Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Winter had come, as promised.

Grey-blue waves crashed against the shore, icy water kissing her bare feet and the hem of her gown. Numbness crept over her, overcast like the grey clouds overhead. Snowflakes and cold wind brushed against her freckled cheeks.

Hot tears slipped from her swollen eyes as her fingers clutched the wrinkled parchment beneath her shaking fingers. The lump in her throat grew with every staggered breath. She pressed her open palm to her stomach, the round protruding lump peeking out beneath her cloak.

"Alone again," she whispered, fingers stroking her stomach.

She held back a strangled sob as her eyes gazed out towards the muddled horizon. Her knees buckled beneath her, pulling her violently to the ground. She pulled the worn parchment to her chest and the harrowing cry poured from her lungs.

"Why?" she pleaded as she gasped for air. "Have you not taken enough?"

Had she sacrificed enough? Perhaps not, she thought. Perhaps this was the punishment designed by the Old Gods and the New. She had strove for too much, sacrificed too little. She'd once vowed duty before love. That vow had been far too easily broken.

She pulled the letter from her breast, smoothing the crumpled paper so she could see the refined penmanship spelling out her name.

Morwenna. She could almost hear his voice.

Her eyes slammed shut, more tears spilling from the creases. It was the voice that haunted her dreams. Years of dreams turned nightmares as she longed desperately for the reality of that sound. Not the half-memory of it. A voice might be easily forgotten, but the memories were forever ingrained into her veins. Every touch imprinted onto her flesh. Long nights and cold winters. Words filled with the ache that still lingered in her bones.

She'd once read about her ancestor, about Ser Willum Royce and his sword, Lamentation. Now, at that moment, she knew why the sword bore such a name. The Royces had lived on this land since the First Men, their blood and bones soaked the shores of the Vale since before the Andals landed. As her knees sunk into the icy wet sand, she thought for a moment she could disappear beneath them too, her bones wedded to the land like the ancient Royces before her.

Lamenting yet another loss. Possessed by grief that had long cursed her bloodline.

The Royce family words sang through her as her gaze spilled over the letter she'd read a thousand and one times before. Since the moment she'd sworn her heart to him. Her unofficial vow. The ache in her soul was not just punishment, but a forever keepsake.

The words rang through her again.

We Remember.

"I remember," she whispered.

She would never forget the circumstances that guided her from the neatly planned path of her youth. Once, long ago, before the war and ruin, she smiled and laughed. Once, long ago, before the loss and broken promises, she'd loved.

Once, long ago, before the song of ice and fire, she'd lived.

Chapter Text

PART ONE: YOUTH

Chapter One: The Wildling of Runestone

WHITE HARBOR

The vastness of White Harbor was both alarming and exhilarating. Aside from the overwhelming scent of fish saturating the air, Morwenna had already made up her mind that there was no greater city in all Seven Kingdoms than White Harbor.

Of course she had yet to travel anywhere outside of the Vale until now. Before she'd been too young. But now she was two and ten. Her father had said once she was two and ten, things would be different. No more being sent to bed early with Ysilla and Helena. No more nights in the nursery. And most importantly, being two and ten meant she no longer had to stay behind when her elder siblings traveled to White Harbor for the festivals in spring.

Morwenna gaped, wide-eyed, at the busyness of the city, trying her best to memorize the sights and smells engulfing her from the moment they'd disembarked the ship. Gulltown, the port town nearest to Runestone, had been sufficient distraction for her when she was allowed to explore the city with her elder brothers. But now having seen White Harbor, she wondered if she knew anything about the world at all.

A hand snatched her wrist, tugging her through the crowded streets along the white cobblestone path towards the gates of New Castle. "Keep up, Morwenna," hissed her sister, Gwyn.

Gwyneth was only two years Morwenna's senior but already two heads taller. Growing into a true Royce, their father had crooned with pride. Yohn Royce stood as tall as the sky under Morwenna's craned gaze. Two and ten meant she was still far too small for her liking. Robar would sometimes carry her on his broad shoulders so she could see over the crowds. Today, her brother walked with his lips downturned and his gaze far away. He was a man of nearly twenty now and men of twenty did not carry their sisters on their shoulders. He was here not for the festivities but for business.

Vale business.

One day Vale business would be her business as well. But for now, she was two and ten and her only responsibility was to soak up every bit of goodness she could find.

Gwyn leaned close as they approached the gates. "Don't forget curtsy when father presents us to Lord Manderly," she whispered. "And stand up straight. And don't look around all starry-eyed like you've never been anywhere in your life."

"I haven't been anywhere," Morwenna countered.

Gwyn pinched Morwenna's side and the yip that she shouted drew her father's gaze from over his shoulder. His warm expression turned stony, his brows furrowing as the blue-grey eyes posed a silent warning Morwenna could not ignore.

"Wenna," he said, his voice low. "You gave me your word you'd behave."

"I…" she tried to argue but his brow arched and she let out a resigned sigh. "Yes, father."

"Come along, we're almost there."

Morwenna obliged, looking back over her shoulder as they entered the pristine white walls of New Castle's gates. She wondered silently why the Manderly's sat inside on such a beautiful day when there was so much to see. Surely if she were Lord Manderly's daughter, she would be able to partake in the spring festivities with the rest of the smallfolk.

The ceiling of New Castle's great hall rose high above them, white stone pillars stretching up to meet it. Small gatherings of nobles were scattered about the room, hearty laughter and thundering voices with thick burrs pouring from the taller men. Northmen. She'd met Northmen in her two and ten years, but never so many in one place.

Northern noblewomen stood long free hair streaming down their backs. Morwenna gawked, mouth hung open. Each morning she woke, rushing to the window of her chamber to feel the morning air rushing through her coal black hair. Those moments were fleeting, however, and she'd spend the next excruciating hour having her hair tended to and braided. Although their Lady Mother had passed nearly five years prior, her traditions for the ladies of House Royce still remained.

Gwyn nudged Morwenna, another warning.

Morwenna watched her sister as they walked through the hall. She stood, dark brown hair tied back in tidy thick braids. Shoulders pushed back, she glided across the wooden plank floors as if she were dancing on water. Gwyn had come by her skills easily under their mother's tutelage. Morwenna had only been six when their mother had fallen ill, barely old enough to hold a needle and thread.

Still, she did her best to emulate her sister's stature. She pushed back her scrawny shoulders and lifted her chin and when her brother Waymar looked back at her he stifled a laugh. Morwenna stuck out her tongue, earning another pinch from Gwyn.

"Ah, Bronze Yohn in White Harbor!" a booming voice shouted. "It is a great day indeed!"

The Lord of New Castle slapped his hands jovially on the thick wooden table, his large belly bumping it forward as he stood. Laughs and lively conversation paused as people turned to look at Morwenna's head of house, the legendary Bronze Yohn. The name had always been cause for laughter in their house. Her brothers taunting their father with the name, much unlike the burst of admiration laced in Wyman Manderly's warm words.

Morwenna dipped into a shallow curtsy, Gwyn's hand tugging her lower. Morwenna's knees wobbled enough that as she stood, Gwyn rolled her eyes.

"Lord Manderly," her father said with a short bow of his head. "We were pleased to receive your invitation to White Harbor. It is my daughter Morwenna's first time in the North and I could not have asked for better festivities to welcome her."

Morwenna beamed at her father's mention. Lord Wyman craned his neck around her much taller brothers. Waymar pulled her forward, his hands on her shoulders as she was presented once again. Gwyn cleared her throat politely and Morwenna dipped once again into a curtsey, counting to three before rising with a toothy grin.

