Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

8th Day of the 5th Moon, Castle Black

The First Ranger

Four of them were crammed inside the Lord Commander's solar, looking over the map of Beyond the Wall.

"You expect us to believe this… old wives' tale?" Ser Alliser snorted.

Benjen could clearly detect the hint of derision in his flinty voice, but he cared not. He knew the man was bitter and did not begrudge him. Many forced between the black, the block, or losing some limb held resentment. Nowadays, few came to the Watch on their own, and even a good part of those were led astray by the wandering crow's false promises.

Truthfully a good night's sleep in his bed after riding hard for the last six days sounded quite alluring to him right now. One horse had died, and he had nearly driven the other four to death. Yet, things like rest could wait; he had hurried for a reason.

"I am the sword in the darkness," the Benjen spoke solemnly, and the old knight's eyes hardened, "I am the fire that burns against the cold. I am the shield that guards the realm of men!"

"I know my vows well enough," the Southerner grunted.

"Then, Ser, you should know that we know little chance but heed Lord Stark's warning," Aemon's voice was soft but pointed like an arrow towards the heart of the matter as always. "It is our duty as men of the Night's Watch."

"It would certainly explain how few of our rangers that were to go deeper north managed to return lately," Jeor Mormont seemed weary. "There are those… rumours from the fisherfolk near Eastwatch - they say they have glimpsed white walkers on the northern shores."

"Snow, snow," the black raven cawed from the Lord Commander's shoulder, giving Benjen the chills.

The bird usually repeated words it had just heard…

"That was just Mance Rayder, and he is gone now," Thorne sounded unconvinced. "Without him, the savages will kill each other or scatter like a pile of loose sand. Besides, the sun makes the snow play odd tricks on your eyes if you stare at it for too long. Many a time I've heard fisherfolk in King's Landing claim to have glimpsed some merlings or selkies once or twice a moon when they're deep into their cups."

"Maybe. But Mance Rayder was a good ranger but not good enough to command the wildlings to catch so many of ours," Jeor sighed and rubbed his brow. "The more I think of Lord Stark's warning, the more it makes sense. Even most of the recently caught wildlings spoke of a similar tale. Cold shadows in the darkness and dead men walking."

"We scarcely know anything about the Others," the wizened maester said.

"There's no proof of any of this," Alliser Thorne's eyes were flintier than usual. "Just some vague conjectures and the ramblings of some old drunkard and a few savages driven crazy by the cold."

"It's the height of summer," Aemon reminded. "We should find some proof, even if it's just for the Night's Watch. Forewarned is forearmed."

"It's been a while since we had a great ranging," Mormont muttered while gazing at the unfurled map.

"It's too risky to send most of our strength blind," Bejen cautioned. "Send me."

"I don't like this," Old Bear's voice was grim, "We've lost enough capable rangers as it is."

"I'll pick a dozen men with a good head on their shoulders and lead them myself," the ranger explained, "If you call for a Great Ranging and something goes wrong, the Watch cannot bear the loss."

"But we can't bear the loss of Benjen Stark either," the old maester sighed. "If anything happens to Lord Stark's brother, the new Hand might be far less amiable in providing any of the promised aid to the Watch. And without the support of the North, we'd be just as doomed."

"My lordly brother knows his duty," Benjen countered. "There cannot be a strong North without a strong Night's Watch."

He was aware a part of the reason he was chosen for First Ranger was that he was Ned's brother. There had been more skilled rangers than him, with far more experience seven years ago. But Benjen also ensured that all the doubts about his ability were squashed in the yard or field and never lost his drive to improve. Now none could rival him in Castle Black, both on ranging or with a blade.

There were many great warriors in the Watch. After all, there wasn't much to do here at the Wall when not ranging but mundane duties and practising one's skill in arms. Yet, sooner or later, most grew complacent, and their efforts waned, reduced to barely staving off the rust. To his knowledge, the only veteran that had relentlessly pushed himself as hard as him was Qhorin Halfhand, and the First Ranger defeated the man in three out of five bouts when they last met.

"Yet he took more than half of the Gift," Alliser's flinty voice broke him out of his musing. "The Watch does not answer to the Iron Throne - the King had no right to give away our land!"

"You are free to go south and voice your displeasure in front of Robert Baratheon," Benjen snorted. "The Watch is nothing without the Seven Kingdoms."

