eliminate Soren's procrastination.

_Perhaps shouting? No._

_Perhaps a slap? No, Father never hits women._

_Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…_

Honore's thoughts were interrupted by a feminine throat clearing behind her. She turned and was instantly blinded by the sickly-orange sun seeping lazily behind the mountains. It reminded her of the egg yolk falling through her sister's ever-busy fingers as she fed Stella on the foot of Honore's bed one morning. Honore made sure to throw an egg right at Soren's stupidly-snickering face. Once again, Honore's thoughts were interrupted by the annoyance that was throat-clearing. _Disgusting._

She blinked once, to rid the sun's remaining silhouette behind her eyes. Only her peripheral sight would be available for the next few minutes. _Brilliant. _From the uncomfortable use of a side-glance, Hono made out her father's recent wife, Elene, who had approached with some way to make Honore's day worse.

"Yes, my Lady?" Honore greeted with a curtsy and a forced grin. Elene had requested that the two daughters of her husband address her formally.

"Help your brother," was all Elene said, and yet, Hono couldn't help but feel infuriated. Her condescending tone, her crooked nose in the air, and the deeply troubling fact that the woman had the ability to command her daughter-by-marriage repelled Hono so easily that she scurried away as readily as she could once the last syllable of her command left Elene's lips.

Although he had a witch for a mother, Jamett was a very favored family member of Honore's. The boy was born five years past and had never seen a winter. His hair was not blonde and his eyes were a standard color, unlike trueborn Eriadors. Honore, Soren, Domitian, Zelde (the late wife of Dom,) and all the descendants of House Eriador had unruly manes of blonde springs that corkscrewed in every direction and an uncommon eye tint. For example, Honore and Dom were born with deep golden eyes – "like golden dragons!" the King would often shout with a chuckle – while Soren was born with pale eyes, just the slightest tint of red behind a mist. Honore could not remember her mother's eyes, as she was only a toddler when the life left Zelde's body. However, Soren claims to remember their mother's eyes, but she would never enlighten her sister without a price, often 5 million dragons, another kitten, or a handsome prince to fulfill all her desires. Dom had never spoken of Zelde, with exempt of only three words: "she loved us." 15 years from the death of Zelde, Dom had remarried a Southern woman he had met while travelling with Ned Stark and the King. Elene and Jamett had hair and eyes of burnt wheat: black and harsh. Although the two shared dusky, piercing eyes, Elene's were cruel and ever-criticising towards her husband's daughters, while Jamett's, although harsh in color, were soft, observant, and loving. Often Honore found herself wondering how the wench that was Elene could raise a boy as loving and honest as Jamett.

Three taps, each one second apart upon her younger brother's chamber door identified herself as a sibling - the three would often sneak out of their chambers in the night and explore, sleep with one another, or to simply enjoy the company of one another. The light, quickened footfalls of King's Isle's heir were heard on the other side. Honore's grin was spread across her face before she was aware of it.

"Hono!" was the only peep she heard before the 5-year old barreled into his sister's torso, gentle enough not to knock the wind from her delicate lungs.

"Good evening to you too, Jame," Honore greeted with a chuckle bouncing behind her words. The two were interrupted by the grumblings of an irritated Soren trudging past them with her leather case and father behind her. Her featured were nowhere to be seen past the thick blanket of curls the shade of clouds that tented in the center every time she exhaled. "Looks like someone faced Father's wrath," Honore jested as she pushed Jamett into his room to avoid a demolition from their sister. "Let's be sure to avoid her for the next few hours, yes?" Her golden eyes met those of crow's wings.

"But we'll be on the boat soon, Hono, we can't be away from her," Jamett stated.

Jamett's words echoed in her ears,

"_We'll be on the boat soon…"_

_The boat that will take me from my friends and family for the rest of my days. Soon._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: hello guys! I totally forgot to A/Nify the first chapter.**

**The internet in my house doesn't work, I had to upload the previous chapter on my school's computer. It's quite awkward logging onto ff .net when there's an elderly woman watching my every move. Perhaps it was my big black bag that I carry around for my art class – she might think it's a weapon or something (yo, that class ends at 5:30, by the way,) just all kinds of horrible.**

**Oh yeah, I'm not here to talk about my classes (although I'd love to whine all day about my mild burdens,) I'm here to talk about the story! :D**

**First thing's first: Honore's name is pronounced "O/Un-ore-ay" say it with me, "o/un-ore-ay" perhaps I'll make a soundcloud doc of myself recording it.**

**Jamett's name: I realised halfway through my outline and chapter 1 that Jamett looks like "Jamie," and I described the Eriadors similarly to the Lannisters. Only happy coincidences – hopefully no incest in House Eriador… hopefully….. *mischievous eyebrow quirk* I took the name James and thought "hmmm" for a good long time before "-ett" made its way into my mind. Yay! Jamett!**

**Dom: named after one of the 12 Caesars, Domitian, for no particular reason. Just opened the nearest book and used the second name I saw (first was Nero, no way I was gonna use that) ;D**

**Hope some of you Tolkien fans recognize House ****_Eriador_**** :D :D :D**

**What else, what else? Oh! For those of you kind and awesome enough to follow my other story, I'll get back to FPTE, I have ¾ of ch 13 written out, I just frickin' don't like the next part of the story. Ah well, it's for the best. Perhaps this story will help motivate me with getting back on track. I'm sorry, my friends and followers .**

**I hate to be the cliché author that begs for reviews but I'm gonna anyway. Let me know how you like it! Or just tell me how your day is, what your favorite color is, who you'd like to see in the story (I plan on some Stella/Dire Wolf – not telling you whose Dire Wolf, although I wouldn't be surprised if you've already figured it out – interaction). I'm using my own kitten as inspiration :D**

**Anyway, I'll end this 395-word Author's Note with, enjoy!**

**_Soren_****, ****_King's Landing, 1 week later._**

"One, two, three!"

The five-year old's final count marked the initiation of downing as many flagons as Soren could in five minutes. The girl stood at the King's table with two others. She took no glances at her competitors and only focused on the sweet sting of her home's exported Dragonleaf beer that found a snug spot in the pit of her belly.

"Four minutes, 30 seconds!"

_One down. More. Faster._

With a toss of her mug, Soren blindly snatched a replacement mug and sealed her lips with the alcohol. She could hear the occasional snorts, gulps, laughter, and satisfied exhalation from her two neighbors. She made no such sounds, but focused on counting each _thud_ she heard to keep track of her competition. Another mug down, another mug replaced. Another _thud_. She was tied with the man on her right and ahead of the man on her left by one.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry._

Soren was well aware of the consequences of swallowing mouthfuls of ale without releasing the extra air from her mouth, but considering the state of the competition, Soren needed to eliminate as much ale as she could so she began to chug her drinks, doubling her speed.

Mug down, mug replaced, two gulps, _thud!_

_Yes!_

The man on her right was behind her by a quarter of a mug.

"30 seconds left!" Jamett's voice resounded through her ears. She focused on his voice rather than the remaining contents of her current mug as well as her last mug. Jamett, Soren noticed, had somewhat of a lisp. He said his "s" with his tongue rather than his teeth like she did. The boy also said the "t" in "thirty" as a "d" while the "t" in "left" was hard.

_Hm._

"Time's up!"

_Just as I thought. "S" with his tongue._

Soren smirked and stood along with her two competitors: King Robert on her right, her favorite competition, and the stable master, a fat, red man called Gher. He was a better drinker than her father, but it seemed as though he was only there to make Soren and Robert look good. Before she could count her mugs, her brother's voice beckoned her attention.

"Third place: Gher, the stable master, with 3 ½ mugs!" Applaud.

_Eh._

"Second place, with 5 mugs," Soren's heart raced. "King Robert!"

_Yes! Yes!_

Cheers and awe. Soren's smile would have made the Grinning Goat of her wet nurse's tales envious. "And first place: my sister, Soren Eriador, with 6 mugs!" Cheers and a sloppy, wet kiss on each cheek from each competitor.

_I would have done more, but I was given only six…_

"Look at you, girl, six mugs, _six!_" The King mesmerized, "you make an old man proud," Robert's cheeks were flushed from the room's heat and his excessive drinking. Soren was sure she looked similar. With a chuckle and a pat to the King's back, Soren excused herself from the dining hall, ran down the hallway, and heaved the contents of her stomach into a nearby plant's soil.

_Sweet relief._

Wiping her mouth, Soren looked at the plant. "It's good for you. Dragonleaf makes you grow. You're welcome," she breathed to the plant. The girl was correct, dragonleaves were known to boost growth – the reason she and her father were so tall. Honore was shorter. She would hardly drink the stuff, preferring wine over ale, as it was "more ladylike to drink wine," Soren merely scoffed in her sister's face and proceeded to chug her ale with a wink and a burp to Honore. The winner of tonight's competition smiled at her reminiscence as she stumbled down the hall. She was ever-thankful that her hair was pulled back in who-knows-what style ("as long as it's out of my face," she told the maid when asked what hairstyle she'd like,) for she would have torn out every strand that was in her face out of frustration. Sometimes – or rather, _most _of the time, - curly hair would be an uncontrollable curse from the gods.

Soren hadn't talked very much today, resulting in her mind being packed with witty comments, observations, reminders, and constant sounds, whether it was her heartbeat, the soft bumps of her kitten's paws behind her, nearby conversations, or the wind blowing through the castle. Hardly anyone questioned her silence; for mostly all people that Soren was acquainted with understood that she was incapable of talking at sporadic times. But those who were strangers to her, those that questioned her queer ailment, such as vendors, or men looking for a quick feel-good-for-a-few-dragons would seem offended when she wouldn't answer. Soren did not want to be put off as rude (to the vendors, at least,) so she resorted to carrying a parchment in her pocket at all times explaining her inability to talk.

"_Mute." _Was all that was scrawled in Soren's quite-unladylike chickenscratch. Of course, it wasn't completely true. Tomorrow, Soren's voice would likely return to her and she'd continue pestering her sister.

Tomorrow. The day Soren was to be shipped off without her father, brother, horse, bed, most of her books, and her favorite panting made just for her by sister dearest (it was a painting of Soren displaying her "mute" paper in front of her mouth with a scrawling at the bottom that read, "These days are my favorite days,") both Soren and Honore grouched the most they had all year when their father told Soren that she couldn't take the painting. Alas, their pouting was in vain, and here she stood in King's Landing, without her painting or a place she could call home any longer. Honore and Soren would depart in merely a few hours' time.

_I suppose ought to get some sleep in a comfortable bed, then. _Stella seemed to understand her human's thoughts, for she mewled and stretched her tiny paws on the rose-stained velvet of Soren's dress. Honore chose Soren's dress – rose, to represent House Eriador, and velvet to represent Soren's sex – for the second daughter of Domitian the Humble hardly wore dresses, instead resorting to ash or wine-dyed leather leggings and vests with a simple undershirt. The King was good friends with the Eriadors, and Soren was the second daughter and middle child, so she figured that she had no one to dress for.

"_Don't you want to meet a nice boy, Soren?" _her sister's disapproving tone played in her head like a record and only made her smirk more. Soren's ungraceful feet brought her stumbling upon the chambers that she shared with Jamett, who was already in bed – _right in the middle, that sneak. _The girl put Stella on the bed, where she mewled once more and proceeded to make a nest of the young boy's hair. Soren grinned at the display of innocence in front of her eyes and removed the horrid dress from her body. She would have slept in the nude, but the young human in her bed prevented her from doing so, and accordingly, her undergarment remained on her person. Soren took a last glance at her damned dress, bunched it in a ball, and angled her arm to toss it out the door but when she opened it, a blonde head, a few inches shorter than herself, obstructed Soren's aim. Soren frowned as a question of, _what are you doing there?_

Honore, understanding her sister's facial gestures from years of experience, answered with ease, "I seemingly came to prevent you from discarding one of your only dresses," she wearily responded while striding past her sister into the chambers.

"_Is that all?"_ Soren scribbled on a nearby parchment.

"No, I wanted to sleep with Jamett," Soren only then noticed that Honore held her nightgown in her hands. She also only then realised that tonight would be the last the three would share together. Soren nearly sniffled.

"_Then let us make the best of it, Hono."_

To that, Honore smiled weakly and entered her sister's temporary bed to cuddle with her younger brother for the final time. In the morning, Soren's voice would return to her throat just as her family would return home.

She and her sister were on their own for the first time in their lives.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm back! At last! I've been grossly uninspired to write this until a crucial assignment came up and my muse told me to procrastinate, so here I am! **

**I'm going to use the age that the show portrayed the characters rather than the books. Sorry if that irks anyone. **

**I've noticed that my writing is very flowery right now, but that will soon change and I will include deaths, misfortunes, and various other sad happenings for sure. **

**Enjoy! _While you can... ;) _**

**Review responses: **

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**Feel free to leave any sort of review, I'll answer anything and everything you say to me :) **

_**Honore, 1 week later.**_

There would no longer be a day in Honore's life that could involve such embarrassment as the day she had met her betrothed, Robb Stark of Winterfell, the son and heir of Eddard Stark. Although the Starks and the Eriadors were as great friends as the sun and the moon, Honore and her siblings had never been in the same place at the same time as the children of Eddard Stark. Honore would happily trade today's first encounter with being roasted naked on a spit for the world to see. As expected, Hono's embarrassment was the cause of her beloved sister, Soren. There was not a thing in Westeros that could possibly be done to make the last child of Zelde Eriador blush; in addition to her inability to speak and explain herself on this day, Soren decided to make a fool of her sister like an anonymous ventriloquist shielded behind the protection of a curtain.

This morning, Hono had awoken on a sleeping pad stuffed with horse hair and cotton. The forenoon sun had not shown its face yet, but her sister's damn cat surely made an endeavor to show hers. How the kitten made its way out of Soren's closed door into Honore's sealed room was beyond her, but Hono had learned early on to waste no time questioning the doings of Soren and Stella, and instead prepare herself for whatever shenanigans the duo had in store for her. Before the less-than-majestic feline could hurl herself at Hono's sleeping face, Soren had presented herself in the candlelit hallway just outside of her sister's dorm. The floor swayed sharply and Soren lost her footing, landing on Honore in place of Stella. It was not the kitten's plots, her sister's stumble, nor even Soren's making a bed of her sister that woke Honore, but it was the laughter that followed. Such was the laughter that not only resonated around the ears of poor Honore but strained the vocal chords of Soren to such an extent that she would be rendered unable to speak for the remainder of the day.

