Wolves in a Den

“The New Gift?” Karelon of Stark asked, his scared face betraying none of the agitation he must have felt, only a touch of accent when he pronounced gift betrayed him. It was a small thing, that, but enough for his brother to gouge the younger man’s mood. Brandon had known Karelon since he was a toddler, after all.

“That is what the Queen named it, yes.” Brandon paused for a moment and sipped some of his wine, while his brother gulped the mead from his cup. “It will double the Brandon’s Gift in size, directly from our lands.” The Lord of Winterfell offered a grim smile to the younger man and added; ‘Although, we are promised a seat on the small council for our … generosity.” Pause. “Oh and a tournament held at the Queenscrown, in our honor and the Targaryen, of course.”

“She doesn’t ask for much, does she?” Karelon replied snidely, his scared face twisting in displeasure. “That land means nothing to us, it is even less populated then the North, beyond the Wall, but it is rather insulting to ask of it before giving us a chance to accept in time and save face.”

“She is old,’ replied Brandon, ‘and probably sees this as her attempt at legacy. Besides, she is not entirely wrong you know. The Night Watch could benefit from the land we will give them quite well. It might even bring more of decent people up north, not just the scum of the south.” And his father – but he left that unsaid.

“Will you represent our House in the tournament, Kar?’ Brandon inquired. His brother held the title of Ser, anointed by the Southern priests, but he remained a staunch follower of the Old Gods – like his father before him and his father before him. “I could don the armor, charm a few ladies but I was never as good with the lance as you are.” And I am the Lord of Winterfell, while my son is but a youngling, he left unspoken.

“Break a few bones for the greater glory of Winterfell? Do you have to ask?”

“Good.” Pause. “What about Rickon?” The elder brother leveled his dark eyes at the younger. “We could send him as your page, though he might be too young.”

“No,” Karelon responded and shook his head from side to side. “My nephew is still too young and he is the heir to House Stark.” Brandon raised an eyebrow but hid a smile of appreciation. He knew that Kar loved the little boy more then the life itself, even if he thought of the boy’s father as an effete peacock that just happened to have the blood of the Wolf. Well, most of the time.

“Very well then. Take a squire and set forth now. I shall follow suit, although Rickon will probably be staying home.” The Starks watched over their cubs.

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Winter is coming.

“When will you and uncle return?” Rickon Stark inquired, his blue eyes boring into those of his father, his wooden sword clasped behind his back. Karelon must have given it to him, Brandon mused, the sword was bigger then the boy – but that didn’t seem to stop him from carrying it with him at all times. A touch of paternal pride swelled in Brandon’s chest and he picked the boy up, setting him onto his lap as his son gave him the dissatisfied, pouty look. Big boys were not meant to be handled that way, apparently.

“Who told you that?’ asked the Lord of Winterfell, his son still looking up at his expectantly. “Old Will?” William Archer, the kennelmaster, was ancient before his brother Kerlon was even born but the age didn’t seem to stop the old man – if anything, it had made him more useful. Starks could breed some of the best hunting dogs in the North and Old Will also seemed to be able to sniff out everything about everyone - from the fat Lady Lannister’s birthday to the favorite dish of the Prince of Martells.

And his son adored the little puppies that Old Will would show each time they visited the dogs.

“No,’ Rickon replied indifferent, his eyes darting for something more interesting while he, obediently, sat on his father’s lap. “No. I saw uncle Kar leave and the men are making preparations for the Lord to travel,’ he replied and then added conversationally, ‘and there is only one Lord of Winterfell.”

“There is only one,’ Brandon assured him with a slow nod, ‘and someday it will be you.”

And then, like every child born before, Rickon smiled for a moment and then changed the topic completely, caching his father off guard. “Will you tell me how did my mother die, father?”

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Winter is coming.