"The spitting image of your late Lady Mother," Lord Wyman mused, which of course to Morwenna meant that he too had noticed she had not yet grown to be tall like the other Royces and had, perhaps, far too many freckles.

Either way she did her best to project her small voice through the hall when she replied, "Thank you, My Lord."

Lord Wyman turned towards the table and jutted his large hands out, waving over two young figures. "You must meet my granddaughters. You look quite near their age. Come, Wynafryd, Wylla."

Her father gave her an encouraging nudge. She stepped forward, curtseying to the younger girls who looked happy just to see another girl their age.

Morwenna clenched her jaw slightly whilst trying to maintain a smile. She knew of course from her extensive studies that Wynafryd was still only one and ten and Wylla only nine. One and ten meant they would be relegated to bed early. One and ten meant that if Morwenna was meant to befriend them, she too would be ushered away from the festivities much earlier than she'd been promised.

"Yohn, let us talk whilst the girls get acquainted. Ned and I want to hear news from the Vale," Lord Wyman boomed, clasping her father's shoulder.

Morwenna's eyes pleaded with her sister to stay but before Gwyn could excuse herself politely, their father called after her. Morwenna's shoulders sank. Gwyn was on Vale business too. A small hand curled around Morwenna's fingers. Wylla Manderly beamed up at her, her blond hair tucked messily behind her ears. Wynafryd, meanwhile, stood up straight, her frock tidy and hair delicately strewn over her shoulder.

"Come, I'll show you around," Wylla offered.

Being two and ten meant being polite to the children, Morwenna reminded herself. Even if she would much rather be doing anything else.

The last stop on her tour of New Castle was the library, per Wynafryd's suggestion and Morwenna found herself unable to leave even as the two Manderly girls insisted they rejoin the court. Instead, Morwenna stayed behind, eyes dancing across spine after spine of leather tomes lining the walls. The library at Runestone could not even fill half of the shelves of the room before her.

Morwenna pulled a particularly large book from the shelves written by a maester from Old Town. She'd only come across one book about dragons and it was small enough to only account for the dragons seen at Runestone, including Caraxes who was ridden by the infamous Daemon Targaryen. The Targaryens were long spent from Westeros and yet many Royces still spoke ill-words about the Prince who had once been tied so intimately with her family.

Morwenna propped her feet up as she leaned back on a soft-cushioned couch near the window with the best light. Gwyn's voice tsked in the back of her mind and she slipped off her salt-stained shoes before returning her bare toes to the stone windowsill. Her toes enjoyed the freedom, warm sunlight prickling the pale flesh.

She flipped through pages, tracing her fingers over intricate drawings of dragons of various sizes. She'd never heard of the Black Dread, and yet he looked fearsome enough that he must have been formidable in battle. It was no wonder Westeros had never truly stood a chance when Aegon I landed.

As the sun waned low in the sky, Morwenna crawled up into the vast windowsill, determined to steal the remaining light. Outside, smallfolk lit torches and fires near the harbor city. Small lights glittered in the twilight and she pushed open the window for a better look. Festive music danced on the salt-soaked wind up towards the castle walls. Morwenne sat the book at her side and stood, tapping her bare feet to the beat as she squinted into the distance.

"What are you doing?" a young voice asked. Morwenna jumped, heart thumping against her chest as she spun around to see a boy with auburn curls and a crooked brow. "You're not trying to jump are you?"

"Don't be daft," she replied, turning back to the city. "It would be far too painful a death."

A small chuckle erupted from behind his hand as he tried to stifle the laugh.

"Well then why are you up there?" he asked.

Morwenna sighed impatiently, pointing out at the harbor. "Watching the dancing. My father brought me to White Harbor and promised me there'd be dancing. But all the Lords and Ladies do at New Castle is gossip and drink wine."

The boy climbed up onto the cushion, pulling himself up towards the window as he gazed down. He shifted nervously. Morwenna reached out her hand.

"It's not all that difficult," she urged, boredly. "Well, unless perhaps you're still a child. I doubt my younger sisters could climb up here either."

"Still a child?" he asked skeptically, that thick brow raised again in a way that was beginning to bother Morwenna. "Are you not a child?"

"I am already two and ten, nearly three and ten this winter."

The boy snorted. "It is a long way from winter. And two and ten is not so very old."

She frowned. "Maybe for a boy of barely ten."

"I am already three and ten," he interjected.

Morwenna enjoyed the bothered crease between his brows as he frowned. Still, he gripped the bottom of the windowsill, ignoring her hand. He lifted his chin, peering over the side and abruptly looked back up.

"So you are not a child, but you are scared? Is that it?"

"I'm not…" he began but didn't finish his sentence as he glanced at her hand again.

Morwenna wiggled her fingers. "It's safe enough," she told him. "You can see much better from up here. All the way to the sea."

"I'm quite fine, as I am." If the lie in his voice wasn't so obvious, the way he scratched at his tousled curls would have given him away.

"I won't let you fall if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh?" he asked, his voice tight. "And what is a girl of your size going to do? You're barely bigger than Lord Manderly's hound."

Morwenna cursed her Coldwater height.

"Fine, stay down there. What do I care if you are too cowardly to enjoy the most beautiful view in White Harbor."

Morwenna's gaze stayed glued to the horizon but from her periphery, the boy shifted again, goaded by her words. He pulled himself up onto the platform just barely wide enough for his feet and he clutched the side of the wall, his eyes wide with terror as they shifted to the ground.

"Don't look down," she insisted, guiding his eyes towards western banks of the White Knife. "Look out there."

The sun dipped lower, painting the cloudless sky in deep oranges and purples. Next to Morwenna, the boy's breaths steadied, still gripping the side of the window as he watched the sun set. Slowly, the tension in his features softened and his lips curled at the edges. Her smile widened.

"See? I told you it was the most beautiful view in White Harbor."

"You were right," he replied.

"You'll find I often am."

The two stood in the window of New Castle's library until the sun had long disappeared, giggling and pointing out the merriment below. Loud footsteps pulled Morwenna's attention to the large wooden door swinging open. Her brother, Waymar, let out a heavy sigh as he crossed the room.

"Wenna, have you been in here this whole time?" he grumbled. "I've been looking for you for ages. What are you doing up there? Do you have a death wish?"

Waymar reached up, snatching her from the windowsill.

"Father promised I could…"

"Father is the one who sent me," he interrupted, hauling Morwenna over his shoulder. "The feast began ages ago and instead of eating I had to come find you."

"I'm not even hungry!" she groaned.

Waymar, uninterested in her level of hunger, only grunted in response as they crossed back towards the open door. Morwenna let out a resigned sigh of her own as she looked back at the boy in the window and waved.

"My name is Morwenna!" she shouted.

Clinging to the window, smile still glued to his face, he waved back.

"I'm Robb."

For her late arrival and great insult to the others at the feast, Morwenna's father sent her to bed without supper. Two and ten meant there was no longer an excuse for tardiness. She shared her room with Gwyn who came back late, beaming with tales about dancing.

Morwenna, who had of course stayed awake with her ear pressed to the door, now buried a disgruntled cry into her pillow.

Gwyn scoffed, pulling her braids delicately apart and brushing loose elegant brown waves of hair that spilled down her back. "You should have behaved, like I told you, instead of climbing around in windows and behaving as if you're some sort of wildling."

"At least wildlings have more adventures than ladies," Morwenna argued, arms crossed over her chest.