Seeing as Honore was not a morning person in the least, her feathers were flustered quite easily so she merely turned over and shook her sister onto the moldy and somehow-wet floor of the boat they had been shipped off on. The laughter stopped as did all movement. Honore accepted such, so long as she could continue sleeping.

The next time she was awoken, it was a much more pleasant experience. The sun was caressing her body with its tender warmth, and a maid had come in to ask Honore if she was ready to break her fast.

She had a choice! For the first time in a long time Honore could _decide_ on something!

When Honore lazily nodded her head, the maid merely said "aye, my lady," and disappeared from the dorm with such stealth that Hono's half-conscious mind considered the maid a figure of her imagination. Her lids had appeared to rise on their own, revealing bloodshot, dried-out golden eyes that were filmed by sleep. Since she was a child, Hono had never been fond of lying in bed whilst awake as it made her limbs ache, so she made quick work of tossing her feet off the edge of her bed to begin preparing to break her fast. Rather than the expected clammy wooden planks under her feet, she felt something warm and manipulable, and she instinctively retracted her feet and squealed. With all sleep now gone from her eyes, Hono peered down to see a pale body under a mass of snowy curls with a purring cow-marked kitten to top it off. Soren was stirring as a result of Hono's screech, and a knock at the door furthered her awakening.

"Payback, sister dearest," Honore said with a wink to Soren before standing to answer the door. A barrel-chested sailor with a tattoo of an anchor on his face signifying his position as a slave in Volantis stood at the door, not looking Honore in the eyes. When the man did not speak first, Honore expected he was waiting to be spoken to. "How may I help you?"

"Cap'n was won'r'in' what the noise were, m-milady..." he drawled. His voice was thick with a Westerosi accent – likely Flea Bottom – which made Hono wonder how he came to be a slave.

"I was merely startled by my sister," Honore turned and frowned at her sister who was busy rubbing her eyes that were outlined by purple circles as a result of staying awake last night, probably exploring the boat for the hundredth time. The slave, almost forgotten, nodded and took his leave. "Thank you for asking!" Honore shouted after him. He stopped, turned, and wore a surprised mask. The daughters of Domitian often disregarded their status as highborn and did not mask their personalities with courtesies. Virtually everyone that the girls came in contact with, with exception of the Royal Family, was treated as if they were a sibling. Minus physical attacks.

The slave, realising he was standing awe-struck in the ladies' hallway, nodded dumbly once more and shuffled on his way.

"A shame that he has that ugly tattoo on his face. I wouldn't make him have it if I owned him... Matter of fact, I _wouldn't_ own him if I owned him."

Soren opened her mouth to respond, and when nothing came out, she whipped out a parchment.

_I like it a bit, the tattoo. Mayhaps I'll get one._

Honore's eyes were larger than her mother-by-law's breasts – which were extensively full, flowing over almost every dress she owned.

"Need I remind you of your status, Soren? You are the daughter of Domitian bleeding Eriador! You cannot get a _tattoo_!" Upon realisation that she was shrieking, Honore took a deep breath and awaited whatever her sister had to counter on her parchment.

_If we'll be in Winterfell, what'll it matter? I will not be marrying anyone, Father said I needn't, being the middle child and all._

This was a losing battle. Soren would always find a way to counter whatever Hono restricted, so she resigned. Soren would forget about it in 10 minutes time anyway.

"Very well, put on clothes and let us break our fast."

OoOoO

Such had been how Honore awoke. It was relatively calm and normal – by her standards – and she paid it no mind until twelve hours later when she was reminiscing and praying for the normality to return.

Her hair was currently being poked and prodded by a stranger who was appointed as her lady's maid. The woman, Ayla, was nice enough. She was a tall woman, about the same age as Lady Catelyn, and she had brought Honore up to speed on the basic ways of life in the North; who was who, the correct way to speak, how to dress in a blizzard, and how to properly share a bed with a man. The latter of which made Honore's stomach clench even tighter than her bodice.

"M'lady? M'lady- Tsk, are you stressin' 'bout this 'fternoon, ma'am?"

Apparently Ayla had been trying to get Hono's attention and failed. Unsurprisingly.

Hono shook her head without ruining the maid's hard work. "No, I'm sorry. I was imagining what to wear for tonight," she defended weakly. The maid would have none of it.

"M'lady, you're dressed already. What's troublin' ye?" Honore, as much as she hated to admit, admired the determination of the maid. She didn't simply drop the conversation.

"I.. admit, I was rerunning today's events in my head. How I wish this morning would not have come to an end."

"It's true, not many women face being undressed in front of their new family every day here," Ayla began. Honore was obviously distressed by the maid's words so she continued quickly, "but you're still alive and yer sister was given a mighty punishment by you, m'lady. So long as ye forget it happ'nd, it won't bother ye no more, yea? 'S not as if the Starks are goin' t' discuss it freely anyhow."

It was just what Honore needed to hear but it felt like daggers being shoved into her skull nonetheless. She could barely manage a nod when three knocks rasped at her door. Ayla answered it almost immediately, and after saying a few words too quiet for Honore's ears, the door creaked open. In the reflection of her mirror, Hono could see a tall, bearded figure in her doorway.

"Lord Robb Stark, m'lady." Honore hardly processed the words, but her body responded regardless. It felt as though her heart was reeled from her chest when she heard the four words drawl out of the wench's full mouth. A twitch of her eyes and lips later, and Hono's mind returned to her. This afternoon forgotten, the eldest Eriador approached her betrothed and curtsied prettily.

"My lord," she managed at least a whisper, to her relief. She bade her eyes of gold to his of riverwater and saw he seemed as nervous as she. Just so, Honore immediately felt a weight off her shoulders when the blushing lord in front of her nervously chuckled and held out his arm. She ripped her eyes from his and grew hotter with embarrassment, realising she had been staring at his perfect face.

"Shall we, my lady?" His voice was honey. He spoke much like his father but looked more-so like his mother. Red curls and blue eyes of the Tullys. Sansa, the second-eldest Stark was another mirror-image of Lady Catelyn, while Arya, Bran, and baby Rickon were more like Eddard in manner and appearance.

Then there was Jon Snow, a quiet shadow was he. He was Ned's bastard who had been raised in Winterfell along with the other Starks. He was a nice boy, a year younger than Robb. Honore had only spoken two words to him, and in the least favorable of situations this afternoon. Soren, however, managed to milk more than a few words from him throughout the day.

For the third time in five minutes, Honore was pulled from her ministrations back to the present. Ayla had nudged her backside so she would approach Robb and latch onto his arm. She had been escorted by many men, it was an easy task that was performed at least six times each week, every week of her life since she learned to walk. Being escorted by the man she was to share a bed with in a week's time, however, is wholly different. She tried in every way not to make contact with his forearm, so she instead tried to decipher the animal of which his leather sleeve was made of. Honore failed in her endeavor, and she later discovered he was wearing a cloth shirt that she had been fingering the entire walk to the dining hall.

Honore was nearly ready to faint by the time the duo had reached the doors. To her dismay and alleviation, Soren appeared at the same time as she, being escorted by Theon Greyjoy, Ned Stark's ward and Robb's most cherished friend. His toothy grin and lingering eyes kept Honore's guard up. Soren even seemed to put a pillar of space between herself and him.

"10 dragons says she'll warm up to him come this feast's end," Robb's breathy bet startled her. She hadn't notice him bend to place his mouth beside her ear. His breath kissed her neck and cheek and Hono felt vulnerable. She smiled, however, at his attempt to make conversation and whispered back to the lord who had by this time returned to his erect posture.

"_20_ dragons says she'll _leave_ with him come this feast's end," Honore challenged. She watched his eyes widen and return to hers. He smirked and opened his mouth but was interrupted when the doors swung open and revealed what would have been Soren's heaven: ale beyond the eye's count, pork and chickens on spits, not a single healthy food to be found among the starches aplenty – corn, wheat, barley, and potatoes lined the tables of young, already-drunken soldiers who were laughing the night away. Honore sneaked a glance at her sister when she and Robb took their first steps, to see Soren nearly buzzing in her borrowed silk slippers. Her pale eyes would have fallen out of her skull and onto the moist stone floors had they not been blinked back into place when Theon began walking.

Eddard Stark's ward was a pretty fellow. He was lean and had clear eyes. A shadow of a beard graced from his Valyrian-steel cheekbones to the round of his chin. His japes had more character than the stoic Lady Catelyn. All-in-all, Soren would definitely fall head over heels in love with Theon Greyjoy, Honore predicted. The two were more alike than her own brows for the Seven's sake.

"Welcome, daughters of Domitian! May you enjoy this feast of the North! Come, sit, dine, drink, laugh, and share stories of your home with us! Find comfort and friends here! This is a safe place for you!" A voice, that Honore couldn't find a face for, sounded from across the table. Perhaps it was Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms. Whomever he was, his greeting comforted the eldest Eriador.

Perhaps she could fit in here.

**A/N: So they meet! What's happened in the afternoon at Winterfell? Who will win the bet, Robb or Honore? Find out next chapter! Thanks so much for reading! :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Mature writing in this chapter, folks. If that bothers you, I honestly don't know why you're reading a ASOIAF fic that's rated M, but ye be warned regardless. **

**Two chapters in 24 hours? Wow, I'm on a roll! Next chapter will pick up with the storyline, I just needed a few introductory fillers. :) **

**I'm sorry my writing has been no more than shite. I will definitely be revising in the future. :)**

**Enjoy! **

_**Soren**_

Theon Greyjoy, although he was Robb's friend, had proven Honore the winner of their bet. He and Soren had left the feast hand-in-hand, three hours before it concluded. The sun had hardly set and the duo's shadows silhouetted the path they took to Theon's chambers.

He was not the first man Soren had lain with, but it had without a doubt been a while since she was last entered. It hurt her to be stretched so, but following the initial few thrusts, she felt no pain and was pleasured by Greyjoy's bedroom expertise. Neither of the highborns were ashamed of their actions as they should have been, but they were so stupefied by one another upon meeting in the courtyard after Soren had stripped the clothes from her sister's body, that sharing a bed was the only option for the two.

"Tell me, dearest, what the hell were you thinking when you undressed Lady Honore?" Theon's iron accent was heavy but sweet. Soren quite liked it. She raised her eyebrows as she looked at the man she was about to bed. They were on their way to Theon's chambers; he was carrying her bridal-style, as she had ripped her silk shoes off in a fit during the feast. She was neither a lady nor tolerant of such silly clothes.

A few scribbles later, and Theon got his answer:

"_I cause trouble. What else was a poor bored soul to do? It was the perfect opportunity, was it not?" _

Greyjoy guffawed. "You literally took a knife to her dress and tore it in two. In front of her new family, nonetheless!"

"_Robb's got something to look forward to now, hasn't he? Anyway, if I wouldn't have done so, I'd have been considered a "proper woman" and I wouldn't have been able to share your bed this evening on account of the many eyes on the "proper, unbetrothed daughter of Domitian." No one considers me a lady now, and no one wants to marry a not-lady. It's a twofold blessing I'll say."_

"You're a bright one. I think I'll keep ya," Theon said as he nuzzled his shapely nose into the crook of her neck. Soren's white skin was radiated by the sun's fading rays and her pink eyes were hooded. Her petals were dampening as a result of Theon's activity.

They reached his chambers, finally. The smell hit her first: musk and cedar. Where the cedar came from, Soren couldn't fathom. She had only seen weeping weirwoods scattered about in the godswood and some berry bushes here and there. She would have asked him, had she her voice. Her curiosity was easily forgotten when Theon's hand crept up her bare thigh and eventually to her lips. She gasped when his cold finger traced the outline of her slicked petals. He took her mouth with his and hugged their tongues together. He tasted of wine, as it was the only consumed food he had at the feast. She was sure she tasted the same.

Soren was placed on Theon's furs atop his down-stuffed mattress and he climbed atop her, his knees on either side of her hips and his hands caressing her face and breasts. Soren mustered a moan, and shuffled from underneath him. She had interrupted his activities and he weakly grunted in question. To wordlessly answer his equally wordless question, Soren yanked at the furs that lined Theon's bed and placed them onto the stone floors by the fire.

"Are you cold, love?" Theon asked. His voice was thick with arousal and Soren's stimulation was heightened. She shook her head and dug into her dress to retract her parchment but her hand was caught and she jerked her entire dress off out of frustration.

"_The feathers from your bedding were scratching me."_

Theon smirked. "No need to worry about it any longer, love."

As he was in the process of standing from the bed and approaching Soren's naked body, he had removed his clothes as well. He stood a bit away from her to take in the sight of this angel in front of his eyes.

Her white curls haloed her flushed face, her lips were plumped from his sucking on them, her eyes were nearly as white as her skin, and her tall body could easily house his member.

Soren, as well, was admiring Winterfell's ward. He had patches of honey hair on his chest, underarms, lower stomach, and around his exceptionally large member. Soren was positive he knew how to pleasure a woman seeing as he so confidently took her, a highborn, to bed.

"Theon," she choked. She continued her sentence on her parchment.

"_It's been a while. Go slow, please." _The man nodded and descended upon Soren.

His mouth, rather than meeting her own, collided with her folds. His tongue traced around her sensitive peak, flicking it and causing bolts of sensation to fly up Soren's body. He kissed her curls and went further south, inducing a flood of slick wetness. Theon slipped his wine-coated tongue into her opening and her hips bucked into his mouth. She felt the warmth disappear from between her thighs, and she opened her eyes that she hadn't realised she'd closed to see the man returning his mouth to hers. His beard tickled her and his hardness collided with her lower belly.

She wrapped a hand around his cock and he submitted easily; she traced her thumb along his head and spread the translucent lubricant and guided it to her entrance. She bit his lower lip as he slowly pushed into her, they both released a slow, deep moan when he stretched her. Soren was well aware that her eyebrows were knitted together and a sheen of sweat had glossed her forehead. How she must have been a sight. He pulled out of her to re-enter a bit faster; the pain was lessened this time, and for that she was grateful. Theon was surprisingly being a gentleman in this encounter and she wanted to thank him for it.

After his next few thrusts, Soren's soreness was hardly detectable. She felt his cock twitch inside her and she knew he was close to release, so she tore her lips from his, placed her hands on his chest, and maneuvered him so he would lie on his back with her on top. His eyes widened when she boldly fastened his cock inside her and rocked with a pleasurable speed.

They were not making love. They did not love one another, but they were not whoring either. It was merely a way for Soren to cope with her new surroundings. That was her reasoning for now, at least.

Theon's cock once again twitched inside of Soren, and this time she allowed him to release. A warm pool filled her belly, and she bent to kiss his neck. He stroked her thigh and buttock as she rubbed her own clit for her release. It came soon after, soaking his cock with her juices. He remained inside of her while her inner muscles massaged him until he is completely spent.

