A Young Warg's Game of Thrones

[Failninjaninja]

Chapter 1

He took hold of Ice with both hands and said the words that needed to be said.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

The blow was clean. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, always tried to ensure that it was when he had to perform the duty. His eyes looked over at the corpse and then to his children. Robb, Sansa, and Bran watched. Robb had seen the King's Justice done before, but it was the first for Sansa and Bran. It had still surprised him that Sansa had said it was rather silly for Bran to go, but not her.

There is more than a bit of Lyanna in her.

Bran's eyes were a bit wide, but he did not react otherwise. Sansa had no reaction at all. Sometimes he was not sure what to make of his clever daughter. Maester Luwin was driven to distraction by her constant queries and at such a young age. Ned knew that he spoiled her in how much he had spent on books from the Citadel and Essos for her, but she loved them quite a great deal. Dresses and jewels did not excite her one bit, though his lady wife insisted she be properly attired.

Jon, the boy who he raised as his own, and Robb had ridden ahead racing each other, while the rest of the party returned at a statelier pace. Bran was speaking with Sansa as he rode up on them.

"Are you well, Bran, Sansa?"

Sansa merely nodded, while Bran answered, "Yes, Father." The lad paused for a moment. "Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid."

"What do you think?"

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"That is the only time a man can be brave," Ned told him.

Sansa cleared her throat and Ned laid a wary eye on her.

"While correct in the specific, we should consider that when folk speak of bravery they cannot know the internal workings of another's mind. We say someone is brave when they do things that appear to be brave. In that sense, it matters not if a man does something due to being fearful or having no fear at all, if most people would view it as an act of bravery that colloquially we would call him brave."

Ned just shook his head and moved on with the actual lesson he had for Bran.

"Do you understand why I did it?"

"He was a wilding," his son replied. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others."

Ned had to smile at that. "Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. The question, however, was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."

"Tradition," Sansa answered. "We Starks have long held the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

He nodded. "If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. One must not take pleasure in the task, but neither can you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

Jon appeared on the crest of the hill before them.

"Father, Bran, Sansa, come quickly, see what Robb has found!"

Jory, the captain of his household guard, rode up beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"

"Judging by the excited tone of voice, I would wager not," Sansa replied and patted Bran on his back.

They set their horses to a trot and found what had been discovered. A direwolf dead and pups that may or may not have been birthed before she died. An antler had been stuck inside the direwolf, just under the jaw.

An ill omen.

The pups were still alive, and as Ned considered the situation an argument sprang up as Robb and Bran wished to keep them alive while Theon, Hullen, and Harwin wished to give them a quick and clean death. Jon broke the impasse by directly speaking to him.

"Lord Stark," Jon said. "There are five pups. Three male, two female."

"What of it, Jon?" Ned replied.

"You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups my lord."

He sets himself to the side to make the count right.

"I do not know about all that," Sansa said before Ned could speak. "If you want to have mine, you may, Jon."

Jon shook his head. "No, Sansa. There are five and five trueborn children. And of the right kind. What are the odds of that?"

"If we assume five pups with equal odds that each can be male or female, it is about a third of all possibilities. Five sixteenths to be precise," Sansa replied. "Granted, there was the possibility of more or less pups but I do not know the average litter of a direwolf."

Ned tilted his head, distracted by how that had been calculated, and then focused on what actually mattered.

"You want no pup for yourself, Jon? Sansa does not appear to mind."

"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."

Sansa sighed while Robb and Bran promised to nurse the beasts. He was not one to always believe in signs and portents like some did, but it felt right to keep them. After admonishing his children that it would be up to them to take care of the beasts, not the kennelmaster, he had Jory and Desmond gather them up.

"You seem less enthused than your brothers," he remarked to his daughter.

"It will be an added responsibility, but I see the sense in it. If they can be trained it will be a morale-boosting symbol of our house. Additionally, it gives us something to care and be responsible over. If we do well, we might be trusted with other tasks. If we do poorly, you can correct us and create a lesson to improve our future endeavors."

Ned could only ruefully shake his head at the way his daughter viewed things. She was not wrong, and yet, these were the thoughts and words that he would expect from someone much older.

Perhaps it is all the books she reads. She has become half-maester!

Jon ended up finding another offspring of the deceased direwolf.

"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others."

There were times when Theon tried Ned's patience. He had taught the Greyjoy the ways of the Starks and the North, but he wondered how much had truly sunk in.

"I think not, Greyjoy," Jon said. "This one belongs to me."

***
​

It appears I was now the owner of a direwolf. In the North, well, probably all of Westeros, symbolism was important. It would be a poor reflection on me if my own wolf died while my siblings managed to take care of their own. What I had told my father was true, as an exercise in demonstration of personal-responsibility, caring and training for the pup would be good.

I'll need to think of a name.

It was eerie that the number of direwolves so fit Ned Stark's children, but did that mean some sort of supernatural shenanigans were going on, or were we, like humans tended to do, seeing patterns that were not there. If there were five wolves, Jon's earlier comments would fit just as well as six would. If there were three, one could make the case it was one for each trueborn son of Lord Stark. If it were four, then it would be each son of Lord Stark.

I did wish there were some supernatural elements in the world, because that could be a sign that my pursuit of being able to once again fly was not a complete dead-end. Magically, I could not sense my internal circuits. I could not accomplish the magic of my second life as an Imperial Mage.

This was now the second time I had been reincarnated, with my memories intact. I was shocked because I had expected Being X to either consign me to oblivion, show up to taunt me, put me in some sort of eternal torment, or if he reincarnated me, put me in an incredibly awful existence. Westeros was awful in many respects, especially if one was part of the smallfolk, but that was not the case for me. I was a highborn, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, rule of one of the Seven Kingdoms that made Westeros. Well, more like nine distinct regions, but the name had stuck.

Sure, I lacked modern conveniences, but I had all my basic needs met and servants to wait on me. I was in a comparative lap of luxury, even if I missed so many things from my first and second life. I also had parents that genuinely cared for me in a way that seemed a mite strange for a world such as this. It seemed on the surface like England in the middle ages, but in truth, that really wasn't the case for many reasons. Most likely Being X was just being sloppy and lazy, which was fitting for such a slovenly and incompetent charlatan.

For one, the seasons were quite wrong. Bafflingly so. Summers and winters could last years, sometimes for over a decade. The fauna looked quite similar to that of my first two lives, but clearly there was something else going on with it; otherwise, it could not possibly have survived in regions that it did. I had no astronomically sound explanation for why the seasons acted the way they did, and that was deeply troubling. Nature, like everything else, ought to work rationally.

When I came to my senses at around the age of three, I quickly tried to make sense of my surroundings. I probably confused my parents a great deal with my abrupt change so suddenly, but if there were any lingering concerns they had about my development, they were not noticed by me. Learning to read at an early age soon had me devouring every book in the library of Winterfell. Winterfell was my home and a castle built on dimensions that beggar's belief had I not seen it with my own eyes.

