Winter Is Here // Game Of Thrones

The Dreams Of A Wolf

Winterfell in autumn was a kingdom of gold and ember, the leaves like dying flames clinging stubbornly to their branches before the cold came to snuff them out. Audelia Stark was five years old, and she was the princess of this place, though she had no crown, only wind-tangled curls and a dress stained with grass and flour. She was small for her age, her dark brown hair hanging in messy waves down her back, her cheeks still soft with childhood roundness. She had their mother's high cheekbones and their father's serious eyes, though hers, unlike his, still held the mischief of a girl who had never yet known grief.

She ran through the courtyard, breathless, the cold nipping at her nose. Her legs pumped beneath her, sturdy but short, her little boots slapping against the stone as she chased after her brothers. Robb was ahead, just a little taller than her, all fiery auburn hair and endless energy. His cheeks were always pink from running, his blue eyes sparkling with the confidence of a boy who believed he would be king one day.

Jon was further ahead still, his black hair wild and his face set with quiet determination. He was seven, the oldest of them, and Audelia thought he was cleverer than Robb, though she would never say so. Jon always won their games, but he never gloated. Robb would argue and whine and demand a rematch, but Jon would just shrug, like none of it mattered. Like he had already learned that winning wasn't the same as being chosen.

They were playing knights and kings, though the rules kept changing every time Robb started losing. Jon was the knight, because he was best with the wooden sword, and Robb had decided he would be the king, though Audelia had declared herself queen first.

"We can't both be kings," she huffed, coming to a stop, hands on her hips.

Robb grinned. "Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"You're not the king," he shot back.

Audelia stuck out her tongue. "No, but I am the queen, and I say we don't need a king at all."

Jon laughed, short and quiet. "Maybe she's right, Robb. Maybe you should be my squire instead, and I can be Lord Commander."

Robb gasped, outraged, and tackled Jon before he could dodge. They tumbled into the dirt, all flailing limbs and indignant yelps, and Audelia shrieked and ran to join the fray, knocking into both of them until they were a heap of giggling children.

"Enough," came a voice like thunder rolling low across the mountains.

They scrambled apart, chests heaving, as their father's shadow loomed over them.

Eddard Stark was still a young man then, not even thirty, but to Audelia, he had always been old. He was tall, taller than anyone, with solemn gray eyes and a mouth that so rarely smiled that she always felt like she had won something when she coaxed one out of him. His brown hair had yet to go gray, and he still carried the sword Ice on his back, though he had told her once that he hoped he would never have to use it again.

She had not understood then.

He sighed now, glancing between the three of them. "Your mother is looking for you," he said.

Robb wiped his nose on his sleeve. "We weren't doing anything."

"Were you not?"

Jon, at least, had the decency to look guilty. Audelia just grinned. "We were fighting," she declared. "But not real fighting. Just pretend."

Her father exhaled, then crouched in front of her, one knee in the dirt. He was so much bigger than her, so much stronger, but he never scared her. She had seen him hold baby Arya with such gentleness, his large hands careful as they cradled her small body. She had seen him press soft kisses to their mother's hair when he thought no one was looking. She had seen him kneel like this before, at her bedside, whispering stories of the First Men when she was too stubborn to sleep.