In the following hours, Soren rested, awoke, cleaned and dressed herself, and slipped from Theon's chambers while he slept. Seeing as the sun was barely kissing the clouds, Soren decided she would be unable to sleep for another twelve hours until the sun descended once again.

She hadn't seen a soul except the occasional guard, cook, maid, and her kitten (Stella had been just outside Theon's door when Soren opened it). Soren was basically free to go where she pleased – except Honore's chambers. She had been exiled from her sister's presence for the following week as her punishment. It was a seemingly light penalty, but it surely had an effect on Soren's flared boredom, and it had only been 20 hours since establishment.

The sound of a steady _clang! clang!_ had equally startled and intrigued Soren, who immediately followed it to end up in the training yard. There practiced Jon Snow, bastard of the North. He seemed to have a massive amount of pent-up anger, for he was slicing and hacking away at a poor practice dummy who no longer had appendages.

_Perhaps..._

"Lord- er, uh, Jon?" She rasped. Soren smiled when she heard her own voice, rough as it may be. The bastard raised his sweaty brow and bowed when he saw who was approaching him. "Oh, get up, I'm not to be bowed to," she mock-scolded. A smile followed en suite to display her passiveness. "And don't you think about calling me 'my lady.' It's just Soren."

"What can I do for you, Sor-en?" Jon asked awkwardly. He apparently was unaccustomed to addressing Ladies-in-denial by their given names. Soren flashed her teeth once more and turned on her charm.

"I've been watching you wield that sword gloriously. Think you can teach me the basics?" She knitted her eyebrows and presented the bastard with an innocent, pleading face that had worked so many times on her sister and father.

"My la- Soren, you're a lady- a woman. A _highborn _woman. You're too weak to hold the sword, and you'd ruin your pretty dress! Your shoes would be soiled, and you'll get cut up. This is a man's work." Soren knew Jon meant no disrespect, and he would have been correct in his assumptions had she been her sister. Soren, however, _could_ wield a sword; her father had taken her to a Braavosi friend of his, who had taught her basic offenses and defenses.

"Contrary, I'll grow muscles to manage a sword, damn this dress, I often wear more cuts than clothes, and," she raised the hem of her dress to reveal bare, dirtied feet, "I lost my shoes at the feast last night. Did you not see that happen?" Jon's eyes raised from her feet to her eyes and hardened.

"I did not see. I did not attend the feast." A scowl tainted Jon's pretty face and he grew harsh. "This is no place for a woman. I would like to continue in peace, if I may." With that, the bastard turned his back to Soren Eriador and continued his slicing and dicing with greater force than necessary.

Soren credited herself on her cool emotions, only showing happiness to a full extent. Scarcely had she shed tears, she did not stomp away in anger, and she kept her mouth shut in arguments, saying only what needed to be said to get from point A to point B. In this instance, however, her anger got the best of her and she sprinted barefoot to her chambers. Without even sealing her door, she tore off her damned dress, replacing it with her comfortable linen jerkin and trousers. She wrestled her leather-soled boots onto her dirty feet, and sprinted back to the training grounds, where two more men, Robb and Rodrik, had joined Jon.

"Snow," she called. All three heads rose, two startled to hear a woman's voice, one annoyed and embarrassed to hear her voice had returned so soon. Jon slowly blinked his irritation away.

"Yes, my lady?"

Soren's jaw clenched.

"You've no excuse not to help me, now. Help me or forever be at my mercy. You saw what I did to my sister yesterday." Her voice was leaving her, much to her dismay. It was the worst time to be speechless. She had a point to prove. Had she been looking at Robb, she would have seen a red glow about his features at the mention of yesterday's display.

Jon scoffed and covered it with a cough remembering who he was talking to and in front of. "Lady, I have told you, this is no place for a wom-"

"I've heard enough of that degrading nonsense. Hand me a sword and prepare to die," Soren threatened with a smirk. Jon turned to look at Rodrik and Robb, who were both dumbstruck. Ser Rodrick recovered quick enough and eventually told Jon to get her a sword. Jon did without word but with great reluctance. He shoved the wooden sword into her chest and dropped it before she got a grip on it. The weapon fell to the floor with an embarrassing rattle. Soren's pale eyes narrowed at the bastard and she snatched the sword up with a huff. She planted her feet in the offensive stance and Jon was surprised. She took the opportunity to thrust at him while he was incapacitated and she caught his arm. Robb cheered for his betrothed's sister, who had jabbed at Jon.

Soren was tall but lean, she was a snake and Jon's pride was her prey. She advance-lunged and struck him at the waist. He was growing angry, she could see, but he soon covered his anger with concentration. Jon moved to the offensive and blew extensions and jabs at Soren relentlessly. Quick as she may be, Jon was quicker, and she was soon on the ground at Jon's mercy. He held his sword at her throat, wiped the sweat from his brow onto his sleeve, and held out a hand to her. Out of breath, Soren took his hand and yanked his down. He soon replaced Soren on the floor and her wooden sword was pressed to his trachea. Soren saw the smallest smirk on Jon's face. Rather than making the mistake of offering her hand to him, Soren snatched Jon's vest and jerked him to his feet, backed a few yards back, and posed in her Braavosi defense: sideface, with the sword angled slightly in her grip. With a nod, Jon appelled to distract Soren, then extended and lunged at the lady. She parried his attacks until he once again appelled and struck her on the thigh. With the twofold distraction, Soren noted that she would only focus on the bastard's sword and nothing else, as she should have been doing.

"Offense, go," Jon said between breaths.

Jon ducked into the Westerosi defense: frontface, with his sword pointed directly at his opponent. It was a good defense for attacking, but not so good for defending – Soren often asked herself why it was even called defense. Braavosi sidestanding makes for a smaller target. Soren took advantage of her enlarged target and jabbed at his wrists. She successfully landed three of her five blows and he nearly lost his grip on the wooden blade. To his luck, Jon regained his senses and struck Soren, landing her back in the defensive position without warning.

And so, the two hacked and slashed at one another until they were panting like dogs. It was obvious that Soren was less experienced with a sword than Jon, and that Jon was going easy on her. However, it was to go without saying that the lady knew a few tricks that the bastard did not. When Jon moved back to defensive, Soren hooked her ankle onto his shin to knock him off balance and sliced at his sword, this time successfully disarming him. She had learned the maneuver when her trainer took out her father in a scenario.

"Alright, alright, ladies. Go break our fasts before you're further embarrassed," Robb's chuckling voice suggested. The two were mid-quarrel, with their swords meeting directly above their heads. Both faces were a mirror of the other, heaving cold breaths onto one another. Seeing as Jon was facing Robb, his brother's suggestion brought Jon's eyes to the red-haired lord across the court. Soren once again took her chance to disable him so she dropped her elbow into his ribs and dodged his dislocated weapon.

"Ah-ha!" She triumphantly bellowed. The bastard's black eyes fixated on the lady's whites for a bit. He was emotionless.

"Perhaps I was wrong about you, Lady. I will give you lessons so long as Father allows it," Jon negotiated.

The brows of both Robb and Rodrik skyrocketed at hearing Jon's proposition.

"A lady?"

"You what?"

Both voices sounded at the same time and the quarrelers turned their sweaty eyes to the two spectators.

"My lords, you have both seen me fight. I am not the best, and I would like to learn. Jon is willing to train me. What is the matter?" Her voice was slowly dying and it sounded like she was beginning to cry. The sweat in her eyes did not help her cause to prove that she was not a weak woman.

"My lady, this is rough play.. Surely it is not advised.. Tsk, don't cry now. Go and break your fast with Jon." Cassel's patronizing did not sit well with Soren. What was it with the North that made women appear helpless?

"All due respect, Ser, I am not crying. My voice comes and goes-" as if to prove her point, her voice left her just then. With a frustrated huff, she ripped her parchment out and scribbled the remainder of her sentence while the men stood awkwardly waiting. She could hear Jon's steadying breaths and Robb's fidgeting with his sword. "_You witnessed me fight. I am capable of defending myself,_" Ser Rodrik looked at the blossoming red patches on her hands. There were surely more along her body; she would be aching like an old maid come the morn. With those bruises, Rodrik doubted Soren would be so gung-ho about practice.

"We will see what Lord Stark has to say. Now go break your fasts, you damn jackals."

Soren pursed her lips and bit her tongue back.

""My lady?" Jon said, holding out his hand to take her sword. She irritably brushed her curls from her face and brushed past Jon, snatching his sword from his hand to return them to the armory.

"If you're coming, Jon," Soren breathed. The bastard's beetle-eyes shifted from the departing lady to the men in the training yard. Robb shrugged at Jon, whose stomach growled as if to bid him go with Soren.

Snow did not follow the lady to the dining hall, instead deciding to curse his stomach and venture to his father's study.

**A/N: And so they meet! I tell ya, Soren will definitely be aching come the morning. Maybe she'll learn to think before doing. Probably not. :) Thanks for reading! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello!**

**Long chapter for you. Yay? I hope it isn't too rushed or cluttered, but if it is, I'll excuse myself in saying that I'm impersonating the main characters with my disorderliness. **

**Before I forget, I've updated chapter one with House Eriador's information – I suppose it slipped my mind to do such a simple thing. I hope that's not a bad sign... I recommend you take a look-see, or some of the content in the chapter might be a bit confuzzling. **

**If you have any questions or suggestions for the upcoming storyline, feel free to PM me. I have no outline for this fic other than a few scattered thoughts in my head. Any cameo requests, send em my way! :) **

**One week ago**

It had been a long and arduous journey to Winterfell from the docks for the girls. The only source of transportation available for them, besides walking, was horseback. Horses were not easy to ship across oceans, nor to feed on an island that produced no hay or proper grass, so there were none on King's Isle, and the Eriador daughters had no use of them in King's Landing, so they were hardly accustomed to riding horseback. When they were presented with two great, stinking, huffing beasts, the women cowered, as anyone would. That is, until a knight hoisted each of the frightened ladies upon the monsters. Honore howled.

The two eventually managed riding, though. With merely one or two difficulties along the way, the three-days' journey consisted of silence with an occasional moan here and a grunt there from the unaccustomed and very sore ladies.

When Winterfell's castles loomed above a half-alert Honore, she nearly screamed upon being startled by a knight who called to the castle's guard. The past month of little to no sleep along with the constand drum on the nerves in her chest was affecting Honore's awareness, and she was spooked quite easily.

"Stand-to! Presenting Winterfell!"

And Hono's stuttering heart plummeted.

A nervous glance from her sister, and Soren understood that she had to assimilate Honore as soon as possible or the poor girl would never advance past the initial bashfulness of meeting the Starks. The ten-or-so horses leading the Eriador ladies filed into Winterfell's keep and presented the women.

The family of Eddard Stark stood side-by-side, with the citizens of Winterfell blanketing the courtyard behind them. One child, two pre-adolescents, one adolescent, a young man, and two adults presented themselves as the Starks to Honore and Soren. The ladies dismounted their horses with embarrassing difficulty; Honore maintained her eyes on the muddied hem of her once-pretty grey dress, and Soren vacantly analyzed her new family.

"Honore, Soren, it is beyond joyous to see you girls once again. I suppose you aren't girls anymore, though. You weren't past my hips the last time I saw you," the velvet voice of Lord Stark greeted his guests. Honore finally raised her eyes, rendering her unable to hide her tinted cheeks any longer. "May I present my lady wife, Catelyn," the red-haired woman tipped her head and grinned at the girls. "My eldest son, Robb," Honore bit the inside of her lip and turned her golden eyes to her betrothed.

She nearly fainted.

_Oh, Seven, he's to die for. Thank the gods. _She resisted the primitive desire to tug Soren's sleeve and tell her over and over how handsome the man she was to marry is. His red curls and his sharp features sung to Hono's eyes so much so that she hardly heard Eddard presenting his eldest daughter.

"Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon." Each of the Starks bowed or curtsied like the highborns they are. Soren and Honore followed en suite.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord. I thank you for your hospitality," Honore forced a smile. That was all that was to be said by Hono, seeing as bile was crawling up her throat with all the eyes in Winterfell on she and her sister.

"Where's his bastard?" Soren attempted to whisper to Honore. Unfortunately, the girl's gimpy voice was so harsh that even the blacksmiths hammering away in their forges were able to hear her question.

Honore's eye twitched and her jaw clenched. She could not, for the life of her, meet the Lord's eyes after what her sister said.

"It is my honor to house you two. I hope the sudden change is not too intruding on you, and you find comfort within this home." Ned dismissed Soren's comment. _Bless him._

Honore smiled once more. But she could not say anything else, what with the threatening bile below her uvula. Soren spoke in her stead.

"Thank you, my lord. You have a lovely family. I'm sure we will get along like wine and cheese," her voice was a crippled animal trying out its inept legs for the first time and she was surprised his ears did not shed blood.

_If you think I can endure that once more, I'll throw you in the madhouse. Honore, grow some stones._ To assist her sister's sheepishness, upon her next curtsy, Soren unhooked her gown's bodice in a quick swipe and proceeded to curtsy as well. And just like that, Honore's dress was in he mud, and her nearly-translucent shift was the only barrier between the eyes of Winterfell and her naked body.

A sea of gasps, snickers, exclamations of, "by the gods!", a suddenly very cold chest, and the sudden ability to breathe without constraint told Honore that her dress had a malfunction.

She looked down and saw the bodice, that was as grey as her sudden change in mood, was halfway down her body. Instinctively, she shot her hand to her breasts to shield herself.

Soren played the fool.

"Honore! What are you doing? Save it for your consummation, you naughty dog," she scolded. Lord Stark removed his cloak instantaneously and draped it on her freckled shoulders.

"Cat, show the ladies their chambers, now," Ned instructed briskly. He shot Soren a deathly look that, unfortunately for him, had no effect on her.

The slim, firm fingers of Catelyn Stark replaced the thick, warm grasp of Ned's as the lady ushered a very silent, very red Honore through the crowd, commanding the citizens to clear the way. Soren, being left behind, looked at her new awed-family, smiled at the snickering Arya, and puppy-trailed her sister to her chambers with Stella in her arms. Following the girls was an order by Lord Stark to some servants to take the ladies' belongings to their rooms.

_**Honore**_

_Forty-six. _

_Forty-seven. _

_Forty-eight. _

_**Click! **_

_Thus, the beast is released from her cage. _

"Couldn't hold back, hm?" Honore asked her reflection, breaking the silence that had fallen upon her room. Ayla raised her tired eyes and opened her dry mouth to inquire about her lady's unexpected and quite curious question, but her eyes did not linger on Hono and her mouth was never audible because a flurry of white replaced the chamber's door.

