Chapter Text
Winterfell
You gazed out across the moors beyond the walls of Winterfell’s keep, the northern breeze stirring the locks of hair that frame your face. You saw your breath cloud the air in front of you. A sigh, turned to vapor, by the coming winter.
The sound of someone clearing their throat emanated from behind you. You stiffened, your hand dropping reflexively to your side, before the familiar voice spoke, and you relaxed. “I make my return to the Wall at first light, sister.” His voice was harsh, hardened by the chill that constantly resonated within this keep. But the words weren’t bitter, not at all like the wind. You turned and faced him.
Your brother, Cregan Stark, looked the part of a true Northman. His broad shoulders, shrouded in wool, filled the doorway back into the keep. You could see the hilt of his sword there, where it always rested. He was a fighter, a true-blooded Stark through and through. Sometimes, you envied him for this. He seemed to fit perfectly into the backdrop of the North. He’d earned his respect as the Warden of the North by the young age of five and ten. Your mother only lived in Winterfell for seven years before she died. You were only half-Northern, unlike Cregan. Your gaze lingered on his expression; it was uneasy, yet steely and resolved.
“Something is troubling you,” You observed shrewdly, turning back to gaze again over the walls of Winterfell. He sighed. Your eyes never did fail to catch the crease between his brows, nor the set to his jaw. He moved forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the parapet, beside your own.
“Aye,” He nodded. You respected this about him. Many other noble ladies, you knew, were sheltered from the goings on of their houses. Your father had never kept secrets, believing, as all of his ancestors before him had, that the key to survival in the North was unity. And that meant entrusting each member of his house, even the women, with the tasks of perseverance, and hardiness. Your brother had taken up that mantle in recent months. Having come of age before summer’s end, you had since been badgered with clamourings for your hand. The Stark children never felt themselves wanting for betrothals, and you were the first Stark girl of your generation. You’d known for a long time that this was your future, and you felt blessed by the gods that you’d had the ability to wait as long as you’d had. Marriage was like to be a slight disruption in the simple life of horses and embroidery that you had known thus far. Besides, there was also the prospect of war brewing South. Many changes to your rather peaceful childhood at Winterfell. But you’d always known it to be temporary peace. It always was. That was the way of your house - no matter how safe you are, Winter is Coming.
“Aye, something troubles me. It is your safety. Which falls to me, yet the Wall still calls, and I feel torn between protecting you, and manning my post.” Cregan continued, his voice strained, his brows pressed down against his eyes. You eyed him warily. He did not easily admit apprehension, but now, it was toning every syllable he uttered like an ache.
“My… my safety? I did not realize this was something in jeopardy…” You replied slowly, unsure what he could mean by this.
“We’re drowning in ravens, sister. Every house in the North has put up a young man vying for you.” You look indignant, and open your mouth to retort, not to dispute the notion, but rather to claim that this was no fault of your own. But your brother raised a hand, placating. “I know, I know, you don’t wish any of this. But you have… you have made quite the reputation for yourself.” A smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, bemused. Now it was your turn to furrow your brow, to glance at him in confusion.
“Whatever could you mean-?” You began to mutter, but once again he interrupted your retort.
“You do know what they call you, [Y/N]. You must have heard it by now.” You answered only by breaking his gaze, looking down at your hands. A scarlet flush rose up your face as he pressed on. “The Songbird of the North, sister. The first in our line with Stark and Targaryen blood. The fire of the dragon, and the chill of the North. They whisper that you have a voice so pure it makes the Weirwoods weep to hear it. And more- that your sword sings twice as loudly as you, when you raise it from your scabbard.” You couldn't help but to let out a chuckle at this, your hand dropping down to your side once more, fondly gripping the hilt that rested against your skirts.
“They only say that part because they saw what I did to the little Hornwood boy when he spat at Raya at the last tourney” You replied humorously. Cregan chuckled, and you turned to face him once more, reaching out a hand, and placing it atop one of his. “Brother… I… I did not wish for any kind of notoriety. I did only as I thought proper for a Stark. I wish to be able to defend this keep-” You looked at him intently, before continuing, “-in your absence.” He stiffened, ready to pull away, but your grip was firm. “Father wished me to choose a Lord as I saw fit. One that will benefit House Stark, but also that will benefit me.” You searched his gaze, pleadingly, to find some empathy there. “I will do what I must for our family, but I wish to be happy, Cregan.” He gazed at you for a long moment. You were the dearest thing in the world to him. You did not share a mother, and yet, he felt for you a sisterly bond that he did not share with anyone else. He felt defensive of you, in some ways like a father, but more importantly, he saw you as an equal. You had learned to ride alongside him, you were better with a bow than he, and you rivaled many swordsmen in the keep. Yet he worried constantly.
“There was another raven.” He finally said, pulling out of his cloak the scroll of parchment. “From King’s Landing.”