"Waymar said he saw you with a boy in the library. If you don't want to be considered a child anymore, Wenna, then you should know better than to be alone in a situation like that."

Morwenna frowned. "A situation like what? We were watching the festival in the harbor."

"Yes and that's what you have to say about it, but there is no telling what tales he might have spun to the other boys. And it's his words that will believed over yours. Always. You can't put yourself in that position. Our reputation is what makes us good daughters to House Royce. Do you understand?"

Morwenna nodded though she didn't really understand. She doubted the boy from the window would go around saying much of anything. If he did, she'd just tell them all he was scared of heights. That would put a stop to anything he had to say about her.

Gwyn slipped on her nightgown and blew out the candles in the room. She climbed into the bed next to Morwenna, pulling the fur blankets over them both as cold spring air drifted through the window. The scent of sea salt still lingered in the air.

"Wenna," Gwyn whispered.

"Hm…" Morwenna answered, head still buried beneath the pillow.

"Father said I'm to be married."

Morwenna pulled her head up, her coal strands tangled across her face. "What?"

"He's been talking to Lord Mallister for months about a potential match between me and Patrek Mallister. With Lord Stark in White Harbor, they were finally able to come to an agreement. With the Warden's blessing, father said I will be wed by next spring."

Morwenna opened her mouth to speak but then closed it. A wedding? Gwyn would be six and ten by the following spring. Without their mother Gwyn had been Lady of Runestone. She learned how to run the estate, she kept appointments with the steward and the maester. She'd been buried in the account books all winter.

With her gone…

Morwenna suddenly realized what it meant to be two and ten. Two and ten meant responsibility when one's sister was sent off to be married. Gwyn would be keeping the books and appointments at Seagard. And runestone would be left to Morwenna.

Vale business would be her business.

She could have said that she would miss her sister, or argue that she was far too young to be a bride. She might have told Gwyn that she was scared at the thought of becoming Lady of Runestone, scared like the boy in the window was scared of heights.

But instead she laid her head back down at the pillow, her pale blue eyes peering into those of her sister and whispered, "It's good you won't be too far from the sea."

When she closed her eyes, she whispered a silent prayer to the old gods and the new, that she would never have to grow up after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Of Duty and Disappointment

SEAGARD

Morwenna discovered two things the winter she turned four and ten.

The first, that weddings never go according to plan. Lord Mallister and her father had planned for Gwyn and Patrek to marry in the spring following their visit to White Harbor. Naturally, of course, the women of Runestone began frantically preparing their young Lady Gwyneth for marriage and Morwenna was thrust into lessons with Septa Prym.

These lessons, of course, were nothing like needlework or dancing. No, in fact, her lessons were everything Morwenna had dreaded since Gwyn had announced she was to be wed. Morwenna rose before dawn each morning and rarely was permitted to sleep each night before she and Maester Helliweg had reviewed and prepared correspondence with her father.

Vale business was her business now, and no longer Gwyn's who would soon be a Lady of the Riverlands. Winter came and with it, Morwenna's name day. Three and ten seemed awfully more important than two and ten and yet the entirety of the year seemed to fly by without so much as a fond memory.

Mountain clans rebelled which, while exciting, proved to put all of Gwyn's wedding plans to pause and with it her excitement. The Royces and their bannermen traveled out to the Mountains of the Moon to help squash the uprising and Morwenna was left with her father's appointments and little help from her elder sister who pined instead for her wedding gown that sat gathering dust.

By the time the fighting was done and the path through the Vale safe to travel, Morwenna had all but forgotten her year of three and ten. Four and ten came without warning and that spring, Morwenna found herself well-versed in account books and schedules. Even if they dizzied her brain into mush.

The second thing she discovered was that becoming a lady was not as exciting as Gwyn had always made it out to be. Morwenna loathed each month when the moon would wane and her belly would ache. She cursed the moon and the weariness it brought. The maester's teas were hardly any help and every time she woke with red stains on her shifts she'd be mortified to tell the Septa.

Four and ten was not thrilling at all.

Spring in the Riverlands brought a warmth Morwenna had yearned for. The snows melted long enough for the Royce and their party to pass through the Bloody Gate. Ysilla and Helena were still too young to travel such a distance and a part of Morwenna might have liked to stay home as well if only to escape her father's instructions for a few weeks.

Unfortunately, the part of Morwenna that coveted the world outside the Vale was the greater half. Green fields spanned each side of the Kingsroad, petals blooming in vibrant colors of blues and pinks she had rarely seen. Her favorite were the wild red flowers that grew at the banks of the Green Fork.

Lord Mallister's fortress sat on the shores of Ironman's Bay, precariously balanced on three pointed rocks jutting out from the bluest sea Morwenna had ever seen. Gusts of wind fought against her neatly preened hair. Now that she was four and ten, Septa Prym had given Morwenna four braids instead of two, like most ladies of the Royce household. Thick long black plaits spilled down her back, tied with a blue ribbon tucked beneath her cloak.

Gwyn's betrothed greeted the Royce party in the courtyard. White eagles splayed across rich purple banners whipped wildly in the wind from every tower. Gwyn would have little trouble adapting, thought Morwenna, recalling the orders of purple cloth she'd been preparing to bring for months.

Patrek Mallister was not particularly tall for a man of eight and ten, but then again most men sank in comparison to the Royces. Morwenna certainly couldn't complain, having only grown a measly one head since their last meeting. She was beginning to think she'd finished growing and would forever be relegated to reaching for things on the tips of her toes.

Gwyn suggested she find a tall husband.

If Morwenna could help it, perhaps she'd never have a husband at all. For all that work that went into planning a wedding, and a move across kingdoms to live in some stranger's home, she didn't see the appeal. Even if Ser Patrek's home did have a particularly beautiful view from the sea.

Weddings in the Riverlands were a much larger affair than in the Vale. Lords came from as far south as Pinkmaiden and as far north as Winterfell. Her father talked of little else than his reunion with his friend, Lord Stark. No lord in all of Westeros was spoken with more reverence than the Warden of the North. Men in the Vale spoke of the Starks as if they descended from the Old Gods themselves. Morwenna, having never properly met the man aside from a distracted curtsy, did not have much of an opinion herself. But her father insisted she would be presented properly once he arrived at Seagard in the coming days.

Properly meant neat and tidy. Properly meant, don't embarrass our House, Morwenna.

And so for two days leading up to Gwyn and Patrek's wedding, Morwenna sat up straight. She tied her braids back, straightened wrinkles out of her bronze colored gowns. She did nothing but nod and smile, and laugh politely when conversation warranted it.

By the third day she grew weary of it, having not yet met this revered Lord Stark.

And so on the third day, the morning of Gwyn's wedding, Morwenna perched herself like a watchful gull atop a tall stony boulder overlooking the bay. Though she couldn't watch the sun rise over the western shore, there was a special beauty about the water glistening as dawn kissed the waves. Morwenna let her hair out of the confining braids, smiling as the wavy strands danced upon the salty wind.

She sighed, exhaling the dread of the cage that was every social interaction she'd been forced to endure over the last two days. Here at least she could be alone with her thoughts. She watched birds soar then dive into the ocean, grabbing their morning meals. A playful pod of whales emerged from the depths, curiously making their way across the glassy water.

Mid-morning brought warmth and Morwenna carefully peeled back her dressing gown, rolling up the sleeves of her night shift. Beads of sweat slid down her forehead and she gathered up the sides of her gown as she stood, slipping her boots off and letting her bare feet press into the stony rock of the boulder beneath her.