"Oh!" The poor maid nearly lost her footing – she surely lost the soaps she was organizing in her hands.

"Apologies, Ayla. My sister dear has granted us a quite... unforeseen visitation," the Stark-to-be turned her honey ringlets to the Eriador-to-remain's cloudy coils, "Soren, what in the seven hells are you doing in my presence? I forbade you from interacting with me until the King and Father arrive." Honore, following the show of her foced-undressing in front of the family she hadn't known for even ten minutes, could very well accept a few days' peace without Soren and her bleeding kitten's shenanigans.

Soren attempted to speak, but a mere hiss came forth.

"The gods do have their japes, don't they?" Honore put her brush onto her vanity and turned to her sister, "they bless me with your silence but you still loophole around your disability to make as much noise as you would if you could speak as loud as King Robert!" Hono exhaled and regained the composure that was so difficult to maintain when her beloved sibling was in the area. "How can I help you, Soren?"

Pink eyes brightened upon approval of her presence and followed the fingers that scrolled a message for Honore.

"_The king and Father are nearly here. Dimwit." _

Honore slowly received the parchment, crumpling it when she read her sister's words.

"Thank you, Sister. You are dismissed. Ayla, it appears His Grace has arrived. Do help me with my hair," she looked to Soren, who remained where she stood. "You are _dismissed_, Soren." Soren shook her head.

It was a wonder that Honore did not resemble a horse with her teeth bring ground down so often.

"What is it now, Soren?" Hono ground out.

"_Robb is escorting you, but I have no one to stand beside." _

"Soren, that is not my concern at the moment. Ask Lord Stark if you must." Soren frowned at her sister's submission. With a shrug, Soren dismissed herself and sought something Hono did not bother to care about.

"What would you like done to yer hair, m'lady?"

"I suppose I could leave it down. Father enjoys seeing it." Ayla raised her brows.

"M'lady, it is my job to issue your comfort; with the winds, it will surely be blowin' in yer are you sure you'd like yer hair loose?" Hono's answer was cut off by the sound of trumpets blowing and a knock at the door. "I suppose we have no choice, then." Ayla said as she trailed to the door. "Lord Robb, m'lady."

Honore placed her circlet atop her curls and turned, forcing a smile for Robb. He tenitively flashed his own teeth and presented his arm. "My lady, the king and your father are nearly here. May I escort you?" It was then that Honore's smile was true.

"You may, my lord." This time, Honore was not hesitant to place her fingers upon Robb's arm. He was warm. _I suppose Northerners must be warm if they are to survive here._

As the two strolled the moist walls of Winterfell, Honore's curiosity got the better of her, as much as she tried to deny that she cared. "My lord, may I ask you a question?" Robb was surprised by her voice but quickly recovered and nodded. "I understand that you are escorting me, seeing as you are my h-" _'husband,' _she nearly said. "My.. intended.." she blushed and refused to look at him any longer. "Pray tell, who is escorting my sister?"

"Meaning no offense to her, but seeing as she is not a Stark or future Stark, she will be escorted by Theon. Such reminds me," Honore turned her eyes back to Robb. "I believe I owe you 20 dragons, my lady. You won our bet." Honore barked a laugh.

"Keep your dragons, my lord. I should not benefit from my sister's debauchery." A blush crept up her betrothed's neck to the tips of his ears. "I neglected to forewarn you, my lord, my sister and I have loose tongues. Although, mine is tame when necessary."

"It's quite alright. It is a relief that you are not all manners and courtesies like Sansa. I love her, but gods, she can be a pain." The girl smiled and was blinded by the overcast when the two of them turned the corner and entered the courtyard. "I have a request of you," Robb quietly offered.

"Yes, my lord?" For unknown and concerning reasons, Honore's bundle of nerves that seemed to have quelled returned to her throat as if it were a punch to the trachea.

"Precisely," he laughed, "please, if we are to be wedded and bedded, please call me by my given name. You said you have a loose tongue. Loosen it enough to remove 'my lord' from your vocabulary when regarding me."

"So long as you do the same for me, Robb," she countered. Robb smirked and they stood in their places, Robb beside his father, and Honore between Robb and Sansa. She smiled to the girl and offered her a good morning when a flood of horses and Lannister sigils appeared in Winterfell. Unbeknownst to Honore, the grip she held on Robb's arm tightened so much so that his hand faded to purple.

Knight after knight, Lannister lion after Lannister lion swept by Honore's eyes until she became dizzy. Her focus landed on the golden locks and emerald eyes of a sneering face.

"Joffrey," Honore heard Sansa breathlessly coo beside her. While Sansa's gaze remained on the prince, the congregation was moving too quickly for Honore to focus on one person. An enormous wall of steel and a helmet of a snarling dog rode closely behind the prince, the knight could have been none other than Sandor Clegane, Joffrey's hound.

Hono's trance was broken by Lady Catelyn's voice asking where Arya was. Hono looked beside Sansa and saw Bran only; her eyes widened as she looked to Robb who regarded her with a questioning glance of his own.

"What're you doing with that on?" Ned's voice asked, calling Hono's attention. Arya was in front of her parents wearing a helmet over her braids. She had the look and grump of a scolded child to her as her father instructed her to her rightful place beside Sansa.

And there they were: upon two white horses was the flag of her family: a black beaver against a white flag. Not many of her family's men had accompanied her father to Winterfell, it seemed, for she only saw five knights before her father, mother-by-marriage, and Jamett appeared upon horses of their own. Dom and Jamett's eyes landed on her almost instantly and she forced her face to remain calm. Her grip tightened. Robb grunted.

"Honore, please, lighten your grip," he pleaded. Hono gasped and released his arm altogether.

"I'm so sorry Robb! Why did you not tell me I nearly snatched your arm off?" Robb smirked her way but remained quiet as yet another triage of horses spilled into Winterfell. She wondered where everyone would sleep. The Hound raised his helm to reveal the infamous blemish that lay underneath; his skin was charred and pink and raised. His brow was missing and his lid was swollen over the eye it covered. Honore pitied him.

Robb shifted beside her and she realised Robert had come into the courtyard. Hono was sad to spoil another of her pretty dresses in the mud, but who was she to deny kneeling before His Grace?

So kneel she did until Robert gestured Ned to rise, and the folk of Winterfell followed.

"You got fat."

Hono's eyes widened, revealing the entirety of the golden tints behind her lids. She averted her gaze quickly until she heard Robert's wheezing laughter. "Nine long years. Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours," Ned offered.

"Where's the Imp?" She heard Arya ask.

"Will you shut up?" Sansa impatiently huffed. The king's attention was brought to Robb.

"You must be Robb," he and Robb shook hands. "And my beautiful Honore. It's merely been two months and your beauty has multiplied a tenfold. Let's hope your smarts outweigh your beauty," Robert said as he kissed her cheek. "Where's your sister?" Before anyone could present her, or even clear an area for her, Soren snaked between Robb and Honore and smiled to Robert.

"Ahh, there she is! Hello, Beauty. I haven't forgotten my sore loss to you back in King's Landing. I demand a rematch this evening or it'll be your head." Honore did not have to look at Soren to see that she was grinning as wide as she could. "Where's your bloody father, hey? Dom! Get over here, see your girls, dammit." Honore saw her father dismount and approach her. Robert moved on to the other Stark children by the time Dom approached to greet his daughters.

"Honore, Soren, my beautiful girls." Domitian's voice was thick with emotion.

"You sound like you've found your lost child. Oh, wait, but you have," Soren teased. Dom pulled his daughters into a hug and kissed their cheeks.

"How are you enjoying Winterfell, my girls? Is it too cold for you? How's the ale?" All of his questions were unanswered by Robert's request to go to the crypts. He called for Dom and Ned both. "I will be back, girls. At the feast tonight."

He followed Ned and Robert to the crypts, leaving the congregation to await their return.

_**Soren**_

If anyone were to fleetingly encounter in a hallway or courtyard the second-born of Domitian Eriador, they would expect nothing more than a young, quiet, proper lady who, although she could be unacceptably rowdy, would not be so daft as to share a bed with a lord she had only shared a few words with. Soren herself hardly thought of the exchange, who was she to deny herself such a pleasure? She had ingested a bit of moon tea before every meal for the following seven days to prevent baring any children; a maid in King's Landing had told her of this brew when the maid thought she was carrying some ser's bastard in her belly.

Of course, Soren could easily wed Theon Greyjoy and be a woman of the Iron Isles and make her father comfortable, but she found nothing particularly interesting about the man; he spoke about himself easily and did not hold anything back for future conversations. He was quite boring, actually. Too alike herself in being an active volcano of unrest and immaturity, and Soren had chosen to be the muckraker of her father's children so she would not have to deal with such a disorderly person.

Soren stopped her pacing.

_Why am I thinking of this? I couldn't care less about any of this nonsense. _

She raised her dark eyebrows to the mirror before herself. She was to wear a damnable dress once again for this afternoon's events. She cared not what it looked like, so made no effort to look at anything she did not need to. Based on the color of her sleeves, the dress was some sort of cerise silk with flowers, or something, embedded along the hems. Had it been on anyone else, she would have idolized it. But she had no way of looking at herself so she did not see the point of dressing up. Perhaps she should just go in her undergarments.

It was not the first time the thought came to her mind. Crude and pesky as she may be, she would not do such a thing to her sister. Not today.

_Honore's wedding. _

Soren supposed she ought to visit her sister and give her specifics of intercourse. Honore had always been unnecessarily over-excessive with her fretting and twittering about how "everything must be perfect" and "it is for the duty of the realm." If Hono only knew how _good _it felt to be so together with someone. The warmth, the smell, the dual effort put into one another's pleasure. It was a wonder Soren waited so long to bed a man. She would help her sister enjoy consummation; Soren did not want to hear all of Honore's "responsibility of the land" malarkey. Hono would wake in a few hours time.

OoOoO

Along with the Royal Party's arrival in Winterfell came an undesirable amount of extra squires, maids and knights: plenty more people roaming the halls than Soren preferred.

_Why's everyone awake before sunrise anyway? _Soren blinked twice and tapped her toes to the ground.

_Oh. Honore's wedding. Of course. _

"Stella," she coughed. The kitten muttered a purr of acknowledgment and stood to stretch her haunches. Soren took to placing her sparring attire on while she waited for her partner to resume standard position at her side and the duo was soon off to the courtyard to quarrel with or without Jon. She whistled whatever came to mind as she strolled the length of the hall but was interrupted by a door opening, nearly flattening her against the wall. "Oi," she warned. Familiar blonde locks appeared. "Father! Jamett!" Her voice hurt to speak, but greeting her father and brother was well worth the slight pain it caused her. Dom's great smile appeared and Jamett wrapped his thin arms around his sister's waist after shouting her name much too loud for such an hour.

"Good morning, love. Where are you headed at such a dreadful time? I suppose it's not dreadful for you, though, is it?" he asked as he rubbed his chin and quirked an eyebrow. Soren smiled and snatched Jamett into her arm as well as her father's hand to bring them along to the training yard, whether they were dressed appropriately or not. The three entered the muddy yard, but Dom resisted Soren's attempts to further their journey. "Soren, sweet, I am in naught but my smallclothes. I don't even have shoes. I will return to my chambers to dress appropriately and I'll meet you back here," he promised. She shrugged and forgot about his presence instantly.

To her right, Soren could hear Jon once again hacking at the dummy she named Elene – strictly coincidence, of course.

"Psst!" she called for Jon's attention as she placed Jamett in the viewing benches. He promptly answered by placing his black eyes on his pupil a shadow of a smile graced his pretty face. She approached and handed him her pre-written parchment.

"_I'm afraid my time is limited for today's practice. I must speak to my sister about the wonders of fucking and prepare for a wedding that calls for such fucking. Meet my brother, Jamett, heir of King's Isle."_

In the month that Jon had gotten to know the pale girl with dark brows, he had become more and more steeled to her unfiltered speech. Thinking back, he couldn't recall a sentence she said that was proper in any way.

"My lord," he said sharply with a quick nod to Jamett. "How long?" His voice was hard. She furrowed her brows at his sudden prickliness.

"_Perhaps an hour. Until the sun rises at least."_ Jon nodded.

"Defensive."

Soren did the opposite and swatted the man in the ribs. He was distracted by both being defied and struck. She smirked at Jon.

"You're getting better, you weasel." Jamett's howl sang in her ears. Soren's smirk widened as she bit the inside of her lip. Jon even smirked a bit.

"Who's calling my sweet a weasel?" a deep voice interrupted their exchange. Jon's smile disappeared like a gopher being pursued by a hawk. Soren's partner dropped his eyes.

"My lord," he repeated and finished with a waist-deep bow. Soren was incredulous. Why is he bowing to her father? She scribbled, spun, and handed Dom her parchment.

"_I've improved thanks to Jon. Watch." _Dom grinned and stood on the sidelines beside his son.

"Defense," Soren mouthed. In addition to becoming accustomed to her crude tongue, Jon adapted to her mouthing words along with reading her scribbles. He'd often told her to speak with Maester Luwin or even Rickon to improve her sloppy script. She merely blew a raspberry in his face.

Jon, the ever-trustworthy bastard, followed her instruction and fell into the defensive stance. The lady and the bastard swung at and dodged one another until well after the sun rose. Jamett had disappeared the minute the sun peeked through the morning mist to seek Bran or Arya.

It was quite a warm day in Winterfell, and over the course of their scenario, the sparring couple had gradually removed plenty of their clothing, and only Dom's prohibition stopped Soren from removing her torso. Jon, the lucky bastard, was able to remove his shirt, seeing as he had no tits to flaunt. Soren certainly admired her instructor's young and lean body quivering in the daylight. She sometimes purposefully got injured so he would touch her and question her well being. Manipulative it may be but she was content have the charming bastard's hands on her.

"Oh, darling, there's your sister. I am going to speak with her before she is taken from me by the Starks. Do excuse me. You are doing marvelously, you've improved and you make me a proud old man," Domitian offered to his daughter. She didn't buy it. He was tired of cooking in the sun in his silly shoes and watching his daughter undress with a bastard.

Soren blocked Jon's strike and leaped back, holding her hand up to break formation. Soren nodded to her father, who scurried away calling after his eldest. She whipped out her sweat-drenched parchment and scribbled ink that bled into her ruined, damp paper. Frowning, Soren tossed the parchment into the mud. Documented compliments, information, and agreements or disapprovals sunk into the dirt, never to be remembered. She scribbled along her arm.