"What the Iron Throne easily gives, it can easily take away," Aemon chuckled hoarsely, "It's not like the Order has been using Alysanne's gift much the last two centuries."

"What's done is done! Lord Stark has promised he shall do his all to aid the Watch to the best of his abilities, and I have no reason to doubt his word," Jeor slammed his hand on the table and turned to Benjen. "You said obsidian supposedly kills those Others?"

"So did the greenseer claim," the First Ranger sighed. He knew this would be difficult, but alas, he couldn't truly speak of his nephew's letter. He trusted the men in this room with anything else, but not this. "I received two quivers of obsidian arrows and half a dozen daggers before I left for here."

He had almost left without any, but Ned had managed to gather a handful of the glassy rock from the Stark lands.

"I remember reading through some of the olden records when I first arrived," Aemon's pale, unblinking eyes gazed at Benjen, "According to them, the Children sent a hundred obsidian daggers to the Watch as tribute every year."

"The Children of the Forest?"

"The very same."

Benjen could believe it, the Old Bear looked thoughtful, but Thorne seemed as cold and dismissive as always.

"Lord Stark has already bid the Skagosi and the mountain clansmen to begin mining and fashioning obsidian and send it to the Watch," the First Ranger rubbed his brow. "We should see the first shipments before the end of this moon."

"Death. Death," the raven cawed erratically, and the Lord Commander offered him a few grains of corn, which were quickly gobbled up by the black beak.

"There might be some pieces of obsidian remaining in the old abandoned vaults," the maester offered.

"Fine," Mormont's voice became grim as he gazed at Benjen, "Go on your ranging, but only after you gather some obsidian arms. You're free to pick ten men and venture north."

"It shall be done," the ranger bowed with a small smile.

"I'll give you three moons, Stark, and if you aren't back with any results by then, I'll be forced to call for a great ranging regardless," Mormont turned to the maester, "Go through our library and see what you can find on those 'Others'. And Thorne, I want the current batch of recruits in fighting shape as fast as possible."

The Old Bear then dismissed them but signalled Benjen to stay back.

"Yes, Lord Commander?"

For a minute, the old man's indomitable eyes scrutinised him. It reminded Benjen of his father's heavy gaze that made him squirm as a boy. Yet, while formidable, Jeor Mormont was no Rickard Stark, and Benjen Stark was no longer a green boy.

The former Lord of Bear Isle unstrapped the sword with the weathered bear-head pommel from his belt and shoved it into his hands, "Take this."

"That's the Mormont family blade," Benjen shook his head reverently and attempted to return it, "I cannot accept it."

"You can, and you will," Jeor grunted and didn't move to pick up the offered sword.

"You should pass it on to Lady Maege or her daughters."

"None of them favours the sword," a bitter laugh rolled out of the Old Bear, "Besides, they considered it disgraced after my son's idiocy. No, Longclaw is mine to give away as I wish."

"Why not use it yourself?"

"My sword arm is not what it was five months ago, let alone five years ago," the Lord Commander sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "Every day, I grow a tad slower and weaker. Take it, Stark, and don't argue. By your own words, these cold fucks can shatter normal steel, but Valyrian Steel is unbreakable."

"Thank you, Lord Commander," Benjen bowed. "You honour me greatly."

"Honour you?" Jeor snorted. "You're the best sword in Castle Black if not the whole Watch. I can hardly think of anyone worthier to wield this. Maybe you can wash away the blade's dishonour. Change the pommel as you wish. You look like shite. Go now; some sleep will do you good."

The first ranger left and slowly headed towards his quarters, deep in thought and Valyrian Steel blade in hand. The sword was light, but it weighed uncomfortably in his grip.

Receiving a Valyrian Steel sword like this was a tremendous honour. It was practically unheard of for someone to voluntarily pass it down outside their House. Yet Benjen remembered his father's lessons and saw this for what it was. He would have never received the blade if he was not a Stark. Ned had spared House Mormont after Jorah's disgrace when they could have easily been deposed and replaced with someone else, especially with no eligible male heir bearing the name Mormont. But he did not, and the Mormonts remembered that kindness.

The Watch did not take part and was supposedly impartial to any political affairs, but Jeor knew his House's debts well.

