Bastards

When Robb first went off to go fight against the Lannisters in his rebellion, you went with him, but you ended up having to leave his side after you took an arrow to the shoulder.

"No," he had deadpanned against your begging. "You may be just my half-sister, but you're still a Stark. I won't let you get yourself killed."

"Where am I supposed to go, Robb?" You had asked. "Huh?"

"Winterfell," your half-brother sighed. "You're going to Winterfell, (Y/N). I've got a horse for you, and your things are all packed."

"Robb," you huffed. "Please, don't send me away, I'm a capable-"

"Fighter, yes, I know," he frowned. "But, you're still my sister, you're still a Stark, and I need to know that you're safe."

"R-"

"Not another word," Robb pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed. "Go, if only for my sanity."

"Fine," you rolled your eyes. "But only because then you won't go pig-shit crazy."

"Thank you," he breathed out, relieved. "But don't worry, no one's going with you to protect you."

"They're not?" You asked, raising your brows.

"No," he shook his head. "I know you can handle yourself, so... stay safe, alright? And don't get lost, whatever you do."

"I won't," you promised with a small smile. "Don't get yourself killed, alright?"

----

You rode your horse for what seemed like days on end as you tried to find the way back to Winterfell, you could hardly remember the way back home after being with your half-brother and Catelyn for so long, but you couldn't wait to be reunited with your home, and with your hound, Shadow, trailing behind you, you couldn't help but to feel glad and safe despite being so far from the place you had grown up in, the place you had loved and created so many memories; like Sansa, sitting with you and eating lemon cakes, Arya, practising sword-play with you in the courtyard, Rickon sitting beside you as you read to him, Bran climbing with you until his tragic fall, Jon going for long walks with you when neither of you were allowed to sit at the dining table because guests were over and bastards couldn't eat with the true sons and daughters, and Robb... you had so many memories with Robb, as not only was he your half-brother, but he was also your best friend, your confidant, the person who stuck up for you, the person you stuck up for, the person you bickered most with, only to end up giggling about it a few minutes later. You remembered how, when you first got the pups - the direwolves for the Starks, the scrawny little mutt for you -, you would get a stick, snap it in half, give one bit to Robb, and the two of you would throw the bits of sticks until Ned or Catelyn, or sometimes even Jon, would come and fetch you both, telling you that it was time for Robb's tea, and time for the bastards to scrounge in the kitchens for enough to eat. Sometimes, the legitimate Stark children would steal some of the puddings to feed to you and Jon, but it didn't happen often, mainly because there simply wasn't enough to go around.

It was getting dark, so you decided to venture deeper into the woods and tie your horse to a tree before settling down for the night; travelling during the night was dangerous for a woman, let alone a bastard Stark.

----

When you woke up in the morning, you could hear men talking from the roads; listening closely, you could make out that they were talking about Robb, so you dared to try and hear more.

"The Young Wolf's dead!" They cheered.

"Roose Bolton's the Warden of the North!" Another shouted, filled with glee.

"Robb's dead," you whispered, eyes stinging with tears, swallowing thickly and turning to Shadow, who was sat beside you and eavesdropping on the men just as keenly. "Shadow, we have to go, now."

The loyal hound let out a soft bark and followed you once more as you got onto your horse and headed toward the road, but not before waiting long enough for the men to pass. Despite the distance, you could just about make out the House Bolton sigils on their large shields; House Bolton had been bannermen for House Stark, and it confused you to think about how they had so cheerfully claimed that your half-brother was dead, about how they weren't filled with grief like any other ally would have been... like you were.

----

Once again, you, your hound, and your horse, travelled for days, until you finally saw the gates of Winterfell.

"Who goes?" Growled the gatekeeper.

"(Y/N)," you said. "(Y/N) Snow, bastard Stark."

"What should we do?" The gatekeeper turned to the man beside him, who shrugged and said they should let you in. "Alright, lass, come in."

You curtly thanked them before walking into Winterfell, and the sight that lay before you, destroyed you... it was burned to a crisp, nothing but rubble and charcoal lay ahead of you, nothing but misery and death in the air, nothing but destruction lay at your feet.

"Morning!" Called an oddly cheerful voice, followed by a man with a sharp jawline, a pair of stabbing azure eyes, and a cocky smirk, he stood before you and held the reigns while you got off of your horse.

"Who the fuck are you?" You snarled, glaring at him.

"Ramsay," he greeted, offering you his hand. "I'm sure you've heard of my father, Lord Roose-"

"Bolton," you snapped, sneering at him. "Your father's a fucking traitor!"

"Don't talk to me like that-"

"Oh, fuck off!" You barked. "He killed my half-brother, I have every fucking right to talk to you like that!" 

"Half-brother?" Ramsay mused, quirking a brow. "So, you're a bastard?" 

"So fucking what?" You growled. 

"I'm a bastard, too," he explained, "I'm sure my father-" 

"Fuck your father!" You howled. 

"Temperamental," he frowned. "Just like the wolf on the Stark sigil." 

"Speak of my family again," you sneered. "And I'll have your head on a pike." 

"The bastard wolf," he smirked. "Please, tell me your name." 

"Why should I?" You snarled. 

"Isn't it common courtesy for a host to know his guest?" Ramsay tilted his head, and you could see through the thin veil of false politeness thanks to the sheer blueness of his eyes. 

"Cut your shit," you deadpanned. "What do you want, Snow?" 

"Well, Snow," he mocked with a sneer. "My father controls these lands, now, he controls Winterfell and I-" 

"Oh, my Gods, shut up," you rolled your eyes at him. "I don't care who you are, who your father is, any of that shit, I just want to know what the fuck you want." 

"You're quite rude," he noted. 

"I don't care," you replied. 

"Have you always been this way?" He asked. "Or was it just because your precious half-brother-"

He recoiled and yowled with pain the second your fist collided with his nose, breaking the bones and causing it to flood with blood. 

"Speak about my family again," you growled, grabbing his shirt and yanking him close to you. "And I'll slit your fucking throat." 

"Violent," Ramsay grinned. "I like it." 

"Fuck." You let go of him and pushed him away. "You." 

"Stay," he said simply. "For dinner, I'm sure my father would love to meet the other Stark bastard."