"_I ought to follow my Father and prepare for Honore and Robb's wedding. Are you attending?"_

Jon frowned and returned his shirt to his body, to Soren's despair.

"No." It was clipped, his tone suggesting that he was done discussing the topic.

Perhaps to Jon the topic was over. But the headstrong beaver in front of him had other intentions.

"_Would you be my guest of honor?" _She scribbled on her forearm. Jon read it and looked at Soren as if she asked him if she was in Essos.

"Soren, I cannot attend that. I'm a-" he huffed and his frown deepened. "I'm a bastard."

"_And I'm a mute. Other than Honore, who will be occupied with getting married, you are the only person who can read my lips and understand what I say. You'll be my interpreter. Of course, that's not the only reason I wish to go with you." _Her entire arm was covered in ink. Jon flushed. _"That's a yes, then. I shall inform our fathers. Ta."_ She handed Jon her sword and pecked his sweating cheek.

"Stella," she bled. The kitten had taken to batting at Ghost's ear while he slept. He eventually became annoyed with the cat and nipped at her. Stella merely arched her back in fright but soon continued with more incentive to win the exchange until her master called her. She mewled as if telling Ghost that she would continue her pestering at a later time.

_**Honore**_

Soren had removed Dom from Hono's room when father and daughter stopped speaking of important subjects. Apparently chatting to the father she hadn't seen in two months was less important than whatever is was that Soren needed so desperately to say. Her sister even dismissed Hono's much-needed lady's maid, offering to do Hono's hair herself.

As wretched as Soren was at being a lady, she was surprisingly a wonderful lady's maid. She did her own hair and dressed herself. Perhaps it's her stubborn foundation that called for Soren's resistance for assistance. As she tugged and twisted at Honore's curls, Soren rasped, "I'm not meant to use my voice today, but this is important and seeing as I'm being nice to you as your wedding gift, I'll risk my throat for you." Honore smiled in the mirror at her sister. "Consummation." Honore froze and her smile was nowhere in sight.

"No. Thank you, but absolutely not. I'd rather not hear about your promiscuous life, you rabbit."

Soren ignored her sister's tease. "Honore, you need to know. Let me speak while my voice is with me; the first time a man entered me it was painful, as expected." Honore's eye twitched. "It helps if you are slick so he doesn't have friction. Perhaps you could ask him to use his mouth first, hm?" Honore's mouth hung slightly agape. "It's so wonderful after the initial pain. _Try_, do try to enjoy it, love. This bond is not only for 'the duty of the realm' or whatever bogus you said. Please him and he will please you. Perhaps I'll tell him to speak with Theon. He was quite... experienced..." Soren trailed off and looked to the ceiling as if reminiscing. Honore ripped her hair from her sister's hands to turn and face her.

"Thank you, Soren, for that. I'm sure it does not have as much meaning to me right now then it will in the near future. Now, before we continue speaking of Theon's experience in the chambers, let us change the subject. _Please_."

"Very well. Jon is going to be my partner for the ceremony." Conveniently for Soren, her voice fled and she finished Honore's hair simultaneously. She took the opportunity to call Ayla back into the room and slip away. _Bloody coward. What the hell is she thinking?_

"Ayla, are bastards allowed at weddings here in the North?" Hono inquired.

"It's not custom, m'lady, but I don't suppose 's not against any law neither." Ayla seemed confused, as she should be, but upon Honore's lack of reply left it at that.

Her gown was simple; long pretty lace sleeves with silvery embroidery that she worked on in her times of ennui at Winterfell. The snowy bodice hugged her figure and flowed from her hips down. Her back and neck were completely exposed, but it was somehow modest. Honore truly wished she would not be uncomfortably cold. She placed a white pin that resembled a black beaver into her hair and looked int the mirror.

Soren knotted various braids around her head and let loose a few hairs to frame her face. Honore was frequently told that she was beautiful but often passed it off as a fleeting compliment by lords and ladies who didn't know what else to say. Today, however, Honore felt truly beautiful. Her hair was styled in sort of a halo – perhaps a jest by Soren to tease Hono's innocence – and her dress suited her body like a second skin.

The sun was kissing the castle's peaks as it descended . Tomorrow her father, the king, and Lord Stark would leave Winterfell for a hunt then they'd go directly South without returning. This was the final night she had to share with her father for gods know how long. Her eyes pricked and she blinked her tears away, irritated. Domitian met her at the door, where she laced her arm in his and walked towards the Godswood to be married under the Old Gods with Northern traditions that Honore did not know.

She was silent as her father escorted her. It was comfortable in that neither needed to talk to understand the presence of one another but it grew increasingly uncomfortable simultaneously with every step she took toward marrying a man she met one month ago. He was handsome, yes, but features cannot determine whether or not Honore would be happy in her marriage. Would be whore and drink like Robert? Was his temper easily sparked? Would he despise her if she gave him a daughter? _Oh, Mother, give me a son first. _

"Are you ready, love?" Dom's voice startled her and she tensed upon seeing that she already arrived at the congregation. He massaged her hand with his and kissed her temple. "You'll be alright. He is a nice, tempered boy. He will make a good husband."

Honore wished she could believe that.

The girl closed her eyes and took a long-held breath. "Yes, I'm ready," she responded. Her father began walking towards Robb and the Maester that was to hold the ceremony. She opened her eyes and saw that the more and more steps she took, the more and more eyes fell upon her. She passed Jaime and Tyrion Lannister, both nodded to her; Bran, Rickon, and Arya, Joffrey and Sansa – of which, the Starks grinned, and the prince scanned his eyes over her with disgust; Theon, Jon, and Soren, she couldn't look the Kraken in his eyes after hearing of his bedroom expertise (she wondered then if Soren asked Theon to talk to Robb about bedroom etiquette or techniques); Elene and Jamett: a blank face for her mother and a wide smile by her brother to counter Elene's mask; Ned and Catelyn, who both grinned encouragingly; and Robert and Cersei who mimicked her mother and brother, until finally she was within inches of Robb. Her father's hand slipped from her grasp and she unconsciously gripped harder as if it were a wine glass falling from her fingers. Dom placed his other hand upon hers and unlocked their embrace, placing her suddenly-cold fingers upon her betrothed's. She looked to her father with watery eyes, then to Robb.

"Please do not let my tears offend you," she whispered to her husband-to-be. Robb smiled sympathetically and nodded.

Maester Luwin began the ceremony by introducing the man and woman in the witness of gods and men, then asked for the blessings of the old gods: strangers to Honore. She wondered if the wedding truly was blessed because she was not a believer in the Nothern gods. It certainly was beautiful in the Godswood, with the silent weirwoods and the whispering black pools. Perhaps she could pick up the religion, if only to sit in the silence.

She didn't realize she had been staring at the maester's papery fingers until he moved them to wrap her hand with Robb's in cloth as he mumbled a few more words that no one would remember.

"Look upon each other and speak the vows," the maester bid. She was thankful that she practiced the words with Ayla the entire afternoon.

Honore looked Robb dead in the eyes and spoke, "I take you to be my friend, my lover, the father of my children and my husband. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay with you, for all eternity." And that was it.

She was no longer an Eriador. _Honore __Stark._

Robb's hands snaked into Honore's pretty braids and, gentler than a kitten's gait, inched his wife's face to his.

His lips were on hers before she was aware of it. Her instincts made her kiss him back – she latched to his lower lip and ran her tongue along the skin. He was so warm, his hands on her neck and in her hair, his breath tickling her nose, and his cloak shielding her from the spectators. Honore forgot that she was in front of an applauding crowd. She smiled and gave Robb a mouthful of her teeth when he kissed her again. She pulled away and blushed prettily to the crowd. She could only bare to look into her sister's pale eyes as she was pulled back to her new home's dining hall hand-in-hand with her minted husband.

"What's your favorite song, Honore?" Robb asked, slightly breathless, as he ushered her into Winterfell's warm halls.

"For tonight, I'll say 'The Winter Maid.'" Her mood certainly lightened upon leaving the cold behind. Robb smiled at his bride.

"Truly?"

"It is a tune I wish to dance to, if you'll have me," Honore proposed. Robb requested the song to the minstrels and took up Honore's hand in his, placing another at her waist. He swayed her side-to-side and dipped her once or twice. One by one, guests joined the couple in dancing. Honore saw her father and Elene wrapped in one another, Joffrey and Sansa properly poised, Arya and Jamett fumbling about, and Ned and Catelyn, who soon asked to switch partners with the newlyweds. Robb took his mother's hand and waist and spun off while Ned offered his hand to her and followed suit.

"Welcome to the family, Honore," Ned smiled as he twirled her. He was without a doubt a better dancer than her husband. She witnessed the dancing lessons that her husband, Bran, Jamett, Joffrey, Sansa, Arya, and Soren were bade to attend – seeing as none of them knew how to dance – that took place in the weeks before the wedding. Joffrey complained about his tired feet and demanded a squire to dance in his stead.

"Thank you, my lord. It is a wonderful family to be a part of." Honore grinned at her goodfather. The two danced and laughed and spoke of their youths until Catelyn began to audibly fuss.

"Excuse me, Lady Honore. My lady wife is fretting," Ned bowed to Honore and made his way to Cat, who was confronting someone at a low table. Honore, ever-curious, followed in-tow with Ned.

"In the name of he Seven, why is _he_ here?" Honore heard Lady Cat hiss. Never had she heard such disdain come from the good lady's mouth. Who could she possibly be speaking of?

And there it was, the answer to her piling inquiries: a cloud of white and snowy eyes beside a billow of smoke and charred eyes. Soren had begun dancing with Jon among the highborns. Why Catelyn fussed about her husband's bastard dancing at Honore's wedding, the bride could not fathom, but she would not stand for it.

"All due respect, Lady Stark, but I fail to see the issue with Jon dancing at my wedding. My sister invited him. I agreed. And that is the extent of it. Please do not taint my wedding with your personal quarrels, save it for another night-"

"No, my lady, it's alright. I will leave," Jon said as he eyed Catelyn. Honore pursed her lips. _Stomp on my ego, why don't you? _Soren blinked at her sister and followed Jon outside, Stella and Ghost as well.

"Honore, come join me for food, would you?" Robb asked, relieving the tension that Soren and Jon fled from. Plastering a smile to her face, Honore took her husband's hand and began filling her empty stomach with wine and barley soup. She could have sworn to hearing Catelyn saying something similar to, "I don't want my children around that tart," with her eyes on Soren.

"For what it's worth, I'd like to offer my sincerest apologies. My lady mother has never been fond of him. Please, Honore, forget what just happened between my mother and Jon," Robb's voice requested.

"I-" Honore was interrupted by Robert bellowing in suggestion of the bedding ceremony. Although, he was a king, and kings do not suggest. Thus, Honore was hoisted into the air, with half a spoonful of barley soup still in her mouth, by drunken hollering men who tore at her pretty dress while Robb was chariotted away by giggling ladies who undressed him daintily. All bad feelings from moments ago forgotten, Honore was laughing herself among the men she was being undressed by. Her mood was lightened by their crude jokes and hints of how to make Robb fall head over heels in love with her ("the trick is to use your mouth!"). Honore was light-headed from more causes than she'd like to count and she was thankful for the beasts called knights that were transporting her to her new chambers. She would not be a maiden come the morn.

_Gods, I pray that Soren is not incorrect. _

****A/N: Uh oh. Soren is on Cat's naughty list. ****

****On the bright side, the wedding is here! Congrats to Robb and Hono! I hope I did the ceremony justice – GRRM said that the cloaking ceremony was a tradition of the new gods, so I did not include that. I could not find much about Northern vows or customs, so I improvised a bit. The next chapter will be smut, so keep children and curious eyes at bay. ****


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Good hello to you! **

**M chapter once again – as expected. It _is_ the wedding night after all. I tried to make Honore's first sexual experience as realistic as possible (my excuse for the 5 page long sex scene). All in all, I've learned that it's is excruciatingly difficult to write loveless smut. **

**The description for Honore's eyes is based off of a crocodile's. Those reptiles are so magnificent. **

**Soren and Jon's scene contains direct quotes from the show. If I had my book handy, I'd add some quotes from it as well. Perhaps next chapter :). **

**Enjoy! **

_**Robb**_

His lids and mouth drooped lazily as he took in the sight of the blushing immaculate before him. She fruitlessly covered herself with slim milky fingers on instinct; he doubted she was aware that doing such only heightened her appeal: lifting her soft breasts higher on her torso. His breath hitched when she moved for the first time since raising her dainty hands to protect her virtue; she began removing her leather slippers with her toes. She was very obviously distressed, he could decipher through her trembles and whispering breaths. A few curls fell from the braids that held structure among the smooth honey nest upon her head that he wanted so much to hold and kiss. Now, however, was a time for solace – she was not at ease with his intrusion on her life but he nevertheless swore to comfort and encourage his wife in his vows. He looked into her eyes for the first time that evening, it was the first time he _truly_ saw her eyes.

He admired the marbled warm amber and harsh onyx danced among brimming tears as they sat atop her reddened lower lids. What truly struck him was the hurting he never noticed behind her well-sustained curtain of courtesies; this marriage arrangement could not have possibly pained her so.

Could it?

His hand ached to dust away the curls that fell loose around her cheekbones. He longed to taste her brow upon his lips, to have his nose pressed into the hollow of her neck to smell her soft skin. She was the embodiment of a woman with her full breasts and generous hips. His fingers could follow the curve of her waist until they crippled.

"Honore."

His voice was thick with some emotion he was not able to name. She said nothing as her eyes flicked to his – they had been exploring his body as he explored hers. To his surprise, she removed her hands from her breasts and womanhood, revealing her rosy nipples and topaz curls, and placed them on his shoulders. They were uncomfortably frigid but he did not startle, too afraid that if he moved he would frighten the delicate doe away. She took a single step closer to him and painfully slowly trailed her right hand down his arm, stopping to mold her hands into his triceps and forearms. She fit her palm against his and raised his left hand to her bare waist.

She began moving.

It took him a moment to process that she wanted him to move with her. Her eyes met his and the pain that lay beneath the amber was lessened. He slowly blinked and provided her with a petite, kind grin before joining her movements.

Her delicate head hesitantly descended upon his shoulder as they idly swayed beside the fire.

The skin that lay beneath his coarse hands was accurately compared to a doe's ears; she was soft and warm and comforting. She raised their hands and flattened her quaking palm to his so she could trace the outline of his hand with the tip of her nail. She traveled the muscle that formed his thumb around his first finger, pressing the webs and trailing the following digit. Her exploration did not end at his final finger, instead she continued down the Tully blue veins in the bed of his wrist up his forearm to the inside of his bicep and she stopped at the base of his collar.

