Book 1: Prints in the Snow

Chapter I • Stark Beginnings

Bran's arm wavered as he aimed the longbow toward the target ten or so yards ahead. He strained to keep the arrow back with his finger lodged near his jaw, just as he had been told to.

"Don't think too much, Bran." His brother, Jon, murmured into Bran's ear. The boy shook, then released the string and let the arrow fly.

Miss, Lyon Stark thought. The arrow struck the post below the target.

"It's alright, keep at it." She said to him. He caught her eyes, smiled, and pulled back another. Lyon's other brothers were not so supportive as they convulsed into giggles. Rickon, being seven, only did as Robb did. She and Jon exchanged a look through their laughter.

"And which one of you was a marksman at twelve?"

The ever so recognizable voice of their father boomed from the walkway above, drawing the eyes of his children in the courtyard. She looked to her father, and the mirth in his eyes brought a smile to her face.

"You, father?" She returned, propping herself onto a barrel and wrapping her heels against the body.

"Not even close." Ned's shoulders shook with his chuckle. Edward Stark was a Stark, pure and true. With hair as dark as the northern dirt, just like that of his sons. The only daughter that shared his northern resemblance seemed to be Arya, the youngest of the three girls. Sansa and Lyon, although differentiated by their interests, shared the look of their mother. They were stormy summers, and their brothers and sister were the white winters and blackest nights.

"Probably couldn't even pick up a sword at twelve." She slipped the snide remark into Bran's ears and brought a grin to his face. "Go again now, you've got this one."

With their father watching now, Rickon's and Robb's laughter faded into silence and anticipation for Bran's next arrow to make its course. Like before he connected his thumb to his jaw, and after Jon's instruction to relax his bow arm, he shot.

The arrow went high and soared over the fences, and laughter resumed. A giggle barely escaped Lyon, but even Jon had begun to make jests at Bran's atrocious shot. It was hard not to join in.

Jon's hand slapped down on his younger brother's shoulder. "It's all right, better luck next time." Bran didn't look convinced. Lyon supposed it was hard to be convincing when you were giggling like Jon was. Their jests and chuckles didn't last long. Whistling on the breeze caught their ears just as a flying arrow soared past Bran's ear and lodged itself in the center of the target. Bran cast a look over his shoulder and there was Arya, longbow in hand and a smirk on her face. She bowed with a flourish and Bran dropped his bow and was racing after her in an instant, laughter trailing after them.

"He's still better than you, eh Robb?" Lyon teased.

"Oi," already humor filled his eyes. "Wrong person to tease, sister."

"Big sister, mind you. And you couldn't even hit a wall with a sword if it were a foot in front of your eyes, little brother."

"Oh, that is it!" 

Playtime was not just meant for children. In the eighteen years she had lived she never once saw the sense in abandoning this one childish antics, whether it be through words or actions. Perhaps it disappointed her mother that she still held to such ideals, but there was nothing like play fighting with her brothers.

Robb's hand found one of the wooden swords strung nearby. She found her own in rebuttal. "Not a real sword? What? You leave it where you hung your balls?"

Jon's howl of laughter initiated the spar and pushed Robb to lunge forward. The two wooden sparing swords clashed with sharp smacks and continued to meet through every parry and block Robb or Lyon executed. Albeit, Robb was a fine young swordsman, but she had been working longer, harder, and smarter, and soon the sword was sent out of his hand and into the dirt.

"Point, me." She hollered, planting the wooden blade into the dirt. Robb's hand was still open as if grasping an invisible hilt, and then he shook his head.

"Point, you." He said and went to retrieve his sword. Lyon returned hers to the rack.

"Lyon, come here," Ned called from above and drew her to look at the walkway above the courtyard. He no long haphazardly leaned over the rail with her mother, but instead, his narrowed grey eyes were solemn. Lyon left her brothers there and went to him, taking the stairs by two to get to his side.

"What is the matter?" She inquired, head tilted.

"The deserter from the Night's Watch has been found. I need you to prepare Bran."

"Of course I will..." She frowned. "Mother will not like it."

"She already knows." He said, and Lyon cringed for him. Lady Catelyn Stark was the most remarkably protective mother in all of the north, and probably all of the south. As her firstborn Lyon knew it well. She would not allow Bran to see such brutality without having her husband aware of her displeasure.

My father's hand suddenly came upon her shoulder. "I did not expect my first daughter to become the one I would trust with such matters."

"Yes, well, beheadings are beheadings." She tried for a lopsided smile. "I saw my first when I was young, you couldn't have stopped it. Neither could you have stopped me the day I picked up a sword, or a bow. We Stark women are far too complex to stick with needling or sewing."

"I know, and I love ye for it. Just don't tell your mother I approve."

Ah, there was that twinkle of humor she knew. She lightly elbowed him in the side. "Good to know the cold hasn't sapped you of your good heart. I'll go get Bran."

Lyon turned curtly to leave, but her father's hand caught her elbow. Their eyes locked, green met grey.

"Remember, Lyon. Winter is coming." Solemn with understanding, she nodded.

"Indeed it is, father." She said, and his hand released her and was off to fetch Bran.

Winter was most certainly coming. Not because it was the Stark phrase, but because it always came, one way or another. It always did.