It annoyed Benjen greatly, even if he tried his best not to show it. But he was not crazy enough to decline a dragonsword. The First Ranger would do what he always did - prove himself worthy and then some more. He would do his part, and try his best to procure proof, one way or another.

Still, it mattered little. Mormont was mostly convinced, and Benjen could tell Aemon believed, while Thorne dismissed the whole thing.

So what if he convinced the Lord Commander and the black brothers?

Truthfully, there wasn't much the Watch could do now. Not with the scarce amount of men left in the order. Benjen's only hope rested on his brother's shoulders.

Dutiful, honourable Ned, who never disappointed.

Who managed to spin a lie and hide Lya's boy from the whole realm. A nephew lost to him, even now.

Benjen just hoped Jon was fine. He never admitted it, but the sullen young boy was his favourite. He shook his head and began thinking of whom to bring for his ranging.

***

15th Day of the 5th Moon

Arya Stark

Her stitches were crooked again.

"Better than last week," her mother said warmly.

"Still crooked, though," Arya frowned down at her work.

What was supposed to be a direwolf looked like a mismatched rat instead.

"You need not be a skilled seamstress, Arya," Catelyn sighed softly. "Just enough so you can be considered knowledgeable in case you need it. No skill can be mastered overnight. Let me show you again, and don't rush it this time."

They undid the stitches, and her mother slowly guided her through the smallest of motions. The next attempt looked less crooked than before.

Arya beamed; she loved her mother; she really did. But now, she loved her even more. Catelyn Stark was amazing, and a far better teacher than Septa Mordane could ever be. Her stitches almost looked like a direwolf. Almost. Shadowing her mother proved to be quite interesting. Not as swordplay or bow practice, but far better than the governess' lessons.

Coordinating and organising the Stark Household was far more arduous than Arya ever expected. Catelyn was also busy arranging events, greeting the new noble guests, dealing with the royal family and the entourage and ensuring no problems arose in the running of Winterfell. Amazingly, she did it all with grace and courtesy that would make Sansa jealous. Even Arya, who had little interest in pageantry and the such, was amazed by the amount of respect and power Catelyn managed to command.

"Come, it's time to break our fast," her mother said after half an hour.

"More wedding preparations afterwards?" Arya asked, remembering how her mother had all but fought with the Queen over the number of courses on the wedding feast for hours yesterday.

Who cared if there were twenty-one or twenty-two different dishes? Regardless, the girl was happy to note that her mother had emerged victorious in that argument. Although trying not to burst out in laughter when the Queen looked like she had swallowed a lemon whole had been a great challenge.

"Most of the details are ironed out now," Catelyn sighed tiredly as they walked through the hallways, "We'll focus on finishing the wedding cloak with the Queen."

"Does that mean I'll be free for the rest of the day?"

The girl tried to hide her excitement but probably failed, judging by her mother's knowing gaze.

"Partly. I've arranged for Luwin to tutor you instead in the afternoon."

"But I finished with the maester's lessons last year."

"Reviewing your knowledge never hurts," her mother chided. "Besides, I asked him to go into far greater detail in history, household management, and sums this time."

Arya dutifully nodded; the sun had barely risen, so she still had half the day to herself. Luwin's lessons might have been boring sometimes, but she was no worse than Sansa there, so she didn't hate it. Another fortnight and all of this would be over, and she'd get to begin her arms training, even if only the bow.

The Great Hall was quite bustling, reminding Arya of the last harvest feast; half the Stark bannermen had arrived already. Arya made her way and sat next to her sister.

Sansa was lost in thought while looking at Robb and Myrcella, who were happily talking to each other. Her brother had a small smile, while the princess looked impassive, but her green eyes gleamed with delight. Her sister then threw a forlorn look at Joffrey, who had his usual arrogant expression that seemed to look down on everyone and everything. Sansa was sullen. But even while sulking, her sister seemed pretty and ladylike, much to her envy.

Arya opened her mouth to make a jab at her sibling but thought better and quickly closed it. Causing a scene during breakfast would be… unladylike, and the bow training was only half a moon away.

Truth be told, she'd rather have Myrcella as a new sister rather than have Sansa married off to someone annoying who looked like a girl. Arya shook her head and focused on the pieces of honeyed chicken before her.

***

Noon was fast approaching, and Arya had gotten bored of playing with Nymeria - one of the few things that wouldn't get her in trouble.