She could jump, she thought. The sea wasn't so far below, clear of rocks and deep enough that she would easily submerge herself. It would be the quickest way to cool off, she thought. Just as she'd gathered the courage to launch herself from the rocks, a voice pulled her attention back towards the sandy hill she'd climbed up.

"I should have known that was you, Morwenna Royce," a young man's voice called up. "You're the only girl I know with an affinity for tall places."

Her feet stuttered and she tripped, falling with significant force onto her backside as she attempted to keep her balance and she groaned. She crawled back to her feet, holding her back as she gazed down at the intruder to find a pair of river blue eye and a sea of reddish brown curls. He was taller than their last encounter and his voice much deeper, but there was no mistaking the crooked smile and arched brow of the boy from the window in White Harbor.

Robb. His name had been Robb.

"Rather rude to sneak up on people," she said, still wincing. "I thought you'd have learned that last time."

"Well the way I see it, I saved you," he called up.

Morwenna's brows creased as she pulled her dressing robe back over her shift. "Saved me? From what exactly?"

"I was just up at the castle and heard Lord Royce mention he was looking for his daughter to introduce to someone. Since his eldest daughter has been preparing in her bridal chambers, I could only assume he meant you. And now I've stumbled upon you here."

Morwenna scoffed, sitting back down on the stone. "Ah, his friend Lord Stark has finally arrived, then," she said. "Well, I have been politely waiting like a perfectly wrapped package for two days. I think he can wait a few more hours."

She leaned back, placing her hands under her head as she soaked in the sun. A few moments of silence later, a shadow blocked the beams' light and she peeked open one eye at Robb who stood over her with an amused smirk.

"You're blocking the sun."

"Your face is already pink enough, is it not?"

Morwenna's hands flew to her freckled cheeks. Her fingertips pressed against her cheeks and she was met with warm flesh.

Robb crouched down, a hearty chuckle escaping his throat. "Well I'm not sure it will be so noticeable behind all of those freckles."

Her lips contorted into a frown, her jaw tightening. She stood, towering over him for a mere moment until he too rose to his feet. At three and ten, Robb had been the same height as Morwenna. It had been a comfort at the time with so many men surrounding her who seemed tall as mountains. But now, Robb from the window stood over a head taller, enough that she had to tilt her gaze up at him to meet his river blue gaze.

"It's not kind to insult a lady," she grumbled.

His playful expression wavered, the spark in his eyes dwindling as her words sunk in. He shook his head. "I…I meant no insult at all."

Morwenna crossed her arms over her chest, preparing her retort but her sister's voice echoed in the back of her mind. Ladies do not argue. Ladies also did not stand out on boulders in their night clothes, but while Morwenna was willing to sacrifice her pride, she was not yet ready to sacrifice her one remaining sliver of freedom.

Morwenna softened her shoulders, letting her hands fall back at her sides. "You must be from a lordly house for us to meet like this twice."

"I am," he answered. "Though I fear if I tell you which one, you'd look at me a bit differently and I admit I appreciate your frankness."

"Frankness." Morwenna repeated with a chuckle. "My sister says directness is a poor quality in a lady. She says it indicates a lack of self-control." She gazed back out over the water. "I'm not entirely convinced she's wrong."

"My mother cares far too much for manners as well. It's exhausting when people don't say what they mean."

Morwenna's lips pulled back into a soft smirk. Finally someone who understood.

"You must hear the word duty as much as me, then," she replied. "I've never tired of a word faster than duty."

Another warm chuckle poured from his throat. He had a nice laugh, she decided. There was nothing fake about the sound that came deep from within his belly. His white teeth burst through his lips into a contagious grin Morwenna now shared.

"Is that why you're out here then?" he asked. "Running from duty?"

"Aren't you?"

His thick brows arched. "I'm not sure I could escape my duty, no matter how many high spaces I climbed."

He stepped slowly towards the edge of the rocky perch, peering over hesitantly at the water below. His toothy grin faltered, jaw clenching as he wiped is palms onto the side of his tunic. He cleared his throat as he stepped back.

"Still afraid of heights?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed. "If I am, it's only because I have a healthy fear of dying young. Something you seem to lack."

Morwenna let out a decidedly unladylike laugh. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes glued to the fortress upon the rocky cliffs. From there she had a beautiful view of the harbor and the horizon that seemed endless. She'd never seen a more beautiful sunset than her first night in Seagard. But still the confines of the stone walls had not granted her the freedom she so desperately sought.

"I know once I go back it will be the end of all of this," she admitted. "That's why I'm stalling. It might be the last time I can feel the wind in my hair like this."

She pulled her fingers through the coal black waves. Robb's eyes followed the tendrils as they danced against the salty breeze.

"Why should it have to be the last time?" he asked.

"My father has no plans of remarrying, at least not any time soon. Therefore, once Gwyneth marries Patrek Mallister, I become Lady of Runestone in her place. I have two younger sisters to care for with Gwyn gone. I think I secretly hoped this day would never come."

His expression changed, but it surprised her that it was one of understanding.

"I too have siblings to care for. Two sisters and three brothers. I'm the eldest so they must all look to me one day as well."

The eldest. Then he would be a lord one day. And here she was complaining about running a household. A lord had even more responsibilities, or so she'd been told.

"How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you just do what they expect of you? Even when it feels like it's so much weight it might shatter you?"

His gaze tracked her features then flicked towards the fortress. Playfulness faded. Heat pulsed through Morwenna's cheeks as she realized the frankness of her question. Our reputation is what makes us good daughters to House Royce, Gwyn had told her once. Now here she stood, in little more than her nightdress, hair unraveled, and asking the son of some lord questions that far exceeded the boundaries of what she'd been told was polite conversation.

"Sorry," she whispered, bowing her head. "I'm still learning to hold my tongue."

She stepped towards the edge of the cliff, looking down at the water below. It called to her, daring her to jump. The sweat on her brow begged her to succumb to the call of the waves as well. As she stared down at her bare feet, toes wiggling, a second set stepped to her side.

Robb bent over, pulling his socks off and stuffing them quickly into the boots he'd tossed aside. He cleared his throat, eyes glued to the sapphire blue water below.

"No one has ever asked me that before," he admitted. "But I guess sometimes I gain courage by remembering that my duty is to my family who I love. And I would do anything to protect them. Even if it was difficult."

"Even if it meant giving up a piece of yourself?" she asked without looking at him.

"I am not yet sure who I am," he replied. "But I'd like to think there would be room for duty and myself, whoever he may be."

Morwenna looked up at him, catching his river blue gaze glued fearfully to the sea. "Can I tell you a secret?" Still he didn't look up but he nodded. "I too am scared of heights," she whispered. His head jerked to the side, their eyes meeting.

"What?" he asked. "But you…"

She smiled.

"I like the tallest places because I can see so much and while I am afraid to fall, I'm more fearful of never seeing the world as it is meant to be seen. Look around you," she instructed, spinning around. "You have the sea to the west, those pretty cliffs just up the coast to the north. Down there you can see all the ships as they make port. The birds clamoring for a feast from the fishermen bringing in their hauls." She grabbed his arm, spinning him again to the east, pointing out over the vast valley that led down to the river. "The entire world is out there waiting and calling to us. What a waste it would be not to take it all in, even if we can't explore it on foot."

The wrinkle between Robb's brows creased at the bridge of his nose.

"You are peculiar, Morwenna Royce."

"So I'm told," she replied, her smirk returning. She pointed down to the water. Shall we face our fears, Northman? See what secrets the sea has for us?"