The outer wall was eighty feet high, and the inner wall a hundred feet. There was a three-acre godswood inside the walls, and there was even a greenhouse, though they called it a glass garden here in Westeros. Winterfell also had the advantage of being partially built over hot springs, which made growing things during the long winters plausible. Though the amount grown would not be sufficient to actually feed everyone, it would prevent some needed nutritional variety, and of course, every little bit helps when true winter arrives.

All houses had noble words, and the Starks, being the most powerful house of the North, had fitting ones.

Winter is coming.

My mother, from House Tully, had said to me that the Starks were quite different in how they chose their words. Her own house's words were Family, Duty, Honor. Others, like the Baratheons, the current ruling line, had words like Ours is the Fury. One thing that did disturb me about the current sense of national stability was that the current king was the first of his dynasty. The Baratheon dynasty was only about sixteen years old. Technically, he was also a scion of the prior dynasty, which he overthrew through his grandmother, but that connection was distant enough – and, given the king's view on the Mad King, he likely would not appreciate his rule being seen as a continuation.

Of course, all this was secondhand from my father, as I had never met King Robert Baratheon. Without seeing any sign of Being X, I can only assume he was going to throw me into some fresh horrific war soon. And yet, without any sort of magical ability, and being a girl in a time where raw brute strength mattered more than nearly anything else, I felt quite unprepared.

I did exercise regularly. I also practiced with a small knife I kept secure on my person, but that was for personal defense at a last resort. A swift draw and slash to the throat, eyes, or inner thigh depending on the situation would be the plan. My greatest advantage in a situation where I was accosted would be surprise. A trained, heavily armored warrior would not expect a girl of eleven to stab them in the eye without hesitation. If they knew I had the blade or that I was proficient with it, yeah, I'd almost certainly be toast.

Which is why I keep that a secret even from my family.

The odds of being accosted were slim. Guards were everywhere in Winterfell and I rarely left it. The Starks were well liked as my father took pains to get to know his staff. Eddard Stark was a dutiful and serious man who was responsible in his charge as Lord of House Stark and the Warden of the North. All the houses of the North were in vassalage to him. From the far northern reaches near the Wall, such as House Umber, to the Mormonts of Bear Island, they paid homage to him.

Aside from just the wolves, things may soon be changing. Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, effectively the king's right hand who did much of the governing, had died. No new Hand had been announced and Father had said that King Robert was coming to Winterfell. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he most certainly was going to offer my father the role.

I wasn't sure if I even wanted my father to take the role. I quite liked the quiet life I had in Winterfell. I would soon face the prospect of marriage and up until this potential change, I had assumed I would likely marry a lord of the North, since my own father had already married someone from the south. Perhaps it would be Harrion Karstark, heir to Karhold. Or maybe Daryn Hornwood, heir to the Hornwood. One of the amusing things about this world is that at times Houses named their fortresses after their family name.

The medicinal knowledge of this world was quite primitive compared to the modern era. It was more advanced compared to the middle ages of my first two lives, but still a far cry from what I was comfortable with. Childbirth made me queasy but I could see no good way to avoid it without outright fraud such as taking substances to ensure I didn't get with child.

No, I'd long resigned myself to doing that duty. I had once said in my second life that I would lap up muddy water if it meant survival, and I meant it. As a highborn lady, I would at least have a maester who understood the basics of medical care to help ease the birthing process.

This change in potential direction for my family's fortunes changed quite a few things. If my father intended to go south, then we would be taking a large role in the management of the kingdom. In order to secure our presence and maintain alliances, I would almost certainly be used. In that case I might well marry into greater houses. Renly Baratheon, Willas Tyrell, the very young Robert Arryn, or Quentyn Martell would all be potential matches of similar station.

My mother and I did not always see eye to eye, but I pestered her and Maester Luwin to understand the wider world beyond what my lessons gave me. Renly was the king's younger brother and quite courtly. Being married to the master of the Stormlands had pros and cons. They were fierce fighters but had a reputation for being battle maniacs as opposed to learned men. Renly was the Master of Laws on King Robert's small council, so perhaps he was an exception.

Willas Tyrell had a pronounced limp due to a jousting accident, but was heir to Highgarden, and his family ruled the Reach. The breadbasket of Westeros was second only in wealth to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Young Robert Arryn was my cousin, but cousin marriage was fairly common in Westeros. There was taboo, that had long been ignored by the previous dynasty, of sibling marriage but no such concern for sharing a set of grandparents. Him being young was in some ways preferable since it delayed my own motherly duties.

Quentyn Martell was a complete mystery to me as my mother's knowledge was thin about the southernmost region of Westeros. The Martells were on the opposite side of Robert's Rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty, so that could both raise or lower the odds depending on their temperament now nearly two decades past.

While all this was purely hypothetical, it was something I couldn't help but think about. Whom I married would have profound implications for my future life and eventual retirement. When I had asked Father if he intended to accept the position, he had replied that Robert had made no such offer yet.

"And if he does?"

"My place is in Winterfell."

Which surprised me, but Mother gave him a look that had promised a talk later with him. Rejecting the king's offer could be bad, especially if the next winter that occurred was harsh. According to the histories the Citadel kept, the winters after a long summer tended to be longer than the norm. And this had been quite the long summer, nearing a decade in length!

If my father declined the king's request, I would likely have a husband of the North, and though the winters would be cold, and with fewer luxuries than I'd like, it would probably be better. I feared what Being X would do to disturb me in this life. Almost certainly a conflict would rage, but the odds of it coming from savage wildlings even further north, was rather unlikely. The Wall guarded the north, an absurd construction, that was built on an even larger scale than Winterfell. Though even if it were not there, the wildlings did not have castle-forged steel or plate armor, meaning they were little threat beyond raiding.

No, if war descends it will be in the heart of Westeros, not up here. The choice will be beyond my doing, regardless. I just have to be patient and wait to try to influence my parents when an opportunity arises.

Author's Note: This fic was voted on by my Patreon members and I also have Early Access Chapters through Chapter 7!

This story is my experiment with Early Access and to see if it drives engagement and subscriptions on Patreon. For those unfamiliar with my situation, I lost my corporate job a bit ago and I'm attempting to make a go at writing full time. So far I've seen some amazing initial success, and since I'm still living off my severance currently it is currently adding to my savings and therefore the time I have before I need to make a decision to continue writing full time or go back to the the 9-5. Support has been amazing, and I'm really thankful for everyone!

https://www.patreon.com/cw/failninjaninja

 

[Failninjaninja]

Chapter 2

It was Tyrion Lannister's second day at Winterfell, and despite the rude look of the place, he was rather impressed. The glass gardens and the heated water from the hot springs made an ingenious combination. The Starks set a decent table, even if it lacked the sophistication and fruits of the southern halls. Lord Stark had been a cold and honorable host and the king had continued to be the king.