With a sigh, she wandered around Winterfell aimlessly, followed by her direwolf and Alyn, one of the Stark guards. It was good to have received word of Jon, but it still felt surreal. Arya simply couldn't imagine him killing that bear, no matter how many times Torren Liddle retold the tale. Yet the enormous white bearskin pelt hung behind her father's seat in the Great Hall for display for all to see said otherwise.

Her favourite brother was now called the 'White Huntsman' by some of the clansmen, even though she was unsure whether it was because of the bear's colouring, Ghost, or maybe his name. A bawdy song, 'The White Huntsman and the Maiden Fair', a heroic rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, had spread like fire in the last few days - much to her mother's chagrin. There was only one problem.

Why did he leave?

Why did Jon leave her alone? She couldn't practise archery or even stickfighting without him. Everyone missed him! Arya couldn't help but wish he had taken her along and taught her how to hunt.

"Arya?" Her sister's voice startled her. "Shouldn't you be with mother?"

Arya found herself on the covered bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep. She looked up to see Sansa standing still like an elegant statue and gazing at her with some sullenness that reminded her of Jon. Lady was there, sitting obediently next to her sister, but she looked rather miserable, with ears drooping low. Nymeria softly paddled to her littermate, playfully nipped her ear, and circled around.

"Shouldn't you be in lessons with Mordane?" Arya made a face at her sister.

"There are no lessons today."

"I already did mine early in the morning," she explained honestly.

Sansa nodded and turned to gaze through the window into the yard.

Arya curiously approached, and, to her disappointment, it was the younger boys drilling under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrik. Tommen and Rickon wore heavily padded armour that made them look like small barrels, more so the blonde prince, who was already rather plump.

Both were panting heavily and staggering under the shouts and encouragement of two dozen spectators. Robb and Theon were there, along with the Stark men-at-arms, Cley Cerwin, the clansmen and men wearing Lannister and Baratheon livery she didn't recognise.

"Not showing the dear Crown Prince around?"

"He's… in Wintertown," Sansa replied evenly, and her gaze didn't move from the windows.

"Doing what?" Arya needled.

"Visiting the brothel."

That explained why her radiant pretty sister was here, sulking more than she did at breakfast.

The girl laughed as Rickon whacked the older Prince with his small wooden sword, "So, just like his father?"

"It's not polite nor wise to speak ill of the king," Sansa's protest was weak.

"It's true, though."

Her sister had no response to that. Soon enough, Rickon and Tommen could barely stand straight, let alone fight. Robb entered the yard and began sparring against Walder.

Her brother no longer staggered from the giant's heavy blows and managed to hold his ground better.

"Robb can't win against Walder," her sister's voice was dull, making her frown. She preferred when Sansa was smiling and happy.

"Of course," Arya snorted. The titanic guardsman was one of the most dangerous fighters in Winterfell. Even their father lost more often than not against the man. "But our brother's getting better; half a year ago, most guardsmen gave him trouble."

They watched down at the yard in silence; they sparred thrice, and all three Robb lost, but Walder had to work more and more for each victory.

Then, Sansa stiffened, and Arya saw Joffrey approach, shadowed by the Hound as always. It did not bode well; the crown prince bore his usual mocking smile.

She thought the golden-haired boy would challenge her brother when tired, but the Prince seemed to have some sense. Joffrey stopped in the shadows with the southern squires and knights while the Hound walked forward and stopped some five yards away from Walder, who was wiping beads of sweat from his face.

Clegane might have been muscled like a bull, but he was still half a head shorter than the heaving giant who looked down on the scarred man.

"Care for a bout?" The Hound's voice was loud and coarse, just like the rest of him.

"On the morrow," the man-at-arms grunted.

"Afraid?"

Walder snorted at the taunt and simply turned away, not paying further attention as if the Hound was just a barking dog. Arya couldn't help but giggle as the good part of Clegane's face began to turn red.

A burly bald clansman with a pinecone stitched to his rough surcoat stepped forward. He was almost as tall as the Hound and no less muscled.

"Wanna fight me instead?" The clansman's voice boomed, making Arya wince.

"Not interested," Joffrey's sworn sword turned around.

"Why, Clegane, you only dare challenge tired foes?"

The Hound slowly turned around and measured the Northerner before him.