"I'm not sure it would be wise," he replied, his voice shaking. "If we're too far up…"

"We're not. It's safe enough. I assure you."

Morwenna reached out for his trembling hand, squeezing it in her own.

"There is nothing quite like salt in your hair, especially on a warm day like today," she urged.

Robb was just about to protest when she jumped, pulling him over the side of the tall rock and plunging them into the sea waiting below. The rush of cold ocean water spilled over her skin, sucking the air from her lungs as the chill overtook her. Still clinging to the boy's hand, she kicked her bare feet until they emerged back out from the surface, salt stinging her eyes as she followed the glowing orb of the sun, beckoning them.

Morwenna gasped for air, Robb splashing his way to gulps of breath as well. Reddish-brown curls flattened against his face, wet and tangled together. Despite his wide eyes, a rush of something wild permeated from the blue pools of shock. A fit of giggles poured from her lungs as she waved her arms against the soft waves that bobbed her up and down with its current.

Robb's warm laughter followed.

"I was right wasn't I?" she asked him, gently splashing him.

Robb wiped water from his smiling lips. "I've been told you often are."

Robb and Morwenna raced back to the castle, their shoes in hand and wet clothes and hair clinging to their bodies. They stepped through the fortress walls, water dripping onto the stone floors as their laughter rang through the halls of Seagard's castle. Bodies bustled through the halls, carrying flowers and food from room to room. Soon Gwyn would walk the halls in her coveted wedding frock and people would bow and smile at her beauty. Morwenna would stand close behind, carrying the too-long train of Gwyn's dress and say prayers to the gods with every step that she didn't trip over her own feet.

"Morwenna!" a deep voice boomed from the base of the large staircase she and Robb climbed two steps at a time.

Her heart jolted as she spun around to find the disappointed frown of her father. Morwenna shrank under his gaze, hair clinging to her face, mud caked beneath her now filthy bare feet.

"Papa, I…" she attempted but he held his hand up.

"I have been looking everywhere for you! You were meant to be helping Gwyn prepare for this evening's ceremony and now I find you…like this?"

From her father's side, Waymar and Robar concealed their wide smiles with their hands over their mouths. Andar mirrored their father's stern expression, though there was a softness in his eyes almost akin to pity.

In that moment, she hated pity more than disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Lord," Robb interjected, voice strong and confident. Moreso than he'd been on the side of the rocky hill. "It was my idea."

Why he'd lie for her, she couldn't understand. Regardless, it was a lie wasted. Her father's scowl softened slightly and he shook his head.

"I know my daughter well enough, Young Stark, to know such ideas are almost always of her own making."

Morwenna froze at her father's words. Suddenly, a fourth figure came to Morwenna's attention at her father's left, a tall man with dark features and kind grey eyes. He did not share her father's frustration. In fact, he looked more amused than Robar and Waymar combined as he stood with his imposing figure, arms crossed over his shoulders and one thick eyebrow raised.

"Stark?" she asked, hands immediately pulling at her tangled wet hair and pushing salty strands from her face. She pulled her robe tighter over her soaking wet shift and the man stifled a small laugh with a weak attempt at a cough.

"Yes, Wenna. This is my good friend, Lord Eddard Stark." Her father gestured to the man at his left, then to the boy on the steps just below her. "And this…is his son. Robb."

Robb. Robb Stark.

If she hadn't already been mortified, she'd have slapped herself for her own stupidity. Of course he was Robb Stark. Few boys of noble blood had such a name, even fewer in the North. She'd read the noble family histories dozens of times leading up to the wedding and still the name had never once seemed peculiar until that very moment when her father pointed out what ought to have been obvious from the moment she'd taken his name from the library at White Harbor.

Robb Stark. Son of one of the most prominent houses in Westeros. No, she thought, heir to one of the most prominent houses in Westeros. The future Warden of the North.

And she'd asked him invasive questions about duty. Called him a coward. Pulled him into the sea against his will.

All she could do was curtsy and avert her gaze. Anything else might have only embarrassed her father further. She'd done enough damage for one day.

"I apologize, Ned. Wenna is still wild. I am now wondering if I should have left her back at Runestone."

Morwenna flinched.

Perhaps disappointment was in fact worse than pity, she mused.

"Don't be so hard on the child, Yohn," Ned insisted. "It warms me to see such spirit. She reminds me a great deal of my daughter Arya in that way. I'm now certain that some daughters will always have a bit of wild in them."

Morwenna started to smile in response, but her father's glance forced her lips back into a straight line and she gazed once again at the floor and her filthy feet.

Her father lightly pushed Waymar forward. "Take her upstairs to Gwyn and see if they can fix…" he let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "Just see what they can do."

Waymar nodded, grabbing Morwenna's arm gently and tugging her up the stairs. Morwenna carried her dripping boots, cringing as they left a trail of mud with every step. Waymar leaned in as they neared the top of the staircase.

"Now you've really done it, Wenna. Hope it was worth it."

Morwenna peered over her shoulder, meeting the river blue gaze of Lord Stark's son. He smiled.

"It was."

Waymar let out a great laugh.

Deep down, behind the cloud of shame Morwenna hovering over her at the realization she'd embarrassed her father yet again, a small wave of pride flashed through her.

Four and ten brought much more responsibility than Morwenna had ever wanted. But somewhere, between the accounts and the meetings, the duty, and the cages of silk and stone, somewhere she could still see the pieces of her that remained.

And for now she'd cling to them for dear life.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Things That Plague Us Most

RUNESTONE

The trees whistled and ached beneath the call of winter, creaking as remnants of starlight peeked through the shutters of Morwenna's bedchambers. Morning called late in winter and Morwenna, newly five and ten, now almost always woke before the dawn.

Flimsy flames crackled from the hearth as Morwenna peeled back the thick furs of her blankets, a shiver rushing across her skin as she stepped barefoot onto the wooden floors. She pulled her dressing robes over her shift, pulling the thick wool tighter around her as she shuffled sleepily towards the hearth.

She plopped a new log of wood onto the dwindling embers, waiting impatiently for the flame to take hold. She rubbed her hands together, her breath visible as she blew warm breath across her palms.

Draped over a nearby chair, a deep blue wool gown sat newly hemmed. In the dim firelight, she could make out silver threads embroidered in dainty patterns over the sleeves. Such delicate work could only have been done with her cousin, Emma's care. The dress was no doubt a reminder, as if Morwenna could forget, that Lord Arryn would be visiting Runestone for a feast in his honor.

Winter may have been a season more widely celebrated in the North, but Valemen were also known for their festivities and Lord Arryn's arrival in the Vale after four years would mark the first large celebration of the Runestone Winterfest since Morwenna was a child. The last time the Royces had hosted the event, her mother had still been alive to prepare them for it.

Now at five and ten with a new gown and not a head taller than last year, Morwenna would host the nobles of the Vale as Lady of Runestone for the first time.

Getting an early start was essential. Careful not to dirty her new frock, she pulled on a more familiar gown, sliding a stained apron around her waist as she tidied her nest of hair. Septa Prym helped her pull the thick raven hair back into four elegant braids. Where Morwenna lacked growth in height, she did not lack in her hair. Black tendrils spilled down her back and near her waist and no matter how many times she threatened to crop it shorter to ease the burden, when she pulled sheers to the ends she could not bring herself to do it.

Folly as it might have been, Morwenna still enjoyed sneaking out and pulling her hair out of it's confines to feel the wind wriggle through the loose ends. For now the braids would have to suffice. They were orderly and neat.