By this time they stopped swaying, he watching and feeling her follow his body, and she exploring her husband's anatomy. They stood by the fire completely enticed by one another. She splayed her hands across his collar and chest, feeling the hair that shadowed his body. He elevated his hand to the base of her neck, brushing his fingers against the dark roots of her hair that greeted his knuckles with kisses. The weight of her head lifted from his shoulder as did the warmth of her hand as she straightened to look upon him once more. With a blink of her tired eyelids, she placed her hands on either side of his belly and pushed him toward the bed.

She laid upon the deer fur that kissed and melted to her sides. For a moment he could merely stand and look at his wife once more as her hair that spread among the pillows and the slight blush that colored her cheeks, chest, belly, and thighs. She was so beautiful.

But her eyes were closed and her brows furrowed together.

She did not trust him.

He bent to remove his breeches nevertheless, to fulfill their consummation, and placed his bared knees beside her closed thighs. Feeling the pressure of the bed under her, she responded by opening her legs and squeezing her eyelids further together. It pained him to see her worry so.

"Honore, I must-" he began, but she hushed him by grappling her fingers around the back of his neck and pulling him into a desperate kiss. Her lips manipulated his to distract herself from the coming discomfort. His manhood throbbed to enter the woman below him – how she kissed him with need drove the blood from his brain to his cock. He broke the kiss temporarily. "Are you ready?" Wordlessly she nodded twice; he returned his mouth to hers and traced his tongue along her bottom lip before aligning his cock with her opening. He did not look at her as he gradually pushed into her until he felt resistance. The constricting heat of her clenching walls beckoned his cock to push deeper into the utopia but he saw tears that colored her face and retracted from her warmth, taking her maidenhood along with.

With a groan, he pulled away from her and stood from the bed.

"This isn't right, Honore. You are too uneasy, it is difficult to create any friction without paining you more," he told her as he went to get a goblet of water. Upon downing his drink came his wife's wavering voice.

"I'm sorry, Robb."

He stopped drinking and turned to her with a baffled frown cast upon his face.

"What ever for?"

Her eyes were finally available to his. No tears lined her gaze, only a slow break of eye contact as she looked to her knees that were pulled to her chest. She took a deep breath and mumbled, "for displeasing my lord."

He filled the goblet with more water."Honore, listen to me," he said as he trailed to her, lifting her chin from her lap. He placed the cup to her lips and tipped it so she drank. "You did not displease me, I knew your body would not be suitable for further intercourse once I took your maidenhead." She blushed profusely and buried her face back into her knees.

"May I ask you a question, Robb?" her muffled voice edged.

"Of course."

She turned her face so her cheek brushed her leg and peered at him from the corner of her eye. "Have you... _been_ with a woman before?" Once again she shied away to the sanctuary of her knees. He chuckled.

"I have not, no. It is not noble for a lord to sleep with women before he is betrothed. Despite all the thousands of lords that do it anyway. It's truly a shame."

"How did you know that I wouldn't be... suitable... when my maidenhead was broken?" she asked her knees.

"Theon came to me before the ceremony." To his surprise, she chuckled, causing her folded body to convulse. "What's humorous, my lady?"

She returned her eyes to his. "My sister lectured me as well. Told me about some sort of 'dual effort' put into _enjoying_ this," she laughed, as if cursing her sister by doing so. "My business as your lady wife is to pleasure you enough to put a baby in my belly. My entertainment is not priority."

He was taken aback. He placed a hand on her shoulder and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger.

"I agree with your sister; I'd like you to enjoy this as much as I do, Honore. Theon told me of a few tricks I'd like to perform if I have your consent, my lady," he offered. She raised her brows and considered him for a moment.

"Whatever puts a son in my belly," she negotiated. He was not completely satisfied with her half-assed consent but he figured he'd rather not step on her toes and turn her away from him completely.

He took the goblet and set it on the bedside table and took his wife's shoulders into his hands. She laid upon the pillows once more, this time with her husband's lips below her ear. "Relax," he breathed against her pulse. Slowly but surely, he saw her cautionary shield subside and her abdomen yielded to his touch.

_**Honore**_

How he knew where to touch and how to get her squirming and begging for mercy, she could not fathom for the life of her. A mere instruction from Theon could not have possibly been descriptive enough to enlighten her husband of areas in her body that had her gasping his name.

He had traced his cool fingers along her breasts, circling her nipples and placed his mouth upon them. In addition to the attention he payed to her nipples, his hand crept down to her womanhood, exploring the petals and crevasses that existed below. Neither of the newlyweds were aware that she would have such a reaction as she did to his fondling with her breasts; she jerked and gasped when he met his teeth with the sensitive skin and found herself disappointed when he removed his mouth from such pleasure.

Until it moved to her folds.

Unlike his cool, deft, and rough fingers, her husband's tongue and lips were soft, wet, and _warm_ against her untarnished skin. He lapped at her clit, provoking her to gasp his name followed by her clenching or jolting with every stroke of his tongue. So absorbed in his mouth's activity was she that he caught her by surprise when he slipped his finger into her and teased a bundle of nerves she wasn't aware she had. One, two, three more strokes of his finger and her body released a flood of pleasure into his mouth. She felt him smile against her body when he removed his finger. She was quaking, but not from anxiety – it was a new sensation that she was a stranger to, but it was welcome to return any time.

She had little time to reflect upon her release, as his mouth pressed to hers and his cock was inside her once again. He was slow at first, stretching and accommodating to her, then his speed increased. She could taste herself on his lips when he pressed his tongue to hers. She listened to the gentle slapping of his body to hers, her own gasps and moans, their lips occasionally smacking against one another, and what was most satisfying: his groans when she would instinctively move with him. She could feel herself building to climax once more, but his abdomen clenched and he stopped his movements, moaning her name before she felt a warmth pool inside her lower belly. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead to hers before pulling out and collapsing beside her.

As she laid upon the pillow beside her resting husband, she considered the events that took place in the past 12 hours. She was a completely alternate person than the scared, shy girl who said some silly vows to a boy she did not know earlier that evening. Beginning the moment she lost her maidenhead, she was a woman who experienced the pleasantry of a man inside of her. He moved and he rocked and he thrust into her body and, although she was not particularly fond of the initial first thrusts her body grew accustomed to his girth and her instincts even made her buck back into him once or twice. His grunts and groans that were strictly primal (she doubted he was aware that he made the sounds) got to her the most. It was a representation of his masculinity that made her wet on the spot.

She looked to the resting man beside her to ensure his sleeping, and upon verification based on his closed eyes and steadying breaths, she slipped her hand between her legs and attempted to mimic his earlier stimulation. She began at her clit, circling it with her cool fingers and bringing about a few gasps she did not intend to release. She turned her head to ensure she did not wake him with her disruptions and saw, instead of the sleeping man she hoped for, smiling Tully eyes watching her feel herself. She immediately retracted her hand to her belly and blushed brightly.

"Don't mind me, my lady."

"I apologize for waking my lord, it will not happen again," she managed. Her anxiety returned with an anger at being subdued during her intercourse, forcing her throat shut and constricting any air that hoped to enter her lungs. He placed his hand upon hers and held it.

"Honore, don't apologize for making yourself comfortable," he whispered and returned her hand to her wetness once more. "Continue, if you will. If I may be frank, you're getting me going once more," he said with a nervous chuckle. Her clit throbbed and she became more wet at his words. Her touching herself aroused him? She could not resist the urge to close her eyes; with her body demanding more attention that she could no longer ignore, she continued tracing her folds and placing a finger inside of her walls. Her finger pursued the bundle of nerves that he was teasing earlier and she heard a soft pattering beside her. With a curious frown, she raised her head to search for the origin of such an unfamiliar sound. It stopped when she halted her movements, but she did not require the sound any longer to decipher what caused it.

He lay on his back, head elevated upon a few pillows, with his hand around his cock and his eyes still on her.

"Were you getting off to me?" she inquired with a coy grin. It was his turn to blush brighter than the hearth. His hand slipped from his once again erect cock and he placed his arm over his eyes.

"I thought I told you not to mind me," he retorted.

"Look at us, feeling ourselves like adolescents as we lay right beside one another. There is no need to do such when we have each other," Honore said as she leaned over to grasp Robb's cock. He jerked his arm off his eyes and gasped. She smiled and gained enough confidence to begin pumping him. Robb trailed his hand between her legs but she stopped him. "You've already pleasured me with your hands. Allow me to return the favor." The couple smiled at one another and lost whatever sleep they planned on getting that night.

_**Soren, after the feast. **_

Jon was out the door faster than she could down a mug of ale. He did not look back at her as he stormed from the halls. He left only footprints that she immediately followed, placing her feet inside the imprints he created. Soren couldn't very well tell him to stop or wait for her, as she had no voice to do so. With a frown and a wrinkling of her chin, Soren simply trailed the bastard through the halls of Winterfell until they found themselves in the armory.

It appeared as though Jon did not expect Soren would pursue him in his endeavor to obtain a practice sword, seeing as he startled when he turned. He cursed and shouldered past her with his training blade in hand. Soren could have passed off as a bird with her head twitching to and fro as she tried to figure out Jon's mindset.

_Well, of course he's frustrated with Catelyn, angry that he's a bastard... mad at me for following him, and possibly regretting going to the feast. _

She snatched her own edgeless sword and once again followed the bastard through their home. Upon arrival at the training ground, she did not see Jon hacking his heart out at Elene, but standing in the cold accompanied by an unexpected visitor. They were in the midst of their conversation.

"-Well, you're always welcome on the Wall," the stranger said. He was tall and lean with a mousy face wearing attire darker than the night skies of King's Isle. She had no intention to intrude so she remained in the shadows and listened. "No bastard was ever refused a seat there-"

"So take me with you when you go back," Jon offered. His voice was optimistic but pleading. She could only see the mouse man. He was apparently a brother of the Night's Watch and a friend to Jon.

"Jon-"

"Father will let me if you ask him. I know he will." The Brother stared at Jon for a bit and sighed.

"The Wall isn't going anywhere."

"I'm ready to swear your oath."

The mouse chuckled. "You don't understand what you'd be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons-"

"I don't _care_ about that," Jon stressed. Soren frowned.

_Just give up, Mouse, you'll have more luck convincing a chamberpot._

"Lost your way?" A voice behind her asked; Soren nearly scaled the ceiling from fright. She would have screamed,_ if she had her voice_.

She immediately turned to the offender with her raised blade but saw no one until she lowered her eyes.

Tyrion Lannister, Imp of Westeros, stood in front of her with a smirk on his face as she held a blade to his neck. She quite liked his company during her frequent visits to King's Landing, with his loose tongue and quick japes. Their love of wine was also a major factor of their relationship. Dropping her sword into the dirt, she bent to scoop the man into a hug. He returned the gesture with a chuckle. "What, no words of greeting for a poor Imp? You act as if you've gone mute." Soren narrowed her eyes at the small man and stuck her tongue out at him. "It's no matter, I wasn't planning on listening to what you have to say either way," he shrugged. With a punch to the shoulder, Tyrion yelped and held his hands up in surrender. "I jest, my lady, I jest." He sighed. "Ah, if only the gods allowed you your voice. Alas, I am once again disadvantaged. This time with the inability to speak with the only tolerable person in this shithole we call Westeros. If you could talk, my lady, I promise your presence would be the only I would hold for the rest of my miserable days. Imagine that: a beautiful, mute highborn. You'd make an ideal wife," Tyrion winked at her and touched her chin. "To contradict myself, I must ask you to excuse me, Soren. I have a bastard to speak to before he lets his emotions take over. Hell, sometimes I think you're more of a man than any I've met." He held his wine to her in cheers and walked around her to speak to Jon.

"Were you aware that you had two gargoyles watching you and your uncle speak?" Tyrion asked Jon as he revealed himself from the shadows. Soren could see Jon's face when he turned to frown at the Imp's intrusion.

_So the brother was his uncle. _

"What're you doing back there?" Jon asked as he eyed Tyrion and the doorway he came from. He probably saw her, but refused to show any indication that he did.

"Speaking with a good friend – possibly my only friend. Other than that whore I met last night.. She was very nice to me, though I don't suppose friends are much good when you must pay them for their kindness," Tyrion mused.

"You're Tyrion Lannister. The Queen's brother?"

"My greatest accomplishment." Soren chuckled. "And you, you're Ned Stark's bastard aren't you?" The dwarf met the bastard's eyes and Jon turned from him, striding away. "Did I offend you? Sorry. You _are_ the bastard, though?" Tyrion picked at Jon's wound.

"Lord Eddard is my father," Jon offered.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you _a_ _bastard._" Jon looked away from the insults. "Let me give you some advice, Bastard," Tyrion walked to Jon and looked up at him as if to represent his next sentence, "never forget what you are. The rest of the world won't. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you." He walked away once his point was proven.

"What the hell do you know about being a bastard?" Jon retorted. Soren could see his rustled feathers from where she stood. The dwarf stopped and turned.

"All dwarves are bastards in their fathers' eyes." He finished off with a swig of his wine and departed with a nod to Soren. She returned the gesture and approached Jon, sword in hand.

She greeted Jon with a mock curtsy and offered him her written words. _"Care to parlay? Or perhaps a duel to the death would better suit your mood this evening," _her parchment read.

"Away with you and your persuasions, Soren. None of this would have happened if you hadn't have invited me to the damn feast."

"_I disagree. It would have happened whether or not I invited you. Only, this evening you had a bit of fun. Take Tyrion's advice and wear your affliction like armor." _Jon raised his blank eyes to the girl and shoved the parchment back into her hand.

"A duel, then. I won't go easy on you, Lady."

Soren smirked and raised her weapon to her opponent. The two clashed and clanged until long after the feast was over. It appeared as though both of them desired to vent their emotions through swordplay.

**A/N: I've always loved Tyrion (who doesn't?) and I hope I got his personality correct. He may or may not be my hero ¯\\_(****ツ****)_/¯. If you have any recommendations or requests for this storyline, send them my way :) **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm surprised at how much angst I vented in this chapter, considering that I was listening to Queen and German polka music haha. **

**I noticed that I'm quite comma-happy with my thousands of unnecessary commas. Sorry, about, that, I, am, working, on, it. ;) **

**Welcome one and all! A very special thanks to my new followers and favorites. I love receiving those emails. **

**My art class is beginning in two days, so I will have a full schedule until 20 May so updates may or may not be fewer and even more far between :(. Rest assured, GoT season 5 is coming up soon so my muse might eat that up. **

**Enough with my blabbering, on with the show. Enjoy, if you can. :) **

_**Soren**_

The hours after Bran fell were hours that not a smile was seen in Winterfell. Not upon greeting one another, nor watching the first snowfall of the month, or even when the hunting party returned with a boar as large as Honore. The innocent boy had fallen from the old watchtower, the rickety old thing. It was indeed a cold and windy day, but it was annoyingly often said that Bran _never_ falls.