He had not held much hope for a quality library, and the bitter cold he had to face as he climbed the steps that corkscrewed around the tower library made him regret his decision to find out what it contained. The steps were cut high and narrow and with his short and twisted legs it made the climb slow going.

As he entered the spacious place he began to feel the warmth almost immediately. The interior of Winterfell was far warmer than castles further south thanks to its design and the hot springs. As he stepped through, he marveled at how trusting the Starks were. There was no guard posted here despite the fact that books could fetch a steep price in the right markets. Not that he would steal a book; he had coin, his father had seen to that at least.

The library was not overly large but it was surprisingly bountiful. The layout was well-organized and he noticed a pair of stepstools to reach the higher shelves.

"Lord Tyrion, is there a particular book you are looking for?"

Tyrion turned and saw Lord Stark's eldest daughter. She was one-and-ten but was tall enough, and carried herself well enough to look older. Her fine high cheekbones came from her mother as did her thick, soft, auburn hair. She wore clothing of blue a touch too casual for a feast, but the color neatly matched the azure of her eyes.

"Books? I was looking for the privy!" he jested. In his life, Tyrion found that humor oft made him seem harmless and not the monstrous Imp of tales that had reached his ear. In some places, children had at turns laughed and pointed while others had screamed in fear. Sansa was a noble lady, so he did not fear either of those responses, but it was a habit.

"You've wandered a bit far, for we do not even have a chamber pot here. Though at times, it would have been nice if the initial construction had included a garderobe adjacent and well away from these tomes. I've asked Father when our incomes allow, to repair some of the deserted parts of Winterfell to make room for more texts and include such a facility. I fear we've outgrown this place."

Tyrion arched a blond eyebrow.

"We? Am I to take it that you help manage this place?"

"Yes, my lord, Chayle is the local septon and his duties involve caretaking the sept and the library. His focus is more on preservation and ordering, while I have pressed my father to enlarge its contents."

Tyrion was not often surprised. The noble ladies of Westeros had many hobbies. Music, poetry, stitching, and of course gossip. Some enjoyed riding, a very rare few enjoyed hunting, and along with most of Westeros, they enjoyed mummers and tournaments. There were, however, few who relished reading.

"An interesting pursuit, Lady Sansa, do you then know how it is organized?"

"Yes, I've catalogued them all and had the servants copy the most ancient ones that I feared may end up being worn by age and use. If you wish tomes of history, fanciful fables, treatises by maesters, books by septons, and more I can help you find them."

Tyrion nodded. "I believe I will just peruse myself, but thank you." As he moved past her, he saw a direwolf next to her. He had seen one of the creatures in passing from a distance, but up close, he could tell it was no normal wolf. His eyes had been on the shelves, and when they had looked back down, it startled him and he fell back by instinct. He tripped back over a table leg and fell to the floor.

It was not painful, only deeply embarrassing. Sansa rose and offered her hand, a courtesy he had not expected, and an embarrassment all the same. He took it with care, noting how soft her skin was, yet when she lifted him to his feet she showed a surprising strength for a highborn maid.

"Thank you," he muttered, more than a bit embarrassed.

"My apologies if Visha scared you. She is well-trained and will not bite. If you would like to pet her, you may, my lord."

He shook his head. "No, 'tis fine. I just had not expected an animal to be here."

She nodded. There was no jest on her lips. No sly humor in her eyes. It was refreshing and he soon lost his discomfort. The library was well-organized and he found several books he had not had the opportunity to read before. Tyrion asked her some questions and discovered the girl was near as well read as he was, which was a first outside of a maester in Tyrion's life.

"Can these be taken from here?" he asked after finding a particularly interesting leather-bound book about Aegon's Conquest.

"Generally, no. But if it is more comfortable for you to read in your rooms," her lips quirked in a smile, "closer to the privies, you may. You seem to have a fondness for these books so I trust you will return it undamaged."

"On my honor as a Lannister, my lady."

Amusement twinkled in her eyes. No doubt the honorable Lord Stark had filled her head with tales of Lannister perfidy. There was little love between the lion and the wolf. Eddard Stark had made no secret that he had misliked Tyrion's older brother Jaime for killing the Mad King. The one person in the world he truly cared for was his brother, which meant he wasn't fond of Lord Stark either.

Well, now that isn't quite true. I do care for Tommen and Myrcella. And Genna has never wronged me.

"I shall take you at your word, please enjoy yourself."

Tyrion left and felt a pang of sadness for Sansa. She seemed sweet and intelligent. Someone who did not deserve to be betrothed to his shit nephew. He wondered as to when Joffrey would show the twisted side of himself. So far, other than some looks and sneers, he had not been his usual vile self. It was clear his sister Cersei had told him to be on his best behavior and for all that else he was, Joffrey knew how to comport himself as a prince when it suited him.

***
​

My parents wanted me to wed the prince. That had been wholly unexpected and, from a geopolitical standpoint, really wasteful on the king's behalf. My father was a close ally and friend; there really was no need to further strengthen the tie. The North was reliant on the south for food during the winter. It would have made more sense to wed the prince in a way that strengthened his reign. Perhaps bring the Reach further into the fold after the bitterness of the war.

I had mixed feelings about it. Joffrey seemed educated enough for the standards of the day. His singing voice was impressive, but he was also rather bland. Engaging in conversation on the second night of feasting had been a dull affair. He spoke courtly words and praised me in a manner polite and no doubt endearing to most noble ladies, but there was no substance. Trying to draw out what sort of policies he might wish to pursue as king had led to him being dismissive and saying I shouldn't worry my pretty head over it.

He was twelve and naturally a product of his upbringing. And yet it had irked me that he hadn't even thought it an interesting topic of discussion. A chance to display the statecraft he had been taught and the lessons the maesters had inundated him with.

I will have time. And if he truly is uninterested in the aspects of ruling, he might allow me to make more decisions, and I can ensure some positive changes occur while also preparing for whatever bullshit Being X has planned.

Today I was doing needlework with Myrcella Baratheon, the princess. Included as well were Arya, Beth Cassel, the daughter of the Master-at-arms in Winterfell, and Jeyne Poole, the daughter of the steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole.

I got along well enough with Jeyne. She was a child, so our interactions could annoy me, but I steered her toward my way of thinking on a few things. I quickly dissuaded any attempts at mockery over my sister's occasional bouts of misbehavior. Arya despised needlework and I had managed to get her to be better at it, but it was much easier for her to focus if she had been able to burn off energy first. Unfortunately, for today, due to Myrcella joining the lesson, stitching work was to be done earlier.