Gwyn would be proud.

Morwenna stopped first at the kitchens, pulling the rolled parchment from her apron pocket as she gazed through the list of courses for the feast that would be laid out at dusk. She'd recruited three cooks from Gulltown to assist her own and together, despite a few disagreements, they made quick work of the chopping and washing. Rich smells drifted through Morwenna's nostrils and as she reached for the spoon to taste one particularly delectable smelling stew, her cook – by the name of Imelda – swatted her hand away.

"Lady or no, I will have your hide. That stew is far from ready."

Morwenna bit back a laugh and she held her hands up in surrender.

Her second stop led her to the rookery where Maester's ravens would be waiting with letters. She dreaded the rookery, especially in the mornings when the ravens hounded her for the morsels of meat she'd bring after stopping in the kitchens. She could come back for the letters later, allow one of the Maester's apprentices to feed the ravens, but the letters brought news from around the Vale and if she waited, she'd only be making more work for herself later, especially if she stumbled into her father in the corridors. He liked a full report with breakfast, better to get it out of the way now.

Morwenna left the bucket of unidentified meat outside the rookery door. Already the ravens sensed she'd come to feed them and as she plucked notes from their legs, they nipped and pecked desperately at her hands.

"Ouch!" she hissed, gripping one note in her palm as blood stained the back of her knuckles. "Little bastard," she muttered under her breath.

Morwenna's nose scrunched as she pulled tiny pieces of unidentified meat from a bucket and tossed it into the perches. The ravens, as predicted, swarmed the food that lined their stalls and Morwenna wasted no time in skirting out through the door before they realized she had nothing left but her own flesh and bone now staining their beaks.

Standing on the other side of the door, Runestone's steward, Maelor, stood with three letters in his outstretched hand.

"A messenger from Gulltown came with these letters. They were sent through White Harbor."

"Much more civilized than those little beasts," she hissed. "Next time maybe I can greet the messenger while you coax letters from the ravens."

Maelor rarely laughed, a hard man who had once seen too much war in his itme. But the light smirk in the corner of his wrinkled mouth was reward enough.

"Have you seen father yet?" she asked. Maelor nodded. "Was he…in good spirits?"

"After finding out the Young Falcon has fathered a bastard with one of the servant girls? Not likely. He's still fuming. Lord Hardyng might be six and ten, but your father lit up his backside as if he were still a boy. No doubt he'll have trouble sitting through the feast tonight."

Morwenna shook her head. "It's not the sitting I'm worried about. Better they'd have whipped his…" she paused, clearing her throat. "Nevermind. I'll see to Papa. Hopefully one of those little pricks brought good news, otherwise we're all in for it."

Maelor's smirk widened as he bowed his head and left Morwenna to the handful of correspondence she carried down into the Maester's study.

It was a miracle anyone had been up before the sun after Harry's punishment. He'd been put on display late into the night when news came that he'd impregnated one of the serving girls at his aunt's estate. Ever since Harrold Hardyng had come to Runestone to train with Ser Samwell Stone, he'd been a pain in Morwenna's side. While she certainly didn't approve of his methods, she appreciated that for once he was a pain in someone else's.

More specifically her father's.

Fathering bastards was not becoming of a young lord who might one day become Lord of the Vale, at least not with so little attempt at discretion. Of course he might also never become Lord of the Vale if the health of Lord Arryn's son ever improved. Another thing she'd learned from all the letters she read was that Sweet Robin's summer illness clung to the young boy through autumn and now into winter. Winter was the worst time for a child to be ill, especially the only child of a lord. As Lord Arryn had no other children, his nephew, Harry, would be considered his heir should the worst occur.

This was precisely why the lords of the Vale had agreed Harry would be better suited to train at Runestone, away from the Eyrie and away from curious eyes. No one, except perhaps for Harry, wanted to give off the impression that the Young Falcon was sitting in wait for a seat that may never be his.

And for the sake of Harry's ego, Morwenna prayed to the old gods and the new that he was never gifted such power.

Morwenna stood outside the Maester's door, sorting through the letters before spotting one with her name on it. The handwriting was slanted and sharp, unfamiliar to her now trained eyes. Most letters came addressed to the Maester or her father. Rarely to her directly, unless they came from Gwyn in the Riverlands. She flipped the parchment, brows furrowing as she spotted the seal. Staring back at her, a small direwolf snarled, teeth exposed.

Stark? She thought. Lord Stark had written to her father on no less than eight separate occasions in the last year, but never had he written to her directly. She slid her fingers beneath the weathered parchment and, with effort, released the wax seal.

To the Girl Who is Fond of High Places, it read and Morwenna's lips twitched at the immediate realization that the letter had not been from Lord Stark, but in fact his son.

"Robb," she whispered with a grin.

The Maester's door opened and Morwenna jumped, heart leaping as she quickly stuffed the letter into her apron pocket.

"You've been standing outside my door for several minutes, I was wondering if you were ever planning to knock," said Maester Helliweg.

Morwenna stood, hand over her wildly beating chest, and bowed her head. "Apologies, Maester, for my delay. I received my very first letter. One not from Gwyn of course."

Helliweg smiled. "Well as Lady of Runestone, I suspect you will begin receiving a good deal of correspondence as you become a woman." He pulled the door open and motioned towards his table. "Come now. You have a long day ahead of you. Best not to delay too much longer."

Long day. Newly five and ten, Morwenna's life was now a succession of long days and even longer nights in winter. Her moments of freedom became fewer and far between. She wondered if one day soon, they would cease to exist all together.

To the Girl Who is Fond of High Places,

This letter will assuredly come as a surprise to you, and though I am not accustomed to having friends to write to very often, I had hoped you wouldn't mind receiving one from me. I'm not sure what it is that grown-ups spend so much time writing to one another about. Perhaps that is a lesson for seven and ten to be learnt next year. And yet, as I find myself alone with my thoughts, I wonder if writing letters is a way for us to be rid of them. The things that plague us most.

This winter seems colder and darker than usual, giving me much more time to myself and these thoughts. I've thought often, in the last few months, of Seagard and the things we spoke of. I was once afraid of duty and yet you taught me that fears should be faced, even the ones that frighten us most.

I have more responsibilities than I did at five and ten. I am now my father's shadow, following him on errands of many different occasions. Some are unpleasant whilst others I quite enjoy. But as my mother prepares Winterfell for the Winter Fest, I took notice for the first time how much responsibility falls on her shoulders. She works harder than almost anyone at Winterfell. It made me wonder, how a girl of four and ten, perhaps already five and ten, could handle such a burden.

I hope you still make time for your tall places, Morwenna. I am doing my best to make time for mine.

Your Friend,

Robb

The letter from Robb sat in Morwenna's left cloak pocket as she stood out in the courtyard of Runestone, waiting for Lord Arryn's party to arrive. Torches were lit against the fading sunlight. Dusk kissed the skies in oranges and pinks and Morwenna thought to herself that it would be a beautiful view from where Gwyn sat in Seagard.

Until the letter, she hadn't thought much of Seagard, at least not aside from her sister who wrote regularly to report on the joys of married life. Morwenna could tell there was something hidden behind her sister's polite words and while she had no doubt Patrek was a kind husband to his beautiful bride, the loneliness in Gwyn's letters became more apparent each time they arrived.

Gwyn had always craved the life of a mother. Morwenna thought that was because she'd had so much practice in raising her younger sisters when their mother passed, that she would no doubt be a wonderful one when her time came to have her own. Still, months had passed and no such news had come.