"The giant of Winterfell is not much of a fighter if a green boy of six and ten can tire him out," the golden prince jeered and laughed at Clegane's words, and the Lannister and Baratheon men were quick to join him.

"Come now, is the dog all bark and no bite?" The clansman snorted, and Robb, Theon, and the Stark guardsmen and clansmen were the ones to jeer and laugh.

Joffrey's sworn shield stilled before his burned face twisted into an ugly snarl, "I'll make you regret this."

"Which House is the man from?" Arya asked.

"That's Morgan from clan Liddle," her sister hummed. "The mountain clans aren't really considered nobility."

The two big men were just beginning to don their armour when Turnip, Gage's daughter, hastily ran to Sansa and Arya.

"Lady Arya, lady Sansa," the girl bowed clumsily while gasping for breath. "Lady Stark requests your presence at the entrance yard."

"Now?" Arya reluctantly asked; she wanted to watch the two big men fight. "Why?"

"The Mormont and the Glover banners are approaching."

So her new governess would be here today. Her father had only said she was from Bear Isle, no matter how much she asked.

"Come, Arya, let's go," Sansa urged, "It's our duty to welcome the guests."

Both the fighters had just finished donning their armour, and now Clegane and Liddle were facing each other, waiting for Rodrik's signal. Arya grudgingly tore her gaze from the window and followed after her sister, together with Nymeria and Lady. Hopefully, the clansman would kick the scarred man's sorry arse. Even if he didn't, Walder would probably make short work of the dog knight.

With a sigh, Arya shook her head. She'd definitely ask Robb who won at dinner, a pity that she couldn't watch for herself.

As they crossed a gallery and passed the gate leading towards the outer ward, Arya began to feel restless. "Do you think Lady Mormont brought her daughters? I heard they were trained at arms."

Maybe she could convince one of them to teach her some tricks with a sword? She hoped whoever tutored her was not as boring as Septa Mordane and at least half as good as her mother and not stiff like the old Septa.

"We'll see soon enough," Sansa sighed. "But the Lady of Bear Isle only brought Lady Dacey to the harvest feasts."

Arya made a face at her sister. She hoped Sansa was wrong and that Lady Mormont brought all her daughters. All the highborn ladies were like Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, quick friends with Sansa with their sewing and stupid giggling.

Maybe she could get a friend of her own, one not interested in boring things like pageantry and stitches? Lyanna Mormont, Maege's youngest daughter, was about her age, and if she was anything like her mother, Arya knew they would get along.

They arrived at the yard leading to the northern gate, and Catelyn Stark stood patiently in her grey woollen dress, surrounded by a dozen men-at-arms, looking every inch dignified as the proper Lady of Winterfell should be.

"Come now, girls, the Glovers and the Mormonts are almost here," her mother proceeded to inspect them.

Once satisfied, Arya and Sansa stood next to her mother, and soon enough, riders began to stream through the gate.

First were the Glovers, led by a gaunt, greying man wearing a red padded surcoat with a silver fist. Galbart Glover, the Lord of Deepwood Motte, had a broad smile resting upon his face. Courtesies were quickly exchanged, and then the Mormonts followed in.

At the helm was Maege Mormont, grey, stout, yet fierce as usual in her ringmail. Behind her rode two women and one girl. Neither wore surcoats, but a brown bear was emblazoned on their green cloaks. Arya noted that Dacey Mormont wasn't there.

"Lady Stark," the stout Lady bowed, then motioned towards what were surely her daughters. "This is my daughter, Lyra, as Lord Stark requested," the tall, slightly plump woman clad in byrnie with a bearded ax on her belt stepped forward and curtsied smoothly.

Her mother inspected the brown-haired Lyra Mormont with an impassive face, but Arya could tell she wasn't happy as she nodded.

"And these must be Jorelle and Lyanna?" Catelyn motioned towards the other two.

The shorter, plump woman was clad in ringmail with a bludgeon strapped to her belt like her mother and seemed rather clumsy.

The youngest, Lyanna Mormont, tall as Arya, was the last to step forth. Unlike her sisters, she wore no arms and was garbed in a green cotton dress and gracefully walked forward and did a perfect curtsy. Not only that but her pretty brown hair was woven into a long, elegant braid.

Arya's face curdled when Lyanna Mormont threw Sansa a wide, admiring smile.