As we progressed I attempted to draw Myrcella into conversation. She was three years my junior, so eight, and almost doll-like. Her golden curls had been arrayed perfectly and I wondered if she had been forced to rise early by her mother in order to make them look so.

"It is much the same, just warmer. I have always wished for it to be cool, but travelling through snow was not near so great a joy as I had hoped."

"Does it not snow in King's Landing?" Jeyne asked.

Myrcella shook her head. "Not that I can recall."

Septa Mordane looked at Myrcella's work. "Why, what fine and delicate hands you have, princess. How deft you are at this; your mother must be very proud."

Myrcella looked uncomfortable when she nodded her head in response.

"What was the most interesting castle or holdfast you have stayed at on your journey to Winterfell?"

She looked at me and smiled, and then began speaking of the various places she had visited. Arya seemed to grow a bit less antsy as she heard stories of different places in the south. Mordane listened as well and then looked over at the work in progress by Arya and Jeyne.

"Do keep up, Arya. You have managed well enough, yet your sister has achieved twice as much."

"I am sure with another two years of practice my younger sister will be just as swift," I said in a tone a shade more chill than necessary.

It was a lie. I found dexterous tasks fairly simple and Arya was merely above average. A harmless one though, as it really was foolish to expect someone two years younger to be as proficient in something. The septa looked like she wished to say more, but a glance at me and she thought better of it.

Silence ruled for a time as they worked and then Jeyne asked, "Wasn't the prince so handsome at the feast yesterday? The gold of his doublet really showed off those eyes. Ah, Sansa, you are so lucky!"

"Whoever tailored it has done good work," I agreed. "Gold can be the color of royalty, but I would have expected more black in his dress, with his Baratheon heritage."

Myrcella looked hesitant, but I looked at her encouragingly and she spoke.

"Mother says the colors from each house are presented. Black and gold are Baratheon, and so he takes the gold from the Baratheon side. For House Lannister, he has red and gold to choose from, so we often take the red because the gold of the Baratheon king is already taken."

And then you have the Lannister colors of gold and red. It is said Queen Cersei is proud, dressing her children as Lannisters being one such example.

"Thank you for explaining that to me, Princess Myrcella. Is there aught that surprises you about the North besides the cold?"

I let her speak again. It was important not to make things sound like an interrogation, but most people preferred to share and have their thoughts be known, especially in front of a captive audience. Not everyone was alike, but it seemed Myrcella's initial shyness may have been something of a habit, or perhaps she was just uncertain as to the protocol of things in the North.

Arya was beginning to fidget again and I transitioned into asking about what tales they had in the south and if they differed from our own. Mordane watched like a hawk to make sure we did not share anything inappropriate, but fables from the Age of Heroes were some of her favorites and reduced her boredom.

Our session concluded and I offered Myrcella an opportunity to go with me and see Visha. I offered to let her pet her too.

"In truth, they frighten me."

"It is your choice, but fears should be confronted. A common wolf you should keep at a distance, but a trained direwolf under my hand will not harm you."

She bit her lip and then smiled shyly and nodded. Visha allowed her to pet her and I felt… something. It was strange how I could get this sensation at times. It was rather curious, as when I focused on it and tried to understand the exact dynamics, it grew fuzzy and faded. It was an annoyance, but somehow Visha knew what I had wanted and was even more exceedingly gentle than normal.

I was pleased that I had done well with networking with my future sister-in-law, or as they called it here, a good-sister. While the little sister of the prince was most likely not going to be a huge factor, you never knew what direction a person's life might go. It is always better to have friendly connections than not have them.

***
​

Robb burned with fury at the prick of a prince. He had wished to go a round with live steel and was eager enough to take the challenge, but Ser Rodrik had refused it. In an earlier bout Robb had done far better than Joffrey and the boy's arrogance was an insult. To sit there and suffer the mockery of the little ponce and his scarred bodyguard set his temper ablaze.

Jon had calmed him down a bit, saying, what if an accident had occurred. Robb knew that was true, but that arrogant little prick got under his skin. Theon had said the realm might have been done in favor, if something had happened, and Jon chided him over it.

"Don't lecture me, bastard."

"I'll lecture who I will when it is needed. Shall we go ask Lord Stark? Which side do you think he will take, the one who openly stated he wished the prince and heir to the Iron Throne dead, or me?"

Robb clapped Theon on the shoulder. "He has you there, now cease your bickering. With southerners here we should not be at odds with each other."

Theon nodded and the three split apart. Robb needed to feed Grey Wind. The pup was growing swiftly and he had ensured he was well trained. He had thought it wise to avoid having the direwolf with him when he practiced in the yard, just in case he did not realize it was training and play instead of mortal peril.

Grey Wind took meals by hand, something the kennelmaster had said would ensure their loyalty. Robb didn't think it was necessary, but Sansa had always said taking the advice of subject matter experts was wise. Grey Wind licked his face and fed obediently, and when it was finished the wolf tossed his head in the direction of the outdoors.

He found Sansa and Arya there watching as Visha and Nymeria were playfully nipping at each other. Grey Wind came bounding forward and soon it was a three-way tussle.

"How did training go? Did you show them the strength of the North?" Arya asked excitedly.

Robb shrugged. "I gave as good as I got, but Joffrey wanted to spar with steel and Ser Rodrik refused to allow me."

"Good," Sansa said, praising the Master-at-Arms' decision, "there is too much risk of injury. The Martells and the Tyrells are at odds due to an injury in a joust, best not to chance such things."

Arya sighed somewhat dramatically. "Robb would have won, and then your prince wouldn't wear that look of disdain."

"He is our prince. Royalty that acts arrogantly is commonplace. 'Tis not great, but to be expected. Robb, you should avoid antagonizing the future king of Westeros."

"I wasn't antagonizing him."

She gave him a look and Robb wilted a bit. "Very well, I may have made it a point that I had bested him earlier, but 'tis no more than what I do with Theon and Jon. It is the yard, you understand much, but in this you're still a girl."

"Possibly, should I ask Ser Rodrik if this was good-natured or not?" Her voice had taken on a saccharine quality.

Robb sighed. Arguing with Sansa was pointless, she somehow always won.

"As you like, but I'm not trying to frustrate him. But he has an ill-favor about him. I worry over you, sister. I do not think you should marry him."

Sansa gave him a smile. "I'm honored by your concern. He is young yet and he may yet mature with time. Attempting to break the betrothal will upset the king. The queen even more so. Time in King's Landing will prove whether or not he is someone I can live with."

Arya kicked some snow. "I want to fight in the yard, Bran and Tommen got to, and I bet I would beat either of them!"

Robb laughed and tried to ruffle Arya's hair, but she scrambled away.

"You're a girl and scrawnier than most. You are for dresses and needlework."

"I hate needlework. The Mormonts have women fighters, tell him, Sansa. Tell him!"