Morwenna had not found the same ease and pleasure in mentoring their younger sisters in Gwyn's absence. Both Ysilla and Helena were now her responsibility, in the same way Waymar and Robar were left to Andar's supervision. And yet, with the rest of her duties to Runestone, her brothers and her father, raising younger sisters was by far the most difficult task she'd been saddled with.

Ysilla was amiable enough but sensitive and her feelings easily hurt. Countless times Morwenna had accidentally allowed her sullen mood to dampen her Ysilla's spirits and though her younger sister would hide her discontentment beneath her mild-mannered facade, there were often days when Morwenna caught the downtrodden feelings peeking through. Extra care was given to ensure Ysilla felt loved and cared for, time that was likewise unneeded for raising a young lady that she would soon become.

Helena, however, was a handful of a different kind. Rebellious and cunning, Morwenna had once believed her youngest sister to be a kindred spirit. However, as Helena reached her tenth nameday, it became clear that she was cut from a different cloth entirely. Gwyn used to call Morwenna the "Wildling of Runestone" but no moniker rang quite as true as it did for Helena Royce. Still, each time Helena would escape her lessons with Septa Prym to take to the fields and run until breath left her lungs, a small smile would appear on Morwenna's lips. She hoped for her sister's sake, she had much more time to run wild.

Morwenna straightened Helena's simple black braid, pulling it over her shoulder and tightening the bronze colored ribbon. Helena squirmed beneath Morwenna's touch, her pink lips curling into a beastly snarl. Freckles flecked the young girl's pale white flesh and Morwenna sheathed a smirk as she straightened her expression, mirroring her father.

"Stand still, Lena," Morwenna said, lowering her voice. "Lord Arryn's visit will put father in good spirits and so if you are on your best behavior, I'm certain he wouldn't notice if you were to sneak out of the feast early for some extra time to play with the others."

A spark lit behind her sister's eyes and her squirming ceased. She cast a careful glance back at their father who stood at the head of the Royce family party, then back to Morwenna.

"Promise?" she asked.

Morwenna's brow rose. "Promise to behave like a lady, for only a few hours more?"

Helena held out her petite hand. Even at ten, Helena had a height Morwenna lacked at her age. She was small now but she would one day be a tall Royce woman with curves like Gwyn. Morwenna took hold of the small hand and a deal was struck.

"Open the gates!" shouted Maelor from atop the watchtower.

Morwenna scurried back to her space at her father's left. The space, normally reserved for their mother and most previously, Gwyn, had become Morwenna's as Lady of Runestone. At their father's right stood Andar, followed by a newly arrived Robar who'd returned from his tourneys in the south long enough to celebrate winter festivities with his family. Waymar, his spirits low since his return to Runestone, had a distant look in his eyes as he stood between Ysilla and Robar. Helena, at least, did her best to smile.

It was a poor attempt but Morwenna didn't care, so long as it was no longer a scowl.

Harry stood directly behind her and she was spared his snide jokes only thanks to her father's presence. With his sore backside, he was not likely to waste any remaining good will on pranks or folly.

The gates opened, revealing an aged Lord last time she'd seen the man, he'd seemed much larger, much more grand. In four years it looked as though time had sucked him dry. But he was Hand of the King, a position of honor and responsibility that far surpassed her own. If one year as Lady of Runestone could give Morwenna such anxiety, she could hardly imagine what it would be like to have the the weight of the entire Seven Kingdoms on her shoulders.

Lord Arryn offered a small distracted smile as he dismounted his horse. He stepped forward, offering his arm. "Yohn, you're a sight for sore eyes," the man said, tired wrinkles creasing under his eyes. "I have been away so long, you're beginning to look nearly as old as me."

Morwenna saw her father crack a smile as he took Lord Arryn's arm in his own and pulled him into a warm embrace.

"Time has surely been no friend to either of us poor souls," Yohn said.

Lord Arryn turned, eyes darting quickly over the new Lady of Runestone and his brows rose. "Do not tell me this is young Morwenna?" he asked. "Surely you are not the small girl I once knew to ride wildly about the courtyard on her favorite pony."

Morwenna squirreled away the unladylike laugh as she bowed her head and curtsied. "I'm afraid I am one and the same, My Lord."

"Wenna has grown up in your absence, Lord. Her sister left large shoes to fill but we think she is finding her way well enough."

The words were more comparison than compliment but Morwenna did her best not to let them sting. She offered a warm smile and despite the distant worry behind the man's ocean blue eyes, a flash of warmth appeared. He nodded his head and then looked past her, eyeing his nephew of six and ten at her back.

"Nephew," spoke Lord Arryn. "You look well. It is good to see how you've grown here at Runestone. How is your bladework under Strong Sam's tutelage?"

"Well, Lord Uncle," Harry replied, his voice loud and confident as it sang over the onlookers in the Runestone courtyard. "This summer I have made a name for myself at many tourneys in the Vale. Ser Samwell Stone says I will be ready for tourneys in King's Landing by spring."

Harry stood much taller than Morwenna, and even without turning, she could feel his presence as he bowed to his uncle. Morwenna gazed up at the older man. She'd once heard tales that Harry resembled his uncle from the time when Jon Arryn was a young man. It was hard to believe the tired man before her now had once been one of the most handsome men in the realm.

Of course, Morwenna, even at the impressionable age of five and ten, had always believed beauty was neither a truth nor a standard for all men. Harry had both the looks and charm to sweep most girls, peasant or princess, off of their feet. But his pride left a sour taste in Morwenna's mouth and whatever traditional Andal beauty swelled in that golden hair or cerulean eyes, was overshadowed by his own stupidity.

And anyways, Morwenna had very little experience with men, so who was she to judge?

Lord Arryn's shoulders stiffened, his soft features fading into hard stoicism.

"Yes, well. It will be nice to see familiar faces in King's Landing." He then turned to Yohn. "Come, I would speak with you alone before the feast. I bring not only tidings, but news as well."

The crowd parted as Bronze Yohn and Jon Arryn started their way towards the keep.

A flurry of neatly braided red hair rushed her way in the form of her cousin, Emma. She gripped Morwenna's arm, panic in her eyes.

"Does that mean they are not going directly to the feast?" she asked hurriedly. "Should someone warn the cooks?"

The change in plans would undoubtedly alter all of Morwenna's carefully laid plans for the feast, but she'd been around her father's men long enough to know that they could forgive a delay in food if they had enough ale in their bellies.

"Find Ursula in the kitchens. Tell her the men are thirsty and to supply them with as much wine and ale that they forget their hunger pains. We won't start the feast without Lord Arryn. I'll be sure whatever business he has with my father does not take too long."

Emma's shoulders sank. "There are already circles under your eyes," she said, tugging the gloves from her hands and pressing her cold fingers beneath Morwenna's eyes. "They should be ashamed, running you ragged like this."

"There are always circles under Wenna's eyes," Harry proclaimed, throwing his shoulders over both Emma and Morwenna's shoulders. "It's just harder to tell because they're usually covered up by so many freckles."

Morwenna shrugged him off, her gloved hands balling into fists at her side.

"Shouldn't you be scurrying off now, to find a new girl to pump one of your bastards into," she hissed. The crass comment was said low enough not to stir any eavesdroppers but loud enough it had its desired effect. Harry's smile faded. "You may have had free reign while you were at your aunt's estate, but if you defile any of the women – or girls – at Runestone, I'll be sure it's more than your hide next time."