Until today.

Why was it _this_ day? The day before he was meant to leave for King's Landing to meet the knight he idolized, Ser Barristan? Soren's heart broke for the boy, but she could no longer focus on should-haves and would-be's, for she was concerned with packing her belongings into the leather-bound travelcase she thought she'd never use again.

Today was a day of surprises, she supposed. Very undesired surprises. Soren cursed the gods for placing so much misery on the Starks in a single day. Honore and Robb were supposed to wake from their first night as a married couple happily and with the only concern on their minds being what to name their child. Sansa and Arya were supposed to dance and sing and laugh at the feast that evening, and share their final moments with Jon before he departed for the Wall. Catelyn and Ned were supposed to love each other that evening, with the only loss on their minds being his going away for King's Landing. But none of them were granted those petty concerns, for the Stark that wished to be a knight would not awake.

OoOoO

That morning, she accompanied Bran to say his goodbyes to the folk of Winterfell, but before they could even enter the stables to begin his farewells, tears began to well in his eyes and he sprinted out of her sight towards he godswood.

Like a cat that spotted prey, Soren was on his tail in a minute. The two spent the rest of the morning speaking of his favorite memories of Winterfell (Bran did most of the talking, with Soren nodding until her neck felt as if it could snap) and teaching their animals to fetch ("cats don't fetch!") Soren tried her hardest to prove Bran wrong in his assumption that Stella wouldn't fetch the stick she tossed, but the damn cat defied her owner and Soren decided she wouldn't feed Stella that evening.

_Teaches you to defy me, you wretched animal,_ Soren thought as she pleasured her kitten by scratching her favorite spot behind the ears. "I ought to give her a bath," Soren said surprisingly clearly. Bran smiled at her and stood from the spot on the ground that they laid. The place on her belly that his head was resting on grew uncomfortably cold.

"Very well, my lady. I'll race you back!" he challenged as he began running.

"Cheater!" Soren shouted after him as she stood, not caring whether or not Stella and the pup followed (they did).

She inevitably caught up to Bran within seconds on account of her legs that were twice the length of his, but she allowed him the honor of bragging rights that began instantly.

"Beat you!" he screamed at her with a grin wider than a halfmoon above Westeros. Soren placed her hands on her knees and panted.

"A thousand congratulations to you, my lord. Now let's see if you can beat me to my chambers in the lady's hall!" she challenged. Bran frowned.

"But I don't know where that is!" Soren shrugged and began running toward her chambers.

"Better find out! I'll run around the castle once to give you advantage," the girl negotiated. Bran nodded and sprinted to the heart of Winterfell to try to decipher where the lady's chambers were. The boy began with scaling the wall of the inn to get onto the roof to watch where Soren went. Perhaps if he climbed the wall, he would reach her room before she did (stairs would take a while to climb).

Soren was concluding her sprint around the castle's perimeter when she witnessed Stella bolt away into the abandoned watchtower and, seeing Bran nowhere near the lady's chambers, felt it was safe enough to detour a bit more to retrieve her kitten. She strode into the cobwebbed tower and followed her black and white ghost's pawprints that lined the stairs of the tower. There were other fresh footprints on the stairs. Soren frowned but did not further that investigation when she saw that her kitten's prints stopped on the second floor from the top and trailed into a small room with a small window. When a huffing Soren entered the closet-like room, she saw Stella perched at the hole in the wall, mewling in greeting when she saw her owner. The lady raised her brows at her cat and snatched her before the blasted animal fell out the window.

She was about to turn and leave to investigate the previous prints when she heard whimpers and yelps from the outside.

_Pup? _

Soren poked her head out the hole and had her assumption verified when she saw Bran's dire wolf shifting about uncomfortably looking at her. Or was he? Stella meowed when the dire wolf barked. The wolf shifted his gaze to the lady and Soren could tell he was not originally focused on her. She angled her head up and saw the boy perched in the windowsill on the flood above her. She was about to call his name when he lost his grip on either side of the window.

And he fell.

She dropped the cat and reached outside her window, successfully latching onto some part of Bran, it felt like clothes. The hole was too small to fit her head and arms both. Her grip on him was awkward and painful, she heard a pop when the weight of the boy took its toll on her elbow that rested on the stones of the sill, it was likely dislocated.

She yelped loudly but she did not focus on her pain, as her grip on the boy was slacking unnervingly quickly.

"HELP ME!" she heard Bran shout, but it was in vain. She could hold him no longer.

She dropped him.

_BRAN!_

She stuck her head out the window until she could see Bran, so much so that it hurt. When she was to the point of shedding blood from the stress put on her collarbones, she cried out when she saw the boy's gnarled body on the grass below the tower. His pup howled in mourning and Winterfell citizens came running to the boy's aid, feeling his face and arms and legs for any sign of life. When he did not respond, Soren nearly vomited.

The people held their mouths and looked up to the girl in the tower.

_**Honore**_

Her sister was not responsible for the things tried against her. She could not have _possibly_ done what they said about her.

She did not do what they said about her.

Honore did not doubt her sister as their mother and even _father_ did.

Soren did not push Bran from the window.

Hono tried to convince Dom, Lord and Lady Stark, and the rest of Winterfell that, although she was dimwitted beyond belief, she was _not_ malicious. Who in their right mind would cast a child from a window?

"She tried to _save _him! How else could she have broken her elbow?" Honore begged, tears brimming her eyes. She stood beside her husband, Jamett and Jon Snow, the only three people in Winterfell who believed – knew – that the accused was innocent.

"The boy would have fought his captor. It is an instinct to defend with all humane power when one is faced with death," Maester Luwin said, his old face wrinkling upon saying his final words. He once looked so friendly and grandfatherly to her, but now with the shadows of dusk cast upon his face he resembled of a ghoul than a grandfather. Honore gripped Robb's hand tighter.

"How could a child have snapped her elbow in two? Even if he were to use all the muscle in his body, he would not have been strong enough to do such a thing," Jon offered. It was the first time he spoke that evening. All eyes turned to him, Lady Stark's being the darkest.

"You shut your mouth, _Bastard,_" the pretty woman snarled, spit flying from her mouth.

"Mother!"

"Catelyn!"

Robb and Ned spoke at the same time. Honore did not see what Ned did to calm or discipline his wife, as she looked to the bastard beside her. He was stonefaced to most, but seeing him so close, the ire behind his mask was quite obvious. Honore reached to hold his hand, which he did not push away though he did not look at her. His black eyes instead moved to the quaking Soren who sat in chains in a chair that stood high off the ground, ensuring that all could lay eyes upon the wrongdoer. It was the first time Honore had seen tears on the girl since they were adolescents and Soren accidentally broke Jamett's favorite stuffed toy. She cried not because she'd get in trouble but because she deprived her baby brother. Perhaps she was crying for Bran's injuries rather than her punishment as well.

"But _why_ in the gods' name would she push Bran?" Honore tried to defend Soren once more. Her voice quivered when she enunciated.

"We're all wondering the same but the bitch won't speak a word of it," Rodrik Cassel said. His words stabbed Honore and made Soren gasp for air between sobs.

"Mind your tongue, ser, this is a lady you speak of – guilty or not," Eddard scolded.

"_'The bitch'_ cannot speak, you fool!" Honore retorted. Cassel obviously wanted to say something but held his tongue as he was bid.

Robb squeezed his wife's clammy hand and spoke. "Her voice comes and goes sporadically, no matter what she does to mend it. Only time will tell when she can give her recount. Until then, allow us to rest in peace and give Bran our prayers and company. This conflict is the last thing we need before Father leaves." He finished by looking at his mother as if he were warning her. Ned nodded at his son.

"Aye, Robb is correct. Bran needs us now more than ever and we're here bickering like crows."

"What will we do with the girl?" Rodrik asked, refusing to look at Honore.

Before anyone could offer an answer, Catelyn shot up in her seat. "Lock her in her chambers. Pack your bags, you _stain_, and leave this place on the morrow with your father." With that, Lady Catelyn Stark raised her skirts above her ankles and strode into Bran's chambers where she would stay for the remainder of the night.

"_No!_" Honore howled, turning her shocked eyes to Ned, Robb, Jon, Soren, Rodrik, Theon, _anyone_ who could back up her claim or argue further – whatever would yield some different result.

Every mouth in the room opened with an audible _pop!_ upon hearing Catelyn's demand. Eyes turned to Ned, who lowered his eyes, shook his head and left the room after his wife. Soren's sobs and chains clinking were the only sounds heard until she was escorted from the hall to her room.

Honore dropped Robb's hand and pulled Jon into an embrace, attempting to battle against the tears that she wished were not provoked by such atrocities. Jon's hands did not respond to her embrace, she did not expect him to, but he once again allowed her to hold him. She felt someone's hands stroking her lower back. Perhaps it was Robb, perhaps it was Jamett. She did not know nor did she care. Her sister was being taken from her.

"Oh, my Soren," Honore wailed into the bastard's chest. Hands grabbed her shoulders and twisted her around. She dug her face into whatever she found, not wanting to be seen breaking down in front of the crowd.

"My lady, come with me back to our chambers. There is more privacy there," Robb's voice offered.

"Bring Jame and Jon," she weakly requested between shortness of sob-riddled gasps.

Honore felt Robb nod and they began walking, her face turned into her husband's shoulder with his arm shielding her face as successfully as he could manage.

Soren's sobs were the final sounds Honore heard from her sister.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I sped the timeline up a bit (a lot) because I'm an impatient piggy.**

**Quite a lot of direct quotes from the book and show at the end of this chapter. Doesn't belong to me. **

**If there's any editing mistakes, I apologize. I write this in my free time which is usually at 3 in the morning when I can't sleep. **

The wolves slept beside one another with Stella curled between their bodies. The cat was no longer permitted to be in Soren's presence for whatever reason Catelyn came up with to spite her. Soren asked the guard that stood outside her door to at least put the cat in her sister's chambers. Ghost had been in the room with his brother, Robb, Jamett, Jon, and Honore since dusk of the day before.

"She can go back to King's Isle with me," Jamett's small voice offered for the fourth time that morning.

"Sleep, Jame, dream of doves wings and crisp snow and Soren's smile. Sleep," Honore cooed as she stared at the ceiling and stroked the boy's hair. The two laid in her bed huddled together tightly as if they'd be taken away from one another as well. Jon and Robb were sitting in two chairs by the hearth occasionally stroking their wolf's head or taking a sip or wine or pacing the room. Everyone in the room stayed together as the only people who represented the alliance that supported an innocent girl. Food to break their fasts was brought to them upon Robb's order, though it was only eaten by the wolves.

"She could marry Theon and go to the Iron Islands until she is forgiven," Robb suggested, but Jon and Honore both shot their heads up at him.

"Absolutely not," the two said in unison. Robb and Honore looked at Jon with befuddled expressions.

"You care for her?" Honore asked gently after a moment. Jon dropped his gaze to the resting boy in her hands. He watched Jame's breathing even out and answered after the boy took six breaths.

"I do," the bastard relented. "More than I care to admit." Honore stood, easing Jamett from her body, and approached Jon. She knelt between his legs and took his hands in hers as she did in the trial hall hours ago.

"She cares for you too, Jon. More than _she_ cares to admit. But it is with great regret that I say that this sparking... romance... will not last, for you are leaving-" Honore stopped talking, Robb stopped pacing and Jon stopped breathing as they all met at the same solution after hours of walking blindly through a maze of dead ends.

"She's a woman," Jon argued.

"A woman with hardly any tits, she could easily pass off as a boy under the armor and many layers you'd wear," Honore rebutted.

"Her hair-"

"Can be cut or dyed with ink."

"Her elbow is braced. Surely someone would recognize it."

"Cover it with her cloak until you're on the Kingsroad away from eyes. She's damn lucky that her sword arm isn't injured."

"Her face is feminine."

"Lots of boys look like girls and lots of girls look like boys."

"Her voice?"

"Is gone. She would not be daft enough to speak when she has it."

"You could claim she's a mute bastard from the South that came up with the King's troupe," Robb spoke up. Hono smiled at her husband and stood to get herself a mug of wine.

"It appears as though we've come up with a solution for my dear sister," Honore said sadly. "She won't be here but she'll be closer than King's Isle," she shrugged. Robb went to her and stroked her back to comfort her as he did the night before when she was stressing. "We ought to say she's a raper.. To make her gender more clear."

"How will we convince Lord Domitian to let her go?" Jon asked.

"He will not see her. His wife will not allow it. No one needs to know anyway. The more people aware, the more people will combat our plan," Honore said. She stood and grasped her husband's arm and Jon's shoulder, sadly smiling at each of them. "My thanks to you two, for protecting and supporting my sister."

A knock at the door interrupted the trance that was held between the three as well as disturbing the child on the bed. Jamett began to fuss but Hono was unable to comfort him, for she was answering the door.

"Where is my son?" the wicked sharp voice of her mother by law pierced each of the ears in the room, waking Jamett and the animals. Honore shut her eyes as if the woman would go away once she opened them.

"He _was_ sleeping. Is there anything you need, Elene?" The woman tried to step inside the room but Honore stopped her. "Excuse me. You are not permitted to come in here," Honore prohibited while pushing the woman's foot back out the door. Robb approached the two.

"Is there a problem?"

"There is. She is keeping Jamett from me! And that bastard is tarnishing my boy's skin with every touch he lays! Give him to me before you corrupt him with your devilry and disturbances!" Elene once again tried to pry the door open but Honore cemented it in place with as much strength as she could muster. The older woman lashed at the younger, leaving a bleeding gash along Honore's arm from her nails. Robb immediately pushed his wife from the conflict and held the door. Honore fell to the floor with a grunt and Jamett and Jon were at her side examining her wounds before she could establish herself.

"You will _not_ touch her again. Take your son and leave this place. He is allowed here whenever he pleases – and I will ensure that he will come when he pleases – but you may never return," Robb growled. Hono heard him breathe out before he turned to her. "Jamett, go with your mother. Teach yourself what sort of woman to avoid when you marry."