Sansa was nodding. "Arya is correct, there are women in our land that fight. I suspect neither of our parents will approve. Nor do I think it is all that useful to learn the sword as a woman. The battles of Westeros are fought in heavy armor where strength matters more than skill."

Arya shook her head vehemently.

"That's stupid. If someone is big and slow, I'll just move around them and, hiyah!" Arya pantomimed striking someone with a blade.

"With proper plate there are but few places on the body one may strike with effect. A middling knight with his armor would yet almost certainly best a member of the Kingsguard who had left his at home. I see naught amiss in your learning; a pursuit of joy, though it may never need be drawn, is still worthwhile if it exercises both mind and body."

Robb still thought the idea was silly, but Sansa had a point too. What harm would it do if it was just leisurely play? They talked a bit more as their wolves played. It was quite peaceful, and Robb realized there would be few chances for him to talk with both of his sisters together like that. Sansa and Arya were to head south soon, and he was to remain in Winterfell.

"I will miss you two."

Arya blinked rapidly and then hugged Robb. Sansa hesitated a moment and then did so as well. Robb almost laughed, but did not. Sansa would never have initiated it, but since Arya had, it would seem rude not to do the same. She may have been able to think and speak circles around him, but he was also taking note of Sansa's ways. He hoped they would enjoy King's Landing and write to him often of the marvels to be seen there.

***
​

Dreams were odd things. In my first life we had not fully unraveled their mystery, but we did know they played a role in the brain's housekeeping. Our neural synapses would fire and the brain would clean out unnecessary aspects of our memories, allowing our brains to function at proper capacity. Anything that we dreamed of was just parts of our neurology firing off randomly. Things that were important to a person had more synaptic connections and therefore might end up getting preserved in our long-term memories as a dream that sticks with us. It was almost certainly meaningless, but when I began to dream about Visha, my direwolf, I felt quite different.

Lucid dreaming was not common, but having a lucid dream from the perspective of a wolf was odd. I knew the fanciful tales of the land I was in, and I figured perhaps those memories of hearing those tales combined with the close and personalized attention I had with Visha during training were causing them.

They seem too real though and too consistent. Time to test the hypothesis, one way or another.

I drew inspiration from an interesting study called AWARE. Many people reported Near Death Experiences, much like I had assumed I was going through right after being pushed from the platform in my first life. People, and in statistically significant numbers, claimed to see relatives or felt themselves float above their own body, among other described events. To test if something like that was truly going on, the research team placed hidden images that could only be seen if viewed from a heightened elevation in resuscitation rooms across America, England, and other countries. People who flatlined and were successfully revived and then had the claim of floating above their body were asked if they saw any of those images and could they identify them. Zero matches.

People's subjective experiences can't be trusted. That is also why eyewitnesses tend to give differing accounts of the same event. It isn't as if they were lying; it is that the human brain, especially during events of high stress, fails to always perfectly recall details. Dreams and Near Death Experiences alike cannot be trusted to produce accurate information. It's all in our heads, but we could prove the experience through proper experimentation. The NDEs had failed to demonstrate any proof of someone having an out-of-body experience, and I suspected the result would be the same for me, but it was worth investigating. Even if it was just to put my mind at ease.

I ordered one of the literate servants to take charcoal and write a random word and a five-digit number on a wall across from Visha's kennel. I assured the confused servant there was a reason, but that I could not reveal it to him now and just asked that he do as I had said and not speak of it to anyone. As I went to sleep that night, I focused my thoughts on my direwolf as the last thing I was thinking of before allowing slumber to take me.

Once again, I found myself in a lucid dream. More specific than usual, perhaps because I had wanted to dream and test it. The riot of sensory information from a wolf's nose was difficult for me to process properly. I knew intellectually that canines had superior senses, so I could just be dreaming what I think that would be like. It was time for the test, as I did not like being kept in the dark as to what was going on within my own mind. As Visha, I looked over at the wall and saw the word 'yes,' and 32074. More than likely this was just a dream, and I had primed myself to expect numbers and a word.

In the morning, I quickly wrote down 32074 and the word. Even with my lucid dreaming, details would sometimes escape me in the moments after waking. Things like how scents corresponded and what they meant would often become fuzzy after I woke. After finishing my morning routine, I checked on Visha and stopped in my tracks.

32074. Yes.

The skin slipping legends are true. I am a warg.

The legends were often contradictory, and stories told by Old Nan were often confused. Skinchangers were said to be able to 'slip' into the skin of any beast. But then stories told of wargs who specifically did it for wolves. I wondered if there was something innate about wolves that made it easier for them to be shifted into. Or perhaps wolves were just a natural choice given their strength, speed, heightened senses, and pack loyalty. Maybe the animal needed to feel some residual kinship or companionship to make it successful? It was hard to know for sure and it seemed like I would have extensive testing to do.

I would hit up Old Nan and get a refresher on the stories she told of north of the Wall. I would use the guise of wishing to tell entertaining old stories to our southern guests. I could also write to the Wall and perhaps the Umbers saying that I wish to compile the oldest stories of the far north and to send me copies of them all. It wouldn't do to be specific to wargs and skinchangers, but those stories would almost certainly be included.

I was feeling a great intellectual curiosity all day. I was, in a word, hyped by what I had experienced and learned that magic, at least of some sorts, was not an impossibility in this world. It also suggested that there was at least some truth to potentially other forms of magic in the world. The shadow binders of Asshai, the so-called Faceless Men, the sorcery of Qarth, and the hydromancy of Rhoynar sorcery.

Arya would be quite tickled if she learned Nymeria truly did employ water wizards and witches in her conquests!

Author's Note: If you want to help support me writing fulltime, please check out my Patreon! Currently I have five additional chapters available as Early Access for this tale!

https://www.patreon.com/cw/failninjaninja

 

[udkudk]

I pity Joffrey. He's gonna become Direwolf food.

 

[ATP]

I pity Joffrey. He's gonna become Direwolf food.

Click to shrink...

please,do not even joke like that.Visha could be ill.Jokes aside - if Lannister plot do not save Joeffrey from Sansa,he is really fucked.
P.S I think,that there would be no killing direwolves here,and Sansa say what really happen.After that,Ned could come back Nort and do not engage in southern politics.
I hope,that Sansa would save Jon from Watch.

 

[Asmodeus]

P.S I think,that there would be no killing direwolves here,and Sansa say what really happen.

Click to shrink...

She can direct joffreys attention elsewhere thus avoiding whole debacle.

 

[ATP]

She can direct joffreys attention elsewhere thus avoiding whole debacle.

Click to shrink...

good idea.Wait,if Jaime push Brandon on schedule,then she just find proofs and entire story end there with Jaime and Cersei killed by King.Joeffrey,too.