Harry lifted his chin, a small curve in his lips as he towered over her, stepping closer, bending at his waist into an exaggerated bow. "Yes, My Lady."

As he sauntered off, Morwenna couldn't stifle a laugh at the slight limp in his step.

"I don't know why you let him get to you," Emma whispered. "Harry is harmless. All talk, like every other young knight in the Vale."

"Harmless enough perhaps, but if he's not kept in line, I fear half the Vale will be populated with his offspring. And one Harrold Hardyng is quite enough for me."

Emma hid a snort behind her hand.

There was an old tower just outside the main keep of Runestone where Morwenna used as her place to escape and hide. The feast carried on into the late hours and so long as men were making merry, Morwenna would have things to look after. She'd already seen that her sisters were off to bed, Lord Arryn's belly was full of pheasant and fish, and her father wore a genuine smile on his face – albeit small – when crowds of young and old filled the great hall for wine and dance.

Times were not hard at Runestone, but happy memories for her father were few and far between since her mother's death. It was good to hear laughter through the halls, even if it was caused by drunkenness.

Still, through all her duties, Morwenna found a moment to breathe. The old tower overlooked the tall cliffs that jutted from the earth in the grey rocks that Runestone sat atop. Here, on clear winter nights, she could see the stars so clearly it was as if she could almost touch them with her bare hands. Her breath danced out into the night, visible in the torchlight alongside the fortress walls. She sat with her back against stone as she reread Robb's letter for the fourth time. Here she did not need to suppress the stupid grin that peeled back her lips, exposing her white teeth. Not one of her polite smiles. A true smile.

I hope you still make time for your tall places, Morwenna. The words said in his neat tilted handwriting. The 'M' had a small embellishment on the end.

She had not thought much of Robb since Seagard, of the boy from the Window and now the boy from the sea. But for some reason, as her eyes poured greedily over the words in his letter, she could not stop wondering.

Should she write him back? Whatever would she have to say that would be of any interest to a boy who would one day be Warden of the North? He had thought of her words for months since their meeting at Runestone and yet as she thought back to that moment she could hardly remember what she'd said.

How could such words, her words, impact him in such a way?

Heavy footsteps piled slowly up the steps of the wall bridge. Morwenna flinched, pulling the letter closed and shoving it back into the pocket of her cloak. She peered over the edge of her hiding space and saw two figures in the dark, black hair illuminated by the warm light of the overhead torch.

"What's got you in such a sullen mood?" came the voice of her eldest brother. Andar, while every bit as tall as their father, had a voice that warmed the soul. Even when mildly inebriated. "You should be finding a woman for your bed at this hour."

A scoff escaped the second figure, a common sound from her brother Waymar. Perpetually unimpressed with others. Only ever impressed with himself. It was a miracle he and Morwenna were as close as they were. But she'd always assumed it was because he had little cause for duty as a third son, and much more lax on the rules than Andar had ever been. And far less likely to enforce them on his rule-bending sister.

Still, the deep set frown on his lips furrowed Morwenna's brow. She had seen the far-away look in his eyes for months, the light playfulness that had once filled his pale eyes to the brim, disappearing week after week.

"Every time I come home, I tire of this place more and more," Waymar muttered. "I tire of it having no use of me."

Adar clapped his hand over their brother's shoulder.

"You tasted the outside world and now you realize how dull it can be when you are caged here, like the rest of us."

"Like Wenna, perhaps," Waymar corrected. "You at least get to travel on father's behalf. Robar travels from city to city, tourney to tourney, making his name. What use do I have to father aside from being a messenger when he is too busy to leave these suffocating walls?"

Waymar threw his hands up, gesturing to the fortress around him as he looked around.

Morwenna slunk down, pressing her back once again into the stone, head hidden from view. Still, the drunken voices of her brothers echoed loud enough that Waymar's frustration reverberated off of her and the walls around them. Even moreso, his frustration permeated into her soul.

Suffocating walls. Of those she knew too well.

"What do you expect? If we were at war, perhaps he could make better use of each of us. But we have been at peace so long, sons of lords grow fat in their fortresses. And there is nothing wrong with peace time, brother. Better bored and fat than in the ground next to our mother."

"Well I hate it," Waymar hissed. "Every moment I sit beneath your shadow, and Robar's, I rot. Father has no time for his third son and I have no time for Runestone."

"No time or no patience?" asked Andar. "You think you are of no use here? What of our sisters? Of Morwenna? She and I have a duty to this place but it is in you she finds a kindred spirit. I am content with this life, as suffocating as it may be. But it is where I belong. The two of you…" Andar sighed. "Neither of you could be content unless you'd seen all life had to offer."

"No," Waymar countered. "Wenna is not burdened by pride like me. She aches to see the world, I only ache to make my name in it. But there is no place to make a name as a third son. Not as a Royce."

"And so what? Who gives a flying fuck about a name?" Andar, who very rarely lost his cool, raised his voice. "What is so great about being remembered? Wouldn't you rather have a good life, with your family? Take a wife and grow old? Live to see your children grow old?"

No, Morwenna thought. Waymar would never be content with such an easy life.

"I am going to tell father that I want to take the black."

Morwenna's heart sank. Waymar had always been prideful. Always coveted the recognition of their elder brothers that he had never had. But to join the Night's Watch? The brotherhood rarely took on volunteers now. It was filled to the brim with men dodging the noose. Whatever recognition Waymar wanted could surely not come from somewhere like the Wall.

"When?" Andar asked. "Not in the middle of Winter?"

"And why not? Winter is as good as any time."

"We can't travel North until the snow melts anyways, give it some more thought."

"I've given it enough thought! I'm doing this. With or without father's blessing."

"And what of Wenna?" Andar pleaded.

"She is finding her stride well enough."

Well enough. They all said the same. Would she ever be enough, she wondered?

"She needs more time. Without you, she will feel more alone than ever."

Morwenna didn't like being used as a pawn, even if it was so very true. She was five and ten and yet some days she still felt like a child. Only Waymar didn't treat her as one. He saw through Morwenna's tired performance as Lady of Runestone. Straight to her soul. The soul that wanted to escape. Until now, having him made her feel as if there was someone else who truly understood. Not what it meant to have a duty. Andar understood that well enough. But instead, what it felt like to want more. And to have it just out of reach.

"You don't give her enough credit," Waymar answered. "She doesn't need me and if you asked her, she would tell you the same thing."

She would, if it came to it. Not because it was true but because as difficult as it would be to let him go, she would never be the one to hold him back.

"I'm still not so certain. Please," Andar begged. "Give it a little more time, Wenna will be six and ten next winter. If you can bear just one more year…I know it is a lot to ask."

A long pause hung in the air alongside Morwenna's breath. Her shoulders raised, tense against the muscles of her neck as she sat there waiting for Waymar's reply. Finally, a resigned sigh poured from her brother's chest.

"One year, before the snows set in. Promise me you will have my back when I speak to father."

Andar clapped his arm to Waymar's.

"You have my word."

Wenna's heart sank where there should have been relief. She'd have one more year with Waymar, the brother who know her best. Who perhaps loved her best. But it would be a year of misery for him. And in turn, Morwenna's stomach churned as she clasped the parchment against her chest. In turn, she would be the cause of her brother's misery.

At five and ten, Morwenna became Lady of Runestone. And still, she did not have the power to bring about her brother's freedom.

And yet, as I find myself alone with my thoughts, I wonder if writing letters is a way for us to be rid of them. The things that plague us most.

Robb's words churned in her mind. The things that plague us most. Perhaps she had something to write about after all.