The boy hesitated and looked to his sister who nodded, knowing the woman was a proper mother to him at least. Elene looked past Robb to Honore and threatened, "if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, girl, I will send a raven to the Wall telling them that a highborn woman playing off as a bastard male is on her way to become a sworn brother. A secret for a secret." Elene looked back at Robb and blew a kiss to him before trotting off with her son.

OoOoO

"Fucking coward," Honore spat. "She hides behind threats rather than negotiations." Ayla's eyes raised to Honore's then back to the bandages she was wrapping around her lady's arm. The maid was called only to tend to Hono's wound, and would be dismissed the minute she finished so the three in the chamber could discuss the events of the night.

"Gods, what a long day," Robb sighed as he fell onto their bed. He landed with a soft _thud_ and the wolf on the end of the bed raised his head as if annoyed at the disturbance. "Sorry, Ghost."

"_Hell_ of a long day. Even longer tomorrow, when our fathers leave," Honore replied. "Thank you, Ayla. You may go."

The maid hesitated.

"You may go, Ayla," Honore repeated. "Dismissed-"

"If I may say so bluntly, m'lady," Ayla looked to the men as well and rubbed her arm awkwardly. "The lords and kings're nearly ready t'leave for their hunt... which they'll not return from. 'S nearly noon, m'lords and lady, haven't you been watching the sun?"

As a matter of fact, the sun was the very last thing on their minds.

"Noon?" Jon asked, looking at Robb and Honore.

"Aye, m'lord. Lord Ben is going with them as well. Y'oughta catch them before they leave you."

Jon left the three no time to speak to him, for he bolted from the door in an instant. Honore looked to Robb and chased after Jon, ripping her arm from the lady's maid and joining hands with her husband.

"Jon! Wait! Jon!" Honore shouted, caring not if anyone heard her.

Robb released Honore's hand and sprinted to Jon. He snatched the bastard's shoulders and slammed him against the wall with hopes to knock some sense into him. "Fuck, Jon, don't be so daft. We must discuss what actions to take in the little time we've got."

Jon lowered his eyes. "I want to speak to Bran," he murmured.

"And you will, but we must plan the events that lay out before you initiate them. You know that," Robb said as Honore caught up to them huffing and bleeding. Jon looked at the Starks and nodded once before ducking into his room.

"Your father will wait and allow you to see Bran before he goes but you must exhaust as much time as you have with explaining to Soren what will happen with her and the Wall. Do you have any ink and clothing she can wear?" Honore asked, rifling through the bastard's drawers and various bottles. Robb stood beside the door to watch for any open ears passing by.

"Aye, here," Jon said, tossing a small jerkin, trousers, linen shirt and three bottles of ink into a bag that he handed to Honore to hold.

"Say your goodbyes to Bran then tell the guards outside of Soren's door that my father requested she go with him and you were the only available person to escort her. Take her to my chambers and have her situate her cat while you put ink in her hair and get her a horse then be on your way to become a man on the Wall," Honore strategized with increasing sorrow but never quavering speed. "Off you go, Robb and I will take your packs to your horse." Jon nodded and picked up a lengthy object that was wrapped in furs as well as the bag he handed Honore.

"I'd like to speak with Arya as well, it won't take long," Jon said as he escaped through the door without another word. Robb looked at his wife for a bit while she bit her lip and thought.

"We must tell Tyrion, he knows her face. Your uncle does not, though," Honore said. Robb's brows furrowed but he relented upon realising she was correct.

"You go do that, I will bring Jon's bags and say goodbye to my sisters," Robb said. Honore nodded and began to leave the room when her husband stopped her. "Honore, wait." She turned and before she could tease him asking what he was wasting her time for, he planted a kiss on her lips. It was not a deep kiss nor was it chaste but his intention was clear: she would not lose him in this convoluted pit of quicksand. He bit her bottom lip and pulled it and let her go. She looked up at him.

"Thank you, Robb." She pecked his mouth once more. "See you in the courtyard."

She did not need to look back to see that he lingered in Jon's now-vacant room, watching her walk away from him. How easily she could be abducted by some fiend in a hidden hallway or struck right in the head by a practice arrow. The woman nevertheless trotted on toward the only other soul who would know of Soren's identity.

She picked up her pace when she thought of how little time she had to spare with such a lenient gait and nearly tumbled over the Halfman when he stepped out of the library, book in hand.

"Oh!" she yelped as she halted on the balls of her feet inches from Tyrion's body.

"Oof." The dwarf looked up at Honore. "My lady, while I do enjoy the sway of your hips, I do not take married women," Tyrion japed as Honore took a step back awkwardly.

"My lord, I must speak to you in private. It is urgent," she skipped courtesies and empty words of greeting. There was no time. Tyrion's deep brow sunk upon seeing the normally well-kept lady in such a flustered state: her cheeks were blushed, she panted like a dog, and her hair reminded him of the little naked children of Flea Bottom who had never seen a clean day in their life.

"Very well, Honore. If you will follow me back into the library," he offered, holding the door open for her. She bumbled inside and sat at a bench in the corner of the building that faced everything but the stones behind her back. "Chayle, please leave the Lady and myself to speak a bit of privy. It will only be a moment. Go enjoy a warm glass of spiced wine that will bring heat to the blood in your veins or, if you prefer, a woman from the brothel. The Northern whores have quite a bit of tricks they use with their tongues," the Lannister told the septon who looked to his feet as he followed Tyrion's orders and left the two to speak alone. "I wonder which he'll chose, the wine or the whore. Perhaps both. Either way he'll be breaking his vows as a holy man." He laughed.

"My lord, with due respect, I have little time before you depart and I wish to share with you the information I have before you leave," Honore said, blushing from her impoliteness. "Apologies, my lord but, as I said, I am low on time."

Tyrion nodded. "I understand, speak your mind. You have my ears, Lady."

Honore took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. "As you are aware, my sister is accused of pushing Brandon Stark from the old watchtower." She watched him nod his head but not with discontent as others in Winterfell would have. "Lady Stark has not enjoyed her company since we've arrived here," he whispered _'impossible'_ under his breath. "-and she will do whatever is in her power to harm Soren. So Robb, Jon Snow and I devised that Soren will accompany Jon on the Wall and become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, as it is the safest place for her to be. No one will recognize her for she will be under the false profile of a bastard raper from Flea Bottom and she will have a beau to watch her back. You are going to the Wall as well. I have smuggled you away to the dark corners of the library to give you my secrets this afternoon to tell you all this because you'd recognize her the minute you laid eyes on her and her alias would be compromised," she rushed. The lady was panting by the time she finished her sentence and Tyrion took the chance to ponder while rubbing a beard that did not grow on his face.

As reasonable and smart as he was – a rare trait among Lannisters – he was an awful funny-looking man. His brow sunk deep over his eyes and she couldn't help but wonder if he could see the ceiling if he looked up without moving his head. The blonde mop atop his head resembled hers a bit, darkened and curly, but he had no brown roots as she did. Glistening green eyes that have seen many frowning faces upon him shifted here and there while his lips downturned into a frown as he considered her words. So fixed on his lips was she that he caught her unawares when they eventually began moving.

"You have my trust, Lady Honore. I will ask no questions other than this: will she be safe?" The dwarf brought his eyes to hers. They were unreadable and Honore was discomforted by that. She shut her eyes and nodded, dropping her head to her chest. It was getting to her that Soren would no longer be a part of her life. "Honore," she felt Tyrion's fingers raise her chin. "I regret to tell you that you musn't see her off. It would be queer to the common eye for a highborn to contact a bastard raper from Flea Bottom. If you have anything you'd like to give or say to her, allow me to deliver it. I promise you that she will receive it untarnished." She opened her watery eyes and flashed Tyrion a quivering grin.

"Thank you, my lord. Please tell her I love her and give her this," Honore put her hands to the back of her neck to unclasp a gold chain she wore with a single pearl on it. "It was our mother's. It is too long to be seen under tunics and if she keeps to herself there would be no way it'd be stolen from her." She placed the necklace into his hands and leaned in to kiss his brow. "Thank you," she repeated.

And she was off to the courtyard to say goodbye to her family.

_**Jon**_

"Punch me."

"What?"

"Don't make me talk more than I need to. In the eye and mouth."

The bastard stopped rubbing ink into the woman-turned-man's hair and looked down at her. She was seated in a chair fiddling with the torso he gave her.

"Soren-"

"My family will recognize me unless my face is covered by bruises. Punch me. I can take it," her pink eyes met his black gaze with a smirk creasing them. She drilled the knuckles of her good arm into his ribcage, withdrawing a groan and a doubled-over man in front of her, cradling his ribs with his forearms. "Do it, bastard."

"No," he strained.

"Shall I ask Robb to do it? Or _Arya_?"

"I'm sure Honore would love to do it as a parting gift," he laughed. Soren deadpanned. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't apologize." She grabbed his face between her first finger and thumb and pulled it close to hers. "Punch. Me." She graced his nose with a kiss and released his face.

"I'll get ink on you-"

"Fucking gods, Snow. I'll do it myself. If you dare stop me, I will throw myself from the watchtower." She shoved Jon away and turned to the mirror. With all the self control she could muster, Soren held still as she drove her knuckles into her eye socket. To his surprise and fright, she only grunted. A pink mark already formed against the shadows under her eyes and on her forehead.

"Soren! What-"

He was interrupted by the woman taking one of Robb's knife handles in her hand and driving her enforced knuckles into her lip. It bled immediately and she brought the gash into her mouth.

"It hurt a bit, I'll admit that." She smiled at his horrified face. "Now pick your mouth up off the floor and let's go before attention is brought on us by your tardiness. But first," Soren grabbed onto Jon's collars and took his mouth with hers. He resisted at first, giving her only teeth to kiss, but following a few beckoning kisses, he responded to her lips. Soren quite liked how his mustache tickled her nose and she smiled. She brushed her tongue against his when he opened his mouth, making him flinch back a bit. She pulled away with a _pop!_ and licked her lips before taking his hand in hers and beckoning him out the door. Her lips were roses.

"Where's my horse? Or will I be walking?"

"I'll get your horse. You go to my uncle and tell him you lost your way from the brothel. He'll put you with the others. I will keep an eye on you. Now go on," he shoved her shoulder towards the door. Soren looked over her shoulder and winked at him.

"Take a good look at my ass while I'm a woman," she winked and swayed her hips until she was out of sight. He lingered in his brother's room for a bit. Jon blushed when he thought of her ass walking away from him. When she left the room she left her identity behind as well. He looked behind him into the room. Three empty ink bottles laid on the nightstand as well as Soren's clothing. She had changed painfully slowly in front of him with no other intention than to tease him. He had tried to avert his eyes but she would always snake into his line of sight. Try as he might, he could not forget the image of her naked body dancing behind his lids. He looked at the spot she stood when she took her clothes off. The fabrics remained in place. Jon wanted to pick up the clothing and keep it as a reminder that someone in the world desires him. She may not appear to be a highborn woman any longer, but her needs and desires remained the same.

Right?

"Ghost, Stella, come." His voice echoed uncomfortably in the room but was soon masked by the sound of Ghost's paws and Stella's purr as they awoke and stretched.

Jon walked the halls slowly. This place would no longer be his home.

Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. Perhaps he hated this place.

His trance was interrupted by two horns blowing, signifying that the troupe was departing. Jon's heart skipped and he looked to the sun. Upon seeing that it was almost eventide, he broke into a sprint down to Bran's chambers. He knew Catelyn would be there and he was shivering in his boots at the fear of facing her. He had no other chances, though.

Jon climbed the steps slowly, trying not to think that this might be the last time ever. Ghost padded silently beside him. Outside, snow swirled through the castle gates, and the yad was all noise and chaos, but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet. Too quiet for Jon's liking.

He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid. Ghost nuzzled at his hand. He took courage from that. He straightened and entered the room.

Lady Stark was there beside his bed.

He stood in the door for a moment, afraid to speak, afraid to come closer. The window was open. Below, a wolf howled. Ghost heard and lifted his head.

Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. "What are _you_ doing here?" she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless.

"I came to say goodbye to Bran."

She dropped her gaze. "You've said it."

Jon did not look at her as he crossed the room, keeping the bed between them. Looking down on his brother, he realized this was not the Bran he remembered. The flesh had all gone from him. His skin stretched tight over bones like sticks. Under the blanket, his legs bent in ways that made Jon sick. His eyes were sunken deep into black pits, open, but they saw nothing. The fall had shrunken him somehow. He looked half a leaf, as if the first strong wind would carry him to his grave.

Yet under the frail cage of those shattered ribs, his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

"I wish I could be here when you wake up," he said, "I'm going North with Uncle Benjen. I'm taking the Black." He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. Jon knelt beside his broken brother. "I know we always talked about going to the Wall together, but you'll be able to visit me at Castle Black when you're better. I'll know my way around by then." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'll be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.." the boy's uneven breaths were his only response. "We can go out walking beyond the Wall if you're not afraid."

It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. He fought against the pain of sorrow in his throat and leaved over, kissing Bran on his clammy forehead. He wondered if Bran could feel it. He stood straight again and looked at the woman.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison.

Jon lowered his eyes. She was cradling one of Bran's hands. He took the other and squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. "Goodbye," he said.

He was at the door when she called out to him. "Jon," she said. He should have kept going but she never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time. "It should have been you," she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.

There was a large commotion about the grounds of Winterfell. Squires running here and there, knights mounting their horses, men swinging swords dangerously, and girls giggling at the prince. Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown as of late, as if Bran's fall and Soren's trial had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side.

"Her horse is settled. She's by Uncle Benjen on the black one," Robb pointed at the pale girl with black hair in black clothes with the black eye on the black pony. It seemed like a message to him, as if she was a ghost that wasn't really there. Only her skin and eyes were her true colors.

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"You say goodbye to Bran?" Another nod. "He's not going to die," Robb said. "I know it."

"You Starks are hard to kill," Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him.

Robb knew something was wrong. "My mother..."

"She was... Very kind," Jon told him.

Robb looked relieved. "Good," he smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon forced himself to smile back. "It was always my color." The brothers looked at one another.

"She'll be fine. She won't get hurt with you there," Robb told him and embraced him fiercely. "Farewell, Snow."

Jon hugged him back. "And you, Stark. Take care of Bran and Hono."

"I will. You take care of _her._" They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly.

"Say goodbye to Honore for me, would you?" Jon asked him. Robb smiled once again and patted his brother's shoulder.

"Of course."

Jon left him there standing in the snow, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses and was on his way to his new home with no one to keep him company but his uncle, an Imp, and a smuggled highborn.


End file.

Game of Thrones, Adventure, Romance