 

[Failninjaninja]

Chapter 3

I was distracted with my newfound ability to enter into Visha when I slept. I was getting quite good at choosing what nights I slipped my skin and what nights I just rested. It was anyone's guess as to if my body was truly at rest when I was in Visha's skin, but I felt mildly more tired after a lengthy time. Not being truly asleep probably lessened the ability to properly recuperate from a day's worth of activity. Perhaps not as pronounced, but similar to people who partake of too much alcohol and their brain does not get the best forms of rest.

The distraction of learning a new skill did not fully keep me away from my duties as a noble daughter. I attended the feasts, I kept up with the social expectations, and even found some time to read. I saw Tyrion twice more in the library and it pleased me that someone else was getting more use of it. I felt a renewed energy and passion for things now that I knew magic existed.

That changed after Bran fell.

Guilt was not something I felt often, but seeing Bran so still within his bed under the furs sparked something in me. I was not my brother's keeper; my parents had that role. As did the castle guards and servants. Bran himself was likely to blame – climbing where he shouldn't have been despite my mother asking him not to. But he was also a child and pinning the blame on him while he suffered in a coma seemed wrong.

I suspected what had happened. My brother most likely wished to climb where eyes would not see him and potentially report it. With Winterfell playing host to more people, he had attempted to climb in spots he normally did not. Bran had been skilled at climbing but overconfidence combined with attempting a specific section he normally didn't, and this was the result.

I hope you wake up, Bran. I have so many things I want to show you. You will love being able to warg.

My mother was justifiably lost in her grief. She was not eating or drinking and I had enough of that sort of nonsense.

"Mother, I brought you something to eat."

"I am not hungry," she replied listlessly.

"And yet, you will eat. When Bran awakens, he will be confronted with the harsh reality that he will never walk again. His dreams of knighthood will be dust. You will need to be his rock, the steady, motherly support to ensure he weathers this trying time with his spirit intact. Do not stint in your duties as his mother by starving yourself in some vain effort to punish yourself for something that was not your fault."

Her eyes blazed with familiar fire at my words and I could tell she was about to speak harshly, when she instead quieted.

"You are right, as ever, my strange Sansa. By rights, 'tis I who should be looking after you, but instead you are the one with wisdom. I will eat. I promise, just leave it there."

I eyed her. "See that you do. I had hoped he would awaken before I departed, but unless it happens soon, I fear I will have to say my goodbyes on the morrow." I paused, and considered my words carefully. "Tell him, tell him that there is truth to the stories and that when we see each other again, I will show him something wondrous."

My mother looked at me strangely for a moment but then nodded. I felt she needed it, so I approached her and gave her a hug. Catelyn Stark was not a large woman, but that grip around my body was held more fiercely and tightly was surprisingly powerful. I hoped for both Bran and her sake that my brother would regain consciousness.

With my newfound warg powers I considered whether it would be wise to share this with my siblings. My concern was if I showed it to them, what would happen if they failed to properly use them? This was truly nothing alike the magical circuits and mathematical formula-driven magic of my second life, but I had to believe that my experience there made me far more naturally inclined toward this form of magic. I wasn't sure they even had it, but something, some sort of kinship and bond I felt through Visha and for the other wolves, gave me a premonition that they would have the ability too.

My concern was not in their potential lack, but what if they screwed it up somehow? Found themselves lost in an animal's mind? Stories were stories, not proper manuals on how to operate being a skinchanger. There was little time to adequately tell, teach, and monitor my siblings who were not coming with me. It was probably wisest to begin with Arya, who I would be remaining in close contact with on the journey south and to King's Landing. The problem there lay in the fact she wasn't very mature.

She's only nine.

I found the brisk air refreshing as I made my way to the steps of the library. I intended to take a few of my favorite books with me on the journey south. Tyrion was once again reading and greeted me with a nod. "Lady Sansa."

"Lord Tyrion, what are you reading this time?"

"An old book on scholarship dilemmas from Archmaester Walgram. In different times, various peoples did not all have the same way of documenting the passage of time. It creates difficulties when determining a proper timeline of our past," Tyrion replied.

I had read it. It was one of the rare tomes that did not propose an arrogant answer, but suggested different rubrics and assumptions that could be made. Still uncertain as to how I should handle Arya, I thought to pose the question, in a veiled fashion, to Tyrion.

"You are fond of your brother, Jaime, yes?"

Tyrion's expression grew slightly pensive. "Of course, he has ever been my protector. He is my brother. Has something happened?"

I shook my head. "No, I am just framing a question properly. This is not specific to Jaime. I have a gift I may wish to give one of my own siblings, but the gift has a chance of causing harm. I have likened it to giving a prized warhorse to an up and coming squire. Yes, the destrier will most likely not throw and injure the lad, but it might. Should the horse be kept back until the squire has proven himself and become a knight? Yet that would mean holding back a gift that would bring great joy to the squire and mayhaps even protect him from harm. If you had the opportunity to give a gift to your brother Jaime, knowing that the gift will bring him joy, but it also bears the chance that it may harm him, would you?"

Tyrion took the question seriously.

"I will not ask for more details as you clearly desire to be circumspect, but to me your dilemma is all about trust. Would I give any squire a potentially dangerous warhorse? No. Would I give the right one, such a responsibility? Yes. So, the answer comes down to how confident you are in your squire. For me, I have always thought it best to have knowledge, gold, or anything, than not. I trust Jaime, so I would give the gift and explain the dangers."

That is what it comes down to. Do I trust Arya? I find that the answer is yes.

"Thank you, my lord, I appreciate your advice."

I went to the sections that held the books I wanted and carefully placed them in a satchel. That accomplished, I headed back into the cold. It was time to pack and then have a conversation with Arya.

***
​

"So, you did change your mind about pissing off the edge of the world," Jaime said wryly.

Tyrion smiled at his older brother, a quip and a jape from him always righted his mood.

"I had intended to, but in truth, I am concerned about our nephew's betrothal."

Jaime looked at him with confusion. "The Stark girl? She's pretty enough, polite too. Doesn't look at me like I just stepped into shit. Cersei says they will make a regal pair."

"Our sweet sister is hard to please, I wonder how Sansa accomplished getting on her good side," Tyrion wondered.

Jaime shrugged. "Some womanly thing, no doubt. Sansa was complimentary of Cersei's outfits and asked for her advice on what colors would match Joffrey the best. She's an earnest girl, a bit simple and enchanted by our sister's finery and grace, but also not empty-headed."

Perhaps I worry over nothing, there is nothing simple about Sansa Stark, and yet she has both Cersei and Jaime utterly fooled.

But worry he did. Joffrey was a Maegor in the making. When his revolting nephew pushed too far, things would grow very ugly and with the Starks such close friends with Robert… he worried. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was an honorable man. Simple and no doubt easy to misguide, trick, or fool. His daughter was nothing like that, and though he never spoke it aloud to Jaime or Cersei, it was obvious the two were fucking each other and just as obvious Joffrey had nothing of Robert in him. How long would it take someone as keen as Sansa to discover it?

"Her mother taught her well then."

Jaime, uninterested in the conversation, changed the subject.

"Do you believe the stories about Lord Stark? Do you really think he bested Arthur Dayne in single combat?"

Tyrion arched one of his blond eyebrows. "I've never heard Stark ever boast of such a deed. I always suspected they did the smart thing and riddled him full of crossbow bolts."

Jaime scowled. "That wouldn't be a proper fight. And a crossbow is only good for one shot, then it would be over."

"Yes, that's why you bring more than one soldier with a crossbow. My sweet brother, in case you have forgotten, there are few knights this far north. Eddard was barely a man and Ser Arthur the most renowned knight of the Kingsguard. With his older father and older brother dead, I doubt he would be so foolish as to challenge the greatest knight in the realm to a duel."

Jaime scratched at his chin. "I suppose you are right. Arthur would have spilled his entrails easily enough. Did I ever tell you about the time…"

He had. Many times. But like always, Tyrion let himself listen to his brother's old stories. Jaime always seemed happy recalling past battles and for the kindness his elder brother had shown him, he would always tolerate being a bit bored rehearing a tale.

Travel south instead of to the Wall had its own rewards. Much finer places to lay, ample guards around him, much wine and good food. Tyrion looked forward to getting back to civilization at long last. The Wall had been an errant thought, a desire that could be pursued at another time. Especially with how fascinating Sansa was. Anyone could be well-read, but to actually understand and apply what she had learned from books was a rarity. Even beyond that, challenging an ancient author's perspective and being able to cross-reference by memory other scholars of that age.

The trek south would be slow, especially the poor quality of the roads until they made it south of Moat Cailin. From there things would go much quicker, save for the issue of Robert wishing to stop and feast at local holdfasts and keeps. After finishing the conversation with Jaime, he found his feet wandering to the Stark side of the camp.

"What business do you have here, Imp?"

Tyrion looked up at the guard.

"Just stretching my legs, I've hope that they will finally lengthen."

The large set man frowned. "Have you business with Lord Stark?"

"Not as such, but if I wished to share a word with our new Hand, that would be my business, not yours."

"If you wish to see Lord Stark, I will escort you, if not I suggest you go about your eve."

Tyrion felt a flash of hate. The fat lowborn was insulting him, a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Dwarf or no, that sort of indignity was not going to be tolerated.

"Has Lord Stark explicitly, that means directly, told you to bar my passage? Has he told you that the queen's brother is to be spoken down to and restricted among her husband's camp? King Robert, perhaps you know the man, even larger than you, wields a large hammer. The good brother of the man you insulted."

The guard's eyes began to widen and grew a little paler.

"M'lord, I've been tasked by Lord Stark with ensuring the safety of the camp, I…" he trailed, mouth working as he realized he may have pushed too far, "I meant no offense, Lord Tyrion."

"Yet offend me you did." Tyrion let his glare soften. "But I am not here to give lessons in etiquette to the Lord Hand's guards. I wish to speak with someone in the camp and unless you have some reason to fear me as dangerous, then stand aside and waste no more of my time."

"Yes, m'lord."

Tyrion continued to the larger wagon, the one he knew the Stark family typically rested in once camp was set. Outside stood the captain of the household guards of Winterfell. Jory certainly looked a proper warrior. His blue-grey plate was unadorned, but had a hardy quality to it. His thin cloak had the wolf's head sigil of the Starks on it, though it looked a recent thing, as he could not recall seeing it when they had first been greeted.

"Lord Tyrion," he greeted with a bow. "Have you come to speak with Lord Stark?"

"No, I've come to ask Sansa a question about one of the books she let me borrow."

Jory's face flickered into a smile. "Wait here, please."

He entered into the wheelhouse and then returned with Sansa in tow.

"I had not expected you, Lord Tyrion."

"Please, just call me Tyrion. We aren't at court. I am curious if you have the time to share your thoughts on some of the texts I've had a chance to read."

"By the fire, within the wagon, or a walk around the camp?" Sansa asked.

"The fire would do nicely."

What followed was an enjoyable time, even after the sun had set the camps still bustled, but as true night was following, Lord Stark made an appearance.

"Sansa, it is time to be abed."

The girl wished him a goodnight and she and her wolf went back to the wagons. Tyrion turned to leave, but Stark halted him.

"What is… this? Are you trying to embroil my girl in some southern plotting while you are still within my domain?"

Tyrion sighed. "No, I merely enjoy her stimulating company."

Eddard's long face grew sterner.

"Such statements border on the inappropriate and obscene."

Tyrion cursed his tongue. He had, for once, not been attempting to make some crude jape. He was stimulated by her company, on an intellectual level, not on something so… base.

Burn me, she's a child. Is Lord Stark so set against my house that he thinks the worst of me?

"Forgive me, Lord Stark. I swear by the Seven I meant no offense. Your daughter is brilliant in ways that few appreciate. She's shown me naught but kindness, and as a dwarf, I assure you that is a rarity. Worry not for your daughter's safety, I believe Visha would have my throat the moment I tried to lay hand on her."

Something in Stark's stance shifted a bit. Tyrion heard a sigh.

"I would not accuse you, but guard your tongue, Lannister."

The way Stark used the name of his house was like how other men used the term Imp or half-man. It was almost refreshing to be despised for the lion on his surcoat rather than the twisted legs beneath it.

"You have my word as a Lannister, Lord Hand."

Tyrion took Lord Stark's grunt as a dismissal and he wandered back to the Lannister side. He was somewhat surprised the man hadn't forbidden him to go near his daughter. He paused.

Why hadn't he?

Frowning, he considered the question more than once before sleep found him.

***
​

Arya was worried when Sansa of all people pulled her away from the main camp to speak privately. She looked worried. Sansa never looked worried. Or distraught. Or concerned.

Not true, she did look it for a time with Bran.

Thoughts of her brother Bran always made her sad, but this time they could not find the root, for her sister looked worried.

"Arya, have you had any strange dreams lately?"

Arya shook her head. Dreams? She was confused by the question.

"I am going to share with you a secret, something that you cannot tell anyone about, not even Father. Do you swear it by the old gods and the new?"

Arya was baffled, but nodded. "Yes, Sansa, what is it? What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Arya, but I've had dreams, wolf dreams, where I experience reality through Visha's eyes."

That brought to mind the tales Old Nan would share. Sansa had always said they might hold a kernel of truth but were clearly exaggerations to make better stories. Arya had not liked that; she thought the stories were better if all the details were true.

"No, I haven't had anything like that," Arya replied.

"Interesting, well, I believe you might experience something like that eventually. I do not wish to get your hopes up, but I've been doing some experimenting, and the stories of skinchangers and wargs turned out to be true."

"What?" Arya exclaimed. "What do you mean? You can turn into a wolf?"

Sansa gave her a polite laugh. The laugh that sometimes drove Arya to distraction. There was no pause, as if she had delayed it, but Arya knew it was not a genuine reaction. It was the laugh that had been planted, put in place deliberately. She loved Sansa, but when she used feast-day mannerisms on her, it hurt.

"No, those stories were probably wrong. I become Visha, I pilot… well, I 'ride' her skin while my own body lies still. Come, let me show you."

Sansa brushed an area around a nearby tree of some leaves and then lay down.

"Do not be alarmed, but do tell me what happens to my body while I'm gone. I will be in control of Visha and she will come up and press her nose against your leg thrice. You can ask her questions and I will nod yes or no with Visha's head."

Sansa closed her eyes and then went utterly still. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest gave away that she still lived. Meanwhile, Visha came up and pushed her nose to Arya's leg.

Arya was amazed and more than a little shocked.

"Is that really you, Sansa?"

Visha nodded her head once.

"Is this a jape?"

Visha shook her head no.

Arya knew that Sansa was not for cruel tricks or larks at the expense of others, but she wished to test it. She remembered Sansa helping her learn her numbers, and thought of a good way to test if this was truly Sansa.

"If I have three fields of barley and each yields two bushels, nod your head for the number of bushels I have."

Visha made a chuffing sound and then nodded six times.

Arya gave a squeal of delight. "Am I going to be able to do this too? Is that why you asked about dreams?"

Visha grew still and then Sansa gasped for air.

"I hope you will be able to. I have some ideas on how you might be able to learn how to do this. My belief is that there is something about the Stark bloodline that interacts with direwolves. This may be why we chose the direwolf as our sigil. Tracing back what is true, or not, or something completely forgotten over thousands of years is an impossible task. On our journey south I do want to see if you can learn too. Now, tell me what you saw about my body."

Arya told her the details and then launched a hundred questions. How did she learn? What was it like? Can she talk as a wolf? Where does Visha go when Sansa is Visha? How did she stop being Visha? How far can she go as Visha?

Not all her questions had answers, and Sansa excitedly, a rarity from Sansa, ran through other experiments. It was both scary and fascinating how Sansa could not 'wake up' even when Arya shook her or pinched her. Sansa claimed that she had no awareness of what was happening with her body while she was within the wolf. Sansa cautioned that this could be dangerous, and began describing some tricks of the mind that might help her spark the ability.

Nothing sounds too difficult. I really just need to strongly think about Nymeria each night as I close my eyes for slumber. I hope this works!

***
​

We had passed Moat Cailin and were in the Neck. This was an area that held some danger and, despite my warnings, Arya seemed to take little heed of them. The kingsroad was narrow here and on either side was a bog filled with lizard-lions and venomous snakes. Even the flowers could be poisonous and if you veered too far from the road you could encounter sucking quicksand traps.

I made her promise not to wander alone. I had thought that meant taking a guard, but no, she had found one of the boys in the camp. A lad named Mycah, who was the son of the butcher who rendered the game the king and his company slew on the many hunts that Robert liked to take part in. I questioned him briefly and the boy was skittish and meek.

Good enough, the real danger is something happening when you are alone out there. Plus, she still has Nymeria.

I felt as if Arya was making decent progress. She had her first 'wolf dream' the prior night and that was a welcome relief, as she was beginning to grow forlorn at not being a warg herself. It was a daily occurrence now that I reiterated how important it was to not tell anyone about it. She was growing exasperated with my reminders, but it was important. It was not just superstition, which could lead to bad relations, there were also other considerations. The stories told of wargs as a form of skinchanger, but what if I had the ability to slip my skin into other animals? The potential for reconnaissance was immense. I had not tried it yet, but likely soon.

Feasting had my family dine with the royals in the pavilion, the times when there was room for it. The baggage train actually carried large tables in carts just so the king could sit at a proper feasting table. Rank has always had its privileges, but it seemed a bit much. Comfort was well and good, but perhaps if fewer amenities were being lugged about, there would be greater incentive to move faster than a snail's pace.

Our king often drank, and I wished to ingratiate myself in my future good father. Before he was too far into his cups I asked if he might like to hear some unique poetry. I could tell by his expression he probably did not. The king glanced at my father and then generously nodded his head.

"Ruby streams churn red, war hammer strikes through gale, rubies scatter far, thunder shatters dragon pride, storm king reigns, eternal might."

"Hah, that sounds good. Short and to the point!"

My father smiled. "Yes, my daughter believes directness is often best. She can talk circles if she desires, but unless a word is meaningful, it is best not to be said."

That was accurate, to a point. Meaningless talk was useless. Why say something with more words than was necessary? But that was the rub, what was necessary? Following the norms to the extent that you endear a positive reception was not wasted words. Adding more descriptors or flattery to sway someone was also not wasted.

"Gods, maybe I ought to appoint her to the small council then! Pycelle could talk for days and still not get to the damnable point!"

"Then replace him," Joffrey suggested. "If I were king and someone displeased me, I would be rid of them."

Robert laughed. "Fool boy, it is the Citadel who selects the Grand Maester."

My betrothed grew pink around the cheeks with embarrassment and I quickly moved to my next set.

"If I may, Your Grace, I have one for when you defeated Lord Greyjoy."

Myrcella clapped her hands and looked on while the queen's gaze was considering.

"Salt winds lash the decks, war horns drown the Ironborn cries, oars splinter in surf, storm king breaks the kraken's hold, black sails burn beneath his wrath."

Robert laughed and then took a large swallow of wine.

"Good, good! Now this is poetry. More!"

I had not expected such an enthusiastic response. I was much more effective at calculating formulas quickly than coming up with poetry on the fly, but I would get the syllable count right, at least.

"What subject would you wish for it to be on, Your Grace?"

Robert considered for a moment. "Ned's sister. My Lyanna."

Really? I can feel the queen's displeasure as soon as you said the name of your former betrothed. My father dislikes this as well as he's clearly uncomfortable.

"North wind through the pines, long hair streams like shadowed snow, eyes bright spirit fierce, vengeance spent her ghost may rest, stars keep watch where silence sleeps."

Robert blinked a few times. "Aye, that will do, Sansa. Thank you."

The way the king drank the rest of the night, as usual, made me wonder if he even recalled it later, but it was important to get face time with the CEO when you had the opportunity. Joffrey continued to be cordial and a bore. His attempt to feed me a choice morsel of food was not something I was keen on, but the gesture was benign. Courtship in Westeros seemed strange, not that I was an expert in it from my first or second life, but it was something I would have to put up with.